~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She thinks of her old life often. She thinks of that reporter friend of hers, of that restaurant owner, of that handler she loved. She makes herself forget their names. She makes herself forget Sydney.
She can't be Sydney anymore, because Sydney died with that life. Sydney died in that fire, next to a likeness of her best friend.
But Sydney is willful and strong, and does not go down without a fight. Sydney forgives that man she loved, Sydney hates the new girl, Sydney remembers Santa Barbara and a guardian angel and a picture frame.
She likes Julia better. Julia does not remember, Julia does not care, Julia lets her fall apart in peace. Julia is stable and cold and callous. Julia has no attachments. Julia does not ache.
Sydney wants her memories, sometimes. Julia does not. Sydney wants to rebuild her life. Julia wants to be numb.
The vessel for these women is neither one nor the other. She is a body, a skill set, a part of a prophecy. She was born of Sydney's mother, but she is not Irina's daughter. She has Julia's scar, right there, on her stomach, but is not responsible for that life.
She names herself Vessandra, the vessel of many.
She goes to work, and people call out to her as she passes by. Vessandra and Julia silence Sydney's responses. Vessandra fights to be like Julia, coldness palatable in her heart and in her hands.
She goes to Rio de Janeiro with that handler man. She doesn't speak to him as Sydney cries quietly in a corner. She tunes out his soft tones, letting Julia out for a walk. Julia watches him icily until he turns away.
Guards lie dead around her as she sashays to the vault. Vessandra lets Julia feel for her, and Julia feels nothing. Sydney feels the blood on her hands.
The safe clicks open softly. With deft fingers that belong to all three, she snatches the manuscript from it's prison. In that familiar move, she rolls it up swiftly and tucks it away.
A gun cocks, and she turns.
"Agent Bristow. What a pleasant surprise." It's that cocky British boy that only Sydney remembers; that only Sydney hates.
She says nothing, face blank and empty. She doesn't put up her guard; she doesn't reach for her gun. She just watches him, devoid of emotion.
Exhilaration courses through Sark. This is his favorite part of the job–facing off with worthy opponents. He thrives on it. It keeps him going, it keeps him from going insane. It makes him feel alive.
But she still feels nothing. Sydney has worn herself out with the handler and the dying bodies around her, and she can't muster up enough energy to care.
"Hand over the manuscript," Sark tells her, grinning at his control over the situation.
She just shrugs, digs it out of her bag, and tosses it to him. The man with the prophecies, he means nothing to her. Sydney alone feels the faintest concern over the whole thing.
Sark looks surprised, and a little disappointed. He stares at her as he puts away the artifact, and then lets his gaze wander over the many guards that litter the ground.
"I thought you hated killing innocents?" Sark asks, puzzled. He doesn't lower his gun, but his posture relaxes.
Julia rolls her eyes. "They got in my way." Her voice is cold and sexy, and if not for the accent, would be just like Sark's own.
Sark's aim falters. This is not the Sydney he knows.
She remembers another personality, one of her many lives all wrapped up in Vessandra. She remembers Agent Bristow.
She feels the iciness creep up inside of her. She looks at Sark, but instead of a buzz cut and bright eyes, she sees smooth black curves. She sees a pawn. Between them a board unfurls, black and white. There is no in-between in this world, no subtle grays, no color to speak of, just stark divisions of good and evil. Just an epic battle, just a harmless game. This is Agent Bristow-vision.
The scene melts into a shadow filled alley. The pawn becomes that handler man, covered in red and gold and black for betrayal. Her parents slink through the darkness, warm and sweet and not to be trusted. Sark watches malevolently from a fire escape ten stories up. This is Sydney-vision.
It fades to a sterile blue room. Rotting corpses with frostbitten lips are piled up around her. Memories pound on the steel door, banging and banging forever and ever. She rocks back and forth in the middle of it all, ignoring the tremors wracking her body. This is Julia-vision.
The room deteriorates until all that is left is gray. No tones or textures; just empty, vacuous gray. This is Vessandra-vision.
Vessandra focuses very hard, and the blankness distorts and forms Sark and his gun.
He watches her for a few moments, concerned, but she merely stares back impassively. He glances briefly at the manuscript before pulling the trigger.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When she wakes up, her first thought is surprise that Sark uses a tranquilizer gun. Julia relishes the scorn it gives her, because Julia would not be so weak. Sydney feels very confused. Agent Bristow notices the handcuffs and turbulence.
