A/N - Usual disclaimers. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Sorry it has been a while
since the last update but 'real life' interfered and I got swamped. Also,
my muse and I got into a disagreement and I had to give her a stern talking-
to! But things have worked out and here's the latest installment. As
always, reviews are appreciated. Not to bribe anyone or anything but
reviews tend to make me write and post an update faster. :-]
[ ] denotes Sydney's thoughts.
// // denotes recalled conversations.
**********CIA Safehouse, May 7, 2003**********
[May 7th, 2003. May 7th. . .2003?!] She pondered that date. It was right and yet. . .it wasn't. Taking in the time that she had spent in Hong Kong, and the time zone changes they had gone through in flying back to LA, that was right. It would be around May 7, 2003. Yet. . .if she had been missing for 2 years. . .shouldn't it be closer to May, 2005?
"Sydney." Vaughn's voice jolted her out of her thoughts. "You didn't answer my question."
"Question?"
"How did you know I had a tattoo on my left arm?"
She stared at him helplessly. How was she supposed to answer that question? Simply? [I've seen it.] Of course he'd ask her how she'd seen it and she's say. . .what? So the simple answer was out.
Then, what? The complicated answer? [Well, Vaughn apparently I haven't been missing for two years because I do remember things that are turning out to be very real and yet, I don't know other things that I should so I'm suffering from some weird form of amnesia.] So that answer wouldn't work either.
She settled on the only thing she could. The truth. Or as close to it as she could get. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
He stared at her for several minutes and she could see the play of emotions in his eyes. Puzzlement. Concern. Empathy. "Try me."
She smiled wryly and shook her head. "I'd rather not."
"Sydney-"
"You know what?" she cut in. "I'm kind of tired. Would you mind if I rested a bit?"
"No," he said softly, although she could see that he wasn't altogether pleased at being so curtly dismissed. "I'll uh, check in with the Operations Center."
She nodded before she retreated to the bedroom. Once there, however, she wanted to do anything but rest. Thoughts were whirring through her mind at a dizzying pace.
[What the hell was going on? Did I or did I not lose two years? If I did, then what am I remembering? Implanted memories?]
She took several deep breaths, willing herself to calm down and think clearly. She forced herself into her 'Operative-mode.' Cold, calculating, extremely rational. There was very little room for emotions when she was in this mode. That's what enabled her to carry out 'distasteful' missions. How she managed not to leap across the SD-6 briefing table and beat Sloane senseless every time he had gone into some patriotic spiel when sending them on yet another mission to benefit him and the Alliance.
[Sloane.]
She stopped her pacing and sat down on the bed. Could Sloane be responsible for her situation somehow? What had happened to him? Vaughn had said that the Alliance and SD-6 were gone but where was Sloane? She shook her head, realizing that she had never asked Vaughn.
[How ironic. The one person who had motivated me for so long was the one person I didn't even think to ask about.]
Quickly, she jumped off the bed and practically ran into the living room. She breathed a small sigh of relief when she saw that Vaughn hadn't left yet. He was standing near the couch, his back to her, and talking on his cell phone.
"Vaughn!"
He jumped slightly at her voice and whirled around to face her. At the look on her face, he quickly disconnected his call. "Syd?"
"Where's Sloane?"
"What?"
"Sloane!" She repeated impatiently. "When the CIA took down the Alliance and SD-6, what happened to Sloane?"
Vaughn was looking at her with the now-familiar expression of confusion mixed with concern. "Sloane's missing, but presumed dead."
**********CIA Safehouse, May 8, 2003, Morning**********
She hadn't slept much, if at all, the night before. Somehow she had convinced Vaughn that she was well enough to be left alone. He had finally conceded, but she hadn't heard him leave until very late.
The entire night, she had laid in bed. She stared at the ceiling and let her thoughts flow. Learning that Sloane was missing, and probably dead had left her even more confused than before. She had thought that if he was still on the CIA's Most Wanted list, that somehow, and in some way, he could be responsible for all this. And that would mean there was a way out of this. Catching Sloane would mean being able to resolve all of this.
Now, after a night of endless 'what-if's,' she had to concede that it had been too simplistic a premise. Catch Sloane and fix everything. To be honest, however, she had been operating under that same premise for a while now. Hadn't she based her entire decision to become a double agent on that premise alone?
She hadn't cared about the effect it would have on her life. Or Will's. Or Francie's. Vaughn's. Her father's. Dixon's. No. She had only wanted one thing. Sloane. To pay for his crimes. She had naively thought that once that had been accomplished, things would be simple once again.
