s Title: Basements of Paris
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Somewhere Sydney could hear the rhythmic bass and thump of Moroccan dance music. It echoes down through the vents into the basement of this Parisian "citie"—one of numerous housing projects built to house the influx of immigrants from West Africa and other former colonial outposts of France. Located on the outskirts of Paris proper far from any gendarmes who would dare to venture in, lawlessness abounds in these places. Gang rapes are a favourite pastime of the packs of unemployed and angry young men that live there; tucked away from the willfully blind and uncaring eye of France's mostly white middle class. Rape wasn't her primary concern right now—breathing was, she assumes the rape will come later. She manages to draw in one more shallow breath before the iron hand clamped on the back of her neck forces her forward once more, plunging her head into the tank of icy water. Sydney doesn't fight; struggling only uses up oxygen. Also the men holding her captive may make the mistake of believing they've gone too far this time and have rendered her unconscious—or dead. One lapse in their judgment—one chance to escape, that's all she needs. Her head is jerked back as she is pulled up by her hair and she greedily sucks in air. A coarse unshaven face bends close to hers—no immigrant this, Sydney believes he is a regular old-fashioned homegrown criminal. He smiles silkily and asks again in accented English, "Who do you work for? Tell us and we'll let you go." She doesn't bother replying. She knows they won't buy the "innocent bystander" story as she was captured while trying to infiltrate a secure facility outside of the city. Until this man—a mobster most likely—pins down exactly which organization she works for—the Americans, British, French, or merely a hired gun sent by a rival to steal anything she could—and who he might be pissing off by killing her, he has to let her live. Her only safety lies in remaining anonymous, buying time until Vaughn can extract her—if he can find her. She doesn't think about that but holds on to her hope and her rage. She glares at him, blinking water out of her eyes and spits into his face. The coarse man's cohorts laugh at her display of defiance—they laugh even harder when he viciously backhands her, splitting her lips open. "Bitch!" The hand wrapped in her hair savagely pulls her to her feet. Her wrists feel the bite from the wire they've bound her hands with and she knows they've grown slippery with blood. Good. Maybe I can get them slick enough to slip my hands out. She twists them behind her back, hoping to loosen them. The coarse man throws her sprawling into a chair. She feels hands harshly grip her shoulders, pinning her there. The mobster flicks open a knife. The dim basement is only lit by the glare of a single naked bulb. The modest light there is drawn to the blade and runs down the edge like water. His cronies murmur amongst themselves in French. Sydney catches enough to understand they expect to see a good show—this man is renowned for his skill with a blade on his victims. "Regardez. Il enleve un l'oeil premier. Elle parlez alors, sans doute!" They snicker to themselves, expecting her to do more than "talk" if the mobster cuts out her eye. The man puts on a show for his rapt audience, slowly bringing the point of the blade up to Sydney's eye. The knifepoint grows in her vision until all she can see is the sharp tip filling her world, glittering with the promise of exquisite pain. She twists her head back as far as it will go; calloused hands cup her chin and force her face around. She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for the sickening hurt to begin, involuntary noises leaking from behind her clamped lips. She feels the cold tip touch the skin of her eyelid in an obscene kiss. "Assez! Arretez!" The hands drop away from her face; relief for her still intact eye makes her knees weak. She opens her eyes to see a face that is familiar to her from the Interpol's most wanted list. France's most notorious arms dealer is rebuking the mobster. He doesn't have to yell or scream to threaten—his quiet aura of menace and power has the mobster backpedaling and apologizing profusely. His buddies suddenly all find some other spot more fascinating and stare intently at it, anywhere but at the two men. Sydney uses the distraction provided to work once more at her wrists; the pain spurs her on. She has almost worked one hand loose when the mobster and his followers troop out of the basement. The arms dealer turns to Sydney with a charming smile and draws a gun from underneath his suit coat. Her stomach lurches in fear. He catches her look and laughs as if she has delighted him with a witty riposte. "Oh No Mademoiselle! I won't shoot you. I have other plans. Stand up and come with me. No tricks now; you don't want you to make me into a liar now do