Title: Cold As Any Stone

Author: sangga

Email:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from Alias, but sometimes I get 'em on cheap rental.

Rating: PG

Summary: "Or bid me go into a new-made grave/ And hide me with a dead man in his shroud." Future. Old partners tackle a new and dangerous assignment. S&V

Spoilers: Season One/Two character details.

Author’s note: Fractured narrative, anyone?

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.

Knuckles.

The feel of metal bones crunching together beneath her palm, radiating out to the pads of her fingers.

Stick shift.

The resemblance between this sensation and the one she gets when she grinds her teeth is almost frightening. Sydney winces, and shifts into second around a corner.

Movement in the rear-view is a distraction.

"Hey."

Her concerned frown, a touch of disbelief. Fear. "What are you doing up? Go back and lie down."

"I will. Give me a second."

He angle-parks himself precariously behind the passenger seat of the van, looking over the shoulder of the upholstery at the road whizzing by, and occasionally looking sideways at her. He is swathed in a grey army blanket and nothing else. The tone of the blanket is a good match for his own pallor, and his voice is a little croaky.

"Are we clear?"

She’s checked for pursuit - now she's more interested in checking his colour. Except for the green of his eyes, it’s ash-monochrome all round. Her own eyes, heavily kohl-rimmed, flash back and forth from his face to the road. She really is trying to concentrate on driving.

"We’re fine," she answers firmly. And then, because she’s noticed a slight improvement in him on observation, she feels secure enough to make her expression wry. "You look terrible."

He grins. Wan. "Gee, Syd, don’t mince words – tell us what you really think."

She glances at his grey face, and the exposed skin of his collarbone, and swallows.

She eyes him solemnly in the rear-view.

"What I really think is that you should go and lie down."

oOo

Ten words for running: speeding, pounding, racing, careering, bolting, pelting, jogging (too slow), galloping, hareing (Brit., informal), rushing -

Running.

Running.

He hasn’t quite got the explosive power needed to conquer short distance, but he can endure. It’s his specialty (just ask Sydney) – make a hard pace to start, then just run the fuckers into the ground. With this job, Devlin explained, Vaughn gets to utilize all aspects of his talents.

He’s trained up for this. Nothing quite tests your internal competitiveness like running for your life.

oOo

Sydney looks up.

"So, what am I supposed to do while all this is happening?"

There’s no notepad in front of her – god-forbid they be permitted to take notes, and with her memory she doesn't need to anyway -–but she has a pen and she’s not afraid to tap it. Devlin’s briefings are a bit like French New Wave cinema: someone, please, get to the point.

"You’ll be in the basement level, and you’ll need to perform two tasks before you get to the security checkpoint. Prepare the gurney in the cooler for when Michael gets down – just pick a shelf, open it up and leave him a scalpel and tape – then go to the morgue’s direct elevator and punch to go down. That puts the carriage in position for his arrival, he’ll be able to use the cable. Remember, every other elevator in the building will be temporarily frozen in the event of a security breach, so it’s important that you open this route."

Sydney nods acknowledgement, but the boss has already turned to face Vaughn.

"Tech support has the sliding bolt, you’ll have to check in there after this briefing. It’s small enough to fit in your pocket. So it’ll just be a matter of prising open the elevator doors and –

oOo

He’s grunting with the effort, and his fingers slip a little on the jimmy. Hurry.

Hurry - there, he's got it. Enough space to shimmy through, tips of his soft-soled shoes dangling from the edge of the precipice as he looks down the black elevator shaft, slips the jimmy into his pocket, fumbles for the bolt in the other one, frees it, fingers still slick with sweat -

No, don't even think about it, wipe it from your mind, no self-fulfilling prophecies, no prophecies of any kind. Just think straight, don't think, act -

Jump for the cable, and in the same motion, clap the bolt into place.