She can hear Sark talking into his cell phone on the other side of the cabin.
"...she wasn't acting like herself. I thought I should bring her to you..."
Agent Bristow wants to fuss with their bindings, and Sydney wants to scream until he tells her what's going on. But Vessandra just stretches languidly, ignoring her numb hands and relaxing into the plush couch.
"...Yes, yes. We'll be there in an hour." Sark closes his phone with a snap. He turns to her. "Comfortable?"
"Mmmm," she mumbles. "I love what you've done with the place." Julia starts laughing, for no reason at all. Maybe she's said this to someone before, maybe right before she killed them, but she doesn't remember and it half-strikes her in an odd way.
Sark actually looks worried. It's not an expression his face is used to forming, and it makes his forehead scrunch up strangely.
"J-U-L-I-A," she starts singing, her eyelids lazily blocking her vision. "Juuuuulllllllliiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa!"
"Agent Bristow," Sark says in his most commanding voice, "control yourself."
Her eyes fly open as she sits up suddenly. She stares stonily at him. "Agent Bristow does not like to share control, so she is not allowed to have control. When she learns moderation, she can join the rest."
He doesn't seem to comprehend this. He doesn't seem to understand that she is looking at him with four different sets of eyes. He doesn't seem to understand how fractured her vision is at the moment.
"Sark always has control, so you cannot understand. Julian never fights Sark for control. Sark looks through one pair of eyes."
Sark does not know what is going on. He doesn't know how to deal with this, with her crazy, unconnected words. And so he hits her across the face to make her stop.
Vessandra's fragments pull together for a moment, and she grabs Sark's hand with bound wrists even as her head recoils. She twists it behind his back as she stands up. A kick to the back of his knee, and he falls to the ground. She pins him to the floor of his private jet.
"Do not touch me," she tells him harshly, and she can't tell if it's Julia or Agent Bristow or Sydney. "Do not mess with me."
She gets off him, and offers her hand. "How would you feel about a partnership?"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hours later, she walks into an hideout in Singapore, Sark trailing behind her. Within the house is a steel door. Julia shudders as the cold metal brushes her fingers, but Sydney takes over, pulling the door wide open.
Inside, Irina looks up at them curiously. Her face shows no surprise or fear at this turn of events. She gestures for them to enter.
"Sydney, darling, how are you?"
Vessandra gives a half-smile. "Sydney's understandably upset, though all her emotions tend to get in the way of moving on."
Irina seems perturbed that Sydney is referring to herself in third person, but she doesn't comment.
Vessandra watches her like a hawk. "Who are you now, Laura or Irina? Bristow or Derevko?"
Irina turns to Sark, confusion gracing her features. He only shrugs, understanding little more than she does.
"Are you the mother, the wife? Or the terrorist, the Man?" She flops back into a chair and looks at Sark through her hair. "Julian or Sark? J or S? Good or evil? A sad little boy with no home, or a darkened soul?"
Irina moves closer to her daughter. She slowly places her hand on Sydney's arm. "What do you want?" she asks. "What do you need?"
Vessandra shakes her head. "We all want different things–memories and former lives, oblivion and numbness. To get the objective and take down the enemy. To die alone."
"What is wrong?" Irina asks. Sark watches from behind her.
Shouts echo in Vessandra's skull. "Vaughn is married and I don't remember that last two years of my life. Will is gone and Francie's dead. Marshall's having a kid and Dixon's in charge. There is a girl named Julia in my head who likes to kill people and can't get rid of the cold. Agent Bristow is colorblind, and the vessel for it all is shattered and empty."
Tears form as she speaks. They trickle down her face and it all starts to fall apart. Her mother–Laura, Irina, the mother, the Man, wife, terrorist, loyal young girl, and heartbroken woman–hugs her. She cries for Vaughn, for what they almost had, for the grief he went through, for his lack of faith. She cries for her friends, for Francie's long dead soul, and Will's much changed life. She cries for the mother she never had, the father who was never there. She cries for the betrayals she's suffered, and those she's betrayed. She cries for Julia, for Agent Bristow. She cries for Sydney.
The strong divisions between the pieces of herself slowly melt away. Shards of various people, of various identities, coalesce into a singular entity–Sydney. The body, the agent, and the assassin merely become facets of an incredible and diverse woman.
Awhile later, Sydney walks out of that room whole.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~