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elementof_risk[ooc: Lyrics "Walking Wounded" by The Tea Party. Song may be downloaded to listen as a "score" for the prompt here.]
VAUGHN: Give me the override codes.
SARK: I don't have the codes, I swear. *Vaughn shoots Sark in his leg* You shot me!
VAUGHN: Yeah, and I'll keep shooting until you either give me the codes or bleed to death. Your choice.
SARK: You know, I didn't want any of this. Mass extermination isn't exactly my passion, Michael. I'm a businessman. You know, I simply wanted to come out on the winning end. I'll give you the codes, but you have to let me go after I do.
VAUGHN: Codes first, then we negotiate. - Alias - "All the Time in the World"
Is it safe to look within
And erase all that's been
And all that's been between
Is it gone tell me what went wrong
'Cause baby I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone, all alone
He wanted to run, but with a bullet in his leg, all he could do was limp, looking over his shoulder. The elevator seemed like a certain death trap, except that Michael wasn't one to cut cables, and Sark found himself grateful for small favors. Breath coming in labored gasps to get around the pain shooting up from his thigh, he reached to undo his tie with bloody fingers. Just because Vaughn hadn't hit his femoral artery didn't mean he couldn't still bleed out without tending. The fabric stretched a bit and he winced at the complete ruining of the silk, but he knotted it above the wound with gritted teeth, leaning against the elevator wall and just trying to stay on his feet when it was done.
The doors slid open and he stumbled out through the lobby, his normally smooth gait more lurching. Passersby stared when he pushed out of the building, leaving bloody fingerprints on the door, but he ignored them, moving to where an elderly man was getting out of a cab at the curb. Pushing aside the couple waiting to enter, he took it amid their outraged gasps, but one look at the blood, and a second at the gun he pulled, convinced them to back away.
"Drive!" he ordered in Chinese. The cab driver did so, and Sark let himself slide back onto the seat, muttering an address two blocks away from the safe house, through a warren of alleyways, where he knew he could hide until he could contact Irina's pilot and arrange transport out of Hong Kong.
Are you comfortable and numb
Did they all succumb to all those lies
Does it satisfy the greed
Is it all you need
Is it all you want
Well, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone
And, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone, all alone
The small forceps from the First Aid kit glistened with alcohol. He'd washed it in boiling water first, then doused it, and it was as good as it was going to get. There was no telling who was compromised, no certainty as to who would be looking, or where. The urge to get away had never been stronger. He'd heard the crash Michael heard. He'd seen her body. He knew.
She was gone.
Sloane was gone.
She was gone.
He had thought it before, but how could he deny his own eyes? No chance, then, even with the Horizon next to her. She wouldn't rise, he was certain. Taking a long pull from the whiskey bottle, he sat again and cut away the fabric of his pants, looking at the wound. His breath sped up just at the idea of what he was contemplating, but where could he go that was safe, with her gone? Would they look? Was it a genuine release? It wasn't as if he'd be free. Freedom was one of the things he'd craved for so long, always knowing himself bound. There was the illusion, always. He set his fees; they paid them, even those two. But Sydney's voice lingered through the years.
"You're just a dog, looking for a new master."
She was gone.
He dug the forceps in, breath coming in ragged pants through clenched teeth as he dug to find the bullet and pulled it out. The pain washed up like a black tide, and he felt his fingers go numb, heard the forceps and bullet drop into the metal bucket by his side. Pain morphed into nausea, and with her face pale, bloody, stuck forever in that expression, he shifted, reaching for the bucket he'd dropped the bullet into and didn't care if he made it, retching up everything he'd eaten that day. He was shaking almost too badly to thread the needle, but he knew he had to get the wound closed and bandaged. His stomach rebelled twice more before he managed it, but once it was done, he grabbed the syringe he'd prepared, pressing it into his skin and letting the opiate in it mingle with the whiskey and pull him down to oblivion.