Swing trembling in mid-air, with a metal lifeline. Palm of his left hand registers the bite of the braided cable steel, the grease making his job harder still. His right hand grips the bolt rigor-tight, until he feels safe enough to release the catch.

This all takes about one and a half seconds.

Enough time to take one breath, blink sweat out of his eyes. Then thumb the release - and he goes whizzing downwards, away from immediate dangers, into something ... something else. Into the dark.

oOo

oOo

"Take this."

"What is it?"

The tech rat is still holding up the tiny vial with the sheening liquid swimming around, ghostly blueness, inside. Michael Vaughn receives it between thumb and forefinger cautiously. He's frowning.

The tech is grinning.

"It's poison. Well, essentially. We mixed it up to Mitchell's specs - a few serum inhibitors, a couple of chemical toxins, a bit of this, a bit of that. Relax - it's not gonna bite ya. Yet."

Vaughn winces.

"So tell me about it."

"S'easy. Press here - not yet, I mean, when you need it. It's all self-contained. A little needle jumps out, you bang it in, then - boom, you're out. No measurable pulse, your breathing slows to zilch, body temp goes down within about thirty-five seconds. Wicked, huh?"

Wicked. Vaughn rolls the vial around in his fingers.

"So how long have I got?"

The tech is a young guy with pale skin, glasses and wild white hair. He looks like he stuck his finger in a power socket and was simultaneously bleached and frizzed in one go. He's chewing gum compulsively, his jaw making a subtle tok-tok sound as it works.

"Ya got about sixteen minutes, tops. Any longer and we can't guarantee no brain damage." He shrugs. "Sorry."

Vaughn waves the apology away. He signed the forms long ago.

"And have you got the reversor?"

"Gave it to your partner. Told her about the procedure - shoot you up, give a little oxygen, keep tabs. If she's slow, she might need to defib. Depends on the timing. But then you should be right as rain."

Vaughn is nodding thoughtfully.

"'And then awake as from a pleasant sleep ... '"

"Huh?"

"Nothing." He pockets the vial and turns to leave. The tech's voice sounds a warning.

"Hey, remember what I said. Sixteen minutes - that's all ya got, or no banana." Then the kid's eyes narrow mischeviously. "Hey, that partner of yours ... she bitchin' or what?"

Vaughn lets a coy smile play with his features, then walks.

oOo

"And this is your target."

Devlin snaps a button and a new slide flips up onto the darkened office wall.

"That's DNA." Vaughn is blinking at the image of a thousand tiny jewels twisting in infinite interlinkage. The twirling helix is instantly recognizable, but still requires some explanation.

"Correction. That's synthetic DNA. A completely new creation."

"Impressive." Sydney's sitting in a swivel chair, the light from the slide show making her skin gleam a tanned cyan.

"And programmable," Devlin amends. "Anything you want - cures for diseases, cellularly encoded information, personality traits and physical characteristics ... " He looks up at the helix contemplatively. "You could eradicate Parkinson's disease with this, or ... "

Vaughn is nodding. "Or you could create a whole race of mercenaries."

Devlin flicks the lights back on, but the slide is still up on the screen, the faint tracery of the helix dancing on the wall.

"Think of it this way: what if you wanted to develop a terrorist who carried the bomb inside them? All manner of contagious diseases - varieties of Ebola, newer more virulent strains of smallpox - just tick-tocking away inside someone who didn't even know they were a terrorist, until it was too late?"

Syd catches her breath at the idea. "A modern Typhoid Mary."

Devlin just nods as his lips press together.

Vaughn tears his eyes away from the helix, which now looks like nothing so much as a rampant noxious weed curling its way up the office wall, and faces his boss.

"So where in the hospital is it?"

"Here - the research lab on the seventh floor." Devlin taps the large-scale building plans on the table in front of them. "It's a secure floor, but we think it might be possible to set up a comparatively simple method of entry. It's a sneak-in, but it'll work."

