It's bitterly cold. An endless field of nothing but snow on the ground and more falling lazily from the sky to add to what must already be atleast a foot of glittering fluff. The sun reflects off of the endless white from between the clouds and the glare bounces into my eyes. With one hand I shield my eyes, using my other to hug my body and keep warm as best I can. Cold is an understatement. The wind swirling the snowflakes about me stings and I'm certain my skin is moments from freezing.

I'm hardly dressed for the weather. Aside from not having sunglasses, my only clothing is a simple white silk slip that falls above my knees. Something to sleep in on a warm summer's night, not to wear for protection from an icy wind and a long hike through a blizzard's aftermath. Not even slippers, I whisper to myself in disbelief with a glance at where my feet should be. They've dissappeared under the snow.

I'm vaguely aware that I'm here- wherever this place might be. Antarctica? The Alaskan tundra?- for a purpose and sure enough I finger the comm. in my ear with numb fingertips and manage to switch it on.

"Hello, can you hear me? Where the hell am I?" the words escape shakily through purple lips, and I begin to wander in no particular direction just for movement's sake. I'll surely freeze to death if I stay put.

After a matter of seconds that seemed much longer the sound of radio static and a far away voice fills my ear, "Syd... copy? ...you're location. Don't-" The static took over and drowned out the voice recognizable as my mother.

"No, I don't copy! You're breaking up. Don't do what?"

More static with a barely distinguishable word sprinkled amongst the frusterating noise.

"...east..."

Okay, then. That's something. It doesn't seem odd that there's a silver compass suddenly in my hand, and using it I change directions and trudge eastward for atleast two miles. The cold is still there, but it's easily forgettable now, and doesn't seem to be having much effect. Surely I should be frost bitten by now...

Some time later I come upon the entrance to a snowy cavern. It's impossible to fight the sense deja vu at this somehow familar place, and it's frustrating that I just can't place it.

Entering the labyrinth of snowy tunnels I feel understandably ridiculous, but never the less voice a cautious "hello?" that echoes off of the cavern walls. A mistake I instantly regret, for the cavern floor cracks at the sound of my voice and I'm falling. Falling and attempting to scream, though I'm now unable to make a sound.

I dizzily think of Alice sliding down the rabbit hole, but the thought is abruptly cut off when I land on a suprisingly soft bed elaboratly carved of ice. Someone is already lying beside my and his arm slips around my waist and pulls my close. I'm thankful for the warmth of his body, yet can't fight the deja vu that washes over me once more. I glance down at the hand on my stomach, not sure of what I'm expecting to see him holding. It's a relief to see that his hand is empty, and I watch curiously as he slides his hand to my side and turns me gently onto my back before pinning my wrists to either side.

Heart racing, I look up to see his face for the first time and find myself looking into familiar and appropriately ice blue eyes.

Sark.

He leans over me and presses his lips to my forehead. They're shockingly cold, more so than the long forgotten tundra of before, and I can't stifle a breathless gasp.

-------------

I wake up to the feel of ice wrapped in a damp cloth being dabbed across my forehead, and immediatly throw my hands up to push it away. My head is pounding and the ice only worsens it. My hands won't move.

I jump panickedly before spy training kicks in. I blink my eyes open to assess my surroundings, and the person dabbing at my aching temples. My hands are bound to the headboard of the small bed I'm lying on, the room is horribly bright, and for that reason I'm thankful for Sark leaning over me. Blocking the light flooding the sparse room from shining into my eyes.

Opening my mouth to demand answers, I'm dissappointed at myself for my inability to speak. The pain in my head reduces my questions to a quiet moan, and he grimaces as if it's he who is in so much pain.

"You son of a bitch..." I murmer quietly, squeezing my eyes shut. I don't know what else to say, and it's hard to concentrate. The thought drifts through my mind that I must be drugged.

I know if I opened my eyes I would see his trademark smirk as he responds humorlessly with his familiar sarcasm, "Well, I've never been called that before..."

If my hands weren't bound I would slap him. If my hands weren't bound and I could actually keep anything in focus... I shake my head to clear it, and instantly regret it. The nausea is overwhelming, and I'm terrified of what I've been drugged up with. He knows I feel sick and offers me water to which I raise my cuffed hands above my head halfheartedly.

"I wouldn't advise trying anything," he tells me with a glance at a security camera in the corner as he helps me to a sitting positon. It's a ludicrous statement as sitting up has dizzied me even further, and my hands are now clasped behind my neck uselessly, still cuffed to a metal bar behind me. I'm positive I'm going to either vomit or pass out. He presses a glass of cool water to my lips and I drink from it cautiously with eyes fixed on his. They reveal nothing.

"Where's Sloane?" I ask finally, with deliberate effort to sound as unnerved by the situation as possible. I won't let him know that I'm afraid. That I'm scared that I've really been betrayed.

"Sloane," he repeats with a smooth, arrogant tone. It's becoming easier by the second to pretend that I despise him. "What makes you think Sloane is here?"

I look at him questioningly, willing him to answer the question of what this is all about. Is this still part of the illusive 'plan' that I'm steadily losing faith in, or have I been played? Or is this something else entirely? He refuses to look me in the eyes.

"Yes, Sloane," I repeat with a tone that barely keeps my anger in check, dangerously close to letting it bubble over, "You're still his favorite little lap dog, aren't you? Won't he be thrilled to see what you've brought him?"

He pauses before answering boredly, "Yes, I should hope he would be."

His eyes flick up to meet mine at the word 'hope.' I convince myself that it couldn't have been coincidence. He's trying to warn me of something.

The opprotunity to decipher what that warning is though is lost on me, for at that moment the heavy door opposite us swings open, and Sloane is standing in the doorway.

"Sydney, it's been far too long," he says my name in the same endearing, parental way he's always used. I hope the poisonously look I shoot him adequately portrays how much I despise him.

I know it's not my imagination when I see Sark take a quiet, shaky breath before turning to greet his employer, and it scares me more than anything that's happened thus far.