“The Funeral for the Resurrected”

Alias/Sarkney

For the SD-1.net Summer Sarkney Challenge

Setting: The spies are still spies and Sark is still a smooth motherfucker

Requirements: Sarkney in the summertime, a Post-It note, an unusual disguise for Sark, Sark shopping of underwear, Jack hugging Sark or vice versa

Summary: She is never Sydney.

Today her name is Mia. Tomorrow it will be Gloria. Then Roxanne. Susan. Linda. Wendy. Cathy. Amber. Lucy. Pamela.

Never Sydney.

She is never Sydney.

**

There is a Post-It note stuck to Sydney’s apartment door. She sees the yellow slip of paper and her eyes narrow at what is written. There are no words, no sentences, no letters. Just dashes.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ’_ _ _ _ _ _

And of course, a hangman.

**

“Did you put that note on my door?” Sydney asks Weiss as they eat take-out together that night at her place.

“What note?” He reaches for the carton of orange chicken.

Sydney frowns as she believes her friend. “Nevermind.” She takes the carton of chicken from Weiss and piles it on her paper plate.

Weiss hands her a fortune cookie. “Wanna take a look into your future?”

She gives him a wary look.

“It’s just fun and games, Syd.” He breaks his dessert in half and reads the white slip. “Well, that sucks.”

“What does it say?” She rips the fortune from his hands and bursts out laughing. “‘You need to lose weight.’”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Open yours.”

Sydney tears into the cookie and finds her fortune: Love comes in many forms and stages.

“Well, that sucks,” she says.

**

Before she leaves for work, Sydney puts the Post-It note back on her door.

E

When she gets home from work, the note is still there. But it has been altered.

_EE _ _ E _ _ _ _ _ _E ’_ _ _ _E _

Sydney pulls the note from the door with an exasperated sigh. She goes inside her apartment and debates on calling someone about the anonymous note and visitor. Vaughn—definitely not. Weiss—no way. Dixon—probably not a good idea. That leaves her father. She cringes as she imagines the look Jack will give her.

“You feel threatened by a Post-It note?” he will ask with disbelief.

And she will say, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

The next day, she pastes the note back up.

A

And she finds this when she returns home.

_EE _ _ E A _ _ A _E_ ’_ A _ _E _

Sydney stares at the note, intrigued and frustrated. She sticks it on her mirror before going to bed. Tomorrow she will figure out the riddle.

**

After work, Sydney sees that someone has drawn a small circle on the noose. Her head. She snatches the note from the door, upset at the sight. So, there were no R’s in the message then.

She is still stuck. A day behind. One step back. She goes into her kitchen and crumbles up the Post-It. She tosses it into her wastebasket.

In the morning, she fishes the note from the trash. Her entire night had been filled with lines and dashes and letters and spaces.

She leaves the note on the door with the letter T before going to work.

That night, she finds out she is back on track.

_EE T _ E A T _ A _E_ ’_ A T TE _

She smiles as she fills in the blanks:

MEET ME AT MAXIE’S AT TEN

**

Sydney leaves the note on the door in the morning. By the time she comes home, the note is gone. It looked like the mysterious stranger had received her message.

She opens her closet and prepares for her night out at Maxie’s. She pulls out the red halter top and short black mini-skirt.

**

Sydney enters Maxie’s without any problems. She had heard the East L.A. strip club was more than happy to accommodate to beautiful women in skimpy clothing and wealthy men with big wallets. She had opted for the first choice.

She scans the smoky club, but she knows that whoever wants to see her will find her. She goes to the bar and orders a drink.

“Having a good time?”

The man on the stool next to her spins around. He’s a beefy guy with a Fake-and-Bake orange tan. Gold is wrapped around his neck and fingers. He notices Sydney staring at his jewelry.

“I’m a director,” he says.

Sydney raises her brows, pretending to be interested.

“Are you an actress?” he asks.

She lifts the glass of vodka to her mouth and takes a sip. “Sometimes.”

“You’re very good-looking,” says the director. “I can probably get you into a few gigs.”

Sydney doesn’t doubt the “gigs” the man is talking about involves her in the company of men without her clothes on. She smiles at him and pats his arm. “No, thanks.” She stands up to leave when he suddenly grabs her arm and pushes her back down to her seat.

“At least let me buy you a drink.” He’s still holding her arm tightly.

“No, thanks,” she says through a clenched jaw.

His other hand goes to her legs and attempts to slip under her skirt.

“Hey!” Sydney yanks her arm from the pervert and prepares to the knock the man to the ground.

