Author: Regency

Title: Irina Derevko: Conditioned

Spoilers/Seasons: None

Rating: PG-13, possible R

Pairing: Jack/Irina

Category: Violence; Hurt/Comfort

Summary: She'd said he'd never take her, never break her, but it wasn't long before she was kneeling on the ground whenever he entered her cell.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, though I haven't the slightest idea who does. I only own the character of Viktor Navrykev. Can you pronounce that? No? I can't either.

Author's Notes: I don't see this having a happy ending, because the CIA is full of mean people and that's just that.

~~~~~~~~~~

She kneels on the hard, cement floor of the cell and stares resolutely at the door. They could do to her whatever they pleased, but they'll never get what they want. She'll never tell them what they want, need to hear. She's been tortured before; nothing they can do to her will be new, can possibly be worse. She might even laugh in their faces. This will be a breeze for her.

The heavy door slams open and smacks back against the stone wall. A familiar shadowy steps forward. She only raises an eyebrow in greeting and acknowledges him no further.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Irana. I apologize for the mess. We've been…busy." She still says nothing. In the air lingers the smell of charred flesh, and blood. If she sits still to listen for long of enough, she'd swear that she could hear the sound of former prisoners screaming out to God and pleading for their lives. But, surely, that's just her imagination. Surely.

"It is nothing, Viktor. I am used to worse." Her accent is at it's thickest when she's being patronizing.

"I have no doubt of that, Irana. But you are a lady; a beautiful lady. You deserve only the best." She gives an uninterested and terribly unimpressed glance. She has better things to do than to be hit on by this moron.

"What do you want, Viktor? I have precious little time for your games."

"Whatever do you mean, Irana? Aren't you glad to see me? We don’t get together nearly often enough." She has always hated this, the way he says her name. He says, Irana. And it grinds her so. She clinches her teeth in annoyance, but says nothing more. She is well aware who has the upper hand here. "Oh, Irana, you seem displeased to be here with me. Why?"

"It may have something to do with you being an ignorant and troublesome Neanderthal." She sees the blow coming and still isn't quick enough to deflect it or evade it. He has a better right hook than she'd have guessed. She lay there dazed for a moment before catapulting herself off the ground and striking back with a left hook of her own. He doesn't go down easily. And neither does she…But she does go down.

It was a hell of a fight. A close one, at that. But in the end it was clear that Irina Derevko had lost. Although, she did leave a hell of a mark, several in fact. There was already an ugly bruise purpling over his jaw, his lip was split, and there was a cut over his eyebrow. He was enraged. She'd wrinkled his very expensive Egyptian silk tie.

Irina was lying silently on the floor, eyes open, but barely. She watched, not so much with contempt as actual fear, because she finally realized they she just may have gotten herself in way too over her head.

Viktor wipes at his split and spits at her with contempt before turning to leave her alone. He throws the contemptuous phrase over his shoulder with what she is sure is a grin on his face.

"Get comfortable, Miss Derevko. You're going to be with us for awhile." His laughter reverberated down the hallway after him. That's when she knew she was in way over her head. She has a feeling this is going to be worse than Kashmir, much worse. For the first time in years, she starts to whisper the 'Hail Mary.' It has been a long time since she's talked to God, but it's been even longer since she 'd believed He'd listened. She hopes He's listening now, 'cause she's gonna need him.

~~~~~~~~~

She started with defiance, then vehemence, but nothing would dissuade them, would dissuade him. Eventually, she realized that he wasn't after information anymore. That was no longer the prize; she was the prize and he had made it his mission to break her, to own her. She was determined not to let that happen. Unfortunately, fate nor God, it seemed, was on her side. As time went by her motivation to escape became less and her hope of rescue had been trampled. After all, she was Irina Derevko, a known terrorist and assassin. Who would risk their life to save hers? Who would care? She knew the answer as well as anyone in the weary world of Rambaldi, lies, and espionage. No one. There would be no one.

Soon she found, that it wasn't worth the effort to stand and defy him in silence when he entered her cell. Eventually, she sat completely still until he gave the order to do otherwise. After that, came a time when she never looked him or anyone in the eye. She had come to realize that she was not worthy of what most would call basic creature comforts. There was a desk, a bed, a chair, a blanket and pillow. She didn't even dare look at them lest provoke the wrath of the man who claimed her as his own. He told her again and again and again, if she did what was right, what he told her to, then, all would be well. Everything from the past would be forgiven and she wanted so badly to be forgiven.

