As Pitch

Wittenberg

"Sydney, you were never supposed to have found this."

Those words, words that to her disappointment didn't immediately reveal the joke was on her, or that this was all some kind of mistake or fabrication, made that sinking feeling inside her bottom out with a solid thunk. Abruptly shoving away from the table, Sydney stood up to face him. Just knowing that he was here – had followed her on this private trip to Wittenberg – was shocking, but then that shock began to wane and confusion reigned.

Her own father?

The sound of the straight-backed chair screeching across smooth marble still faintly echoed in her ears. Forming within her, similar to that raucous sound, was a silent scream – an internal outburst that did a great job of fueling her anger. She didn't want to believe the clearly typed words, didn't want to believe what those words meant about him. There was no way he could have done this to her. No way.

But the longer she looked into his eyes and watched the faint glimmer of uneasiness that began to vanish the longer she stared, the quicker the implied meaning of the words on all those pages sank in.

Oh God.

She did her best to stand sturdily before him, challenging him with both her steeled stance and a pointed, impervious glare to deny what he'd done. Yet she knew that overshadowing the strong front she showed was her traitorous, tearstained face.

Heat from the upcoming confrontation brewed dangerously in the room, thick, electric. It only grew stronger as the documentation of each of her thirty-plus-years replayed in her head: Documentation started by the CIA on the day of her birth – with complete authorization of her father.

Everything had been a lie. He was the liar.

Black and blatant, and suddenly so heavy in her shaky hand, she thrust out the glaring evidence of yet another betrayal by a loved one, another betrayal by him. Funny how often various forms of duplicity seemed to stand between her and the ones she loved.

"You," came out of her mouth sounding almost like a croak. It was all she could say.

Quick, angry strides brought her within a few feet of him, and she found her empty fist clenched tightly at her side in an attempt to keep from using it to give back some of this pain that surged through her. A fresh sheen of tears gathered in her accusing eyes, making his blurry image shimmer and distort like a disturbed reflection in water. He seemed so tall now, almost looming before her, and the monochrome black he chose to wear suddenly seemed quite appropriate.

Betrayer.

"How could you do this?" she asked, furiously snapping the offending pages at him in a jerky motion. The comforting eyes of her father had morphed from rich coffee to hard smoky quartz – stone, cold – suddenly much less familiar than the last time she had looked into them.

"Sydney –" he began, but his pointless response became lost as a dull thudding besieged her head. What he was about to say meant nothing now – it was nothing new. Justifications of past betrayals had grown so tiresome. Forgiveness for those betrayals even more so.

"This is my life you're dabbling in! Not yours. Not Rambaldi's. And sure as hell not the CIA's," she whispered harshly. "You had no right to do this. All of you. All of this. I'm not some damn experiment or some number on a case file that needs updating when an event occurs, I'm a human being!"

Incredulity swirled inside her – roiling and volcanic. The questions that came to mind were endless. How could he have known about the prophecy back in 1975? Who else had been privy to it? How could he have just sat by, even encouraged the CIA to keep such close tabs on his own flesh and blood? How could he have fooled her all this time with such meticulously crafted reactions to her discoveries of prophecies, of missing years, and of unknown siblings?

He'd known about them all along.

The pain of it all was absolutely excruciating; the hurt suffused her insides like potent, rapid dispersing poison. The tumult of humiliation and anger, and the violation brought on by the total disregard for her privacy, slowly stripped her bare before him.

He'd seen her like this before. The last time it had happened, they were outside a restaurant and it was raining.

His face was now an implacable mask and it hit her for the first time in years, since she discovered her part in Project Christmas, how little she knew this man – her father.

Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she pushed past him, clutching the papers to her chest as she ran for the elevator without even a look back. Her trembling hand slapped at the button for the main floor repeatedly – only when the doors slid open and she saw the familiar posh décor of the main floor did the motion stop.

The nice gentleman who had helped her access the safety deposit box earlier smiled as he saw her emerge. He took two steps toward her with unheard words spilling from his mouth. The smile she returned was wide, her eyes empty, and she nodded in a motion that was more absent than courteous as he took her key.

He turned his back for a moment, still speaking to her, but before he could turn back she was running again – out of the building, through the swarm of people littering the avenue to find her rental.

She missed the perplexed look on the man's face when he found her gone…

Driving through the busy streets of Wittenberg on autopilot.

Running through the crowded airport to reach her gate in time for the next flight out.

Gone.

She was in L.A. many hours later with barely a recollection of how she got there.

And Blue

After passing through the extensive security check at the door, Sydney took a deep breath of stale hospital air and finally, hesitantly, stepped into the room. The door latched behind her, and as two gazes turned her way, saw her face for the first time in days, it happened.

A jerky gasp shook his gauzed chest, the sudden motion making him cry out in pain. The once all too friendly eyes now showed a spark of fear, fear that was only intensified by the way those eyes had widened.