“Is this man bothering you?” says the new voice.

Sydney and the director turn around. Sydney’s eyes widen, then narrow.

Sark. He’s dressed in black from head to toe.

“Is this man bothering you?” Sark repeats without his usual arrogant British accent. Tonight it’s American with a southern drawl.

“Hey, man. I was just trying to buy her a drink,” the vulgar director says. “You know how it is, man. Right?”

Sark grabs the man’s arm and escorts him to the door. He pushes the floundering man outside.

The man waves his middle finger at Sark. “You bodyguards are a bunch of assholes!”

“Get outta here!” Sark watches the man disappear into the parking lot before turning back to a very stunned Sydney standing in the doorway. “What?”

“It was you,” she says. “You’re the one I’ve been playing Hangman with?”

“Would you have preferred Pin the Tail on the Donkey?” he asks with a smirk.

“Why did you want to meet me here?”

Sark feigns a surprised expression. “You wanted to meet me here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The note.” He takes the Post-It out from his pocket. “See? Right there. Meet me at Maxie’s at ten.”

Sydney’s two seconds away from punching him in the face.

Sark pockets the note again like it’s a memento. “So, can I buy you something to drink?”

“I’m going home.” She takes a step forward and Sark grabs her arm.

“That very nice gentleman is probably waiting for you out there,” he says.

She wrestles her arm loose. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Sydney!” Sark’s voice echoes in the parking lot.

She stops and turns around. He walks away from the club’s door and pauses halfway to her.

“Let’s get out of these clothes,” he says.

Her mouth drops open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His lips slide to a partial smile. “I simply meant let’s meet again, but not like this.” He glances at his black attire and her scantily-clad body. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will.” She walks backward, maintaining her gaze on Sark’s attentive hold on her. When he finally turns away, so does she.

**

“Sydney.”

Sydney’s head jerks up at the sound of her father’s voice. He’s standing at her desk. “What is it?”

“You were dozing off.” Jack’s eyes soften. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

She rubs her eyes, thinking about her late night rendezvous with Sark at the strip club. “I’m just feeling a little bit out of it.”

“How out of it?” He lowers his voice. “You were practically snoring during Dixon’s meeting this morning.”

“I was?” The rubbing moves to the temple of her head. “I’m fine, Dad. Honest.”

She can tell he doesn’t believe her, but he nods and walks away. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Vaughn and Weiss talking. She catches them staring at her and they quickly look away. She tries to shrug off her paranoia, but she blames Sark’s impromptu visit for making her nerves stand on end.

She reaches for the files Dixon had dispersed to them at the meeting. She and her father are on their way to Germany that night to meet with an informant. She is not looking forward to the long flight.

Suddenly, her computer blinks with a new message. Sydney’s hand hovers over the mouse before she decides to accept it.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Not again, she thinks.

Her computer screen flickers again.

Room 26

Sydney looks at her file. Her hotel room in Germany is 25.

**

Sydney and Jack check-in to their hotel in Germany under the father-daughter alias of Ken and Jamie Preston. Ken is an important American scientist in town for a conference and Jamie is a graduate student following in her proud father’s footsteps.

Sydney wonders what Sark will be.

She walks into her dark room and opens the curtains. The bright sun is high in the sky. She starts to remove her shirt when she suddenly hears something creak. She whirls around to find Sark in a chair. He’s leaning back in it with the front two legs in the air. His hands are folded on his lap and the smirk is inevitably planted on his face.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says. His British accent has returned.

She smoothes down her shirt. “How did you get in here?”

He stands up and goes to the wall. He opens the connector door. “Easily,” Sark says.

“So, this game that you’re playing—”

He cuts in. “We’re playing.”

“This game,” she says. “What’s the point of it?”

“I know you and your father are in Germany to acquire information on a large arms operation.” He sits down back on the chair. “So am I.”

“I still don’t see the point.”

“But, what I need is the informant you and father will be meeting with tonight.”

Sydney crosses her arms. “We need that man’s information.”

“Fine. Take it from him,” Sark says. “I just want the man after you’re done with him.”

“You’re going to kill him,” Sydney simply says.

“But you’ll have your information. He won’t be of any use to you after that, correct?”

“I can’t allow for that to happen.”

Sark stands again. “I want to see you try and stop me. I mean that.” He opens the connector door. “See you tonight.”

**

“Sark’s here,” Sydney tells her father as they enter the restaurant.

Jack doesn’t blink. “Where?”

“I saw him earlier,” she says. “He’s here to kill Zimmerman.”