How does it feel
How does it feel
Baby now
How does it feel
How does it feel
Cotton seemed to line his mouth when he woke, making it stick. His head throbbed, and his leg ached. With trembling arms, he pushed back up to sitting, taking in the bloody cloths strewn on the floor, remnants of his pants leg, bandages. Wincing, he pulled the bandage on his leg aside, relieved to find he'd managed a decent enough job. The stitches weren't really even, but there was enough give in the skin that it shouldn't matter. The wound was angry, the skin ravaged, but there was no sign of infection. His fingers traced down from it to another puckered scar until, shuddering, he pulled them away.
A glance at the clock revealed it to be nearly dawn. It should have been over, now, the world devastated in horror, and her glorious and eternal, with him by her side though he'd never truly sought it. He hadn't intended to turn that sort of prize down, either, had it worked. This dawn was supposed to bring about a new one.
He staggered to the window, looking out over the world that was supposed to be changed. It looked the same.
But everything was over, and there was no one to care.
If your memories do stray
Then they betray all that's past
And all that's been between
Is it gone tell me what went wrong
'Cause, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone,
And, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All allone, alll alone
The anger didn't hit for a week. He got out of Hong Kong, back to St. Petersburg, to Katya after resting a day. She had already heard the news, of course, and her look said it all. Too much and nothing arced between them. What was, what had been, what could have been, what never would be. He moved through her home like a ghost, letting the physical wound knit while the mental ones festered, unlanced, ignored.
When it came, there had been a picture he stumbled across among things he sifted through with lifeless fingers. When it left, there were ashes, memories gone in flames, and Katya's pale face staring at him like she had never seen him before. His eyes held nothing as they gazed back, his fingers reaching for, then tightening around, the cane he leaned on to spare the leg. She flinched, stepped back, though all he did was stare.
With a wordless shake of his head, he moved past her, out of the house, and swore to himself he was never looking back, never going back. It was best that way, and the three of them left behind could stumble through the cold alone.
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
Baby now
VAUGHN: Give me the override codes.
SARK: I don't have the codes, I swear. *Vaughn shoots Sark in his leg* You shot me!
VAUGHN: Yeah, and I'll keep shooting until you either give me the codes or bleed to death. Your choice.
SARK: You know, I didn't want any of this. Mass extermination isn't exactly my passion, Michael. I'm a businessman. You know, I simply wanted to come out on the winning end. I'll give you the codes, but you have to let me go after I do.
VAUGHN: Codes first, then we negotiate. - Alias - "All the Time in the World"
Is it safe to look within
And erase all that's been
And all that's been between
Is it gone tell me what went wrong
'Cause baby I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone, all alone
He wanted to run, but with a bullet in his leg, all he could do was limp, looking over his shoulder. The elevator seemed like a certain death trap, except that Michael wasn't one to cut cables, and Sark found himself grateful for small favors. Breath coming in labored gasps to get around the pain shooting up from his thigh, he reached to undo his tie with bloody fingers. Just because Vaughn hadn't hit his femoral artery didn't mean he couldn't still bleed out without tending. The fabric stretched a bit and he winced at the complete ruining of the silk, but he knotted it above the wound with gritted teeth, leaning against the elevator wall and just trying to stay on his feet when it was done.
The doors slid open and he stumbled out through the lobby, his normally smooth gait more lurching. Passersby stared when he pushed out of the building, leaving bloody fingerprints on the door, but he ignored them, moving to where an elderly man was getting out of a cab at the curb. Pushing aside the couple waiting to enter, he took it amid their outraged gasps, but one look at the blood, and a second at the gun he pulled, convinced them to back away.
"Drive!" he ordered in Chinese. The cab driver did so, and Sark let himself slide back onto the seat, muttering an address two blocks away from the safe house, through a warren of alleyways, where he knew he could hide until he could contact Irina's pilot and arrange transport out of Hong Kong.