His wife's hand had reached out, a cool attempt to cover his forearm before he tensed, but it was already too late. Holding her husband's hand, the woman offered a smile that was tender and placating; her eyes held mostly warmth as she looked at Sydney. But hidden in the depths of those warm eyes was a tinge of wariness, a flicker of dual concern for her husband and the woman who had just entered.

This wasn't easy for anyone.

He released the breath he sucked in upon her entrance in a ragged gust, mustering up enough energy to give both women an apologetic smile that bordered on a grimace.

He'd probably have nightmares about her for weeks. She certainly wouldn't blame him.

Tears pricked Sydney's eyes like fine slivers, but the uncomfortable sensation faded quickly. "Hi Marshall," she said in a voice that sounded like someone else. Someone content.

The flowers in her hand felt more like stone and brick – gun and bullet – as she walked to the table on the far side of the room. She placed the crystalline vase she was holding amongst the litter of flowers and teddy bears dressed like their new owner in black suits and crisp white shirts with various tech toys.

The longer her back was turned, the harder it became to face them again. She put on a smile and turned.

"So I hear y –"

"They say I'm –"

The laughter between them was forced, stunted. Awkward.

Sydney stutter-stepped forward a little, testing him; nervously curling her hair behind her ear, she moved closer. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she placed a hand on the soft yellow blanket covering him. It was as close as she could seem to get.

He swallowed hard, entwining his fingers with his wife's. "Three weeks, they tell me."

She nodded.

"Who knows how long I'll be in physical therapy after," he added in a strained, slightly dejected voice. "Probably a few months."

His despondency hurt. In her heart she knew that she, herself, was not responsible for his condition, but the tight hand squeezing that same muscle didn't seem to realize that. Part of her was waiting for him to add on a joke, something about the bad food he'd be eating once he could take solids again or some intimate procedure the doctors had forced on him. That would be like him.

But instead, he flinched in pain again. She watched him depress the button on the device held in his free hand to release a fresh stream of painkiller into his system. A deep sigh of relief started his eventual succumbing, and she saw his eyelids flutter and droop.

"Thank you for coming," Carrie whispered when his eyes finally shut, smoothing her hand up and down his arm. "He's had a rough couple of days, but I know he appreciates you showing up. Please, anytime you want to stop by – do. It'll be good for him."

She nodded again, offering a semblance of a smile before turning to leave.

"See you at the office, Sydney."

The steady buzz of hospital in the daytime drowned out her quiet and pain-filled response.

"Sure."

Listed

The faces around the table were all familiar. Close friend, former partner and now mentor, past and could have been present lover… betrayer.

She met eyes with three out of those four, wondering briefly if one of the three were privy to the doings of the fourth. Days ago, she would have thought that idea ridiculous, but today…

His gaze on her was fierce, penetrating, likely frustrated after being kept out of the loop on the subject matter of this surprise meeting. It didn't go unnoticed that she purposely skipped over those eyes that look so much like her own, but she didn't care. The others turned curious, perplexed, and would grow even more so once the announcement was made.

Her hands sat neatly folded in front of her on the table, her best attempt at keeping herself solid. Last night had found her a quivering mess – slumped boneless against her bedroom wall, the heels of her hands pressed tightly against her eyes to keep the tears at bay. Today she needed to be strong, to let him know that she would survive this.

No matter what course of action she had to take.

Dixon cleared his throat, requesting the room's undivided attention.

"I have brought this particular circle here to inform you all that Agent Sydney Bristow has formally resigned her active position with the CIA. Effective immediately, she will become a civilian."

The room stirred with the startling announcement, all heads turning toward her in a mixture of shock and confusion. She forced her eyes to stay fixed on their leader as he finished.

"I have allowed Agent Bristow the courtesy of staying for this announcement, but since there is some sensitive information that requires our immediate attention, I am now forced to ask her to leave."

A faint smile was on her face as she stood. Questions formed but were held on their tongues. If the utter shock in their eyes said anything it was that explanations were wanted, some thought they were due. But she had no energy to offer any half-truths, so she remained silent.

Doing the best and only thing she could, she gathered her remaining things and moved quietly to the door. Accomplishing that feat with no complications, all she needed to do now was to keep walking until she made it to the parking garage. Simple, she told herself.

But as she reached the door, she heard the rustle of clothing sound out from behind her. Her eyes fell closed and the accompanying slide of a chair sent chills up her spine. Part of her had expected it, had badly wanted it, but most of her had hoped he would just leave it alone.

"Agent Vaughn," Dixon's commanding voice resonated in the sudden stark silence. "You will remain in this room for the rest of the meeting."

Even though her back was to him, she could feel his hesitation like a palpable being. She could just imagine the fight brewing within him – telling him first to go after her, then in the next thought telling him to stay and do his duty. It was a dance she knew too well.

