Birds of Prey

A series by Whitelighter Enchantress

I.Quoth the Raven

A/n: These short stories are the sequels to Phantasmagoria. Just so you know, you've already read the first half of this; it's the epilogue from the aforementioned fiction.

Disclaimer: I own a Scrabble dictionary, I own the Wicked soundtrack, but I do not own Alias. Oh, and chapstick, I own some chapstick.

Part 1

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

"No!" she screams, ripping her body the farthest she can carry herself within the limits of the room; her back slams against the cold steel of a filing cabinet, jarring several of its drawers open.

"Yes, Sydney," Jack pushes on. "And you've been afraid to admit it to yourself, nor will you discuss the events that occurred with anyone."

She cries as if being tortured as she stares in horror at her father, strong and omnipotent before her.

Sydney set the hamper onto the mattress and proceeded to take clothing from it piece by piece, folding it neatly on the mattress. She heard the floor boards under the stairs creak behind her and soon she felt her husband's presence in the doorway.

"I'm headed out to the store. You need anything besides peanut butter?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so." She turned slowly and leaned over her stomach to peck him on the cheek. "See you later." He patted her bulging middle gently before exiting the room; the sound of the front door opening and closing quickly followed.

"No, Dad," she beckons for him to stop.

Yet he proceeds. "Your hallucinations, or visions, whatever is going on, you need to stop. You have a child to take care of, who is your responsibility, whose precious life is held in your hands and your hands alone!"

Between her grandfather's loud tone and her mother's cries, Leah's light whimpering grows. Jack's hand constantly rocks her carrier back and forth to no avail. Sydney sniffles in several short, hacking breaths and watches her daughter. Still so tiny, so innocent… And still so plagued by the life Sydney never wanted for her.

Once finished with the monotonous yet calming folding, Sydney put the clothes away in their proper places and wandered into the hallway. She rested her hand on the banister to the stairs, yet something drew her into the nursery. Leaning against the doorway, she rested one hand on her stomach and used the other to tap the light switch. Suddenly the room before her illuminated and a smile curled at her lips.

The room was small, yet large enough to hold the necessary furniture and baby items. She recalled the many hours she and Vaughn had spent working in that room over the past few months when she heard a noise from downstairs.

"You can't take her away from me, she's all I have left." She pleads, her knees shaking. "She's all I have to keep me sane."

"And you're all she has, as well." Out of the corner of her eye, she spies a shadow looming in the doorway. There stands Vaughn, tall and solemn. But silent. Jack's gaze does not waver. "This has to end."

Sydney furrows her brow. "Michael?" At the lack of response, she turns off the light and stands warily at the top of the stairs. She hadn't heard him come back inside. Again, she tried, "Michael?" yet again there was no answer. In her confusion she slowly made her way down the rickety stairs, her hands on each side of the wall guiding her down steeply.

Again, she cries. "What has to end? There's nothing wrong; ev-everything is fine." Her eyes flutter back and forth from the looming figure to her father, waiting for the former to say something, to utter any sound implying his well-being.

"You think he's here, but he's not. You imagine yourself still wrapped in his arms, but you're not. You sit holding Leah in your arms and pretend that he's holding her, that he's talking to her, soothing her cries. But he's not, Sydney. He never has been, nor will he–"

"Stop!"

"Don't think that I don't see it. Your eyes haze over, your mind drifts off to another place. You fail to hear her crying, you don't eat for days at a time. You cannot do this to yourself, and I will not allow you to do this to her."

"I said stop, damn it!"

She turned at the base of the stairs and glanced into the kitchen. Even with the dim lighting she could easily see no one was inside. With her still furrowed brow and her hand back in place, protective over her baby, she turned towards the living room.

Immediately she stopped when she saw him. Her feet froze to the spot, her hand clutched her belly tighter, and all her greatest fears suddenly became true. He stood tranquil in the center of the room, his now scraggly beard patchy across his face and neck, his hair a light gray around his balding head. And he smiled, a most twisted and malicious formation of lips, hatred burning like fire in his eyes. "Your name shall haunt me nevermore, Sydney Bristow."

