Disclaimer: J.J. Abrams, ABC, and Bad Robot own everything.

A/N: If you squint and tilt your head to the left at a 45°, it looks like it could possibly be a Sarkney. Possibly, but I make no guarantees.

888888888888888888888888888888888

He was sixteen when he officially changed his name. He'd been training under Irina Derevko, a.k.a. "The Man" for almost two years, and she'd been inquiring about it for that amount of time. It had taken him a years worth of research, but he finally came up with the perfect name.

"Sark," he told her. "My name is Sark."

She laughed at that.

"It's really not that funny," he said dryly, irritated at her obvious mocking of his careful decision making.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What have I always taught you? One of the first lessons you learned?"

He sighed. "Everything you need to know about a person is in their name. A good name will have you revered, but a bad name will get you killed."

Irina studied him for a minute, running her forefinger over her bottom lip. "So you decided to name yourself after a woman's dress?"

"No," he replied, struggling to keep his cool. "As in sarky."

Something flashed in her eyes, something that looked as if she was impressed, but he quickly dismissed it. "Julian Sark," she mused, tapping a finger nail against her lips. "Julian Sark." She rolled the name around in her mouth, stressing different syllables. "Julian Sark. It just rolls off the tongue. I like it."

"Just Sark," he said.

Her eyes connected with his. "Just Sark?"

"Just Sark," he confirmed.

"Well, Mr. Sark, I guess we should be trying that new name out on a mission." She breezed past him, but paused in the doorway. "Don't betray me."

888888888888888888888888888888888

He only told one other person his true identity. It was during his last meal. Sydney Bristow sat across from him. It was his request that she joined him, and nobody could refuse a dying man his last request.

After he finished eating, he stood up and took Sydney's hand into his. She tried to pull it away, but he held on firm.

"Goodbye, Sydney Bristow. I bid you adieu. I wished we could have worked together in this life, but I guess we'll have to wait for the next."

With that, he brushed his lips over her knuckles, then dropped her hand and turned around to look at the wall.

"Julian." He turned back around to face her at the sound of her voice calling him. "I hope you find peace."

He smirked. "I'm sure I will, Agent Bristow. I've always been an optimist."

"I can see why you named yourself after 'sarky.'"

"I've never had problems giving myself credit where credit is due." He smirked at her again. "It's a gift."

Sydney smiled. "Goodbye, Julian Sark."

888888888888888888888888888888888

Sydney didn't sleep that night. She didn't bother to stay for the execution. While he had been in CIA custody, she'd gotten to know him. While she didn't exactly forgive him for everything he'd done to her, her family, or her friends, she still didn't support the death penalty.

The next day she learned that Sark had made a plea bargin with the judge at the last minute. His life was spared, but he was given life in prison and had to help the CIA with anything they requested his expertise on.

She visited him, but for once he didn't have much to say to her. What he did say related to the story he'd told her the night before:

"Sydney. I've always admired that name. Such a strong name. Sydney. Everything you need to know about a person is in their name." He smirked. "You're named after a city, and I'm named after women's clothing."

-End-