A/N: I've come to the realization that what people really want is recognition. So, I've decided to recognize those of you who take the time to review with a Hall of Fame in hopes that it might entice some of you shyer ones into participating. Or do nothing at all. Whatever. It will include all the names of the reviewers from the previous chapter (and perhaps a personal message if I deem you extra-special!) Let's commence with the praise:

Hall of Fame: Lady Prongs of Rohan (Are you psychic? Shhh! Quit giving away my plot!), chopsticks (Thank you for the thank you for the thank you. I hope this doesn't become a gratitude war.), Melissa (Intrigued is good. Very good. And Lauren is bad. Very bad.), and Diz (Honored you deemed this review-worthy. And Sydulia--how perfect! how apt! I love it!)

Chapter Four

"Jack," the voice crackling over the bad connection was startlingly mild for an army veteran well into his fifty-fifth year of a particularly harsh existence.

"You're stalling, Thomas. I didn't call you because I wanted my feelings pandered to. I want your report, plain and simple."

The general was silent for a moment, perhaps collecting his data and preparing his words, or maybe he was surprised by the unreserved bluntness of his old acquaintance. He might have expected it in any other situation, but this was his daughter after all. A stone would have shown more emotion. "I sent my boys out to check every name on that list, just like you asked."

"And?"

"Third one from the top, Georgia Baker, we found her dead in her kitchen. Steak knife. Not very pretty."

"That's all I needed. Thank you."

"Anything I can do, Jack."

Jack set the receiver back in the cradle and pressed his thumbs to his temples. There was a headache burning there. After a long breath, he reached for the list of names Thomas had mentioned, skimming quickly over the inventory of people Sydney could have held grudges against in the past, and then taking up a ballpoint pen, painstakingly crossed out Ms. Georgia L. Baker. The second member of the FBI tribunal.

~~~~~~~~~~

They found her car three hours later, deserted miles outside of the city. Dixon phoned Jack to give him the news.

"Jack, we have to accept the possibility that we won't find her if she's left the city. She could be anywhere, she could be anyone."

"No," the other man agreed. "We won't find her. But she will come back. She knows she's innocent--I know she's innocent--and she'll be back to clear her name."

Dixon considerately closed him teeth around any reservations he could have expressed.

~~~~~~~~~~

A call was made to a line that had been abandoned for months, the same line that had been the contact between Kendall and Julia Thorne. The payphone it had been placed on was traced to an area inside Los Angeles, and they scoured the entire vicinity in a four-mile radius until they located her sitting on a bench in the park; she didn't offer any struggle, appearing almost as if she had been expecting them. Jack was on the scene in minutes, but he barely recognized his daughter after the transformation two days had wrought. She had dyed her hair in a deep shade of black, the kind that you can see purple in the heart of, and sheared bangs into her hairstyle. She stared at him with the same mild curiosity with which she regarded the rest of agents milling excitedly around her, without a trace of recognition, but he gathered her into his arms anyway. She stood utterly motionless within their circle, neither pulling away nor leaning nearer to him, and he felt her so slight and fragile and alien. He gripped her tighter and willed her to be Sydney again.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was an agonizing eternity before a messenger, breathless from a climb of several flights of stairs, leaned wearily against the doorway of his office as he informed Jack that his daughter was asking for him. He sent the man speedily back the route he had come with instructions to bring Sydney to Dixon's office, where the two of them would meet with her. They directed her to the empty leather chair in the room, and firmly closed the door behind her, shutting out the ambient noise of the agency outside. Jack felt a weight in his chest lift at the way she looked right at him, at the tiny, uncertain smile that made him for a moment the only person in her world.

She shifted uncomfortably in the slick seat, her eyes swinging between the pair of silent men who were waiting on her to speak. "No one will tell me anything. What happened this time?"

Jack's lips tightened into a nearly invisible line, which Dixon took as a signal that it was his duty to answer. "We're investigating the recent murder of another FBI agent, one with undeniable connections to yourself. One you might have reason to harm. And…" He watched her face crumble as she became aware that there was more. "And I received a phone call from Lauren Reed this morning, reporting that her home had been vandalized last night while she and her husband were at dinner. She seemed adamant that we were to question you about the incident."

