Weiss is one of only a few scattered analysts and agents there when he walks into the ops center. It is early; he'd woke before dawn on the couch — three hours sleep, four maybe — and decided it might be best to slip out before everyone else was up. Better to let Sydney and the Calfos eat breakfast and plan the funeral of a woman he probably never knew without his presence.

He wonders about the hours Weiss has been keeping here. They must be short-staffed, with Dixon and Sydney gone, Jack missing, and the deaths.

Weiss is examining satellite footage, zooming in and out on black-and-white pictures of some unidentified city, warehouses and old factories.

"Hey." Vaughn announces his presence, pockets his access card.

Weiss clicks and drags the picture. Dead industry gives way to row houses, sliding across the monitor until the school from Chicago is centered in the middle. He leans back in his chair, turns his head. His face is blanched, tired. "Hey yourself. Why the hell are you here?"

"I have another meeting with Barnett. And I wanted to see if there was anything new on the mystery shooter."

"Nothing on that front. But get this — Jack Bristow walked in at five in the morning. Complete and total chaos. They took him into custody."

"Where is he now?"

"They're interrogating him."

"I'd like to see that."

"Yeah, you and me both. There's no way they'd let you participate, though. Aside from the whole you're not supposed to be here thing, and the whole Sydney thing, we were pretty involved in what went down in that school." He picks up his phone. "I can see if we can get you a video feed, though."

Weiss pounds through a four-digit extension.

"Hey, Jake. I wanted to see if I could get video feed from Jack Bristow's interrogation on one of the computers up here." Weiss starts scrambling through the pile of file folders on his desk, then looks to Vaughn, his fingers together in a pen grip, scribbling air. "Yeah, yeah, just a sec."

Vaughn fumbles through his suit jacket, pulls a pen from the inside pocket and hands it over, watches Weiss yank the cap off. "Okay, go." He tears off the corner of a memo and scribbles: 172.23.144.287. "Thanks, Jake."

Weiss hangs up the phone, hands over the piece of paper. "Here's your IP address. You can use Sydney's computer again. I might join you for awhile, even though I've got way too much to do here."

Vaughn walks over to Sydney's desk, sits. Weiss rolls, pushing off of his own desk and kicking along the floor until he arrives.

"They have you doing clean-up on the school?" Vaughn asks.

"Among other things. And when I say other things, I mean like 50 other things."

Sydney's computer is on but locked. Vaughn logs in, waits through the security scripts, then opens a browser, types the IP address. The video loads quickly, a small window in the middle of the screen, but there is no audio, yet.

They've opted to use the actual interrogation room, a narrow little windowless thing with not much beyond a long stainless steel table and two-way mirror. Jack Bristow sits on one side of the table, wearing a suit, his hands under the table, likely cuffed. One of the Langley suits from Vaughn's debrief sits across from Jack, and two guards stand on either side of the door. Devlin isn't visible — he must be behind the mirror. He would not miss this.

"I haven't heard much," Weiss says. "But I know the basic story is that Jack says he's been on the CIA's side all along, but with the widespread corruption he saw, he wasn't sure who he could trust, blah blah blah. So he's been working on his own to bring an end to the quest."

"That's exactly what Derevko said he would say. She wouldn't tell me if it was true."

"Maybe she didn't know if it was true."

The audio kicks in, too loud. He taps the volume button several times, glad there's no one around to glance over in annoyance.

They have dropped in on the middle of one of Jack's answers:

" — of course William and I had doubts. But Arvin's pitch was impressive, and then he showed us those documents. We discussed it afterwards. I wanted to turn Sloane in — he'd withheld material, lied to the Agency. Clearly he was a risk. But when I talked to William, I became certain that he was sold on this idea of trying to track down Rambaldi's work on eternal life. I've seen a number of people drawn by the lure of Rambaldi, but never two quite like Arvin and William. And Irina, once we brought her in."

"So you made the decision to join in this pact without notifying the CIA?"

"Yes. I thought I would be able to better stop them by being on the inside. But I was afraid to go to the Agency. If either of them had thought I turned them in, they might attempt to hurt me — or my family. I had a young daughter at the time. You can understand my concern."

Did he really believe that? Would your father harm a little girl? A little Sydney? He thinks of her young, little brown pigtails and freckles, feels the anger overtake him, his body tense, jaw tight.

"We don't know if that's true," Weiss says, staring at him. "Jack could be totally twisting around his involvement to try to save his ass. We don't know what happened, and we probably never will."

"He was willing to kill her at 28. Why wouldn't he kill her as a child, if it furthered the quest?"

———

The interrogation is still going when Vaughn closes the browser window, locks the computer and stands. Fifteen minutes until his appointment with Barnett. He will try to be early, this time.