Making the decision for him, she exited the room without a last glance, leaving behind the friend, the mentor, the lover… and most of all, the betrayer.

It was better that way.

Obsidian

The sun was just about to drop out of sight as she secured the main compartment of her suitcase with a tiny lock. Some of her anxiety was released in a shaky breath at the light clicking sound.

She was actually leaving.

Smoothing her hand over the tough black vinyl, knowing that what was in this case would have to last her for months, Sydney reiterated to herself how important this was.

Leaving the CIA under the guise of getting some normalcy back in her life was her first step; her second step would abuse her real passport. Places like London, Versailles, Acapulco, Venice… her itinerary would carry her through at least the next three months.

It was time that she would surely need.

A dull pain sat heavy in her chest when the looks on the faces occupying that room two days ago flashed behind her closed eyes. There would be so much, so many she would miss, but there was a greater importance to what she'd chosen to do – a very personal objective in mind.

Her reasons were justified.

You can't fulfill prophecies this way, was one them.

No one would care to document the details of your life, was another.

You can't hurt your friends or your lovers; family can't betray you.

Especially if she chose not to have any.

Thinking about the last few days and the decisions she'd made had left her uneasy. She dropped down on her mattress, crestfallen, and listened to the anomaly of rain pelting against her roof for countless minutes. As she was falling back to curl up on her side the phone rang – the prompt timing made her hesitate to answer. The tripping of her heart escalated as she checked the caller ID. She'd ignored his many calls over the past few days, but at this point, she was nearly starving just to hear his voice.

Her hand reached for the phone and brought it to her ear.

"Sydney," he said on a sigh, before she even said hello. "Please, just talk to me."

She shook her head no in answer, her voice not cooperating with the action. She cleared her throat of the gathered lump. "I can't, Vaughn," she replied weakly. "It's too complicated now. I need to be alone to sort things out."

"What's so complicated?" he asked with a hint of incredulity in his voice. "To me everything seems much simpler now. What's changed, Sydney? How can I fix this if you won't tell me?"

Too many questions she couldn't answer right now.

"There's no simple fix to this." She paused, then whispered, "I have to go."

"No, Syd. Wait –"

A trembling hand placed the phone back in its cradle; she brought the same hand to her mouth to mute a sob, then used it to cover her face as she cried.

The tears had barely stopped when she heard a knock at her front door. Opening the drawer in her nightstand, she removed the single house key and took it with her. Eric was early – he'd said he would stop by after his nightly workout – but at least now she could just go to sleep.

Her socks silenced her steps across the hardwood floor, and she opened the door without hesitation.

Vaughn.

His hair was drenched, matted in uneven clumps on his head. His cheeks were mottled red and his breath sounded heavy and rough like he'd been running for miles. Drops of water fell to the ground from the top of his head, his nose, his chin. She squeezed her hands into fists, barely able to refrain from using them to help dry him off. The stubble coating his jaw told her what the last few days had been like for him. The dark circles shading underneath his eyes told her about his nights.

Sharp green stared back at her, barely noticing the wet clothing clinging to his body or her lack thereof – her bathrobe hiding just a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. She shook her head no, exactly as she had when he'd asked to talk to her on the phone, but he didn't waver. She moved to shut him out, but a strong hand palmed it open and he pushed himself inside.

"You wouldn't talk to me."

"You need to go, Vaughn."

"I can't. God, I can't." He ran both his hands through his hair, slicking the short strands back. "You leave the CIA without saying good-bye and then Weiss tells me you're leaving the country?"

Tears tangled in her lashes, but she was determined to keep them from falling again. Nothing he could say would change her mind on this. With her arms across her chest, she lifted her chin and tried to keep up the cool, confident façade.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"When are you going to be back?"

"I don't know."

"Damn it, Sydney!"

The terseness lacing his words and the abrupt manner in which he furrowed a hand through his hair only enhanced the barely contained violence she could sense in him. His gaze raked over her, fierce, deliberate, finally noticing her state of undress. By the time his gaze reached her eyes again his expression had visibly softened.

He sighed tiredly. "Has so much happened that I mean that little to you now?"

Oh, he meant so much more, she thought as the first few pieces of her front began to crumble to the ground, but not as much as trying to get the CIA off her back and her life back in control. She looked at him, seeing the anguish and the hurt, the worry over not knowing what he needed to do to make her stay.

He stood in a growing pool of water and waited for her response. How could she tell him anything without smearing his father's good name?

He was not like his father – that much she was relatively sure of. His name was not directly associated with those documents, unlike William Vaughn's. He'd never had a hand in deceiving her, he didn't play a part in this prophecy – not that she knew of. And it only took that hint of doubt to solidify what she'd set in motion.

