Phantasmagoria

Chapter 2

A/n: Thank you so much for your feedback, everyone! For those of you confused I think the format will begin to make sense to you. Enjoy Chapter 2!

As soon as Sydney steps out of the shower, she feels Vaughn's absence. She shivers briefly and grabs for her bathrobe, wrapping it snugly around her dripping wet body. It is tighter around her bulging belly, she notices.

While blow drying her hair, she tries to remember her life in Los Angeles. Somehow, that time seems vague. She must strain to picture the faces of Will and Francie, and the memory of their apartment feels like a dream. She envisions her father walking briskly through the halls of the CIA, meeting with Kendall, his condescending tone ringing out sharply. Weiss is there, sitting at his desk, reading over a file. She assumes Marshall and Dixon have joined the CIA after the fall of SD-6. And she remembers her mother, a wild animal held captive in a cage. She wonders how or if everything has changed since she and Vaughn left.

She shuts off her hair dryer, the following silence alarming her as she drops her robe to the floor and changes into clothes from the dresser. A full suitcase rests on the bed; Vaughn must have packed for her.

Sydney walks down the narrow stairway with one hand over her stomach. She glances into the living room and sees it filled with boxes, it reminds her of when they moved in. Though drawn by the living room's usual comfort, she turns left into the kitchen and scours the cupboards. She craves peanut butter and opts to make toast. She feels her baby squirm at the mere thought of peanut butter, her only craving throughout her pregnancy.

The pot of water on the stove is still warm from this morning. She pours herself a cup of tea as she waits for her toast and eases herself into a chair. A newspaper sits at the other end of the table, yet she does not feel the need to read it. After all, she is returning not only to Los Angeles, but to America. She sips idly at her tea, returning her thoughts to her last time in California.

It took her nearly an hour to shake all of them off. She sped around corners and drove without a sense of direction until she spotted no one around. By then she found herself driving through hills, concluding she was indeed in the middle of nowhere. Her eyes darted to her purse and hand gun in the seat next to her, and she grabbed for her purse. She pulled out her cell phone, tossing the purse aside, and dialed for the CIA.

She finally got Kendall on the line. "Agent Bristow?"

"Someone needs to come pick me up," she told him, pulling her car off the road into a clearing. "I'm being followed, I can't head back into the city. Whoever it was already tried to shoot me in a gas station. I need to get in there right away–"

"We know. What are your coordinates?"

She told him, internally questioning his prior comment. Kendall knew she needed to get to headquarters? Perhaps he knew who was following her. But she did not have time to ask, he hung up before she got the chance.

She waited impatiently inside her car. How long would it take for someone to arrive? She had not kept track of the time while trying to ditch the other cars. Eventually she realized her car would be left abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and she wanted no association with it. She went to work removing every bit of identification from the papers in the glove compartment to anything that may have slipped under her seat.

She hesitated while sorting through the glove compartment. Was this action too extreme? She had only been followed. An agent would take her back to the CIA and they would sort everything out. She would get her car back, and life would return to normal. Or her new normal, which she planned to enjoy greatly. However, whoever was after her wanted her dead. That man had tried to shoot her in the gas station. Not to mention the many cars trailing her for God knows how long. Suddenly her precautions felt justified.

Shortly after she had removed her license plate and wedged it into her purse, she could see a red pick-up truck roaming over the hills from the north. She lifted the hood of her car, pretending to have car trouble in case it wasn't the agent. The truck approached rapidly, but slowed down within Sydney's proximity.

She looked over the truck's rusty appearance and faded decal that read, "Dusty's Landscaping." The driver's window lowered down, and a young unfamiliar face popped out. He had short, reddish hair, and his skin was lightly sprinkled with freckles. Sydney felt uneasy with his unfamiliarity. Could this be a set up? Could he work for whoever was after her? "Agent Bristow?" he asked in a low voice. Sydney gripped her gun which was concealed in her purse; she nodded. "Confirmation: looking glass."

She sighed in relief, he was CIA. He opened his door and stepped into the air, his shoes crunching on the gritty asphalt. Sydney wandered around to the passenger door. "Wouldn't it be better if I were hidden?" she asked, eyeing the two seater.

"That's exactly what we were thinking." She raised her eyebrow at him for a moment before she looked back to the long bed. Following her gaze, he added, "No, no, in here." She watched as he lifted the seat of the bench, revealing a box-like area just large enough to hold a person.

"No," she refused bluntly. The idea… It was ridiculous! He wanted her to hide under his seat?

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Absolutely not–"

"Agent Bristow, there's a very serious matter at stake, we need to transport you to headquarters immediately."

"Why? Who is it? What–"

"I'm sorry, I'm not authorized to that information. Just get in the car, ma'am."

She stared down at him through the car, surprised he did not quiver under her Deadly Bristow Glare. He was a stubborn one, and she could tell arguing with him would only detain them further. Possibly endangering them. Besides, she wanted to know who was after her and why.

She said nothing as she stepped into the cab and lifted her legs into what resembled a casket. She slid down onto her back, curling her legs to fit inside. The young agent's face peered over the edge, his expression modest, he showed no sign of his victory. He simply had a job to do, and he had done it. All he had to do was transport her, and as he closed the seat back into place, he sighed, starting the car and driving back into the city.

The toaster pops and knocks her from her reverie. She sets her tea on the table and slowly pushes herself out of the chair. Grabbing a knife from the drawer and the tub of peanut butter from the cabinet, she salivates as she smears the creamy spread atop her crispy toast. She does not bother to find a plate; she simply bites into the bread and feels utter satiation emanate from within. A sigh of relief escapes her lips and she settles back into her chair, her free hand cupping her warm tea mug. She remembers insisting, no, demanding that Vaughn import peanut butter for her. The American kind, she remembers saying, because the kind in Europe was "funny." He had argued with her, telling her something preposterous such as, "Nutella is a perfectly good substitute." But no, he was not the pregnant one, was he. She smiles at the memory.

