Assuming their intel was correct, this was going to be an easy mission. Break in, get to a particular office, download the files, get out. The building didn't even have much in the way of guards to worry about; since Sydney had Marshall on her side, the electronic security was a piece of cake to work around.

Once Weiss let her know the hallway's motion detectors had been successfully shut down, she slipped around the corner and into the office, immediately glad that she already had her gun in her hand.

Oh, this was going to be fun. She couldn't resist taunting him with this role reversal. "Well, well. Look who we have here."

The familiar figure at the desk turned in her direction. "Ah, Agent Bristow."

"Sark."

"It appears you're a little slow off the mark tonight. Tsk, tsk. Don't tell me the CIA's miracle child is slipping."

"Actually, I've just developed an understanding for why you usually let me reach a mutual target first. It's so much easier letting someone else do all the work and just taking the prize away from them, isn't it?"

"And it's taken you this many years to catch on? I would have thought you were smarter than that."

"Um, Sydney?" Weiss said into her ear. "How about you can the banter and get what we came for?"

No reason she couldn't have both. "Whatever my mother pays you, it can't be enough. Would you consider handing over the data if it meant I let you walk out of here?"

The glint that appeared in his eye prepared her for his response. "You're lovely, Sydney, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

She grinned and was about to reply when he suddenly reached to eject a disk, pocketed it, and lunged for the doorway.

She had allowed herself to relax just enough for him to be able to reach her and knock the gun out of her hand before she'd had time to use it, though at least she managed to block his escape with a sharp kick to the back of his knee, bringing him to the floor. Of course, it didn't take long for him to recover, but it did give her the few crucial moments she needed to shift mental gears.

Once, just once, she'd like to catch Sark by surprise and knock him out before he even realised she was there.

Choosing to ignore the fact that she'd passed up her chance to do that very thing by speaking rather than taking advantage of his distraction, Sydney focused on the man in front of her. As usual, they were pretty evenly matched now that she'd lost her weapon, but that just made the challenge all the more interesting. Fighting Sark took the kind of concentration that just wasn't required with most of her opponents lately.

She was starting to grow impatient with this particular encounter, however; she'd been promised an easy mission, and wasn't expecting to have to exert herself quite this much. Her chance came when he failed to block a solid kick to his stomach that threw him into the wall by the door; while he was attempting to regain his breath she seized the opportunity to rush at him, hoping to end it all with a quick tackle and the pair of handcuffs she'd brought just in case. She didn't realise until it was too late that he was exaggerating the effects her kick had had, waiting for just such a move on her part. By the time she saw the smug satisfaction in his eyes, there was no time to redirect her energy before he stepped smoothly out of her way, following up with a blow calculated to ensure she took his place against the door jamb.

Before she could react, he was behind her, her arms trapped securely against her sides.

"Meet me this Sunday, ten AM." His words weren't even a whisper; barely a breath in her ear, far too faint for her comm to have picked up. "The site of our little conversation when I started working at SD-6." Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he shoved her further into the room and made his escape. As soon as she regained her balance she rushed to follow, but he'd already vanished.

"He got the data," she informed Weiss. "I'm going to make a copy for us, too, but...."

"But now that Sark has it, it's going to be harder to do anything about."

"Yeah." She began to copy the contents of the hard drive onto her own disk, then swore. "It's corrupted. He must have installed a virus while he was at it."

"Perfect. All right, nothing more we can do here; let's head back to LA and let Dixon know what happened."

Their debriefing was, predictably enough, unpleasant. While with Dixon in charge she never felt she had to worry about being punished for her failures, Sydney felt so much worse about disappointing him than she ever had with Sloane or Kendall. In many ways he'd been her mentor when she first started at SD-6, and some habits were hard to break.

Although she wasn't certain why, she kept quiet about Sark's meet request. She told herself there wasn't much point in mentioning it until she'd decided whether or not to comply, but deep down she knew she would, if only to find out what he was after. They hadn't crossed paths since Georgia, and that whole experience was so bizarre that she couldn't begin to guess what he might do now. She'd certainly never expected him to side with the CIA against her mother, yet he had; it made trying to figure him out more difficult than ever.

In the end, she decided that giving up an hour or two of her weekend was a small price to pay for satisfying her curiosity. Since she didn't trust him, no matter how much he'd helped during their previous encounter, she made sure to arrive half an hour early just in case he'd planned to set up an ambush. She didn't have long to wait; he drove up less than fifteen minutes after she had.

"Good morning, Agent Bristow. You're early, I see. Don't you trust me?"

"Not really. Surprised?"

"I can't honestly say that I am."

"You called this little rendezvous, Sark; why don't you get straight to the point."

"Ah, yes, impatient as always. Very well, Sydney. The 'point', as you put it, is simple: I thought you might like confirmation that your mother is, indeed, alive. As I'd expected, she was far from the labs in Ts'khinvali by the time of the explosion."

She hadn't realised how strongly news of her mother's survival would affect her. In fact, she'd tried since then to forget about the possibility that Derevko might have died; considering that she was in the middle of actively betraying Sydney and her father at the time, Irina's fate shouldn't have mattered in the slightest. Yet she felt an almost physical sense of relief at Sark's words.

"I...are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I am, of course, not going to tell you how I know, or help you confirm this information, but it seemed to me that you ought to know this much, at least."

How was it he could keep surprising her? Of all the things she'd considered coming out of this meeting, reassurance definitely wasn't on the list. She wanted to ask why he was going out of his way to tell her this, but knew it would be pointless; he'd never answer, and if he did, it would be some cryptic remark that told her nothing.

She took a few moments to absorb the news, then met Sark's gaze. "Thank you," she said simply.

He had apparently said all he'd intended to say, for rather than replying he opened his car door and got in. Just before he closed the door, she called out, "Hey, Sark!"

He paused. "Yes?"

Now that he was watching her expectantly, she felt awkward, but since she'd begun she might as well continue. "I hope you didn't get in too much trouble for helping my father and me."

