Sins of the Father

by hoopyfroodcat

Sydney has gone undercover to learn the secrets of her past while Sloane and Nadia search for The Sphere.

Sins of the Father

by hoopyfroodcat

LOS ANGELES

Disappointment had been the last look he had seen on her face. Disappointment, mixed with confusion and contempt. Then she had run out the door, leaving an empty safety deposit box on the table and too many words unsaid. Jack hadn't chased her down – she needed her space, he told himself. She would come to her senses in a few days, and then they could talk.

Five months later, after her second disappearance and another fruitless investigation in an attempt to track her down, the look on Sydney Bristow's face was joy. Pure joy, and satisfaction. But something was wrong.

Vaughn was the first to say it.

"Sydney hates poodles," he insisted. The blank stares greeting his statement encouraged him to elaborate. "We discussed getting a dog once – back three years ago – and she made it clear that poodles were out of the question."

"You know what they say about absence," came the obligatory snide British retort from the corner of the table. "Perhaps she named it after you, Mr. Vaughn."

"Jack, back me up on this," Vaughn asked, exasperated.

"Sydney hates poodles," Jack parroted.

The CIA briefing room was tense on more than one level. No contact had been made with Sydney since that day in the bank vault, and despite repeated questioning, Jack feigned ignorance at her reasons for going rogue. Each member around the table had his own suspicions – some more valid than others – but none were more bewildered than one Julian Sark, a man who had on more than one occasion made it his personal mission to devastate the lives of the very agents who now held him in custody.

"I appreciate this elucidating look into Sydney's canine tastes, but come on, people!" Dixon snapped, massaging the veins in his temple from both lack of sleep and patience. "This is a planning session. What does this photograph tell us about where Sydney is, and where she has been for the past five months? Talk to me. I want theories."

Sark piped up again, clearing his throat to indicate that this contribution to the conversation would be dripping with less acerbic wit than usual.

"Although I am grateful for this temporary respite from my confines, I'm not entirely certain why my presence is required at this time," he said.

Dixon stood and slid the photograph down the table towards Sark, who raised a guardedly curious eyebrow as he took it into his cuffed hands. Weiss craned his neck back a few inches to gaze at the photo over Sark's shoulder before the prisoner maneuvered it out of the agent's field of vision.

"Do you mind?" Sark chided. "I'm hardly going to run off with it, seeing as how I remain cuffed to the leg of this table. You'll get your turn."

Sark turned back to analyzing the picture. In grainy black and white, it depicted a woman who was clearly Sydney Bristow – sporting a different haircut and clothing fashion than the last time he'd seen her, but that was hardly new – kneeling on a patch of lawn and smiling as she wrestled a plastic bone from a dog which, indeed, happened to be a poodle. The edge of a building could be seen in the top right corner, and the left and bottom edges were framed by a tree and a black metal gate, respectively.

Sark looked up from the photo, glancing around the table. The other men in attendance – Dixon, Bristow, Vaughn, Weiss and Flinkman – looked back, as if he were missing something.

"I remain perplexed," he said.

"Turn it over," Dixon instructed.

As he followed the terse order, his eyes found a four-letter word written neatly in red ink on the back of the glossy paper. His lips mouthed the name. "Sark."

"It's-- it's not Sydney's handwriting," Marshall stammered. "We have people analyzing it against our files as we speak, of course, but I ruled out Sydney right away-- because, um, Sydney, she sends me these Christmas cards every year, and I save them because, uh, well-- I don't usually get that many – except from my mom. She always sends two, in case one gets lost in the mail--"

"Thank you, Marshall," Dixon interrupted. "Mr. Sark, why is your name written on the back of a photograph of an agent we haven't seen in months?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, Director Dixon," Sark said with a sneer. "Perhaps some generous soul thought my cell was getting a tad lonely."

"That's enough," Vaughn exploded, putting both palms on the table and half-standing to face Sark. "Can you tell us anything about this photograph, or should we just stick you back in confinement and get this charade over with?"

"That will not be necessary," Sark said, once more brusque and businesslike. "I can both identify the handwriting and the location in the photograph. No need for thanks."

"Wonderful," Dixon muttered.

"However," Sark interjected, "I have no intention of just giving this information to you without some form of compensation."

All eyes in the room rolled heavenward.

"Let me make one thing very clear to you, Mr. Sark," Dixon scoffed. "You are in custody of the United States government, which has graciously allowed you to live this long in the understanding that you will provide us with information whenever we come calling. Refuse to cooperate, and I promise you will find that grace to be in short supply. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," Sark responded. "However, I would suggest you consider my offer before making any rash decisions. I will identify the premises in the picture – which it may interest you to learn that I am intimately acquainted with – as well as the handwriting on the photo, if you allow me to accompany you on this mission to reacquire Agent Bristow."

"Absolutely not," Dixon snapped. "End of discussion."

"Perhaps…we should hear him out," Jack said.

The table's attention visibly shifted, surprised at Jack's first real contribution to the discussion. A few seconds went by as they waited for him to continue, but they were greeted only with stubborn silence, an almost imperceptible raise of eyebrows, and a grim jaw line. Dixon sighed and sat back down, folding his hands and staring expectantly at Sark, disarmed for the moment.

"I hesitate to divulge the location of this photo without the assurance that I will be allowed to attend this expedition," he began. "However, I understand that given our history, you may be disinclined to grant me any favors. Therefore, let me begin by informing you that the handwriting belongs to Irina Derevko."

There was an immediate shift in attitude around the table. Not only was Derevko in the upper half of the CIA's Most Wanted List, almost every member of the team had some personal score to settle with the woman. Only Jack, who more than anyone had reason to be interested in Derevko, seemed unaffected by the news.

"Knowing her, this is most likely a ploy to free me from my bondage," Sark said.

"All the better reason to keep you under lock and key," Dixon growled.

"Clearly," Sark canted his head, closing his eyes briefly as he moved on to his next point. "However, Agent Bristow is undoubtedly a part of Derevko's endgame even more so than I. With that in mind, it is worth considering that if you show up without me, Derevko may make her move on Ms. Bristow, and you will lose them both."

Dixon shook his head. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

"You will lose them," Sark said. "This I can guarantee."

"I know this sounds absolutely insane," Vaughn cut in, "but maybe we should use him. Derevko has been giving us the slip for years – she's practically made it her own private practice. It wouldn't hurt to have one of her own working against her – we can use him as bait to draw her out."

Sark gave Vaughn a nod of gratitude, which earned him a look of mild disgust.

"And if he betrays us, we can shoot him," Vaughn finished. "Simple as that."

"All right," Dixon conceded. "Sark will join us. But I want it understood that he is to be accompanied at all times by at least one agent. Marshall, I want a tracking device implanted in him, as well."

"Yessir," Marshall nodded.

"So where is this mystery dog walk, anyway?" Weiss asked.

"This 'dog walk,' as you call it," Sark said, "Is my front lawn."

"Jack," Dixon barked as the meeting adjourned, the members slowly filing back to their respective desks – and, in Sark's case, cell. "Let's talk."

Jack remained standing dutifully behind his chair until the room cleared, leaving he and Dixon in private.

"You didn't have much to say during the briefing," Dixon began. He paused expectantly, but was greeted only by the steely gaze he had come to know so well over the past five months. Jack Bristow had always been a man of privacy, but since his daughter's disappearance, secrecy had become something of an obsession. His reports had become concise to the point of austerity, and he'd taken more personal leave time than ever before in his career. If he knew Jack Bristow – and after all the years, Dixon was fairly certain he did – the man was searching for Sydney in his own ways. And after all that had happened in Bristow's life, Dixon figured he owed the man that much at least.

Dixon sighed. "Jack, this is the first lead we've had on Sydney since her disappearance, and you're taking it like I just announced there's a fresh pot of coffee in the break room. What's going on?"

Jack jutted his jaw out. "Marcus, I appreciate your concern, if that's what this is. But rest assured that I can balance my personal and professional duties without assistance."

"I wish I could share your confidence, Jack," Dixon said. "And as your friend, I realize that these are very complicated and convoluted circumstances for you. But as director of this operation, I have to take into account that you have a history of putting Sydney before all other priorities."

"Director Dixon," Jack quietly snarled, lip curled upwards, "You of all people should understand how far a father will go for his children."

"Touché, Jack," Dixon breathed. "You know there's no way I will stop you from going on this mission. I just want to make sure that I can count on you. We don't know what to expect. Sydney could be brainwashed again, or worse – she could be consciously working against the agency."

Dixon raised a hand to stop Jack's inevitable objection. "I know that sounds ridiculous, but we have to account for every possibility. And if it comes to the point where it's clear that Sydney won't come peaceably, I need to know that I can count on you to do your duty. I promise that if it comes to that, she will not be harmed. But I don't need to lecture you on the dangers of an agent going rogue, whether she's hostile toward the CIA or not."

"Understood," Jack said, with a tone of voice that indicated layers beyond just the one word. "I need to prepare – unless there's something more?"

Dixon shook his head in dismissal, then thought better of it as Jack turned to leave.

"Just one thing," he said. "What made Sydney run off in the first place, Jack?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Jack responded. Both of the men knew it was a lie.

Dixon watched the older man's back as he stiffly exited the briefing room, and discernibly felt the room temperature rise.

LONDON

The limo ride was tense for both parties. After all, it wasn't often he shared a backseat with a man he had come close to killing countless times.

Vaughn glanced edgewise at Sark, who happened to be doing the exact same thing. The two men shifted their gaze towards their respective windows with pensive masks, watching the quaintly claustrophobic streets and alleys of London drift lazily past. Weiss, who was driving, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, the most concrete display of the unease all were feeling.

