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Hard-Boiled vs. Sunny-Side-Up
by Yahtzee
yahtzee55555@yahoo.com
**

"So you're probably thinking, Hey, when's Marshall gonna start asking the questions? Except you'd be thinking it, like, in this cool British accent - verrey propah, don't yew know, heh heh.  This is an interrogation, right? Gotta have questions, or it's not an interrogation.  Anyway, it's not a very good one."

Marshall Flinkman, with whom his former interaction had been blessedly brief, was now seated opposite him in the CIA interrogation room.  It was an area designed to be forbidding, with gray cinderblock walls and a long metal table; even the chair was uncomfortable.  Sark found it merely dull, at least when he wasn't being - well, perhaps being interrogated by the CIA's strangest operative. 

"Well, let me let you in on a little secret - nothing classified, because, hey, we're hanging out and everything, man to man, but you're evil and stuff. But between you and me and the listening devices, I'm not actually here to ask you any questions.  In fact, I was thinking, we could have some breakfast."

Sark raised an eyebrow.  None of the psych profiles had ever indicated that Marshall was homosexual, so why -

Before he could theorize, Marshall gestured to the door.  A stone-faced guard brought in a cardboard tray (completely useless as a weapon) with two paper plates (also useless) heaped high with scrambled eggs and toast. Next to the plates were two sporks, which Sark thought could potentially gouge out an eye, but wouldn't do a damned thing to get him out of the shackles.

"There ya go, nice fluffy scrambled eggs. Hope you like 'em.  I can only eat eggs scrambled, not boiled, not runny, just all scrambled up.  Well, an omelet sometimes.  But mostly, since junior-high sex ed, eggs have just been - I try not to think about it too much.  Are you like that?  I bet I'm not the only person like that."

Sark had, in fact, never thought about the subject and resolved not to begin now.  He took his spork and began eating; the eggs might well be drugged, but that was no more likely of this meal than any other he ate in CIA custody.  They were flat and somewhat tasteless, and yet Marshall ate them gamely.  The man could do better in any greasy spoon in L.A. -

Yes, Sark realized, he could. Marshall had no reason to be here.  Every word he said was unnecessary, and unnecessary words were often the most revealing.

"Wow. Long time, no see, huh?  Last time we spend some quality hours together was back in the bad ol' days of SD-6.  Of course, I thought those were the good ol' days with the CIA at the time, but you probably knew better, didn't you?  I see by your face that you did.  And so did Sydney, and Jack, and Sloane - just me." Marshall's melancholy was quickly wiped away with yet another foolish grin, but Sark thought that it reflected more of his true state of mind than the endless chatter.

What might make Marshall sad? Sad enough to seek out a known enemy of the U.S. government for company? 

The most obvious alternative gave Sark a turn, but he quickly dismissed it.  Had Sydney Bristow died in the line of duty, they would have told him.  Sark felt certain of that, though he wondered if his reasons for that belief would stand up to close examination, then decided not to examine them.  Sydney was still alive.

But yes - Marshall had come here for company.  Who was it he was missing? More than one person, if he'd come to Sark -

Nearly everyone, if he'd come to Sark.

Not deaths, then.  A mass slaughter would have left Marshall incapable of idle chit-chat about eggs.  Departures, then, and several of them, with Sydney probably included.

Where, oh, where have my little lambs gone?

Marshall seemed to be lost in thought, and Sark decided to make a sacrifice and speak. "Pass the salt."

Not MUCH of a sacrifice, but it worked.  Instantly, Marshall brightened and handed Sark a few salt packets.  "That accent, man, that's - that's something else.  How is it you British guys, you can just say anything and it sounds cool?  Anything!  Pass the salt.  Open the door. Turn left, Nigel.  See, if I was British, that would all sound cool, but I'm not, so, uh, it didn't."

The most likely scenario was that Jack Bristow had formed a rogue unit of his own, something Sark had anticipated as a possibility for some years. He would certainly have asked Sydney, and others likely to participate would include Marcus Dixon and -

Vaughn, of course.  Sark ignored the acid churn in his stomach at the idea of Vaughn, celebrating his petty triumph over Lauren, reclaiming Sydney for his own.  He didn't bother trying to convince himself that his jealousy was for Lauren, mourn her though he did; Sark had little use for such pretense.

"Bet it works like crazy on the gals, huh?" Marshall waggled his eyebrows as he speared the eggs with his spork. "Of course, you kinda have the whole Nordic God thing going for you; that's a plus, kinda got that in your corner.  But then you have the evil thing too.  Is that - like, is that a pro or a con?  I guess it depends on if the girl in question is into that type.  The evil type.  How do you bring that up in conversation? Like at a bar - Hey, I'm Julian, I'm evil and I'm a Pisces, something like that?  Or maybe you guys meet through the personals.  Evil Single Male seeks Evil Single Female for long walks on the beach, candlelight dinners, world domination."

If not a rogue unit headed by Jack Bristow, then what?  Sark considered it unlikely that a high number of defections would be random, nor would Sydney Bristow ever be tempted by K Directorate or the Triad.  Therefore, it could be a CIA reassignment, to a unit so secret that even someone with Marshall's respectable security clearance and personal relationships did not know. Intriguing.

"Me, I don't worry about that kind of thing anymore, now that I'm married.  Got a kid, should've brought you pictures - I'll do that next time."

No, Sark thought.  No amount of information I could infer would be worth a second interview like this.  Or eating such terrible eggs again.

Marshall was grinning.  "But I used to worry about it, wonder how I could be just a little bit, you know, cool.  I mean, guy to guy, I can confess - I used to have a big crush on Sydney Bristow.  Oh, yeah.  Surprise you? I tried to play it close to the vest, but Sydney - wow, that girl is something else."

Sark thought this was the first sensible thing Marshall had said all day.

"Still got a crush, really, though in the platonic sense - can a crush be platonic?  I mean, I just like looking at her running around in her outfits. And the wigs. Gotta love the wigs.  I only got to kiss her once, but I'll always -"

"Repeat that." Sark said, so loudly Marshall jumped.

"Gotta love the wigs?"

"After that."

"I only got to kiss her once?"

Unbelievable. Sark had longed and lusted and schemed and bargained for four years, never getting close enough.  There were cities he would have firebombed for the chance to kiss Sydney just once, and she -

She had kissed Marshall Flinkman. Before him.  Instead of him. Sark's misery was now complete.

"Uh, Mr. Sark?" Marshall peered at him.  "Are you sure those eggs agree with you?  You want me to hang out here a while, make sure you're okay?"

Surely, Sark thought, the Geneva Convention forbids this.