Disclaimer:  J.J. is God…'nuff said.

Timeline:  I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled.

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Author's Note:  Sorry for the delay—I'm in the process of moving, and every time I've attempted to sit down and write something, my mom's shoved a box in my hands and told me to go pack.  That being said, I'm not sure if this is the most interesting chapter—it's a lot of exposition (especially on Sydney's end), but I promise there'll be more action next chapter. 

Thanks to Cazzie, Radgrad63, Jenny, Lady Prongs of Rohan, Ann, aliasfan, your song, ms vaughn, Rach5, kqzl4312, me, TheUptownGirl, ProvidenceSea, Natalie, Ruby, Nicole, alias4ever, and Roonie for the great reviews.  (Roonie—I love your story and think it's brilliant.  I hope you give us just one more chapter!)

As always, reviews (including constructive criticism) are greatly appreciated.  (So please review).

Chapter 2

Vaughn.

"I've got a present for you, love.  You'll be quite pleased—I got Bristow."

I stop breathing, not knowing how to respond to the cold British accent on the other line that I despise only too well. 

I'm a field agent—I'm trained to keep a level head in stressful situations and react calmly to even the most bizarre information.  But I freeze completely at hearing Sark's voice addressing my wife's phone as "love".

When I was finally able to re-attach my head to my body, I had enough sense to hang up the phone.  Sark would not be happy to realize that it wasn't Lauren ("love"—my brain unhappily mocks) on the phone, and I don't particularly want to wait around to hear him draw these particular conclusions.

My second reaction is as to what he had said—"I got Bristow." 

Bristow—That means Sydney.  He has Sydney.  HE has Sydney!  My mind repeats this mantra over and over again like a broken record.  I stand there for about 5 minutes, engulfed by a strange numbness that slows my brain and freezes my joints.

*Ring*


I'm finally (thankfully) jolted out of my shocked one-tracked thought cycle by the phone—the house phone, not her cell phone—and my body explodes into action.  I run to the phone, picking it up by the second ring without waiting to glance at the caller-ID.

"Hey Mike.  What're you doing tonight?  The Kings are on—I thought we could head over to Joey's, grab a slice of—"

"She's the mole."  I cut Weiss off abruptly, feeling the need to get the truth which has been burning into my stomach out—to make it real, to do something about it. 

"What…what are you talking about?"

I slap my forehead, thinking about the error I've just made.  If Lauren is the mole (If?  She is the mole, you idiot!) she'll most likely have the house line tapped, which means…

"Umm…"  I struggle for the words to rectify the situation—"Uhh, I think the new girl at the Ops Center—you know, Dixon's new secretary, might be the mole.  Look, um, hockey sounds great—right now.  I'll come over to your place."  It's a spectacularly poor excuse for a cover, and I don't really expect that it'll fool them for long—but I do hope that it will fool them for a bit.  With that I hang up the phone, and two minutes later I'm speeding down the road to Weiss's apartment.

*~*~*~*~*

Sydney

I wake to a dim buzzing noise and wonder vaguely where I am.  My head and body are throbbing, and, all too quickly, I remember where I am and in what context—actually—my mind counters—you have no idea where  you are… you could be anywhere—you don't even know which country (not to mention which continent) you're in!  You could be in bloody Antarctica for all you know!  With that, my breathing quickens, and my eyes dart frantically from side to side. 

Calm down!

 The field agent in me has gained control over the lost little girl hysteria, and I struggle to regain control of my body.  Hyperventilating, at this point, could be extremely dangerous, especially with the amount of blood I've lost.

Focus Sydney.  I can't even remember how I got here!  I squeeze my eyes shut, wading through jumbled memories, trying to figure out how I got here. 

Vaughn's face is the first thing that swims into my mind's eye, and I can't help but smile at the thought of him.  In this memory, however, he's angry—Sydney, you don't understand.  I know my wife.  My mind is flooded with memories of our fiery conversation regarding Lauren, and I feel a twinge of regret at having left things the way I did.  In retrospect, I'm not sure I should have just flat out told him that I believed his wife to be a traitor to the United States.  Last year—make that three years ago—when Mitchell Yager told me of his suspicions of Vaughn being a double agent, I hardly just sat around and listened to what he had to say.  The fact is that I acted extremely defensive whenever Vaughn or even Noah's loyalties were called into question.  I can hardly expect him to respond any differently.

