Thank you Marie, c j tiesto, JuliaAtHeart, Eva, Ingra, goldenshadows, truglasgowgal, and Karone Evertree for your encouraging reviews! Your words, inspire me to continue. This chapter's a little longer than the previous ones. I hope you enjoy.

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Sark entered through the glass doors and surveyed the inside of Le Relais de Pouilly.

The restaurant was full of people. Business men and women. Love stricken couples

sipping their wine and exchanging smiles over a candlelight dinner. The enticing smell

of French cuisine filled his senses, but he quickly cleared his mind and focused on the

task at hand. A man. He was looking for a man wearing a navy blue suit, reading a

book. Sark saw such a man sitting near the back of the restaurant and made his way

over to the table.

"The stars shine brightly this evening," said Sark, initiating the agreed-upon

procedure.

"As does the moon," replied the man, with a smile. "Ah, Mr. Sark. It is you. Won't you

take a seat?"

Sark sat opposite the dark-haired man and rested his hands on the table between

them. "Mr. Wesley I presume? I trust that you have retrieved the information I

requested?"

Mr. Wesley took a sip of wine and produced a white envelope from the inside pocket of

his jacket. "Of course, though I must warn you. It is not what you are expecting."

Sark was slightly taken aback by this answer but he didn't let it show. "What do you

mean?"

Without answering, the man smiled again and placed the envelope on the table. "Shall

we complete the transaction, Mr. Sark?"

Though Sark was slightly irked at the man's arrogance, he knew he couldn't risk

losing the document that lay before him. Sark reached inside his jacket and produced

a similar envelope, only this one was filled with hundred dollar bills. He handed it to

Mr. Wesley and took the other envelope from off the table.

"I will leave you with your purchase, Mr. Sark. If you require my services in the

future, you know how to contact me." Mr. Wesley handed the waiter payment for the

wine and left without another word.

Sark tore open the envelope and removed the first document. It was a single sheet of

yellowing paper, the word "Confidential" printed in bold letters near the top. In the

corner, it was dated June 2, 1985. Underneath the words "Child Liberation Agency"

was the following:

"On today, the 2nd of June 1985, four children were liberated and brought to the

training facility. Their former names are Alicia Mikinski, Rachael Woojink, Julian

Emerson, and Sydney Brown."

There was nothing more on the page. Sark didn't know what to make of this since he

didn't recognize any of the names on the list. Frustrated by the apparent lack of

information, he pulled the second and final document from the envelope. Except for

the change in date, it looked similar to the prior page.

"On today, the 15th of July, a child was liberated. The liberator is Adrian Lazarey.

From this day forward, the child will be known as Julian Sark Lazarey."

Sark suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He reread the words again, thinking that

perhaps he had made a mistake. It was the same as before.

"No. It can't be," he whispered. It couldn't be true. That bastard Wesley had

produced fake documents. That had to be it. It just wasn't possible. Lazarey couldn't

have adopted him.

As a million thoughts raced through his mind, Sark noticed a single sentence at the

bottom of the page. It simply read, "A second child was also liberated on this day. The

liberator is Jack Bristow. From this day forward, the child will be known as Sydney

Bristow."

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Sark was awakened by the sound of footsteps outside his prison cell. He opened his eyes

and saw a guard unlocking the door. A slender woman dressed in black pants and a gray

sweater stood to the side. It was the same woman from the day prior. Sydney had kept her

word.

Sark's head was still spinning from the dream but he forced himself to stand. He was

surprised when the doors parted and Sydney entered the tiny cell, her black heels clicking

with every step on the cold, stone floor. Sydney stood tall, her face void of all expression,

but Sark sensed a hint of unease beneath her otherwise calm exterior.

"You were sleeping," said Sydney, finally breaking the silence. She was all too aware that

the guard had relocked the cell doors and was now retreating down the hall. They were

alone.

"Dreaming actually," said Sark. His eyes never left her face.

Sydney was surprised at his disclosure. "You were dreaming?" She tucked a stray lock of

hair behind her ear and Sark was suddenly distracted by her beauty. Brown eyes sparkled

beneath hair the color of chocolate. Full lips parted slightly as she prepared to speak. He

almost smiled at the slight furrowing of her brow as she formulated her next question. "You

can dream without any memories?"

"Apparently," replied Sark, leaning casually against the wall. "Actually, I think my dreams

are memories. I know they're important. I just can't make sense of them."

Sydney tilted her head slightly and studied Sark's expression. He seemed genuinely troubled

by whatever it was he had dreamed. Still, Sydney wasn't ready to completely trust Sark, no

matter what he said.

"Can you tell me what you remember?" she asked gently.

Sark closed his eyes and tried to relive the first dream. "I was running down a stairwell and

someone was shooting at me from behind. I had something important. A folder. I'm not sure

what it contained."

He opened his eyes and Sydney signaled for him to continue.

"I reached a door but when I opened it, a man was blocking the way. I remember feeling a

blow to the head and then everything went black."

"Do you know who the man was?" asked Sydney, wondering if it had been CIA.

Sark shook his head. "He was wearing a mask. The way he talked…I think he was

German."

"That makes sense," replied Sydney, nodding her head. "Two of our agents found you in

Germany. You were lying unconscious on a street with two gunshots in your back. From

what I heard, it's amazing you were still alive. A blow to the head would account for your

amnesia."

A tiny smirk appeared on Sark's lips. "The bastard took my memory. He wasn't about to

take my life as well."

Sydney couldn't help but smile. "That sounds more like the Sark I know."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "Is that right? Tell me more about the Sark you know."

Though she had been expecting that question, Sydney wasn't sure how to respond. She

decided that honesty was the best answer.

"Well let me see. Sark is sarcastic, extremely obnoxious, and has the tendency to always

show up at the worst possible moments. CIA hates him because he always foils their plans.

Terrorists hate him because he's not a team player. If you make him angry, he won't think

twice about shooting you in the back." Sydney stopped and tried to gauge his reaction. She

was surprised to find that her words had had more of an affect on him than she had

expected. He looked utterly shocked.

"I'm a killer then?" he asked softly, unable to look her in the eyes.

Sydney suddenly felt very guilty for her little rant. "Yes."

An uncomfortable silence filled the cell, and Sydney wished very much that the guard would

return. Sark sighed and Sydney looked up, completely unprepared for what he was about to

ask.

"Do you hate me Sydney?"

Sydney couldn't remember another time when he'd called her by her first name and his voice

hadn't been laden with sarcasm. She saw a desperateness in his gaze that almost frightened

her.

"I used to. Now I'm not so sure."

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