you?" "No we wouldn't want that." Coolly Sydney finished unwrapping her wrists and wipes at the blood the wire has drawn. The arms dealer—she remembers his name now, Alain Renoux—pulls out a handkerchief and courteously offers it to her. "Merci Monsieur Renoux." "Ah. Bravery and intelligence in one lovely package—what a formidable agent you must be." So he knows I'm an intelligence agent. He wants something else; does he work for the Alliance? He steps aside so she can precede him down the indicated hallway into another room, water drips from the pipes running overhead and she can hear rats. The arms dealer doesn't give Sydney any opportunity to make a move; one hand grips her arm and the other keeps the gun pressed firmly against her spine. They turn a corner and head down a short flight of stairs into a sub-basement room This one is not much cleaner than the one they have left, but more brightly lit. The banks of fluorescent lights gleam off of the steel chair bolted to the floor and the small metal trolley standing beside it with the neatly laid out medical instruments. Director Arvin Sloane is handcuffed and sitting in the chair, one sleeve rolled up exposing the intravenous line running to an IV bottle suspended overhead. Two armed guards, muscle for the arms dealer, lounge against the far wall. They straighten up when they see the boss. Sydney stands shocked for a moment at the threshold; Sloane's face is battered but he smiles warmly at Sydney to invite her in—for all the world as if he is in his own home—refusing to concede his captivity. "I believe you know Monsieur Sloane, Agent Bristow?" Alain Renoux prods Sydney forward and shows her the small table and chairs where she should sit. He sits opposite and crosses his legs, first shaking out the creases in the trousers of his expensive suit. Things are becoming more surreal by the minute. Sloane is supposed to be in the States at SD6. What is going on here? She plays along. "Yes we've met." She gives nothing more. Renoux turns to Sloane, an expression of anticipation on his face. "Miss Bristow is the daughter of a good friend, she has nothing to do with this." Sloane's voice is firm but weary; they have been holding him for a while. Sydney frowns slightly trying to puzzle out why Sloane would be covering for her. "Oh I believe Agent Bristow can tell me a great deal about SD-6—among other things—couldn't you Agent?" Renoux turns back to her and drops a sheaf of papers in front of her; he fans them out widely, causing the paperclip binding them together to skitter away. She can see there are a few photos of her and one of her and Vaughn—Vaughn! Have they made the connection?—amongst the typed pages. Renoux signals one of the guards. The underling sets a tray with a variety of cheeses, fruits, and other foods in front of them. He places an opened bottle of red wine and two glasses beside it. Renoux indicates that she should help herself, as he pours the wine. "I have been busy keeping track of your movements this past week, I have discovered some unusual facts about you Agent Bristow. I think we should discuss this—over a meal of course—we French are nothing if not civilized..." He smirks at her. The rich smell of everything is making her mouth water; her stomach awakes and noisily demands food. She doesn't move. "Please eat Agent, I know you've been a captive for many long hours, without food or drink." His slight look of puzzlement is replaced with an avuncular grin. "Baie'la! Of course you won't eat anything for fear of drugs." He strikes his forehead in the "Of course Quelle Stupide!" fashion the French seem to have mastered. Carefully watching her he eats some fruit and cheese and drains his glass of wine. "See Mademoiselle Bristow," He smacks his lips. "Nothing to worry about. C'est beau." He waits. She watches him carefully. Pupils are a little wide, but that could just be only his own sick pleasure for games like this. He seems fine. Go on and eat girl, you need the energy to get out of here. She reaches out and snags an orange segment, chewing slowly; the sweet lace of acidic juice burns her split lip, coats her tongue, and shifts her hunger to a whole new level. She grabs more oranges sections and tries not to eat too greedily. She gulps the wine. Careful! Don't get drunk...try to get him drunk instead. He smiles pleased and pours more wine for both of them. He raises his glass and silently toasts Sloane. Sydney returns the gesture and glances over at her captive companion. Sloane has slipped into unconsciousness. His head droops forward onto his chest; cuts and bruises mar his face. Sydney realizes what an effort he must have made to maintain his pretense of unruffled calm and control. She calculates their chances. I don't think Renoux has broken him yet. Why else would I be here? What's the agenda behind the Good Cop/Bad Cop game this asshole is playing? Why is Sloane here? And where the hell is