But that hadn't been the case. Implanted memory or whatever it was, but what she remembered of her takedown of the Alliance hadn't exactly ended up with things becoming simple once again. When she had downloaded the information from Server 47, which had led to the Alliance's downfall, things seemed to have grown more complicated. Dixon's life had been turned upside down. Will and Francie had suffered from the fall-out too. And Sloane just became more dangerous and unpredictable.
[So what made me think it'd be different here? Wherever the hell 'here' is.]
She shook her head as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. She still couldn't believe that Sloane was dead, however. Despite what Vaughn had told her.
//We had satellite confirmation that Sloane was at the Alliance headquarters when it was raided. Apparently they had a fail-safe which was activated and leveled much of the building. We're still analyzing the DNA samples we retrieved from the ruins and so far, there's no positive confirmation on Sloane but satellite surveillance showed him entering the building shortly before it blew and there's no sign of any underground bunker or secret escape routes. So he's officially classified as missing but it does look like he was killed in the blast.//
That was pretty conclusive, but she still didn't believe it. With the 'memories' she had, she recalled that Sloane had managed to masterfully run a covert organization under the guise that it was a CIA division. He had managed to dupe the entire Alliance into believing that he had killed Emily. And then he had turned around and used that to extort 100 million dollars from Alliance to bankroll his own agenda.
Someone like Sloane couldn't have been killed so simply. . .so easily. She also 'remembered' how he had masterminded the Alliance's downfall in the first place. While that might not be the case with the Alliance's takedown 'here,' there's no guarantee that Sloane didn't have a hand in it. And if he did, that would mean he made it out alive somehow.
The coffee finally finished and she reached for a mug and poured herself a steaming cup. She took her coffee into the living room and settled on the couch. She sipped the hot, bitter liquid unconsciously, as she tried to figure out what was what.
She didn't have amnesia. Not the standard, run-of-the-mill amnesia, at least.
She had fought Francie on May 4, 2003. She had lost consciousness and then had woken up in Hong Kong on May 5, 2003. She remembered seeing the date on one of the many neon signs in downtown Hong Kong before she had gone to the safe house.
So to her, there was no time loss.
Yet, Vaughn had told her that she hadn't been seen or heard from since their meeting on the Santa Monica pier, which was in October or November of 2001. That would be almost 2 years ago. So technically, she had lost two years of her memory.
[But I remember those 2 years! I didn't 'lose' them. Did I?]
She shook her head again. The only thing she could come up with is that she had been kidnapped and had been intensely conditioned psychologically. And whoever had done the conditioning had created an elaborate memory bank for her to make her think that she. . .what?
Once again, her theory crashed. If she had been intensely conditioned, what was the point of giving her two years of 'false' memories? Everyone else would simply think that she was crazy. The CIA would never clear her for active duty again, and she wouldn't be able to do whatever it was she had been conditioned to do.
Also, individuals who had been psychologically conditioned usually had memories that were in sync with society since confusion tended to unravel their conditioning. And they then became delusional and irrational. They usually ended up in asylums or institutions and would be unable to carry out their 'missions.'
She drained the last of her coffee. She rose and went into the kitchen to rinse out the cup. She doubted she had been psych-con. It was simply too messy in her case. Implanted memories tended to work only in small doses. Like a happy childhood memory to stimulate certain feelings for the targeted mark. An extensive, complicated implanted memory like hers, where some things were real and others weren't, would simply collapse very quickly. That's assuming it was possible to implant something that large into a person's memory to begin with.
[No. My memories are real. Somehow, I just know it.]
Just then, she heard the front door open. "Sydney?"
She sighed. Even if she was sure that the memories she held were real, that still didn't change the fact that no one else knew it. She walked back into the living room to find him standing by the couch, looking grim. He had changed but was still dressed casually.
"Hi," she said, leaning against the wall.
"Hey," he said. He looked as if he had gotten as much sleep as she did. "How are you?"
She shrugged. "O.K., I guess."
An awkward silence descended as each tried to find some place to focus so that they wouldn't have to make eye contact. After a few seconds, Vaughn cleared his throat. "Um, you need to uh, go into CIA Operations Center."
"Now?"
He nodded. "They need to run some tests on you. It's-"
"Standard operating procedure," she finished quietly. "I know."
"So, whenever you're ready."
She glanced at him. "Wait, you're taking me?"