"I can't really say I thought I'd see the day when I'd be meeting your parents," Vaughn said, breaking the silence.

"Foster parents," Sark elaborated. "They raised me until my teenage years, being unable to produce children of their own. This was all covered in the briefing."

"Then I suppose I won't have to remind you that we're here to gather information about Sydney – to observe your foster parents and find out what relationship they may have with her," Vaughn said. "This isn't the time to reminisce about lost years."

"And yet you persist in reminding me, regardless," Sark said with a roll of his eyes.

"We're almost there," Weiss said, preventing Vaughn from returning Sark's serve with a witty retort of his own. "I'll be keeping tabs on you from the limo, and Jack will be monitoring us all from the safe house. Be careful, Vaughn."

"I will try to contain my disappointment at your lack of concern for my well-being," Sark said.

"Burn in hell, Sark," Weiss sniped back.

The vehicle pulled under the arch of a rather grand gate and into a small brick drive in front of the Sark mansion. Vaughn was briefly surprised at seeing the gate's iron "S"; he'd always operated under the assumption that Sark's surname was a pseudonym. It sounded too conveniently like a James Bond villain to belong to any real person, but there it was, carved into the arch – which, Vaughn had to admit, was vaguely reminiscent of a Bond villain's estate, as well.

Sark cleared his throat. "Before we go in, I don't suppose you'd reconsider allowing me to have a weapon?"

"Sark, we're not infiltrating a military installation," Vaughn said. "We're visiting your foster parents."

"Precisely," Sark muttered.

As the two men stepped out of the limo, each was greeted by a different view of the same yard. To Vaughn, it was just an obviously well-kept upper-class mansion – he recognized the tree and the gate from the picture, and his eyes darted around as if expecting Sydney to step out of the bushes and shout "Boo!" For Sark, the experience was uncharacteristically unnerving – his vision was clouded by retrospect, which left far too many shadows in sight.

He walked crisply up the front steps to the red double-doors and placed a hand on the gold-colored knocker. Hesitating for the briefest of seconds to glance sidelong at Vaughn, he lifted the knocker with pursed lips and brought it down in a series of quick raps. After a few seconds waiting, the door slid open with an expectant sigh.

"Julian?" came a reasonably shocked female voice. There was a slight pause, then the voice recomposed itself and exclaimed delightedly, "Julian!"

"Mother," he answered, with a forced warmth that nevertheless surprised Vaughn in its strong attempt at sincerity.

Sark's "mother" was a short, thin woman dressed in a pinkish business suit. As she leaned forward to embrace her adopted son, blonde hair brushing against the top of her shoulders, Vaughn found it hard to believe that this bubbly woman was responsible for raising one of the most deadly threats to world peace of the past thirty years.

"And who is your friend, Julian?" she asked, turning towards Vaughn with a smile that spoke of homemade cookies and hot tea on rainy days.

"Mother, this is my…partner, Michael," Sark said. He and Vaughn locked eyes – Sark's holding a mischievous glimmer, Vaughn's narrowed in exasperation. He recomposed his demeanor quickly, returning the woman's beaming grin.

"Mrs. Sark," he said. "It's good to meet you."

"A Yank!" she chirped, not skipping a beat at her son's apparent coming-out – in fact, she seemed almost too composed. Vaughn wondered if this ground had been covered sometime in the past. "It's lovely to meet you, of course. Come in, come in!"

The two men stepped into the mansion, immediately entering a main room with a fireplace and lounge area on one side and a grand staircase immediately before them, leading to the bedrooms. A hall just barely visible below the stair led to the various wings. Sark's mother took their coats and placed them on an ornate coat rack, leading them towards the bar.

"Something to drink for either of you?" she offered, picking up a lime slice to top off a gin and tonic she had been preparing before answering the door.

"I'm fine, thanks," Vaughn declined. Before Sark had a chance to respond, a sour-sounding voice wafted down from the upstairs banister.

"Who is it, darling?"

"Father," Sark murmured to himself, head upraised towards a staunch man with contemptuous eyes who was making his way methodically down the staircase. His short, graying hair curved around an angular face, with eyebrows you could open envelopes with and a small, wry mouth shaped by years of curled lips.

"Julian," the man said with a sneer that Vaughn found all too familiar. "What are you doing here?" The man paused at the foot of the stairs, his eyes darting over Vaughn. "And who is he?"

"Alan, this is Michael," Sark's mother said. "He and Julian are partners."

A crease manifested between the man's eyebrows, and Vaughn noticed that Sark seemed to take particular joy in its appearance. It was the type of crease that came less from worry and more from the constant desire to be in control.

"I see," Alan said, condemningly. Despite himself, Vaughn felt offended. With a calmness that was so practiced it felt condescending, the man continued. "Meredith, could you please enlighten me as to exactly what the hell is going on?"

"She wasn't expecting us, Father," Sark interjected. Meredith took a sip and resigned herself to watch the brewing storm. "Michael and I are in town on a business trip. Since I so rarely am given an opportunity to visit, we thought we'd drop by for a few days."

"No doubt you'll be occupying the guest room," Alan said with an almost accusatory tone.

"You're too kind," Sark responded sardonically, declining his head a fraction of an inch.

"Yes," Alan said. "An oversight in your youth – I now see the error of my ways."

"You must have luggage," Meredith broke in like a summer breeze in January. "I'll send someone to bring it in. Why don't you two come upstairs and make certain the guest room will suit you?"

"Thank you, Mother," Sark said. "Father," he nodded in acknowledgement as he and Vaughn made their way up the stairs. Vaughn could feel Alan's brooding stare like an icicle down his back all the way to the top.

Halfway across the city, Jack was staring into the same pair of eyes, searching in vain for answers.

"The butler's coming out to pick up the luggage," Weiss crackled in his ear. "Looks like we're in."

"Good," Jack answered. "Do a sweep of the neighborhood and meet me back at the safe house when you're finished."

Weiss acknowledged the order and left Jack to his mulling, shuffling through the profile of the Sark family to determine why Sydney would choose them, of all couples, to investigate.

There was the obvious connection with Sark – one of the Russian's answers to Project Christmas. Trained from early youth by Irina, the boy was Sydney's equal in ability, if not morality. Perhaps Sydney sought Sark's foster parents in an attempt to contact her own mother?

The thought stung Jack deeper than he would have liked to admit. He knew Sydney had a right to feel hurt, even betrayed after reading the files. But to turn to her mother – a woman who had forsaken her family again and again in order to fulfill her agendas – was the ultimate slap in the face. He could be accused of being secretive, even to the point of hurting Sydney – but not once had he put his own interests ahead of her. In fact, it could be said that Jack Bristow's interests were inherently Sydney Bristow's. Nothing else came close.

A mental connection began to form, starting in the corner of his eye but getting lost on the way to his brain. He moved some papers aside and focused on the profile of Meredith Sark, willing the connection to form again. Nothing came. Sighing heavily, he massaged the bridge of his nose and glanced at the time display on his laptop monitor. Weiss would still be gone for another ten minutes, at the least. He stood and took a few steps to the coffee machine, pouring his third cup of the afternoon. He briefly brainstormed assignments to keep Weiss from returning – the man was a competent enough agent, but his incessant attempts at witty banter and inability to stay silent had the tendency to drive Jack up the wall. Unfortunately, no plausible possibilities came to mind.

Resigning himself to an afternoon of awkward silences after questions like "Hey, do you think this TV gets ESPN?" and feigned interest at the younger agent's attempts at sleight of hand, Jack stalked back to the desk and buried his thoughts in work.

"Partners?" Vaughn hissed as soon as they were alone for the night. The day had been an oddly exhausting exercise of small talk with Meredith as Alan and Sark had brooding contests. No mention of Sydney had been made, although Meredith had mentioned an acquaintance named Lucy who would be stopping by for tea the next afternoon.

"Do relax, Agent Vaughn," Sark said. "Your male virginity is safe for the time being."

"Partners wasn't the plan," Vaughn persisted.

"How else was I supposed to justify us sleeping in the same quarters?" Sark queried while unpacking a suitcase containing a few days' change of clothes. "Or had you forgotten your orders to stay with me at all times?"

Vaughn chewed his lip, unconvinced. "So, are you—"

"Of course not," Sark chided. His voice turned malicious as he continued. "Besides, even if I were, your wife was quite convincing enough to make anyone reconsider his sexual orientation."

"Sark," Vaughn growled in low tones, "Trust me, I will kill you in your parents' home."

"How is Miss Reed these days?" Sark continued, without regard for Vaughn's bristling temper. "I had rather hoped we'd be permitted to share a cell, but alas, the CIA's policy on conjugal visits for international terrorists is rather strict."

A victorious yet pained look from Vaughn answered the question before his words could. "Lauren is dead. Sydney and I killed her."

Sark's color drained, and a dark look crossed his face. "I see," he said.

A dangerous silence descended between the two men. Sark finished placing firmly ironed button-downs in a dresser drawer and sunk ceremoniously into the bed. Vaughn placed a few pairs of pants on hangers in the closet, then awkwardly lay on the bed next to Sark, keeping as far apart as possible.

"My God," Sark murmured. "Feather pillows. I had no idea how much I missed feather pillows."

"Did you love her?" Vaughn blurted out. "I mean, do you even feel love? Or would a weakness like that dull your killer instincts?"

Sark looked vaguely nonplussed. "I did feel a certain…affection for your wife, yes," he said softly. "I certainly admired her cunning. She possessed a mindset which I found to be refreshingly selfish…she was utterly self-contained, which is an intoxicating quality in a woman." He paused a moment, then turned his head to lock eyes with Vaughn. "Did you love her?"

