Sydney's funeral was held on a misty May morning. Her mangled body had
been identified by her father in Bogota, Columbia where it had been
discovered following an anonymous tip. No one observing Jack Bristow that
morning could doubt the depth of his despair. That he was reflecting on
the unresponsive shell of his daughter that he had visited recently,
instead of the anonymous corpse in the coffin, was not as evident.
Silently he mourned. Mourned Sydney's lost childhood, and the time they could have spent growing closer to each other. Time they might not have again. Mourned the man he had become, capable of rationalizing lying, torture, and murder as necessary means to an end. And in a rare moment of self-pity, mourned his life. How had it come to this, everything that he had valued most, turned to ash? His marriage, a sham; his best friend, a terrorist; his daughter, destroyed; his honor and loyalty to his country, betrayed.
Jack glanced up at one point during the service, only to lock gazes with an anguished Michael Vaughn. He had met with Vaughn several days earlier to return to him a bracelet that Sydney had been wearing, a gift from Vaughn. A necessary cruelty, Jack knew, to convince him that Sydney was indeed dead. Watching Vaughn struggle for control, then and now, knowing that he was blaming himself, put Jack forcibly in mind of his younger self, coping with the tragedy of Laura's death.
Jack looked over at Sydney's gravestone, sitting side-by-side with Laura's. The irony that the two graves of the people who he had loved most in his life were both false was not lost on him, but only seemed to deepen his gloom.
And when, if, Sydney awoke, and realized what he had done in her name? How her father had betrayed her? With a start, Jack realized that the service was over. He turned on his heel and walked away, unable to bear the sympathies of the other mourners.
Up on the hill, above the cemetery, a lone figure watched the burial through binoculars that trembled ever so slightly. The binoculars followed Jack to his car, then the car as it drove away.
Silently he mourned. Mourned Sydney's lost childhood, and the time they could have spent growing closer to each other. Time they might not have again. Mourned the man he had become, capable of rationalizing lying, torture, and murder as necessary means to an end. And in a rare moment of self-pity, mourned his life. How had it come to this, everything that he had valued most, turned to ash? His marriage, a sham; his best friend, a terrorist; his daughter, destroyed; his honor and loyalty to his country, betrayed.
Jack glanced up at one point during the service, only to lock gazes with an anguished Michael Vaughn. He had met with Vaughn several days earlier to return to him a bracelet that Sydney had been wearing, a gift from Vaughn. A necessary cruelty, Jack knew, to convince him that Sydney was indeed dead. Watching Vaughn struggle for control, then and now, knowing that he was blaming himself, put Jack forcibly in mind of his younger self, coping with the tragedy of Laura's death.
Jack looked over at Sydney's gravestone, sitting side-by-side with Laura's. The irony that the two graves of the people who he had loved most in his life were both false was not lost on him, but only seemed to deepen his gloom.
And when, if, Sydney awoke, and realized what he had done in her name? How her father had betrayed her? With a start, Jack realized that the service was over. He turned on his heel and walked away, unable to bear the sympathies of the other mourners.
Up on the hill, above the cemetery, a lone figure watched the burial through binoculars that trembled ever so slightly. The binoculars followed Jack to his car, then the car as it drove away.