For a moment she thought she'd managed to surprise him, but he was Sark, after all, so she couldn't be certain. "Nothing I couldn't handle. As I said before, if Irina had required my assistance she would have indicated I should follow her lead. However, I do appreciate your concern." He maintained eye contact with her as he pulled the door closed and lowered the window, adding, "Until next time, Agent Bristow."

And just like that he was gone, leaving her no less confused than before.

About three weeks later, she ran into Sark in the field again. As usual, they ended up fighting; it wasn't until she was back in LA that she realised he'd at some point during the course of their struggle slipped a note into her pocket.

Madrid, June 15. Sloane arranging purchase of fifty Stinger missiles.

She read it five times before quite believing the words she thought she saw were truly on the page. On one hand, she'd never bought into the whole Reformed Sloane idea. On the other, she couldn't bring herself to think that Sark would actually volunteer information against one of her mother's fellow Rambaldi addicts. He'd worked with Sloane in the past, after all, and her mother was quite likely doing so even now. While she could easily believe that Sark held no particular loyalty to Sloane, what motive could he possibly have for feeding intel to the CIA?

It had to be a trick. She was probably supposed to report the note and argue her way into leading a team to stop the purchase and, theoretically, capture Sloane. Everyone knew that taking him down had been her goal for years now; the depth of her hatred was no secret, even among her enemies. More than likely Sark--or Sloane himself, or even her mother--would be waiting in Madrid to ambush the CIA team and capture her to further the latest insane prophecy. Which meant that the best thing to do would be to just not mention the note.

Therefore she was taken aback when, on June 18, Dixon opened the morning's briefing with, "We have received reports that three days ago Arvin Sloane was spotted with a known arms dealer in Madrid. Despite his having spent the past several years living an apparently law-abiding life as head of OmniFam, we have reason to believe that Sloane's meeting with this man heralds a return to his former activities. This violation of his pardon agreement puts Sloane back on our 'most wanted' list; any agent coming into contact with him is authorised to arrest or incapacitate him by any means necessary, up to and including lethal force. I would like to remind those of you who may not have been involved in the search for Sloane during the post-Alliance days that he is extremely skilled at evading capture, and should be considered highly dangerous. If you have any questions about Arvin Sloane, you can ask Agents Jack and Sydney Bristow, Marshall Flinkman, or myself."

Sydney was barely aware of the remainder of the briefing. All she could think was that Sark had, for some unfathomable reason, given her accurate intel--and that thanks to her refusal to pass the information along, Sloane now had several Stingers. What happened to the days when she would have taken any information that might help bring down Sloane, no matter its source, and bullied at least her father, if not Dixon, into doing something about it?

She spent the next several hours in a daze, mechanically acknowledging those around her without being fully aware of them. Her mind was too busy trying to solve the Sark enigma. It seemed her assessment of him had been seriously flawed; either that, or his self-interest was somehow best served by preventing Sloane from getting his hands on those weapons. Yet if that had been the case, why not simply stop Sloane himself, or at least tell her what he was doing, rather than just secretly put a note in her pocket?

It wasn't long before she had a chance to ask him; the following week she was in the middle of opening a safe when she heard a gun cocking from behind her. This scenario had grown so familiar over the years that she could tell it was his without even turning around, though she did so anyway. Before he could make any threats, she held up a hand and said calmly into her mic, "Weiss, it looks like this might take me a while. Going radio silent."

She waited for an acknowledgment before responding to Sark's enquiring look. "There was something I wanted to discuss with you privately first."

"I take it you got my message. I couldn't help but notice that you failed to act on it."

"Yeah, I...well, I thought it was probably a setup," she admitted.

He cocked his head, considering. "I can understand why you might feel suspicious, Sydney, but I assure you that was not my intent."

"I figured that much out when Dixon reported the same thing--after the sale had occurred. Which begs the question: what do you want, Sark?"

"What I always want, Sydney," he replied, as if she should know what that was.

"Real enlightening there, you know that? Obviously if you're passing the CIA information that would harm Sloane, it would have benefitted you to have the sale stopped--though why you didn't just do it yourself is beyond me. What I want to know is--"

"What you want to know, Sydney, is something that you're perfectly aware I have no intention of sharing with you. However, in the spirit of cooperation--" she couldn't help rolling her eyes at that "--I will say this much: yes, my motives are my own and will remain so, but I wish to see Arvin Sloane brought down as much as you do. There are reasons why I cannot accomplish this personally, but I am more than willing to aid you in your endeavours."

"You are aware that until Madrid the CIA was no longer interested in bringing Sloane to justice, right?"

"I don't care about justice, Sydney--and neither do you. Not when it comes to the man who had your fiancé killed. But that is hardly relevant any longer; I can't believe that Mr. Dixon would simply allow Sloane to get away with openly participating in criminal activities. All that matters is that the CIA is currently interested, and more importantly, that you would do whatever it took to see that this time Sloane was unable to talk his way into a pardon. My involvement merely accelerates the timetable."

"And how is that?"

By now he'd lowered the gun, seeming to accept that she was willing to wait until their discussion was finished before attempting to complete her mission. "My proposal is simple. I will, on occasion, provide you with intelligence I have acquired regarding Arvin Sloane's intentions. This exchange of information will only occur if and when we encounter each other in the course of our normal activities and on condition of complete anonymity; we are to have no contact that would not occur ordinarily, and no one is to know from whom you're getting the intel. That includes not just the CIA as a whole, but your father and Agent Weiss as well."

The practicality of the lack of contact was almost convincing, but she needed more. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"Do you doubt my sincerity?" She gave him a scornful look, which he acknowledged with a smirk. "Quite right. However, if it will make you more inclined to believe in the veracity of my offer, I will freely admit that I make no promise of passing along notice of all of Sloane's activities. Even discounting those for which I may have no opportunity to provide you with the information in advance, and the fact that I, no longer being even ostensibly in Mr. Sloane's employ, will certainly not learn of every plan he makes, I have no intention of telling you everything I do know. Some items might, of course, interfere with my own objectives; and others I shall hold back for my own safety. If a significant percentage of activities I might be assumed to have knowledge of are interrupted by the CIA, it wouldn't take long before someone might suspect me of being your source. I don't intend to put my life in danger just to satisfy your probable impatience."