"Of course," Vaughn shot back angrily.

"Really," Sark pressed, unconvinced.

Vaughn furrowed his brow. "Yes. Really. I think." He sighed and stared bullets into the ceiling, surprised at the flood of words that followed. "I thought I did, when I met her. But in retrospect, that all changes – I see the signs, now, that she was a double agent, and I kick myself for being so blinded by – love, or whatever it was – and I wonder if I only just wanted to love her, because I was tired of being lonely. Because I wanted Sydney to be there, but she wasn't." Vaughn caught himself, finally. "God-- why am I telling you this?"

"Because I'm here, Agent Vaughn," Sark replied.

"Yeah," Vaughn said. "Well, not for long."

"I beg your pardon?"

Vaughn stood, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket. "Get on the floor."

"But Michael," Sark quipped, "We never talk anymore."

"It's bad enough we have to share a room," Vaughn said as he cuffed Sark's hand to the bedstead. "There is no chance in hell I'm sharing a bed with you."

"I'm glad we had this discussion," Sark grumbled, clutching a coveted pillow under his head with his un-cuffed hand. The room went dark as Vaughn turned the lights out. Sark heard a slight rustling as Vaughn removed his shirt and shoes, then the springs of the mattress shifted above his head. Then, silence.

Vaughn woke in the middle of the night with a sore throat from the dry air. Stretching in the dark, he made his way to the adjoining bathroom and switched on the light, blinking and squinting as the light pierced through his after-sleep haze. Running the tap for a few seconds as his brain slowly regained its functions, he cupped his hands under the faucet and splashed the cool water on his face before forcing it down his heavy throat.

It wasn't until he failed to trip over Sark while getting back into bed that he noticed something was wrong.

Stopping only to shove a gun in the back of his pants and throw on a shirt, Vaughn dashed into the hallway. Running lightly over the hardwood floors, he skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs, searching his field of view for any sign of Sark. When the convict completely failed to appear, Vaughn raced down to the first floor, taking the stairs three at a time.

"What the hell are you doing?" came a nasal slur from the corner.

Vaughn snapped his head to the left to see Alan Sark pouring himself some vodka. "Where's Sark?" he snapped.

"I beg your pardon?" Alan said, in a tone which suggested that it was Vaughn who should be begging pardon.

"Julian," Vaughn said. "Have you seen him?"

Alan's eyes narrowed. "Downstairs," he said, indicating the direction with two fingers not occupied with holding his glass. "In the wine cellar."

"Thanks," Vaughn said, turning to follow the hallway.

"Tell me, Michael," Alan began before Vaughn could escape. "How did you and Julian meet?"

"We work in the same field," Vaughn said, impatiently.

"And what field would that be?" Alan countered in between sips, clearly enjoying putting the younger man on the spot.

"International relations," Vaughn replied.

"An interesting way to put it," Alan remarked. When it was apparent that Vaughn was clearly befuddled, he continued. "I do read the news. Did you expect me to be unaware that Julian is an internationally wanted terrorist?"

"So you know," Vaughn said neutrally, unsure of the direction the conversation was turning.

"Julian may not make a habit of writing," Alan sneered, "But I don't make a habit of being left in the dark."

Vaughn nodded. "Are you going to turn us in?"

Alan gulped the last of his drink down, setting the glass on a table. He kept his hand on the vessel, tracing the rim with his index finger. "Although Julian's deviant traits are a disappointment, to say the least, the fact remains that he is family." He looked back up at Vaughn, his eyes smoldering with a mixture of intoxication and derision. "Albeit in name, if not in blood."

"I'm sure Julian looks to you no differently than he would his real father," Vaughn said, feeling hopelessly out of his depth. The supreme irony was that he was certain his statement was quite close to the truth, considering Sark had once brutally tortured Andrian Lazarey, his father by blood.

"And what would you know?" Alan snarled in reply.

"Alan?" Meredith called out softly. Both men turned to see her standing at the foot of the stairs in an elegant dressing gown and soft pink slippers. Even with her makeup removed for the night and her hair slightly tousled, she was an attractive woman for her age. "Come to bed, Alan," she purred warmly. "Let Michael get his rest."

Alan gave Vaughn a withering stare as he walked past, muttering, "Wine cellar – third door on the right."

Vaughn saw Meredith take Alan's arm to lead him up the stairs, whispering something in his ear as they disappeared to the upper level. After they disappeared into the bedroom, Vaughn followed the hallway and took the third door, climbing down a circular stairwell set with large stones that gave him the eerie feeling of descending into a dungeon. He found himself faced with rows of wine bottles, neatly stacked and labeled.

He came upon Sark sitting at a wooden desk, wine glass in one hand, a near-empty bottle of 1982 Chateau Patreuse in the other.

"How the hell did you get free?" Vaughn asked without introduction.

"Mr. Vaughn," Sark greeted. "Are you a wine man?"

"You know, I don't know what you think this is," Vaughn began raving. "This may come as a shock, but we are on a mission here, and you are a prisoner of the United States of America – in case that slipped your mind."

"The intriguing thing about wine is its interactive quality," Sark continued, obviously lost in his own world. "It's one of the few pleasures that takes as much as it gives."

Vaughn looked at him blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you know that my father – Alan – would bring me down here as a child?" Sark began, unheeding of Vaughn's interrogations. "He would let me choose my favorite wine to drink, pour it for me himself. And after I finished the glass, he would beat me – just over there. He told me it was to teach me that no pleasure comes without pain."

"Listen, Sark," Vaughn said firmly, pulling the gun on Sark as a final straw. "I appreciate that you're in the middle of nostalgia hour, but if you don't stand up and follow me back to the room, I will shoot you. Any questions?"

Sark looked up, as if seeing Vaughn for the first time. "No, no questions," he said, not without a hint of bitterness.

Sark led the way back to the room, with Vaughn trailing a few feet behind. His head seemed to clear during the short walk – Vaughn noticed when the other man's shoulders lost their slump and regained the characteristic swagger.

"Here are your handcuffs," Sark said, pulling the restraints from his back pocket. "Perhaps you should consider attaching them to an immobile object next time."

"You lifted the bed?"

"Rolled it," Sark confirmed. "If you could hurry? I have a date with a mild hangover I'd rather not put off any longer."

A knock on the door the next afternoon heralded a flurry of motion from Meredith and a tense look shared between Sark and Vaughn. The mysterious "Lucy" was due for tea. Meredith had spent half the morning raving about the girl, but all Vaughn had managed to gather was she was "simply a darling" and "cute as a button." At first he'd been unable to understand Sark's loathing towards his mother in contrast to the stark cruelties of his father, but the woman's constant cheery bubble was beginning to wear on even him.

"Lucy, darling!" Meredith called out as she swung the door open wide. "Do come in! The tea's just ready."

Although Vaughn couldn't see over Meredith's shoulder from his seat in the lounge, a sharp bark and the scrabbling of claws on wood verified that it was indeed the woman from the picture. Or, at least, the dog.

"Michael! Michael, stay!" came a female voice, tinted with British but unmistakably Sydney's. Sark shot Vaughn a pleased look as the pooch came bounding for its namesake, snarling with a look of extreme displeasure.

"Lucy" stepped into view, bending slightly and clapping her hands to control the dog. Vaughn felt a rush at seeing her finally, but Sydney was under perfect control, smoothing her hands over her blue skirt as the dog ran quiet circles around her feet.

"I'm so terribly sorry," she said with an embarrassed smile towards Vaughn. "He can be such a naughty dog."

"It's no trouble," Sark slid in between the two with a smile. "Charmed to meet you, miss. I'm Julian, and this is my partner Michael."

"Oh my heavens!" Meredith tittered. "I'd forgotten; Michael, you and the dog share the same name!"

"What a coincidence," Vaughn laughed between gritted teeth. He grasped Sydney's hand and she gave it a firm shake, not even letting her palms betray her cool. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she said with a bright smile.

Alan sauntered into the room wearing a perturbed expression. "Oh," he said. "You."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sark," Sydney greeted cheerily.

Meredith bid them all to take seats around the tea table and filled their glasses from a steaming kettle. Alan picked lazily at a few triangles of bread and cucumber.

"Julian," Sydney said with a look of curious concentration, "You look so familiar. Where did you attend school?"

"Julian was privately taught," Alan interjected with a drawl. "At one of the most prestigious boys' schools in London. I doubt you met him there."

"Perhaps at University, then?" Sydney hinted.

"Yes, Julian, tell us about University," Alan taunted. A sullen silence descended as Sark took a long sip of his tea, holding eye contact with Alan until the last drop ran down his throat.

"Julian ran off after his schooling," Alan explained triumphantly. "We haven't seen him since the boy was nineteen."

"Oh," Sydney said, seemingly shocked. "I'm…sorry…"

Sark remained sipping his tea calmly. Vaughn felt out of place. If ever a more dysfunctional group of people had gathered he would be sorely surprised.

"There, there," Meredith began, her gentle voice easing the tension in the room. "Alan, let's not reopen old wounds. Lucy, where's that flat you have? Pevensie street?"

Vaughn could imagine the immediate rustle of maps and tapping of keys that just ensued back at base as Jack and Weiss undoubtedly raced each other to say "I got it," scrambling to find an apartment rented to anyone by the name Lucy on that street. Their mission was almost finished – easier than he'd expected. That is, if they managed to make it out of this conversation alive.

"Yes," Sydney replied. "It's really quite lovely."

