What you see is never what you're gonna get.

trollopfop

Muse: Julian Sark
Word Count: 239

sighofthings

Muse: Julian Sark
Word Count: 605

justprompts : Wrapped Around Your Finger by The Police
 

The school's conservatory is almost like a graveyard after hours. Empty seats all lined up in neat little rows like headstones in the darkness and even with the house lights on, everything just seems lonely and dead. Some people find beauty in empty theaters- Julian's pretty sure he's not one of them. Still, practicing during school hours just means he has to deal with the fact that there are so many other children better than him and being constantly reminded that there's something out there that he's not the absolute best at drives him crazy. Better to practice in the haunting, lifeless theater than under the scrutiny and mocking jeers of his classmates.

Ages ago, he learned the ignoble art of sneaking out of the dormitories and how to pick the locks on the conservatory doors and if the school's staff has any idea what he's been up to, they keep that information to themselves, but it's not like he gives them any indication he was ever there and the cleaning staff, even they ever bother with the conservatory after midnight, are probably superstitious enough to think the mysterious piano playing to be caused by errant spirits.

On go the houselights, up he vanishes into the light booth to get the stage lights, and then he walks down the path between the rows of empty seats, stepping lightly as if he were well and truly tiptoeing in a graveyard after midnight, up the stairs, and then onto the stage where the school's piano lies in wait, taunting him. He slides himself onto the bench, lifts the lid, and runs his fingers across the ivory. He's memorized every damn note down to the letter and yet applying himself to the task of playing a song just gives him a basic, simple sound- nothing pretty, nothing particularly noteworthy at all. The spark of creativity isn't there- he's too left-brained. Every one of his teachers has an excuse for why he can't do it.

That simply isn't good enough.

justprompts

"You're just a dog looking for a new master.

It was ironic to hear that from Sydney, of all people, when the CIA, itself, was an organization composed of obedient dogs, tugging at collars that were too tight and jerking on leashes as if testing how far they could go before the chain choked them back into line, but Sydney was her father's daughter in a lot of ways, so maybe she couldn't see it like that as clearly as he could, given the way she strained at her leash as if it wasn't there, all while never quite noticing when she fell back into place like all the others. If Sark knew anything about Jack Bristow, it was that Irina had left him a wolf when she betrayed him, one who could blend in with the other dogs seamlessly and then slip his collar and follow his own rules, only to slip back into it again before anyone realized quite what he was doing. Perhaps Sydney would grow into that or perhaps she'd simply continue to tug at her chain, testing the weaknesses, but never quite allowing herself the opportunity to break it even when the offer was there, enticing and taunting her every step of the way

Sometimes he wondered if even Sloane's departure from the CIA had little to do with disillusionment and more to do with the fact that he'd rather hold the leash, than wear the collar

Of course, Sark held no illusions about what he was or what he'd rather have- it's why he barely reacted to Sydney's words beyond smug dissatisfaction at the petty attempt at an insult- but if he was going to be a dog, he wanted to be the sort who could choose his masters. Where the CIA had a rulebook the size of the Oxford English Dictionary, he wanted there to be only one rule: obey the orders. Either because he was trained to be subservient or because it was just much easier to let someone else call the shots, he never held any aspirations of being the one in full control. Oh, he certainly liked power and control and anyone who knew him could tell he was ambitious, but all of that didn't change what he was. Some people are meant to be leaders and some are meant to be dogs, and he had the misfortune to be in the latter category, but with enough good sense to use that as an advantage. 

While he could bite the hand that fed him and then carry his leash to another master who might provide him with something better than his last one, the CIA nipped at their masters' hands, but were too afraid to bite for fear of the repercussions. He held no such fears- flexible loyalties may have meant cowardice in some situations, and perhaps his leash had been handed over in fear more times than he'd like to admit, but to him it meant always having the advantage. The CIA could have their loyalty to a country that barely acknowledged their existence and keep their jaws closed tightly for fear of speaking even the slightest betrayal thanks to some sense of honor- Sark knew where he'd rather stand in the long run and that was beside whatever master treated him well and provided him with work that kept his life interesting and his hunger for risk and danger sated... Just until the circumstances shifted out of his favor, of course. Loyalty and honor were concepts for other people.

After all, if you had to be a dog, it was better to be one known to bite than one who let himself get maimed in the chase for some paltry ideology.

Muse: Julian Sark (Alias)
Word Count: 639

Sark became painfully aware of the concrete as a demon with hair a color red that is usually reserved for cherry suckers and certain cars tackled him before he could get three feet from his car. For a brief moment, he wondered if evading the Organization for seventeen years had finally caught up with him. He knew when he joined up that it wasn't a group you could turn your back on and betray and expect to live, but he was always a huge risktaker, and, hell, he'd managed to keep under their radar for seventeen years, so he didn't he had done so badly in the long run.

He attempted to clamber to his feet, but the demon planted a stiletto-heeled boot on his chest and he grimaced in pain as the heel dug into a spot on his sternum that was still tender even though that wound was a good twenty years old now. His aviators had fallen askew when he hit the ground and he glanced above the frames to get a good look at his assailant- she looked like a teenager, but demons' looks could be deceiving. There was a certain look to her eyes that suggested youth, however, which, really, would make this all the more irritating. Evade capture for years and get taken down by a teenager- there's some subtle bit of irony in that.

"Hi, Daddy."