First fanfic. I was really sad to see CoD go :(

Here's my continuation...

Hopefully I'll have time to continually update chapters!

CHAPTER ONE: A New Beginning

You are now Natara Williams. The jet—whipped smooth by tens of thousands of flight hours, gleaming and hulking— flies alongside the ascending golden arc of the horizon. Chasing clouds, racing winds, above earthly clutter. You and Mal are on the morning plane to Washington, D.C. Tired after a night of saying good byes, you try to get some shut-eye during the ride but Mal simply cannot contain his excitement.

"Wow," he just kept saying. "Wow."

"Mal," you say, eyes closed. "If you say that one more time, then…" you trail off, too exhausted to finish your sentence. Operating on three and a half hours of sleep isn't fun.

"I'm going to be a father," he simply states. For the eighth time? No, that must have been the ninth.

"Yes, you are," you smile gently, eyes still closed. Despite how irritating he was right now, you secretly think his behavior is a tad endearing.

"How's your gut?" You feel his light touch over the bandaged area under your blouse.

"A lot better now. It aches a bit though. Thanks, I could have done without it."

Mal chuckles. "I'm never going to live that one down, aren't I?"

"Never," you agree. You open your eyes and look at him. "Aren't you tired?"

"Nah."

You shrug and close your eyes again. After a moment, you decide the headrest isn't comfortable so you lean toward Mal and nestle your head against his shoulder. He automatically rests his arm around you and you take in his familiar scent, hinted with the smell of clean linen (you weren't going to let him sit next to you for 5 hours smelling like socks and whiskey), and slowly—you drift away. For several minutes, you are in peace. Then, a fuzzy form appears in the darkness. Its face takes shape.

Shawn. It wasn't the first time his face invaded your dreams.

He stares at you, leering. He shot you. Like you did, me. Serves you right…

You're dead. Get the hell out of my head.

His face contorts, forming a mile-wide grimace. You destroyed me, Nat. His jowls outstretch, as if screaming in anger, only no sound came out. And you're going to destroy him too. Deep inside, you know that. His eyes roll up, leaving just the whites; his face, suddenly pallid and grey. Thick blood dripped from its severed stump, falling toward the abyss. And yet Shawn still spoke. He's going to end up dead, like me. In the distance, a shrill alarm clock blares as an infant cries.

Mal is stronger than you'll ever be.

Dead… dead, he echoes. Dead. His bleeding head floats closer to you and white bandages start to wrap around it.

You jerk awake, startling Mal, who was flipping through a magazine.

"Did I accidentally press on your wound?" he asks, concerned. "Did I hurt your—"

"No, Mal, I'm fine." You smile tightly.

"Sure?"

"Yes."

He looks at you, knowing something is off but understanding your desire for space. He doesn't press any further. "Okay." Mal returns to flipping through his magazine. You close your eyes again, but you don't fall asleep. You can feel Mal periodically glancing at you.

"Out with it."

"How did—? What?"

"You should know by now!"

"Right. Special Agent Gets-In-My-Mind FBI Lady. Um…" he hesitates. "It isn't me, is it?"

"No, Mal, it's okay."

"Natara, I could have shot our child."

"You couldn't have known."

"It doesn't matter." He turns away, his hands absently fidgeting with the buckle of his seat belt. His brown hair is outlined with golden light by the morning sun.

"It does." You touch his shoulder. "We've got other things to worry about now. Like you are not buying our newborn child World War II gun replicas to decorate the baby room."

Mal looks at you and his face suddenly breaks into a goofy grin. "Ah hell, that's literally the one thing I was looking forward to as a father!"

"Nor are you buying little Blaise BB guns for his or her fifth birthday."

"Fine, but if you can make demands then I can too. You are not buying every Freud and Faulkner book from the bookstore—"

"Oh, no, don't go there. Don't even. Our child needs to be educated."

"I'm not sure I can handle another Natara running around, analyzing my every facial expression pattern and manner of speech and using that psychoanalysis black magic against me."