"You know, Michael," Meredith said, "Michael is how we met Lucy."

"I'm sorry?" he asked, confused.

"My little puppy," Sydney elaborated, chuckling to herself at the memory. "I was walking him one day when he started barking and I lost hold of the leash. He ran right up the walk and into the house as they were walking out."

"Truly a serendipitous occasion," Alan said with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

The conversation carried on into the late afternoon, awkwardly, with Sark and Alan ending up at each other's necks more than once. Just when Sydney thought conversations with the Sarks couldn't become more harrowing, the black sheep foster child had to return home. She reflected that she still wasn't any closer to finding the information she was looking for, although Sark's appearance could possibly be the trigger she'd been waiting for.

Vaughn and Sark had both excused themselves at the same time as she, claiming to want to spend the rest of the day sightseeing. That's why she wasn't surprised when she opened the door to her flat. Of course, Weiss hadn't been exactly subtle, parking the limo across the street from her front door. But even if she hadn't been expecting company, Sydney wouldn't have betrayed herself with any reaction. She couldn't afford to be surprised anymore.

"You hate poodles," Vaughn began, eyebrows nestling into his forehead.

"I named it after you," she said curtly.

"You named it after me," he repeated in the same flummoxed tone as his previous statement.

"I remembered back when you wanted to get a dog," she said. "You kept mentioning that you'd always wanted a poodle when you were a kid. Is he dead?"

Vaughn looked down at the motionless form on the carpet. "No, just tranquilized. He wouldn't stop barking."

There was an awkward silence as Sydney put her keys on a table and hung up her coat. Sydney folded her arms and looked at Vaughn expectantly.

"You've been gone for five months--" Vaughn started.

"—Are you married yet?" Sydney shot back.

"Of course not."

"But you have a boyfriend." The edge of a smile crept across Sydney's lips before she quickly recomposed herself to a sterner exterior. Vaughn ignored the slip.

"Is that why you left?" he asked. "Because of Lauren? I thought we--"

"No, that's not why I left!" Sydney threw her arms up, exasperated. "Vaughn, there is no way you could have any clue why I left--"

"Then tell me," he pleaded.

"Vaughn," she hissed, "My father has known everything. I mean everything, all of it, from the start."

"What do you mean?" Vaughn said, crinkling his forehead as he attempted to decipher her words.

"Before I disappeared, I found a file. In it was documentation of my entire life. I knew my father had trained me as a child under Project Christmas – he told me it was for my own protection after my mother was revealed. What he didn't tell me was that it was to prepare me to fight Nadia. He knew about her birth, and that we were part of the prophecy together – and according to the prophecy, only one of us can survive."

"Why the Sark family, then?" Vaughn asked. "What do they have to do with this?"

"Their name showed up in the file," Sydney said. "I'm not sure why – they were included in a list of other names who were in some way connected to the prophecy. I'm still trying to figure out why."

Sydney paused a moment. "Vaughn, my entire life – from my recruitment at SD-6 to my missing two years – has been one gigantic experiment. I've been used by the CIA since the age of six. I've been their puppet as they try to fulfill the prophecies, just as Nadia is now Sloane's puppet." Sydney snorted bitterly. "Our two fathers, both puppet-masters."

Vaughn's face contorted in a mixture of sympathy and realization. Tears welled up in Sydney's eyes, and Vaughn rushed forward to embrace her.

"So you see why I can't trust the CIA anymore," Sydney wept. "They're using me, just like SD-6 was. I didn't disappear because of you, Vaughn. I love you; please know I do. I just have to do this on my own right now."

"I love you too, Sydney," Vaughn whispered as he nestled into her hair. "And I'm going to help you fight this however I can."

Sydney's body stiffened. "Are they listening to us?"

"No," Vaughn answered. "I shut the communicator off to give us privacy. We're safe."

"Good," Sydney said. "I do love you, Vaughn. And…I'm sorry."

With a puzzled look, Vaughn sunk to the ground, eyelids heavy. He poked absently at the tranquilizer dart in his arm before collapsing into a heap next to the dog.

Sydney brushed a few tears off her cheek and stepped quickly over to the window, peering through the slats to see Weiss standing casually outside the limo, staring in her general direction. She scanned the street for other agents, but no one looked suspicious.

Grabbing her keys and a gun, which she stuffed unceremoniously into a purse, she dashed out of the apartment and into the hall, making for the staircase. Rushing down the stairs, she reached the back entrance and pushed the door open a crack, glancing down the alleyway for suspicious lurkers. Seeing none, she took off down the alley without a backward glance.

Weiss heard a tapping on the limo's backseat window and turned to see Sark's face looking searchingly at him through the glass. With a sigh, Weiss walked around the vehicle and opened the door, sliding into the seat next to Sark.

"What is it?" Weiss asked.

"What's going on?"

Weiss rolled his eyes. "Sorry for failing to check in, Mr. Sark. Can I get you a coffee or something?"

"No, seriously," Sark returned. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Weiss sighed. "I'm not listening. I thought they might want a little, you know, privacy?"

Sark stared hard at the apartment building. "She's gone already."

"What?" Weiss asked, incredulous. "How can you tell?"

"Call him," Sark said.

"Excuse me?" Weiss said, exasperated. "Who exactly do you think you are?"

"Mr. Weiss, I am simply advising you in my area of expertise, which happens to be eluding you. If I were Sydney Bristow and I didn't want to be captured by the CIA, I would have made my move by now. The longer she waits, the more chance she has of being caught. The best maneuver is to catch you by surprise."

Weiss seemed unconvinced, but picked up the headset regardless. "Vaughn? Hello?" He glanced at Sark. "There's no answer."

Sark blinked and declined his head slightly, as if to say, "I told you so."

"Um…Jack?" Weiss called over the radio. "Something feels kinda fishy about this…I'm gonna head on in."

"Affirmative," Jack fizzed back.

Weiss locked Sark in and approached the front door, knocking cautiously before pulling it open and sticking his head inside. Confident that the coast was clear, Weiss closed the door behind him while drawing a gun from his belt. The air was flat and silent, making his every breath echo in the stairwell. He readjusted his tie before stealthily making his way to the bottom of the flight of stairs. Making sure his line of sight was clear, he edged sideways up the stairs with his back to the wall, feeling the coarse wood of the rail brush against his coat.

With patience he barely felt, he peeked around the corner of the third floor. Nothing. He waited a few heartbeats, listening for any sound, then coursed down the hall toward number 33.

Head against the door, Weiss knocked loudly, straining his ears for any movement on the other side. Hearing none, he backed up a few feet and kicked the door in, eyes darting around the newly accessed room for any potential threats.

"Shit," he breathed. He knelt down near the motionless form on the floor and pulled the tranquilizer dart out of its arm. "Vaughn, buddy, c'mon."

It was apparent Vaughn wasn't going to be moving anytime soon.

"Jack!" he shouted over the comlink as he ran down the hall and towards the back stairs. "Jack?" With no answer forthcoming, Weiss slammed through the back door and barreled down the alley, glancing every which way for a clue to Sydney's whereabouts.

Only a moment earlier, Jack's monitoring had been interrupted by a cell phone ring. Looking at the phone with an irritated expression, he let it ring one more time before picking it up.

"This is Jack," he stated.

"Jack," came a soft purr he knew too well. "You must warn your team – they and Sydney are in great danger."

"Irina," Jack said coldly. "What a surprise."

"Jack, there's no time to be stubborn," the voice on the other end urged him. "We're going to lose Sydney. You know I wouldn't mislead you when it comes to her."

"Considering your track record, I'm not so certain."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Irina responded, her voice suddenly chilly.

"How quickly the mind forgets," Jack said, the edge in his voice hard enough to bruise. "Let me refresh your memory. You sent me to Katya to help Sydney while Katya was actually working for The Covenant."

"Jack," Irina breathed, her tone grim. "I haven't contacted you for over a year."

There was a moment of silence as both their minds raced, then both came to the same conclusion. "Katya."

"Yes," Irina said. "It makes so much sense…"

"What," Jack bit, "makes so much sense?"

"Jack…there's something you should know. Alan Sark's wife is not named Meredith. Her name is Elena. Elena Derevko."

Jack shuffled quickly through a stack of files strewn messily across the desk and reached the photo of Meredith Sark. Narrowing his eyes, he envisioned her with darker hair and thirty years younger.

"Damn." He almost choked on the word.

"You must hurry—" Irina started, but Jack was already out the door.

Sark was watching the apartment pensively when the car window blew in.

Ducking for what cover he could get behind the car seat, he blinked rapidly, brushing broken glass from his face. The explosion had come from the front of the vehicle, and as he pushed himself up with his cuffed hands for a glimpse over the seat, he saw the door just barely hanging on its hinges. It swung open and clattered against the brick sidewalk as a head obscured by a black mask poked inside.

"Julian Sark?" a male voice asked.

"Yes?"

"Come with me," he barked, extending a gloved hand. Sark grabbed hold and was yanked roughly over the seat and out the door. The masked man unceremoniously shoved Sark in front and held a gun to the back of his head. "Don't try anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sark muttered as he was marched towards a black sedan, and locked again into another backseat – although this time he wasn't alone. Before he could get a look at his companion, however, he felt a prick in his arm and glanced down to see a syringe exiting his skin. His vision became blurry, and he slumped against the window, unconscious.

"Sydney!"

Sydney just barely heard Weiss' cry as she ran through the back alleys of London. That was why she was looking back when the car hit him.

