2Julian sat on the couch watching the telly, snug beneath his tattered blankey. His right thumb was tucked in his mouth, easing him into wakefulness for the day, and the other was absently twirling through a curly lock of blond hair. The cartoon, Sylvester, was thinking up another crafty plan to finally get that darn Tweety.
The room smelt like the waffles and coffee his mother was preparing in the next room. With his drowsy attention so fixed upon his show, he hardly noticed her shuffle past him as she went about her morning ritual through their brilliant home. Julian thought it brilliant because the place came with a bunk bed, and he liked bunk beds—his mother in the kitchen called the place crammed under her breath, as she searched through the shelter listings of another newspaper.
What Julian knew of the world was limited to his four years of life with his caring mother. He hadn't stayed in the same town long enough to be able to meet any friends to tell him about-nor was he old enough to know to ask many questions about—his lack of a father; for that his mother was grateful. She knew there would come a day when she would need to tell him—of the hate and the greed and the manipulations of which he came from—but not yet.
There was a knock at the door, and through fear, Julian forgot most of what happened. It was his father, who had finally tracked them down to claim what was his. The strange man fought with his mother—pulled on her messy, tangled hair, threw her on the cold tile floor and somewhere Julian bit the man's leg in defense of his screaming mother. He was smacked in the back of the head by the man onto the floor to lie beside his mother, and watched, cowering, as his father showed her how displeased he was with the amount of work his lackeys had to go through to find what was his in the first place.
There's nothing you can say
Nothing you can do
There's nothing in between
You know the truth
Nothing left to face
There's nothing left to lose
Nothing takes your place
The boys rowed as one, the muscles of their bare backs rippling with the water that rushed by them. The team leader sat comfortably in the front of the long, narrow canoe, shouting to them to go 'hard starboard! Hard I said, you bunch of ladies!'. But their prep-school issued shorts were sweaty from the hours of vigorous practice, and suddenly one who couldn't keep up with the pace missed a beat and his ore caught the current at a wrong angle, catapulting him out into the murky waters.
The boys laughed and stopped their paddling. Sitting behind the newly
vacated seat, Julian remembered when he himself had done the same careless mistake during the first week in his new home. He'd been to many boarding schools before, due to his father's paranoia of some unknown enemy, but never had he rowed. He was able to feel empathetic toward the boy, Scott, treading water, with a blush flaming his face. He almost felt sorry for a moment, he realized.
The difference was Julian had been new, and that he hadn't let it happen more than once. He'd trained, both mind and body, to not let him be made a fool of again. All he felt sorry for was the boy's inability to learn from his mistakes.
When they say
You're not that strong
You're not that weak
It's not your fault
And when you climb up to your hill
Up to your place
I hope you're well
His heart beat painfully against its ribcage. His roommates crowded behind him, a sudden interest in his affairs they hadn't shown since he snuck back into the dormitories after a night with a girl from the sister school across the lake. They asked 'is that it? Are you going to read it? The suspense is killing us, mate!' . He'd gotten the letter, finally.
He'd applied to the MI6 academy. They were replying. He felt a smug grin tug on his lips, and he tore open the envelope. And the words—clips of rejections—tore at his sense of self he'd been building in a place that enforced uniformity.
The guys could tell from the grin, which was slowly turning to one of forced necessity, what the letter must've revealed. Regret to inform… not agent material… possibly… apply again after… possibilities include—
Scott chimed loudly, demanding Julian's attention, "Hey, don't worry 'bout it. There's always next year. They probably never take any one as young as us, inn't that right, Georgie?"
George—with a toothbrush in his mouth and foam on his lips—agreed. "Yeah. I bet you're just not old enough."
There's nothing left to prove
There's nothing I won't do
There's nothing like the pain
I feel for you
Nothing left to hide
Nothing left to fear
I am always here
The boys trained in the school fitness room five days a week. Julian ran on the treadmill with an even, swift pace the other boys admired. He wore headphones to tune them all out, and kept his mind on the fast, angry lyrics—they kept him running. He tuned out his surroundings, and for that time, he wasn't on campus, wasn't even himself as he knew it. He was running after a faceless man he was trying to capture, to stop for the sake and safety of those he would never even meet, never be thanked by.
His right arm is suddenly hit by George, who was running on the treadmill beside him. Julian eyed him curiously, and with smirks and suggestive eyebrows by the other boys was to look to his left. Bending there was a woman. The only woman the boys had seen on campus since the sixty-year-old lunch lady Ms. McNamara, and their own mothers.
The woman was stretching on the other side of the gym near the mirrors. What muscle that particular position could stretch, Julian was unsure. With his attention wandering, his foot missed a beat and he stumbled for a moment. The other boys smirked, but knew better than to laugh; they knew Julian was embarrassed enough having tripped like the naive school-boy he his in front of their knew English teacher.
