NOTE: To all the readers of this fic - if anyone is still reading, that is – I apologize. You see, the reason I haven't updated is because I've been missing for almost two years. It's true. Apparently the last time I updated was December of 2003. You know how it is. Stuff gets in the way. Life goes. I'm now fifteen years old, contrary to the disclaimer at the beginning. I suggest that you go back to the beginning and refresh your memories a bit before proceeding…

At any rate, here are the last two chapters of the fic, and I hope that everything is clear and well-written, and if you have any feedback or critiques or questions for me, I'd be more than happy to hear it. Please enjoy it, and I again apologize for the wait.

Sark leans back from the program-packed computer screen. There has to be a solution to all of this. He begins to visualize…

Sloane, about to begin using Il Dire on a drugged Sydney. He runs his fingers through her hair and smiles at her, believing what he is about to do is all about to be for the better. Sark grimaces at the thought of this. What does Sloane believe?

He believes that this is the beginning. He thinks that he can remove all the hate and disgust built up against him by Sydney and Jack will disappear when he alters the past. He thinks that – he thinks Emily will come back.

But with Arvin Sloane the master of time and space, nothing could be safe. Il Dire in the hands of anyone could not be safe. Sark gazes back at the whirring screen and wonders why he'd ever assisted in this endeavor, this quest to build a machine of such destruction. Just a few short months ago, he would have taken great interest in it. Now, Sydney was too important.

He checks the screen again. No leads, no results. No Sydney Bristow.

Sydney – half-asleep next to Sloane, grasping for the knife she has concealed in her pocket. Sloane turns away – she slips it out. Seconds later, Sloane leans over her and she strikes.

Breaking the spider-thread wire in the process.

He reflected. Sloane had already selected a single, small portion of her brain – all the previous memories she'd had up until the day she was recruited to SD-6. Once those were deleted… she'd be back, back to that one point in the past, in the flesh. They would all be back – he'd be back - but they wouldn't realize they were back, because if time hadn't passed, they wouldn't really be back from anywhere – it was an interesting puzzle, but one he couldn't ponder for the moment. And only Arvin Sloane would know what had been altered.

But suppose that the memory deletion process had hit a milestone – a bump, if you will, on one traumatic event, that Il Dire had used more energy trying to release. Shooting Allison, for instance. A point where the deletion process had slowed, something the brain had trouble forgetting. The wire breaks, and -

He sits up. Sydney then gets lost in a coma, a limbo between space and time – the past might not have altered, but Sydney's mind certainly had. Sydney might not ever remember anything from the time she's worked with us. That's why she ran off – disoriented, and on top of that, she might have awakened enough to enough to see me in the hospital room – and if she doesn't remember anything, she probably thinks I'm still trying to kill her.

Oh, hell.

However, he tries not to let this thought throw him off focus. Sydney, though once again his opponent (or so she thought), had to be found. Abruptly his phone rings.

"Yes?"

Silence for a moment. "We have reason to believe that Sydney turned herself back into the CIA."

He closes his eyes. Cold. "I see."

A sigh on the other line. "I know."

He is about to protest this – then thinks better of it. He is not the only one who feels the loss. So he says, "I'm fairly sure that she won't be a risk to our operation. She won't pass along any intel on us or what's happened to her because I believe-"

"She doesn't remember a thing. I believe that, too. We can't know exactly how Il Dire malfunctioned on her – at least for the moment, she's safe."

"What action will the CIA take?"

He hears Irina's tenseness. "I don't know. If I knew, I would-"

"I'm going back to Madrid tonight. We'll discuss this then." He hazards a suggestion. "Perhaps we both need to rest."

He hears her phone click off.

Irina does not want to rest. Neither does Sark, yet it seems sleep is his only hope of forgetting how the Sydney he has come to know, grown to care for, maybe even love, is suddenly never going to be that Sydney again.

He stands up. He is on his way to Madrid. He doesn't have much time before the next flight departs.