As she turned to face Weiss, she saw him sprinting after her before his eyes grew wide and a black sedan hit him broadside, sending him flying. The vehicle screeched around the corner and menacingly stared her down. Without another backward glance, Sydney cut through an adjacent side alley and made her way back toward the main road. She could feel the car gaining on her. The engine revs sounded like snarling beasts at her back.

She reached the road, dashing right into traffic without slowing down. Cars blared their horns, and one started skidding to a stop just inches from her side. She collapsed into the impact, rolling up the vehicle's hood. Out of breath, she nevertheless clambered to her feet and leapt from the hood to the roof of another stopped car, ending finally back on the sidewalk. The black sedan idled motionless across the street, trapped by Sydney's impromptu traffic jam. Pedestrians stopped silently to gawk at the apparently insane girl who had just appeared out of nowhere; motorists shouted profanities as they slowly extricated their vehicles from the mangled traffic flow.

Before she had a chance to catch her breath, a masked man in all-black dashed out of the nearest shop and trained an assault weapon on her face. Instinctively, Sydney threw back her head and lashed out with her feet, impacting her assailant solidly in the neck. As he crumpled to the ground without once pulling the trigger, a thought occurred to Sydney.

They aren't trying to kill me, she thought. Good. I can use that.

She ran again, without any real sense of where she was running to. Her thoughts were jumbled – heavy on her mind was the knowledge that her cover had been blown on more than one front, not to mention the resurfacing feelings from seeing Vaughn again. Those she was able to compartmentalize away and save for future contemplation, assuming she made it out of this ambush and back to somewhere she'd have that luxury. That place was hard to imagine.

Her peripheral vision alerted her that she was being led on, slowly corralled by her enemies. She took a sharp left down a narrow stair, and glanced up to see one of her pursuers staring down from a footpath bridge that ran parallel to the street she had just exited. He hopped the protective ledge and landed crouched, knife in hand. Sydney rocked side-to-side on her heels, trying to feign him to one side or the other. As he lunged, she slid to one side and used his motion to carry him through, slamming his face into the brick wall at her side.

Two more men reached the top of the stair, and Sydney launched the limp body of her attacker towards them, entangling their feet as they ran downwards. Taking off again, Sydney could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She'd missed this.

Building after building flew past, and she could still hear footsteps on all sides. They were keeping their distance, now, but still funneling her in to some epicenter. She jostled an old lady carrying a bag of groceries, who gave her a dirty look and shouted something about youth these days over her shoulder – the least of Sydney's worries.

She had no turns left. She could see men running on both sides as she passed the gaps in between the buildings. Mind racing, she doubled back, ran a few meters, then burst through the first unlocked door she found.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkened room, which looked to be some sort of storage area. Boxes were piled to the ceiling, and a respectable blanket of dust covered everything in sight. Breathing heavily, Sydney made her way to the other end of the room, where a dirty window looked out into the alley.

None of the men were in sight.

She calmed herself, slowing her breathing with a meditation technique she'd learned so long ago she couldn't remember who had been her teacher. Maybe her father – as part of her training? The thought only made her want to breathe harder again.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, preempted by a hideously silenced scream. Shit, she thought. Shitshitshit. They're killing civilians to draw me out. She kept waiting, her eyes darting around for any sign of a trap outside until she heard the staccato report of another shot.

"Dammit!" she yelled, exiting through the front door and plowing over a man on a bike who crossed into her path. She stumbled for the next few steps, then turned a corner and stepped in something soft and slick.

That wasn't what stopped her. She'd witnessed death countless numbers of times, and its grim exterior held no more fear for her. Over the years, she'd come to realize that there were many worse things than death, some of which she'd experienced. She had become numb to mortal fear out of necessity – it practically came with the job description.

What stopped her was the rain of tranquilizer darts that pierced her neck, arm, leg and even her palm as she held her hand up to block the next volley. The flush of chemicals knocked her over and her eyes grew watery as she lay staring into the lifeless eyes of some innocent passerby. Blood and bone particles swam together against the concrete of the wall, swirling into a macabre mosaic in her eyes as the sedatives took hold. Her last feeling was that of being lifted, and then her brain sunk somewhere into her knees and she was lost.

Jack parked haphazardly and didn't even bother to knock as he burst into the Sark mansion, gun in hand. No one was present in the main room, and the house was disquietingly silent.

He cocked his head at footsteps from above. Rushing up the stairs, he caught Alan just as the man exited his bedroom.

"Hello, what the hell are you?" Alan snapped, seemingly unflustered by the appearance of a strange man in his house.

"Mr. Alan Sark?" Jack flashed his CIA badge at the man, who raised a cool eyebrow in response. "We need to talk."

"What is this all about?" he asked, characteristically unconcerned as he beckoned Jack into his room and out of the hall. "Has Julian found himself in a bit of trouble?"

"That would be an understatement," Jack began. "But I'm here because of your wife."

Alan gave him an unimpressed look that clearly said, "Do continue."

"The woman you know as Meredith Sark is actually Elena Derevko. She's an international criminal who is suspected of working with a terrorist group called The Covenant."

"Really," Alan transplanted syllables into the word until it became a short sentence. "And you expect me to believe this because…?"

"Frankly, I don't," Jack shot back impatiently. "And I don't care if you do or not. Right now, all I want is for you to tell me her whereabouts."

"Oh, Jack," Alan mocked, "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Jack didn't see where the gun came from, but he heard it – and felt it, as the bullet ripped through his stomach and threw him back against the wall. A searing pain spread up through his chest and into the back of his head. He swung his arm up to return fire, but Alan deftly plucked the gun from his hands before he could take a shot.

"I'll take that," the man smirked. "I must say, I'm a bit disappointed. I hadn't expected the legendary Jack Bristow to make such a gross underestimation."

Tucking both guns into his belt, Alan dropped to one knee and leaned in towards Jack, who managed to pull together an intimidating glare despite the paralyzing pain.

"Unfortunately I don't have time to stay and chat," Alan said, taking a fistful of Jack's hair in his hands. "I do hope you'll forgive me."

With a violent snap of his wrist, Alan sent Jack's head crashing into the wall. Standing briskly, he clapped his hands together with a sense of finality and left the room.

ITALY

High in the Italian Alps, a small village had been nestled out of sight of the world for centuries. Founded in the fifteenth century by a group of monks seeking solitude, it was home to only a garden and adjacent field that supplied the monks with food, and the monastery itself, which had been carved into the stone of the mountain with great skill and patience.

All that had changed over the past five months, when the rights to the land directly above the monastery had been purchased. Within a matter of weeks a small ski resort had sprung up, flourishing despite the rough trek up the mountain. If an astute observer had taken the time to dig a little deeper, they might have found that the purchaser of the property was none other than Omnifam, and that the visitors to the resort spent much of their time skiing patterns that allowed them strategic surveillance over the monastery.

Indeed, the monks who had spent centuries in isolation did not take to their new neighbors without some suspicion, and more than a little unease. But they had few options – and so they tolerated the intrusion, although for the first time in the order's history, they posted more than one guard at the door each night.

Tonight, those two guards were Gregor and Anton. The two sat on wooden slabs on either end of the thick wooden double doors, silently meditating. Anton, the younger of the two, was deep in a daydream of flying horses and dark creatures being slain by soldiers dressed all in white. He had come to the monastery an idealist, and the enforcement of Spartan conditions had done little to dissuade the fantastic meanderings of his mind. Gregor, by contrast, was deep in a meditative trance, relaxing his body after a hard day at the field while keeping him alert for any sound. He heard the scuffle first, but disregarded it as it came from inside the grounds rather than outside the door.

"I want you to know that I respect what you do," came a soft whisper in Gregor's ear a few seconds later. As his eyes snapped open, he gazed into the eyes of a man he'd never seen before, but immediately recognized. The look of self-righteous pity on Sloane's face made Anton's heart sink even as Sloane slipped a maliciously sharp knife into his chest.

"The Destroyer…" were Anton's dying words, coughed desperately toward Gregor, who stood and pulled a weapon from beneath his robes too late. Nadia, who had been standing next to him the entire time, chopped the gun out of his grasp and pushed the young monk against the wall, easily opening his throat with a blade of her own.

"And what of the oath of nonviolence?" Sloane asked sadly as he stared into the quivering eyes of the dying youngster. Nadia let the man drop to the floor, wiping her knife clean on his robes.

"Shall we, father?" she said, gripping the thick wooden slab that kept the doors from opening. Sloane aided her, and the two opened the door inwards to see a group of twenty armed men dressed in camouflage gear. The first of the team nodded to Sloane as they surged inwards, and within a moment the first gunshot was fired.

"Come, darling," Sloane said. "We haven't a second to waste."

The two rushed past the team and into the heart of the monastery, unnoticed due to the ensuing chaos and their counterfeit monk's robes. Scores of monks poured past them as they pushed deeper into the mountain, racing to hold off their attackers. With grim satisfaction, Sloane noticed the Rambaldi symbol tattooed on each of the monk's hands. He and Nadia traded a triumphant look, and continued to make their way inside.

At last they reached the sanctuary. They spread out, Nadia running her fingers along the edges of the ornately carved Stations of the Cross, Sloane rushing to the altar itself.

"I've found it," Nadia exclaimed after several moments of frenetically methodic searching. The switch was hidden in the Thirteenth Station. Nadia mouthed the words: I behold this scene at the foot of the cross. I contemplate touching, caressing his body. I remember all his hands have touched, all who have been blessed by his warm embrace. She lightly pressed the detailed carving of Jesus' hand, and turned as a rumbling sounded in the center of the room.