But before she could tell him to go, he surprised her by closing the distance separating them. His fingers curled tightly in her hair, forcing her to look at him, to see the intensity of his shattering gaze.

"Sydney," he whispered. An ache. It sounded that way. An ache that caused her undoing.

Her stomach clenched and warmed in reaction to his voice, his touch. It was an unfamiliar sensation after days of unbearable cold. Tremors shook her hand in answer to that ache as she brushed fingers over his cold, stubbly cheek.

Maybe just one last time.

Before she could complete the thought, she was in his arms; their lips were touching, mouths moving roughly, opening to immediately seek something more intimate. His tongue swept into her mouth possessively, as if he were reclaiming lost ground, as if he were reminding her that no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much he had put her through and vice versa, she belonged to him.

He lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist and squeezing him to her tightly. The friction as she shifted against the front placket of his soaked jeans was both sweet and shocking to a system that had been lacking feeling for days. It made her realize how much she needed this closeness, needed this last night to feel something right again.

"I need you so much," he whispered her exact thought as he stumbled with her to her bedroom.

He sent her packed suitcase tumbling off her bed with the sweep of one hand, while settling her back against the cold sheets with the other. He positioned himself above her, sliding his strong palms beneath her rear and pressing his full weight against her pliant body. Pushing her tank top up as her robe parted, he revealed her belly and the soft curve under her breasts to his wandering mouth. She guided him by his hair as he gently caressed her flesh with soft lips, the short growth in her hands sticking to her like slick, icy fingers.

"Sydney," he groaned, his wet and hot body tighter against her now. Cold and hot. It was an odd combination that felt too good.

What would happen tomorrow faded as clothes disappeared. She melted under his gentle and arousing touch – a thrilling touch that even after all these years seemed familiar. She felt him slide his length into her fully with one thrust, making them both cry out in bliss, then lay still for a few seconds to absorb the heightened, throbbing sensation. His hips started out slow, giving and taking away pleasure in a motion so languid it hurt. But only a few minutes passed before his movements grew more frantic, hard with passion. He panted words of need and utter desperation to have her, to keep her here, into her ear.

"You can't leave me. Not now. Not again," he whispered against her neck, silencing any response she might have given him with his mouth.

Her hips rose to meet each thrust, her arms and legs holding him tighter and tighter as the feeling grew and burned in her body like a wicked, raging fire. Tiny explosions of light burst behind her eyes as he pushed her screaming over the edge. The feverish rush sluicing through her slowly began to soothe the carnal ache his presence brought on as he let himself follow with a guttural yell.

The violent flow consuming her slowly died down; the fire inside her dimmed as normal breathing resumed and their bodies cooled from staggering levels. Holding her hair back from her face with both of his hands, he pressed one last lingering kiss to her lips, then slid off her. His slick body wrapped around her from behind, arms contracting briefly against her belly to tell her that he was not letting her go. She squeezed her eyes shut.

If only it were that easy.

The dark shadow on his chin rubbed along the top of her head in a soothing gesture that in the past would have put her to sleep. He kissed her temple, the curve of her neck, exhaling contentedly as he settled in behind her for the night as easily as he used to. His arms flexed around her body one last time and she could imagine the dreaded accompanying thought.

She's mine. Things can't be so complicated that this can't work.

But it couldn't. Not right now.

The next morning, in the indentation on her pillow – where her sleepless head lay all night, drinking in his features for a lasting memory – he would find a note.

I'm sorry, Michael. I can't tell you much more than it has to do with my family. Please, just allow me this time for myself.

There was no other way it could be.

Diamond

The small caravan was right on schedule.

Sydney tucked the binoculars into her pack, her movements slow and easy, careful not to draw the attention of the three ATV's. The late afternoon California sun beat down hotly on her back and the stagnant desert air around her felt as stifling as a primed sauna, but she barely took notice of either. Her eyes merely followed the ATV's as they traveled their planned route, waiting for them to come into range.

Cradling the specially designed rifle on her shoulder, she took aim at the first vehicle and squeezed off four deadly accurate rounds – one shattered window and three targets. Slump, slump, slump.

Scattered shots zinged though the air in response, the agents in the rear vehicle hitting her hiding spot, angry bees without precision. Shards of rock peppered her masked face and fell harmlessly against her camouflage clothing. She peered through the crosshairs once more, adjusting to compensate for the distance, and then fired off three more shots at the last vehicle.

Six down.

Two remained; the middle vehicle had stopped and the tips of boots barely peeked out from behind the tires. She could imagine their surprise over this ambush. Due to previous failed attempts, the documented route of this prisoner's transfer was in an entirely different direction.

A larger decoy was traveling that route now.

Sydney stumbled down the backside of the jagged hill, bits of loose rock crumbling to dust beneath her moving feet. She could hear them in her mind now, curious about the sudden silence.

Is it safe? Did we get him?