He has listened for hours as Jack meticulously detailed the group's search for Rambaldi manuscripts, artifacts. The eventual discovery of his wife's secret, and the decision to bring her into the group. Years of their betrayal to the CIA. Rogue missions, theft and murder. And every person they had brought in to the search.

Finally, the Langley suit had stopped, shuffled his papers on the table, asked the one question Vaughn was waiting for: "And in all of this time, you never once found an opportunity to notify the Agency of what was going on?"

"I've told you who was involved," Jack responded. "You tell me if it would have been wise to notify the Agency, with the level of corruption I saw."

The door to Barnett's office is open, the appointment before his apparently long-gone. She is hunched over a file folder, writing, when he walks in and takes a seat on the couch.

"Good morning," he says, aiming for steady with his voice, mostly succeeding.

She glances up, puts down her pen and closes the folder. "Agent Vaughn, good morning."

Barnett places the folder on top of a stack near the edge of her desk. She rifles through the stack until she pulls out another folder, then flips it open flat.

"How are you feeling today, Michael?"

He hates that she uses his first name, knows she does it to try to get closer to him, closer to her subject. It still sounds wrong here. "I'm better, I think. Yesterday was kind of rough — they buried my father's body."

"And you went to the burial?"

"Yeah. I'm not even sure why. It just felt like something I should do. He was my father, in spite of everything."

"That's understandable. It provides you with a sense of closure," she says. "Why was it rough?"

Should have never said that, damn it. "It was just such a contrast, from the last time — from when I was a kid. When I watched them put him in the ground, I guess it just brought home what a different man he was from the person I idolized as a child."

She nods, looks down at the folder. "I asked you during our last session which hurt more — that your father had been working for the Alliance and was involved in this Rambaldi plot, or that he had been alive all this time and never contacted your or your mother. Do you have an answer now?"

"I do," he says. "I think — even if he would have contacted us, that wouldn't have been enough to make up for what he was doing. He walked away from this country to work for an enemy of the United States for years. And he knew what he was doing. He never tried to contact the CIA, to become a double agent. And yeah, it hurts that obviously he didn't love us the way I thought he did. But to know that he was a bad person — that he must have done horrible things for that quest, for the Alliance — that's worse. That's much worse."

"So you feel that because he never attempted to make contact with his family, that means he didn't love you?"

He rests his head in his hand. Does it? "I don't know. I mean, sometimes I see him as pure evil — someone who turned his back on his family and his country for his own selfish purposes." He loved you and your mother very much. "But then sometimes I think he did love us, and it just wasn't enough. Or he loved us and wanted this eternal life for us, but he got so convoluted by the chase that he couldn't get back."

"There may be no way for you to tell which of those it was, Michael."

"I know that."

"Are you aware that Jack Bristow walked in this morning?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought about trying to talk to him, eventually?"

"I have. But I watched some of his interrogation, before I came in here. He describes my father as the same sort of Rambaldi zealot Arvin Sloane was. I don't know if that's the truth or not. I don't know if it's to Jack's benefit to tell the truth," he says. "I — actually, I had an encounter with Irina Derevko a few days ago."

"Yes. I saw that in your file."

"She said he loved us very much."

"And do you believe her?"

"I want to, I think. She doesn't have any reason to lie about that to me. But it's very hard to reconcile that with everything else."

"Would it be easier to paint him as a completely bad person? To think that he didn't love his family?"

"I don't know. The father I grew up with was — he was completely good. He died when I was so young, that's all I knew, the good things. That was all my mother ever talked about. Obviously, that's not realistic. I guess someone who's completely bad isn't, either."

"But it's easier to accept him as bad, isn't it? It's harder to be angry at someone who may have still loved you, deep down, amidst all the bad."

"Yes," he says. "I guess it is."

———

Weiss is still working through satellite footage of the school when Vaughn stops at his desk.

"Hey, how'd your session go?" Weiss asks. "You look a little worn out."

"Too much thinking through things I'm not sure I want to think through."

"I hear you. You out of here?"

"Yeah. I'm going to head back to Sydney's. I just wanted to stop by and say goodbye. And thank you — for showing up yesterday."

"You don't have to thank me. Although it would have been nice to know about it before I got the call from Sydney."

"I know. I just thought that was something I should do alone. I didn't want anyone else to waste their time on him."

"Next time — well, I don't think there's ever going to be a next time quite like that, but you don't have to go it alone, Mike."

He nods. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah. You take it easy."

I'll try. He crosses the rotunda, towards the garage exit. Notes Devlin leaning over an analyst's desk, staring at something on the computer screen there, but keeps walking.

"Agent Vaughn!"

He turns, surprised to find Devlin a few feet away, approaching quickly. His hair seems brighter, fluffier in the silver-white lighting of the rotunda "Hello, sir."

"Hello. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay — better."

"Good," Devlin smiles slightly, then sobers. "I trust you've heard about Jack Bristow?"

"Yeah. I watched some of the interrogation feed."