A circular stone dais emblazoned with the symbol of the crucifix had begun to sink into the ground. With a shared glance of triumph, Sloane and Nadia stepped onto the descending platform. The hairs on Sloane's arms stood up as he realized two small triangles of stone were also disappearing into the ground on either side of the circle.

When they reached the bottom, so far into the mountain that the battle raging above could just barely be discerned over the oppressive quiet of the stone, Nadia took the lead. She pressed forward with an urgent speed, robes swishing in the still air. After several hundred meters of nothing but torchlit passageway, the tunnel exploded outwards into a cavernous chamber with even more of a sacrosanct air than the sanctuary above.

"Rambaldi's temple," Sloane breathed.

They made their way along an upraised pathway towards the center of the room, heads bowed. Below them lay a perilous fall into a subterranean lake, eerily lit by no apparent means. The ceiling arched above them, covered in meticulous engravings in a language even Sloane was hesitant to identify – the cave from which the Rosetta Stone was hewn, he thought glibly to himself.

At the center of the room was a platform in the shape of the Eye of Rambaldi, on which was placed a cylindrical sarcophagus. Two of Rambaldi's followers stood guard over the room, and as Sloane and Nadia approached they raised their weapons. Strangers were not allowed in Rambaldi's temple, without exception.

Nadia was faster, lodging bullets in both men's brains before they could bring their weapons up to bear. The shot echoed for an eternity as the bodies crumpled and fell off the edge, staining the cerulean waters far below with a dark, expanding cloud of red.

Sloane was already heaving the cover off of the tomb-like container, reaching inside to pull out a glittering, golden sphere – a perfect sphere, radiating from within. Staring into the object, it resembled a tiny planet, with ever-swirling black clouds just barely discernable against the emanating light.

"So this is The Sphere," Nadia said.

"Rambaldi's ultimate creation," Sloane nodded, his voice drowning in pride. "At last."

In an instant, father and daughter whipped towards each other, faces cold, fingers locked around the steel of a trigger. Sloane laughed, a humorless rattle of air.

"Give me The Sphere," Nadia ordered.

"Nadia, would you really shoot your own father?" Sloane asked, as if shocked. "After all I've done for you?"

"After all you've done for me?" she mimicked. "After you injected me with chemicals, forcing me to reveal the location of this temple? After you've tortured and destroyed me?"

"I've made all this possible!" Sloane said. "Without me, you wouldn't be able to realize your full potential as The Passenger. You still won't, if you kill me now."

"We'll see about that," Nadia said, her eyes narrowing, her finger tightening on the trigger.

"Yes," Sloane responded. "We will. Because it will be very hard for you to activate The Sphere after my guards realize I'm dead."

There was a moment of festering silence, then Nadia's shoulders relaxed and she lowered the gun. Sloane did the same.

"I knew you'd see reason, my darling," he said in a loving tone that sent shivers down Nadia's back.

"Let's activate this and get it over with," she responded frigidly.

"Ah, yes," Sloane said. "Unfortunately, there is still one missing component."

"What?"

Sloane pursed his lips. "Your sister."

LONDON

Sydney awoke in a hazy blur of déjà vu, half-expecting to see the neon gleam of Hong Kong streets. The light jostling of her environment alerted her that she was in fact not in Hong Kong – where she was, however, remained to be seen.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," came the soft murmur of Sark's voice from behind her. She twisted around in the dim light to see him sitting against a metallic wall, legs outstretched, arms subtly supporting him against the shaking walls that surrounded them.

"Sark," Sydney spat. "You son of a bitch. I knew you had something to do with this." She would have lunged for the man's jugular, but her hands were restrained and she still had a splitting headache, not to mention the woozy aftereffects from the drugs.

"Relax, Agent Bristow," Sark said gently. "I'm just as much in the dark as you."

"No," Sydney laughed hollowly, settling back against the rattling wall. "I don't think that's possible."

"I can tell you we're in the back of a truck, presumably being held by The Covenant," Sark said. "Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine."

"It comes with the territory," Sydney said, the words bringing a brackish taste to her mouth. "Some dead guy draws your face and suddenly the whole world is shooting you, blowing you up, knocking you out and throwing you in the back of trucks. Some days I feel less like a puppet and more like a voodoo doll."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "It may surprise you to know that I am also apparently a part of these prophecies." Sark broke his eye contact with her, and his voice took a tone of reluctance she had never heard before. "You are not alone in your feeling of helplessness. And helplessness, Miss Bristow, is not a feeling I am accustomed to enduring."

"You -- what?" Sydney shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. "How?"

"The exact details have been kept from me," Sark said. "Needless to say, my role is seemingly large enough to inspire several organizations to keep a keen eye fixed on me at all times."

Sark continued, rather bitterly, Sydney thought to herself. "As far as I've always been concerned, these so-called prophecies are useful as nothing but tools to control the weak-minded. You can imagine how disconcerting it was to find myself a pawn in their grasp as well."

A long silence descended, broken only by the grumbling of the truck engine and the low vibration of the wheels. Then Sark cleared his throat, capturing Sydney's attention once more.

"You-- you've been under cover, investigating my parents for several months now, yes?"

"Yes," Sydney confirmed. "Why?"

"It's nothing," Sark said, a mischievous smirk dancing across his face. "Just…say something British."

"What?"

"Say something British," Sark repeated. "Like…aluminum."

"Aluminum," Sydney deadpanned back to him. A low chuckle bubbled in Sark's throat.

"What?" Sydney snapped.

"You're absolutely rubbish!" Sark snorted. "They couldn't have been fooled – not even my parents. They must have thought you loony."

"Excuse me," Sydney growled. "I think I can speak in a British accent."

"Talented you may be, Agent Bristow, but it seems you have finally been thwarted by the word al-u-MIN-ium."

"Bullshit!" Sydney exclaimed, blushing slightly as she realized her mistake.

"It's all right," Sark said. "I'm sure you have a splendid career ahead of you playing British characters on television."

Their merrymaking was rudely interrupted by the sudden stop of the engine. Sydney rocked forward on her knees, thrown off-balance by the deceleration. There came a sound of two doors slamming, then footsteps rounding the trailer car. Sydney and Sark eyed each other pensively, then squinted as light began to pour in from the quickly raising door.

"Rise and shine," Alan's voice taunted from the glaring outer world.

"Father," Sark said guardedly, blinking rapidly against the invading light. "I don't understand."

"Shock of the century," came Alan's swift retort.

"Get out," snapped Sark's mother's voice, no longer soft and vivacious. "Both of you."

Syd and Sark clambered out of the truck as best they could with their restraints and stepped hesitantly into the sunlight. They were in a field on the outskirts of London – sheep gawked lazily at the foursome from a short distance away. No roads or structures were in sight.

"You're working for The Covenant," Sydney accused. "That's what this is about."

"No, my dear, sad, stupid girl," Alan leered. "We aren't working for The Covenant. We are The Covenant."

Sark's eyes widened. "McKenas never mentioned you before."

Sydney yelped. "That bastard is still alive?"

"McKenas Cole is a self-absorbed nitwit who will be first against the wall when he no longer remains amusing," Alan railed.

"Enough," Meredith cut in. "Alan, remove Julian's restraints."

Sark and Sydney exchanged a look as Alan complied with Meredith's order – the first subservient act he'd ever witnessed his father undertake.

"What exactly is this all about?" Sark asked curiously.

"Julian," Meredith started, "You've known for some time that Rambaldi's prophecies refer to you as The Balancer. What you didn't know is the meaning of your title. The Balancer is the one who will prevent The Chosen One and The Passenger from destroying each other."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

"By choosing which one will survive," Meredith said with a smile that made Sydney's blood run cold.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Sark said.

"Only one person can control The Sphere," Meredith explained. "More than one would disrupt the balance. This is why we sent the picture to the CIA, Julian – so you could fulfill your part of the prophecy."

"I see," Sark said. "And what, exactly, is The Sphere?"

"All will be explained in time," Meredith said, handing Sark a pistol. "But first, you must kill the Bristow girl."

"Let me remind you that this is your destiny, Julian," Alan lectured condescendingly. "Do try not to fuck it up."

Sark hesitated for a moment, looking searchingly at his father. "Then let us hope my aim is true," he said.

Two shots shattered the calm of the London plain. The violent snap of machinery roared against the mottled sky, causing the sheep to bolt in alarm. Sark held the gun with one steady outstretched hand, staring knowingly into Sydney's shocked eyes as Alan and Meredith toppled over, their blood sponging over the mossy ground. She coughed out a half-sob, half-laugh as her eyebrows shot to the clouds above, her lips unable to close despite her strongest efforts to the contrary.

Sark exhaled for what seemed like an eternity. "I can't tell you…how long I've waited for that," he said. Sydney remained with mouth agape.

"Besides," Sark continued after several heartbeats. "Your mother would never have forgiven me if something had happened to you."

"My mother?" Sydney repeated. "What does she have to do with this? What does she have to do with you?"

"I'll let her explain," Sark responded enigmatically. "We should leave, Sydney."

Life slowly returned to Jack's world, creeping in with a soft touch like curtains stirred by a breeze. His eyelids fluttered open to see a face he'd awoken next to many times, though never under these particular circumstances.

"Irina," he said, weakly.

"Shh," she whispered. "Don't move. You've been badly injured. I did what I could, but you're going to need more than stitches and a few hours' rest to heal this wound."

"Sydney…"

"I have my contacts searching for her," Irina answered. "Don't worry."

Jack mustered a wry grin through the pain. "You of all people should know the uselessness of those words."

Irina smiled back, warmly. "Your team members are in the other room," she said. "Vaughn is fine, but Weiss is still unconscious. He was hit by a car and suffered a concussion."