"And what about the exit?" Syd is thinking two steps ahead.

"Ah," Devlin says, his brow creasing, "that's not so simple. There's a hospital-wide lockdown, and plenty of military guards on site. But there's a chink in the armour - there's one area of the hospital that has to stay open. It'll be heavily protected, but they obviously haven't thought that anybody could get through the security checks alive."

Now Sydney's curious. "What is it?"

"The morgue."

oOo

It's the easiest job in the world, if you've got a strong stomach.

The elevator comes to rest, with a slight settling feeling, and she has the sensation of leavening - the souf of air in bread that puffs the dough, so delicate that changes in temperature can destroy the whole process. The elevator is old, dates from the original building of the hospital, and you can tell that it's weary.

The doors open, and she casts her eyes down and heads out with the trolley. A routine collection from third floor - palliative care. Most of them will end up on the trolley eventually. At the moment, it's a 78-year old man, still in his hospital-issue pajamas, and even those will be taken from him when she hits the office. She checked the chart on the way down - cancer. A wasting disease. The trolley feels light.

Push, push. Her sneakers make a scuffling sound on the shiny floor, and she has to exert a bit of effort at the corner to pull the trolley round - it may be light, but it's still a dead-weight.

She has to pull up at the entrance to the morgue - the security guard there, Pavel, gives her the once-over as usual, checks the chart she hands across, then wants to lift the hem of the winding sheet. She slaps his hand away, school-marm-ish.

"Have some respect."

"What does it matter if he's dead?"

"How would you feel if he was your grandfather?"

Pavel shrugs. "I'd be happy. My grandfather was an alcoholic wife-beater."

She puffs air out of her mouth disapprovingly, then tucks the sheet back in and pushes the trolley through the open doorway.

Pavel watches her go. New girls - they always get so self-righteous about the job. And this one is so frumpy. All that black stringy hair and the black clothes and dark make-up and the Nana Mouskouri glasses. A shame really. If she dressed a little nice, smiled occasionally, she would look okay. Beneath the formless orderly's coat, she seems to have a reasonable figure.

Maybe a little skinny for his taste.

oOo

"The labs are obviously military-owned, and the hospital itself is easily secured by an on-site protection force, but the basement morgue still has to service a number of outside commercial funeral parlours. It's the only area that needs to be open to two-way traffic in the event of a lockdown. I need one of you undercover as a morgue attendant, and one busting the ampoule of DNA out of the lab."

Vaughn cocks an eyebrow. "Can we flip a coin?"

Devlin's glance is long-suffering. "In a word, no." He looks at Sydney. "I need you on the ground, Bristow."

"So, I get to be the Russian rabbit ... " Sydney drawls low as she gives a discrete eye-roll.

Vaughn is looking a little ticked-off.

"But we both speak the language -"

"Yeah," Devlin cuts him off, "but she actually looks Russian."

"Not my fault," Sydney slips back archly.

Devlin grins. "That old saw about not being able to pick your relatives sure is a bitch, ain't it?"

Syd's answering grin is wry, and she's been thinking ahead again. "Sure. But I thought you said you wanted someone sneaky for the lab ... "

Vaughn gives her a mock-frown - Hey, I can be sneaky. Devlin sighs and thinks that divvying up the tasks between these two is like dividing chocolate cake between greedy pre-schoolers.

"Like I said, there's no way to avoid tripping the security alerts when you retrieve this thing. Michael doesn't have to be sneaky, he just has to be fast."

"And then comatose," Vaughn quips.

Devlin just smiles thinly.

oOo

His feet make contact with the roof of the elevator car with a soft pflump - he's been using the reinforced insteps of his shoes against the cable to slow his descent as he closed on the car. Then he pulls out the lovely handsized jimmy the tech boys rigged up for him, and prizes up the lid of the emergency hatch. Slowly. You can never tell when things go suddenly cock-eyed in the middle of an assignment, and you find your exit route blocked by half a dozen waiting armed guards.