Vaughn? Time to play with this scum and get some answers. She looks at Renoux from under lowered lashes, smiling coyly. "Thank you for the food—and the timely rescue earlier." She allows herself to shudder delicately, as if the mere thought of her former predicament is just too distressing to imagine. She gulps her wine hoping to encourage him to as well. His glass remains in his hand, wine swirling gently as he tilts the glass to release the bouquet. He nods regally to accept her gratitude but says nothing. She drinks again and plunges on. "Sloane is right. I'm only a low level agent. I don't know anything about any SD-6." That sounds more stupid than I meant it to be...the wine is making her feel flushed and dizzy. Her throat feels dry; she sets the near empty glass down unsteadily. Renoux watches her with a cruel smile on his aristocratic face. "Perhaps you aren't aware of this Agent Bristow, but the arms trade, like any occupation, can suffer from recessions and economic slow downs? It's true. It may not seem like it in this new era of—how would you say, ah yes—heightened security." The tone is mocking. "And my wife and mistress are accustomed to fine things, expensive things—so what is an" he gives her an ironic look, "honest businessman to do?" Sydney's pulse is racing and she seems to be hearing Renoux from far, far away. She grips the table to stop herself from floating up to the ceiling and concentrates hard on him. He sets his glass of wine down and lays the gun beside it. The barrel of the gun is pointed right at her; the hole grows large and swallows her up, it becomes an eye—unblinking and deadly. Renoux's voice drags her back to herself. "So Agent Bristow, I moonlight. I have a profitable sideline in the narcotics trade." She looks up at him panicked. "Oh yes. Death and drugs. I deal in both. For example, the drug you have flowing in your veins right now is a new variant of Ecstasy I have developed. It's very addictive, fast acting, a potent euphoric and makes you want to fuck like a mink when you're on it." He laughs. "My mistress and I take it quite a bit when we fuck—the wife is a bit of a prude about that kind of activity—but like all good things, sadly I find I am growing used to it. So the small amount I have ingested isn't really enough to do much more than prime the pump, so to speak. But you, Agent Bristow drank quite a bit of wine laced with it." He says this in a tone of joshing disapproval—aren't you a naughty girl for being so greedy? Waves of sensation are washing through her brain. Sydney hears the tidal beat of blood in her veins. Her skin is on fire. She looks over at Renoux and grins drunkenly as she says, "The wine was drugged after all—I was stupid to drink it but I th-thought it was okay..." "Ah yes cheri—not wise at all—speaks quite poorly of how the Americans are training their agents these days, doesn't it?" She apes his nod—smiling happily. She wants so badly to please this man, this nice man who has given her lovely oranges to eat and is chatting so pleasantly with her. She crosses her arms onto the table, slumping her heavy head down onto them and looks expectantly at him. "Do you know what were going to do now?" He sounds like a favourite uncle promising a wonderful surprise. Sydney can't begin to imagine what fun, exciting things they were going to do; she shakes her head. The motion causes trails and blurs of colored light to dance in front of her eyes. She laughs, delighted. Renoux chuckles along with her. "I'm going to take you over to that bed over there" He points to a small cot set up in a corner of the room "and fuck you until you bleed. Then you and I will have a little chat, and you're going to tell me everything you know about SD-6 and Mr. Sloane here. If you are an especially good girl and please me very much I'll let these two fellows over here" he indicates the grinning guards "have a turn with you as well. How about that, does that sound nice?" He leans forward, and pats her hand. Sydney had felt a craving deep in her belly as soon as Renoux had mentioned sex. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to have sex with him—any of them, but he was looking so hopefully at her and he was asking so politely that she nodded, her eyes shining mutely. "That's my lovely girl!" And she is very pleased to have made him so happy. She stands—shaky on her feet—the walls of the room are pulsing in and out in time with her breathing. Renoux gestures in an after you way towards the bed; he reminds Sydney so much of a fussy maitre'de that she giggles helplessly. Her laughter rouses Sloane. She wobbles over to him and pats his cheek. "Hiya Arvin! I'm going to have sex with the headwaiter and we're going to have a nice chat all about you and—" "Sydney! Sydney, no, you must listen they've drugged you—fight it—" "Oh I know! I drank too much of the wine." She nods sagely like a drunken owl then stage whispers into his ear, "There