Summary: When you are part of a secret organization, your life is anything but simple and routine. There is always someone after you and living three lives is not just uncommon, but necessary. Not everything is what it seems.

AN: This has been on my mind for a while and it was originally just going to be a one shot. Then I kept going and it was drawn out into a three shot. But then I kept adding more and now it's turning out to be a small group of chapters.

This story will contain language, adult situations, and implied underage sex.

There will be some confusion in this chapter but everything will be explained throughout the story. I hope that you enjoy it.

When the Smoke Clears
Chapter 1: Marcus Scott

Hi Helga,

Sorry it's taken me so long to write to you. Things have just been so crazy over on this side of the world. Just the other day a local guy went missing and turned up in the water. Apparently it was a piranha attack. Attacks have been rare and very few and far between so it was a shock. The guy had just lost his wife to childbirth a few months ago, so it's been pretty sad in town, when I manage to get over there.

No, I don't think I'm going to make it to the reunion in the summer. Unless something shakes up soon around here, I won't be going anywhere any time soon. I don't know why she continues to invite me to those things. I didn't really go to high school there, let alone graduate from Hillwood. Is a 15-year reunion even a thing?

Rhonda and her parties. I would have thought that she would have grown out of it. I think you're right though, about her being lonely. No kids and no job with a constantly traveling husband will do that to you. No offense.

Speaking of, how's Quinten doing? I hope they're keeping him busy, for his sake. That mind of his always needs to be going or else he'll get into trouble. I still have the scars to prove it.

So the dig is going smoothly. No issues, I mean. Still haven't been able to find anything significant but the interns are ecstatic with all the pottery and bits of writing we've been uncovering. It's really nothing new, but it is to them. I'm still hoping to find something big so we can keep them down here.

I've run out of paper and won't be able to get more until I get into town…when I drop off this letter. I hope you're doing well and enjoying Japan. Send some pictures next time! You're so bad about that and I'd love to see some.

Arnold

Hey Football Head,

How's it going in the deepest, darkest jungles in the middle of B.F.N.? Lose any limbs or teeth yet? You know, you really should be careful out there. Yeah, yeah, I don't want to hear that 'I always say that' or that 'you're really careful' blah, blah, blah. I don't want to hear about any more snake bites and you refusing to get help. I was half expecting to hear about another incident in your last letter.

I am sorry to hear about that guy, though, but I'm glad that it wasn't you. You're going to get bit one day and there won't be any magical jungle leaves to heal you. I'm just saying that I don't want to have to fly down there and kick your ass for not listening to me. And stay out of the water. I hear piranhas like weird-headed kids.

Quinten is fine. He's been really busy, doing his technical sales thing and you're absolutely right. Dangerous things happen when he doesn't keep himself busy, haha. (No scars for me though. I'm awesome like that).

I'm really fortunate that his job can be just as mobile as mine, as long as he's willing (read: no choice) to work at odd hours to get on the same time zone as his clients. But hey, my hours are weird too, so it works out.

I'm not sure when you'll get this, but it's April here in Japan. The cherry blossoms just bloomed and I went to the festival yesterday. Well, sort of. There are too many fucking people that go to those things so I took my own tour up in the hills. No, there aren't any cherry trees up there, but I did get one hell of a view from above. And, best of all, no tourists! I really love Japan, but I'm getting really tired of how many people there are here. I think it's time for a change of scenery. I haven't been to Italy in a while and a good bottle of Amarone has been calling my name.

Who knows if a 15-year reunion is an actual thing? Does it matter? It's an excuse for a party. I think it's supposed to be Havana Nights this year. Some theme, eh? I can't believe you're questioning your invite! It doesn't matter that you didn't graduate with everyone. You would have, if you hadn't decided to play Tarzan in San Lorenzo. Besides, PS118 was a special time for all of us. We went through so much together and Rhonda, in her own way, recognizes that and is kind of holding onto it, don't you think? Who cares about missing middle and high school? Rhonda was always about our group and after all these years, she's still really the glue. Who would have ever guessed that.