"I'm not sure I can handle another Mal running around, doing stupid reckless things to worry me and making tasteless jokes." You laugh. "Okay, this will be hard."

"We'll be awesome parents. I mean, we've survived much worse. Not to mention, an entire city sieged by lunatic killing machines."

"You say that because you haven't changed enough diapers in your life."

Mal leans toward you and pats your abdomen. "Don't listen to her, little guy. We're gonna be the best parents you'll ever have."

"The only parents."

"Don't kill me with your logic."

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. As we start descent, please fasten your seat belts and keep all electronic devices powered off. The local time is 10:35 AM in Washington, DC with a temperature of 70 degrees Fahrenheit, cloudy," the PA sounds.

"Well, here's to a new start," Mal says, as he shoves his magazine in his carry-on. "To us."

"To us."

The two of you fall silent companionably; Mal watching the wings of the plane tip down as you watch a tired mother scold her son for wanting to take his seatbelt off. "But mom," he whined. You smile a little, despite yourself. So looking forward to that.

"We have been cleared to land, flight attendants please be seated."

You look out the window over Mal's shoulder and see the Washington Monument greet you. The plane declines fast and touches land ten minutes later. The captain speaks again on the PA system, welcoming his passengers to DC and asking everyone to be seated until complete stop. You and Mal gather your carry-on luggage and stand up when the plane stops, waiting for the people ahead of you to file out. Mal takes your hand and squeezes it.

You are now Mal Fallon. After a day of unpacking the necessities and settling in your new cozy apartment in DC, you feel like a large load has been lifted. Still, many luggage bags lie haphazardly at the center of the living room. As you fill the coffee maker (it was the first thing you unpacked because few things in the world are more important than having your morning coffee), you hear the running shower turn off. Meanwhile, you check your texts—what the hell? 62 texts from Kai?

Kai Kalaba: Hey, Mal. Are you in DC yet?

Mal.

Mal?

Oh, I know what you're doing right now. ;) I'll leave you be.

And just when you thought you couldn't get creeped out any more…

Malmalmalmal I wrote a fanfic about you and Natara in DC. Wanna hear about it? It's actually perffic.

C'mon, Mal. You do. Amy says it's good.

No, I'm kidding. Amy refuses to even read it.

I'll tell you what it's about. Then you can tell me if you want to read it? I'll send you a copy. Free of charge, courtesy of your best friend, Kai Kalaba. So DC gets attacked by dinosaurs, specifically, Kaijiangosaurus (clever right? I didn't even have to make that up. That's a real dinosaur). How do the dinosaurs get there? I was thinking of a wormhole into time or something. Anyway, a robot falcon helps you on a quest to save Natara, the damsel in distress who gets kidnapped by the Kaijiangosauruses (-sauri?). Then the dinosaurs have you trapped, and that's where I come in! I roll in by tank, and blow away the dinosaurs, thus saving you and the damsel in distress. My final line is "and that's what I call… a blast." Also, turns out the robot falcon isn't who you think, but I don't want to spoil it too much for you. I'm bursting with ideas right now.

Hey, Mal, are you there?

If you don't respond right now, I'm adding a scene where Natara kisses another man.

OK, you know what, I'm sending you the first draft anyway. Check your email.

Did you read it? Amazing, right?

Natara steps into the kitchen, a couple minutes later, fully dressed. Her mildly damp midnight-black hair falls naturally around her shoulders. You offer her a mug of coffee, a rich Arabica roast, lightly sweetened, no cream or milk, and a hint of cinnamon—how she liked it. She graciously takes it. You pour yourself a mug, just black.

"Did you get 62 texts from Kai too?" you ask.

"Nope. I got two or three."

"What? How?"

"Oh, maybe because I actually responded to his texts?"

"He sent me a text every five minutes. He wants me to read his stupid fanfiction."

