Topic 34: Desperate Measures
Aug. 21st, 2006 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_sloane"Desperate affairs require desperate measures. " - Horatio Nelson
Being tortured by one's former employee was never pleasant; when the former employee in question had also managed to infiltrate and take over one's place of work, there is indignity added to injury. On the bright side of things, Arvin Sloane had the pleasure of seeing McKennas Cole reduced to the state of aploplexy and hysteria by Sloane's refusal to break and scream. As compensations for pain and impending were conceerned, it was better than nothing. Still. On one level, Cole was a disappointment. He had hired the man, once upon a time, and here he was, unable to break a middle-aged man, and starting to shoot his own minions instead.
Of course, Cole would pay for being a disappointment in addition to being an ursurper by being blown up very soon, but then, so would Sloane. Of all the ways to die, this wasn't the one he had had in mind. He imagined Emily being left alone with the cancer slowly eating her body; he thought of never seeing Jack or Sydney again. He thought of the unsolved mysteries of Rambaldi.
The fury about it all kept the pain away a bit longer.
Then Jack walked in, and Sloane thought: Of course. Who else but Jack? Jack began to remove the needles Cole had stuck into Sloane, and though he was as swift and precise as always, Sloane thought he detected some sign of concern. Well, of course Jack was about to be blown up very soon as well, and even Jack Bristow had to be less than charmed by the prospet.
"Arvin," Jack said, "did you execute the failsafe?"
"Yes," Sloane whispered.
Jack pulled out another needle. "We need to deactivate it."
"Are they still in the building?"
"Only one left." Another needle went. There wasn't any noticable lack of pain because of this.
"I won't let anyone in the vault," Sloane said. It occured to him, suddenly and with the clarity that torture brings, that there was something right in being here with Jack. He had always assumed they would die together one day, either during a shared mission or at each other's hands. There was a rightness to it. And if it happened through an explosion, well, that was as good as any other method.
"Sydney's going to stop them," Jack insisted.
Sloane knew he had forgotten something.
"Is Sydney here?"
His eyes met Jack's, and he knew that dying together wasn't in the cards yet. Not if they would take Sydney with them. Presumably, there were a lot of other people left in the building in addition to Sydney, but Jack had brought up the one being who mattered to both of them.
"How do I shut off the failsafe?" Jack asked, and there was a rare urgency in his voice.
"The override is a keypad in my office but it's biometric. It won't deactivate without my fingerprint," Sloane said. He had been right about the lack of relief the removal of the needles had caused. Instead, every mark they had left seemed to burn with doubled intensity. It was getting hard to speak.
Jack tried prying off the steel bars around Sloane's wrists with a bar from the table. It was a rare example of clumsiness on Jack's part; this clearly wasn't his best day. Sydney, Sloane thought; remember that Sydney's life is at stake.
"Oh, come on, Jack! It's going to take hours to get my hands out of here," he hissed, exasparated. This wasn't the time to play games. Surely, Jack saw the obvious solution. Surely.
Jack grunted but kept trying. It seemed Sloane had to spell it out to him.
"Marshall has a device that can duplicate fingerprints but we haven't got the time! You could take my fingerprint. Jack, take my right index fingerprint."
Jack stared at him. It wasn't the best moment for the memory, but Sloane could not help but recall ordering Jack to remove not one, not two, but eight fings of a Latin revolutionary before the man finally consented to talk. The screams, the smell, and Jack's face in between.
"Just take it!" he yelled, finally doing what McKennas Cole had tried to achieve in vain; raising his voice.
Getting a rubber hose, Jack tied it around Sloane's wrist. It would probably prevent major blood loss. This hadn't always worked in the past, the revolutionary being a point in question.
" Right... index..." Sloane whispered. The marks of the needles spread their fire throughout his body. When Jack took a pair of pinchers, he closed his eyes.
All things being said and done, the moment of the cut was a relief.
Being tortured by one's former employee was never pleasant; when the former employee in question had also managed to infiltrate and take over one's place of work, there is indignity added to injury. On the bright side of things, Arvin Sloane had the pleasure of seeing McKennas Cole reduced to the state of aploplexy and hysteria by Sloane's refusal to break and scream. As compensations for pain and impending were conceerned, it was better than nothing. Still. On one level, Cole was a disappointment. He had hired the man, once upon a time, and here he was, unable to break a middle-aged man, and starting to shoot his own minions instead.
Of course, Cole would pay for being a disappointment in addition to being an ursurper by being blown up very soon, but then, so would Sloane. Of all the ways to die, this wasn't the one he had had in mind. He imagined Emily being left alone with the cancer slowly eating her body; he thought of never seeing Jack or Sydney again. He thought of the unsolved mysteries of Rambaldi.
The fury about it all kept the pain away a bit longer.
Then Jack walked in, and Sloane thought: Of course. Who else but Jack? Jack began to remove the needles Cole had stuck into Sloane, and though he was as swift and precise as always, Sloane thought he detected some sign of concern. Well, of course Jack was about to be blown up very soon as well, and even Jack Bristow had to be less than charmed by the prospet.
"Arvin," Jack said, "did you execute the failsafe?"
"Yes," Sloane whispered.
Jack pulled out another needle. "We need to deactivate it."
"Are they still in the building?"
"Only one left." Another needle went. There wasn't any noticable lack of pain because of this.
"I won't let anyone in the vault," Sloane said. It occured to him, suddenly and with the clarity that torture brings, that there was something right in being here with Jack. He had always assumed they would die together one day, either during a shared mission or at each other's hands. There was a rightness to it. And if it happened through an explosion, well, that was as good as any other method.
"Sydney's going to stop them," Jack insisted.
Sloane knew he had forgotten something.
"Is Sydney here?"
His eyes met Jack's, and he knew that dying together wasn't in the cards yet. Not if they would take Sydney with them. Presumably, there were a lot of other people left in the building in addition to Sydney, but Jack had brought up the one being who mattered to both of them.
"How do I shut off the failsafe?" Jack asked, and there was a rare urgency in his voice.
"The override is a keypad in my office but it's biometric. It won't deactivate without my fingerprint," Sloane said. He had been right about the lack of relief the removal of the needles had caused. Instead, every mark they had left seemed to burn with doubled intensity. It was getting hard to speak.
Jack tried prying off the steel bars around Sloane's wrists with a bar from the table. It was a rare example of clumsiness on Jack's part; this clearly wasn't his best day. Sydney, Sloane thought; remember that Sydney's life is at stake.
"Oh, come on, Jack! It's going to take hours to get my hands out of here," he hissed, exasparated. This wasn't the time to play games. Surely, Jack saw the obvious solution. Surely.
Jack grunted but kept trying. It seemed Sloane had to spell it out to him.
"Marshall has a device that can duplicate fingerprints but we haven't got the time! You could take my fingerprint. Jack, take my right index fingerprint."
Jack stared at him. It wasn't the best moment for the memory, but Sloane could not help but recall ordering Jack to remove not one, not two, but eight fings of a Latin revolutionary before the man finally consented to talk. The screams, the smell, and Jack's face in between.
"Just take it!" he yelled, finally doing what McKennas Cole had tried to achieve in vain; raising his voice.
Getting a rubber hose, Jack tied it around Sloane's wrist. It would probably prevent major blood loss. This hadn't always worked in the past, the revolutionary being a point in question.
" Right... index..." Sloane whispered. The marks of the needles spread their fire throughout his body. When Jack took a pair of pinchers, he closed his eyes.
All things being said and done, the moment of the cut was a relief.
