Alias
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Erin: C+ | 1 USERS: C
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Previously on Alias, it was the year 1969 and men landed on the moon. Or maybe Hitler threw down his paintbrush because he couldn't get the landscape right and minced off to declare war on a bunch of innocent people. Perhaps it was 1888 and an unfortunate woman's body was discovered in a rank alleyway in the East End of London. No, wait, it was that time when that guy invented cheese. Or pasteurization or something. Maybe I'm confused. Maybe it's been so long since the last damn episode that the "previouslys" actually pull footage from the fucking STONE AGE in order to bring us all up to date on what in the hell is going on.

Seriously? Let's run through the previouslys here. Syd wakes up with a scar on her stomach. She's lost TWO YEARS of her life. Jack wants Vaughn to stop being nice to Sydney. Lindsay Crouse tells Syd that "This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks, signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works; at vulgar costs, this woman will render the greatest power, unto utter desolation," and then we see a picture of a woman that's supposedly Syd, only, like, sketched on ancient goatskin or something. Sark burns Papa Lazarey with a mini blowtorch. And the box Syd nabbed from the hotel where she and Will did the nasty actually holds a vial of genuine no-kidding living Rambaldi tissue. If all of this means nothing to you, then I suggest you go back and read every last damn recap from the beginning of time, because, y'all? If you're heading blind into this episode, you are gonna be one sorry puppy.

Marshall's Office of Omnigeeks. A bunch of suits are messing with the Rambaldi tissue. They're taking notes, snapping photos, pretending to analyze it in their flashy white lab coats that make them feel all special and "scientific." Finally, they lock up the box and head out. Elsewhere at Oops Center, Marshall's paying homage to the Brady family by constructing a house of cards at some random desk. Syd walks up and asks if he's had a chance to analyze the tissue. Marshall's all, dude, I wish. Unfortunately, a big bunch of bureaucratic beeyotches are all up in my kitchen and playing with my tissue. And that's not supposed to be as pornographic as it sounds.

Syd's all, whuh? In the whuh whuh? Marshall's all, did I stutter? Oh. Wait. Yeah, I usually do stutter. Sorry about that. Um, the Bureaucratic Beeyotches are from some secret government agency, and they're taking our cute little cube o' tissue away. Syd's all, where? Marshall's all, dude? I just work here. You think they TELL me crap like that? You know, just for kicks, I really should put a tracer on the package just to see where they take it. That'd be cool. Then I could see inside their offices and look at them naked and think about kumquats…

Syd totally ignores him, something catching her eye on the other side of the center. It's the BBs, and they're heading, en masse, to lands unknown. Syd intercepts them and asks the head BB whassup. He's all, we're taking the flesh, or hadn't you noticed? Syd's all, yeah, I picked up on that. But what I want to know is, WHERE are you taking it. Head BB's all, well, that's for me to know and you to find out. We're from the Department of Special Research, baby, and we don't spill our guts to just anyone. Unless, of course, you have a bottle of Southern Comfort hidden somewhere on your person, in which case, a few slugs of that and we'll sing like shadowy governmental canaries, sister.

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Alias

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