"Do you believe him? You were there, in that school." Devlin searches his face, wanting honesty, here, off the record.

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't know, either," Devlin says. "But I do know I'd rather have Jack Bristow on our side than against it."

"You're going to release him, aren't you?"

"Unless his statement check fails spectacularly, yes."

———

He stops at his apartment to change and stuff more things into the overnight bag. Adds a suit bag, black suit inside — the good one he's left with the cleaners, so second-best will have to do — plus a tie and white shirt. Socks and good shoes, too, cleaned and buffed in the bathroom.

His cell phone rings as he's wondering if there's anything else he needs to add to the small pile of luggage on his bed.

His mother. Damn it. How long has it been since you've talked to her? Not since you found out.

He sits on the edge of his bed, waits three more rings, readies himself. Send.

"Hey, Mom." It's not like she knows.

"Michael, hello." A pause. "I was just wondering why you haven't called. Is it work, again?"

"No — it's Sydney. Her best friend just died in a car accident." Not a complete lie, also not nearly the whole truth. But if he does tell her, it's not something he could do over the phone. Do you tell her? Would she want to know? "I've been with her."

Silence, for a moment; this, in itself, is shocking.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Her voice is deep, concerned. "How horrible for her to have to go through that. Is there somewhere I can send flowers?"

"The funeral is tomorrow, at Henderson-Shaw. But you don't need to send flowers, Mom."

"I want to. What was her name, Sydney's friend?"

"Francie Calfo. F - r - a - n - c - i - e, C - a - l - f o."

He imagines her sitting at the secretary in the corner of her kitchen, taking careful notes, surrounded by good stationary and good pens, largely unused since she's discovered email. "Please tell Sydney I'm so sorry for her loss."

"I will," he says. "Listen, Mom. I'm going to be busy tomorrow, with the funeral, but would you maybe like to have dinner Friday?"

"Yes, of course. One of the nurses at the hospital recommended a place in Santa Monica I'd like to try. Why don't I make reservations and email you with the address?"

"That sounds good. Bye, Mom."

"Good bye."

———

The front door is unlocked when he arrives at Sydney's, and he slips in quietly.

Sydney, Will, and the Calfos are sitting in the living room again, in the arrangement they established yesterday, talking about the fate of Francie's restaurant.

"— it was such an accomplishment for her," Gloria says. "It would be so horrible to just let that go to waste."

"Gloria, we need to be practical here," Thomas says. "I know Francie loved the restaurant, but nobody here wants to run a restaurant, or would even know the first thing about how to go about it."

Sydney looks up at him, standing there in the doorway. Her face pained, weary.

"I think Fran would have wanted it to succeed, regardless of who owns it or runs it." Will says. "Maybe we'd be better off selling it to someone who could do that — make it successful. That could be her legacy."

The Calfos, then Will, notice his presence, turning toward the door.

"Hello, Michael," Thomas says.

"Hi. I'm sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to Sydney for a minute?"

Sydney stands quickly; she must be relieved to escape this conversation, even if just for a little while. She walks around the edge of the living room, over to the patio door. Vaughn follows.

He's always liked this area, although this is the first time he's actually been out here. The benches and the potted plants, tree branches rustling overhead in the slight breeze today. Glimpsed through the glass doors, it had always seemed to be a good place to sit with a glass of wine, with her, once the nights got warmer.

In the sunlight she looks even worse, standing there in front of him, her arms crossed like she's trying to hold herself together. He reaches out, aims to do something to try to comfort her, ends up catching her elbow, squeezing awkwardly. It feels wrong, and he flushes, embarrassed, pulls his hand away.

"Syd, your father turned himself in to the JTF today."

"He did? Is he okay? Can I see him?"

"He's going to be in interrogation for the rest of today, if not more. But I think they're going to release him. I'm sure he'll come to see you after that."

"I want to know when he's released."

"I'll call Weiss and make sure you're notified," he says. "Syd, when your mother came to see me — she said they felt what they did was the only way they could save you, and not have those people chasing you down for the rest of your life."

"I know. They talked to me for awhile, before they dropped me off at the hospital," she says, softly. "I don't remember everything, but I remember them saying that they loved me, that they were sorry they had to do things this way. They said they'd never do anything to hurt me, and it was all over now."

"Syd, when you were in that chair, before they started shooting, what did you think? Did they tell you in advance what they were planning?"

"No. I don't think they had a chance," she says. "I didn't know what to think. I wanted to believe they didn't mean what they were saying, but it was hard not to."

"No one should ever have to go through that kind of doubt."

"Afterwards I felt so guilty, for even thinking that they might be willing to go through with it. My mother said they didn't give me much choice, but still. When it came down to it, I didn't trust them. And they came through."

"I thought they were willing to do it, too. But they had to be convincing, Syd, or that group never would have let them walk in there with guns — with the ability to stop it."