EPISODE 1 "Pilot"

"You sure about this?" he asked.

"The hell? Of course I'm sure, you dumbass. I said I'd help; I'm helping," she snapped, following him through the cleanly manicured lawn of his deceased father's house.

"Alright. I just- I know if the FBI caught wind of this-" his voice was deep and vaguely concerned.

"Fuck the FBI, Steve. I know," she said. Then she sighed, "I just- I'm done. I'm done with the Army, I'm done with the FBI. I just- I can't-" She hadn't stayed anywhere for more than a year since she first joined the army, since her unit was killed and she was recruited to execute black ops missions as a sniper.

"I got it, Mitch," he cut her off, one large tanned hand gently gripping her elbow. She paused, Steve had a way of calming her thoughts with just a touch.

"C'mon," she said, looking around. "We gotta move."

They ducked under the yellow caution tape around the back door and into the house. Steve took it all in quickly, the house, how it used to be and how it was. Mitch followed the footsteps as Steve crouched to take a picture, planting her smaller boot next to each bloody print. She estimated each was about a size nine in men's. Looking up, she noticed it led to the desk. She sat in the chair and held up her hands, not touching anything. Enough space was cleared on the desk for a rather large laptop. A 13-inch? She wondered if maybe any prints were left behind.

"Steve," she called, never having to explain a thing. He looked at her and then took a few large quick steps over to a shelf with a few model cars. He bent down, picking up a small tube labeled "Wheel Lube".

"What is that?" she questioned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Move over."

He squirted the strange silver colored, she thought it looked like glitter, over the desk. "Oh," she sounded, seeing exactly what he was doing now that she knew what was in the bottle. She leaned forward and gently blew out a breath, the glitter flying away except for where it stuck to fingerprints on the very edge of the desk. "And BINGO was his name-o," she sang quietly.

The tension in the room was thick, but he almost smiled when she sang.

His father was dead, there would be no fixing that- not even if they did kill the Son of a Bitch who shot the man. Still, maybe it'd help a little, she thought. He'd need time to heal. But she didn't like the severe look on Steve's face and she didn't know how to help him. She wished she did. No one had been there when her Father was killed. Not even her brother. She supposed that was another thing they had in common. Steve's sister Mary was nowhere to be found either.

She knew how it was to go through a father's death alone. But Steve wasn't alone, she thought. Steve had her, if that counted for anything.

She didn't know how to help people. She just knew how to hurt people. She knew how to hunt people down. She knew how to put a bullet between their eyes. So she'd help him get Hesse, the root of the problem, the murder, and then maybe it wouldn't help. But then again, maybe it would. Maybe, with Hesse gone, Steve'd feel a little better. She doubted it, but killing Hesse couldn't hurt.

When she followed him into the garage she pulled back a dusty tarp, uncovering a beautiful, black Mercury, which unfortunately, didn't look to be in working order. "She's a beaut," Mitch stated. Despite knowing nothing about cars, she could appreciate a classic when she saw one.

"My Dad bought it to fix up together," Steve said, his voice rough as he stared at the shiny paint, "but we never…"

He didn't finish the sentence, and she didn't push him to, instead turning her head to examine the shelves. Her fingers skimmed over the edge as she walked slowly. She heard shuffling behind her and turned to see Steve roughly handling a red tool box. 'CHAMP' was written across the front in thick black lettering. He fiddled with the opening, drawing back the lid.

"Steve?" she asked gently.

"He called me Champ," he said, "He called me Champ on the phone. Not once in my entire life has he called me Champ," Steve almost rambled. It was out of character for him. It made her worry.

"Okay," she cut him off gently, "So he wanted you to find this. What's in it?"

He pulled out a skeleton key, antique looking. She wondered what that could fit. Then a tape recorder. He clicked it.

"I can't continue this investigation into the police department from the inside," it said in Steve's father, John McGarrett's voice. She hesitantly reached over, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. The tension in his body lessened, but did not ease completely. Still, she stood by. "I don't trust the people I work with, so I'm gonna have to do this on my own. It's all about the key," he said. Steve and Mitch locked eyes and then both started at the little gold skeleton key. "I just don't know what it's for. I have only-"

A door closed and both government trained employees jumped, heads swerving to the source.

"-been able to find two source…" Steve clicked the recorder off. They had to go.

"You!" a voice shouted. Steve and Mitch both pulled guns out of holsters on their hips and aimed at the on-comer. "Hands up!" he shouted, "Don't move!"

"Who are you?" Steve asked.

"Who are you?" the blond man repeated coming into view, "I am Detective Danny Williams-"

"Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett! This is my father's house!"

"Put your weapons down right now."

"No, you put your weapons down-" as the other man began to demand ID Steve shouted, "Show me your ID!"

"-your ID right now!" the other man finished.

"I'm not putting my gun down," Steve said.

"Neither am I," the rather-obviously-a-cop retorted.

"Jesus Christ," Mitch sighed, rolling her eyes and lowering her gun. She knew Steve would shoot the other guy for her if he tried anything, not that she expected him to. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her leather wallet. Her FBI badge and credentials, including that of her army status were on display as she stepped around Steve and held it out to the man. "I'm FBI Special Agent Michelle Jabari. Steve's Navy," she jerked her thumb in his direction. "We good?" she asked impatiently.

