Hi guys! Now I know that I already have two stories in progress, however I've had this written for a few months and wanted to see if it is worth continuing. Review and let me know...maybe?

BTW please don't hate me if I don't update Catching Kirsty for a while, I have some ideas, but they're not fully formed in my head...

I take a deep breath.

In.

Out.

Why am I so nervous? I've been doing this since I was fifteen.

I shouldn't be nervous.

Stood outside of the CIA's east coast branch in New York, preparing for the next step in my career.

Finally mustering my courage, I walk inside, showing my ID to the secretary at the desk. He looks up at me and then types into the computer in front of him then looking back to me, saying, "Floor twenty-two, then you should be able to find the Director's office from there. Weird eyes, by the way."

With that he hands me a key pass to the elevator and smiles at me politely.

Thanking him, I walk to the elevator bank at the back of the room, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floors. As I'm waiting for an elevator to come, I think about how royally fucked up my life is. I graduated high school at fifteen, went straight into the CIA while also studying my PhD in modern languages, learning 27 languages on top of the two I already knew, becoming the best modern translator in the world while also being a field agent and an interrogator and finally winding up with a transfer back home to New York. Where I lived until I was fourteen. Then I watched my mom, dad, both of my older brothers and their soulfinders shot on my birthday.

I know why you're so nervous now, I think to myself, you're back in the worst place for you to be with your PTSD. It's better than San Francisco, though.

A ding brings me out of my rivière and into the elevator, swiping the card and stabbing the button with a '22' on it.

The doors glide shut silently, with the elevator rising smoothly but quickly, causing my stomach to churn. I've never liked fast elevators.

When it reaches the floor, I step out into a typical CIA office setup, except I can't see any way to find the director's office. Plus, it's empty.

Turning to my right, I decide to walk around the room until I either find the director's office or someone who can help me. As I'm walking past an open door, a large body walks out of it, crashing into me and spilling whatever hot drink they had in their hand on themselves (I think tea), while also dropping a large file.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry! Here, let me help you," I say, crouching down to help him pick up his papers.

"Hey, don't worry. It's fine, stop. I'll pick them up," he says, setting down the mug on the floor and scooping the papers into a messy pile. He picks them up, shoving them into the folder while I grab his mug and we both stand up. He's at least four inches taller than my 6 feet. He's also really familiar. "I'm Chris. Sorry for running into you. Have we met? You look really familiar."

"I was thinking the same thing, I'm Cass. It might be my eyes, though I don't know anyone else who has blue-brown heterochromia," I smile. I've always been a little insecure about my eyes, but Chris is one of the first people who hasn't mentioned them.

"That's weird, my little sister was called Cass and she had the same heterochromia that you do. Apparently it's really rare and more common in men than women."

"Was?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"She went missing on her fourteenth birthday. They were looking for her until her twentieth birthday, eight years ago." He sounds dejected. When he looks at me again, I see something in him, that I saw every day of my life in my mother, my brothers and in the mirror. His brown eyes. Staring at me in the way only a stranger does, but with such a familiar and memorised feeling.

"Wait, your name isn't Christophe, is it?" I breathe, my eyes wide.

"Yeah, most people think it's Christopher, but it isn't. I drew the short straw name wise with second gen French parents," Chris rushes out. "Why am I telling you this, I don't know you."

I laugh, smiling at my big brother, "Oh, but you do, Chris." I hold my hand out for him to shake, "I'm Cassandra Marina Bouchard and mostly Bouchard-Grey. I'm your little sister and the best modern translator in the world."

"Cassie?" He whispers, eyes wide. "How...What happened..." He can't even form words.

"How am I alive? How are you alive? You were killed in front of me." I drift into a hysterical whisper, tears in my eyes.

"What? You went missing on your birthday and we never found you. I don't know how, if you're in the CIA, coz Dad is the official director." He's smiling like an idiot now.

Guiding me over to a desk, where he puts down his papers and all of the stuff in my hands, he swings me into a really strong hug. We laugh at each other, squeezing until our arms hurt.

I hear a door open and I'm releasing my brother and a voice shout, "Chris! What the hell takes you so long to get tea you weak bastard!"

Looking over Chris' shoulder, I see a slightly shorter and older version of Chris standing in a doorway to an office. "Mom and Dad are getting impatient! We're still waiting on that new translator to show up, but she should be here any second!"

"That would be me." I speak up, stepping around my brother.

Chris turns around and picks up his papers and mug off the desk, "I think I have more important news than this case, Mitch," he walks over to him, gesturing me to follow him.

"What? The translator is a model? I thought you weren't that shallow, man." He tries to joke, "Wait, she looks really familiar, was she at school with you in high school or something?"

"That's offensive, adding four years to my twenty eight. Nothing that shallow, Mitch. Think closer and fourteen years ago." I respond, folding my arms across my chest and looking him straight in the eye.

"Oh, shit, shit shit shit shit. MOM! DAD! Get out here!" He yells, twisting his head back into the office he came out of.

"Quit yelling, you insufferable child, you never grew—" my mother's voice echoes through until she is stood in front of me, "Merde. Robert!"

"I thought you said you'd sort him out, Marian. You were always favourite par—" he cuts off as he is stood in front of me in the office doorway, just behind my mother. "Baiser, Marian, why didn't you say something?"