ashes, ashes

He smirked when Michael Vaughn's voice hitched. Those blood shot green eyes told their own story. The CIA agent looked wasted and rumpled. He needed a shave and a bath. A smear of something black marred one high cheekbone above the stubble.

Sark was cuffed to a chair sitting in the middle of a bare, gray painted interrogation room. Recessed fluorescent lights leached the color from everything. There wasn't even a table to act as a shield between them. His interrogators were always on their feet, an intimidation tactic he ignored by dent of reflecting that their feet must get tired eventually

He could smell smoke on Vaughn's coat. Chemicals. Halon. The stench of a fire put out and more disturbingly, the faint, tainted scent of ... burnt flesh. It caught at the back of Sark's throat, cloying and persistent.

"I'm at your mercy, Agent Vaughn," he gibed. "Why don't you ask your questions? I might even answer them."

Vaughn spun and howled in anguish, "Why? Why her!?" He lunged across the room and grabbed Sark's shoulders, shaking him chair and all.

Why what? Who?

"Bastards, bastards, she's dead, oh god, oh god, Sydney, she's dead," Vaughn exclaimed. His fury crested and he threw Sark, along with the chair, away from him. Sark hit the wall with his shoulder and the chair tumbled over on it's side. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles tore into his flesh, drawing blood. He ignored the sting and raised his head from the floor, staring at Vaughn.

Vaughn sank down to his knees and stared at Sark, green eyes meeting widened blue.

"Agent Bristow ...?" Sark licked his lip.

"She's dead, Sark. You bastards killed her. Last night. Burned her apartment, burned her ... body," Vaughn said, ending on a half-sob.

"That's not possible," Sark blurted out. None of the players wanted Sydney Bristow dead. She was the prize, the key to Rambaldi, this couldn't be true. And Allison, what had happened to Allison. She lived her cover as Francie from that apartment, what had happened to her? A stab of genuine pain hit him as he realized he couldn't ask about her; he had to assume her cover remained intact and hide his worry for her.

"I saw the body, you sonovabitch."

Vaughn scrubbed at his face wearily, spreading that smear of char on his cheek. Sark stared at him. Vaughn wore all his emotions for anyone to see. The man was devastated. He truly believed Sydney Bristow was dead.

Sark let his head fall back to the floor and squeezed his eyes shut. Just for a second. Then the carefully blank mask he used to conceal all his emotions was back in place. Only inside the litany of sorrow and fear went on and on.

Ally, Ally, Ally.

Please be alive, Ally.

Please let it just be Sydney dead.