He looked at her for a beat. "Is something wrong?"
"I-I just. . .I thought the CIA would've assigned me an agent by now."
"They did." He paused and looked down. [Uh-oh.] "Me."
[ ] denotes Sydney's thoughts.
// // denotes recalled conversations.
**********CIA Safehouse, May 7, 2003**********
[May 7th, 2003. May 7th. . .2003?!] She pondered that date. It was right and yet. . .it wasn't. Taking in the time that she had spent in Hong Kong, and the time zone changes they had gone through in flying back to LA, that was right. It would be around May 7, 2003. Yet. . .if she had been missing for 2 years. . .shouldn't it be closer to May, 2005?
"Sydney." Vaughn's voice jolted her out of her thoughts. "You didn't answer my question."
"Question?"
"How did you know I had a tattoo on my left arm?"
She stared at him helplessly. How was she supposed to answer that question? Simply? [I've seen it.] Of course he'd ask her how she'd seen it and she's say. . .what? So the simple answer was out.
Then, what? The complicated answer? [Well, Vaughn apparently I haven't been missing for two years because I do remember things that are turning out to be very real and yet, I don't know other things that I should so I'm suffering from some weird form of amnesia.] So that answer wouldn't work either.
She settled on the only thing she could. The truth. Or as close to it as she could get. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
He stared at her for several minutes and she could see the play of emotions in his eyes. Puzzlement. Concern. Empathy. "Try me."
She smiled wryly and shook her head. "I'd rather not."
"Sydney-"
"You know what?" she cut in. "I'm kind of tired. Would you mind if I rested a bit?"
"No," he said softly, although she could see that he wasn't altogether pleased at being so curtly dismissed. "I'll uh, check in with the Operations Center."
She nodded before she retreated to the bedroom. Once there, however, she wanted to do anything but rest. Thoughts were whirring through her mind at a dizzying pace.
[What the hell was going on? Did I or did I not lose two years? If I did, then what am I remembering? Implanted memories?]
She took several deep breaths, willing herself to calm down and think clearly. She forced herself into her 'Operative-mode.' Cold, calculating, extremely rational. There was very little room for emotions when she was in this mode. That's what enabled her to carry out 'distasteful' missions. How she managed not to leap across the SD-6 briefing table and beat Sloane senseless every time he had gone into some patriotic spiel when sending them on yet another mission to benefit him and the Alliance.
[Sloane.]
She stopped her pacing and sat down on the bed. Could Sloane be responsible for her situation somehow? What had happened to him? Vaughn had said that the Alliance and SD-6 were gone but where was Sloane? She shook her head, realizing that she had never asked Vaughn.
[How ironic. The one person who had motivated me for so long was the one person I didn't even think to ask about.]
Quickly, she jumped off the bed and practically ran into the living room. She breathed a small sigh of relief when she saw that Vaughn hadn't left yet. He was standing near the couch, his back to her, and talking on his cell phone.
"Vaughn!"
He jumped slightly at her voice and whirled around to face her. At the look on her face, he quickly disconnected his call. "Syd?"
"Where's Sloane?"
"What?"
"Sloane!" She repeated impatiently. "When the CIA took down the Alliance and SD-6, what happened to Sloane?"
Vaughn was looking at her with the now-familiar expression of confusion mixed with concern. "Sloane's missing, but presumed dead."
**********CIA Safehouse, May 8, 2003, Morning**********
She hadn't slept much, if at all, the night before. Somehow she had convinced Vaughn that she was well enough to be left alone. He had finally conceded, but she hadn't heard him leave until very late.
The entire night, she had laid in bed. She stared at the ceiling and let her thoughts flow. Learning that Sloane was missing, and probably dead had left her even more confused than before. She had thought that if he was still on the CIA's Most Wanted list, that somehow, and in some way, he could be responsible for all this. And that would mean there was a way out of this. Catching Sloane would mean being able to resolve all of this.
Now, after a night of endless 'what-if's,' she had to concede that it had been too simplistic a premise. Catch Sloane and fix everything. To be honest, however, she had been operating under that same premise for a while now. Hadn't she based her entire decision to become a double agent on that premise alone?
She hadn't cared about the effect it would have on her life. Or Will's. Or Francie's. Vaughn's. Her father's. Dixon's. No. She had only wanted one thing. Sloane. To pay for his crimes. She had naively thought that once that had been accomplished, things would be simple once again.