"And you won't tell me why you want so badly to bring Sloane down after all this time?"

"No, I will not. Do you really care why?"

Not really. Not when it was Sloane they were talking about. Sark certainly knew her well enough to realise that.

"All right. I'm in. But know that if you ever try to double-cross me as a result of this agreement, I will personally make sure that every person you've ever worked for knows that you willingly provided intel on a former employer to the CIA without so much as getting something in exchange. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly. As long as you're clear that this offer extends no further than Arvin Sloane; in all else, we remain as much adversaries as we ever were."

"Understood."

"Excellent. Now, shall we resume where we left off?"

It felt a little weird, going from a rational business discussion straight to fighting over the safe and its contents--enough so that she ended up losing her objective. By the time she emerged from the building, Weiss was starting to contemplate going in after her, and she got a lecture on the hazards of going unnecessarily radio silent. Since he was clearly just venting some of his concern, she let it slide. Besides, she was too eager to get someplace private and see if Sark had left her another little surprise.

To her disappointment, he had not. Either he hadn't expected to run into her tonight, or he wasn't certain she would agree to his plan, since he clearly knew she'd done nothing about the first note. Or, of course, he simply hadn't had any intel just then that he was willing to share.

The following Monday she stopped by Dixon's office after the morning briefing.

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it, Sydney?"

"I've been approached by someone who wants to become an informant on Sloane's activities," she began nervously. "It's someone I believe can provide us with valuable information, but who will only deal on condition of complete anonymity, and only with me. I've given my preliminary agreement to the plan, but wanted to run it by you before making anything official."

"I see." Dixon leaned back in his chair and considered what she'd said. "And you're certain this person can deliver what they've promised?"

She nodded, and slid Sark's note across the desk. "This was given to me weeks before it occurred. I hadn't said anything because I'd believed it to be a trick. I didn't think the person in question would willingly provide us with accurate intel. It's my fault Sloane has those missiles, and I want to do anything I can to stop him from using them. I honestly think working with this person will help me--and the CIA--do that."

"Very well. It can't hurt to at least accept the information, and use that as a starting place for our own analysts until we can better determine how accurate it tends to be. Do you have a contact protocol?"

"Sort of. The details of that are supposed to remain a secret, or the deal's off, but basically it boils down to 'when there's intel to pass and opportunity to pass it'. Not very predictable, I know, but it gets the job done at minimal risk to either myself or the informant."

"Understood. Carry on." She rose to leave, but he added, "Oh, and Sydney--don't forget, I want Sloane as much as you do. I assure you, we will all do 'anything we can' to bring him to justice."

She thanked him and withdrew. Having Dixon on board would make things a little easier, but she nevertheless studiously avoided her father's gaze when the announcement was made the following morning. Everyone else--except perhaps Weiss, and maybe Vaughn, though she was confident she could handle their curiosity--was willing to simply accept the anonymity that wasn't, after all, an unreasonable request for a mole in an organisation like Sloane's to make. That they didn't know just what kind of organisation that might be this time didn't really matter; those who hadn't been involved in the takedown of SD-6 and the rest of the Alliance had certainly heard enough stories over the years to know that anything Sloane might be doing would have to be bad news.

Jack Bristow, on the other hand, was not a man accustomed to being left in the dark, especially not where Sydney was concerned. Worse, he was one of the very few people to know that Sark had helped the CIA once already, in the not-so-distant past; if anyone could put two and two together, it would be him. And once he did, he would try to talk her out of it, pointing out all the dangers of the situation--things she already knew, and had decided were worth the risk. He'd always counselled caution when it came to her attempts to stop Sloane; her mind was made up, though, and she refused to let him talk her out of the agreement with Sark.

Which was why it was so important he never have the chance to try.

She successfully avoided being alone with her father for the next few weeks, due in large part to a clever little plan she called "hanging out with Weiss a lot". From the looks he gave her in briefings, it was clear her father knew what she was doing, but she could handle that. It was certainly easier than convincing him to let her work with Sark on an ongoing basis--without him there to watch out for her--would be.

Once the deal had been made, she found herself running into Sark almost as frequently as she had back in her SD-6 days. Before she even realised it, she grew to look forward to their encounters, the outcome of each official mission taking a backseat to the eagerness with which she looked forward to searching afterwards for messages. About half the time, she found them. After a dozen or so proved to be accurate, Dixon even stopped waiting for CIA confirmation of Sark's intel and began accepting what she passed on as reliable; at that point, any urge she might have felt to confide the identity of her source faded, since she knew that if she did she would have to fight to get anyone to even act on the information, much less trust it implicitly.

There were times when she stopped for thought long enough to marvel at the fact that she was willingly--and successfully--working with a man she'd once trusted less than anyone except her mother and Sloane. The very idea seemed surreal, but then she remembered the reason for the alliance with Sark, and no longer cared. Sloane had done his best to ruin her life several times over, all while claiming to care about her as if she were his own daughter. The extent of the loathing she still felt for him overrode all other concerns; somehow, she had no problem believing that if anyone could manage to spark a similar hatred in someone like Sark, it would be him.

The partnership proved surprisingly effective. With each blow the CIA dealt Sloane thanks to Sark's information, Sydney felt like she was finally accomplishing something. For too long it had seemed like no matter what she did, the bad guys just kept coming. Take one down, and another would pop up in their place. And then there was Sloane, who refused to stay down and even got everyone convinced he'd had a change of heart. Being able to make real strides against him after all these years was...indescribable. If all it took was more or less working with Sark, it was more than worth it. She'd never in a million years tell him so, but deep down she sometimes started to wonder if Sark hadn't been right about how well they'd work together all along.

When it began to look like the final phase in her quest to rid the world of Arvin Sloane was drawing near, Sydney began contemplating what she would do afterward. In the years since Danny was killed, her life had been focused on one thing: making Sloane pay. There had been detours now and again, even aside from her missing years, but no matter what the CIA's official target was at any given time Sydney never forgot why she'd walked into the LA field office that first day. Taking down the Alliance had been a great thing, sure, but it wasn't what she wanted. What she needed.