She launched herself, springing agilely from the jut of rock ten feet above ground. Five hurried steps brought her to her awaiting vehicle.

She shifted the Mercedes into gear and punched the gas pedal seconds later, her gun loose and ready in her lap. The soft dirt covering the uncultivated land stirred under her accelerating tires, leaving a dense cloud of dust trailing behind as she rounded the rock formation she had just dropped from and headed toward the deserted highway.

By the time the ATV came into view it was jerking forward, hastily fleeing the scene. Certainly the CIA had heard of the interference by now, and had instructed them to abort with the prisoner to the nearest CIA secured facility. In her estimation, she had only a few minutes to complete this entire thing.

Her Mercedes fishtailed as it attempted to gain purchase on the smooth road at such a high speed. The ATV in full motion, she could barely make out three heads from her distance – the two agents remaining who had sought shelter inside the same vehicle and the man she had come for.

She shifted into third as her speedometer tipped just past 100-MPH, the flawless engine purring where others would obstinately whine and rattle. The ATV came up quickly, accelerating at a rate that was no match for her sleek sports car.

She didn't flinch when the agent on the passenger's side leaned his upper body out the window, letting of a series of shots that ended up sounding like the plink of bouncing hail against the bulletproof glass and body. Sydney sat in the leather bucket seat, calm, relaxed.

One of her hands gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel tighter as the nose of her car broke even with the rear of the ATV. Her other hand reached for the clip on her passenger seat. With a bit of finesse, she reloaded her weapon in seconds. Her foot flattened the gas pedal to the floor, and she burst past the vehicle like a black blur.

In the rearview as she passed, she saw the two men glance at each other in confusion. If sheer perfection and concentration weren't required to pull this off, she would have probably laughed a little at their perplexed expressions. Instead, when she was a little less than a mile out, she slammed on the brake, cranking the steering wheel to bring her about face.

With the car idling in neutral, the ATV rapidly approached. When her target came into range, she grabbed her gun, crouched in the driver's seat to push up through the open sunroof and let off the last two dead-on shots. The ATV swerved and tipped as the driver worked to keep control of the vehicle with the two front tires she had shot out gradually going flat.

Ducking back inside her car, she swiftly threw the car into reverse, moving backward until the ATV completely lost its fight with the road and careened down a small hill, slamming finally into a wall of rock.

The slight angle in which the ATV was stuck, combined with the flattened tires, made it teeter dangerously to the side. As she stepped from her car with a smaller gun in her hand, she saw the back left tire lifting up. Not waiting to see if it tipped, she ran through the dense cloud of dirt up to the driver's side with her weapon drawn. The back tire safely touched ground again and the driver's side door flew open. The agent inside gripped the door to steady himself as he shakily placed one foot and then the other on the ground.

Head injury, Sydney thought, considering he'd completely forgot protocol and had made himself an easy target in the process.

Her back was flat against the vehicle, and when he faced her, she fired directly into his chest. She held her breath as she stepped over the fallen man and cautiously peeked around the doorframe into the vehicle. The final agent was slumped forward against the dashboard, but she took no chances and aimed just below his shoulder blade.

The man she had come for sat straight up in the backseat, handcuffed, his face covered with a dark hood. He appeared completely unaffected by the sudden breach in the CIA transfer. He had expected this to happen, expected this transfer to go wrong.

But she had some satisfaction in knowing he didn't expect her to be the one carrying it out.

She entered the back of the vehicle and unhooked him from the built in leg shackles, keeping the handcuffs in place. Taking him by the elbow, she ran with him across the street to her Mercedes and pushed his head down as she helped him into the passenger seat.

She shifted into first and sped down the highway seconds later.

When they were a safe distance away, Sydney removed her mask and pulled off the cloth hood that covered his face, watching him immediately blink to adjust his sight to the bright light of day. As recognition set in, surprise widened eyes that were still slightly swollen and purple from his "interrogation" days prior, but only for the merest of moments. His attention immediately switched to the tiny dart that now stuck out of his shoulder.

"Tranq darts," he mused with a quiet chuckle. "How…" His eyelids twitched slightly and sagged as the sedative spread through his system.

Only when his eyes rolled back and his head lolled carelessly to the side on the headrest did she breathe freely again.

Only many hours later when the Cadillac CTS-V she had commandeered just outside of Vegas rolled smoothly over the tarmac of a small private airport, and she saw the chartered jet readied for her departure, did the knot of tension between her shoulder blades subside some.

And only when Constance Levy and her good for nothing husband, Marcos – who'd passed out when he'd imbibed one too many celebratory cognacs after winning three-hundred grand at craps, then got in a fight with the casino's bouncers – were safely aboard their chartered jet and speeding down the runway did the thundering of her heart fade into a shallow, measured thudding.

