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. 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.

There are several things that Gary observes about Sloane as they walk, shoulder to shoulder, towards the Venture house, trying to keep Archie's advice in mind. Things beyond the normal that comes with close proximity like how she's got an inch or two on him or the jagged scar on the underside of her chin.

The first is that she's letting him lead, she never gave him any indication to take it, but that's the pattern they fall into. Logical perhaps, but not expected after all of the in-charge attitude he's seen today. It's better explained by the other big thing that he notices: she's watching him just intently as he's watching her. Contrary to the discomfort that should probably come, Gary swells with just a little bit of pride. If Sloane's taking the time to size him up, then he's on her radar, and if her radar he did indeed make, that can't say anything bad about how he carries himself.

Second on the somewhat major scale of things that Gary notes, is Sloane's uniform. She's changed from her civilian threads into attire that's more military compliant. The motocross leather jacket has been replaced with a sleeveless vest; it's not quite as bulky as Kevlar but he'd still put money on it being bullet proof. Beneath that, there's a nondescript, long sleeved shirt, and pants to match. No pads on her shoulders, but Sloane's got her elbows and knees covered plus a pair of fingerless gloves that have a padded look to them. Her little wrist computer-thing is still there, as are the guns holstered at her hips and the boot knife. She's accessorized with a utility belt and extraneous pouches not at all unlike the ones Gary and the rest of the men have. If there's a helmet to go with her gear then she doesn't have it with her.

There's actually only one thing that makes Sloane's kit stand out; it's all black. Boots, pants, shirt, vest, everything is the same sober non-color, even the metallic bits of buckle and zipper that Gary can make out. The only exceptions to the rule are the S.P.H.I.N.X. logo stamped on the back of her vest, and a circle-within-a-circle insignia near the collar that he almost misses because of the messy horsetail hanging over her right shoulder. Those are gray instead.

"So is the lack of color a statement or…?"

Why the actual fuck did he just say that?

The rolling boil of apprehension in Gary's stomach fizzles away with the last sound he expected to hear; Sloane chuckles.

"Sorry," she says when he looks at her, as if she might have been the one saying something borderline offensive. "I forget a couple of you guys don't have agency intel. No, this," she tugs at her vest, "is not my personal preference. O.S.I. drones, bottom of the pyramid, wear white and blue, medical is usually marked by the green cross and their lab coats, special agents get to wear whatever variation of agency colors they want, and Sentinels are marked by the eye—" This time Sloane taps the double circle at her collar. "—and black."

"Huh. So you just carried the uniform over even though you're S.P.H.I.N.X. now?"

Shaking her head, Sloane hooks a thumb in her belt. "Not really." At the confusion Gary knows is playing across his face Sloane, to her credit, doesn't appear annoyed. Something he can't say for Brock or Shore Leave. They hadn't been awful or anything answering his questions when he first joined up, but after a while, they'd started brushing him off and he'd started keeping most questions to himself. To be fair, Gary always has a lot of questions.

"I'm not S.P.H.I.N.X." For a second, just a second, Gary is scared when she says that. Legitimately, like she might just bust out and reveal she's an Infiltrator for the Guild and she's drawn him out while the agents she brought are back inside HQ massacring all of his teammates. It isn't until she continues talking that he realizes his insides actually seized up.

Fuck, he has become paranoid in the last few weeks.

"Like I said earlier, Sentinels serve the head of the agency. I'm the General's, one-hundred percent; doing what she needs done, no questions, no matter where I'm posted." She offers a half-smile to him that seems genuine enough due to the fact that there's no rime tingeing the edges of her pupils. "Think of it as Internal Affairs. Or spies within a spy agency, I guess. Only, because the O.S.I. believes in being all above board, we have to let everyone know we're spies."

"Really? That sounds…"

"Counterproductive?" Sloane plugs the gap he squirms to fill without insulting. "Little bit. Sometimes it's handy, though. Infamy can cloak just as well as anonymity, if you know how to wear it."

Well, that was…poetic. Really and truly, those are words that drip with Sun Tzu-esque wisdom and Gary can't stop himself from admiring them.