But everything is fine - the car is empty, doors closed. He slides himself down, dangles like a monkey for a second then drops gently to the floor. There, in the corner beneath the lift buttons, is what he needs - a standard medical chart from upstairs, thank you Sydney. Then it's simple - wipe the sweat off his face and smooth his hair, straighten his orderly's coat to conceal the cover-all underneath, assume the tired, slightly harrassed look of interns the world over, and hit the button to open the doors. There's a mechanical ping, and he's onstage.

He finds the morgue by following mental directions based on studying the building floorplans.

There's a tall, balding security guard outside the morgue room, with a nametag that reads Pavel Yazek. Vaughn calculates that since his theft of the ampoule, and flight from the security upstairs, about four and half minutes has elapsed. Enough time to lock down the seventh floor and the elevators, but not enough time to bleed in the more heavy-duty military security floor by floor. The building still has to function and, above all, look like a hospital - hence the lack of pealing alarms and the comparatively slow response from security. Vaughn figures that good old Pavel here has about a minute, maybe ninety seconds, before he's relieved for an early lunch by a young guy with an automatic weapon and considerably less paunch. But for now -

"Hey - Nikolai Gregorya, from palliative care." --Vaughn flashes his fake ID with a casual nonchalance-- "One of your orderlies brought down an old man recently, a ... " --check the chart-- "…an Anton Bolshakov?"

Pavel nods immediately. Ah - a bungle. He's always reluctant to get in the way of a possible investigation involving a bungle. You never know if the bad smells might be blown your way.

"Yes, yes, the new girl brought him." He waves a hand into the morgue room. "Go and check. But she isn't there now - she has gone to the restroom. And the supervisor is on lunch - "

"That's fine. I can figure it out from the chart." Vaughn looks quizzically at his sheets. "Uh, I think."

Pavel practically pushes him into the room. Don’t share your problems, please, I don't want to know.

"Here - you go in. Sort it out. The girl will be back very soon, you can speak to her then."

Vaughn smiles meekly, gratefully, and slips through the door.

oOo

"So what, then I just strip off, tuck away the ampoule and Syd rolls me on out of there."

"Not so simple, I'm afraid," Devlin says.

Vaughn sighs. Is it ever? "I didn't think so."

Devlin taps at the building schematics again. "You've still got to go through two security checkpoints and then through the loading bay, past armoured guards and into the van. Sydney will most certainly be searched, and they'll check the body bag you're in."

Sydney's eyes narrow. She wants to catch Vaughn's eye, but he's studiously avoiding her, staring at Devlin and frowning.

"Why do I get the feeling that playing dead in this case involves more than just holding my breath?"

oOo

Three feet inside the door, he's pulling off his white coat, padding rapidly along the tiles to the coolers. There - she's left the door for one of the sliding cooler slabs open. He only has about another forty-five seconds now, so he pulls out the tray, and goes into fast-motion.

Lined trashcan near the end of the row, he dumps his clipboard, ID, jimmy and bolt. Then he slips off his shoes - no socks - and bins them too, then gathers both the ampoule and the tiny vial out of his velcroed top pocket and abruptly unzips his grey coverall all the way down the front. Underneath, he's naked. He strips off, and shivers in the chill air of the cool room. Dumps the coverall, lifts the bin-liner and twists it closed, then tosses the whole lot into another larger medical-waste bin near the autopsy trolley.

He's too wired now to feel any self-consciousness about his nudity in the flourescent glare of the morgue room, but the icy metal of the cooler tray makes him jerk. He's had to hoist himself up to get onto it - it's about waist height, and typically we don't get onto these things unaided - and then force himself to stretch out longways, with his feet going into the recess. The coldness against the backs of his legs, his buttocks, makes his skin rebel. But he's focussed now. He slides his fingertips along the inside of the shallow grooves running down the sides of the tray - the blood gutters - until he finds what he wants. A hidden package - a scalpel blade attached by a strip of medical tape, and, very useful, a small pad of gauze. He carefully peels back the tape, for use in a moment, and takes the scalpel blade in his right hand.