"Oh, I've read it. It was actually pretty good, despite the wild plot, but it contained deep thematic elements and proper character development. I thought he captured the essence of your character quite well." Natara is cracking eggs into a pan. You drain the rest of your coffee and grab two English muffins and throw them in the toaster. "But me as the damsel in distress?"

"Well, I'm not even going to try." You open the fridge, but only a few fruits, butter, and a carton of milk stare back at you. You grab the butter. "We're going to have to go grocery shopping."

Natara laughs. "Domestic is a good look on you."

"Come on, Nat. Everything's a good look on me."

"Sure," she laughed again.

The two of you scarf down a light breakfast of English muffins with butter and scrambled eggs, along with strawberries and grapefruit halves, then leave for work.

You are now in the Washington FBI field office, getting introduced to your new workspace. Your supervisory agent shows you around, the center office first where most of the other agents in your new team worked. Cluttered desks with computers, in neat rows and columns—it reminded you a little of the precinct. A large LCD screen, about sixty inches across, is mounted on the front wall.

Your supervisory agent, Ana Catherick, shoots jetstreams of information at you but most of it passes through you. She's everything you would have imagined an FBI supervisory special agent would be like. Ramrod straight posture, perpetually frowning, and a tone that dares you to question her: go ahead, make my day.

"Fallon?"

"Oh. Yes?"

"Am I boring you? Because if I am, you can leave right now."

"No, not at all," you respond. Hell, I already miss the SFPD. And even the SCT. Then you remember the sixty two texts from Kai and decide maybe not.

"As I was saying, despite your accomplishments as a detective with the SFPD, you will still have to go through the twenty week FBI Academy program in Quantico before we can issue you a badge and weapon. However, in the meantime, you may act as a consultant with us."

"Twenty weeks? Ana, I've worked—"

"That would be Supervisory Special Agent Catherick to you, Fallon," she snaps. "Any further objections?" Her narrow green eyes dare you to say something unprofessional.

You're about to say something sarcastic, but you change your mind. "No."

"Good. I have some matters to attend to so meet the rest of the team." Catherick leaves you alone.

You look around the center office; some desks are empty but most of them are occupied by agents. You notice a desk with a nameplate reading "SPECIAL AGENT N. WILLIAMS" and another one adjacent to that desk with a nameplate, "M. FALLON." Well, guess I'm not an agent yet until after Quantico. Just fantastic. You look around, wondering who you should approach first. You decide to just meet the closest agent first and work your way from there.

You approach a man in his forties, with greying cropped black hair and a somewhat haggard appearance. He looks up at you expectantly.

"Hello. I'm Mal Fallon, former detective with the SFPD. Just Mal's fine."

He nods. "Agent Richard Byrne." And he returns to typing at his desktop.

And this is why I hate introductions, you think, feeling awkward.

The next person you meet is a younger man, in his late twenties or early thirties. He wears black framed glasses. Brown eyes, brown hair, clean-shaven—looked like a pretty average guy.

"I know you," he says, before you say anything. "I've been following you and Agent Williams' cases for a while. Especially with Firstborn, and even your first together, Maskmaker. Let me say this, pretty freaking awesome. By the way, I'm Agent Charles Mendoza, but you can call me Chuck. I'm basically the tech/back-up guy. You need something hacked? I'm your man." He takes your hand and shakes it enthusiastically.

"Mal Fallon. Mal's fine."

"Nice to meet ya, Mal."

Another agent, holding a black mug, approaches the two of you. "This the new guy?" she asks. "I met the other one, Natara. It was refreshing. Most of the people around here are like Richard."

You nod and offer your hand. "Mal Fallon."

"Carrie McLean."

"And this is Artyom, my partner—Artyom, get over here!"

Artyom reluctantly walks toward Carrie. He's tall, about two or three inches taller than you, and very well-built. Despite his massive size, he moves with a ghostly grace.

"Artyom Sokolov," he says.

"I'm Mal. Can I call you Arty?"

He glares at you, but it doesn't intimidate you. "No."

"Art? Artster?"