Sydney glanced desperately at the clock on the wall. "But it's only three in the afternoon, and I've only been missing since around eight this morning. When their house was broken into yesterday, I would have been here, being interrogated."

"No," Jack corrected, "you were missing yesterday. You disappeared at eight yesterday morning. You've been gone over twenty-four hours."

It was tragic, to watch the comprehension descend on her, the tremor in her lower jaw, quickly suppressed. "Dad." She cleared her throat. "I--there seems to be no other way to say it than, I've been lying to you." Her gaze fell specifically on Jack, but she widened it to take in Dixon as well. "Both of you. I told you that I don't remember anything during these…experiences I've been having, but I do. Remember something. Each time, I've had these dreams--memories, actually, of being Julia Thorne. The things that I saw, that I did. Things I shouldn't remember.

"From what I saw in that video I sent Kendall, I knew when I agreed to it that the procedure might kill me, and if I survived I wouldn't remember any of the past two years. But I don't think I anticipated this. I didn't think that it could be reversed. But something has come undone, this block in my memories is breaking down, and I'm terrified. Of what I might remember, all these things I didn't want myself to know…That this reversal might be severe enough to damage the rest of my mind, to--to cause me to do things I have no memory of."

"I wish you would have trusted me with this, Sydney," Jack commented with slow gravity. "This…alters many of the assumptions we had been drawing."

"I wish I could have, too. It was hell, keeping it to myself…But how do you look someone in the eyes and tell them you think you're losing your mind?"

"Sweetheart--"

"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" she cut in sharply. "We can't change what I did. I wouldn't even be admitting this now, but I need you to agree to help me with something. Something that might prove I'm not guilty."

Jack remained silent, afraid to make a promise about anything that he might not be able to keep, waiting on her to continue.

"I want you to lock me up, away from everything. Where I can't hurt anyone. And if the murders continue, then it can't be me. If they stop…" she left the words hanging in the air; the image of what would happen then was already vividly real to all three.

"If you think it's best, Jack," Dixon spoke up, drawing him back into the moment from his own deliberations, "I'll give it my approval."

Jack looked sideways at Sydney, and she stared expectantly back at him. He nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~

Vaughn burst into Dixon's office early the next morning, unannounced, and without greeting or warning, made his demand.

"I want to see Sydney."

Dixon tucked away the document he had been attempting to read and turned his full attention to the younger agent, the slightest irritation turning the corners of his mouth. "You're worried about her, understandably, but I'm not entirely sure that's the wisest course of action in your situation."

"Of course I'm worried. I get home and I learn that Sydney's in the Naval Hospital and she's having dreams about being Julia and murdering people, and, yes, I get a little worried. But you're worried, too. Jack's worried, Weiss is worried, Marshall's worried. We worry about Sydney; it's natural. I swear to you though, my feelings don't go beyond any of yours. They're strictly platonic."

"I'm not questioning your ability to deal with your own emotions, Vaughn. I'm merely concerned about what your wife might feel." His expression darkened almost imperceptibly, but it was not unnoticed by the other occupant of the room.

"If I'm really what she wants, then she'll learn to understand the things I have to do," he phrased carefully.

"You're lucky you caught me in such a good mood." A smile briefly lit on the corners of Dixon's eyes, though it didn't reach his mouth. "Any other time I would have undoubtedly said no, but I'm of the mind that a familiar face or two might help Sydney through what is a difficult transition. I'll call down there and put you on the visitors list. But I hope you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

