Disclaimer: I don't own Alias or anything resembling Alias. Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC, Bad Robot, etc.. I'm jealous.

Author's Note: The following story after the prologue (which is entitled "The First Six Months") is a disjointed and anachronistic account of the conversations Julian Sark had with a certain Sydney Bristow during his time in federal custody after Season 2. But, Sondra, you say, that's not possible because Sydney was captured by the Covenant and is forced to live as Julia Thorne during the periodthe sexy Julian Sark was imprisoned. To which I would reply, Yes, that is interesting, isn't it? Here's a cookie. Enjoy.

The First Six Months

I don't know how long I was imprisoned before Sydney Bristow began visiting me. Probably more than six months. Yes, I distinctly remember waking up five times with my head newly shorn. The first month I had almost managed to stab the agent assigned to shave my head with the blunt end of my spoon; and so, every month preceding that little incident, they first secreted sleeping gas into my cell.

By that time all the major players had given up. Agent Vaughn ceased interrogating me after three months. Much too short, if you ask me. Then again, what he lacked in longevity he made up for in pure hatred. I missed our little talks where he'd accuse me of all sort of outrageous crimes—many of them true, I admit, but still outrageous—and I would come back with a retort that would bring forth his signature scowl.

Jack Bristow kept on me for another two months after Agent Vaughn faded away into obscurity. But his continuous questioning soon ended after Agent Dixon was promoted. What an incredibly ridiculous move on the part of the CIA. It never ceases to amaze me how gullible that agency can be, promoting to the head of their LA division a former low-ranking agent of a defunct terrorist cell. Americans.

I was alone in my ten by fifteen prison cell for a month. The only company I received was from a random agent that would deliver food to me via a drawer in the wall, in much the same way of "Silence of the Lambs." Another similarity I shared with Dr. Lector was the glass window which faced a blank wall. However, I could not smell anything through the glass, which was rather unfortunate. I think it would have been unnerving to the agent delivering food if I complimented their choice of cologne.

The solitude, in short, drove me insane.

In that first week of my month of lonely tedium I sang. While I did my ritualistic exercises, lying on my cold metal bed, or even in between bites of my two meals per day, I sang every song I knew. They were songs I heard on the radio, in movies, commercials, operas.Anything I could even partially remember, I sang with gusto.

On the second week, I recited poetry. Shakespeare, Browning, Sappho, Whitman, Poe, Blake, Silverstein. All the poems I remembered from my readings and even some I remembered from my unusual and sporadic schooling. I recited everything I could remember, and then I translated it in my head into French, German, and Russian, and recited them again.

I told myself stories on the third week. Masterpieces and pulp fiction. I recounted the tales of Dorian Grey, the Bennett sisters, Ishmael, Harry Potter and the unfortunate Baudelaire children. I even went over as many episodes of the Simpsons as I could remember.

By the fourth week, my internal monologue ceased. Every random thought passing through my head was voiced just to break up the relentless silence pounding between the walls of my cinderblock cell. Lying flat on my back on my bed—I ceased working out, at this point—I talked and talked and talked, until my throat grew hoarse and my teeth chaffed against the insides of my cheeks, drawing blood.

I woke up one day, not being able to tell, of course, whether it was night or day. I did know, however, that I had survived the month, because my head was newly shorn. Running my hand over my head tentatively, I heard a voice speak up.

"I think it suits you," the voice said in a clipped, completely barbaric American accent. I turned my head, and there she sat on the other side of the room, on the metal bench attached to the wall.

"Sydney?"