Fandom: Mission Impossible
Title: Past Comes Back
Author: ice shredder
Spoilers/Warnings: M:I-M:I-3 references and my own imagination of what Ethan and Nyah's relationship might've evolved into after M:I-2 closed and how that will affect Ethan's present with his wife Julia and the fate of the IMF. Scenes of torture, explosions, emotional angst and love, and the usual plot twists and cliffhangers so buckle your seatbelts, folks.
Disclaimer: Sadly, Ethan Hunt and his friends don't belong to me except for the plot and various OCs.
Summary: When Nyah Hall staggers back into Ethan Hunt's life covered in blood and bruises with no memory of what happened he resolves to find out who committed such an unforgivable act. Little do they realize a terrorist group is targeting the IMF for complete destruction. And the key to stopping them lies in Nyah's mind. But recovering her fragmented memories might be harder than Ethan and Co. think, putting the IMF on borrowed time that's quickly running out.
Prologue
The sturdy shack clear in the heights of the Swiss Alps was peaceful in the tranquility of the below-freezing night. Only on the outside though. Inside bore witness to a torture that would put most mad scientists to shame.
A slim bronzy, coffee-eyed beauty sat bound hand and foot in a metal chair, glassy-eyed bruised and bloodied. Angry knife wounds left crevasses in her flawless skin, her back, legs, and arms bore the brunt of this, oozing her life's blood in a relentless drip-drip. Contusions disfigured her oval face and ribs throbbed mercilessly. Lash marks scored her back where she'd been whipped repeatedly with a cat o' nine tails. Her shapely legs were swollen to twice their size and slit in several places not to relieve the pressure but inflict calculating pain. Her clothes hung off her tortured frame in pitiful rags, dark chocolate hair in tangles. She groaned, half-conscious, tears pouring involuntarily down her cheeks against the brutal assault.
How long had she been here? One day? Three? She prayed the sessions would cease.
"Well, isn't this a crying shame," a handsome man purred. His athletic physique, black hair and movie star looks belied his sadistic nature. A wicked gleam of steel glinted between his dexterous, slab-like hand with long sinewy fingers. They were latex-protected, spattered with blood discouraging any evidence. "Fun's over."
He stepped back into the semi-shadowy darkness motioning to his computer whiz as he stripped off his soiled gloves and tossed them into the crackling fire, the only light source in the place. Satisfied at the sight of the latex material hissing in the fire's heat he reached into his pocket and snapped on another pair.
"Brendan," he whispered, "are the devices ready?"
His stocky companion sat in the corner of the room, clicking away at the keyboard of his smart laptop. Bald and surprisingly adept with bare hand forms and handguns Brendan Challis's skill level not only rivaled Luther Stickell and Benji Dunn's in the latest software and technological development he surpassed it. Challis was responsible for the creation of "smart" nanotechnology in the field.
"Should be ready in ten," he said without taking his eyes off the screen. "Which means you want it in five, right?"
"Yes. We're leaving soon."
Drawing a black bandanna from his pocket, Asa Morelli – disguise artist, professional sadist, and skilled combatant – crossed the room with the grace of a natural athlete and stopped behind his latest victim.
"Sorry for the inconvenience Nyah," he said tying the cloth firmly around her eyes. "But we can't take any chances." His smarmy tone gave her the creeps. It reminded her of her dead ex-lover Sean Ambrose but she refused to cry. Images of Ethan Hunt flickered before her in all his rugged, manly glory steadying her shredded nerves. Dear Ethan. The last time she'd seen him was 6 years ago when he announced his field retirement. It seemed a lifetime ago she'd looked up and saw him there at that house party in Seville falling into the magnetic pull of his stormy ocean eyes and falling in love with him despite the risk.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the brute puncturing a syringe needle full of a powerful anesthetic into her bruised hip. She groaned in pain and slumped forward expelling a small breath. Stay awake she instructed herself. Morelli signaled to the two other men who made up his four-man squad. They slipped forward silent as ghosts cut her bonds and wrapped her in a blanket.
Before transporting their bundle to the idling car outside one of them zip-tied her hands in front then the men heaved her into the air and the bitterly cold wind sliced through the blanket. Blackness encroached on her vision. The last sound Nyah Nordoff-Hall heard (and remembered for a while) was the slam of the car's trunk.