"I am."

~~~~~~~~~~

A delicate, twenty-something redhead looked over her clipboard, setting it back on her desk once she was contented with her findings. "You do have clearance from Director Dixon, Mr. Vaughn, but," she glanced timidly at him under lashes, "you do understand that I have to ask Agent Bristow's permission as well. She has final say on any visitor."

"I understand." He voice had the clipped manner of a confident man, but the nurse's words had triggered the first hint of uneasiness in his mind. What if she didn't want to see him? Could he really turn around and walk away without talking with her? No. He'd throw himself at her feet. He'd beg. He needed to be certain she was okay.

He didn't dare take his eyes from the woman as she walked with short, rapid steps down the hallway, stopping at the fifth door. She unlocked the bolt after a struggle with her key ring, but was still considerate enough to knock politely and wait for the door to open from the inside for her. He heard his own breathing, shallow in his chest, as he watched the comet trail of her hair vanish inside the room, felt it rasp in his throat until the she reappeared, and the tightening around his lungs relaxed at last.

"She'll see you."

His hesitation caught up with him at Sydney's door, and he could barely manage the courage to tap lightly on the thick metal with his knuckles. "Syd?" his voice broke painfully, fumbling her name.

"Come in."

He pressed lightly on the handle and slid the door easily open on its hinges, but the motion halted when the door was only half open, his muscles stunned into immobility by her appearance: bony, sickly pale, with a curtain of dark hair, thin bangs long enough to shield her eyes. She stared unabashedly back at him, defying him to accept her as she was. As he recovered his composure, he recognized her expectant quiet as an invitation for him to begin the conversation, a test for him to pass.

"Nice haircut," he was horrified to find himself saying. "Midlife crisis?"

It was obvious that it was a subject she didn't quite understand herself either by the defensive way her fingers dove automatically into her shorn locks. "I couldn't tell you. But maybe you could explain it to me, since you seem to know so much about it."

"Ouch. I resent the implications of that statement," he hastily tried to backtrack in order to control the damage he had done. Her affront was apparent as she stalked into the room away from him, but he took the fact she didn't close the door on him as an encouraging gesture, following her inside.

The entire place seemed to be a tiny apartment stashed away inside the inner belly of the building. He had passed tiny, spartan cells on his journey here through the psychiatric ward of the Naval Hospital, and this was spacious and luxurious in comparison. Four square walls, painted in cheerful shades of orange; in the left corner was one practical collapsible card table with three folding chairs arranged around, obviously for eating meals; in the center of the room was a beaten old recliner situated in front of a small TV stacked on top of a VCR, with a sizeable amount of video tapes heaped nearby; the hard floor was generously covered with a plush rug in a dazzling shade of cherry; the right side was occupied by a pleasant-looking double bed with an overstuffed comforter folded neatly at its foot; there was even a small adjacent bathroom with a shower, toilet, and sink. He'd rented places with less space, and despite being bare of any personal touches, the whole dwelling exuded a lived-in air that made it almost inhabitable…until you noticed the security cameras mounted on the wall.

"Really, Sydney," he continued his gentle scolding as she retreated sullenly to the left side of the room, "you shouldn't insult the person who brings you food from the outside world." He placed his burden of one bulky brown paper sack with a solid thunk on the metal table, and was rewarded by the ravenous hunger that stole guardedly into her eyes. He wondered with concern when the last time she remembered to eat was. "Greasy, fatty, scrumptious food from the outside," he added sanguinely.

She burrowed into the depths of the bag, pulling back with a sandwich, weighing it inquiringly in her hand as she began to unwrap it from its paper shell. "No ketchup?"

"Ah," he answered, satisfied that his offer of peace had been accepted, "how could I forget your impassioned speech on how ketchup reminds you of blood?"

He was rewarded with a distorted sound through a mouthful of hamburger that might have been taken for appreciation--or something derogative.

"There's more," he announced, rummaging through his pockets in search of his second gift. Triumphant, he deposited a roughly-treated pack of cards in the center of the table with a flourish. "I thought that after dinner maybe I could beat you at a couple games of Go Fish."

~~~~~~~~~~

Kendall deposited a neat brown folder, brimming with paper, on Jack's immaculately kept desk. "That's it. Everything we came up with after processing Sydney's tests from the other day."

"I didn't ask for paperwork. I asked for answers."

