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certainproclivitySomewhere in the catacombs of some European church in a city that Sark can't bother to remember the name of, because it's the fifteenth one in fewer days, Irina Derevko bleeds out on the cold, wet stone, while the rats that lurk in the shadows skitter absently about, waiting on a moment to strike. It's an unceremonious end for a woman like her, but she's made several spectacular ones in the last two weeks- she can afford an undignified one.
"I can't imagine what this must feel like," he murmurs, checking the clip in his gun. There's one bullet left.
That's all he needs.
"My own student shooting me in the head," Irina responds, her voice echoing oddly against the stone walls. If he hadn't been through this so many times before, it might have bothered him. It did, at first, but not anymore. It's like learning how to kill all over again- you don't want to pull the trigger, but you do it anyway, and the more you do it, the easier it gets, until you feel nothing. "It feels like I've trained you well."
He snaps the clip back into place, staring down at her with an expression that isn't quite anything at all, save utterly merciless. "That's a better answer than the others gave."
The rats skitter away at the sound of the gunshot.
~*~
Irina Derevko has died nine times, and all but two of those times, she's died by his hand.
~*~
A man he was once sent to assassinate put a curse on him. He was younger then- barely seventeen- and when the words left the man's mouth, he'd almost hesitated to pull the trigger, half-stricken. Eventually, he found his resolve and shot him, more for the insult, at that point, then the fact that it was a job he had to accomplish. Long after the man's body had grown cold, the words stuck with him.
The curse, itself, had a poetry to it, but in actuality, the words had only one meaning. You'll never live to see thirty.
"Well," he told himself on the flight back to Galway, "I'll simply have to make sure I've made a name for myself before then."
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old when he returns to the house at Galway Bay, the same house he hasn't seen since his youth, back when he was a faithful dog and not a freelancer worth his own salt in the criminal underworld. It hasn't changed much, save for the amount of dust lingering on everything. He steps quietly into the house, instinctively remembering which of the floorboards creak in order to avoid them, and keeps walking until he reaches the study.
The one chair in the room is angled so the person seated in it can't be seen from the doorway, their focus wholly on the roaring fire. Sark doesn't move much farther than a few feet in before he stops, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Is she dead?" He'll never get over how tired she sounds.
"Yes."
"How many do you think are left?"
He shrugs, staring absently at a picture on the wall- some fancy piece of art that she'd either bought or had stolen for her over the years. Most everything in this house was either stolen or purchased with stolen money and all of it was meant for style and comfort- the retirement home of a woman who could never quite get up the nerve to retire. "That could have been all of them or there could have been a hundred more." He pauses, allowing that to sink in. "That was the last of any I had heard of."
"You could have missed one."
"I usually don't."
Irina Derevko rises from her chair and faces him and he stands at attention like a good soldier, like nothing has ever changed between them- like he didn't just learn that the woman he nearly helped end the world wasn't even his real master. That the woman he now stood before, he had to find by accident, lest he believe a lie for the rest of his life. "No," she shakes her head. "You've always been good at this, Julian."
Well, you certainly created a wonderful tool. He's become more self-aware than he's ever been, the past few months. He blames the number of times he's had to deal with his worst nightmare and coming out of it with the smoking gun in his hand. The more it happens, the more he has to realize that maybe this is exactly where he needs to be. This is what they'll remember him for.
"Yes, and that's why I can't leave a job half-finished," he says and he might as well be commenting on the weather, "I do, actually, still have one left."
He draws his gun and pulls the trigger before she has a chance to reply.
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old and none of that was real, except for one thing:
Irina Derevko didn't die in Hong Kong.
He's sprawled on the pavement of some deserted street in a city he can't remember the name of, bleeding out and being much calmer about it than he thought he might be. Irina Derevko is standing over him with the guilty weapon in her hands, looking like a ghost, a merciless Angel of Death, and the woman he's always been in love with, all at once.
He came here to kill her, figuring after thinking her dead twice and her never telling him the truth, he could manage it and finally rid himself of the one consistent, nagging constant he never could escape. He had to imagine it so many times in order to get it right, and, in the end, it wasn't enough.
She leans down and runs a hand through his hair, the last bit of maternal sympathy she'll ever dredge up and it's more real than anything he's gotten from her in the past. "Julian, I thought you were better than this."
Funny. He's thinking he's never been better than this. He's thinking that this might just be the perfect way for that curse to play out. The woman he once would have died for being the one who kills him.
He thinks it's right, somehow.
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old. The man who died in Vienna last night with his face is some nobody that no one will miss. Irina Derevko gets to be the one who thinks someone she once considered an asset is dead, for once, while he continues on. He's rising to the top of the criminal underworld under an assumed name and he doesn't need her anymore.
He hopes that hurts her more than killing her ever would.
