Disclaimer: The Venture Bros. and their universe are the property of Jackson Public, Doc Hammer, Astrobase Go, and the Cartoon Network. In other words, I do NOT own the majority of these characters, so, please, don't sue me. The few OCs popping around are mine but considering they're part of a fanfiction, I'm sure there's not much to be done with them.

Author's Notes: I started this about a month before the season 5 premiere came along so, as you read along, you might notice that isn't following the cannon. I was kind of banking on Gary staying part of the S.P.H.I.N.X. team and, well, the S.P.H.I.N.X. team, you know, existing. This is why I don't ever gamble IRL with money. I'd be way poorer than I already am. Please enjoy the story.

So what exactly does a guy do when he loses his best friend (or rather, the hallucination of said best friend), his girl—who, actually was never even remotely his to begin with—and his faith the only life he's known since he was fifteen-years-old? A couple of self-help books suggested art therapy and a long vacation. Gary had not done that. Gary had gotten blackout drunk and woken up buck-naked in a Tijuana holding cell with a couple new tattoos and a hangover that could have made the gods weep.

Fortunately for his poor, throbbing head, and more fortunately for the so-called guards at the aforementioned Tijuana holding cell, Shore Leave had decided to tag him when was unconscious in S.P.H.I.N.X. headquarters. Normally that sort of deal would have bugged the shit out of Gary but considering the other guy also showed with bail money, Advil, and a job offer, he let it go.

So, in a nutshell, that's how he ended up here, in Tangiers, vent crawling with Brock Samson and Shore Leave grinding out orders in his earpiece. It was a dream come true. For the most part—he'd pictured secret-agent hero work with much less micro-management.

"Keep it steady, Rookie, your drop is only ten feet off." Update number one-thousand comes along with the tinny pop of gunfire. The boss, apparently, had run into something fun. Not fun enough to stop him from his five second checkups, though.

"Dude, I can read the GPS. I'm fine." It's a half-truth; he'd sort of been learning to operate the standard issue S.P.H.I.N.X. GPS on the fly. Turns out—surprise!—that the Monarch didn't stock the Cocoon with too much state-of-the-art tech, which, consequently, also explained so much about the Venture Compound. He had it down now, though.

Well, 99.9%; enough to know that the big X is indeed ten feet off. And enough to check the thermal scanner, which proves Sky Pilot's in-flight warning about twenty-five people being on the other side of said drop.

This is officially going to be a really fun work day.

"We're sure you are; just keep your head up, Garasaurus." A gargling noise—Brock's knife in a trachea, Gary presumes—punctuates Shore Leave's fond warning before the comlink goes silent.

Hoping that it's the last he hears from the senior officers until the job is done, Gary metaphorically crosses his fingers as he continues to shimmy along the vent shaft. It's not exactly the easiest fit, but he's chalking that up to sub-par architecture and not his figure. If he never had problems in the Venture vents with their inconsistent shape, he shouldn't have them anywhere else.

Static chatter fills the air the closer that he draws to the drop. Gary can't understand any of it since it's in Darija and he doesn't even speak Arabic, let alone the Moroccan/French variant of the city. Luckily, none of that matters since the bomb, the hostages, and their guards are in sight beneath the vent mouth. Actually, give or take a few inches, the guards are pretty much a straight shot below.

It's both comforting and dissatisfying to know that henchmen, no matter their credence, continually make boneheaded decisions.

The hostages are in a cage on the other side of the room, so a ricochet casualty isn't a real worry. However, the bomb is kind of close, so ricochet-blowing-everything-the-fuck-up is. Besides, it's been forever since he got the literal jump on an enemy.

Cool gadgets come in bulk at S.P.H.I.N.X. and Gary's favorite so far is a canister of micro-explosive clay; dab a little on a lock, count to two, and BOOM! Door is open. Sky Pilot had called it Spark Putty; Shore Leave went with Flay-Doh. Personally, Gary didn't have a preference on the name, he just liked when it blew things apart for him like it did to the vent after he applied dots over its fasteners.

