Splinter Cell: Inside

Disclaimer - I have the games (and wish I had Sam), but Tom Clancy and Ubisoft have the monopoly here.

AN – I've made Sarah roughly five billion years younger than she's supposed to be (well, maybe not that young), I'm sure I've taken broad liberties with Grim's character, and I still can't write for crap. Any helpful criticism to dredge me up from mediocrity is in sore need. To the reviewers of the past, I love ya. Just a few changes have been made (mostly Coen's name and some other Chaos Theory added information), and you can actually expect regular updates. To everyone else, please enjoy. And I love reviews. All reviews, be they flames or praise. Feed the Tom Clancy created muse!

This whole mess should take place before Chaos Theory and after Pandora Tomorrow.

"He's going to kill you."

I snorted, eyes focused solely on the screen of my laptop. "Only if he finds out."

We were in the main NSA computer office: "Grim's Lair of Evil", as Brunton had so eloquently dubbed it. Usually, I use the countless gigs of RAM, the world's fastest high speed internet, and my own—dare I say—impressive hacking talents for my job, which usually consists of helping a grumpy old man hide in the dark so he could save the free world.

This was a special exception.

This wasn't for work, but it involved "borrowing" (read: stealing) a few things from work, which was why I was being a little extra careful. My beautiful three flat panel LCD screens were not circled around me in their comforting embrace as per the usual, and I wasn't using the main server today either, using some clever key dancing and a much modified wireless adapter to mooch off the NSA database without being logged. The laptop I was using for this was a temporary as well. As soon as I finished, the whole thing was being completely wiped. Hell, I might even burn it, just to be sure. You can never be too careful in this line of work.

"I doubt you'll be able to hide it from Lambert for long," she said. "And don't you think Sam would get a little suspicious if we start cracking up every time we see him?" Coen was nervous, more than she needed to be, and it made me a little indignant. I was careful.

"True." I swiped at a stray hair, pushed my glasses further up the bridge of my nose, and smiled. "But aren't you dying to see?"

Fray smiled too, rather evilly—but it faded just as quickly as it appeared. "He'll find out," she said stubbornly.

I snorted again. God, I'm so feminine. "He might, he might not. In any case, I have to be sure you won't leak it to anybody."

Coen held up her right hand, her expression mockingly grim. "I solemnly swear," she slowly recited in a completely serious tone, "never to tell anyone where their tax dollars really go."

It's moments like that that remind me of how great Coen is. She's got a sense of humor up there with the best of them.

"Good," I told her, grinning. I downed a portion of my bottle of Pepsi and decided to make conversation until the hacking program did its job. "I didn't think that Sarah was that old."

"She's…fourteen, I think," Fray answered. I offered the soda to her, but she waved it away. "I'm on a diet."

"You?" I took another swig from the bottle just to spite her. "Why are you dieting? You weigh like forty pounds."

She laughed. "I don't weigh forty pounds. But I gained ten in a month." She frowned and looked at her perfectly flat stomach. It didn't look like she gained ten pounds.

"Work is causing stress that causes wanton devouring?"

Fray rolled her eyes. "Did I ever tell you about the time I almost caused five accidents and almost killed ten people in less than thirty seconds? I ate a half gallon of Ben & Jerry's after that."

"I wonder if Sam's gained any weight. Lord knows if you're stressed…"

Coen giggled. "He wouldn't be able to fit in the suit."

There was something ridiculously funny about the mental image of Fisher straining to put on his SIGNT suit. I giggled too, before we were interrupted by the cheery "ding!" of the hacking program.

"All right, Fray. This is it."

Coen eagerly moved closer to the screen and watched.

The image was colorless and a bit fuzzy, as was typical of the cheap security cameras purchased by the various Shop-Rite clones. Nevertheless, it was very easy to pick out our target. Line four, third from the right, second in line. Unmistakable for anyone else, but I pointed him out to Coen just the same.

Sam Fisher. The man who had saved countless American lives. When he felt like it.

The first I saw of Fisher, Samuel J. was his extremely impressive Career Service Vita from the US Navy SEALS and his five zillion volunteered black ops. I had, however, been doubtful of his ability when he stepped into Third Echelon training on that day not too long ago, despite Lambert's assertions that he was the best. Fisher hadn't been out in the field in years, and he was…well…old.

I had been gravely mistaken. And to this day, Lambert never makes me forget it. Sam was older, yes, but he was wiser, and he was quiet and smart. The Georgian information crisis and the Indonesian incident only furthered my already high opinion of him. He took to the dark like a duck to water. Or something. I'm bad with metaphors.

Despite having worked with the man for nearly four years, I knew next to nothing about his personal life. I was willing to bet Fray knew much more than I did. All I knew for sure was that he had a daughter, Sarah, and I was pretty sure little girls didn't magically appear from thin air. But his history file was always blocked, always deleted or missing wherever I turned. Whenever I thought I found the complete thing, it slipped through my fingers like a shadow, just shy of my grasp. But everyone's file was like that. There was something very hush-hush about our personal lives. I suppose that's part of how the NSA keeps us all greased—the less we know about each other, the easier we get along.

Sam was now at the front of the line, glowering at the timidly smiling cashier. The moment had arrived. Coen and I watched with bated breath, as though the very cornerstone of society hung on Sam Fisher in a supermarket line.

He dumped the package on the checkout desk as though it was radioactive material and looked away. The obviously slightly frightened cashier took out the parcel within it. Despite the general blurriness of the picture quality, there was no mistaking what he was purchasing.

Sam Fisher, esteemed Navy SEAL, deadly Splinter Cell, and all around badass—was buying tampons.