were drugs in the wine. Drugs!" She laughs like this is one of the funniest things she's ever heard in her life and her peals of hilarity are soon joined by Renoux's laughter. She sits on Sloane's lap and giggles at Renoux who is sitting over on the cot. The arms dealer smiles and crooks a finger beckoning to her, patting the bed beside him. Sydney presses Sloane's hand in goodbye as she rises and crosses to Renoux, "Sydney wait!" His handcuffs rattle as he tries to grip her arm and hold her back. She blows Sloane a kiss over her shoulder and as she pulls her shirt over her head, Sloane palms the paperclip she had passed to him and begins to pick the lock of the cuffs. ~~~*~~~ Sydney stands in front of Renoux, hip cocked, seductively stroking the bared flesh of her stomach. She smiles archly down at him and cups her lace-covered breasts. He nods approvingly, running his hands up her thighs, tugging her belt undone. She sways a little on her feet as she kicks off her boots, so she reaches out and grabs onto Renoux's shoulder. He caresses her arm, fingertips gently tracing the muscles and she sighs with pleasure. "You are very beautiful my dear..." he calls over to the handcuffed man, "Monsieur Sloane it will be my pleasure to use this little agent of yours—I think she can take a great deal of damage before she breaks—she looks strong and proud. I will enjoy making her crawl." Sloane ignores the taunts—he is Buddha-still—only looking dismissively at the other man. Renoux is angered by the lack of reaction. He wrenches Sydney's arm brutally forcing her to her knees. She hisses in pain, but the drug sends a bolt of heat rocketing through her body. Her eyes widen as she feels the moist warmth between her legs make her slippery wet. Sydney's vague plans to somehow overpower this man are wiped from her mind by a rising tide of desire. Renoux is waiting for just this reaction. "Yes Agent Bristow—experience all of the benefits of my exquisite drug. Pleasure and pain blend together to become one. A most marvelous effect, non?" Gently he cups her chin in a tender embrace then he makes a fist and belts her a hard one, driving her to the floor. Her jaw is an explosion of white-hot pain, she groans and tries to curl into a ball, but the horrible need rides over her—crushing her—making her moan and writhe helplessly. Her belly and thighs quiver as the orgasm holding her hostage causes her to shudder and twitch on the floor. Deep inside she can hear the woman who remains untouched by the narcotic keening in pain. Her humiliation is complete. Made to perform in front of these men like a dumb animal—she thinks she may have just gone insane—broken under the perverse hurt like a too taut wire. As Renoux crouches next to her, fondling her hair, running it through his hands like warm silk—that woman prays: ohdeargod. Please don't let him touch me anymore—kill me first—Vaughn I need you. Help me! ~~~*~~~ The damp taste of concrete eels its way into Sydney's mouth and throat; it blends with the copper penny taste of blood into a nasty mixture that whispers to Sydney of past hurts suffered and promises of pain to come. The last twitches and jolts of the horrible orgasm leave her as she lies broken on the floor. She groans and raises her head. She hears the tendons in her neck creak and understands she is still under the hyperawareness of the trivial that drugs induce. Renoux is still hunkered down beside her, talking to Sloane, one hand casually holding her down in a gesture of easy dominance. The words drone and buzz in arcane meanings beyond her grasp. Right now, her whole world has narrowed down to an awareness of the thumping pain in her jaw and the aching throb in-between her legs; it cycles in a rhythm with her heartbeat. She catches a glimpse of metallic silver, shining bright and so pretty against Renoux's leg—she muses on this new puzzle before her for eons. Inside her head entire galaxies are born and die before she works out that the silver thing is Renoux's clutch piece—a twenty-two caliber in an ankle holster. She considers this new and amazing development for another endless amount of time before she decides she is going to make contact with this miraculous object. Her hand floats out and away from her, stretching out into infinity, and finally arrives to brush against the slick surface of the metal. Just then there is a change in the conversational weather patterns located miles above her head; booming tones and sharp reports crash against her ears. Renoux shifts, as he roars thunder from his mouth, the wonderful gun slips out of her grasp; she scrabbles for it and feels it skate loose of the holster and almost skitter away but finally settle into her grasp. Its solid reality and deadly potential prove to Sydney without a doubt that there is a God in her universe and that He is a vengeful God. ~~~*~~~ Sloane watches the brave and foolish girl as she lays herself on an altar