The woman looked in the direction of the boys, obviously curious of the racket he had made. Julian scolded himself to not be caught looking at her, nor to be known as the one who had stumbled. Instead, he increased his pace to such a speed the boys beside him stopped even their smirking and wondered, for not the first time, if he was all right.
He raced through the streets of his mind again, but his inspirational world began to subtly change. He soon realized he could keep an even faster pace when he envisioned being the faceless man chased; the instinct of survival was stronger than the want to be noble.
When they say
You're not that strong
You're not that weak
It's not your fault
And when you climb up to your hill
Up to your place
I hope you're well
He walked with shaky legs away from the lake, away from his cheering team and their victory banner. They'd won, but he felt empty. He didn't care about winning some childish sport. He worked so hard to be the best, to be better than he should've been, better than they all expected. But apparently was not good enough for the damn agency, again—three tries in a row. He'd hoped against hope that the third time would be a charm.
He looked up to the top of the slopping bank when he felt he was being watched. The English teacher stood there, her arms folded before her, with wisps of hair dancing in the breeze. Her smile congratulated him on his victory, but her eyes said something more. She knew things, her eyes said, and she thought about teaching him. Things the other boys didn't have to know; things only he was ready to learn. Her eyes beckoned him to her, and he went-he' d like to think willingly.
What you want
What you lost
What you had
What is gone is over
With her curt nod, he set the electric current on. The young woman's body sprang off the steel bed as the voltage raced through her lithe form.
What you got
What you love
What you need
What you have is real
She introduced him to Ms. Mannae, a luscious woman who has wife to an important business figure-she was to be persuaded to help them, she instructed him.
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough, I'm sorry
They ran through the wet streets of Berlin together, rain blurring their vision, making an accurate shot at their chasers near impossible.
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough...
Sark's toilet was too far away from the sink—damn the expensive bathrooms and their expansive design—and he nearly missed it to hurl onto the rich velvet mat surrounding it. He retched into the bowl; deep gasps that burned his throat with their acids and his eyes with the strength they ripped from him.
When he realized what was happening, his stomach was already empty, and he found he was sprawled beside the bowl, pathetically, with his forehead resting against the rim where his arse usually sat to take a shit.
He roused himself quickly from his stupor. There was no reason to be acting that way, he stated to the empty room—and further, the empty house.
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough
It's not enough...
Sark splashed a handful of water onto his face, and looked into his mirror. It was an expensive mirror. He liked expensive things, he reminded himself.
As the water droplets rolled off his smooth, boyish features and back into the marble sink, he observed the man starring back at him. He looked different than he remembered. His face was older and his hair was shorter; his smile was cynical and his eyes were dead.
When they say
You're not that strong
You're not that weak
It's not your fault
And when you climb up to your hill
Up to your place
I hope you're well
The cries of mercy that had disturbed him—that had taken their toll today and caused him to loose his careful control, luckily, in the privacy of his own home—slowly raised in volume again, ringing in his head. They had been compartmentalized for years. They had remained nameless and faceless and voiceless, instead blurred together into one general obstacle he could tuck away. But somehow, they'd broken through his walls in his mind he'd worked so hard on to build. They were tearing at him from the inside out. They were chasing him down his own streets of the mind he'd created years ago to improve a sport. They ran with their unborn babies in one hand and their murder weapons on the other. They were vengeful little bastards, they were. And now that they had their freedom, they wouldn't shut up.
Maybe he really wasn't enough to be agent material.
It's not enough
No
It's not enough
It's not enough
His face was ugly, he realized. With dark circles, a pale complexion, and hollowed cheeks, he looked repulsive. He'd later try to reason he did what he did because of that reason.
His hand hurried toward the reflection taunting him, smashing it and the expensive mirror to jagged shards. The other hand followed, tearing with soft flesh at the glass, the glass tearing the soft flesh. The voices screamed, cried, begged for it all to end. The glass was stubborn glass—even the last few fragments held to the casing edges for dear life. They needed to go.
When he was finished—when his hands and arms and chest had been marred enough, and the voices had shut up, satisfied—he looked back to were his lovely mirror had been. He looked at the gapping hole inside a beautifully carved gold casing.
Yes, that was better.
A/N: Yeah, so that was my first Alias fic. I didn't want to say it at the beginning because it's one of my biggest pet peeves. Honestly, who would knowingly want to read a beginner's fic? I'd just be setting myself up to have no one read my stuff.
Anyway, the mood turned out a little different than what I pictured when I first wrote it. Sark seems like the whiny nut job JJ's been making him. I'd love feedback since it's my very first Alias fanfic and I don't know if I should go on...! Boo hoo hoo! (J/K!)