A/N This is a prelude to The Labyrinth, and I didn't spend a lot of time researching, so please forgive any inconsistencies. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always. Now onto the story!

BY ANOTHER NAME

Jason Whittaker has returned from hiding, now in the process of considering where to go now that his life isn't in immediate danger. As the Stiletto, his work wasn't finished.

But there were other agents, other emissaries more than willing to take over. The Stiletto was a name to be feared, a figure blending into the shadows without any identifying features. It was a name anyone could have used, a character both despised and revered by many.

The crux now, is when MI-6 called Jason requesting he step in under his alias and aid the British Intelligence in bringing down the infamous character, Mr. Grote.

Jason dialed his father, fingers drumming against his thigh. On the list of long days he had endured, this would fit on there. Somewhere. He turned to look at the graying pavement outside of the open window. The pale blue strip of the ocean in the distance, the sun giving it its shimmer. After two failed attempts, in which he received a voicemail message, Jason opted to call an employee of Whit's End, and close friend of his.

"Jason?!" Connie gasped, sitting up. A spoon clattered into the kitchen sink as Eugene whirled around. Connie sent him a look, narrowing her eyes, and stepping into the little theater, closing the door behind her to shut out background noise. "Hey, long time no see. What are you up to?"

"Um...nothing much, right now." Jason said, settling back.

"There's nothing going on? No chance of-" Whatever Connie had been meaning to say was cut off by a low beep, signalling that Jason had an incoming call.

"Hold on for a second, I'll call you back." Jason said quickly, as he hung up, his stomach souring with guilt. The number on the screen was unrecognizable, but he was used to that.

"Whittaker."

"Hello, who is this?" He asked.

"Mr. Whittaker, pleased that you finally picked up. How's the weather out there?" An unfamiliar voice said with a crisp British accent.

"It's...warm, but there's a chance of showers." Jason said tentatively.

"Very good. I have an assignment here that requires, if I dare say, your immediate and full attention."

"May I ask who is speaking, and if there's any more information you can give?"

"D. Quinn, British Intelligence and no, not at the moment. If you accept now, a dossier will be sent automatically and disposed of by tomorrow." Were the answers to Jason's' questions. He bit at his lip. His first thought, which was now proved wrong, was that the NSA wanted him to decode something. The British Intelligence were far quieter and he had only crossed paths with them when using his alias as the Stiletto.

"Right. Listen, Sir, I think I know why you called." Jason started.

"I don't believe you do fully, no." The Brit said, cutting him off. "Farthings recommended your service." Jason's breath caught in his throat. He had met Farthing several years before during a joint operation. He was the sort of agent who was seriously and blatantly opposed to violence. Two kids at home and a wife, the man had joined MI-6, or more accurately, was recruited due to the set of skills acquired serving in the British Forces. Despite the fact he was no older than the others, he was far more responsible and patient, hesitant to spring into action.

He was trustworthy, and that was hard to come by when dealing with spies. Scrubbing at his face, Jason looked to the clock on the oven, continuing to let time pass as if nothing had happened.

"It doesn't look like I get a chance to think this over." Jason said jokingly, half to himself.

"This would be your opportunity to do so." And maybe it was, the thought overwhelmed Jason. Hadn't they just put the Whisperer away? That should have been the end to his career as an agent. Was that God's way of helping him to end that chapter of his life? But Jason still wasn't over it, there wasn't any resolution or stop to the way he craved stepping back into intrigue.

Maybe, just maybe, this was God opening a door for him.

"Where do I sign up?" Asked Jason, voice cracking slightly, praying the other man wouldn't notice.

Eugene's insistence earlier that Whit use the thick black curtains in his office had its drawbacks. Around the same time every afternoon, his office had been flooded with light, streaking the floor with shafts of light, proudly showcasing the dust he thought he cleaned. The curtains were an amendment to that problem, but now, craning over his desk, the dimness of the antique lamp nearby, Whit was straining to read. Another distraction remaining.

With a sigh, he quickly lifted the phone from its cradle, quickly punching in Jason's number. An image of an older man with thinning hair, tiredly sitting alone, hoping that his son would pick up, came to his mind.