Leah's cries erupt more intensely from her tiny lungs, and Sydney waits for the image that is Vaughn to speak; he does not. "I need her," she manages between sobs. "You can't take her from me!"

"I can, and until you can accept the present as reality you will not be the sole provider for your daughter."

"But Vaughn–"

"Can't help you. He's dead, Sydney."

The lights in the room flashed on, forcing her to close her eyes yet again. She pried them open anyway, the stinging in her pupils causing tears to fall. When finally focused, she observed the unknown object in the room was indeed a chair. The guards shoved him into it, and he sank pitifully. She noticed cuts and bruises covering his face and she bit her tongue, wanting desperately to scream. She made herself look away, only to discover wires, cords, devices of torment along with the chair. She screamed anyway.

"No," escapes from her lips softly, her child's near screaming resounding in her ears.

She heard the electricity building up; she stared directly into her husband's eyes, the only undamaged feature on his face. She watched as he stared hard at her stomach, his baby, before he met her gaze. He knew he would die.

Her eyes scan the room as memories flood back to her, a phantasmagoric scene playing before her eyes.

Meanwhile Sloane's fingers gripped the rubber handle of a lever, his eyes twinkling with sadistic delight. He had waited three years for this, three long, tortuous years. In a swift movement he pulled down on the lever, and electricity seared through the man's body.

Finally she settles her view on Vaughn, gently crying, "No, no," as he stares back at her, eyes full of pity.

She screamed as they delivered the final blow, writhing on the floor as he jolted in the chair. And suddenly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped over.

She closes her eyes, fighting the flash of images that pelt her mind. Screaming is heard, rivaling that of Leah's, yet she fails to realize it is her own.

"No!" she screamed, fighting harder against the chains. "No!" She gaped through tears at his twitching foot. Twice… Three times… Once… No more.

She opens her eyes and screams again. Her eyes dance around the room, she cannot focus on Vaughn, her father, or Leah. Finally her eyes fall to the floor, and her knees crumble beneath her. She balls her fists and presses her face into the exposed palm and wrists.

"Just look at yourself," Jack urges, spitting at her. "Look at yourself!"

Sydney does so, pulling her hands away slowly, gasping for air. Through the strands of hair that dangle in front of her eyes she finds thick white streaks of flesh over her wrists; the scars she has ignored for the past months, the scars she has refused to take in.

Throwing her damaged wrists to her sides she tears her eyes away, and they fall upon an opened drawer in the file cabinet. She elicits another sob as her fingers reach inside and caress the cold steel, slowly wrapping them around the handle, stroking the trigger.

She closes her eyes, tears still streaming down her face. Jack is no longer watching her, attempting to calm the baby; Vaughn's looming form stands indifferent to the situation. If she is going to carry on, continue her life the only way she knows how, then she has to do things her way.

Opening her eyes, she looks directly at the silent image, wanting to touch him, wanting him to comfort her, but now her yearning desire is not enough. Barely audible, she whispers, "Good-bye," and focuses her gaze on her father.

Her cries ease; Leah's quiet. Jack's hand returns to rocking the carrier to remain soothing the baby's whimpers. When his eyes lift meet his daughter's he finds the black barrel of a gun staring back at him. Sydney pulls the trigger, blood spattering, the icy pistol dropping to the floor.

Jack's eyes remain wide with shock as his knees buckle. He slumps on his side onto the carpet, a crimson stain growing around him. And while Jack's body falls to his death, Vaughn's image disappears forever from Sydney's sight. Deep down, she has always known it one day would.

With short, erratic breaths she stands, shaking. She moves forward and carefully spins the carrier to face her. Grabbing hold of Leah's hand, Sydney calmly consoles her from the noise of the gunshot. And after wiping a speck of Jack's blood off her daughter's pudgy cheek, she lifts the carrier and walks away; away from the memories, away from the pain, away from home...

Rome is always nice this time of year.