She pulled her shoulder length blonde hair back from her face with one hand and secured it with a band as she looked at her "drunken" husband – his bronze face, rich dark brown hair that fell just past his ears, trim black mustache and goatee. Laying flat on his back across two plane seats made the dark suit that took forever to get his unconscious body into appear even more rumpled.

Sydney relaxed against the soft leather chair, replaying the conversation she'd had almost a week ago with her only conspirator in this, thinking about how easy it had been to pull this off with his help.

The plane took off, quickly leaving the ground and the U.S. behind, and only when she was somewhere over the Atlantic did the full weight of what she'd done sit like lead in her gut.

She couldn't go back now.

Ops

Her mentor sat stoically across the table from her. The black light he used to read the final page of documentation steadily moved down the paper, revealing the words that had shocked her just days prior.

The mix of sorrow and anger she saw in his eyes, and the grim set of his jaw relieved her. He'd had no idea what the CIA and her father had done to her.

Gently, he placed the light and the papers next to his empty plate. "I didn't know about this, Sydney."

"I know… I mean I'd thought so, Dixon," she answered immediately. "Considering the time frame, my initial assumption was that you didn't. That's partly why I came to you."

He rubbed a rough hand over his face and sighed. "I don't have the power to censure the group that did this, nor would I have the backing to see it stopped." He casually leaned back in his chair. "I'm assuming you're here because you have something else in mind?"

A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. Besides his rank in the CIA, there was another reason she'd come to him.

She gave him a brief overview of her idea, leaving out certain specific details for his own safety. By the time she'd finished, he was nodding, thinking. It could very well work.

"So the goal is to find Sloane and Nadia, which in turn could lead us to the ultimate plans of Rambaldi. And maybe turn some of this attention away from you."

She took a sip of her green tea and looked at him over the rim, nodding once in answer.

"And you don't have faith that the CIA can reach them first?"

There was no venom in his voice, just a careful quality that came from knowing the team you're working for had slighted one of its most valued members.

"You of all people know how often the Covenant gets a leg up on us, not to mention how slippery Sloane can be. The Covenant's resources are ruthless but can also be quite effective."

"But does that justify releasing a man like him?"

She'd struggled with that, too. "Maybe not if this were sanctioned by the CIA, since there would be strict rules. But if you let me do this, alone, I can make it work. I can control him. And after taking the right precautions, I think he can be an asset to us."

He nodded, contemplating. It could work. Although… "What if I think that with your help, the CIA could hold their own."

Moot point, she thought.

"I just…" she exhaled, shaking her head. "After what they did… God. I can't do this for them anymore. I won't keep on being an easy target for their research. They kept track of my entire life, Dixon – they are still keeping track of it as we speak. Nearly everything that has happened to me, everything that I've done, is written in that file. It's even worse than the "liberties" I was required to give up while working as an agent for SD-6."

So much worse, she thought, knowing who'd been on board from the get go.

"I thought I could be a part of this even knowing some think it's all part of this prophecy, but I can't. Those papers hit too close to home. And from what I've been told, I can't bring Sloane and Nadia in, can't keep them from finding this device, without some part of this cursed prophecy coming true. If I try, if I end up having to fight my sister…" both of us will die, was left unsaid. "So to ensure that the CIA gets what they ultimately want – Sloane and the Rambaldi device – and to also get some semblance of a normal life back, I'll have to do it the next best way. Indirectly.

"You know I can do this, Dixon."

She saw understanding brighten his eyes, saw the point when he gave the silent go ahead to do this. Tears welled in her eyes as she smiled tremulously to show her gratitude.

He reached across the table and lightly squeezed her hand. "I'll announce your decision to leave the CIA tomorrow morning. We'll also meet back here tomorrow evening so I can give you those items you requested. "

The back door slammed shut and she heard the boisterous voices of Steven and Robin entering the house. Dixon stood and greeted both his children with a short hug. After a brief hello to her, the two scrambled out of the room and head toward the living room, their father smiling after them. His expression sobered when he turned back to her.

"It's nowhere near your extent, Sydney, but I feel like a pawn in all this too."

At noon the day following Sark's foiled transfer, a private interoffice memo signed by Marcus Dixon was distributed to the few people directly associated with the operation. Those involved in the prisoner transfer – especially the eight men who'd been hit with the potent tranqs – were disgruntled to learn that the organization that had aided Sark in his escape was still unknown. For the sake of the CIA's reputation, Director Dixon asked for complete discretion in revealing the truths about the situation.

A public memo was distributed shortly after, putting an entirely different spin on how Sark had gotten away.

Magic

At 4:25pm CET, a British Airways commercial flight to Brussels made its descent to the runway. All tray tables were secured and seatbacks in their proper upright position when the plane touched down. The passengers inside eagerly peered out the small oval windows, soaking in the heavy traffic of planes and workers. Some travelers pulled out their small books to help translate the informational and welcome signs. All were on the edge of their seats, anxious to get off the plane after what had seemed like an entire day of flight.