The guards get approximately one second to jump and wave their guns before Gary's on top of them. Two go down with his wrist blades through their necks and Gary uses one of them as a shield for when his other three friends realize what's going on. The meat sack serves his purpose well; he's so full of lead that he would blow an MRI to bits by the time Gary throws him at his cohorts. Human Shield (that's his name, now) knocks over one guard and sends the other two scrabbling. While they jump, he slides, gutting one like a fish as he goes and nicking the other's Achilles tendon. Gut-Bust (yes, that's his name now) slumps into a puddle of himself as Gary rises, putting a blade up through Achilles' skull via the soft spot beneath the chin.

Part of him is still a little insulted over the fact that Brock and Shore Leave got the roomful of bad guys while he played safety. And, yeah, he could sulk about it, maybe try and guilt them later for wasting him. Or, he could stand there, thoroughly enjoying the carnage he's helped to wreak and continue to be a badass.

"I'd rethink that." His words are accentuated by the creak of bones as his boot finds the back of the dude's hand. Idiot is making a pathetic reach for his gun strewn just beyond of his fingertips. There's an embarrassing high-pitched squeal followed by what Gary's guessing is some pretty colorful language in his native tongue.

Gary applies just enough pressure to shatter the carpals, and possibly fracturing the radius and ulna as well, before planting a swift kick to the back of his head. Since Shore Leave and Brock have the fearless leader of this operation along with the heavy enforcers wherever they are, Gary probably doesn't need to keep this one alive. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry so he pulls the FlexiCuffs from his utility belt (how fucking cool is it that he has a S.P.H.I.N.X. issued and regularly restocked utility belt?) and slaps them on his one surviving guard, wrists and ankles.

Sky Pilot would be so proud to see him taking that advice to heart.

From there on out it's all kind of boring. He disarms the bomb with the instructions downloaded into his comlink then rests on his laurels, trying to ignore the people in the cage and avoid eye-contact. There'll be another squad coming through once everything is clear that will take care of freeing them and getting them home, therapy, and all that jazz.

It's still really hard to play it cool while there's an old lady wailing twenty feet away. Even harder not to feel like a douchebag.

Luckily, he doesn't have to endure it very long. As he's double checking the bomb with the tactile interface on his comlink, the line comes alive again.

"We're clean up here, how's it on your end, Gary-Bo-Berry?" Restraining himself from an audible sigh, Gary has to admit that Gary-Bo-Berry is one of the better little nicknames Shore Leave has tagged him with. Far better than Gary Indiana, Gary Poppins, or—possibly the worst epithet ever—Strawgary Shortcake.

"Everything's fine. Bomb's dead and so are most all of the guards. I saved one just in case." He toes

"Well, look at you, Mr. Considerate." Really, he tries not to but somehow Gary just can't resist glowing a little (internally only, of course) from the compliment. Swishiest operative on the planet or not, Shore Leave is still comparable to Brock in badassery. Compliments from him are not to be disregarded. "Just leave him for the O.S.I. to play with. Might as well give the slowpokes something to do other than hand out blankets and cocoa to the hostages. They're all still alive, right? You did a head count?"

"Yes. I. Did." Silly nicknames he can let go, his competence at counting and knowing the bad guys from the good guys is a little, well, a lot, harder.

"Okay, okay, sheesh." The borderline patronizing apology comes as it always does.

Brock's voice breaks through before Gary can start up the old "Can you not treat me like a child?" argument. "Okay, Rookie, meet us back at the pickup." There's the flicker of flint and metal, telltale of a cigarette being popped between Brock's even white teeth. Gary can hear his C.O. grinning. "By the way, there were a couple we barred out of the main hall when we hit it. Go ahead and do the honors on the way, would ya?"

All right, maybe, just maybe, being the "rookie" isn't as bad as his banged-up pride makes it up to be.

Out come the wrist blades and open snaps the restraint on his gun holster as Gary begins his dash to the door. The sound of footsteps and unfamiliar voices shouting are already echoing down to him.

Yes, indeed, it is really fun day to be an agent of S.P.H.I.N.X.