Then again, maybe he's just cracked open too many fortune cookies filled with bullshit lucky numbers. Either way, his intentions to ask her where she heard it dissolve thanks to Hatred's Marlboro rumble coming across the grass.

"Hold it, Turncoat!" The older man's gun is out. Not aimed, but out. Through of the corner of his eye, Gary watches Sloane's reaction and sees a hand slide to one of her pistols. It's impressive; if hehadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have caught her flip the holster snap back.

"Not a fan of yours?" her voice is just loud enough for Gary and Gary alone to hear.

He shrugs, answering in a tone that matches hers. "Well, I did spend a year attacking him, kidnapping his employer, and shit…And maybe for about thirteen before that, my old boss had me jacking his equipment all the time."

She smiles, not just smirks, but actually smiles at that and her eyes lighten from slate to blue. It's also so quick that Gary's almost positive that it's a trick of the light. The Sentinel Mask comes back down as Hatred comes closer and she levels that frost-flecked stare of hers on him.

"S.P.H.I.N.X. territory ends about ten yards back, so why don't you and your little—" Hatred stops mid-lecture, staring at Sloane. At first, Gary assumes it's the ultra-serious-gonna-rip-your-lungs-straight-out thing that rolls off of her that does it. Then he sees she's shaken her hair back off her shoulder so that the double-circle insignia on her vest stands out clear.

"Whoa, wait a second, what the hell are you doing here with a Sentinel?" Gary almost feels bad for the old warhorse. As an ex-villain, and even worse, an O.S.I. deserter, he imagines that Hatred's association with the agency is tenuous at best. It's probably why they stowed him all the way out here with a hack scientist and two kids. Hatred's back in the fold, but only on the loosest of terms and he'll never get another trade secret from the brass as long as he lives. Not to mention, he's probably very expendable to them. The panic that must be filling him up when he sees Sloane on the lawn must be excruciating.

Again, sort of sad but mostly fun to watch. Gary keeps his glee to himself, however.

"I'm, S.A.S.S. Samantha Sloane." Sloane's left hand goes to one of the pouches at her waist—just slow enough that Hatred isn't spooked—procuring an I.D. She holds it out patiently, waiting without so much as a blink or an eye roll as the Ventures' bodyguard approaches and then takes his sweet time examining it.

"I'm here on behalf of S.P.H.I.N.X." She continues when his eyes finally rise from her badge and meet hers. "Agent Hatred, I assume? I need to speak to Dr. Venture."

All of the tension that had built up in Hatred once he recognized just exactly what Sloane was gushes out in buckets. His massive shoulders sag and he starts breathing again.

He also finds his tongue again, which, as far as Gary's concerned, isn't that great.

"Whew, you had me worried for a second, Girly." Hatred holsters his gun while doing that nervous/awkward chuckle that he, for whatever reason, thinks is an icebreaker. The moment he called Sloane "Girly", he kind of fucked up breaking the ice. Or at least that's what Gary's going to assume by the jaw tic and narrowing eyes going on with Sloane does when he says it. "Sorry about the rough greeting. Gotta keep an eye out you know?" Somehow, he misses Sloane's less than amused expression and prattles on. "Sloane, huh? You wouldn't happen to be—"

It's sort of amazing to Gary how someone can manage to hit all of the wrong buttons in less than five seconds. Hatred is just lucky like that, though, apparently.

"Dr. Venture, Agent Hatred." The words are razor-tipped, a perfect match for Sloane's steel-gray glare.

For a split second, Hatred is taken aback. Then, understandably, offended. Sagely, though, (and surprising) he doesn't make a comment, something that Gary's gut says has way more to do with Sloane being a Sentinel than it does her quite fearsome bitch-face.

"Right." Gary is a little surprised that Hatred can get that out, what with the way his teeth seem to be attempting to break each other. "This way." He turns with a final scowl directed at Gary (probably because he won't risk throwing it the Sentinel's way) and starts his personal version of an exit stomp. Sloane lets him get several yards ahead before she sets a slow, deliberate pace to follow.

