Second Double

Wendy Kroy: Um. Wow. That was. Um.
Regina: I know. That's. Um.
Rona: See. Um. But. Do you. Wow.
Wendy Kroy: Holy motherfucking shit.
Regina: Ditto.
Rona: Pretty much.

We begin this recap at the end, as J.J. would want us to. Because, um, dudes? This was two hours of complete and utter fuckwittedness.

Wendy and his boyfriend, Rona, insisted that I hang with them for the finale, and really, I had no other choice. Sitting in my apartment, with acres of fine vodka before me, shrieking at the television every fifteen minutes? Or sitting at Wendy and Rona's, several dozen smelly candles lit, cigarettes aplenty, cats a-running, daiquiris a-flowing, Indian food arriving, and a gallery of "What the?" and "But they!" and "Did you SEE that fucking shit?"

It was either spend the evening with Wendy and Rona, or spend the evening waiting for commercial breaks so that I could CALL Wendy and Rona just to go, "DUUUUUUUUDES!"

Wendy Kroy: Dude.
Regina: Duuuude.
Wendy Kroy: No, really. Duuuuuuude.
Rona: Okay. ENOUGH with the "dude."
Regina: But, dude.
Wendy Kroy: Yeah. Dude.
Rona: Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Shut the fuck up.

Previously on Alias: They gave us the rundown on cloning, apparently. Oh, and Syd and Vaughn doin' the nasty. And that bizarre moment when Francinator purchased a tie for Vaughn in the hopes that he would wear it during sex, rip it off, and allow the recording device within to tape his entire "let's bring work into the boudoir" conversation with his girlfriend.

And whaddya know? They're conversin' and the tie's recordin'.

Seriously. As this episode opens up, Syd and Vaughn are engaging in some rather raunchy sex, while discussing work. Yeah. Because THAT'S appropriate. They're all, kiss kiss, investigation blah blah, nuzzle nuzzle, I think my dad's onto us bling bling, rip rip, is anyone even LISTENING to us discuss work while we're throwing each other around the room and licking the roofs of each other's mouths?

Actually, at least one person is listening. And no, it's not God. It's Francinator. She is one seriously skeevy individual, people. Like, Syd and Vaughn aren't even discussing anything remarkably secret (or interesting, for that matter) and yet Francinator's listening in as if Syd's divulging her formula for cold fusion that involves Oreos, a gallon of soy milk, and a couple of spark plugs.

By the way, why's Vaughn wearing The Tie of Doom and Destruction? If your girlfriend's ROOMMATE gave you a fucking tie, would YOU wear it? No. No, you would not. Because it's incredibly weird and fucked up, and that thing would find the bottom of your closet faster than you can say, "Honey? Your roommate is a fucking FEMBOT."

Right, so Francinator the Fembot is chatting with Sark about how the CIA's mole hunt will eventually lead them to Will, which, of course, will eventually lead them to her and her fembotty ways. There's no point to this scene other than to show how wiggy Francinator is and how HOT David Anders is.

Sark immediately heads off to Irina's office to drop the bomb about Will. I find it terribly amusing that Irina's "office," as it were, is the complete opposite of Sloane's. Like, Sloane's was all sleek and cold and impersonal, and Irina's is all warm and Persian rug-filled and darkly comforting. Set designers and dressers? Gold star for you! After admiring the interior decorating of his mother's inner sanctum, Sark surmises that Sloane will want Will killed before the CIA gets their hands on him. Irina's all, yeah, but Sloane's not around, now, is he? Dude went bonkers and did a few too many bong hits at The Buddhist Temple of B-Actors. Sark's all, but Mom! If the CIA uses regression therapy on Willage, our L.A. asset will be, like, compromised! What, you mean, like, FRANCINATOR? God. Why don't they just SAY her fucking name? I mean, I realize that they're trying to keep her real identity a secret, but this whole "No-Name McAsset" business is getting old. Whatever. I've got, like, nine more hours of recapping...