I think they'd really appreciate it if you went. First week of June. Try and get it off, won't you?

Anyway, I hope you're alive when you get this and that your fleas haven't taken over that football-headed brain of yours.

Yours affectionately,

Helga, the nightmare in your dreams

It is going to be a beautiful end-of-May morning. Of course she cannot really know that, since the sun still has yet to break the horizon, but she can feel it. There is something about the air that promises a beautiful day. Maybe it is how the dew still clings to leaves, desperate to stay on until they evaporate into the atmosphere, making the humidity thick in their despair.

Most people don't like humidity, but she has grown to love it. She won't lie; the first time she really experienced jungle weather she had complained almost non-stop about the bugs and weather and animals and all the bugs. But life matures you, hopefully, and she got over it and is able to appreciate it now. Not that she wasn't mature at the time.

But it does wonders on her skin and she's gotten over it.

She stretches her legs and neck, taking in the very early morning sounds. Bugs shriek and tiny mammals and reptiles rustle along the floor. The larger, night animals are just settling into bed by now, resting quietly and hidden until hunger brings them out again. She plans to not be nearby at that time.

Rolling up her bedroll, she sticks it in her pack and starts her short journey. It is still dark but she can make her way down the path, having familiarized herself earlier. It is important to do that; make your path known before you run down it. She had learned the hard way many times over and she always makes it a point to know the way as often as she can. She would rather not run into a nest of badgers again anytime soon. And just because this is Brazil it does not mean there are no badgers. It's just her luck.

Having been technically a ward of the state since she was a kid after the death of her parents, she had gone headfirst in a lot of things that she should have been cautionary about. Life lesson learned there too: paths are not just physical.

The tiny hut suddenly comes into view and she slows her trek. The pack slips silently off her back and she rolls her shoulders, preparing herself. Her eyes and senses are on the hut in front of her, listening for any movement or insignificant noise. She has passed by other huts, but the people inside those hold no interest for her. They do not contain the man she is looking for.

Minutes go by. It is quiet, as it should be. Dawn still has yet to reach the earth and the silence confirms that he continues to sleep. She smirks.

Time to move.

She picks up her pack once more and quietly, slowly stalks towards the one-room hut. The roof is made of leaves and other material that the forest provides, allowing nature to overtake it should it ever be abandoned. After this morning, it will be.

She sets her pack quietly down the same time she leans close to the makeshift door. It is a simple piece of cloth and is only there to keep any flying bugs out. Any larger predators could easily slip inside. Like her.

She is standing there, frozen and straining. She hears nothing, but the hairs on the back of her neck are standing up and she always listens to her instinct. Something is not right. Gently, without a sound, she slips the knife out of its holder on her hip, still waiting for any noise from her target inside. Silence greets her.

She slides inside, blade pointed out.

The flap makes only a swish, smaller than any burst of wind would make. In the corner of the room is a temporary bed, similar to the bedroll that she has, but she doesn't move towards it.

It's empty.

"Sloppy." She stiffens as a blade presses up against her throat. She cannot hear him breathe, but she can feel him to her left. Her eyes narrow and her hand clenches tightly onto the hilt of her own knife. How did he hear her when she couldn't even hear him? She doesn't respond to his goading.

He smirks at her silence and moves to stand behind her, forcing her to step ahead and away from the door. He's behind her now, with his right, thick arm across her chest. The blade in his left hand never leaves her throat.

"Drop it." His breath tickles the hairs on the back of her neck, still standing on end, and she drops her blade with a thud onto the ground. "There's a good girl." He smirks and she sees red. She hates that. "Did you think you would be able to sneak up on me?" She can feel the arrogance oozing from him.

"Someone tipped you off that I was coming." She narrows her eyes when she feels his lips against her neck and she twists against his arm, but his grip is strong. He only tightens it as she fights him.