“He told you this?”

“He wants us to secure Zimmerman for him. After we’re done with him, Sark wants to step in.”

Jack smiles at the host and signs in. Patrick Schmidt. Another alias. Another name. He puts down the pen and he and Sydney follow the host to a back table.

“He thinks we’re just going to leave Zimmerman out in the open to be slaughtered,” Jack says under his breath as he looks over the menu.

Sydney studies the wine list. “Apparently.”

Just then, a nervous-looking man appears at their table. “Is it true that the sun sets on the horizon and rises from the other side the next day?”

Sydney licks her lips and replies, “Yes, but did you know that the sun also rises from below you as well?”

The German informant lets out a sigh of relief and sits down. Albert Zimmerman is in his forties. He looks scattered with his wrinkled sportcoat and sweater vest, and his gray-black hair ruffled. He shoves the black-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

“This kind of thing is very tricky,” Zimmerman says in a squeaky voice. “I worry I go to wrong table. I worry I sound foolish.”

Sydney does a quick scan of the restaurant for Sark. That’s not the only thing you should be worried about.

“Do you have money?” Zimmerman asks.

Jack looks down at the briefcase near his leg.

Zimmerman smiles. “Good. Very good.” He takes a drink from a glass of water. “Helen will be very happy. She cannot wait for me to come back. She my little girl. She says to me, ‘Now, father, you must return home soon so we can go on trip.’ I promise to take her to China to see the Great Wall. She love history. Very smart girl.”

“The papers,” Jack says in a weary tone.

“Oh, yes.” He reaches inside a pocket in his breast pocket and extracts the thin envelope. “This has the latest order and docking information.”

Jack takes the envelope. “Now, Mr. Zimmerman, you must come with us.”

Zimmerman’s easygoing nature evaporates at Jack’s request. “Why?”

Sydney and Jack stand. She helps the German to his feet. “We’ll explain later, when it’s safe.”

“Onkel Jonathan, geht wie es Ihnen?”

The two CIA agents look up to see Sark approaching them. Sark wraps his arms around a bewildered Jack, pulling the older man into a hug.

“Es ist mich, Thomas,” Sark says.

Zimmerman looks from Sark to Jack. “He is your nephew?”

“I’m sorry.” Jack pulls away from Sark’s embrace. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

“You’re right,” Sark says, slipping back into assassin mode. “I am looking for someone else.”

Sydney spots the gun in Sark’s hand. She seizes him before he can retrieve it.

“Get him out of here!” she instructs her father on Zimmerman.

Jack doesn’t listen. He grabs Sark’s collar as Zimmerman races out of the restaurant with the briefcase full of money. Jack slams Sark into the table. The restaurant erupts into screams and chaos as the rest of the patrons hurry away from the brawl. The agent reaches for Sark again.

“Dad.” Sydney’s voice stops him.

He sees the gun aimed at her head. Sark’s finger lingers at the trigger. Jack immediately goes for his own weapon. He finds his holster empty.

Sark raises a second gun. “Looking for this, Onkel Jonathan?” He moves towards the back door with Sydney and the guns. “I will not hurt her. As long as you do not follow me, she will be fine.”

Sydney stares into her father’s desperate eyes. She feels the cold steel of the gun being pressed against her skull and she vanishes with Sark.

**

The sound of police sirens wail into the night.

Sydney is tired and exhausted. She walks at Sark’s side as he leads them down the streets of Berlin. She can feel the gun being jammed into her waist.

A string of police cars speed down the street. Sark ushers her into the nearest door.

“May I help you?” a woman asks in German.

Sydney is standing in the middle of a lingerie boutique with Sark. She shakes her head and turns around. Sark prevents her from leaving. His mouth twitches into a smile.

Sark holds up a see-through black negligee. “Do you have this in pink?”

Sydney’s eyes bulge.

“Yes, I’ll go get it for you.” The woman goes to another part of the store.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sydney whispers to Sark.

“Just play along.” He smiles as the saleswoman returns with the pink negligee. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to try it on?” the woman says as she hands Sydney the silky material.

“No, I don’t want to try it on.” Sydney shoves the underwear back at her.

The woman’s face fills with concern. “Everything okay?”

“My wife is just shy,” Sark says. “Of course, she’ll try it on.”

“The rooms are in the back,” says the saleswoman.

Sark thanks her and walks to the back of the store with Sydney and the pink negligee.

“I am not putting that thing on,” she says.