Kendall folded himself into the chair across from Jack, preparing for a lengthy discussion. "Essentially, what it says is that we don't know a damn thing. We're just fairly certain. Fairly certain that Sydney's hypothesis about her memories returning is wrong. You see, even when the human conscious blocks out distressing memories as a measure to ensure its own survival, in almost all of the cases some portion of that 'lost time' returns subconsciously as dreams. The operation Sydney underwent was not only designed to imitate these same human mechanisms, but it was also in its most preliminary stages. It's to be expected that there would be flaws. What we're uneasy about is what has caused this sudden escalation in the frequency and intensity of these memory-dreams.

"Our best guess is that it comes back to her Project Christmas training. What she endured during her time with the Covenant, it put more stress on her than we could have ever anticipated; most spies would have been executed in less than half that time. While the precautions that were taken when she was a child to keep her from being brainwashed held, we also believe that they might have somehow been warped by the experience. She's--basically she's malfunctioning. Now, her self-protective impulses are no longer dormant as they once were, activating only in critical situations, but they are actually constantly alert. This has led her to think of even the CIA as the enemy, at least subliminally, and every time she has felt threatened by us--in the safe house, being questioned afterwards--she has involuntarily reacted by splitting her awareness, becoming Julia to escape what she believes is an attempt to brainwash her."

"So, what you're saying is that I'm responsible for what my daughter is suffering through now?"

"Not exactly--sort of indirectly--I mean, who could have ever foreseen her capture by an organization like the Covenant when she was just a kid?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Well…yes."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Any nines?"

"Go Fish."

Vaughn slid the card towards him from the pile between them, facedown on the table, overly cautious in his attempt to keep Sydney from seeing what he had drawn.

She bit her lip as she examined her own steadily decreasing hand, then narrowed her eyes hostilely at him over their tops. "Stop leaning like that. You're making me nervous."

"What? I'm not doing anything."

"Humph. Got any fours?"

"You asked me that on your last turn. What makes you think I have one now?"

"You just drew a card. It's entirely possible that it was a four."

The expression on his face gave him away, and he tossed the card crossly in her direction. She concealed a smile behind her remaining card as she added the four neatly to her own, positioning them in line with her other pairs. "What about sevens?"

Defeated, he laid his hand out on the table and let her scrounge the seven out of his other cards herself. Sliding it toward herself, she quickly calculated the number of her pairs, "That's…thirteen to five. I think it's safe to say I won. Again." She shuffled a few cards together. "Ready to play another round? Maybe Old Maid this time?"

He stretched his back along the metal of the folding chair, extending his fingertips to the ceiling. "You're not tired yet? Personally, I'm exhausted. Don't you think you should get some rest?" He forced a mammoth yawn, politely covering it with one hand. "It's about time I went home and hit the sack."

The transformation was an amazing one, with only a single beat between the cheerful woman that had been before him a moment ago into a horrified creature caught in the sweeping beams of a car's headlights. "Vaughn--I can't."

"Can't what?" He was instantly sitting forward in his seat, inspecting her for any visible injury. "Did I say something wrong?"

"It's nothing, really," she attempted to recant her initial reaction, a move they both knew he could see straight through. She squirmed, pinned by the weight of his concern to her seat. "I just haven't been sleeping well lately. I worry--about having dreams, about what I might do while I'm having those dreams. Lucy--the girl who works the night shift--she's nice. If anything happened to her like before…"

"So, you're not going to sleep until you're cured, right?"

"No, that's not what I said--"

"Would it help," he proposed warily, doubtful of how she would interpret his intentions, "if I stayed here tonight? If I watched you sleep? I would be here to make sure everyone's safe while you sleep."

"You can't. You have to go home."

"Lauren's in Toronto. No one's expecting me, Syd, if you need me."

"I can't ask you to give up a night of sleep just because I'm a little afraid of the dark."

"You're not asking; I'm offering," he pressed the matter delicately. "And I'll be too anxious over you to sleep tonight anyway, even if I was in my own bed. Let me do this for you. This way, I'll feel like my restless night benefited someone."