of pain and degradation—for him. He is still surprised that part of her sacrifice was for his sake. He knows Renoux—he was aware of his atrocities before he became his prisoner—his opinion hasn't changed since his associates captured him on his way to a meeting with Alliance members and handed him over three days ago. He knows Sydney's inherent nobility and decency can't stand against a monster like him; he can only hope the darkness he senses in her, the repressed attraction to death and violence will rise up and protect her. He coaxes the lock of one cuff, wrist bent awkwardly to maneuver the paperclip. Renoux taunts him as he tortures Sydney; he is a master at the worst kinds of debasement. Still Sloane can't help but feel aroused by the shameful image of Sydney writhing on the floor in erotic agony. He has long ago come to understand his own motivations and accept his own darkness. He averts his eyes for her sake not his, and concentrates on picking the lock. There! With one wrist free the second lock is easier to finesse open. He engages Renoux in conversation as a distraction. "That is the reason you'll never to amount to more than a petty criminal—a vicious thug." Sloane glances significantly at the woman Renoux has pinned to the floor. "I beg to differ—I am one of the richest men in France—that would hardly qualify for petty theft status." "Money is beyond the point. You lack art, a flair for cruelty, finding the elegance in pain—pain as deliverance. What you do is crude and sordid." "And I suppose you are the expert?" "No actually. There are others far more skilled than I...Consider me a mere connoisseur." Sloane smiles benevolently and picks up a scalpel from the tray, throwing it smoothly into the throat of one of the guards. The guard looks down baffled at this new and sudden growth while bright blood begins to run down his chin; he claws at his throat as he dies, dislodging the scalpel and painting the walls with an arterial spray. Renoux is frozen in shock for a heartbeat; he yells for the other guard. This unfortunate man is still struggling to bring his gun to bear on Sloane as he shoots him with Renoux's gun that was lying on the table. After the first shot Sloane, tilts his head and deeming the one shot insufficient, fires twice more, exploding the guard's head, scattering brain and bone matter overtop of the arcs of blood from the previous guard. He smiles as if the overall artistic effect pleases him. He turns to Renoux, his sleek head and empty eyes match those of the deadliest predators; Renoux notices with a species of sick shock that Sloane had wreaked such slaughter while still hooked up to the IV. Hasty offers and deals tumble from Renoux's lips in a fervid rush. "Ask her." Sloane points with his gun. "However, I don't think she's in any mood to cut deals." Renoux looks down at Sydney, she has his twenty-two jammed into his crotch. Her eyes glitter with the same amoral detachment as Sloane's. They are a killer's eyes. "Please! Mon Dieu don't!" Sweat oils Renoux's face and the reek of fear is strong; Sydney grips the gun more firmly and grates, "Go to hell." She pulls the trigger. ~~~*~~~ The pain fills Renoux's world and he screams in agony. He falls back clutching his groin. Blood seeps out, staining the crotch of his immaculate suit with gore. He cups his ruined manhood and looks astounded at the instrument responsible for such pain, watches as she gets to her feet and advances on him like a beast from a fairy tale; he cringes and sobs like a hurt child. Tears leak out of his eyes and roll down his face plopping down onto the soaked fabric to mix their salt into the copper of his blood. He is unaware of begging, pleading with the monster; who only smiles with her lovely assassin's mouth and raises the gun. ~~~*~~~ She thinks Sloane is trying to stop her, she feels his cold hand wrap around her wrist, pulling her gun hand down. She tries to shake him off irritated that she is unable to finish her kill, dip her fanged muzzle into the wild river of life and bite down, strangling it. "Stop." He pulls the twenty-two pistol from her hand. The woman trapped deep inside the beast gives thanks for a moment—aware that he has pulled her back from the edge, stayed her leap into the endless drop into darkness. In its place he curls her unresisting fingers around the other gun, its weight and matte black presence bewildering to her—she stares hard at him. "Larger caliber—it will do more damage—finish it Sydney" then he releases her and she falls off the brink into the abyss. ~~~*~~~ Renoux is hunching backwards trying to put space between him and the beautiful woman coming to kill him. He cannot speak; her eyes have swallowed him up and stolen the words from his brain. He gibbers in terror and raises his bloody hand to ward off his approaching death. As serenely as a priest offering a blessing, Sydney takes aim and fires. Renoux's howls ring and echo in