Don't think - just act.

He lifts his left hand up to his head, then pinches the skin slightly above his left armpit with his ring and smallest fingers, and using the blade in his first finger and thumb, makes a very deliberate incision about an inch and a half long. Then he turns the blade to lift the skin layers

It bleeds. It hurts. He tries to detach from it. The next part is a little harder. He drops the blade back into the gutter, mops up the blood with one of the small squares of gauze. Then he picks up the ampoule from its place on his lap. It is an extremely small thing - a slim metal toothpick, about as thick as a headache capsule, with a tiny screw-on metal cap. He doesn't pause to take a breath, just lifts it and slides it into the small concealed space he has opened up in himself. Dabs with gauze again. Then tears off some of the tape with his teeth and presses it firmly over the wound.

It throbs now. But in a moment it won't matter. There's no noise outside, but he guesses that the guard has changed over and that Syd will be back soon - she's timing the intervals.

He takes up the blue vial from his lap. This is when he sighs out a breath. But he's on a schedule - he only allows himself one breath. Then he hits the indented button on the vial edge, and a hypo snicks out.

He rearranges himself one last time on the gurney, lying down on the chill steel of the tray with a strange sense of foreboding. Now the cold feels like a reminder of life, of the immediacy of his situation, of the human foibles of his physical body. He realizes that, after all these years - all these goddamn death-wish missions, his laissez-faire attitude to his own safety in the course of almost every operation, calling it the job and just getting on with it - that in actual fact, he's quite attached to life. These last two years, with Sydney, he likes it more and more every day.

He looks up at the ceiling for a second, then down at his arm as he jabs the needle in. He has the presence of mind to let the vial slip into the gutter, as his fingers begin to go numb.

And he has time to think that it would be a shame to die now, as his body feels the creeping cold chill his bones, creep through his flesh, slide through his veins, until the whole world is a lethargic haze of arctic ice, and he, one frozen snowflake in it.

oOo

He leaves Devlin's office, heading straight for the tech support unit.

She lags behind. Devlin can't fail to notice.

"Is there something bothering you, Agent Bristow?" His tone is a little tired. He's still getting used to the fact that she has no fear of protocol, questions so much and trusts so little, follows her instincts over the rules. He remembers that, in her previous capacity at SD-6, he considered these traits an asset.

"Yes." She doesn't beat around the bush, either. "Is this the only way to get the ampoule out? Can't we use a drop?"

Devlin makes a show of considering her query. In fact, he's gone through the possibilities way ahead of time. He's pretty sure that Sydney is aware of this.

"We could, but then Vaughn still needs to get out of the hospital."

"He couldn't pop a window and abseil down the side of the building?"

"No. Perimeter security is too heavy."

Sydney thinks. "He couldn't -"

"No, Syd, he couldn't." Does he really have to justify himself? With her, yes. "Sydney, this seems elaborate, but it's really the simplest way. Check the schematics yourself. You'll see that I'm right."

Syd is giving him her best thousand-yard stare. Devlin wants to sigh, but instead he just firms his expression.

"It's the best way."

"You think Vaughn risking brain damage is the best way?"

Her tone is uncompromisingly flat. Devlin matches her.

"Yes. I don't think I need to explain that this is what you both signed up for, and I don't think I need to go into a long discussion of ends versus means. So what's the problem, Agent Bristow?"

He knows what the problem is, but he wants to see if she'll say it out loud. Frankly, he's always thought that partnering them together was a bad idea. It has provided a consistently successful series of results, but he thinks the cracks are beginning to show. It's like nuclear fusion - works great in theory, but in practise ...

She blinks and looks away. Devlin gathers his papers.