She hears a knock at the door, and again she hoists herself from the chair. She carries her tea with her to the door. Unlocking it, she pulls it open and fills the space between the frame and the knob. Outside in the snow stands her father, and she cannot recall a time when she has felt so glad to see him. "Dad."

He looks… Different. Older perhaps. But mostly, she notices his weary expression, the addition of slight worry lines on his forehead. She watches his eyes immediately fall to her stomach, which protrudes boldly from the door. "Sydney," he says quietly, "you're… you're pregnant."

Her hand settles nervously upon her bulge. She has briefly forgotten the many things her father was not aware of over the years. She watches as he hesitantly lifts his hand into the air, about to touch her, yet he stops, placing his hand back at his side. He vaguely remembers the days when his ex-wife was pregnant, and how she hated having her stomach touched.

Finally, he offers Sydney a weak smile and she leans in to embrace him. Deeply she inhales his scent, awakening hidden memories from her past. She invites him inside as she pulls away.

He waits in the miniscule foyer and his eyes wander the premises. Sydney watches him out of the corner of her eye as she downs the remainder of her tea and sets the empty mug into the sink; she will leave it for Vaughn to take care of. She proceeds to wipe her breakfast crumbs off the table and is soon consumed in a yawn: her arms stretch upwards, her back muscles release and tighten.

Jack leans against the wall, staring into the kitchen. Sydney turns to him, somewhat amused by his expression. Through his weariness she finds concern, sadness, even pity. She tries to imagine his situation, losing all contact with his daughter for three years, and discovering her in a very different state than when he last knew her. She had been single then, and overly involved in work, flying all over the world covertly and going undercover. And now here she is, pregnant, married, and more concerned with baby names than terrorist organizations.

"Are you… ready to leave?" he asks after a moment. She nods. "Where are your bags?"

"Upstairs."

He flashes another weak smile before turning, slowly making his way to the second floor of the house. Sydney takes a deep breath, this is it. She is leaving this life once and for all. No longer shall she be Scarlett Avery, no longer shall she live in this rickety old house, no longer shall she reside in Switzerland. She wanders from the kitchen to the living room and stares once again at the many boxes.

She hears her father's feet pound down the stairs behind her. "Sydney?"

"I'm ready," she declares, more to convince herself than Jack. He opens the door wide enough for her to pass, and she backs away slowly towards the opening. She reminds herself, she will be with Vaughn again soon, he will take care of the house, the bookshop, make sure their possessions are transported properly and they will be together again soon. But at last, she tears her eyes away from the boxes–and the thought of her husband–and she makes her way out the door to Jack's rental car.

She waits as Jack drops her suitcase into the truck, and he drives them to an airfield. There they meet the private jet, set to fly non-stop to Los Angeles.

The flight is uncomfortable from the beginning. She fidgets in her seat and her baby consistently kicks at her left side. All she wants to do is sleep, feel Vaughn's arms envelop her, hear him whisper sweet thoughts into her ear. In attempt to distract herself she settles her eyes upon the beauty of the Alps below her. Snow has peacefully sprinkled their peaks, and sunlight dances over sparkling whiteness. She thinks that her husband would love this image as she drifts into an uneasy slumber.

Thirty minutes later the car turned off, and thankfully so. Sydney yearned to stretch her legs again, wiggle her toes, to shift her back from its uninterrupted crooked position. The heat and humid atmosphere of the box caused her to take shallow breaths, and she felt her hair sticking to the sweat that dripped down her neck.

A small fear, or not so much a fear as a foreboding sense of unease, voiced itself in her mind: this must be what it feels like to be buried alive. She heard the creak of wood above her as the driver slid off the cushion, his feet hitting the pavement like nails pounding her coffin. A small gasp abruptly escaped her lips when the driver lifted the top. She expected the bright sunlight to stream into the darkness of the casket, yet she discovered mere lights of a parking garage straining to cast shadows among the few cars present.

The young agent, as she now came to think of him, assisted her out of the box and led her inside the building. Sydney briefly wondered why he was leading her, but as soon as they entered the building it became clear. As a double agent, she consistently maintained her cover by jogging through the park, handing change to the street-clothed agent, and entering the building through a secret inlet guised as an abandoned structure. It had never occurred to her how others entered, the "normal" way. A parking garage. An entry code. It was as simple as that. However, it was not simple for Sydney Bristow for the door in which they entered was new and unfamiliar to her, and she had never seen this part of the Joint Task Force Center before.

She followed hesitantly down crowded hallways, passed quiet offices, until finally she recognized the wing for the prison ward, where her mother resided. The young agent ahead of her must have noticed her paused glance at the wing; when she turned her head to continue on he stood expectantly a foot in front of her. This action startled her but she concealed it well.

"I take it you know where we are now?" he asked with caution, eyes level to hers. She nodded, her eyes wandering over the freckles on his face. He instructed her to meet with Director Kendall, who was waiting in the conference room.

She heard his instructions clearly, yet she did not plan on following them. She wanted to find Vaughn, talk with him about the significance of last night, perhaps where they were going… Her eyes scanned the area for him. His desk was empty. It was then she realized the young agent remained standing at his post, waiting for her to enter the conference room across the open hallway. "Agent Bristow…" he began to warn. No deviations from his plan would be allowed; she would find Vaughn later. For now, she needed to know who wanted her dead, and why. She marched towards the room as soon as he had opened his mouth.

A/n: Please review, I have to go to a funeral and would love to have something to look forward to when I get home.