He said never to flinch when the others came. Never to be bothered by their wandering hands and cruel intent. He said that as long as she never cried or made a disparaging remark; it would all be very brief. It was just a test, he said. And she believed him. After all the bruises, scars, and cuts he'd afflicted onto her body with his very own hands, she believed him. Because she'd run out of things to believe in much too soon. He said, that if she was good, she could come and live with him in his home in Italy. She could start over. There were even children there waiting for her to be their mother. If she was good for just a little longer. He promised her and she believed him. Because she'd run out of things to believe in far too long ago. How was she to know that there was someone out there who gave a damn that she had disappeared? Who gave a damn that she was no where to be found? She wasn't and she didn't…

But there was and they were looking for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~

CIA Headquarters

Sydney walks through the bullpen just short of a run. She had gotten a call that there was news on her mother. The caller hadn't elaborated further, only urging her to arrive soon. She'd been out the door two minutes later. She'd been stopped for a speeding ticket. She luckily had a clean record and he let her off with a warning. She'd barely given him time to say thank you before continuing to speed. She was pretty sure he'd have given chase if he'd thought he could catch her. He had her information; he could call her later.

She slips into the conference room a little after the briefing starts and takes her seat with an apologetic look to Kendall. He nods back and continues.

"For those of you just now joining us…" A meaningful look to a reddening Sydney. "This briefing is about intel we have just received that indicates that known terrorist and CIA informant, Irina Derevko is being held prisoner in a fortress-like structure Siberia. We need to extract her."

Vaughn is suspicious. "Why would we want to do that? We've been trying to keep her locked up for years. Someone finally succeeded in doing what we couldn't. Why are we going to try and undo this."

To say he's bias is an understatement.

"Because if we don't they very well may kill her. We've got doubles inside and they say that she's being treated heinously, to say the least."

"So? Irina is quite capable of caring for herself." There's no pity from Jack.

"Maybe before, but apparently she's been conditioned, for lack of a more appropriate term, to not fight or resist anything they do to her." The way he emphasizes that one word sends chills down Syd's spine.

"Anything?" He only nods. " I mean, does she just sit there? Are they even sure she isn't dead already?" She knows her mother as well as she can given the circumstances and this isn't like her mother.

"They're as sure as they can be. She only responds to one man's command and doesn't make eye contact with anyone. All she does is sit on the floor. There's a bed and a chair and all she does is sit on the floor. All day and all night. According to the doubles she is fed once every two days, keeping her sufficiently weak enough that even if she chose to fight she probably couldn't manage it. And when she does receive food, she only eats on one man's order, no one else's.

"Do we have proof of life? I mean, more than just their word to go on? This whole thing could be a set up." She needs more than just someone's word to tell her that Irina Derevko has broken. The others need more than just someone's word that Irina has been captured. How can she blame them after everything her mother has put them through? Can she blame them at all?

"There's brief video footage of her being transported from the compound in Siberia. That was three months ago. We haven't been able to locate her since then." It plays on the television behind him.

"I thought you said she was in Siberia?"

"She was." Okay, now Sydney's confused.

"Do you know where my mother is or is this an after the fact briefing with no bearing on anything?" Kendall rarely looks flustered, but there's a first time for everything.

"We know she's in Italy…somewhere."

"Okay, now that we've narrowed that down by COUNTRY, could we possibly narrow it down to a city or province so that maybe we'd have half a hope in hell of finding her, or is that too much to hope for from the CIA with their well-trained and loyal operatives?" She looks too much like her mother when she stands there with that look on her face.

"That's enough, Agent Bristow!" She's on her feet, her face is flushed. Her father's words don't even register. It would probably surprise him how seldom they do.

She just stands there before letting out a disgusted snort and leaving the room. She's as disgusted and disheartened as she can stand being. There was a time when she believed in the sense of duty that came with serving her country. It would make her chest swell with pride whenever she entered the building. She's learned better. Now, the only sense she has is a sense of regret, of guilt. Regret for the lost life that she feels was rightfully hers and guilt for the lives she ruthlessly stole with a shot from her gun or worse, her bare hands. It was all in the name of patriotism, they say. Patriotism or not, every death stains her soul with an equivalent darkness, stealing a piece of her at every turn. She's used to it now, but that doesn't make her the cold, calculated killer she should be at this stage. That makes her a murderer with a conscience, a dangerous thing to have in this business.