"Wow." That's all that Gary says. That's all that he can say. Never has he seen anyone shut Hatred's mouth with so little effort. Both impressive and scary. Though, to be fair, he decided about an hour ago, when Brock's scowl failed to rattle her, that was just going to be the general thing around this woman.

"Remember what I said about what Sentinels do?" He has a feeling she isn't actually asking him a question. But he also thinks he should answer. Just in case.

"Uh…That you're spies within a spy agency? You serve the General? Watchdogs? Paperwork?" He ticks everything off out loud, hoping to hit pay dirt. Apparently it works.

"That man was one of us. He was of a high enough rank that he called shots on better men." Her eyes bear a striking resemblance to polished gunmetal now and they're aimed straight between Hatred's shoulder blades. "And he spat on that position by defecting to the Guild and getting two of the most capable agents we had squirreled away to bullshit positions that kept them off his scent."

Her eyes flick to Gary and though they've lost that semi-murderous sheen that Hatred got, they're still sharp enough to send a prickle of apprehension through his innards. "Sentinels hunt crooked agents. Hatred was our order's second-worst fuck-up. It was before my time but I think I'll hold the grudge for my predecessors anyway."

That prickle becomes a full-on burn and he almost loses pace with Sloane. He completely also loses the filter on his stupid mouth. "So does that mean I'm on the Sentinel shit list too?"

Why the actual fuck did he just ask that? Because, quite frankly, if he is, Gary assumes it's better not to know. In fact, he envisions Sloane taking him out just for becoming aware that the Sentinels have a shit list.

Weak, Gary is certainly not. He's gone toe to toe with Brock Samson—legitimately fought him—and lived. Didn't win but lived and somehow got Brock's respect in the process. Shore Leave's too, after their stint in Zero's gladiator arena. Gary is a fucking super spy.

He's got this feeling though, no, this unspoken fact, ringing in his ears, that Sloane holds her own.

And she has really good aim.

Sloane pops the ever-inflating balloon of paranoia growing between Gary's ribs and stomach with a shrug of her shoulders. "You came to the O.S.I., you didn't abandon it. We're gold unless I find out you're trying to play it double. Then you get gutted like a fish and laid out in front of the boss."

She's smiling when she says that again. There's no creepy glint lurking in her pupils, no menacing undertone to her voice. It's still a threat, though, just one made without so much malice and it dawns on Gary why he's walking with her right now.

"Did you actually need a guide?" He probably shouldn't feel proud that he made the radar enough for Sloane to give him a warning. Really, he should be worried. But even as Gary digs for that feeling, he finds himself grinning sideways at his companion instead.

Sloane gaze is hardly gray at all when she returns the grin, albeit in her reserved, always-at-arm's-length fashion. "Let's just say that I wanted all my bases covered. And Shore Leave really was the only other option." She shakes her head, brow furrowed in annoyance. "He called me Sam-a-rama-ding-dong on my way to the med bay. I can't tell if he's baiting me or that's just his warped way of being friendly."

"Both," Gary supplies, resisting the urge to pat her on the shoulder. Sloane is thawing but he will chance nothing. "It's always both with Shore Leave."

The rest of their short walk passes in silence, albeit a far more comfortable silence than anything Gary would have believed it could be about twenty minutes beforehand. If nothing else, most of his paranoia about Sloane leading him to an ambush has dissipated.

Besides, as they pass the big dome and the Sydney Opera House-esque lab building, things get kind of interesting.

A bullhorn goes off somewhere around them, ripping through the air. Hatred pauses as he looks toward the lab then back at them, brow furrowed before he starts walking again. Since Sloane doesn't move, Gary doesn't either. Their tenacity is rewarded when the doors to the little opera house/lab/whatever open up and a stream of people in orange and white suits start filing out.

Maybe it's the abundance of sweat beading up around the line of his helmet, but when Gary glances at over at Hatred, he seems nervous. It could just be the summer heat, though, lord knows the behemoth wasn't made for warm weather, if the damp spots beneath his arms and at the small of his back are anything to judge by.