Irina tells Sark, in no uncertain terms, that Will Tippin's NOT to be touched. Sark's not fond of this declaration, as his puckered little mouth suggests, but Irina could give two shits. She goes on to tell him that she's set up a meeting with some guy who can get them the codes to the NSA facility where the Holocaust Heart is being held. In the meantime, son, could you tell No-Name McAsset to put a good, solid frame on Willage and TELL US HER REAL NAME ALREADY?

Hell-Lay. Oh, holy huckleberry pies a la mode. Will's lying in bed. Naked. Will's naked. Um.

Wendy Kroy: Shhhhh!
Regina: Why can't I talk? He's NAKED, he's not TALKING ABOUT BEING NAKED.
Wendy Kroy: Would you be quiet! We all must take a moment of silence and just...worship him.
Regina: Dude. It's not THAT great.
Rona: Tell her to shut up, Wendy. Tell her to shut up NOW.
Regina: Fine. I'll shut up. Good GOD. His pectoral muscles are HUGE.
Wendy Kroy: See? What'd I say? WHAT. DID. I. SAY.
Regina: Yeah. He's. Um. Yeah.
Rona: Methinks she doth see the light.
Regina: Methinks I doth need to lie down.

Okay, so after I rewound the tape nineteen times and freeze-framed it two hundred times, I was able to move on. Francinator's sitting to Will on the bed, and it's clear that he's been hypnotized, because his poor little blue eyes are wrenched open with some Clockwork Orange-type of clamp. Francinator's droning on about how, from now on, any questions that anyone asks him, he'll remember some answers, forget others, and the more personal the question, the less he'll recall. Then she drops some shit in his eye. Ew. "In fact, the more you try to recall," she says, dropping some more shit in his other eye, "the more elusive they'll become." Damn. If Merrin Dungey's hair and makeup didn't look so ridiculously good right now, I'd really be disgusted by the Francinator. But she's so pretty, it's hard to hate her at the moment. Of course, now that she's SHOOTING LASERS INTO WILL'S PUPILS, I might have to change my mind. Ew! And, EW! And ew some more!

The day, Will and Syd are enjoying a nice jog in the park when Syd tells Will that he passed his upper-level analyst test with flying colors. They blah blah some more about how this means that Will can apply for some special analyst position now, but I'm too busy watching the sweat trickle down the side of Bradley Cooper's neck. And I'm also too busy wondering why I can't get away with the whole "kerchief on the head" look that Syd's sporting right now. Complete with braids. I can't get away with it, people. I just can't. Braids make me look like Pippi Long-fucking-stocking. It's not right.

Suddenly, a couple of big-ass Ford SUVs come screeching up, and a bunch of FBI agents scramble out, guns flailing. Will's under arrest for suspicion of espionage. The agents cuff him and haul him off in one of the SUVs. Syd demands to know who ordered this, and the lead FBI dude is kind enough to inform her that it was dear old Spy Daddy.

Conference Room of Endless Expositions. Later that day, Syd's lost the Pippi look and is in the process of trying to declare Will's innocence. Spy Daddy's not buying it. Mainly because the CIA finally discovered those two satellite breaches where Francinator broke in and used the satellite for her own nefarious reasons. The first time, letting Irina escape in Panama, and the second time, zeroing in on the Tuscany shoot-out so Sloane could see who shot Auntie Em. Yeah. Bouillabaisse my ASS.

Oooh! And Kendall's back! He's back there, behind Spy Daddy. Aw. I missed Kendall. I really did. He's snarktastic! And he's especially snarkorrific in this episode, but we'll get to that later.

Syd again declares Will's innocence. Marshall pipes up that the breaches came from Will's access account. Syd's all, someone else could've used the account! Kendall's all, yeah! Totally! Or, you know, WILL COULD HAVE. Spy Daddy's all, or -- and this is one big, fat, whopping OR -- Will Tippin ain't really Will Tippin at all.