The cop nodded, but his eyes flickered towards McGarrett and his gun.

"Put 'em away boys," she insisted. Steve raised an eyebrow at her tone of voice but didn't lower his gun.

"At the same time," they repeated after one another.

"What, like on the count of three?" the cop asked.

"This is ridiculous," Mitch sighed, stepping out of the line of fire, back towards the toolbox on the worktable.

"Sure, on the count of three," Steve agreed.

"One…" they lowered their weapons slightly, "Two," pointing at each other's feet, "Three." They holstered their weapons and each reached for their back pockets, pulling out IDs and briefly flashing them at one another.

"Look," the detective spoke, "I'm really sorry about your father but you can't be here right now," he spoke to Steve, "This is an active crime scene."

"Doesn't seem that active," Steve said, sounding surly and aggressive as he gestured to the emptiness of the house.

"I can't share any information with you," the other man spoke emphatically.

"Hesse wasn't here alone when my father was murdered," Steve trumped the other man's voice. "Someone was sitting in the desk by the study-"

"-space cleared for 13-inch laptop," Mitch continued.

"And my father hated computers," Steve finished.

"I'm gonna ask you again," the short man spoke, "You got to leave."

Mitch's head tilted slightly to the side, "That wasn't a question."

Steve just grabbed the toolbox and shrugged, "You got it." Hastily, she swept her arms over the dusty table, trying to disturb the pattern where a rectangle was left behind in the box's absence.

"And you can leave the box, that is evidence. You know that."

"I came with this," Steve blatantly lied as they tried to walk out.

"No, you didn't come with it- it stirred up a giant dust cloud. What's in the box?"

Suddenly, Steve smiled. She rolled her eyes. It was the taunting outsiders, 'You're a touristy mainlander' smile that all the locals had. Lord knew she fit in better than this guy. In his collared shirt and tie, leather loafers and slacks, he had mainlander cop written all over him. At least she had dressed down.

"None of your business," the guy predictably clammed up, eyebrows furrowing in what was probably both surprise and frustration. "None of your business. What are you, Barbara Walters?"

Then the smile faded, fast and harsh, Steve's expression turning stony. "No, it is my business if you're investigating my father's death."

"I am and I'd like to get back to that," the detective stood taller, "so the sooner you leave, the sooner I can."

"Anything you say, Blondie," she grinned, arm looping slightly around Steve's as they turned to walk out.

"Leave the box or get arrested, alright," the cop demanded, pointing angrily.

"You gonna call for backup?" Steve asked, not an ounce of fear or second-thought on his face. God, she loved that stupid, fierce, fearlessness about him. It was reckless and bordered on suicidal at times, but she could relate. They said she had it too.

"An ambulance," the guy said, surprising her.

Steve merely laid the box on the back of the tarp covered car.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Steve said as he pulled out his phone. Her eyebrows furrowed, then released as a large amused smile crept over her face. She grinned giddily at the cop. He was gonna love this.

Something about that unnatural gleam in the woman's eyes and the navy man's unyielding attitude suddenly worried him. "What are you doin'?" he asked with narrowed eyes, a wrinkle arising in his forehead.

"Uh yeah, Governor Jameson, please" Steve said, phone to his ear please. "Tell her it's Steve McGarrett."

God, she loved being right.

"Oh, please," the cop scoffed.

"Just you wait, Blondie," Mitch laughed.

He eyes her warily, wondering who the hell she was as she leaned casually against the covered car, grinning in a way that was closer to scary than friendly.

"You're kidding me," the blond said, shaking his head as Steve persisted, holding the phone to his ear in an uncharacteristic display of patience.

Mitch covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Steve rolled his eyes at her and spoke, "Governor," he greeted the woman on the other side of the phone. "I'll take the job," he said. "Let's just say I found something to change my mind. I'll transfer to the reserves and I'll run your task force."

Suddenly the blond perked up, surprised. Mitch had figured Steve'd take the job. He loved the marines, he loved his country, but he was a little like her- never able to settle. He was always on the move, trying new things. Onward and Upward. She just didn't like standing still or getting too comfortable. Comfort bread complacency. She was not complacent. Plus, she thought, the Governor was giving him the means to go after his father's murdered- means and immunity. It was a luxury she was never afforded. Granted, her father was killed when she was a sophomore in high school. She hadn't been ready for hunting down terrorists quite then.

"What, right now?" he asked. He looked at Mitch. Her eyes narrowed, unable to hear the Governor's words. "Okay," he said, watched as her head tilted curiously to the side, her long brown hair spilling over her shoulders. "I, Steven J. McGarrett-"

Her eyes blew wide as she stepped backward, looking suddenly to the cop, who had thrown his hands in the air and shook his head.

"What the fuck?" she mouth to Steve who only shook his head and continued the pledge.

"-do solemnly declare upon my honor and conscience that I will act at all times to the best of my ability and knowledge in a manner befitting of an officer of the law. Thank you, Governor."

Then he grabbed the Champ toolbox. Mitch shook her head. It was an accomplishment when he startled her.

"Now it's my crime scene," he said, and walked out. Mitch laughed the whole way as she followed.

A/N: So, this is the first chapter, a bit of a teaser. This story will follow the show most literally, though it will include outside scenarios and blips between my OC, Steve, and the rest of the team. Lemme know what you think, that's all I ask.