"Hello?" Jason answered, and Whit blew a sigh of relief.

"Jason, it's me. What's going on?"

"That's a good question. Hold on?" It was hard to make out his voice, other voices raised up in as if Jason were in the midst of a crowd. The noise faded after a minute into the background, a quiet humming that spoke of an intercom somewhere. "Dad, I can't come back to Odyssey right now."

"Why not? I thought you said the agency had officially closed their file." Whit said, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Yeah, they did, I just...there's another loose end I gotta tie up from a while ago."

"Loose end?"

"I- really can't talk about it." Spoke Jason. Turning, he swept a hand through his hair, acutely aware that his face felt hot, flushed. Briefly, neither one spoke. In the small expanse of space he had, Jason moved further from the other people waiting for their flights. Not that he thought any were intently listening in, but he desperately wanted to avoid making eye contact.

"You can't?" Whit asked.

"I wish that I could." His son cleared his throat. "This is something I started almost ten years ago, and I have to be in the Philippians first thing tomorrow. No one can know." There was enough stress discernible in Jason's voice that Whit felt his stomach sour.

"Jason. I seriously hope you know what you're getting into, that you're thinking about the implications of whatever you're about to do."

"I am."

"Really? I find that hard to believe, and I want to." Whit said. In truth, he was disappointed first that Jason felt the need to run again into a foreign country instead of taking time to return to a semblance of normalcy. He didn't tend to think too far ahead, or about God's sovereignty. Knowing his son, Jason really needed to be reminded of the latter. "You know, God knows that you won't get it all right, no much how hard you try. What you need to do is keep your eyes on Him."

"Yeah, I know." Jason sighed. "Can you tell Connie that I'm sorry that I had to hang up on her? Everything's fine, but I don't want her to worry."

"Of course." Though Whit may not have been happy to hear Jason was working with an agency again, he realized that if Jason thought Connie might be worried, there was a good chance she would be. Not that he blamed her. "When should I expect to hear from you again?" He asked, his voice heavy.

"I don't know. It could be months." Or...longer, he surmised, not willing to put the thought into words. A voice crackled on in the lobby, announcing the flight. A flurry of movement in his peripheral. "That's my cue." Jason said, stooping to lift up his duffel.

He was off the plane first. A tourist whose face was covered beneath the brim of his baseball cap, tattered at its edges. Eyes shadowed with exhaustion, a juxtaposition of grays and blues were hidden under darkened sunglasses. It was early enough in the morning they were still pressed together at the edges with sleep. Stepping quickly behind a man pushing a cart laden with vegetables, Jason fell into the contained chaos on the street.

It was with some regret that Jason reached a bridge in the heart of Manila. There was a ragged form huddling by the discolored concrete wall, a thin blanket draped over his legs. The man turned, and he reached a hand up. His grip strong, and firm.

"Israel."

"Farthing." Jason replied in a low voice. Unable to hide his relief, he helped the agent to his feet. "Thank God you got my message."

"Well of course. Keep it down, will ya?" Carefully sliding the blanket off, and stepping closer, Farthing kicked the mess of glass bottles in his way aside. "Were you followed?" Jason shook his head, and the other man patted his shoulder. In the distance, the buildings blurred together in a fog induced haze. Underneath the rumbling bridge, the stench of alcohol and decay was strong, and it clung onto Ashton Farthing, to fit the persona.

A sudden gunshot drove the both of them forward. "I thought you said you weren't followed?"

"I'm pretty sure they're just late to the party." Jason said. His mind was rapidly filling with possibilities. They reached the outer edge, the noise of the city almost overwhelming. Breathing heavily, Jason was aware that Farthing may have said something else. It didn't seem to matter then. He'd slip beneath the surface of everything Manila had to offer. Undercover again, lingering in the darkness, making deals with people who should have been imprisoned long ago. Bringing down Grote's crime ring was the end goal. If this continued, Jason knew he needed to take on the name Stiletto again. To be known by another name.

The debris stirred up near him, enemy's rounds leaving holes in a makeshift cardboard wall. Farthing startled, drawing his gun. To move forward, they'd find themselves in the inner maze of alleys and stairwells where the city began to press in onto itself. A labyrinth.