{This Is The Self-Important Story Break, Pay It No Mind}

Most of the trip back to headquarters Gary spends sleeping. The cell that he, Brock, and Shore Leave had gone to clean up was the limb of a bigger monster whose head they'd already clipped, so there were no souvenirs to bring home and interrogate. Not that Gary ever did any interrogating, but that was beside the point.

The point is one minute he's napping peacefully on one of the fold out bunks in the back of the jet and the next Brock's booming "What the fuck?!" rips right through his haze of sleep. The reaction is instantaneous, blades out he runs into the cockpit.

"What?!" He doesn't see anything distressing in the compartment but the outside is a little surprising. They're descending on their inch of the Venture compound and two O.S.I. regulation jets are settled on the lawn. "Hey, what the hell are those?!"

"O.S.I. Blue Wings." He really shouldn't expect scintillating conversation from Brock at this point.

"Dude, I can see that!" he exclaims. "What are they doing here is the implied question."

Gathers had ascended to the top job at the old office approximately two weeks ago, handing the helm of the splinter group he'd built over to Brock. Little had been said about the change, and even less was supposed to change other than the O.S.I. formally absorbing S.P.H.I.N.X. as a branch of the organization. They were still supposed to deal with the non-costumed bad guys and still had their dated Egyptian motif; no big stuff.

"Hell if I know," Brock says.

Like Brock, Shore Leave's brow has a furrow that knots Gary's stomach. Serious Shore Leave never bodes well for anyone. "Visits aren't supposed to happen without an extended notice and definitely not without a response from Fearless Leader."

"You don't think Hunter's changed his mind, do you?" Sky Pilot asks.

Shore Leave shakes his head with gusto. "No. No way. Hunter wouldn't tear down something he built with his bare hands. Especially when it's still serves a good goddamn purpose. Right?" That last word comes out with just enough uncertainty that Gary is now officially worried.

Brock doesn't answer. That hard look stays in place, his cigarette switches to the opposite corner of his mouth and he gives the nod to Sky Pilot to keep taking their jet down.

The closer that they get to the ground, the more knots tie in Gary's stomach. There's no one outside HQ, not Johnson, not Elbret, not Michaels, none of the men he knows. Only one person stands between the O.S.I. jets and the old manufacturing plant. A lone figure leaning against a motorcycle, arms crossed, as if they were late for a meeting.

It can't be Gen. Gathers, it's too tall. It could be one of the other S.P.H.I.N.X. agents but that's pretty doubtful considering the ominous nature of the O.S.I. equipment parked on their lawn. For all that Gary can tell, what with the thick motocross jacket and helmet it's wearing, the person poised at their front door may not even be a person at all, it might be robot.

As soon as "robot" crosses his thoughts, Gary's doing a mental inventory of his utility belt, wondering if he still has that isolated EMP bomb Hansen gave him just in case this is some sort of kill bot. He also wonders if it would even work against an O.S.I. kill bot or if the parent agency had a failsafe in place to protect against that tactic. He's having an internal argument with himself on that one, also still trying to remember just wear in the fuck that chip is, when the jet lands and Brock is heading for the door.

"Park the bird, Sky Pilot. You two flank." He doesn't look back as he makes that order. Brock knows—trusts implicitly—that they will listen. And they do, of course they do. One quick glance between the three of them is all that's spared before Shore Leave and Gary are following him out into the warm June air.

It's one of the longest walks of his life, those few yards between the jet and the ominous motorcycle man/possible robot. Neither he nor Shore Leave are being subtle with the threatening aura; his wrist blades are still open and Shore Leave's hand is on his gun. Not that they can tell if their gimmick is working or not, a helmet does quite a bit to mask any sort of twitches and tells, even more so when the target stands to attention and salutes Brock's approach. Gary notes the weapons it carries; two M1911-A1s holstered at its hips, a knife in its boot, and whatever might be in the various pouches on its utility belt.

"Commander Samson." The voice doesn't sound robotic but it is muffled a bit by the helmet and its sealed, reflective visor.

Brock tosses his nearly used up cigarette into the grass. "At ease, soldier. S.P.H.I.N.X. doesn't do formal and I don't have time for it." His arms cross. "Why don't you just tell me who you are and why all this clutter's on my lawn?"

