[Bad] 005 -- Wrath
May. 19th, 2008 02:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_risk"Who are you?"
It hurts, for a moment, which is something he didn't expect. He thought he had lost that pain somewhere along the way, purged in fire and blood, but apparently not. "You abandoned me as a child. The vague memory I have of you, you were physically abusive. Later in life, you left me $800 Million. Should I go on?" He looks at him for a long moment, waiting for a response. There is dawning realization, perhaps, but the man strapped to the chair in the cold room says nothing. "Hello, Daddy."
"You were not grateful? Your inheritance was not enough?"
The man looks offended, a scowl setting on his features, which Julian finds interesting, considering the position he is in at the moment. He glances down for a moment, then back up, drawing on so many things he has known, has learned through the years. "I know the truth, and therefore I show no remorse at seeing you like this."
"I was an apparatchik* by profession, but a Romanov by blood. So are you. In part, that's why I staged my death. To give you the inheritance that is rightfully yours."
Sark has to bite back a laugh at that. Oh there had been money for school, for clothes, but this talk of rightfully after an 18 year absence is rich, especially considering the loss of all that money and the position he has been relegated to. He was Irina's right hand, and now, here, he is nothing but their pawn, their foot soldier. "That's wonderful spin. You should know that the inheritance you hoped would buy my affection now finances my employer. The Covenant."
"Julian, the Covenant. They are true evil."
Possibly they are, but there's very little Sark figures he can do about that, now. They own him, and where would he go if he left? Back to the CIA, to a cell? Irina is missing, Sloane's gone...humanitarian which makes him wonder just what happened to the world while he was locked away. The Covenant at least gives him something to do, lets him indulge his darker instincts and, well. They have given him this. He tilts his head, studying the older man, eyes searching. "The man you were meeting with, I want to know exactly what you said to him. Every word."
"You are pathetic."
For a moment it feels as if he might flinch, or cry, which would be the ultimate weakness in front of this man who in his head he made into a monster. Steeling himself, he glances away for only a moment, down at the tray in front of him. His fingers ghost over the various implements, before choosing the blowtorch, looking back up at his father. "I'll give you a moment. To remember exactly what you said. I'll ask you one more time." With a tilt of his head he flicks on the blowtorch, raising it a bit. "What exactly did you tell the man you were meeting with?"
"You wouldn't do something like this. Not to your own father."
He wants to smile, to laugh at the word, coming from Lazarey's lips. Fathers were not people who hit toddlers barely able to walk. Fathers did not send their five year old sons to a foreign country to school and never see them again, not for a single holiday or break. Fathers betray everything to keep their children safe. They go against every order, against every moral imperative, if necessary, to be there for them. They trade priceless manuscripts for a lowly reporter simply because he is their daughter's friend. They get themselves thrown in prison for collaborating with their terrorist ex-wives to find a child the world swears is dead. That is what fathers do, and this man in front of him has no claim to the title. He is just a man who has information that Sark needs, that his employer needs. A man who faked his death to keep the information from them. The world thinks he's dead, and it is no difference to Sark if he helps him move to that reality.
The man--not his father, never that again--deserves it, he thinks, as he tilts his head again, an almost curious look on his face, wondering just how much the man can take before he breaks. Sark remembers that face from broken nightmare memories, and with the barest of smiles, he lowers the blowtorch to the man's cheek and sets about making a new memory while screams that aren't his this time fill the room.
*Apparatchik - civil servant of the Soviet government
ooc note: Dialogue taken from Alias episode "Remnants"
610 words w/o dialogue
It hurts, for a moment, which is something he didn't expect. He thought he had lost that pain somewhere along the way, purged in fire and blood, but apparently not. "You abandoned me as a child. The vague memory I have of you, you were physically abusive. Later in life, you left me $800 Million. Should I go on?" He looks at him for a long moment, waiting for a response. There is dawning realization, perhaps, but the man strapped to the chair in the cold room says nothing. "Hello, Daddy."
"You were not grateful? Your inheritance was not enough?"
The man looks offended, a scowl setting on his features, which Julian finds interesting, considering the position he is in at the moment. He glances down for a moment, then back up, drawing on so many things he has known, has learned through the years. "I know the truth, and therefore I show no remorse at seeing you like this."
"I was an apparatchik* by profession, but a Romanov by blood. So are you. In part, that's why I staged my death. To give you the inheritance that is rightfully yours."
Sark has to bite back a laugh at that. Oh there had been money for school, for clothes, but this talk of rightfully after an 18 year absence is rich, especially considering the loss of all that money and the position he has been relegated to. He was Irina's right hand, and now, here, he is nothing but their pawn, their foot soldier. "That's wonderful spin. You should know that the inheritance you hoped would buy my affection now finances my employer. The Covenant."
"Julian, the Covenant. They are true evil."
Possibly they are, but there's very little Sark figures he can do about that, now. They own him, and where would he go if he left? Back to the CIA, to a cell? Irina is missing, Sloane's gone...humanitarian which makes him wonder just what happened to the world while he was locked away. The Covenant at least gives him something to do, lets him indulge his darker instincts and, well. They have given him this. He tilts his head, studying the older man, eyes searching. "The man you were meeting with, I want to know exactly what you said to him. Every word."
"You are pathetic."
For a moment it feels as if he might flinch, or cry, which would be the ultimate weakness in front of this man who in his head he made into a monster. Steeling himself, he glances away for only a moment, down at the tray in front of him. His fingers ghost over the various implements, before choosing the blowtorch, looking back up at his father. "I'll give you a moment. To remember exactly what you said. I'll ask you one more time." With a tilt of his head he flicks on the blowtorch, raising it a bit. "What exactly did you tell the man you were meeting with?"
"You wouldn't do something like this. Not to your own father."
He wants to smile, to laugh at the word, coming from Lazarey's lips. Fathers were not people who hit toddlers barely able to walk. Fathers did not send their five year old sons to a foreign country to school and never see them again, not for a single holiday or break. Fathers betray everything to keep their children safe. They go against every order, against every moral imperative, if necessary, to be there for them. They trade priceless manuscripts for a lowly reporter simply because he is their daughter's friend. They get themselves thrown in prison for collaborating with their terrorist ex-wives to find a child the world swears is dead. That is what fathers do, and this man in front of him has no claim to the title. He is just a man who has information that Sark needs, that his employer needs. A man who faked his death to keep the information from them. The world thinks he's dead, and it is no difference to Sark if he helps him move to that reality.
The man--not his father, never that again--deserves it, he thinks, as he tilts his head again, an almost curious look on his face, wondering just how much the man can take before he breaks. Sark remembers that face from broken nightmare memories, and with the barest of smiles, he lowers the blowtorch to the man's cheek and sets about making a new memory while screams that aren't his this time fill the room.
*Apparatchik - civil servant of the Soviet government
ooc note: Dialogue taken from Alias episode "Remnants"
610 words w/o dialogue