Stored on the airline's passenger manifest was the name Sydney Bristow – row 15, seat A. Even though Ms. Bristow's ticket had been collected, and she had been seen entering the gate at LAX to board the plane, seat A in row 15 had sat mysteriously unoccupied the entire flight.

Not that anyone on board had paid enough attention to even think twice about her absence.

Close to the same time, in the private sector of the same airport, a chartered jet arrived carrying Constance and Marcos Levy. Mrs. Levy seemed visibly embarrassed as she emerged from the jet and had to ask one of the men assisting with their baggage to also help carry her husband to the awaiting car.

In her hand, she carried a bottle of twenty-nine year old Brora to the receptacle near the hangar. Shaking her head in disgust, she dropped the near empty bottle of whiskey inside before walking back toward the vehicle, sliding into the driver's seat next to her dead-drunk husband.

After she made it through customs and was driving away, the men who'd assisted her placed empty bets on whether or not she'd been the one who'd given her husband the faint shiner on his eye.

Over an hour later in Antwerp, Constance Levy checked in at the Ambassador Hotel. Once the room she'd reserved for two was procured, she was seen carrying in four pieces of luggage and helping one groggy husband who was barely able to walk inside.

Fifteen minutes later, the front door to the room was bolted shut for the night.

Two hours later, back in Brussels, a slightly flushed Sydney Bristow stepped into the President Norde hotel. She strolled across the light gray marble to the primly dressed older gentleman at the front desk to check in, making polite conversation about the exquisite Grote Markt. The decorative rooftops, the row after row of windows and the quaint shops viewable inside, had all completely drawn her in and before she'd known it, it was past her check-in time. The man chuckled in response, getting caught up in her youthful enthusiasm.

Upon her request, he secured a ticket for the Jacques Brel Expo tomorrow and also arranged for transportation later that evening to the Cirque Royal.

Before heading to her room, she ordered a light dinner from the room service menu, asking for the plate to be sent up as soon as possible. When asked about turndown service, she declined, claiming fatigue from such a long flight.

The man at the front desk watched the young woman head toward the elevators with her one piece of luggage in tow. She'll have a nice, relaxing time here, he thought.

Little did he know that when the elevator door shut behind her, Sydney Bristow was preparing herself for a long string of late nights, double lives and multiple identities, and difficult covert moves. She sighed wearily as she leaned against the elevator wall.

It was all she'd known for years.

Out

Sydney saw the exact moment he woke up.

He didn't strain to open his eyes against the moderate light in the room, didn't groan in protest to the headache he must have after being drugged twice with a tranquilizer. He barely even moved one muscle.

The swift and near silent intake of air through his nose, and his body's sudden absolute stillness, stillness that bordered on rigidity, told her that he'd finally come to.

She leaned back in the hotel room's high-backed chair with her arms crossed, watching his form on the bed – face down, cheek snugly pressed against the mattress, his arms laying limply above his head. She waited for the spotty events of the last twenty-four hours to replay in his mind, waited as he tried to take in his current surroundings by only sound and smell, and to come to some conclusion on the severity of the threat around him.

It was what she would be doing were she in his shoes.

He released a sonorous breath seconds later and opened his eyes to mere slits.

"Utterly pathetic," he said, finishing the last statement he'd started to make before passing out in the Mercedes. "And I suppose those CIA agents in your way also woke up hours later feeling as rotten as I do right now."

Sydney didn't answer immediately, didn't move. She watched his eyes shift down to the odd looking rifle next to her, then he looked back at her. He offered little reaction to the weapon, and none to her blonde wig, designer clothing and jewelry, or flawless make up.

"Bullet, tranq, tranq, tranq," she informed him in a neutral tone. Broken glass, agent, agent, agent. "Repeated also for the rear vehicle. Specially designed weaponry has such amazing capabilities these days."

"Quite," he agreed drolly.

He lifted his head slightly to rub his face against the sheets, attempting to drag himself completely out of his haze. He winced as he brushed the bruising still decorating his face a little too hard, then, sighing, he lay back down. His eyes were completely open now, blankly looking at her.

"I would offer my gratitude for my release, but I get the distinct feeling you didn't pull this off for my benefit." He emphasized his statement with a slight tug on the handcuffs anchoring him to the bed.

"Never let it be said that Sark doesn't excel in the powers of deduction," Sydney mumbled as she stood, walking over to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He lifted his head and cautiously watched her as she grabbed a small piece of metal shaped like a capsule and what looked like a remote.

She sat down next to him, holding the small device in her palm. "Do you know what this is?"

His eyes showed that he might, but she continued anyway. "This is a device similar to the ones implanted into the necks of all members of The Alliance when they were around. Among other things, this device tracks the implanted person's whereabouts and vital signs. It also transmits all conversations back to a computer."

