Alias: The Players (PG-13), Rachel/Sark.
The problem with Sark is that he makes you believe you're friends.
The problem with Sark is that he makes you believe you're friends. You meet in the middle of a mission, he's working for some genocidal maniac planning an apocalypse and you're working for the good ole U.S. of A, but he just stops and smiles when you catch him, like you've crossed paths during a stroll in the park.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says, with a tilted eyebrow and one arm resting on the table. You don't miss how close his fingers stray to the chip with the information you need, but he doesn't reach for it, not yet.
You'll remember that hotel room and that nice American boy Bob Brown, and for a moment you can't remember that dossier you spent three days reading cover to cover, with more suspected kills than people you've been able to meet, your whole life.
He'll smile at you with that boyish charm and you won't see a murderer, not then. You won't see his hand close around the chip either, not until its too late, but he's not running yet.
You don't know what he sees when he looks at you, but you know the one truth he's ever told you was under the guise of that freelance trade consultant--Julian Sark liked risk. You're like fire for him and he wants to see how close he can get before he gets burned.
"I'm going to need that," you say, and you'll sound like one of those overly confident characters Sydney Bristow helped you create, not like shy little Rachel Gibson, except sometimes you think the only time you're really yourself is when you're with him.
"I already gave you a freebie the last time we worked together," he tells you, and he buries the chip deep in his front pants pocket. "This time you're going to have to work for it."
You don't bother to pull your gun. You can't shoot him and he knows it. He could probably shoot you, you think, could probably do it and only feel bad about it for a few days if you're lucky, but you're not sure you even mean that much. You're not sure anything means something to him.
But he doesn't pull his gun out either, even though you know he has one, so you can worry about that later.
"I don't want to fight with you, Rachel," he says, and you almost believe him, but there's a spark in his eyes that seems to imply otherwise. That's exactly what he wants.
"Then hand it over so I won't have to kick your ass," you say, and you'd be laughing at yourself if this were a few years ago, because you don't say stuff like that.
He tilts his head and studies you, smiles wryly and gives a quick shake of his head. "You know you won't win," he says, and you hate that he's probably right.
Sydney's won against him a few times, you remember from the reports, but that was Sydney. Sark's track record when it came to fighting anyone else was pretty impressive.
He once escaped out of ankle cuffs and a straight jacket before massacring an entire escort of U.S. Marshals and then parachuting out of an airplane at an altitude high enough to freeze the corpses he left behind, you read that too. You don't care if the reports hinted he'd had help, it was scary all the same. That's the kind of thing that happens in action flicks, and you have trouble reconciling it with the smiling man in front of you.
But sociopaths are almost always charming, Sydney has told you. Look at Arvin Sloane. Look at Irina Derevko. Look at Sark, the man they created together.
You'll know not to trust them and eventually you'll do it anyway, Sydney has told you. You'll do it even though you know better and they'll betray you just when you think everything's going to work out.
I can't protect you from that, Sydney has told you. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.
"You know, Lydia never much interested me," he says. "Charming, but dull. I only let you in my room because you looked a little like Lauren Reed, and you spoke like her too."
You don't expect that, and you hate that you feel almost jealous--jealous of the woman that killed her father in cold blood; to say nothing of all the other lives she destroyed. But you've always told yourself it meant more than that, you've always told yourself Lydia and Bob would have made it, even if Rachel and Sark were doomed from the start.
Then he says, "However, I find you fascinating, Rachel, and I prefer you without the fake accent."
"I prefer you with yours," you say, because he's done it again, and you can see it happen but you can't stop it. You know you'll let him go. You know you'll never take him into custody and you know you'll have to live with all the lives he takes because he's free.
And you'll do it, because you can't stand the thought of him caged.
He gets closer, places one had on the side of your neck like he's taking a pulse, gets close enough to kiss but doesn't, just brushes his lips past yours. You place your hand in his pocket, close your fingers around the chip and pull it out. He laughs in your ear.
"It's yours," he says. "I already made myself a copy."
It figures, you think. Of course he has. And it makes you wonder if he's had all that time, why was he still here? You don't know what to make of the thought that he might have been waiting for you.
"I guess we'll just have to see which one of us can decrypt it faster," he says as he steps away, and it's a challenge, a prelude to a chase. You want to beat him there, and you're surprised that you're not motivated by noble ideas this time--this is a game you're both playing, and you're not thinking about the lives you need to save right then, you just want to win.
You look at the chip and never think for a second he's given you anything less than the real thing. "I hope you don't expect me to return this favor," you say.
"No, I would hope not," he says, and smiles at you with that wicked grin. "There's no challenge in that."
Then he's out the only door to the room and he's locking you in from the other side, throwing you a wink as he trips the alarm.
You know it's coming and it still kind of surprises you; but you're not going to let him win.