There was no option left for her but to agree. She unearthed her clothes from her suitcase stashed under the bed and closed herself in the adjoining bathroom to perform her nightly routine. He settled himself in the recliner, dragging it around on its squeaky springs to face the bed, and arranged his limbs as comfortably as he could in the limited space. He watched Sydney doing the same thing, slipping under the starched sheets and lugging the comforter up to her chin. She tossed from side to side several times, the whole mattress groaning with each shift of her weight.

"Vaughn?"

"Yeah?"

"You're too far away over there. It's almost like you're not even here. Come closer."

He indulged her wordlessly, removing himself from the chair to the space directly next to her bed. He balled up his discarded jacket as a pillow between his head and the wall, and extended one leg while drawing the other knee nearer to his chest. "Better?"

"Much." She turned over one final time so she was sprawled on her back, and one hand edged discreetly out from beneath the covers to hang in the air above him. Understanding, he looped his fingers through hers.

~~~~~~~~~~

There was a message on his phone from Lauren. "I know you're there with her," it began, accusing him statically with his wife's whispering voice. "They won't tell me where she is, but I know you're there. But I don't care. I don't care. You've told me before that there are things--about you and her--things I just wouldn't understand, and I beginning to think I don't want to. I just--Michael, come home. What I said before I left, I was angry and scared, and I didn't mean half of it. If you'd just come home, we could have dinner--go out to eat, anything you want--but I'm sure all we need is to talk, and I know we can make this work. Please. I need you." Not I miss you. Not I love you. I need you. There was a chilling ring to those words, like by his very absence he was depriving her of air.

He snapped the cover of his phone shut with a sharp snap that echoed his inner battle, but the woman in the room didn't seem to be aware of the noise, holding herself absolutely immobile and expressionless in the chair across the table from him, almost as if she hadn't even heard.

These periods were getting closer together, these times when she was someone else entirely, when she withdrew into some world outside her room in the hospital, where she couldn't see or hear him. And when she surfaced from her memories of Julia, she spent her time as Sydney pacing the confines of her prison, deaf to his pleas that she sit down and watch a movie with him or play a hand of cards. Unable to ease her mind or stop her nightmares, he had to content himself with the task of ensuring she at least remembered to eat.

Picking up the bowl of soup the nurse had delivered, he tried to position himself in her line of vision, but her eyes saw right through him to the wall. "Sydney. Syd. Look at me." Even after four other similar experiences, her vacant stare still managed to unnerve him, and his despair got the best of him. "Julia," he tried, the unfamiliar name in his mouth adding to the prevailing sense of unreality in the underground room, like he was someplace outside of time. For a fleeting instant he was convinced he perceived her pupils contracting as she registered his presence, only to be replaced instantly by blankness again. "Why won't you look at me?"

"Because you're a dream," he was astonished to hear Sydney's voice enlighten him. "You're not really here."

"I am here. I'm as real as you."

"No, you're not." There was child-like conviction to the statement that made him even doubt his own existence for a heartbeat.

"Why can't I be?"

"Because you can't be here, Vaughn. If I see you, then they'll see you too. They'll know about you."

"Who? Sydney, it's just you and me. There's no one else to worry about."

There was no hope in attempting to reason with something beyond his comprehension, and he could see her pulling away from him again, her eyes sidling back to an empty spot on the wall. "Fine. Fine," he conceded hastily. "I'm a dream. So, since we've settled that issue, will you at least eat some soup? I can't have you wasting away on me because, you know, they say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life as well."

She drew her eyebrows together, wrinkling her forehead at nothing. "That doesn't sound like something Vaughn would say."

"I'm the figment of your imagination. You tell me what Vaughn would say in this situation."

"'I love you, Sydney.'"

The spoon clanked metallically against the side of the bowl as he set it down so he could give his full attention to this private confession. "I love you, Sydney, more than anything in this world."

A shiver and a sigh rattled her shoulders like her dying breath. "Mmmm. That was good. Really good."

"And so is this soup," he answered quickly, brandishing the full spoon in her direction. "Now, shut up and eat."