Life is not a game that has clear and present winner...
Who | Julian Sark (sarkraticmethod ) and Veronica Mars (bitch_isback )
What | HE is an international spy and wanted criminal on the lam. SHE is a young former detective, now an FBI agent. TOGETHER? ....They don't fight a lot of crime.
Where | Los Angeles, California; A horrible diner
When | Post-VM S3; Post Alias S2 (AU)
Verse | Belladonna Bourbon
Los Angeles had a distinctive reek to it.
Sark had spent enough time in this city to know it by heart- as much as he knew the winding threads of the canals in Venice and every alley and passageway in Bangladesh. You learned on your feet what you didn't learn in cold rooms and firing ranges. This business was neither for the faint of heart, nor for the faint of mind. You either paid attention to the details or you found yourself a suitable hole in the area to lie down and die in.
Sark knew LA better than the locals who had lived their entire, miserable lives there, but all he ever took out of it when he boarded a plane to some place quiet and comfortable in Europe, the smell was what stayed with him, clinging to his suits, his thick blonde hair, and the lengthy hot showers never quiet shook it, like a perfume that wouldn't wash away.
Well, he supposed it made sense or was psychosomatic in some way. He did lose a great many hours of his life to Los Angeles due to his dealings with Sydney Bristow and her myriad of associates. He had no desire to be imprisoned there, however, and while Irina had failed to extract him as she promised, he still managed to escape. Details were scarce, even suspicious. He may have been safe, as much as he ever was, but the matter of his rescuer hung in the air as thick as the Los Angeles stink. There was a rhyme and a reason to it and he had no means of contacting the person and no clues to who it might have been, beyond that it couldn't have been Irina. People talk in those hallways around his holding cell, although they'd do well not to. Any scrap of information he hoarded like a dragon hoards gold. You never knew what might come in handy one day.
So that left him stranded in a city that was too small for a wanted criminal to appropriate a hiding spot, uncomfortable, and riddled with agents. Brilliant. Stunning, in fact. When he found the one responsible for his escape, they'd be lucky if he didn't put a knife somewhere uncomfortably non-vital for their failure to instigate a proper extraction.
But first, he had to lie in hiding, which was why Julian Sark, a man of such wealth and taste that even the Rolling Stones might have changed their song to suit him, a man whose tailored suits were more of a second skin than anything else, was presently sitting at the bar of a greasy diner that seemed to personify every feeling he had about LA, dressed in a baseball cap, a denim jacket, jeans, and an oversized t-shirt that hung awkwardly off his thin frame, sipping horrible coffee and poking absently at the deep-fried monstrosity he'd ordered absently, as his mind had been elsewhere at the time.
Well, on the bright side, it would be the last place Jack Bristow and Kendall would think to look for him.
What | HE is an international spy and wanted criminal on the lam. SHE is a young former detective, now an FBI agent. TOGETHER? ....They don't fight a lot of crime.
Where | Los Angeles, California; A horrible diner
When | Post-VM S3; Post Alias S2 (AU)
Verse | Belladonna Bourbon
Los Angeles had a distinctive reek to it.
Sark had spent enough time in this city to know it by heart- as much as he knew the winding threads of the canals in Venice and every alley and passageway in Bangladesh. You learned on your feet what you didn't learn in cold rooms and firing ranges. This business was neither for the faint of heart, nor for the faint of mind. You either paid attention to the details or you found yourself a suitable hole in the area to lie down and die in.
Sark knew LA better than the locals who had lived their entire, miserable lives there, but all he ever took out of it when he boarded a plane to some place quiet and comfortable in Europe, the smell was what stayed with him, clinging to his suits, his thick blonde hair, and the lengthy hot showers never quiet shook it, like a perfume that wouldn't wash away.
Well, he supposed it made sense or was psychosomatic in some way. He did lose a great many hours of his life to Los Angeles due to his dealings with Sydney Bristow and her myriad of associates. He had no desire to be imprisoned there, however, and while Irina had failed to extract him as she promised, he still managed to escape. Details were scarce, even suspicious. He may have been safe, as much as he ever was, but the matter of his rescuer hung in the air as thick as the Los Angeles stink. There was a rhyme and a reason to it and he had no means of contacting the person and no clues to who it might have been, beyond that it couldn't have been Irina. People talk in those hallways around his holding cell, although they'd do well not to. Any scrap of information he hoarded like a dragon hoards gold. You never knew what might come in handy one day.
So that left him stranded in a city that was too small for a wanted criminal to appropriate a hiding spot, uncomfortable, and riddled with agents. Brilliant. Stunning, in fact. When he found the one responsible for his escape, they'd be lucky if he didn't put a knife somewhere uncomfortably non-vital for their failure to instigate a proper extraction.
But first, he had to lie in hiding, which was why Julian Sark, a man of such wealth and taste that even the Rolling Stones might have changed their song to suit him, a man whose tailored suits were more of a second skin than anything else, was presently sitting at the bar of a greasy diner that seemed to personify every feeling he had about LA, dressed in a baseball cap, a denim jacket, jeans, and an oversized t-shirt that hung awkwardly off his thin frame, sipping horrible coffee and poking absently at the deep-fried monstrosity he'd ordered absently, as his mind had been elsewhere at the time.
Well, on the bright side, it would be the last place Jack Bristow and Kendall would think to look for him.