The salute goes away but the rigid form stays. "Right." Off pops the helmet and in a swish of dark brown hair, Gary's suspicions of a robot are (mostly) dashed.

It's a woman, which surprises him. A lot and yes, Gary is a little ashamed of the fact and what it says about gender equality in the workforce. He hasn't seen many female agents in the O.S.I., but then again, Gary's dealings with the O.S.I. have been fairly limited.

"I'm Special Agent Samantha Sloane." Without the helmet, her voice is low and clear, maybe a little bit cold too. That could just be the stare, though. Special Agent Samantha Sloane has some frosty blue-gray eyes. She's not glaring or anything, but there is serious winter wind swirling in those irises. One of her scowls might just be able to freeze somebody solid. "General Gathers has assigned me as the S.P.H.I.N.X. Sentinel. I've brought a unit of additional agents to add to your ranks—your approval pending, of course—the new budget for you to look over, and expansion plans for the base."

About two seconds tick by where nothing happens, the world is absolutely still. Zach Snyder cheesy slow-motion still. Gary can't read the look on Brock's face—Brock's face is often like that, though, so no loss—but judging by Shore Leave's slack jaw and high eyebrows, none of what Agent Sloane just said was expected. Or welcome, either, in all probability.

"What's a Sent—"

Gary's question is crushed by Brock.

"Hunter never said anything about nailing us with a watchdog." He says it like a threat more than a statement, something that Gary is sure only Brock can do with such ease. Agent Sloane is to be given credit, though, because she doesn't cringe under the ice in his eyes. Maybe because she's got a blizzard going on in her own, but still, credit where credit is due.

Agent Sloane, however, does not give Brock a reply. That comes from a source even more formidable than Gary's commander.

"That's because I knew you'd foam at the mouth and try to argue me down if we didn't do it in person."

Despite only meeting General Gathers twice, Gary would still recognize his voice just about anywhere. It ranks just behind Dr. Mrs. The Monarch's in unique gravely texture to Gary's memory. And now, apparently, Gathers has a pair of cupcakes to rival hers as well.

"What the shit?" comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Luckily, nobody is even paying attention to him because Shore Leave is way louder.

"Oh. My. God. You were not kidding about that woman screaming inside."

"Don't be an infant." Hunter's five o'clock shadow is disturbing with perky C-cups. And his new ponytail. And his lipstick.

Goddamn especially that lipstick.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gary sees Brock's cold rage has quickly turned to serious discomfort.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Brock asks, "Did you…Did you go all the way back?"

Gathers appears nonplussed by the question. "Yep. And yes, feminine pronouns are my goddamn preference. Now let's get a move on." Gathers' fists fly to his—her—narrow hips in that familiar, authoritative manner. One thing that hasn't changed. Well, along with the cigarette and the shades. "Samson, me and you are gonna hash this out in conference. Sloane, startup integration and play nice. You're making an impression, girly."

"Sir, yes, sir." It doesn't come out as a zealous boom, but Sloane does salute again causing the furrows return to Brock's forehead.

"You're assuming I'll agree to this."

Gathers, already heading for the entrance, doesn't even look back. "By the time I'm done barking at you, you will. Now come on, you behemoth, we're wasting daylight."

Brock balks, mouth curled in the onset of a snarl that can't quite form because he's so frustrated that he can't find the words. It's not a good look for him, or anyone it falls on, for that matter, as Gary, despite knowing that Brock almost certainly wouldn't kill him, finds his legs taking him back a few feet just in case. Shore Leave doesn't flinch but there is a certain tenseness to his jaw that says he isn't too comfortable either.

Agent Sloane, again, makes it apparent that she's earned her place as a Sentinel (whatever that is exactly) because when the scowl comes at her, she barely blinks. In fact, her arms cross over her chest and an eyebrow goes up. It's a silent "whatever, bro" that precious few have the stones to express.

If that pisses Brock off further, it can't be determined because Gathers is growling, "Move your candy ass, Samson!" at him. Brock obeys because Gathers is the only person alive who can order him around, though he stomps off with copious amounts of swearing beneath his breath.