the small concrete room; he gapes at the blasted ruin where his hand used to be. Bone shards gleam whitely from the stumps of his shattered fingers; blood mottles the floor like scarlet rain. A thick and evil stink of powder-burnt flesh mixed with cordite hangs in the air. Still, the arms dealer tries to creep and flop like the broken thing he is away from Sydney; so she shoots again, the knee this time, then once more into his gut. Renoux's system is overwhelmed with suffering; nerves taxed to the limit, his entire body is a universe of pain. The bullets that smash his knee into bone fragments and rip into his viscera only register as a final coda in the dark and bloody symphony his body has become. A low mewling is coming from him now, the final sounds prey make before they offer up their lives; he is twitching and jerking slowly as his life begins to wind down. Sydney knows she doesn't have much longer to play with Renoux before he bleeds out, or his heart stops from the repeated insults to his system. She crouches close to him and pins him down, unconsciously mimicking their earlier positions in reverse. She places the gun against his heart. In the darkness Renoux's mind has fled to he can see a spot of brightness drawing closer and closer. He has nowhere to hide; the light encompasses his entire world. The dreadful brilliance coalesces into a fall of shining hair framing two eyes filled with terrible and implacable resolve. Renoux looks into her eyes and understands she is Death come to deliver him; he cannot help but smile because she is so very beautiful. A dark rose blooms in his heart and he knows no more. ~~~*~~~ Her ribs ache from the strain, but still she heaves. Her stomach has nothing more to sick up—but persists in trying to expel the blackness that has entered her. The smell of this small basement room is enough to make her retch again. Violent death always smells the same—blood and shit. The three bodies lay where they have fallen, muscles relaxed in death releasing the contents of the bowels—bullets have torn new holes discharging other bodily effluvia. The stench has a physical quality, clinging to her like a living thing—marking her. She pushes away from the wall where she had staggered to vomit after—she shoves the image away. "Better now?" She silently curses him for his calm—curses him and shrinks a little in fear from it. She nods and shakily wipes her mouth. He stands composed watching her, a pleasant smile on his face. Pride and pleasure in her actions dance in his eyes. Her hands twitch on the grip of the gun—she has the strong urge to level it at him. Get the real monster in her sights and blast him off the earth; a childish fear that he would rise again, as real and evil as ever stops her. He sees her movement and smiles indulgently, aware of her thoughts. He turns his back to her and unhurriedly unhooks the IV; Sydney lets the gun slip from her hand and tosses it onto the bed. Praise still flows from him. "Good. You performed excellently Sydney, your father would be proud." "Would he? I didn't just eliminate a target—I played with that man—I enjoyed his suffering!" "Just as he was planning to do to you. However, you're alive now and he isn't." Sloan spreads his hands to show how neatly the equation has balanced. Yes. But at what cost to me? Sydney says nothing and sags onto the bed, shock is making her preternaturally calm, and she leans her head back against the wall. She is shivering but cannot be bothered to pick up and put on her shirt. Despite the fact she has repeatedly emptied the contents of her stomach, she still feels drugged. The side of her face is swelling where Renoux had struck her; she prods it gingerly and feels the answering twinge of heat in her lower belly. Her legs sprawl open and she feels the fullness, the heavy ache—still—between her thighs. The comic horror of this makes her smile. Sloane bends over the body of Renoux and fishes through his pockets, discarding cigarettes, a heavy gold lighter and the other detritus of the modern "honest" businessman until he finds what he has been searching for—a cellular phone. He flips it open and frowns at it. "No signal." Sydney is sure his glower would be enough to make any cell phone in its right mind to find a signal—any signal—for Sloane the Great and Terrible. She giggles and looks around the room riding on the euphoria that comes from being alive, juiced up of course by a healthy dose of fancy French E. She laughs again as she thinks of this—when did she become so funny? Sloane looks over at her amused by the antics of the baby assassin—he squeezes her shoulder and slips out of the room saying, "I'll try calling from the other room—or outside if I have to." "Okay. Have fun. Wait—who are you calling?" But he is gone. She ponders who it could be, but is distracted by another nagging thought. Something I have to do. There's something I forgot—Vaughn! She bolts to her feet