Okay, here's the premise. What if things had gone horribly, horribly wrong at the end of "The Game of Life?" What if Sydney and Michael hadn't been able to convince Jack that they were on his side, if Michael had died at the hands of an overzealous CIA agent when they'd tried to escape?

Here's the thing, I'm really interested in exploring Sydney's "evil" side, and after "The Counteragent," I think we can all agree that she has one. I'm still going to keep going with the original sequel to "The Game of Life," "The Way You Play the Game," but this is a darker, alternate future. Read at your own risk. And if you do read, please let me know what you think-- I'm trying something really different here, and I'd love to know how you think I'm doing.

So here it is:

This Is No Game

*An alternate ending and future for "The Game of Life"*

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions, etc.

Rating: R

Distribution: Cover Me; anywhere else, just let me know

Chapter One: Her Mother's Daughter

It hadn't been supposed to end like this.

She had tasted freedom. She had seen the future, and it had not been like this. The future she had envisioned had been her and Michael on a sparsely inhabited island, sipping margaritas on the beach while their children played in the water. Even in her worst nightmares, she had not pictured this. She had pictured her mother kidnapping her children. Herself and Michael behind bars. Never had she pictured Michael, her beautiful, precious Michael, in the ground. Dead. Killed right before her eyes.

She barely slept anymore. Every time she closed her eyes, the scene played out before her.

She and Michael, returning from a night out in St. Bart's. Hands and lips all over each other.

Her father, waiting for them. But he hadn't been the only one. There had been CIA agents all around the perimeter of the house. And when Sydney had not been able to convince her father that she had not betrayed him, when it had been clear that she and Michael would be taken into custody, they had run. One of the CIA agents had shot, and Michael had been killed.

She had collapsed by his side, sobbing, begging him not to leave her. It was too late. He was already gone, green eyes glassy, lips frozen.

Her father had knelt beside her, placed a hand on her shoulder, presumably to comfort her. She had pushed him away. This was all his fault. If he had never approached her with that offer, this never would have happened. She and Michael would still be safe within the protective arms of the Organization. Her Michael would still be with her.

And her father had dragged her sobbing form up from the ground, shackled her, and taken her into custody. She had barely even cared. If Michael was gone, what did it matter where she was taken? She knew that was selfish of her, that she should have been worried about her children. She wasn't. Her mother would take care of them. If she had listened to her mother, hadn't tried to betray her mother, none of this would have happened. Her Michael would still be with her.

It was her mother who was her savior then, her mother who had busted her out of custody. And as soon as it was safe to, Sydney had collapsed sobbing in her arms, chanting over and over, like a prayer--

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry, Mom."

"Shh, baby, don't apologize," her mother had crooned, holding her tightly to her. "Mommy's going to take good care of you."

Sydney was almost forty years old then. No words had ever sounded more comforting.

"But what about--" Sydney had barely been able to speak around her sobs. "Dad-- he-- he knows where our operation is, he--"

"Don't worry about that, my darling." Irina gently pulled away from her daughter, just enough that she could look her in the eyes. "He was the only one who knew. And he has been taken care of."

And Sydney had felt relief wash over her. And she had known she was her mother's daughter.