There are a few awkward seconds that pass by in the wake of that less than…cheerful exit, where Gary, Shore Leave, and Agent Sloane continue to stand silently on the lawn. Shore Leave ends it quick enough, though, just as Gary knew he would. Shore Leave is always good for cutting the air. And quips. And shitty nicknames.

"Shore Leave, nice to meet you." He holds out his hand and smiles, a proverbial peace offering.

It's a little bit like an iceberg melting when Agent Sloane smiles and wraps her fingers around Shore Leave's palm. That tense military air she's swathed in unravels and her eyes get bluer and less gray. It isn't as if a halo erupts around her head or anything, but Gary doesn't have the impulse to pull a parka on anymore, and that's saying a lot.

"Thanks, the feeling's mutual, sir; I've heard good things."

"Of course you have." He cocks his head to the side as their hands part, as if examining her all over again. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be any relation to Sonia Sloane, would you?"

There is look that crosses Agent Sloane's face that both says she's heard that question before and that she should have expected it now. It's brief, just a flicker, but Gary notes it nonetheless. Maybe because emotions showing up on her face after he was so sure she didn't have them is goddamn fascinating.

"I would, in fact; I'm her daughter."

Shore Leave's eyebrows shoot up. "Get out! I didn't know the Blade had kids!"

Shrugging, Sloane's smile goes down a notch or two in warmth. "Just the one. Or at least as far as I know."

His excitement blinds Shore Leave to the subtle cues that Agent Sloane isn't crazy about talking about her mother. "Oh my god. I bet you hear how you look just like her all the time, don't you?"

"More than I could probably ever say, sir." She shifts a little, adjusting her bike helmet from the crook of one arm to the other. It reads like Brock's neck rubbing, even if her face doesn't contort another inch.

"So what's a 'Sentinel'?" Gary asks before Shore Leave can put his foot farther into his mouth.

The corner of Agent Sloane's mouth quirks back up as she and Shore Leave look over at him. His intervention is apparently appreciated.

Like with all questions, whether or not they've were directed at him, Shore Leave has an answer and he's eager to share. "Elite watchdogs for O.S.I. brass, like Brock said. Well, partially. Big partially but not all."

Agent Sloane gives a quick nod, swiping some of her messy bangs out of her eyes in the process. Tucking the hair behind her ear, Gary spies three rings going down the shell, two in the lobe, and a tattoo peeking out from behind though he can't tell what it's of. "We're eyes and ears for the agency head and take care of whatever they need us to. Right now, my job is to act as liaison between General Gathers and S.P.H.I.N.X."

"But what does that mean exactly?" Gary is not afraid to have that answered. No, he is not.

Okay, he really kind of is.

"Paperwork," Agent Sloane says with a tone about as damp as the Sahara. "A literal fuckton of paperwork. Pardon the expression." She doesn't actually sound like she cares about the pardon. However, she does start caring about whom she's currently speaking to because an eyebrow goes up and her arm extends toward him. "Hi, and you would be?"

"Uh, Gary." He's a little bit slow but Gary's mostly just happy he doesn't start stuttering. De-thawed as she might be, Agent Sloane is still super intimidating. "Gary Stewart."

She nods, as if his name is familiar to her already. Understandable, given what she says next. "Right, the convert from the butterfly guys."

"The Monarchs." Those words taste less bitter than they did the first few time saying them post resignation, but they still don't slide so well off Gary's tongue. He's not even sure why he offered the correction.

Agent Sloane doesn't seem to mind. Or care. She only nods again. "Yeah, them. Well, welcome to the other side. Hope you're liking it."

Gary isn't sure how to respond to that simplistic remark. It's small talk; a short sentence surrounding a yes or no which is the most that he needs to give and the most that Agent Sloane expects. That insignificant thing though has him nose-diving into an existential moment.

Is he happier now? What the hell is the definition of happy? What's the definition of liking something?

Fuck, there are actual moments where Gary misses working his problems out via hallucination.

In the split second that he short circuits and can't think of a response, Shore Leave demonstrates that little superpower of his yet again. The superpower being the unsettling ability to save Gary from himself at the most appropriate time.