But that hadn't been the case. Implanted memory or whatever it was, but what she remembered of her takedown of the Alliance hadn't exactly ended up with things becoming simple once again. When she had downloaded the information from Server 47, which had led to the Alliance's downfall, things seemed to have grown more complicated. Dixon's life had been turned upside down. Will and Francie had suffered from the fall-out too. And Sloane just became more dangerous and unpredictable.
[So what made me think it'd be different here? Wherever the hell 'here' is.]
She shook her head as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. She still couldn't believe that Sloane was dead, however. Despite what Vaughn had told her.
//We had satellite confirmation that Sloane was at the Alliance headquarters when it was raided. Apparently they had a fail-safe which was activated and leveled much of the building. We're still analyzing the DNA samples we retrieved from the ruins and so far, there's no positive confirmation on Sloane but satellite surveillance showed him entering the building shortly before it blew and there's no sign of any underground bunker or secret escape routes. So he's officially classified as missing but it does look like he was killed in the blast.//
That was pretty conclusive, but she still didn't believe it. With the 'memories' she had, she recalled that Sloane had managed to masterfully run a covert organization under the guise that it was a CIA division. He had managed to dupe the entire Alliance into believing that he had killed Emily. And then he had turned around and used that to extort 100 million dollars from Alliance to bankroll his own agenda.
Someone like Sloane couldn't have been killed so simply. . .so easily. She also 'remembered' how he had masterminded the Alliance's downfall in the first place. While that might not be the case with the Alliance's takedown 'here,' there's no guarantee that Sloane didn't have a hand in it. And if he did, that would mean he made it out alive somehow.
The coffee finally finished and she reached for a mug and poured herself a steaming cup. She took her coffee into the living room and settled on the couch. She sipped the hot, bitter liquid unconsciously, as she tried to figure out what was what.
She didn't have amnesia. Not the standard, run-of-the-mill amnesia, at least.
She had fought Francie on May 4, 2003. She had lost consciousness and then had woken up in Hong Kong on May 5, 2003. She remembered seeing the date on one of the many neon signs in downtown Hong Kong before she had gone to the safe house.
So to her, there was no time loss.
Yet, Vaughn had told her that she hadn't been seen or heard from since their meeting on the Santa Monica pier, which was in October or November of 2001. That would be almost 2 years ago. So technically, she had lost two years of her memory.
[But I remember those 2 years! I didn't 'lose' them. Did I?]
She shook her head again. The only thing she could come up with is that she had been kidnapped and had been intensely conditioned psychologically. And whoever had done the conditioning had created an elaborate memory bank for her to make her think that she. . .what?
Once again, her theory crashed. If she had been intensely conditioned, what was the point of giving her two years of 'false' memories? Everyone else would simply think that she was crazy. The CIA would never clear her for active duty again, and she wouldn't be able to do whatever it was she had been conditioned to do.
Also, individuals who had been psychologically conditioned usually had memories that were in sync with society since confusion tended to unravel their conditioning. And they then became delusional and irrational. They usually ended up in asylums or institutions and would be unable to carry out their 'missions.'
She drained the last of her coffee. She rose and went into the kitchen to rinse out the cup. She doubted she had been psych-con. It was simply too messy in her case. Implanted memories tended to work only in small doses. Like a happy childhood memory to stimulate certain feelings for the targeted mark. An extensive, complicated implanted memory like hers, where some things were real and others weren't, would simply collapse very quickly. That's assuming it was possible to implant something that large into a person's memory to begin with.
[No. My memories are real. Somehow, I just know it.]
Just then, she heard the front door open. "Sydney?"
She sighed. Even if she was sure that the memories she held were real, that still didn't change the fact that no one else knew it. She walked back into the living room to find him standing by the couch, looking grim. He had changed but was still dressed casually.
"Hi," she said, leaning against the wall.
"Hey," he said. He looked as if he had gotten as much sleep as she did. "How are you?"
She shrugged. "O.K., I guess."
An awkward silence descended as each tried to find some place to focus so that they wouldn't have to make eye contact. After a few seconds, Vaughn cleared his throat. "Um, you need to uh, go into CIA Operations Center."
"Now?"
He nodded. "They need to run some tests on you. It's-"
"Standard operating procedure," she finished quietly. "I know."
"So, whenever you're ready."
She glanced at him. "Wait, you're taking me?"
He looked at her for a beat. "Is something wrong?"
"I-I just. . .I thought the CIA would've assigned me an agent by now."
"They did." He paused and looked down. [Uh-oh.] "Me."