Now, however, her goal was finally within reach, and she found herself wondering what she'd do without it. Hatred of Sloane had been such a part of her for so many years--including the entire time she'd worked for the CIA. The real one, at least. She couldn't imagine doing this job, taking these risks, without the knowledge that someone needed to ensure Sloane got what he deserved to sustain her. Blind patriotism had been used up long ago. Considering her background, she was sometimes amazed she'd managed to have any faith in anything as long as she did; by now she'd seen too many compromises, done too many things she'd had to rationalise as being for the greater good, no matter how she felt about them.

There were many things she loved about her job. She just didn't know if she could continue doing it without a specific target to work toward. Sometimes she thought she was being selfish, putting herself ahead of the good of the country...but the country had taken so damn much from her already; wasn't she due a little selfishness?

By the time she'd reached a decision, the CIA had decided there was sufficient evidence to lock Sloane up for good, with no hope of a pardon this time. It was with great anticipation on all sides that Dixon announced one morning that the order for Sloane's arrest had come down from Langley. Although he couldn't join the arrest team himself--one of the drawbacks of being in charge, he admitted to her privately--Dixon made sure that all of the field agents who had a personal interest in the success of the mission were included. All told, there were two dozen agents sent, a sign of just how serious the CIA was about not letting Sloane slip through their fingers this time.

Thanks once again to Sark, they knew where Sloane was expected to be that night and were able to set up an ambush. Sydney had been so convinced that she would never see Sloane behind bars where he belonged that she was almost surprised when he appeared on schedule.

As usual, Sloane had far too much faith in his own invincibility, and had shown up for what he thought was to be a meeting with Sark without bodyguards. Sark, of course, had never intended to appear, and what Sloane found instead was a team of very determined, very hair-triggered agents. While he was in the middle of trying to bait Sydney and her father, Sloane suddenly reached under his jacket as if going for a shoulder holster.

Before his hand made it back out, he was on the ground. Three agents had shot almost simultaneously, their bullets having combined to pretty much take off the top of Sloane's head. Even for someone in Sydney's crazy life, he was indisputably dead.

Sydney wondered if it was a bad thing that part of her wished she'd been one of the ones to shoot him. Logically, she knew that would not have been wise; she'd come under investigation so many times already, and the fact that everyone knew her antipathy toward Sloane would have guaranteed another, particularly since they were supposed to capture, not kill. Dixon might let it slide, but there would definitely be those who'd wonder, loudly and in ways she couldn't ignore, if she'd killed him out of revenge rather than necessity. But she suspected that deep down she'd always regret not having done so anyway.

Her father probably felt the same way. What did it say about them, that nearly the only times they could agree on something, death was involved?

As they were flying back to LA, she felt shaken, possibly even a little in shock. From the looks of things, she wasn't the only one. Weiss managed to give her a shaky grin, and her father just looked stoic as always, but a couple of the other agents who'd once been part of SD-6 looked as lost as she was. Vaughn looked...well, she'd lost the ability to read him long ago.

With so many agents involved and the mission being, technically speaking, a failure, the debriefing was a long one. At first she'd intended to talk to Dixon immediately, but by the time she was free she was just too exhausted. She needed to be clear-headed for this discussion, in case he tried to talk her out of it. And then there was one little thing she wanted to work out first....

The following week she went to Dixon and began paving the way by letting him know she was considering leaving the CIA. Ignoring the voice in her head whispering she was turning into her mother, she cut off his attempts to dissuade her by deliberately bringing tears to her eyes as she hinted at all her job had cost her over the years. She knew she ought to be ashamed of herself--Dixon had lost his wife; she had only lost a fiancé with whom she hadn't had time to truly build a life. Dixon's children had lost their mother; in a twisted sort of way, she had gained hers--but when it came to avoiding an argument over her plans, she couldn't deny that it worked.

The only other person she told was her father. She figured either he would support her decision to get out of this life, in which case he could be useful in persuading the others, or she'd need the extra time to work on bringing him around. To her relief, he simply nodded and said he thought it was a good idea.

She didn't want to leave immediately, however. There was something she needed to do and couldn't accomplish once she'd left. Sydney bided her time, growing increasingly confident she'd made the right decision as she waited.

She knew the time had come when the name she dreaded most came up in a morning briefing. Another Rambaldi artifact had been found, and as Dixon was quick to remind everybody, even though Sloane was out of the picture the CIA couldn't afford to ignore such news. She tried not to notice when everyone snuck glances at her and her father at the mention of the "other Rambaldi followers who are still at large".

It came as no surprise when she was assigned to retrieve the artifact. In fact, she was counting on it. She told Dixon she would, but that she was tired of feeling like her life was run by a madman who'd been dead for centuries. When she got back from this mission, that was it; she'd serve out her notice behind a desk, and then she was out. It was...liberating.

That taken care of, she began informing the other people who mattered. Her father first, of course, then Weiss, Marshall and Carrie, Vaughn. Sad to say, that was pretty much it: the complete list of people who cared about her.

They all made the appropriate noises--wished her well, claimed they'd make sure to keep in touch--but she knew she was leaving them behind as well as her job. She'd learned the hard way just how difficult it was to maintain outside relationships in their line of work; sure, her friends would try, but they'd still be working long hours, and once she'd lost her clearance they would find themselves with little they could talk about.

Well, she'd survive. It wasn't like she'd never been alone before. Maybe a complete break was for the best; there was too much risk of getting sucked back in if she continued to spend all her time with CIA employees.

It was a bittersweet thing, setting off on her final mission. She couldn't regret her decision, but now that the time had come Sydney had that "end of an era" sensation she'd felt for the first time when she graduated from high school. For all that her life in recent years seemed overly filled with turning points, leaving the spy life was probably the most momentous change since she lost Danny and learned the truth about SD-6. It wouldn't shatter her worldview, but there was no denying that nothing would be the same from this point on. Still, it was nice to finally gain control of the changes in her life: this had been her choice, and for once there were no lies or betrayal involved. Just Sydney deciding what was best for Sydney.