"We call him Panther sometimes," Chuck chimes in. "He's so quiet you'll never hear him coming. Anyway, there are two more agents, but they aren't here right now. John and Gabe. You'll meet them soon enough. John's an expert sniper and Gabe likes to get close and personal. They're both people you'd want to have your back."

Catherick walks in the office, along with Natara following close behind. "Team," she says. Everyone points their attention to her. Natara gives you a small smile. "Walker and Lang are bringing in a suspect and will be interrogating him. Agent McLean?"

"Ma'am?"

"I want you and Sokolov on the scene now, acting as our liason—Washington PD is there."

"Actually, don't you think Agent Williams and her partner not-Agent Fallon should be given a chance to live up to their reputation?" Carrie suggests.

"I'm sure Williams will, based on her FBI career as of now, but Fallon is a different matter. He isn't even field-trained and his methods are controversial, to say the least."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, he wouldn't be here if you completely did not agree with his methods. He is not FBI field trained, but still a very capable detective and may act as a useful consultant in this case," Natara says.

You look around. Am I the only one who doesn't know anything about the case?

Catherick glares at Natara, but she holds eye contact with a neutral expression. "And he will be fine without a service gun?"

"Yes. I have the utmost faith in him. You have my word."

"In that case, Agent Williams, I will take your word. For now. Fallon," Catherick nodded.

"Hold on," you say. "Shouldn't I be briefed? I have no idea what is going on right now."

She looks to Natara, who appeared slightly displeased. "Since you're not an agent yet, information will be on a need-to-know basis… so no, you won't know what is going on until it, well, goes on."

"But Natara, how—"

"You were a detective. So, detect," Catherick interrupts. "Now hurry before I change my mind."

Natara drags your sleeve before you can argue and the two of you exit the building. As she leads you to her car, you complain about Catherick. "Does she breathe fire too? Damn, she makes me miss Anders."

She grins. "I wouldn't be surprised if she did breathe fire."

"Are all FBI supervisors like this?"

"No, but a good number are."

The two of you get in the car, with Natara behind the wheel. She starts the engine and backs out of her parking spot.

"So, where are we going?"

"You'll see when we get there." Natara looked uncomfortable.

"Can't you tell me something about the case? Like who is the suspect? Why? Or at least, what are we even investigating? A murder?"

She shakes her head.

"A kidnapping? Alien attack? Rise of the dead?"

"Mal, you know I can't tell you. I don't feel comfortable withholding all this from you, but I have to."

You sigh. "Right. Need-to-know. I'm sorry."

"You're a consultant for now. I'll need that gut of yours."

"Ah, of course. For you, my dear, anything." You mimic grabbing a chunk of your gut to hand to her and you see her grin as she focuses on the road. You sit back, childishly pleased with yourself.

"You are just terrible today," she chuckles.

"I'm not making any apologies."

She's about to reply with something witty, no doubt, but you interrupt her with a shout. Natara reacts just in time—she swerves to the right, narrowly missing a man who suddenly ran into the street in front of them. She slows to a stop, rolls down the window, and spots the man in her mirror. He's wearing a long black trench coat over a twill collared shirt and red tie. He sheepishly grins and yells, "Sorry!"

"Everything okay?" Natara shouts back.

"Yes. Thank you! Completely my fault! Have a good day." The man tips his hat, shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat and continues his way.

"Curious," she comments, as she drives on at the urging of honking cars behind her. Impatient commuters.

"Rather calm and polite for a man who nearly became roadkill."

"His demeanor and apparel imply rooted narcissism but his speech is completely the opposite.

"Probably a politician," you quip. And the hat tip? That's tacky as hell.

A piece of paper hits the windshield on your side, fluttering. You don't think much of it at first, but its striking pattern catches your eye. A grid with alternating colors, like a checkerboard, pink and lime green. A black crown sits on a corner square while a white horse head and—wait a second—you feel a strong sense of déjà vu. Is that—?

But before you complete your thought, the wind blows and the paper is forever lost in the city.