“Would you if it was a matter of life and death?” Sark takes out the gun and shoves it into her gut. “You botched up my assignment, Bristow. I say that you owe me.”

“I’ll scream,” Sydney warns him.

He looks around the empty dressing room. “You won’t have a chance to scream, Sydney.”

She narrows her eyes and goes into the dressing room with the lingerie. Inside, she stares at the mirror’s reflection. She does not want to put on a peepshow for Sark and trade in her shirt and khakis for a silky, see-through piece of cloth. She starts to rummage through the dressing room for something, anything that will help her escape from Sark.

The door suddenly opens and Sark comes in.

“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?” He leans against the door. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m thinking of a way to kill you.”

He raises his gun. “I already know my way.” He points the gun at her. “Now, strip.”

Sydney gulps. “Put the gun down first.”

He waits a moment before lowering it, but he doesn’t let go of it.

Good enough, Sydney thinks.

She slides the shirt over her head and then she unzips her pants and steps out of them. She stands before Sark in her bra and underwear.

“Everything,” he says in an almost-whisper.

Sydney unhooks her bra and lets the panties fall to her ankles. She looks at Sark, whose face is flustered and chest is heaving. He’s turned on, and for God knows why, she is too.

He uses the gun to point. “Put on the negligee.”

She slips it on and the cool material is a perfect fit molding with each of her curves.

“You’re perfect,” Sark says, and now he is whispering.

He walks over to her and pushes her against the wall of the dressing room. The gun is neatly rammed into her side. His left hand skims her legs and move up in between her thighs. She gasps as his hand makes contact with her. His mouth lands on her shoulder. His breath is fiery and it stings. Sydney rests her chin on Sark’s head of blond hair as her knees part some more. He slips a finger inside her. Then another.

Sydney shuts her eyes as Sark’s fingers start to move. God, she is being finger-fucked in a dressing room by Sark while her father and the German police force are searching for her, while Vaughn is making coffee back at the office, while Dixon is arranging the paper clips at his desk, while Zimmerman is boarding a plane with Helen to China—and she comes ferociously in a blinding, dizzying explosion.

Her legs turn to gelatin and she hears Sark unbuckle his belt. She barely has time to open her eyes when Sark lifts her legs off the ground and around his torso.

“Sark,” she moans when he thrusts into her.

She tugs on Sark and kisses him. Their mouths duel before coming to an agreement. She sighs into him, shares his breath, and relaxes. But the gun. The gun is still firm on her waist. Sark may have lost control of his body, but not control of her.

Sark groans and grabs her bottom as he drives into her. Her head falls back against the wooden wall and she catches her reflection again in the mirror. Two bodies conjoined into a single entity. One with a lost soul, the other with a dead soul. Sark is right. They are perfect.

They climax almost simultaneously. Sark eases out from her and drops her legs. Sydney stumbles to the corner of the dressing room as he picks up his pants and buckles his belt.

Someone knocks on the door. “Is everything okay?” the saleswoman asks from the other side.

Sark clears this throat. “Yes, we’re fine.”

“How does the negligee look?” the woman says.

Sark brushes a strand of hair from Sydney’s eyes. The gun is cool on top of her flushed skin. “We’ll be taking it.”

**

They don’t return to room 25 or 26.

Sark takes Sydney north to the Margaretenbrücke Bridge. The summer air is light and seamless at night.

“Tell your father I kept my word,” Sark says.

“No, you didn’t,” she says in a hollow voice.

She is never going to be fine. Not after what they did.

He purses his lips. “I suppose you’re right.” He looks out to the bridge. “Have you ever heard of the Funeral for the Resurrected?” He takes Sydney’s silence as a no. “A body never really dies. A soul never really leaves a person. So, there is no such thing as death. Just an eternity of waiting. Waiting for that chance of freedom. Some think it’s redemption that will save them, or forgiveness, even love. When they no longer have to wait, when their body and soul are finally free, they are resurrected.”

Sydney lets Sark’s words settle inside her. She doesn’t want to understand him, but she does. She doesn’t want to relate to him, but she does.

Sark looks at her one last time. “I can’t save you, nor can you save me, but if you ever get tired of waiting, come and find me.” He turns around. So does Sydney.

She listens to his retreating footsteps and then he is gone.

THE END

“Onkel Jonathan, geht wie es Ihnen?”--Uncle Jonathan, how are you?

"Es ist mich, Thomas."--It is me, Thomas.

Picture of the Margaretenbrücke Bridge http://www.stadtentwicklung.berlin.de/bauen/ueberbruecken/en/bild_16.shtml