Shore Leave's arm slings across Gary's shoulders, while the knuckles on the opposite hand rap hard against his helmet. "He is doing fantastic!" the senior agent proclaims. "Best sidekick I ever had."

It's only Agent Sloane's lack of laughter that keeps Gary from tossing Shore Leave over his shoulder and across the lawn. That and a little voice at the back of his head that, like a traitor, continuously reminds him that Shore Leave is kind of responsible for his cool new job. Also, they're friends now. Kind of.

Sidekick though? Fucking really?

"Well, while the brass has their pissing contest is there any chance that I could get a facility tour?" Sloane half-turns as she taps something on her wrist, it looks a little bit like the communicators that the Venture team sports. Only, well, less hokey and more edgy, modern tech-ish. Whatever it is (and Gary will be asking about it later) it pops her motorcycle seat up and she stashes her helmet in the revealed compartment before another quick flick to her wrist thingy brings the seat back down. "I'd really like to get started. I wasn't kidding about the fuckton of paperwork I've gotta do for this merger."

Shore Leave smirks, removing his arm from around Gary. "Are you willing to hand over your weapons?"

The smile that slides over Agent Sloane's lips is reminiscent of something straight out of Shark Week. "Sure. Put a bullet hole between my eyes and you can even have my grandfather's lucky army knife and rodeo belt too."

Only a second ticks by between those words and Shore Leave's response, but it's a long second. A scary second. A Gary-is-legit-convinced-they're-gonna-have-to-figh t-this-lady kind of second.

"All right then, you went and got those ovaries steel-plated. Very nice." Shore Leave laughs and waves her toward the S.P.H.I.N.X. entrance. "After you, Blade Two."

The frost returns to Agent Sloane's eyes, a howling and swirling Antarctic storm that would have made Gary buckle had it come at him.

"My name is Sam," she informs Shore Leave with a wicked tick in her jaw. "Or Sloane, if you can't handle that."

Gary swallows back the urge to tell her that, yeah, that's not really going to work, he should know because he's tried, but that seems suicidal. Besides, she turns on the heel of her combat boot right after she that comes out of her mouth, leaving he and Shore Leave to follow like she doesn't give two fucks about covering her back.

Instead, he shakes his head at Shore Leave as he starts walking after Agent Sloane. His gut says the last thing she'll be doing is staging a coupe but Brock'll be totally pissed if they let her waltz around the facility alone. At least before Gathers has finished convincing him. "Dude, take a hint before the bullets start flying. Please."

{This Is The Self-Important Story Break, Pay It No Mind}

Hunter has given Brock a lot of reasons to rethink their friend/mentorship and it isn't just the sex change. Again.

In a way, he gets that. Sort of. However, the last time Hunter got himself a pair of tits and a vagina slapped on, he'd started an upheaval on Brock's entire world. Grateful as he was in the end for the change, he still can't say he's looking forward to the chaos all over again. It's why he goes for the throat once they're sealed behind the doors of his (formerly Hunter's) office.

"Why the Sentinel?" he demands, too pissed off to even grab another cigarette and, fuck, does he want one. "What'd I do to make you doubt I was gonna handle this right?"

Hunter's retort is flawless as usual. "You were born human, same as everyone else." He—she (he's really going to have to work at remembering the pronoun thing) sits down on the Brock's desk like she still owns it. Technically, she does, what with the merger, but the point is it's his now. "And I didn't put the little monkey on your back just so she could see and hear some evil then tattle to me about it." His—her (goddammit) fist thumps the desk and sends several pens flying into the air then rolling onto the floor. "She'll be useful to you. I wouldn't send a pair of eyes and no teeth or claws to back it up."

"She's a child," Brock growls. That's probably not true, Agent…shit he forgot her name. He was so ticked he hadn't paid any attention to what the girl called herself. Anyway, she probably isn't that young. "You're shoving me with a babysitter who's a fucking baby herself."

Hunter's defense doesn't really do much defending. "Thirty pushing one ain't that far behind you, Land O' Lakes."