He shifted a little uncomfortably on the bed, although his expression was still carefully guarded. "This," she continued, holding up the remote. "Is the detonator. When the right code is entered, the device will combust and release a lethal toxin into the system. The dose is strong enough to paralyze in ten minutes and kill in twenty."

"I assume you're telling me this because I already have one in my neck?" he asked plainly.

"Actually," she replied as she grabbed for a small clear box on the nightstand. "I wanted you to be awake when I implanted it."

"How… thoughtful."

"Not thoughtful at all," she corrected. "Proof. Proof that I did indeed implant the device into your neck. Plus, I want to demonstrate beforehand what will happen when the tracker is detonated."

He watched her place the capsule in the box, next to a small gray mouse. "You know that's completely unnecessary, Ms. Bristow. I'm familiar with that device, and have witnessed what happens when a toxin takes over a body's system."

She glanced at him with a raised brow, then carefully set the box down. "If I even think you're deceiving me, I will set this off. If you ever go under my radar, I will set this off. If you ever fail to relay to me information about the Covenant's actions or about Sloane and Nadia's whereabouts, I will set this off."

"So that's what this is about," he concluded. "The CIA sent you to save them the embarrassment of the Covenant finding Sloane and Nadia first."

She averted her eyes, unable to hide her reaction. When she turned back to him, she saw a bit of humor and surprise banked in his eyes. "The CIA has no idea you're doing this."

"If you reveal the fact that I was behind any of this, to anyone, I will set the device off." Her voice sounded as cold and hollow as her body felt.

He lay silent as she swabbed the back of his neck with alcohol. She took a large syringe from the nightstand and used it to inject the capsule into his neck. A small grunt of pain was heard in the room, followed by more continual silence. She took the remote and the rest of the items left on the table and placed them in a lockable metal case.

Her back was to him as she sat at her computer to activate the device. Once the frequencies matched and the device registered as stable, she asked him to speak to test the voice recorder.

"Lauren told you about the safety deposit box."

Her shoulders stiffened slightly, but she clenched her jaw and kept her mouth shut until she could speak without her voice wavering. I'll be affected later.

She finished the set-up and closed her laptop. "Bedfellows make the best gossips, don't they?" she asked, her voice strong and steady. Unaffected.

She dug into her shoulder bag for a tiny set of keys. Moving to the bed, she leaned over his prone body and released one of his hands, then suddenly stopped and sat back.

"Oh, and before I forget. The device will automatically detonate if no vitals are detected in your system – or, for that matter, if there are no vitals detected in mine. And, more importantly, if any part of the capsule even comes into contact with air now that it's activated, it'll blow. Instantly."

He gave her no reaction to that – just eyed her dispassionately and waited for her to release his second hand.

When he was free, he rolled onto his back and rubbed absently at his red-ringed wrists, still regarding her carefully. She moved to the chair she'd occupied earlier and picked up her weapon.

"I'll be moving around with you… most of the time," she told him. "I expect you to meet me at the spots and times I designate without any variation. If you find out pertinent information and I'm not in your immediate area, I expect you to find a secure way to communicate that information to me. Any deviation from the plan –"

"And you'll set the device off," he interrupted, his voice undeniably testy. "Duly noted, Ms. Bristow."

Good. It's working.

"The CIA is quite embarrassed about your escape. Instead of revealing what really went on to the majority, it's being spread that there was an accident – a tire blowout – and in the midst of all the chaos you disappeared."

The corner of his mouth slanted up as he pushed off from the bed to stand. He didn't ask how she'd found out about the CIA information.

His body faltered just the slightest bit when his feet hit the ground, but he righted himself quickly. She tossed him a black Chase-Durer watch that was equipped with a text and digital readout, not needing to explain what it was for. He regarded the timepiece with an air of indifference, then docilely attached the band to his wrist.

He mentally prepared himself to leave, to take on this forced dual role. Sydney could see it. The squaring of his shoulders, the curt adjustment of the suit jacket he put on. She could imagine the thoughts, the plans that were forming in his mind to somehow get out of this. She also knew short of either or both of their deaths, or maybe job completion, there wasn't one. Smoothing his wrinkled dress shirt and giving his disguised face a cursory glance in the gilded mirror hanging on the wall, he started for the door.

When his hand was wrapped around the knob, he hesitated. "Where are we?" he asked, his back still turned to her.

"Antwerp," she replied, and watched him nod slightly then leave.

Once the room was secured again, she relaxed some. She sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, her arms loosely draped over her bent knees. Her head dropped back, gently hitting the cool wood, and she found herself staring at the ceiling with no emotion at all.

He'd known, too. It shouldn't have been so surprising, but it was. Why did it seem like she was always the last one to know things – even the things that pertained to her own life?

She should have been used to it.

It had, after all, always been that way.