After everything her mother has done, everything she's caused, Sydney should hate her, wish her dead. But there's too much blood on her hands already, far too much. All Sydney wants is to sit on the couch and have her mother sit down beside her. They could watch movies, talk about anything and everything. She knows that if the world would just go the hell away, they could. They could just be mother and daughter instead of sometimes enemies, sometimes advocates. Sydney would be damned if her mother died before that happened. After all, her mother owes her a Christmas present. It's time she talked to Marshall…

~~~~~

Irina leans down and presses a kiss to Andres's little forehead and smiles as he stirs fussily in his sleep. Her son, he is always so grouchy. She loves him that way. She knows how sweet he is on the inside. Only she and Cleci know.

She moves down the hall to Cleci's room and slips inside through the cracked door. She watches the little girl with knowing eyes and tiptoes a little bit closer. A little bit closer…and then she pounces on the unsuspecting little girl and begins to tickle her mercilessly. The little girl squeals and squirms under her mother's hands. There's a resounding thump down the hall and both of them stop cold. Irina's hand covers her daughter's mouth with a finger to her own lips. It's her father. He hates to be awakened in the middle of the night, especially like this.

She can hear his heavy footsteps on the carpet. He knows what terror it invokes in both of them. They can hear him pause at Andres's room and his steps fade away for a moment. She prays that the boy remains asleep. Soon, he is back in the hall and she assumes her prayer was answered. He's on him way to them. She needs to be out of here when he gets here. Leaning down, she kisses her daughter's forehead and says the code phrase for danger:

"Play dead. I love you, little one." Her daughter returns the sentiment before turning on her side, her face obscured by the quilt and slowing down her breathing. That's a girl. With one more look back, Irina sprints to the girl's bathroom and slips in before going all the way through to the connecting door to the guest room. Peeking out into the hall, she runs back to the bedroom she shares with Viktor and gets inside just as his footsteps make the return trip down the hall. She prays he gets hungry and goes downstairs. For the first time in months, it seems, fate or God is on her side and he descends the staircase, loudly before fading away into the corridor. She let's out a painful breath and falls back onto the bed. After taking a moment, she gets up and hastily changes into her sleepwear, a knee-length teddy in the deepest black cherry the store could muster. Though, she prays it stirs no interest in him, she is sure it will and she has to be ready for that. Going into their bathroom, she brushes her teeth and washes her face.

She stops for a moment to look at herself. Her face is the same, her body…marginally so. She's exactly the same woman she was months ago, except she can't look at herself, not really. She doesn't meet her own gaze. 'It is shameful,' she thinks. 'Father would disown me for this.' Of course, her father was a class-A ass, does his acceptance mean that much to her? Surprisingly, it still does. Her shame only deepens. Sometimes, she wishes someone would save her, but has learned to curb the urge, because she remembers how lucky she is to be here. Other female prisoners would give both of their legs and an arm to be where she was. She's got had an assistant, a maid, and two beautiful children. She is well cared for. What else could she ask for? This is already more than she deserves after the life she's lead. She knows this well. Viktor reminds her of that whenever she misbehaves. She doesn't misbehave anymore.

Just then, the sound of the door opening shakes her from her reverie. She faces herself to see herself crying. It's funny, she doesn't even remember the tears. She knows he hates it when she cries. She turns on the water and scrubs at her face, trying to wash away the signs of her misery. She can't allow him to believe she is anything, but absolutely grateful. For her and the children's sake. She splashes her face with water and dries it to come face to face with Viktor. He's standing behind her, his eyes clear. No malice, none of the sadistic cheer she remembers. Just clear. He's staring at her face, something on her face. She looks where his eyes are and closes her own. There's a tear there. It must have come after she dried her face. Her breath is shallow and she prays for mercy tonight. Mercy never comes when called. That's something Viktor taught her also.

She turns to him. "I need to brush my hair." She slips between him and the door and goes to sit in front of her vanity. Taking the silver brush that was a gift from him, she strokes it through her dark hair until every strand shines on its own. She can still feel his eyes on her. He hasn't left the bathroom yet, just turned around to watch her. She prays he won't question her tears. Her prayers are rarely answered.

"Why were you crying?" She doesn't say anything and starts to braid her hair the way her mother taught her to. Viktor hates to be ignored. He asks her again. "Why were you crying?" She still doesn't answer. "Irina, look at me when I'm speaking to you." He reaches out and grabs her shoulder, turning her roughly to face him. She doesn't look into his eyes. She never does. "Why were you crying?"

"I don't know." He doesn't believe her, he never does. She expects a violent reaction. There is none.

"You know." She shakes her head and hopes that he is done with this. "Now, tell me, Irina. Why are you crying?" He grabs her chin and lifts it up so that her eyes should meet his. They still don't. She looks over his shoulder at a painting over the bed.

"I thought I was sad, but I was wrong. I was confused."

"Are you sure you're confused?" She nods. "Okay. I'll believe you…this time. Come to bed, Irina." She nods before putting down her brush and rising to follow him. He has already turned down her side of the bed. She waits for him to sit before doing the same. She lays down with her back to him as he turns out the light. She exhales in relief until she feel s his hand on her back. His touch is insistent and she turns over to face him. She hates it when he gets that look in his eyes. He gets it far too often. "You look beautiful tonight." She tries to smile, but it's strained. She knows what he wants, what he always wants.

"Thank you. You look rather handsome yourself." She slips her accent in to add to the seduction. He likes that and lets out a throaty laugh. That laugh always scares the hell out of her. She hides it well. She doesn't even realize she does it anymore. As he slides his hand behind her head and kisses her lips, she closes her eyes and pretends to be somewhere else twenty years earlier in another man's arms. Her last thought is…

'He finally learned how to say my name.'

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