I went back and I found the run-ons however they are not in my original text. I swear. It must be fanfiction's site not converting the text correctly. It's squishing all my words together. As for typos- hmmm. I usually run back through and find them but maybe it's my sleep deprived brain that doesn't find them all. Anyway, sorry for the trouble and I hope to catch them all from now on.

Eric watched the computer geek place all of his gadgets and tools on the table as if he was about to perform surgery. The guy had only been there for a few minutes and Weiss could tell that, although unusual, he seemed to be an okay guy. Well, more than unusual. Quirky.

"So you lost your memory? What's that like?" he asked, as if wanting the time of the day or to know if it was raining. It almost seemed a normal, bland question that was a part of his day-to-day dialogue.

"That's what they tell me. I don't know. I don't remember losing it."

"Was that a joke? Tha—that was good. So what's the last thing you remember?"

"It feels like yesterday I was working at my job but they tell me that was over eight years ago. And the more I try to place myself over those years I just get ticked off. And I want to—I don't know! Eight years! That's not normal."

Of course it would be eight years. That's when he first started the process of joining the agency. The first time he met Michael Vaughn. And, from then on, subsequently, all the rest of his targets who he knew and met throughout the years. The same people who Nadia was suppose to take out. The substance he inhaled had a specific purpose:

Nadia was supposed to breathe it into her system which would immediately take control of her brain. When that happened, she was supposed to methodically take out each of her colleagues and never be the wiser for it. Her mind would have been totally warped and everyone would have to pay for the sins of each other.

But it wasn't happening that way exactly. Eric's marked hostility was not his fault. The more he tried to remember, the angrier he got. There was something more there that he couldn't explain but it was like a fire burning away at his insides. Yet something, deep in his heart, was screaming at him to wake up, remember his life, friends, and love—if he had one.

"Eight years? So what did you do eight years ago?"

"Securities broker," he responded, distracted by the contents in the envelope they sent him home with. He plucked his watch out from inside and discarded the rest on the counter. For some reason, he felt an unnatural want to wear the watch as if someone close to him had given it to him.

"Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life? Don't you have any want, desires, aspirations?"

"Yeah, I want you to shut up, Flinkman, and leave me alone. What's with the third degree?"

Eric was a passive guy. He much preferred a "kill 'em with laughter" approach but he just couldn't help himself. The anger just ate away at him.

"My fault, my friend," Marshall apologized, connecting the last of the cables between the two computers.

"Forget about it," Eric muttered. He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and was questioning how he could lose eight years of his memory but still know what he had in his fridge.

Marshall finally spoke up about what he was doing, "This is a keystroke counter. But, uh, since we want, you know, to count past keystrokes I had to reconfigure it to read past keyboard usage. Now, if it works, and I know it will because, well it's something I made, then past use of the keys will show up as like a ghost image on my screen."

"That sounds illegal."

"It probably is. You're—not going to tell on me, are you?"

"This is nuts. Why can't you just go in as an administrator and wipe out the old and give me a new password."

"Well, normally, I'd do that, but you're working with a nineteen bit encryption key."

"Uh, you know what would be great, Flinkman? English!"

"Oh, I wasn't thinking. You're—not that astute. What can I…? Oh, okay, if I wiped out the password it will wipe out your entire computer hard drive. It'll be like those tapes Mr. Phelps got on MI. You know, Mission: Impossible? 'Good morning Mr. Phelps.' They did a movie version with, the man, Tom Cruise. Or, at least, that's what my wife says—and he didn't play Mr. Phelps. In fact—it was Jon Voight. Anyway, your computer would :pfft: and you wouldn't have any record of your past life."

"Are you normally like this?"

"Pretty much."

"Do you ever get on people's nerves?"

"You know I asked that of one of my friends once who, surprisingly, you remind me of him spot on. You know what he told me? He said that they wouldn't have me any other way. He's a great friend so he probably lied. But hey, I'm a genius so they've gotta keep me around. Right?"

"Sure. So why would I need such a fancy password bit-thing?"

"Witness protection? Or maybe you broker deals for the mob? I hope that that's not it because I've got a wife and kid and I don't want them to get involved. Hey, that friend I mentioned earlier? He married us. Yeah, it was a rather memorable event. Well, here's the pattern that pops up distinctly at frequent intervals. I think that you'll be able to access your files now. It's one word. No spaces. Good Luck." Marshall said as he handed Weiss a piece of paper.

"LaSantos? The Saints? That's a weird password."

"Maybe it's someone's name," Marshall suggested as he began to clean up his things.

"La Santos?" Eric whispered trying to recall anything from his mind. What he remembered surprised him.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't—I remember something," Weiss said quietly as he walked over to his living room. "I was sitting on the floor watching it rain. No, it was pouring. And I was sitting with a beautiful girl but I can't remember what she looked like. And her hair was dripping wet and I made some smart remark about how she was ruining my couch. Then…then…what happened next?" Eric rubbed at his temples, trying to force the memory back into his mind.

"Hey," Marshall said, fully aware of what would happen if Eric tried too hard. "Don't force your brain, just blank it out."

"Honey!"

"What? I don't exactly swing that way."

"No, we were eating honey and biscuits and she took the honeycomb thing and wiped it down my nose in response to my comment. And then I leaned in real close to her, our noses touching, honey was getting all over her and she was giggling and I kissed her. Wow, how could I forget a kiss like that?"

"Man, that's great! Your memory's coming back. Anything else?"

"No. Not yet. Boy I wish I could remember her. But she's probably just from the past."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, the way I figure it, someone who loved me should have at least tried to contact me by now. I've got no mail, no messages waiting for me, nothing. What was I? A hermit?"

"I don't think so Mr. Weiss. Don't worry; I'm sure it'll all come back eventually. Hey, does the name Julian Sark mean anything to you?"

Eric thought a moment. "No. Should it?"

"Nah. All right Mr. Weiss. You are good to go. Nice to meet you and good luck with the memory thing."

"Thanks Marshall."

"Nadia, Marshall's coming out."

"At least he is not dead. But what good has it done?"

"At least Weiss recalled something."

"That was one of my favorite days since moving here. We got honey everywhere," Nadia trailed off, lost in thought. She and Eric had shared a lot since they first met and she cherished every moment. "That was when he asked me to go with him to visit his family. Did you know that they do not know what he does? He chose not to tell them so they would not worry for him. I called his brother John and asked him to come help us. Of course, we will have to tell him the truth about Eric but I think it will be for the best."

The driver's side door opened and Marshall hopped in. "Did I do okay? Was I believable? Am I ready for my close-up Mr. Demille?"

"Marshall, now is not a good time," Sydney said, returning her gaze to the monitors revealing the inside of Eric's house.

"Not even good enough for a solution to our problem?"

I pulled a few lines from one of my more favorite episodes of Alias. Nemesis 306.