Bittersweet or not, she was determined to carry out this mission like any other. Well, with one small variation, but the point was she didn't want to go out without knowing she'd done her best every time she was in the field, final op included. It started off smoothly; she easily evaded the guards and navigated the hallways.

Once she'd made it to the office, she went radio silent, cracked the safe without difficulty, and settled down to wait, the artifact in plain view on the desk in front of her. She was convinced he'd show up; this seemed like just the kind of thing her mother would send him after, so it was only a matter of time.

In fact, she hadn't been waiting more than ten minutes before the door opened and he stepped inside.

"You know, Sark," she began before the door was even closed behind him, "you're late. I'd have been long gone by now if I hadn't wanted to talk to you first."

He arched one brow. "Somehow I doubt you merely wanted to congratulate me on the success of our efforts to remove Arvin Sloane."

"That's because you're not a fool. Actually, I did want to thank you for your help; we never would have gotten him this soon if it weren't for you. And," she took a deep breath, giving herself one last chance to change her mind about telling him, "believe it or not, I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

She nodded. "I'm leaving the CIA; tonight is my last mission. Now that Sloane's out of the picture, I've done everything I needed to, and it's time to get out."

"I see." He looked slightly taken aback. "Might I ask why you're telling me this?"

"Well, it's thanks to you that I now have a shot at having a normal life for once. I guess I felt I owed it to you, somehow." She shrugged. "It just seemed like something I had to do."

"Don't you think you might find 'normal life' a trifle...boring?"

"God, I hope so." At his enquiring look, she explained. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had the time to be bored? I'm looking forward to being able to read something other than mission specs, travel to places I'll actually have a chance to see, who knows? Maybe even finish my dissertation, if it's not too late after all these years. But even boredom would be a welcome change."

He tilted his head, but made no direct reply. "I would say you could have the artifact without a fight as a farewell gift, but neither of us would believe I actually meant it."

She couldn't help it; she smiled. "No, we wouldn't. Besides," she admitted, "I've kind of been looking forward to this--one last victory before I retire."

"Victory? Hardly, Agent Bristow. I will, however, offer you the option of walking out of here now, unharmed, in exchange for the item."

She pretended to consider. "No, I don't think so. You'll have to take it from me the old-fashioned way, Sark. Come on, for old times' sake."

"Very well," he agreed, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that half-smile of his. She felt a secret burst of glee as she rose and walked to the other side of the desk; win or lose, fighting Sark was always a thrill. He never failed to provide a real challenge, and while she would enjoy no longer having to constantly hide injuries, this was one aspect of her job she knew she would miss.

He didn't disappoint. In fact, by the time they were finished she was not only breathing hard and limping, she'd lost the artifact.

As she made her way out of the building to where Weiss was waiting, she was smiling.

A week after his last encounter with Sydney Bristow, he began planning.

That same month, he started to put his plans into action, carefully carrying out operations of his own, slowly acquiring a variety of assets and personnel that had no connection whatsoever to Irina Derevko. While he wasn't so naive as to believe Irina would remain ignorant of his actions for long, he continued to carry out her orders faithfully and did everything within his considerable abilities to keep his unauthorised activities from drawing more notice than was inevitable. He'd hoped to have more time to prepare, but Sydney's retirement had forced his hand. Assisting her in gaining revenge against Arvin Sloane was supposed to bring them closer together, not provide her with an excuse to remove herself from his life entirely.

He expended far more effort on hiding his other secret. As opportunity arose, he was keeping tabs on Sydney's whereabouts. He had the chance to do so less often than he would have liked, but the need to keep his interest from becoming known meant that he had to take care of it personally. There was no one he trusted enough to delegate this particular bit of surveillance to. He hated to think what Irina's reaction would be if she found out, but he doubted all his years of loyal service would earn him much consideration. In any case, for the time being he only needed to remain aware of Sydney's general movements; the details of her actions since leaving the CIA could wait until he was closer to his goal.

Due in large part to Irina's example, he'd learned the art of long-term planning, and knew better than to grow impatient; rushing to reach his objective would in all likelihood result in losing it. He was therefore content to take the better part of two years to assemble sufficient assets to move on to the next stage of his plan.

When a suitable moment arrived--fresh from a highly important, successful operation that had Irina in as complacent a mood as she ever experienced--he went to her office and made his move, a bit apprehensively. If he'd miscalculated, everything could fall apart then and there; he thought he could persuade her to accept what he planned to offer, but if there was one thing he'd learned in his career, it was that nobody could ever truly predict Irina Derevko's actions.

"Irina, there's a matter I'd like to discuss with you, if you have a moment."

"What is it, Sark?"

"Consider this notice of my resignation. I cannot deny that I have learned a great deal from you, but I have decided that it is now time to establish an organisation of my own. As an acknowledgement of how long we've worked together and how beneficial our affiliation has generally been, however, I have a proposition. I suggest that you let me leave without a fight and that for a predetermined period--let us say, three years--we both refrain from attacking each other's person or assets."

Not unexpectedly, whatever Irina's reaction may have been was impossible to read. "Our interests are likely to coincide frequently," she simply pointed out.

"And I see no reason we can't both attempt to acquire new assets like any other competitors. I am simply seeking a way our separation can occur without either party having to be concerned over how much the other knows. A moratorium should allow plenty of opportunity for you to move bases of operations and institute new protocols."

"I see." She let the silence stretch; recognising her tactic for what it was, he refrained from trying to fill it with nervous chatter. "By the way, Sark, how is my daughter?"

He carefully kept his expression blank. "Surely your information on that point is more current than my own. I haven't encountered Agent Bristow since shortly after Arvin Sloane was killed. I have heard rumours that she has left the CIA, but I really couldn't tell you more than that."

"Interesting. Considering your past history, I would have expected otherwise. I find it hard to believe you would just let Sydney walk away."

He discarded the idea of playing ignorant of her implication almost as soon as it occurred; that would surely confirm her suspicions. Instead, he opted for dismissing it. "Irina, don't insult us both by accusing me of harboring feelings of which you know I am incapable."