His response is only to lick the side of her neck and growls when she struggles harder than before, but she cannot help but shiver. The low rumble in his chest behind her reverberates as he chuckles. Asshole! The knife against her throat slacks just a smidge as he drops his guard for only a moment, but it is enough.

With her left hand, she grabs his wrist and pulls it away the same time as she throws her body forward, pulling him over her back. His leg kicks at her ankles when he lands, dropping her to the ground. She kicks him in the chest and grins when he lets out an oompf! She has only 1.3 seconds to grab one of the fallen knives and get it to his throat.

Of course she makes it.

He laughs and she pushes the blade deeper into his skin and he stops his snickering. "Fine. You win. Let me up."

"You're no in a position to be making demands, Shortman." She slides the blade down his throat teasing his Adam's apple with the tip of the blade and smirks. "And unlike you, I don't make slipups." She nicks him then, on the side of his neck. He let out a surprised yelp and she laughs, sheathing her blade.

"What the fuck!" He puts his hand up to his neck and checks his fingers.

Blood.

Bitch.

"You know I hate being called girl, you asshole. And stop swearing, it's unbecoming for you."

"Then you shouldn't try to sneak up on me." She rolls her eyes and stands, offering her hand to hoist him up. "I can't believe you stabbed me!"

Her knife is sheathed and she holds back a laugh as he shuffles around to look for something to clean his neck. "It's a knick, you baby. You're just a sore loser."

There is just enough light seeping from outside that she can see something on his chest and she focuses her attention there. When he turns, she is able to stare directly at it. Sometimes it is a pain that she stopped growing at five foot five. There is often a time when she wishes that she has at least three more inches, especially during combat, but more than once it had actually been used to her advantage. Like now.

"When did you get this?" Light fingers touch the dark tattoo in surprise. She can see it is there, but not what it is.

He picks up her hand and kisses the tips of her fingers, dropping the cloth with the tiniest bit of blood on it. "Two months ago. Do you like it?" He doesn't give her a chance to respond or to look at it more clearly before his lips are heavy on hers. They have been apart for three months and one kiss isn't enough. His tongue slips past her lips, locking in a dance with her own as his arms tighten around her only for a moment and then they wander over her back and through her hair.

Her hands have found their way into his hair as well and she can feel how greasy it is. Did he stop keeping up with his hygiene when she wasn't around? "I missed you so much." He kisses her between each word and starts to pull the shirt out of her pants. She stops his hand and he grumbles when she pulls away.

"I missed you too, but we need to talk."

"Mmm," his lips were on hers again and his hands hold her slender waist tightly against him, deciding then to just show her how much he missed her. She can fight his words but never against his actions. "It can wait." He is kissing her neck, nipping randomly and not so gently.

She bites her lip to suppress a groan, knowing it will be their undoing if it escapes. If she lets this continue, it will be hours before she can have any sort of conversation with him. And while three months felt like thirty years for her, the reason why she was here was more urgent than them, especially since they had to be on the road soon.

Her hands clench at his hair and she pulls his head back from her. "When was the last time you took a shower? I think you have fleas."

He jerks back and looks down at her in horror. The slack in his arms gives her enough room to move and she can't help but laugh at his expression. "I don't have fleas!"

She steps away when he reaches for her, moving to grab her satchel from outside. He folds his arms over his bare chest, watching her and resisting the intense urge to rip off her clothing and drop her onto his small bed, reprimanding her for that snide comment. He shifts uncomfortably but doesn't block out the images of the things he'd rather be doing right now. "How'd you know I was alone?"

"I didn't." She's back inside now and throws him a parcel.

He catches it with ease and blinks at it. "What's this?"

"Mail delivery. I was in town a few days ago and took it upon myself to pick it up." Town was about a two-day journey south and he doesn't make it back there often now that their dig site has moved. It has been at least a month since he has made it into town and he is itching to get his letters. Because he was gone so long, there is a stack of a envelopes of various sizes from numerous countries.