Jack frowned. "He needs a doctor."

"Already taken care of," Irina confirmed. "Rest, now."

Her words were strangely prophetic, for Jack fell back into his pillow with a heavy sigh. Irina stroked his brow absently, surprised at the memories the motion brought back. Her marriage to Jack Bristow seemed lifetimes ago, a different woman living and loving with a different man. When she saw him now, it was like two parallel universes meeting – a second's glimmer of all that could have been. But Jack Bristow had been married to Laura Bristow, not Irina Derevko – it was that rationale that allowed her not to justify her feelings, but to accept them and continue on. So she took her hand off of Jack's head and placed it back in her lap, then after regarding his face with new eyes, she quietly exited the room.

Hours later, a knock sounded on the door. Vaughn glanced towards Irina from his place at Weiss' bedside. She nodded – the pattern had been correct – and approached the door, carrying a pistol to be safe. There was no need – as she opened the door, Sark and Sydney entered, slightly battered and bruised but none the worse for their misadventure.

"Sydney." Irina's voice cracked a little, betraying her emotions at seeing her daughter for the first time in several years. "Sark, thank you for bringing her."

"Mother," Sydney nodded. "Vaughn." Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the sparse amenities – a sink and fridge in one corner, a few chairs and cupboards, and against the far wall, Weiss – bandaged and unconscious, collapsed into a cot. "Is Weiss all right?"

"He's going to need a doctor," Vaughn answered briskly. "But he'll live."

"Your father is in the other room," Irina indicated the door with her eyes.

"That bastard," Sydney fumed, striding quickly across the creaking wooden boards and bursting into the small bedroom.

"Sydney, wait--"

Vulnerable was not a word one associated with Jack Bristow. It wasn't that he masked it well, letting his weakness brew – he simply had built his walls so high they were nigh impenetrable. But now, watching him doze gently in the low light, Sydney glimpsed a fragility she would have never thought possible. It was something in the way his lips drooped downwards from his nose, relaxed from their eternally upward curl – or the way his hand drew softly against his chest, rising and falling with a faint organic rhythm that contrasted with his normally steely gestures. And, of course, the concerned slope of his eyebrows into two wrinkles at the base of his nose she recognized – that was for her.

Irina hovered silently at her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. Sydney shrugged it off and continued into the room, drawing a chair up beside the bed to gaze upon her father further. Her mother stayed for a moment, then closed the door.

Jack reacted slightly to the noise, wrinkling his brow. After a few seconds he seemed to sense a presence in the room and slowly rolled his eyes up to view his daughter's face.

"Sydney," he coughed.

Jack's consciousness renewed Sydney's anger – his eyes, once open, were still the shielded portals she remembered, and his face had once again frozen into a mask of impenetrability. Feeling the blood rush to her face only angered her more – if he could be so damned unassailable, then she should be as well.

"How dare you," her voice shook to her very bones. "How dare you speak to me."

Jack stared at her unflinchingly, his gaze drowning in hurt – an expression she had come to loathe.

"Don't look at me like that," she raged. "Don't pretend that what I'm saying hurts you! I know everything, now. All of it. I'm not a daughter to you – I'm nothing. I'm a test, an experiment – a number. Number 47. Project Christmas' special designation for Sydney B--" her voice caught, and she couldn't finish the name. "Don't ever presume to treat me like a daughter – not after what you've done."

"Sydney," Jack said, gently. "You have every right to be upset."

"Goddamn right I do!" she hissed.

"Please." A flash of that vulnerability melted across Jack's face, and Sydney was taken aback again. "I won't ask you to forgive me – you don't owe me anything, least of all that. But I need to explain. I need-- to tell you the truth."

"Because you're so good at that," she bit back instinctively, but her eyes told him to continue.

"You're right. You were an experiment – not mine, but the CIA's. Sydney, they wanted to raise you in a lab, teach you from birth to be a fighting machine, a weapon in their arsenal of espionage. And of course, you would have been tested regularly for the signs indicated in Rambaldi's prophecies – invasively, if necessary. But I fought them, Sydney, because I wanted you. I wanted to raise you, to give you a life outside of the agency, and when the time came, a chance to escape. With that privilege came…certain compromises. I had strict orders to train you, and to report on your progress biannually. But it was a small price to pay for raising you."

Jack took a raspy breath, then continued. "I've never given a damn about the words of some man who's been dead for hundreds of years. If I could, I'd destroy every last record of Rambaldi's existence, if it would bring me closer to you, Sydney." His next words he found difficult to form, but he soldiered on regardless. "And…though she may have her own way of going about it, your mother cares about you just as much as I do. Neither of us would ever do anything to harm you."

"He's a wise man," Irina interjected. Sydney hadn't even heard her enter the room. "Hard-headed, but wise."

Jack and Irina watched each other with honest eyes and glimmers of nostalgia before Irina broke eye contact. "Sydney, we need to prepare for our journey. Sloane is making a move for The Sphere – he may already have it in his grasp. Jack – you need to sleep."

Jack nodded absently, his eyes tracking Sydney as she rose and turned towards the door. As she crossed the doorstep, he called out her name. She faced him, one eyebrow raised above cold cheeks.

"I love you," he said.

Sydney paused, lips parted. "I know," she said finally, and left him to his healing.

For an instant Sydney saw empathy in her mother's eyes, then the door closed and Irina became all business again.

"Vaughn, Sark, start packing equipment," Irina ordered. "We need to leave within the hour."

Vaughn had been as good as silent for well on three hours – now his bottled-up indignation and curiosity spewed out. "Could someone please explain what the hell is going on?"

All eyes turned to Irina. She sighed and leaned against the refrigerator, crossing her arms. "For some time I have been tracking Arvin Sloane and Nadia. They began keeping a low profile five months ago – just as you did, Sydney – but in that time Sloane repeatedly contacted several of his representatives at Omnifam. It turns out he was directing them in a land purchase – creating a ski resort in Italy. What's special about this resort is that it is located directly adjacent to a fifteenth-century monastery which is unofficially the home of a large sect of Rambaldi followers."

"You think The Sphere is there," Vaughn said.

"I know The Sphere is there," Irina confirmed. "Sloane wouldn't be making a play for anything else."

"And what, exactly, is this fabled Sphere?" Sark asked.

"According to the prophecies, The Sphere is Rambaldi's ultimate creation – a mind-linking device that has the potential to create a global community of consciousness."

"So…it's an invention that would give everyone in the world the power of telepathy?" Vaughn asked dubiously.

"Essentially, yes," Irina said. "Rambaldi wrote that The Sphere was created in order to bring about world peace – his rationale was that if everyone's thoughts and feelings were laid bare, violence would become a thing of the past, and a greater understanding would be reached by all citizens of the world."

"But in the hands of Sloane, The Sphere could be apocalyptic," Sydney finished.

"Exactly. Rambaldi says that it takes two to activate The Sphere – The Chosen One and The Passenger. But he also writes that only one can control it."

"That's where I come in," Sark said brightly.

Irina shot him a dark look. "Yes, The Balancer. If The Chosen One and The Passenger fight, both will be destroyed. Hence, Julian's role – to decide which of the two will fulfill the prophecy."

"You needn't worry, Sydney," Sark said with a mischievous grin. "If I had wanted to kill you, I most certainly would have by now."

"Yes," Irina said thoughtfully. "However, Julian, I'm afraid you won't have a chance to fulfill your role in the prophecy."

A puzzled look spread across Sark's face as Irina stepped forward and jammed the butt of her pistol down on his neck – hard. Then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forwards, captured from his fall halfway by Irina, who lowered him gently the rest of the way.

"Help me tie him up," Irina indicated to Sydney as she opened a cabinet and pulled out some rope.

"Why don't we just kill him?" Vaughn suggested.

"Because," Irina responded sharply. "I don't kill family."

Shock crept slowly onto Sydney's face as the implication of her mother's words began to dawn on her. "What do you mean?"

Irina's eyes pierced into Vaughn and Sydney, weighing both of their reactions before continuing. "Sydney, Sark is your cousin," she said, noticing the blood drain out of Sydney's sepulcher face as the words left her mouth. "He's my sister Elena's son. You've met her – as Meredith Sark."

Sydney looked down at the limp body below her with a mixture of bewilderment and newfound understanding, unsure of how to feel for the man whose feet she was currently tying together with nylon rope. Conventional human nature told her that this revelation should somehow create in her a warm sense of connection to her newly-revealed relation, but reason argued that kinship titles were no basis for any particular affinity even in normal families.

"I don't believe it," Vaughn burst out. "There is no way Sydney is related to…him."

"Does he know this?" Sydney asked as they propped Sark against a cabinet, ignoring Vaughn's dismayed outburst.

"No," Irina replied. "Julian has always known his foster mother as Meredith Sark. Now, we need to hurry. A team is coming to pick us up in an hour. They will equip us, escort us to a private airport and fly us to Italy."

"What about Weiss and Jack?" Vaughn asked.

"And Sark?" Sydney added.

"Call your local contact at the CIA before we leave," Irina said. "Tell them the whereabouts of this safe house. Weiss and Jack are stable for now – they'll be fine without attention for the next few hours."

"And how are we supposed to stop Sloane? We're going in blind," Vaughn pointed out.

In response, Irina opened a drawer and removed a pile of blueprints. As she spread them across the floor, Vaughn could see they were plans of the monastery – with hypothetical tunnels noted with question marks below the structure.

"Get planning," Irina commanded.