You look up at the vent in the ceiling and decide to be the challenge he wants.
The problem with Sark is that he makes you believe you're friends. You meet in the middle of a mission, he's working for some genocidal maniac planning an apocalypse and you're working for the good ole U.S. of A, but he just stops and smiles when you catch him, like you've crossed paths during a stroll in the park.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says, with a tilted eyebrow and one arm resting on the table. You don't miss how close his fingers stray to the chip with the information you need, but he doesn't reach for it, not yet.
You'll remember that hotel room and that nice American boy Bob Brown, and for a moment you can't remember that dossier you spent three days reading cover to cover, with more suspected kills than people you've been able to meet, your whole life.
He'll smile at you with that boyish charm and you won't see a murderer, not then. You won't see his hand close around the chip either, not until its too late, but he's not running yet.
You don't know what he sees when he looks at you, but you know the one truth he's ever told you was under the guise of that freelance trade consultant--Julian Sark liked risk. You're like fire for him and he wants to see how close he can get before he gets burned.
"I'm going to need that," you say, and you'll sound like one of those overly confident characters Sydney Bristow helped you create, not like shy little Rachel Gibson, except sometimes you think the only time you're really yourself is when you're with him.
"I already gave you a freebie the last time we worked together," he tells you, and he buries the chip deep in his front pants pocket. "This time you're going to have to work for it."
You don't bother to pull your gun. You can't shoot him and he knows it. He could probably shoot you, you think, could probably do it and only feel bad about it for a few days if you're lucky, but you're not sure you even mean that much. You're not sure anything means something to him.
But he doesn't pull his gun out either, even though you know he has one, so you can worry about that later.
"I don't want to fight with you, Rachel," he says, and you almost believe him, but there's a spark in his eyes that seems to imply otherwise. That's exactly what he wants.
"Then hand it over so I won't have to kick your ass," you say, and you'd be laughing at yourself if this were a few years ago, because you don't say stuff like that.
He tilts his head and studies you, smiles wryly and gives a quick shake of his head. "You know you won't win," he says, and you hate that he's probably right.
Sydney's won against him a few times, you remember from the reports, but that was Sydney. Sark's track record when it came to fighting anyone else was pretty impressive.
He once escaped out of ankle cuffs and a straight jacket before massacring an entire escort of U.S. Marshals and then parachuting out of an airplane at an altitude high enough to freeze the corpses he left behind, you read that too. You don't care if the reports hinted he'd had help, it was scary all the same. That's the kind of thing that happens in action flicks, and you have trouble reconciling it with the smiling man in front of you.
But sociopaths are almost always charming, Sydney has told you. Look at Arvin Sloane. Look at Irina Derevko. Look at Sark, the man they created together.
You'll know not to trust them and eventually you'll do it anyway, Sydney has told you. You'll do it even though you know better and they'll betray you just when you think everything's going to work out.
I can't protect you from that, Sydney has told you. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.
"You know, Lydia never much interested me," he says. "Charming, but dull. I only let you in my room because you looked a little like Lauren Reed, and you spoke like her too."
You don't expect that, and you hate that you feel almost jealous--jealous of the woman that killed her father in cold blood; to say nothing of all the other lives she destroyed. But you've always told yourself it meant more than that, you've always told yourself Lydia and Bob would have made it, even if Rachel and Sark were doomed from the start.
Then he says, "However, I find you fascinating, Rachel, and I prefer you without the fake accent."
"I prefer you with yours," you say, because he's done it again, and you can see it happen but you can't stop it. You know you'll let him go. You know you'll never take him into custody and you know you'll have to live with all the lives he takes because he's free.
And you'll do it, because you can't stand the thought of him caged.
He gets closer, places one had on the side of your neck like he's taking a pulse, gets close enough to kiss but doesn't, just brushes his lips past yours. You place your hand in his pocket, close your fingers around the chip and pull it out. He laughs in your ear.
"It's yours," he says. "I already made myself a copy."
It figures, you think. Of course he has. And it makes you wonder if he's had all that time, why was he still here? You don't know what to make of the thought that he might have been waiting for you.
"I guess we'll just have to see which one of us can decrypt it faster," he says as he steps away, and it's a challenge, a prelude to a chase. You want to beat him there, and you're surprised that you're not motivated by noble ideas this time--this is a game you're both playing, and you're not thinking about the lives you need to save right then, you just want to win.
You look at the chip and never think for a second he's given you anything less than the real thing. "I hope you don't expect me to return this favor," you say.
"No, I would hope not," he says, and smiles at you with that wicked grin. "There's no challenge in that."
Then he's out the only door to the room and he's locking you in from the other side, throwing you a wink as he trips the alarm.
You know it's coming and it still kind of surprises you; but you're not going to let him win.
You look up at the vent in the ceiling and decide to be the challenge he wants.