"Are you? And what about destiny?"

"Merely a ridiculously easy means of disturbing her concentration. Also, I admit, providing me some degree of amusement due to her reactions, predictable though they were. Fate and prophecies and the like have always been your beliefs, Irina, not mine."

For a long moment he was uncertain whether she'd believed him; then she said, "Very well, Sark. I'll consider your proposal."

"Thank you." Before leaving he added, "I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that I am by far the best assassin you have; anyone you might send after me should you choose to reject my offer would only be a waste of an employee."

Despite Irina's unexpected mention of Sydney, he came away from the conversation reasonably confident. They'd worked together so closely for so long that he truly believed Irina was as fond of him as it was possible for her to be--considering that he was not a Bristow--and unless she believed his offer to not use his knowledge against her was insincere, there was a good chance she would choose to make their parting amicable.

Four days passed without the subject's being mentioned again. He was willing to give her a reasonable amount of time to think before raising the matter; Irina never responded well to coercion, particularly on the part of her subordinates, and being pressured to act was something she could easily view as such. When she asked him to stay behind after a briefing, he knew his patience was about to pay off.

Irina examined him solemnly from behind her desk. "Can I assume you still intend to leave me, Sark?"

"You can," he replied simply.

She nodded thoughtfully, as if having expected that answer. "You have served me faithfully and well for a number of years. You chose not to seek revenge when I failed to extract you from the CIA as we'd planned. And despite your fondness for amusing yourself at her expense, you generally looked out for my daughter as well as I could reasonably expect. Additionally, you're being upfront about this desire for a separation." She paused as though weighing the facts she'd just recounted, but it was only for show; Irina would never have begun this conversation without a decision already made. "You do seem to have earned the right to some consideration. Very well, Sark. Your proposal is accepted. Once tomorrow's operation has been completed, you are released from my service and, three-year truce aside, all ties between us are severed."

"Thank you, Irina. You have always been more than generous to me, and I appreciate your understanding in this matter."

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and he left before she could change her mind. While a part of him regretted parting from her--he hadn't been exaggerating too much when he'd once told Sydney Irina was almost like a mother to him--it was necessary, and he'd never been one to waste time looking back rather than to the future.

He waited another six months before putting the next stage of his plan into action. He had no illusions when it came to Irina's trust; she had none, and would certainly be keeping tabs on him. Therefore he let enough time go by for her observation to, presumably, become occasional rather than constant; with any luck, she would be looking elsewhere when he most needed her to.

He tracked Sydney down in Belgium. After he'd been observing her for a few hours, she gave him the perfect opportunity by sitting, alone, at an outdoor table for dinner. He allowed himself a smile of anticipation before crossing the square and sitting opposite her.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said smoothly, causing her to glance up from her menu. "What brings you to Leuven, Miss Bristow? Come to see the Beguinage?"

She looked as if she were trying to decide whether it would be worth the trouble of launching across the table and attacking him. He wasn't worried, however; she'd never make such a public scene without cause. Not when she couldn't use "serving her country" as an excuse.

"What are you doing here, Sark?" she asked, resigned.

"I believe I asked first. However," he continued, cutting off her incipient protest, "that is neither here nor there. I have come to make you an offer."

She rolled her eyes. "I've told you again and again, I'm not interested in working for my mother."

"How lucky for me, then, since I'm no longer interested in working for Irina either." That caught her attention; he hid his triumph, and pressed on. "I've set up my own organisation, completely independent of Irina's, with her knowledge and consent. I am, however, currently in need of a partner. You have certain qualities that I believe would suit me admirably."

"Let's ignore for the time being all the occasions on which I've already made quite clear my views on the idea of working for a terrorist--"

He couldn't help it; he winced. "I do wish people would stop calling me that." Catching her expression, he answered Sydney's question before she had time to ask. "A mercenary, yes. Assassin, absolutely. Even a common criminal, if you absolutely must. I am, indeed, all of those things. But a terrorist? Hardly. I have no use for ideologies, and none of my actions have ever been calculated to put pressure on any governmental regime through any means, terror included. I have more important concerns."

"Whatever. Weren't you listening when I told you I was retiring? I'm out, Sark. For good. And I plan to stay that way."

"Come now, Sydney. It's been two and a half years; haven't you grown bored with 'normality' yet? You can't possibly find sufficient challenge in civilian life."

"You know, there are ways of being challenged that don't require adrenaline."

"Such as planning the next stop on your world tour? Hardly a challenge for someone of our capabilities--and for that matter, hardly normal. Normal people our age have jobs. They wake up every day, go to some drab office somewhere, and spend several hours performing the same tasks day after day. They certainly don't spend years travelling the globe, with no real concern for money. Even now, you're fooling yourself if you think your life is normal."

"Well, maybe so, but it's a hell of a lot closer than--hey! Have you been following me, you son of a bitch?"

"Now, now, there's no need for name calling. It doesn't become you."

"Have you, Sark?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't."

"Then how do you know I've spent most of my retirement travelling?" she demanded.

"It's possible I may have...looked in on you from time to time. To ensure your retirement was not a ruse, you understand."

"Oh, of course," she replied sarcastically. "Is it really too much to ask that I be allowed to retire in peace?"

"Would it influence your decision at all to know that my organisation is one hundred percent Rambaldi-free?" She snorted. He shrugged. "Very well. If you're not interested in a business relationship, so be it. However, there are other varieties of partnership. Should you decide you're interested in one of them instead, just say the word. I'll be around."

Not wanting to leave her with time to reply, he took only the briefest of moments to enjoy the stunned expression on her face as his alternate proposition sank in before walking away confidently. He knew there was nothing to be gained from any response she might make now, so it was best all around if she had time to consider the matter properly.