ITALY

Arvin Sloane was hunched in a dusty pew with fingers steepled – not praying, for he'd never been a man of prayer. If you asked him, he would admit to being deeply religious; his religion, however, was based around much more substantial signs than prayer had ever brought about.

No, Arvin Sloane was waiting, and thinking – calculating in his head various outcomes of the inevitable confrontation to come. Many ended with him dead – a less than desirable conclusion, to be sure. Too many wild cards would soon come into play, and Sloane had never been a gambling man – when forced, he preferred to use a stacked deck.

He reflected on his nearly thirty-five year journey, and the changes it had wrought. How clever of Rambaldi, he mused, to have chosen him as the one to unravel all the pieces of this skein. It was a maneuver that had brought Sloane closer to his daughter, and yet had created a rift between the two he was not certain could be mended. A paradox – that was just like Rambaldi.

Even now, Nadia sat locked in the bell tower with The Sphere, most likely seething at her father's seemingly callous actions. He pitied her; her self-centered mind could never comprehend the greater good that would result from her sacrifices. Long ago, Sloane had learned that nothing could come before Rambaldi – it was a passion that had consumed him, a creed which had become the very fiber of his being.

No price was too high, no human life more precious than the promise contained in Rambaldi's writings. Sloane had come to the enlightened realization that this was not rationalization for his misdeeds, but the very reason for his every action. He took in his surroundings, contemplating the allegorical significance of the candle-lit crucifix at the fore of the room. The Christians believed Jesus had been without sin – Sloane believed that through Rambaldi, he could do no wrong.

When he ordered the remaining Rambaldi followers executed, there had been a brief pang of second-thought, the slightest hint of apprehension. Those thoughts were quickly quelled. If they had been true followers of Rambaldi, they would have understood that this was the only way. Their blood anointed Sloane's hands like that of a lamb on the Hebrews' door frame, marking this as holy territory.

So Sloane waited, eyes closed, his elbows perched on his knees, his fingertips pressed together in mock penitence to the now-tattered holy scene before him. Instinct told him he wouldn't have to wait long.

He hadn't heard his guards being taken down – the infiltrators had been furtive in their disposal. But he did hear the sharp footfalls approaching from down the aisle. It was a familiar walk, one he'd heard every day for countless years. The attitude in the steps reminded him of one particular day, after he'd ordered a man killed. The insignificance of that one death struck him as humorous now.

He smiled as he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressing into the back of his neck, chafing against his hairline. "Hello, Sydney," he greeted.

"Where is she?" came her arctic reply.

"Your sister is in the bell tower," Sloane answered succinctly. "Before you--"

Whatever Arvin Sloane would have said was lost in an explosion of noise as a single bullet was propelled through the gun's chamber, ripping fiercely through his skull. An eruption of blood, bone and brain matter sprayed through the air as his lifeless body jerked forwards, the remains of his face colliding with the pew in front of him at an awkward angle. His body slid slowly down the back of the bench, streaking violent red gashes across the wood.

Sydney regarded Sloane's corpse with detachment, like examining a specimen of forensic research. She had played over this scene an infinite number of times in her head, an infinite number of ways, and of all the emotions she expected to feel, the one that had never occurred to her was nothingness. She wasn't angry; she wasn't cold. She felt nothing. In the end, it had been easy.

She turned to see her mother and Vaughn enter the room, the latter bringing a startled hand up to his mouth at the sight of Sloane's remains.

"Nadia is in the bell tower," Sydney informed them.

Irina nodded, and Sydney noticed a few tears welling in her mother's eyes. Whether they were for the death of the father of one of her children or her daughter's cold-blooded act of vengeance, Sydney couldn't tell.

The trio continued wordlessly towards the tower, climbing the stone spiral staircase in a line. The two guards outside the door were easily incapacitated, and Sydney unlocked the heavy impediment with a key found on one of the men's belts.

Nadia sat in the corner, dwarfed by the massive bell that hung motionless over the floor. She clutched The Sphere protectively, looking up in surprise as Sydney entered the room.

"My father…?" Nadia asked, sensing the answer even as the words escaped her mouth.

"He's dead," Sydney said, not harshly, but without sympathy.

"Good," Nadia said with a nod, uncurling her body from its fetal position and standing to face her sibling.

Both women gazed at The Sphere, which had begun to pulse as Sydney entered the room. A wash of silence swept into the room, the throbbing hum of The Sphere encompassing all other sound waves. Light crackled within the object, and Sydney felt awestruck despite herself. She was entranced, drawn into The Sphere – her eyes digging into its tumultuous depths, bright and dark at the same time. It reminded her of a star, and she tore her gaze away, remembering what they said about staring into the sun.

Nadia looked at her thoughtfully. "Apparently only one of us can control this," she said.

"Yes," Sydney said.

"And if we fight each other, we both die."

"Yes."

"I suppose that leaves us little choice," Nadia said with a touch of morbid humor.

Sydney was silent for a moment, then a thought crossed her mind. "What if we don't fight each other?"

Sydney put her hand on The Sphere, and immediately it reacted to her touch, glittering and flashing. The pulses were coming at an increased pace, and the ball looked as if it might burst at any moment. Nadia sensed an urgency in her sister's eyes, and communicating without words they stepped together toward the north window. The night air cast a chill over their skin, and the wind seemed to pick up as in response to their intentions, blowing hair across their faces.

They reached the ledge, overlooking a jagged cliff which raced down to meet a small plateau of land hundreds of feet below before continuing its fall. The moon was dimmed by the brilliance of The Sphere, and the wind howled through the four-cornered portals of the tower.

Sydney and Nadia heaved the device out the window, watching as it spun down the mountainside, colliding with stone and ice as it went. On the fourth impact, The Sphere shattered. There was a sudden flash of light, as if lightning had struck, and the sisters shut their eyes against the radiance. When they looked again, the world had returned to normal, The Sphere barely discernable in tiny pieces against the cliff side

LOS ANGELES

"And you just destroyed it?"

Sydney Bristow sat in her new-new apartment, slouched on the sofa with her neck curled around a phone – her right hand digging a spoon into a carton of ice cream. She smiled wistfully at the familiarly incredulous voice on the other end of the line, laughing at how she could predict exactly when the squeak would work its way into his voice.

"Yeah," she said. "We destroyed it."

"So, like…what did they do? When you got back, I mean."

"I've been honorably discharged," Sydney said, relief and regret mixing in her voice. "I am no longer a servant of the U.S. government – I'm a private citizen."

"And your mom just disappeared again?"

"With Nadia," Sydney confirmed. "And they refuse to take her off of the most-wanted list. It's ridiculous."

"Wait," Will said, his voice suddenly filled with suspicion. "Can you even tell me any of this? Like, they're not going to come after me, are they?"

"No," Sydney assured him. "This is the CIA, not SD-6. They may be manipulative, but they're not monsters."

Will exhaled a sigh of relief that would have sent Sydney into giggles if not for the history. "So how is your dad?"

"He's good. He checked out of the hospital a few days ago. Things are still – shaky. But I think I can accept it all, finally. And it's time to move on. I'm opening a new chapter of my life, Will. I'm going to try to get a job teaching, like I always wanted to."

"That's—that's great, Syd," Will said, the warmth in his voice making Sydney smile again. There was a discernable pause before his next question. "And…Vaughn?"

This time it was Sydney's turn to sigh. "Things are…weird. We haven't talked much – I think he's still hurt that I disappeared again, that I didn't trust him, or ask him to go with me, or something. I'm sure he'll get over it, but we both need some time before we can try again."

Will's next question was difficult for them both, but he didn't shy away from it. "Do you love him?"

"Yes," Sydney answered without hesitation. "But I don't know if that means we should be together."

An awkward silence interjected their conversation, and Sydney could imagine the bittersweet expression on Will's face. She poked a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, then perked up, saying brightly, "So when are you going to get the hell out of Wisconsin and move back here, Will?"

He laughed, welcoming a change in subject. "I don't know – can I finally use my own name, now? I have to find a place that will hire an ex-crackhead conspiracy theorist."

"The corner grocery is hiring," Sydney suggested. "And trust me – an ex-crackhead conspiracy theorist would be an improvement from the creeps they have working there now."

"Ouch," Will chuckled. "Well, looks like I'm hired. Would you like paper or plastic?"

They laughed together, and Sydney was overcome by nostalgia. "I'm serious, Will. You should come home. I miss you."

"I miss you too, Syd," he said.

The conversation continued for a few minutes, then the two said their goodbyes, promising to talk again soon. Sydney set the phone on her coffee-table, trading it for a copy of King Lear she had been earnestly plugging through before the phone rang.

She couldn't concentrate on the words, however; her mind kept returning to a snippet of the conversation that still haunted her.

"So that's it," Will had said. "It's over."

Sydney had agreed with him at the time, but she couldn't shake the thought that it was never truly over. Not for her. She hoped this time she was wrong.

Outside, a car idled across the street. Jack sat uncomfortably in the vehicle, watching his daughter through her bay window. She flipped a page, lips parted in concentration. He recognized the expression – it was the same expression he'd seen on his wife's face as she read, night after night before bed.

He put a gloved hand on the door handle, then took it away again. He shook his head and put the car into gear, creeping slowly forward as he waited for a car to pass. With one last longing look towards Sydney, he began to pull into the street.

Except this time, she was looking back. Jack braked in surprise, his eyes meeting his daughter's, his hands frozen on the wheel. She held his gaze for a few moments, then replaced the book on the coffee table, standing to make for the door.

Jack hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he put the car in reverse and parked, crossing the street to see Sydney already standing in the door. The expression on her face was warm.

"Hi, Dad," she said. "Come on in."

END