"Those are just workers for—ugh—one of Doc's projects," Hatred says, coming closer to where he and Sloane stand. "He's up at the house, though, so, if you'll keep follow—"

"Agent Hatred are those children?" That quiet knife has snuck back into Sloane's tone. And her glare. Consequently, Hatred's sweat glands have amped up production.

Goddammit, he really shouldn't be enjoying how nervous she makes the poor guy.

Though, wait…are those kids?

Gary double takes the stream as masks are removed and hoods pushed back. They do look kinda young, at a distance it's hard to say. Their body language, though, the way they high-five, throw their heads back, and swagger, all of those things suggest they're not adults. Well, at least not full-on adults. Yet.

Hatred confirms that. "They're college kids, all eighteen and up. Interns." He shifts uncomfortably. "Look, Doc's work hasn't got anything to do with S.P.H.I.N.X. or the O.S.I. Now, would you like to talk to him?"

That last sentence comes out with a lot more courage than Hatred feels, Gary knows because the look on his face right after screams "Shit!" It's a feeling he's become all too familiar with in the last few hours.

Sloane surprises him—and Hatred, surely—when she doesn't so much as frown. She regards him a moment or two with that ever-unreadable look of hers then nods.

"I would. Keep going." It isn't an answer; it's a command if Gary has ever heard one. Not one that Hatred expected. Or wanted, if he's reading the resuming sweat problem right. Hatred says no more, though, no protests, no pleas, he does as he's told and turns, continuing the tread to the House.

"Be honest with me, Sloane," he says after Hatred's gotten a couple yards ahead of them again. "Are you a witch?"

Sloane chuckles and it's a not altogether disquieting sound. She doesn't deny the witch thing, though.

After they pass a line of sullen green-suits that back up the young adult contention he made, Hatred leaves them inside the long, windowed vestibule just beyond the Venture Industries sign. His words are vague and more than a little but rushed, he's clearly trying to get away from them so he can talk to Doc out of earshot. Despite the fact that she notices it—and yes, Gary is more than a little confident in Sentinel bullshit-detecting abilities—Sloane lets him go.

Since she didn't really need him in the first place and they've arrived at her destination, Gary doesn't see a point in staying. The longer he stands around, the more he fantasizes about that shower he still hasn't had. And, now that he thinks about it, food. He ate a granola bar before falling asleep on the flight back from Tangiers but he's kind of loathe to call that a meal. Hell, it fit in his palm; he's loath to call it a snack.

Before he can ask, though, in blows another distraction, as today has been so rife with.

"Hey, Gary!" Hank breezes through the big double doors in usual Hank fashion. Hank fashion being enviably chipper and carefree with the beefy shadow that is Dermott on his heels.

What can he say? Time is turning him to a cynic and he doesn't exactly feel bad about it. Still, he waves back to him. Cynical and paranoid though he may be, Gary won't be a dick to the kid.

"Hi, Hank. Dermott."

He's going to introduce Sloane. Really, that's absolutely where he's going with the next sentence that comes out of his mouth. A) because it's the polite thing to do, and B) because she's observing with that blank, ultra-Sentinel-y face that might unnerve the boys.

Then the door opens again and Dean, toting a crate overflowing with books, stumbles in. Literally, he stumbles and goes down. The crate flies and he's inches from eating tile when Sloane's fist curls around the collar of his recently emo-ized speed suit.

"Whoa, there." She rights Dean, in a manner Gary might almost call gentle, while his brother and…whatever Dermott is to him (friends is probably not an apt description), snicker. "You okay?"

Face turning red with embarrassment and irritation (most likely thanks to the other boys) Dean shrinks back. "I'm fine." He kneels, scrabbling to pick up the crate and his books. Sloane surprises Gary by assisting. Just why it's surprising he can't say but the feeling is there, ruminating as Gary follows her example, scooping up a few stray hardbacks that managed to slide his way.