The lack of defense for the babysitter part is noted and tucked into for later reflection/resentment. "Fourteen years is pretty far from where I'm standing," he counters, wishing again for a cigarette but not touching his twitch hands to go anywhere near that pocket. It's too close to his gun and the more that Hunter talks the more Brock's fists itch. "What qualifications does she have? I've never heard of her, how'd she even make it to Sentinel status?"

A rough growl rumbles in Hunter's throat a sound that even Brock knows not to ignore. "You haven't heard of her because you've been disavowed for going on two years and the sixteen before that you were playing super nanny."

Hunter squashes the smoldering stub of her cigarette on the tongue of her boot. "The loop ain't been somethin' you've been party to for a long ass time, boy-o, and don't pretend that you were just because you've got your panties twisted." Another cigarette comes out along with a friend. She flicks the spare at Brock. "Put that in your mouth already. They can hear your teeth grinding in Winnipeg."

Brock follows the order but only because he really needs some nicotine. And also because it's his favorite brand and Hunter's lighter is at the ready.

A few moments pass as he inhales the sweet, smoggy comfort. It's calming, somewhat, Brock still has the bubbling temptation to smash something but that's normal for him.

"Sloane's good." Hunter finally breaks the silence in an almost mild tone. "Focused, sharp, smart enough to speak up when there's a point to be made and even smarter at keepin' to herself when there isn't." Hunter's hand dips into her jacket and comes out with a manila folder with the O.S.I. logo stamped onto the front. She tosses it to Brock.

"Her file." Hunter doesn't need to say it; he can read the name "Samantha Sloane" printed on the tab. "If my vote doesn't mean anything take a gander at that."

There are a lot of things that Brock is good at. A whole lot. The list of things he can't do is infinitely smaller than the things he can. One of the things he is bad at, though, is ignoring the truth even when he wants to. Samantha Sloane does have an impressive resume. Top notch entrance scores, mission statements, even a commendation from Treister. All of those, however, start paling when his eyes flick across her personal info.

"Sonia?" He wants to punch his own nose in for letting that surname slip by unnoticed. "Sonia Sloane was her mother? Our Sonia. The Blade? Sonia the Blade has a kid?"

Eyes hidden behind aviators or not, the smug gleam in them is still present as Hunter crosses her arms. "Yep. Also, don't bring that up to her. Touchy subject. Really touchy. I hear tell at least two senior agents are carrying lead in their asses after talkin' Sonia up too much in front of the girl."

Brock scratches his head. "I don't remember Sonia ever saying anything about a kid. Didn't even think she liked 'em."

There's a nod. "Absolutely abhorred the little bastards," Hunter says. "Her own runt was a different story, though."

"You knew?"

"Not until a few years ago. That was Sonia, though; nothin' she didn't play close to the vest. Friends, family, and lovers included. Don't get hurt over it."

Scowling, Brock resists the urge to smack Hunter square on the nose with the dossier. It's a quickly abating urge as his mentor shifts just a little so that her head dips and he can see just see her eyes above her sunglasses. He's familiar with that hard, beady stare, this one in particular. It pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Listen." As if he could do anything else when Hunter's nailing him to the floor with that stare. "Maybe I didn't decide to stick the girl here just to peek over your shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, it's killing two birds with one crafty rock."

"What are you—?"

"Finish reading her bio, numb nuts," Hunter barks.

Since Hunter is in rare, ultra-serious form at the moment, and because the nicotine is really starting to kick in, Brock complies. He sighs his most put-upon sigh and rolls his eyes as he does it but he does it nonetheless. What he finds, in the lowermost right hand corner of Samantha Sloane's dossier just about shorts-out the fine synapses in his brain.

"Holy shit." Two words that do not adequately describe his surprise at all and yet somehow encompass every inch of it.

Hunter is smirking but it isn't the usual self-satisfied, curl that grates on Brock's nerves. No, this is dry, maybe even apprehensive if Brock believed the stone-cold old bitch could be apprehensive.

He holds up the dossier. "Does she…?"

"Know?" Hunter shifts, uncrossing her arms and then clasping them behind her back as she stands ramrod straight. "Well, that depends on if her C.O. finds fit to tell her. What do you think?"

Voice Actor Fancast

Special Agent Samantha Sloane: Laura Bailey