His birthday's in six months, but he thinks the odds are in his favor, because as far as anyone knows, Julian Sark is dead.
In the end, she really did train him well and the one thing she taught him was how to survive.
He plans on continuing to do that for a good long while.
"I can't imagine what this must feel like," he murmurs, checking the clip in his gun. There's one bullet left.
That's all he needs.
"My own student shooting me in the head," Irina responds, her voice echoing oddly against the stone walls. If he hadn't been through this so many times before, it might have bothered him. It did, at first, but not anymore. It's like learning how to kill all over again- you don't want to pull the trigger, but you do it anyway, and the more you do it, the easier it gets, until you feel nothing. "It feels like I've trained you well."
He snaps the clip back into place, staring down at her with an expression that isn't quite anything at all, save utterly merciless. "That's a better answer than the others gave."
The rats skitter away at the sound of the gunshot.
~*~
Irina Derevko has died nine times, and all but two of those times, she's died by his hand.
~*~
A man he was once sent to assassinate put a curse on him. He was younger then- barely seventeen- and when the words left the man's mouth, he'd almost hesitated to pull the trigger, half-stricken. Eventually, he found his resolve and shot him, more for the insult, at that point, then the fact that it was a job he had to accomplish. Long after the man's body had grown cold, the words stuck with him.
The curse, itself, had a poetry to it, but in actuality, the words had only one meaning. You'll never live to see thirty.
"Well," he told himself on the flight back to Galway, "I'll simply have to make sure I've made a name for myself before then."
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old when he returns to the house at Galway Bay, the same house he hasn't seen since his youth, back when he was a faithful dog and not a freelancer worth his own salt in the criminal underworld. It hasn't changed much, save for the amount of dust lingering on everything. He steps quietly into the house, instinctively remembering which of the floorboards creak in order to avoid them, and keeps walking until he reaches the study.
The one chair in the room is angled so the person seated in it can't be seen from the doorway, their focus wholly on the roaring fire. Sark doesn't move much farther than a few feet in before he stops, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Is she dead?" He'll never get over how tired she sounds.
"Yes."
"How many do you think are left?"
He shrugs, staring absently at a picture on the wall- some fancy piece of art that she'd either bought or had stolen for her over the years. Most everything in this house was either stolen or purchased with stolen money and all of it was meant for style and comfort- the retirement home of a woman who could never quite get up the nerve to retire. "That could have been all of them or there could have been a hundred more." He pauses, allowing that to sink in. "That was the last of any I had heard of."
"You could have missed one."
"I usually don't."
Irina Derevko rises from her chair and faces him and he stands at attention like a good soldier, like nothing has ever changed between them- like he didn't just learn that the woman he nearly helped end the world wasn't even his real master. That the woman he now stood before, he had to find by accident, lest he believe a lie for the rest of his life. "No," she shakes her head. "You've always been good at this, Julian."
Well, you certainly created a wonderful tool. He's become more self-aware than he's ever been, the past few months. He blames the number of times he's had to deal with his worst nightmare and coming out of it with the smoking gun in his hand. The more it happens, the more he has to realize that maybe this is exactly where he needs to be. This is what they'll remember him for.
"Yes, and that's why I can't leave a job half-finished," he says and he might as well be commenting on the weather, "I do, actually, still have one left."
He draws his gun and pulls the trigger before she has a chance to reply.
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old and none of that was real, except for one thing:
Irina Derevko didn't die in Hong Kong.
He's sprawled on the pavement of some deserted street in a city he can't remember the name of, bleeding out and being much calmer about it than he thought he might be. Irina Derevko is standing over him with the guilty weapon in her hands, looking like a ghost, a merciless Angel of Death, and the woman he's always been in love with, all at once.
He came here to kill her, figuring after thinking her dead twice and her never telling him the truth, he could manage it and finally rid himself of the one consistent, nagging constant he never could escape. He had to imagine it so many times in order to get it right, and, in the end, it wasn't enough.
She leans down and runs a hand through his hair, the last bit of maternal sympathy she'll ever dredge up and it's more real than anything he's gotten from her in the past. "Julian, I thought you were better than this."
Funny. He's thinking he's never been better than this. He's thinking that this might just be the perfect way for that curse to play out. The woman he once would have died for being the one who kills him.
He thinks it's right, somehow.
~*~
Julian Sark is twenty-nine years old. The man who died in Vienna last night with his face is some nobody that no one will miss. Irina Derevko gets to be the one who thinks someone she once considered an asset is dead, for once, while he continues on. He's rising to the top of the criminal underworld under an assumed name and he doesn't need her anymore.
He hopes that hurts her more than killing her ever would.
His birthday's in six months, but he thinks the odds are in his favor, because as far as anyone knows, Julian Sark is dead.
In the end, she really did train him well and the one thing she taught him was how to survive.
He plans on continuing to do that for a good long while.