He grins and tears into it, tossing the string holding the parcel together onto the ground and sits on his bedroll. If he can't have sex, this will do until then. "Thanks!" He flips through them stopping only when he comes across a baby pink envelope, wrinkled from its long journey. He notes the date is from last month. Damn, that long?

She rolls her eyes at him, not commenting aloud at his sudden change of attitude, and how quickly he replaces her with his letters from home, and begins to rummage through his rations. "What sounds good for breakfast?"

"Shut up, I'm reading."

She laughs. "Cinnamon Oatmeal it is." After grabbing the necessities to make breakfast, she heads back outside. Her lover has made a small fire pit a few steps away and she quickly brings it back to life before dumping the oatmeal and water into the pot and sits on a log next to the fire.

The sun is definitely on her way up in the sky now and the sounds of bugs are quieting down. Mornings are nice, but it is dusk that she loves the most. Some ancients used to believe that day and night were lovers and that dawn and dusk were the only times they were able to be together; to couple. Her favorite stories are of unrequited lovers finding each other and able to spend eternity together, even if it's for short periods of time.

"I don't have fleas!" He bellows from the hut and she snickers, listening to him rustle through the rest of the letters.

Cinnamon rushes her senses and she closes her eyes to think of Christmas. She can't remember the last time she participated in anything celebratory more than just in passing and subtle. Was it when she was nineteen? No! Twenty-five. It was with the team and they had all felt a little nostalgic. It was the last time they had all been together too. Jones and Reed would be killed before New Year's.

Fucking Head.

How long had they been fighting them? How many needless deaths had there been? Would they die before they could see an end to the corrupt organization?

She opens her eyes when she feels Arnold pulling her up and out of her revelry. His arms are tight around her and he is kissing her again with those lips that bring her to the stars. She smiles and her hand is around his neck, lightly caressing. "You're the savior in my dreams, never the nightmare." Her smile broadens and he kisses her again. "I missed you," he whispers against her lips, and she knows that it won't be the last time today that he tells her.

Her hands play with his hair; greasy or not, she loves his blonde locks. "I missed you too." It doesn't matter that they had just said it minutes earlier in the hut. This was one of their longest times apart in the last fifteen years. Three months apart had been torture. "How did you know I was coming?"

He pecks her lips three more times. "I ran into Stitch about a week ago and he said that you'd be landing the next day."

"He always ruins my fun!" She scoffs. Arnold just smiles. He knows that she loves playing games with him but he loves trying to one up her almost as much. He hadn't known exactly when she would show up, but he had made sure to sleep extra light than normal. In all actuality, he had almost missed her walking up to the hut and it had really been more of a feeling than anything else he heard. After so many years together, he could almost always sense that she was nearby. For some reason, he never told him that. He knew that he would just get laughed at and be called a sap. And he was one.

She pulls back from him and kisses his shoulder as he sits next to her before opening a letter from his father. She is silent as he reads for a few moments, watching the oatmeal so it doesn't burn.

"Did you go to the Palio della Rana?" She looks over at him when he asks her the question before back at breakfast.

"Please. That's Quinten's thing, not mine." She stretches out her legs in front of her, avoiding the fire. "I have no interest in seeing any stupid races, let alone one with frogs in wheelbarrows. I went swimming instead and shipped off some wine home. It's funny, I never really liked Amarone until I got to Japan. Then it was all I could crave. So much for the sake love."

Over the years she developed a taste for wine. She doesn't think she is quite the wine connoisseur she should be, but it is definitely her alcohol of choice when she drinks. With all her traveling, it is a safe bet that she can recognize labels found in any establishment. And it doesn't hurt to know a thing or two about the popular topic during some of the more elite assignments. She also loves whiskey and has on more than one occasion impressed certain people with her vast knowledge of that particular liquid gold.

She is quiet for a moment and picks at her right hand. "We stayed at Emilio's."

Arnold stops reading his dad's letter and frowns down at her. He hates that guy. "Why would you stay with him?"