"Then I'll give you your plane tickets this afternoon."

It's a dismissal.

oOo

oOo

"Are you doing this to impress me?"

He's concentrating on going through the schematics, and for a moment her question doesn't register. He frowns at the number of floors between the lab and the morgue, and his voice is a low puzzled mutter.

"What I still can't figure out is why I can't just shove the ampoule up my ass, but there's got to be some reason, for which I'm kinda grateful -"

Syd stalks around behind him to get a refill for her mug. She spoons sugar in with stabbing motions, and speaks, toneless and quick, over the top of him.

"Because for one you might need to be defibbed after the injection, and for two I might need to grab the ampoule quickly." She turns and walks back to stand in front of him. "Did you hear what I said?"

Vaughn looks up finally, face blank. "What?"

She is fixing him with a stare. She's genuinely trying to understand.

"Why are you doing this?" Voice soft and low.

"Syd, this is the job. If this is how it's gotta be done, then -"

"I'm serious. He gives us these assignments, and you put your hand up for the riskiest parts every time -"

"Syd -"

"Every goddamn time, Michael. Are you trying to impress me? Is this about proving yourself in the field or something? Because -"

"Sydney."

His chair squeaks back as he stands, and then he's leaning forward, grasping her hand and coaxing her and her coffee mug down to the table. They are hunkered over the building schematics, and the paper scrunches beneath them. His expression is earnest.

"Sydney, you know me. I'm no adrenalin-junkie. And this isn't about proving myself - to you or to anybody. It's just the job. That's all it is - just the job."

She watches him for a moment, then slips her hand away to cup her mug, warm her fingers, wishing that this was true.

Or that it wasn't true. Lately, she's been wondering if any job is worth this - worth the risks they take, the damage it inflicts. She's been starting to feel like she's given enough of herself to the greater good to warrant her existence a million times over. And that this life is starting to wear her down, tire her out.

She puts down her mug and cups her hands over her eyes tiredly while Vaughn watches. Then she sighs, pushes back her hair with her fingers, lets her hands drop onto her elbows balanced on the table edge, over the crackling paper.

"Go over it for me again."

oOo

oOo

The young paramilitary-type guard at the entrance to the morgue checked her ID, and the chart lying on top of the body in the yellow body bag.

Then the guard stationed at the small school desk before the delivery exit did the same. He wanted to pat her down too.

Indignation and an uncomfortable feeling of violation aren't all feigned.

"Do you have to do this?"

"Sorry, miss. My orders."

His mild leering tells another story again, but she pretends to ignore it. He reaches for the zipper on the bag and she reacts strongly, as she's supposed to.

"What the hell..?!"

He extends his hands placatingly.

"I'm sorry, but everything must be checked, in and out."

He unzips the bag, and she flares up convincingly.

"You think I'm hiding contraband in a body cavity or something? You want to frisk him too?"

The guard pokes a finger down onto the cold flesh. He checks the pulse for a long moment, which earns him a snort from the black-haired girl.

"I think he's dead," she says drolly.

The guard can't help but agree. He gives her a patient, somewhat patronising smile.

"Just following orders, miss." He rezips the bag, replaces the chart on top. "That's all in order. You can go now."

"Thank you."

She rolls her eyes in parting, and makes her way with the gurney across the few feet to the exit-button. Punching it, the door swings wide to the outside, the dull glare of natural light, the bustle of the delivery bay. She wheels the gurney out, and then down the ramp to the check-out desk. Another guard, with old Alexey at his side, gives her and the chart and the bag a quick going-over, then she's free to push the gurney over to the loading dock, where the van stands ready and waiting. Alexey comes over as she's trying to collapse the gurneys castored legs, his gruff voice and rough, workman-like hands moving to assist.

"Here - you take the other side ... "

Between the two of them the gurney is successfully man-handled into the van, and she gives Alexey a quick grateful smile.

