But what did she have? What did she know? What was true? What was real? What had happened to her? She couldn't remember. For the life of her she couldn't find the memories. They weren't there. They weren't locked somewhere in her brain where someone might someday uncover them. No, they were gone, completely. Forever. The person who had taken her had covered their tracks well, and now she was left with nothing.

She had nothing. She could barely breathe. The air seemed to lock inside her lungs as the emptiness of her mind closed in around her. The darkness of the situation closed in fast, leaving the only source of light, or hope, in the man sitting in front of her. But he was not the man she wanted. He was not the man she knew, or needed, or loved. But at this moment. At this place in which the darkness crept toward her slowly, but insidiously, in this place he was both nothing and everything at the same time. Though she was lost inside her mind, he was the only was out.

She spoke without thinking. "What's happened? Where's my father? Who is your wife?" Without knowing what she'd asked, she awaited answers. Bu they did not come. She was left alone with darkness ever near. Alone without the one thing she needed, without anything. He left her there with nothing. She had needed his answers, his words above all, but he'd left her there, alone.

So she sat there. She was still. The only movement was that of her mind. It raced. She searched over and over again, seeking that which was not there. She frantically searched. But she found nothing. All that she had with her, were the memories of the night of the fight. Nothing more nothing less. It was as if she had closed her eyes after fighting the double, and then opened them again. It had been less than a second. A fleeting moment had passed while her eyes were closed, yet two years had gone by.

How was this possible? Why did it happen? As the questions mounted the darkness grew more full. She had been totally unaware of the time passing, and then he returned and ushered her out of the safe house and to an awaiting car. He did not say a word, but instead kept his eyes deliberately away from her. As far as she knew he couldn't bare to look at her, but then again neither could she.

If her lover was not the same person as he'd been two years ago, neither was she. She felt so different. She felt weak, and drowsy. She was out of shape, and had many scars and bruises she did not remember. What had happened to her? Who had she become? Why couldn't she remember? She tried so hard to think of anything about the last two years. She wasn't thinking any differently, her skills and training were still fresh in her mind. She appeared to have only been affected physically. Had she been asleep for two years?

After the car there was a plane and then another. More cars after that, and then many agents with guns. Then test after test. Physical tests, psychological tests, every test imaginable. But no one said a word to her. They gave her instructions, yes, but they did not talk to her, or tell her what was going on. She sat in silence as they poked and prodded her. She let them draw blood, inject her with medicine, and search every part of their body. Meanwhile there was always someone writing everything down. There was one man in particular who scrawled away at his clipboard, he never stopped. His pen constantly scratched at the paper, and he'd gone through almost thirty seven sheets. She'd counted. She had nothing else to do. Her mind had been blank, and she appreciated the break from her frantic search for memories.

They man's pen scratching was absolutely beyond irritation, until his pen had evidently run out of ink, and he'd found a new one. This one was quieter. He turned the page. Thirty eight, Sydney thought to herself. Just after this page turn the doctor had instructed her to follow the guards to her cell. She had wondered slightly at this, but then obeyed. She decided long before to be silent and follow instructions.

Her cell was cold. A metal cot, a cup of water, and a toilet. She laid down on the cold steel and placed her hand gently on it, in front of her face. She watched as she pushed down on it hard. It was real. It was hard, and cold, and it fogged when she breathed on it. It was real. She had been quite unsure of everything until now. The cot was real. The cell was real. She drank the water, and that was real as well. Her lost memories were real. Her confusion was real. And the cold tears that streamed down her face, were probably the most real thing she had.