"Because he has the best house in Fermignano, doi."

"Helga." It was about five years ago when things had gone down between him and Emilio. He had the scar on his hip to remind him of it and Arnold owed that asshole a trip to the hospital. Emilio and he always seemed to be one assignment apart from each other, but one day he will break his fucking nose. And arms. And legs. And maybe his middle finger.

He really hates that guy.

"Relax. He wasn't home. Quinten and I crashed and I left him a personalized thank you note with you in mind. We would have stayed somewhere else but you know how crazy that town gets during the race."

Arnold scowls. If Emilio's place was the only option, then it was, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. They sit in silence again until she pulls off the pot and smothers the fire with a bit of water.

She leaves the oatmeal in the pot and hands him a spoon to share. When you lived on your feet, you had to be light. No extra utensils, no more than one cooking pot, if that. There were many times that she had to live off what she could scavenge any modern conveniences are a luxury item. And why carry bowls when that's exactly what the pot can be used for?

Helga smirks, suddenly thinking about her fake husband's antics. "Quinten did a little rearranging while we were there, too." Emilo's ass was so tight, she had no idea how that guy could take a shit. Not that she put too much thought in it. Arnold grins, wishing he could have seen Emilio's temper tantrum and can only imagine what Quinten had done. If there was anything about Emilio that someone needed to know it is that he's madly OCD.

"Stich didn't say why you were coming though."

Helga takes a bite of the oatmeal and makes a face. Too hot! "He doesn't know." She coughs and stirs the oatmeal to cool it down although she is very tempted to keep eating. Yesterday's food had been sparse and her stomach wasn't too happy about it.

"It was the strangest thing. I was in France to drop off the Mauve Egg a couple of weeks ago. I get to my hotel room and there's this envelope on my bed. Of course I think it's from Jenkins so I open it and bam. Want to take a guess what it was?"

"Your bitch-aptitude results?"

"No, I'm still waiting for that." She lightly smacks him on his arm, hating that he is wearing a shirt and she badly wants to lift it off of him. Actually what she really wants to do was pull him back inside and fuck him until both were too sore to move, but business always comes first. There is a lot to share.

She eats another spoonful of their breakfast, ignoring the scorching temperature and reaches under her shirt to pull out a necklace. It is a small green stone, about the size of her thumbnail incased in a gold border. There are designs etched into the gold that looked random, but they both know what they really mean. The border had originally been broken for many years but is now intact.

If Arnold had been eating, he would have choked. Instead, he stares at her in shock.

"And there was a note," she continued. "It just said 'You should be more careful with your belongings.' No signature, no tell, nothing. Someone knew I was staying there and as far as I know, Jenkins was the only one. You didn't even know." She offers the pot and he takes it, still frowning.

"How did they find it?" It was a rhetorical question. They both know she doesn't have that answer. The broken necklace had been given to her by some crazy woman at the Cheese Festival when she was eleven. It had been the night of that fateful fire and she had not taken it off when she went to bed. It had been the only thing, except for her pajamas, that had survived the fire. For over twenty years she had worn it until one day, running around the jungles of San Lorenzo, it had broken off, chain and all.

She just shakes her head and looks towards the east at the sunrise. "I don't know. I don't know what to think of it either. It can't be from Jenkins. He wouldn't have been cryptic about it. And how the hell did they fix it?"

"Do you think it could have been from them?" Fucking Head.

"No. It was in Ancient Greek." She is fluent in over ten languages, three of which are considered dead. Ancient Greek is not one of them, but she knew enough to get by.

Helga trailed off, letting the meaning sink in. "Shit."

"Yep."

If it had been anything else, it would have been OK. Hijack a mission, sneak inside whatever or whoever's headquarters, find out what the fuck they wanted, then be out by the end of the day. He could be back at the dig site before anyone really missed him. The fact that it was written in Ancient Greek either meant that someone was just trying to show off or it had been chosen specifically because it was linked to Marcus Scott.

And if that was the case, they were all fucked.