At the same time—especially knowing that my suspicions were correct—I can't help but like the way I threw the accusation on him.  We've always been close—had this intense, personal bond that few other people ever understood, and had the ability to tell each other just about everything. 

Ever since I came back, however, interaction between us had been tense, wooden, and excruciatingly *polite* (with a few exceptions).  We've been careful not to trip over each other's feelings, knowing that doing so would be detrimental to both of us.  We've been careful "friends"—a bit more than acquaintances, though not by much.  And it's the oddest, most unnatural thing in the world.

Don't get me wrong.  Friends are great.  Amazing.  Wonderful.  Crucial.  But Vaughn and I, even from those early days at the warehouse, were never really friends.  There was always something between us—an unspoken but restrained feeling that burst free the second we took SD-6 down.  Now, even that seems faded, flowing into the gray and boring mold of our "friendship".

That being said, yelling at him—having *him* yell at me—was an almost welcome change.  It echoed some of the intensity of the past, when we didn't have to tiptoe around each other's feelings or think about the significance of each response to each other.  When we didn't have to ignore the elephant in the room.

Concentrate, Sydney!  Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, the word's of the Dr. Brazzel's eccentric student surface—"I was in a tangent once."   And that's exactly where I am—in a tangent.  Tracing the twisted progression of your relationship with Vaughn is not going to help you remember how you got here.  With a sigh, I push the memory of my harsh exchange with Vaughn aside, and attempt to remember what I did after that. 

My brain becomes mechanical in shifting through my memories.  I can't afford to get caught up again.  I called Weiss.  I told him that I'd seen Lauren in a club, trying to get access to Cypher.  I told him of my suspicions.  I started crying.  I told him of my exchange with Vaughn.  I went home and…here my memory becomes fuzzy and blurred, as if I'm looking at it through distorted glass. I went home and curled up on the couch.  I got up to get a drink and as I did—with that, my memory is cut off. 

"Must have been a tranq dart."  I mutter to myself.  Not that this helps me at all—I still have no clue where I am, and worse yet, the memory recall has left me exhausted.  Though I struggle to stay conscious, the black edges that have been threatening to take over my vision finally overcome me, and I drift off in sea of memories.

*~*~*~*~*

Vaughn.

"What's up Mike?"  Weiss's eyes are questioning as he opens the door to his apartment. 

I inhale deeply before responding, "Lauren's the mole, and—"

He looks around, as though looking for someone who's listening to our conversation.  Apparently finding no one, his eyes turn back to mine.   "Did Sydney say something to you?"

He's reacted very calmly to the piece of information I've just given him—information which left me dumbly staring at my apartment wall for ten minutes.  Was it really that obvious?  Where you really that blind?

"What do you mean, did Syd say something?  Did you know about this?  Did she talk to you first?  Or did you suspect first?"  I know I'm wasting valuable time on trivial questions, but at this point, I don't seem to care.  I've spent the last year in a wasted relationship when I could have been with Syd—

Weiss starts to answer but I cut him off.  "Never mind, it doesn't matter.  Weiss—they have Sydney.  Sark has Sydney."

*~*~*~*~*

Sydney.

I must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing I know, there are people in my room—six large burly men, and someone far too petite to be a guard.  Lauren. 

"Patimee eeyo, peastreya!"*  She says, looking at the guards and pointing a finger in my direction.  Russian, my brain dumbly notes, slow to come to full alertness.  I must be in Russia.  Or a Russian speaking country.

Before my brain fully registers what's happening, I'm being dragged off, a thick trail of blood staining the ground beneath me. 

TBC

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

*Thanks go out to my boyfriend, who helped me with the Russian/English translations.  Sorry if I butchered the spelling ;-)

AN:  Sorry if I bored you to tears with this chap—again, I promise some excitement is on the way for the next one.  *Turning on broken record*--Please, please, please review.  Don't make me beg.  (Actually, I'm pretty sure that I'm already begging.)


Thanks for reading,

~Terin:-)