Are you comfortable and numb
Did they all succumb to all those lies
Does it satisfy the greed
Is it all you need
Is it all you want
Well, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone
And, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone, all alone
The small forceps from the First Aid kit glistened with alcohol. He'd washed it in boiling water first, then doused it, and it was as good as it was going to get. There was no telling who was compromised, no certainty as to who would be looking, or where. The urge to get away had never been stronger. He'd heard the crash Michael heard. He'd seen her body. He knew.
She was gone.
Sloane was gone.
She was gone.
He had thought it before, but how could he deny his own eyes? No chance, then, even with the Horizon next to her. She wouldn't rise, he was certain. Taking a long pull from the whiskey bottle, he sat again and cut away the fabric of his pants, looking at the wound. His breath sped up just at the idea of what he was contemplating, but where could he go that was safe, with her gone? Would they look? Was it a genuine release? It wasn't as if he'd be free. Freedom was one of the things he'd craved for so long, always knowing himself bound. There was the illusion, always. He set his fees; they paid them, even those two. But Sydney's voice lingered through the years.
"You're just a dog, looking for a new master."
She was gone.
He dug the forceps in, breath coming in ragged pants through clenched teeth as he dug to find the bullet and pulled it out. The pain washed up like a black tide, and he felt his fingers go numb, heard the forceps and bullet drop into the metal bucket by his side. Pain morphed into nausea, and with her face pale, bloody, stuck forever in that expression, he shifted, reaching for the bucket he'd dropped the bullet into and didn't care if he made it, retching up everything he'd eaten that day. He was shaking almost too badly to thread the needle, but he knew he had to get the wound closed and bandaged. His stomach rebelled twice more before he managed it, but once it was done, he grabbed the syringe he'd prepared, pressing it into his skin and letting the opiate in it mingle with the whiskey and pull him down to oblivion.
How does it feel
How does it feel
Baby now
How does it feel
How does it feel
Cotton seemed to line his mouth when he woke, making it stick. His head throbbed, and his leg ached. With trembling arms, he pushed back up to sitting, taking in the bloody cloths strewn on the floor, remnants of his pants leg, bandages. Wincing, he pulled the bandage on his leg aside, relieved to find he'd managed a decent enough job. The stitches weren't really even, but there was enough give in the skin that it shouldn't matter. The wound was angry, the skin ravaged, but there was no sign of infection. His fingers traced down from it to another puckered scar until, shuddering, he pulled them away.
A glance at the clock revealed it to be nearly dawn. It should have been over, now, the world devastated in horror, and her glorious and eternal, with him by her side though he'd never truly sought it. He hadn't intended to turn that sort of prize down, either, had it worked. This dawn was supposed to bring about a new one.
He staggered to the window, looking out over the world that was supposed to be changed. It looked the same.
But everything was over, and there was no one to care.
If your memories do stray
Then they betray all that's past
And all that's been between
Is it gone tell me what went wrong
'Cause, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All alone,
And, baby, I'm not that strong
And I'm walking wounded
All allone, alll alone
The anger didn't hit for a week. He got out of Hong Kong, back to St. Petersburg, to Katya after resting a day. She had already heard the news, of course, and her look said it all. Too much and nothing arced between them. What was, what had been, what could have been, what never would be. He moved through her home like a ghost, letting the physical wound knit while the mental ones festered, unlanced, ignored.
When it came, there had been a picture he stumbled across among things he sifted through with lifeless fingers. When it left, there were ashes, memories gone in flames, and Katya's pale face staring at him like she had never seen him before. His eyes held nothing as they gazed back, his fingers reaching for, then tightening around, the cane he leaned on to spare the leg. She flinched, stepped back, though all he did was stare.
With a wordless shake of his head, he moved past her, out of the house, and swore to himself he was never looking back, never going back. It was best that way, and the three of them left behind could stumble through the cold alone.
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
How does it feel
Baby now