Having made initial contact, he proceeded to amuse himself by crossing paths--but only fleetingly--with Sydney at every opportunity. In Cairo, he passed her on the street, disappearing into the crowd before she had fully registered his presence. In Venice, he toasted her from across a busy restaurant. In Nha Trang, he left a single flower on her beach towel. In Basseterre, he had a voucher for a hike up Mount Liamuiga delivered to her hotel, having decided that the scuba tours might remind her of that unfortunate incident in Siberia so long ago; Sydney did tend to hold a grudge. In Paramaribo, he saluted her from the far side of Onafhankelijksplein, grinning at her obvious frustration.

Sometimes, he even deigned to don a disguise. When working, he preferred to rely on skill alone, but this wasn't business--quite--and it was worth it to be able to imagine the look on Sydney's face as she returned to her hotel only to discover that during the course of her sight-seeing he'd executed a flawless brush pass and left yet another note without her even being aware of his presence. Aside from the one in Szeged critiquing her Hungarian pronunciation, they never said anything of substance, serving only as a reminder that, try as she might, he hadn't given up on her.

In fact, her attempts to evade him only served to confirm his belief that they were meant to be together. Although business considerations meant he couldn't follow her everywhere, he had little difficulty keeping track of her movements--just enough, in fact, to keep the game interesting. Knowing, as she surely did, how he liked a challenge, Sydney would have done better to simply settle in one place, openly, rather than try to hide her steps. Assuming, that was, that she truly wanted him to leave her alone. The fact that she hadn't interested him greatly.

Eventually he decided she'd had sufficient opportunity to consider his offer, and that it was time for a more direct encounter. The fact that she was currently in Vienna, where he happened to have a base of operations, was a coincidence too good to pass up.

He found her in the Stadtpark, idly tossing chunks of bread to the ducks. She didn't react as he joined her on the bench; increasingly confident of the outcome of this discussion, he waited patiently for her to speak.

"You know, Sark, you're like one of those annoying songs that get stuck in your head and won't go away. Don't you ever give up?" she asked rhetorically, sounding more accepting of that fact than annoyed by it.

"Not when there's something I want, no."

"Why won't you just leave me alone?"

"Sydney," he chided her gently, "if you didn't want me to follow, you shouldn't have run."

"I wasn't running--" she began to protest before stopping herself abruptly. "Okay, maybe I was," she admitted. "But for future reference, generally when someone runs from you it's a sign they're trying to get away, not that they want you to come after them."

"Except when it's a sign they want to be convinced but are afraid to acknowledge that fact."

"Then again, it's more likely to be a sign that they'd like a little peace and quiet, and you know that no one would ever use that phrase to describe you, Sark."

"That argument would be far more persuasive if you had in fact shown any signs of wanting 'peace and quiet'. You ought in that case to have returned to LA and settled into that 'normal' existence you always claim to long for; instead you've continued to roam the world. As a matter of fact, I can't think of a time when you've truly sought peace rather than excitement." She started to object, but he pressed on, knowing there was nobody else who would point out to her the dichotomy between her oft-repeated words and her actions. "You didn't have to accept the offer to join SD-6; presumably part of the lure was the excitement of being a spy. You could have quit when you discovered the truth about your employer; you didn't, despite the very clear consequences your job had already had on your fiancé. On the contrary, you increased the danger you put yourself in by becoming a double agent.

"You had the chance to leave the business when you had accomplished your goal of destroying the Alliance, and again after your involuntary leave of absence; on both occasions, you chose not to. Yes, you now claim to have retired at last, but you have spent three years constantly travelling. Had you settled in any particular location, I might have been inclined to grant your wish for peace; yet you hardly stay in one place for more than a week at a time. You're restless, Sydney. You don't know what to do with yourself now that you aren't risking your life on a regular basis. Why can't you admit that I am right, that you need more?"

"Okay, you know what? Maybe I do. Maybe the thought of going back home and having no role to play scares me. Maybe you're right, and I made a mistake in leaving the CIA. But that doesn't mean you're the one who can fix it."

"Perhaps not. But I think you'll find I have certain advantages over the people you left back in LA. To begin with, I neither view your leaving the CIA as a betrayal nor fail to understand why you are unable to be happy in that 'normal life' you've talked about for so long."

"That's all well and good, Sark, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm against everything you stand for."

"Not everything," he corrected mildly. "We are in agreement when it comes to wanting to do our jobs well and taking pride in being among the best at our profession, for instance. We've been united in our hatred for Arvin Sloane, and our wish to destroy that earthquake generator your mother tried to steal; I would imagine there are other points of congruity that simply haven't arisen in our prior dealings. I've no doubt we could uncover them, should you choose to allow us the opportunity."

"Fine, so there are things we agree on after all," she conceded wearily. "And I'll even give you the benefit of the doubt, and assume that you do have some principles, though I can't for the life of me think just what they might be. The point is, they're bound to be in diametric opposition to my own, and I can't just forget that."

"No, but you can ignore it for a time. Look at it this way, Sydney: you clearly don't want to be an operative full-time any longer, or you never would have left the CIA. And yet you've discovered that you're bored by civilian life. Join me, and you can work only as often as you like; when you get restless, I'll have no trouble finding a suitable mission to send you on."

"That's not a bad idea, but I don't need you for that. I'm sure if I went back to LA and asked, Dixon would let me do freelance jobs for the CIA. I really ought to thank you for suggesting it, Sark."

"You know as well as I do that, despite the best of intentions, it wouldn't be long before the frequency with which they found themselves faced with a task only you could complete increased to the point where you might as well never have retired. That wouldn't happen with me; I'd never ask you for help unless you'd offered it first. I'll even go so far as to promise never to ask you to compromise your principles--no assassinations, no operations directly against your government. Only the kind of thing you did before: data or prototype theft from other organisations."

"What, so I'd be taking stuff from one bad guy just to give it to another?" she asked in disbelief. "Why would that be anything other than a waste of my time?"

"Because I am at least a known quantity. While not as limiting as your own, you know that I do have at least some rules governing what I will and will not do in the course of business. You would naturally feel better about having such intel in my possession, where you would have a chance to discover how I use it. And, since you are who you are, perhaps a chance to stop me."