and snatches up the lighter—avoiding looking too close at her own bloody handiwork—she stumbles over to the table and sweeps up the papers Renoux had collected on her and Vaughn. Her hands are shaking and she can't get the make the lighter spark into flame. She nearly weeps but her jittery hands finally unlock enough to flick it alight. She arranges the paper in a messy spill and touches the flame to it. She watches it burn—glancing over her shoulder to watch for Sloane—feeding large pieces into it, until all is unrecognizable ash. She stamps out the few remaining embers and sweeps her foot scattering the ashes. She is pretty sure that the smell of the smoke is covered by the other--nastier--smells that linger. Her gaze sweeps over the room—Anything I missed? Did I forget any—she jumps guiltily when Sloane enters. "Sydney?" He is aware of her agitation but not the cause. "Is everything alright?" "Yes fine—I just—I just—" Everything catches up with her—the deceiving, bleeding and hurt she has done for this man, in his name. She has no defense against it; the drug has taken even that. She bursts into tears; misery wracks her and she clutches herself in a solitary hug as she weeps. Opening like a gate into darkness Sloane lifts his arms to receive her and she goes to him. Comfort—any comfort—even from a monster is better than nothing at all. Sloane holds her and pets her hair, making meaningless soothing noises. She is shivering as his cold hands stroke her back, her arms, the sides of her face. At first it's from the temperature of those hands—cool and dry like snakeskin—but then it's just the feel of his hands on her body—stroking and caressing. She nuzzles into him like a cat feeling the rasp of his stubble against her cheeks. She shifts closer and he adjusts to draw her in, his suit jacket falling open to wrap around her like wings. Cloaked in the safe obscurity of his arms she presses her lips to his throat as an experiment—just to see what he will do. Sloane becomes very still so she boldly continues her explorations, hands floating up almost independent of her own will, to trail along and across his thighs and caress the promising hardness there. Only then does Sloane move—his fingers dig into her arms as he holds her away from him. She says nothing, merely hangs in his grip and glares at him from under a tangle of hair, her eyes are dark and wild. She looks feral and dangerous. He watches her as he drops his hands—moving slowly so as not to startle her. He holds her rapt within the shadows of his eyes. He wants to be very sure. Sydney can feel the darkness welling up, flowing into her limbs like rotten honey making her movements deliberate and slow. She wants to surrender to this malignancy, so attractive with its promises of corruption and power. To stride through the world unafraid—a hunter amongst weaker prey—like him. She can get there—she knows he'll teach her the way—all he will require in payment is her complete and total surrender. She must abase herself before him so he can strip away the softer dross of her soul and reveal the diamond hard beauty of the destroyer of worlds contained within her. She nods—and gives herself over to the darkness. He backs her up against the wall—he is not gentle—the force knocks the breath from her. She gasps and clutches at him as the remnants of the drug work within her to transform the pain into dark pleasure. He feeds at her mouth, neck, breasts—she cries and cradles his sleek head closer to her. His mouth is unafraid to mar the unbroken perfection of her skin—the bites just spur her to buck harder against him and beg for release. When she feels the cold length of his fingers slip past the damp curls and into her, moving slowly and deliberately—for everything he does is deliberate—she makes sounds deep in her chest. Letting them build and mount until she breaks against him and slips below—dropping down into herself—deep into somewhere dark where the heart's blood rushes and sings its ancient songs to her. Her brings her back to herself—smoothing her tangled hair back—kissing her bruised and broken lips. "The team from SD-6 will be here to extract us very shortly." Do you want me to stop? Was left unsaid by tacit agreement. He wants to see how far she'll go with him—he is playing with her. She shakes her head—undone—lost to everything except how he makes her feel and pulls him to her. The team arrives in a production of booted feet crunching on concrete and the crackling of two-way radios. Their steps are cautious and deliberate; Sydney knows how the team will do the sweep and search—silently clearing each room—unless they indicate their position by calling out. So she bites down, drawing blood. Sloane gasps but doesn't make any other sound—and they come like that—biting and clawing at each other like animals as the sounds of searching echo deep in a basement in Paris.
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