"There's still a few gentlemen left in the world, it seems ... "

She casts an eye over to the young hot-shot at the desk, and Alexey grins in acknowledgement, reaches for his cigarettes.

"Ah, they have their job, we have ours, nyet?"

She smiles, and gives a nod to express her thanks, before walking around to the driver's side of the van. She calls out the window as she guns the engine.

"I'll see you in an hour - you need the van before then?"

Alexey shakes his head, exhaling smokily. He waves his hand at her.

"Go on - the parlour will be waiting. I'll expect you in an hour."

She drives out of the loading bay, checks her watch. Eight minutes up. She tries to think around her sense of urgency. She thinks that it went well. No-one seemed to notice anything. She'll kind of miss Alexy. She won’t see him in an hour - it’s highly unlikely she’ll see him again, ever. She rounds the corner and cranks into third, picking up serious speed.

Now for the next part.

oOo

She's standing on the roof of the building, looking out over the city as the sky darkens. She has her arms around herself to keep warm, but it's not the cold air that's bothering her.

He steps firmly over the gravel, announcing his presence for her benefit. He knew where to find her. He always knows where to find her.

When he comes over to stand by her side she doesn't acknowledge him. But a few seconds later she begins to talk.

"I'm thirty years old." She sighs out a breath. The wind whips her hair. "I'm thirty years old, and I keep thinking ... I keep wondering ... "

He leans against her arm, looking at her face, his brow furrowed.

"It's not too late, Syd."

She turns her face to catch his eyes then, and he's encouraged to continue.

"It won't be like this forever. Things will change. Soon." His expression is thoughtful as he looks away from her, out over the expanse, nodding almost to himself. "Soon."

She's searching his face. When her voice emerges, it's with a hint of desperation.

"Promise?"

And their eyes meet again, and he feels that strong insistent pull. It lends his face gravity, and his voice an air of most serious authority.

"I promise."

oOo

oOo

She drives out of the city as the afternoon sun changes angles. Glare off the hood makes her squint, but there’s a turn coming up that will take her out of the sun, take them both to the collection point. There’s a snug utility pocket on the arm of her turtleneck that now plays home to the silver ampoule: the metal tube is so tiny she can’t even feel it rolling around.

She’s been going over the operation in her mind, checking and double-checking the details. There’s no rough edges – it was all very smooth and by the numbers. She reflects that, despite her objections, Devlin was right. It really was the best way.

The turn is ahead on the left. Sydney indicates and changes down a couple of gears – kritch grack grum – checks the mirrors. No tail. Checks herself. Her heartrate has levelled off; she feels alert but calm. No shaking hands. She spins the wheel and takes the corner.

Vaughn’s head emerges, peers around the driver’s seat, and there’s no time to answer the question.

"Not far now," he notes.

He looks better – still pasty, but better. He’s put on some clothes.

"Not far," she agrees. She glances at him, observing pale post-death skin. His dark shock of hair, spiky and disordered, is a glaring contrast.

"Did you take those pills?"

"I’m about to," he nods, watching the road and turning back his black sleeve cuffs. He looks at her, handling the van.

"You did good." There’s his coy smile.

Sydney’s eyes flick over. She can’t help but return the smile.

"You too." She checks her watch. "Six minutes. You should go rest."

"Mm."

Her gaze is on the road. When he leans over to kiss the back of her neck she startles a little, then grins.

"Save it, Romeo." Her voice is soft. "Take your pills and go rest."

"Yes ma’am," he smiles, then edges back and she can hear the tiredness in his low murmur. "Don’t mind if I do."

She keeps driving. Five minutes. Four and a half.

The sun is behind them now and the dashboard is in shadow. Three minutes. She was thinking about something but she has forgotten what it was.

Two minutes.

The touch of Michael’s lips has left a pleasant echoing imprint, but now they’re out of the sun’s stare she feels a little chill.

One minute.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty.

Stop.