Thus far, they'd mostly been looking out at the water rather than each other, just stealing quick glances on occasion; maybe having spent so many years avoiding conducting conversations in public had left them both unable to do so openly. Now, he turned to face her, needing her to understand. Some potential misapprehensions should be cleared up immediately if this was to work, given Sydney's history. "But let's have one thing clear: I've no intention of 'reforming' for your sake, Sydney. My goals and my methods will remain as ever, regardless of your answer. However, I will not attempt to keep you from contacting your father and your friends; I'm asking you to be my companion, not my captive. I will, of course, be careful about what information you have access to regarding my business dealings--I'm sure the temptation to pass it along to the CIA would be great--but I will be as honest with you as possible otherwise. I doubt you'll receive a better offer."

Only years of rigid self-discipline kept him from instinctively holding his breath as he awaited her answer. He'd known for years that they belonged together; he'd prefer to have her skills aiding him professionally--as a team, they'd be almost unstoppable--but having her in his life strictly on a personal level would certainly be no hardship. He'd carefully avoided any mention of destiny once he'd seriously begun trying to convince her, knowing how deeply that concept was associated with Rambaldi's prophecies in her mind, but if there was one thing he'd learned from watching Irina's and Sloane's Rambaldi obsessions in action, it was that destiny wasn't always guaranteed. During those years that, having only the CIA's beliefs to judge by, he'd thought that she was dead, the lesson had been driven home. He thought he'd given her enough time to accept the idea, but in many ways Sydney was like a wild animal; he had done his best to patiently lure her in, but even so one wrong move, one push before she was ready, could frighten her away. Waiting calmly for her to make up her mind was proving to be a more effective torture than many more physical ones he'd experienced.

At length she asked plaintively, "Why me?"

The question took him aback. "Why--? Sydney, I've told you several times how highly I regard you--"

"As an agent, yes, I know. But that's only relevant if I were being asked to accept a job offer, and we settled that issue in Leuven. So what I want to know now is, why?"

Could she seriously be asking him to--? He was at a loss. Flirtation was one thing, but he had never been good at sincerity when it came to personal relations. "Well...you're strong, and clever, and, and capable, and--not the only one who needs to be challenged." She also wasn't afraid of him, but if he said that, it might remind her of all the reasons other people were.

He managed not to back down as she regarded him steadily, until finally she sighed and looked away. "I...I need some time to think."

Since this was the first time she hadn't rejected his offer outright, he could afford to be a little generous. "Very well. I anticipate being in Vienna for the next four days; I would appreciate having your final decision by the time I leave."

"Four days," she repeated, taking a big breath. "Okay, I can do that. Um, how do I get in touch with you?"

He started to give her his number, then decided a greater show of trust was needed. "Come with me," he said instead, rising from the bench and waiting a few steps away for her to join him.

It seemed to him that everything that needed to be said had been, and apparently Sydney agreed; although she gave him a curious look as they crossed Parkring, she didn't say anything. They maintained a comfortable silence as he led her through the maze of streets toward a part of the Innere Stadt rarely plagued by tourists, where he had a flat.

Shortly before they reached their destination, Sark felt Sydney's hand brush against his own, and he knew that whether she'd admitted it to herself yet or not, he had won.

He smiled.

Epilogue

When it came time for her next contact with her father, Sydney didn't know how she would tell him about her new travelling companion. Calling Sark her roommate was too likely to bring up the issue of what had happened to Francie--something she found easier to deal with when she was allowed to forget about it. Saying she was living with him, while technically true, would probably cause her father's head to explode before she had a chance to explain that the assumptions he'd likely make weren't, in fact, applicable. And since she couldn't completely explain her decision even to herself, there was no way she'd be able to justify it to her father's satisfaction.

What she did know was that, so far, she didn't regret it. Sark had been true to his word--there was no mention of work between them, no efforts, however subtle, to get her to back in the field. The closest he'd come was offering to spar with her, which she viewed more as exercise and entertainment than anything else. He hadn't even made any attempt to take their personal relationship into areas she wasn't willing to explore; unfortunate associations aside, "roommates" really was the best term for it, and it was working surprisingly well. There were times she barely saw him for days, but on other occasions they actually managed to have decent, if somewhat awkward, conversations. And, being who they were, sometimes snarky ones as well, which she enjoyed most. He was one of the few people she'd known who would take even her most sarcastic comments as a challenge rather than an insult, which was one of the reasons she'd often looked forward to running into him when she'd still been with the CIA.

None of which would carry any weight with her father. But she didn't think he'd understand how lonely she'd been, either--not Jack Bristow, the man who'd needed no one since he'd learned of his wife's betrayal. He would see Sydney's need for human interaction as a weakness, particularly since it had led her here. He'd wanted nothing more than to see her free from the spy life since learning she'd joined SD-6; he would never be able to accept that, once she finally had it, the complete freedom she'd worked towards for so many years ended up suffocating her. She needed ties to something, and Sark was the only person to see that.

The strange thing was, she found herself wondering if maybe Sark had been lonely, too, though she knew he'd never admit it. Why else would he have spent so much time trying to talk her into joining him and then not even make her work for him? It didn't make sense. And when she remembered how interested he'd been when she'd first admitted she'd be more willing to work for him alone than for her mother, it occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, his split from Irina might have had something to do with her. She didn't think she was ready to handle the implications if it were true, so she brushed the thought aside. It certainly wasn't an idea that would calm her father's suspicions, anyway.

The problem was, she had to tell him. Letting her father find out she was with Sark by accident was the worst thing she could do; he'd probably lead a team in to "rescue" her, and someone was bound to get hurt in that scenario. Most likely, that someone wouldn't be Sark. Besides, they had a sort of unspoken agreement: he kept his promise not to interfere with her contacting people back home, and she didn't reveal his location to the CIA. At least that basic level of trust was required in their situation, and the fact that the risk was all on his side was one of the factors that had convinced her Sark's offer was genuine.

But would that matter to her father? Probably not.

She was an adult, damn it. She didn't need to justify her life choices to a parent, no matter how scary he might be.

Right?

Her phone rang, right on schedule. Glancing at the incoming number, she took a deep breath to try and steady her nerves, then answered.

"Hi, Dad."