Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (although us fanfiction writers should probably take over so that we can fix the colossal mess the show has become), and Orphan Black belongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who are doing a bang-up job).


January 6, 2012 – Toronto, Canada

We've been casing the TD Canada Trust building on Yonge Street for a little over a week now. Frenchie's posing as a Parisian businesswoman handling foreign accounts for some snooty stock trading firm whose name I won't even fuck with pronouncing. Her blonde hair and sweet as honey accent has the bank managers completely ass-over-mouth for her; one little "oui oui" and they're all wee-weeing themselves. One of the clerks, greasy asshole with an acne problem and no intention of fixing it, has asked her out for coffee every day since we planted her. Even though she's politely told him to go fuck himself every time, Rhesus still shits a solid gold brick in her nerd-mobile down off Bay. It's funny as shit, watching her glasses fog up and her dreads shake with anger. I'm pretty sure the kids passing by that van will never see hot chocolate the same way again.

They map out the basic security protocols on the conference line with Limey, who draws up four plans to get us in and out before they even finish their sentences. L's always been a fucking show-off; we never have to ask if she can get the job done. Cocky little shit just asks if we want to be home by lunch or tea time, 'cause she'd rather not miss her kid draw another stick figure picture of her family or some other boring bullshit.

Casually leaning against a light post, I flick open my silver Zippo lighter and let the flame catch the end of a Belmont Mild, all while keeping my eyes on the revolving glass doors of the building across the road. I look down at the black G-Shock on my wrist. 12:30 PM on the dot. According to Frenchie's intel, most of the staff are off to lunch and there's only one clerk at the counter.

I take a good long drag from my smoke before putting it out on the cold metal of the lamp post. I then signal to Tippler on the roof of the café behind me, tucking the short cig into the edge of my dark skull cap.

Time to move.

"Keep it short, Tiger," Limey's voice comes over the radio transmitter resting in my ear. "No foul ups."

I just roll my eyes and keep putting one leather boot in front of the other until I'm staring at my reflection in the perfectly polished entrance.

But just as I'm about to introduce the patrons of TD Canada Trust to The Beast, the 12 gauge pump action shotgun hidden in my army green trenchcoat, I'm knocked flat on my ass by two bangin' babes in leather catsuits. They're hauling ass down the sidewalk, holding hands between their bodies and lugging a pair of enormous nylon duffle bags. They round the corner like fucking track stars, so fast I couldn't even get a good look at their faces.

"What the fuck –"

I go to lift myself off the ground and I almost lose my shit when my fingers catch onto a thin strip of paper on the cement. A yellow thin strip of paper… with half of Wilfrid Laurier's old ugly mug staring back at me.

"We've been jacked! Everyone clear the fuck out and meet back at the house!" I shout into the radio as I finally get to my feet. I tuck The Beast back into my coat just as the bank's alarm system starts to go ape shit, and almost like a prayer, she steps out onto the pavement in front of me.

She can't be more than five foot six, and I think even that's being pretty fucking generous. But her brown eyes are on fire with adrenaline, and her legs look like they go on for miles. Lush brunette hair falls over the shoulders of a body suit that matches the two sprinters who mowed me down, although I notice that unlike her partners, she's wearing a North Face backpack. Her juicy pink lips curl into a smile as she comes face to face (or rather, her face to my chest) with me. I kick myself inside because I'm totally not pissed anymore.

This is easily the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.

"Excuse me, Tiger. Girl's gotta run." Jesus Christ, even her voice sounds like an orgasm.

She winks at me when she says it too, and damn if it doesn't get me going like nothing else.

My eyebrows pinch together in confusion when the wave of heat runs its course through me. "How the fuck do you know my –"

I make the mistake of taking a step toward her and before I know it, the rubber sole of her boot collides with my face, knocking me backward onto the curb. I feel my lip gushing blood into my mouth as I stare up at the perpetually gray Toronto sky. The brunette leans over me, smirking like she's won some gold medal or some shit.

"Next time, make it worth my while, baby. I like a challenge."

In a blink, she's gone as quickly as she came, and I'm left to wonder who the fuck this girl is, and why the hell her kicking me in the face makes me want to fuck her six ways from Sunday.


AN: All of The Orphans use codenames to protect their identities.

Tony "Tiger" Sawicki is the group's leader, Delphine "Frenchie" Cormier is their grifter, Cosima "Rhesus" Niehaus is their hacker, Sarah "Limey" Manning is the brain who plans their heists, and Alison "Tippler" Hendrix is their surveillance guru.

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A. Tenmeadows, out.