Option 6: Suicide

Disclaimer: Any forms of torture found here better not show up on Alias, but I can hardly stop them from using their characters…

A/N: Thanks for all the suggestions, ya'll! I personally don't like this option, but it makes a good Kill Lauren fic! And I think the descriptions here are satisfyingly graphic…

Vaughn walked through the familiar apartment in a daze. There wasn't a single thing out of place that he could see in the living room or kitchen. The stack of magazines on the coffee table was undisturbed. A coffee mug someone had forgotten that morning sat on the counter. A pair of sandals Lauren had kicked off sat at the end of the couch.

But cops and CIA and NSC agents swarmed the rooms. What had been a cozy apartment a few hours earlier now seemed cold and distant, and achingly unfamiliar.

A neighbor had made the call. Vaughn didn't care which neighbor. They'd heard a scream. At least he hadn't come home to find her.

He stopped in the doorway of the second bedroom Lauren had used as an office. The distance with which he viewed the scene scared him.

Lauren's body still lay crumpled on the floor. Her pale gray suit was stained crimson with her blood. There were puddles of still sticky blood on the carpet. The beige couch had red smears and it and two distinct handprints on it, as if Lauren had stumbled and clutched at it to get her balance. The knife lay across her sticky outstretched palm, her fingers no longer grasping it.

Vaughn forced himself to look at her face; a face he now knew had been a mask, hiding her true intentions. Her eyes were still slightly open, and her pupils were glazed and unfocused. Her lips, with a drop of blood clinging to the corner, were parted slightly and already tinged with blue. Her cheeks were so pale they were almost white, resembling a cheap fabric more than human flesh.

After several long moments, Vaughn shook his head and forced himself to turn away from the gruesomely transfixing scene. And nearly walked right into Sydney.

"I'm sorry, Vaughn," she said quietly. "You don't deserve this."

Vaughn opened his mouth, but discovered he couldn't form words, nor could he cover the distance that seemed to have formed between him and all other life forms.

"Vaughn?" Sydney reached up and touched his cheek. "Vaughn, you're scaring me."

Vaughn blinked.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I just can't…did you see…do you think she really…?"

Sydney gave him a small comforting smile.

"I did see her. And I saw you. You didn't have to go in there, Vaughn. Dixon should have kept you out," she scolded lightly.

"I needed to see. Otherwise…I couldn't believe she committed suicide," Vaughn said, his voice wavering slightly. His eyes met Sydney's full on for the first time. "Just like I can't believe what Dixon said was in that note until I see it myself." He looked at her as if he expected her to argue.

"Of course," she said softly.

She had seen the look of initial fury on Vaughn's face before he'd closed himself off when Dixon had told the task force what Lauren's suicide note said. He had a right to feel that way, as long as he faced the truth when he looked at it.

Dixon was walking up with a paper in his hand. A photocopy of the suicide note, Sydney knew. The police had taken the original, and Dixon had let them.

He handed Vaughn the paper, and he took it silently. His face barely changed as he read it, but Sydney saw the change in his eyes; he was letting go with every word he took in.

Michael, the note said. I know I've mad your life difficult. But I'm the mole. I'm Covenant. I used to think their cause was worth using any means to obtain it. You were part of that at first. But it changed. Somewhere along the way, the Covenant's cause lost its luster. I couldn't get out, even if I'd tried. They'd never have let me. The things I've done, when compounded, have begun to scare me. I stopped at nothing. I don't know what I might have done, or who I might have killed. May be even you, Michael. I've taken care of your biggest problem for you, much as you probably would have done had you known. Once the CIA found out, someone would have done this anyway.

The bitter not had been left unsigned, and even on the photocopy it could be seen where the corner had soaked in its writer's blood.

Ah, perfectly painful, don't you think? She kills herself, and it's so painful that she screams out. And she held onto the knife even as she died. Blood everywhere. Now that was a nice way for her to die!