As he hands the books over and sees the others both in the case and still on the floor, it looks as if Dean has cleaned out the young adult science-fiction/fantasy section of the local library. A Wrinkle In Time, Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, and The Amber Spyglass, are just a few of the collection's many gems.

"Big sci-fi fan?" Sloane's tone is cheerful—unaffectedly so, too—as she places a book neatly in the crate.

"I—um—maybe." Dean doesn't look up, fumbling to arrange what he has of the Discworld series. "My—"

"The girl he's got the hots for is a total nerd," Dermott butts in. Gary rolls his eyes. The kid isn't bad, mostly he's just sad, attempting to be so big with so little to back it up. He sings good, though, Gary'll give him that.

Hank is right behind his friend. "Yeah! She was talking his ear off about Hugo Nebulas and Dean-O didn't know what she was saying so he had to run out and brush up."

"Whipped and he isn't even getting any." Flipping back his hair as he says that, so snotty and derisive, Gary has an itch to punch Dermott's kneecap. It's a comment that brings far too much of ninth grade to mind.

Hmm... That makes him kid number two for the day that Gary finds he can't stand. Christ, is it a getting old sort of thing?

No, some kids are just assholes.

Okay, it may be a getting old sort of thing, just a bit. Shit, and he's only thirty-two, how much is he going to resent teenagers by the time he hits forty? Gary doesn't even want to think about it.

As she is becoming prone to do, Sloane flips her mask back on and she points that cold gray stare at both Hank and Dermott. Their glee evaporates and Gary decides that he's not all against the Ice Soldier persona. Handy thing, it really is.

"These are really good." The dime is turned and amiable Sloane looks at Dean. She touches the spines on a couple of Earthsea books. "I couldn't put them down when I was a kid. And they've got a lot of meat to the world, so you can pretty much read the whole set again and again and still discover something new when you do. Same with this," she hefts The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide in her right hand, smiling down at the cover. "And it's really funny."

"Yep, it'll even teach you the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything." Gary can't resist, HG2G was a staple of his teenage years, even after he wound up wearing a butterfly costume.

Sloane laughs at that outright, no attempt at indifference whatsoever. It's openmouthed with a grin and Gary can even see the white lines of her teeth.

"Whoa, really?" That comes from Dermott, he and Hank both appearing just a smidge less cocky and so much more interested in the "nerdy" books Dean's carting around. "What is it?"

Gary shakes his head at them as he, along with Sloane, stands; all of Dean's books gathered from the floor. "You wouldn't get it unless you read the book."

The bulky blond does what he usually does when he knows he's being ridiculed. Upper lip curls, nose goes up, and the arms cross; Dermott could play jilted teenage girl very well, if he ever decided to cross-dress.

"Ugh. Whatever."

"Thanks...um...wait, who are you?" Gratitude watered down with curiosity, Dean's left eyebrow rises high and his gaze flickers from Sloane, to Gary, his brother, Dermott, and then back around to Sloane.

The stone-face stays turned off but some of the militaristic flavor returns as Sloane introduces herself properly. She doesn't do a salute though; Gary will give her not-so-much-of-a-tool points for that. "I'm S.A.S.S. Samantha Sloane. You can call me Sam. Or Agent Sloane, whichever you're more comfortable with."

"She's with S.P.H.I.N.X." Gary supplies when the boys still look unsure. "Sort of." Sloane glances at him when he tacks that last bit on. It's more disapproving than anything, which says a lot about what she thinks that the Ventures should be privy to.

He has a feeling, a prickly twist along the bottom of his gut, that Sloane is going to be very, very, very unhappy with what the Ventures presently know about the goings on of the super-secret (not really) spy team that operates in their backyard.

Actually, no, Gary's money is on that she's already aware of what they know and she definitely isn't a fan of giving them more.

Even so, she's still…nice, strange as it is to witness, to the boys. Especially given that Hank's rebuttal to Gary is, "They started letting girls in?"

Snorting in a way that is at least a little bit laugh-like, Sloane nods. "Just the ones dumb enough to sign up." She returns her attention to Dean. "If you wind up liking Hitchhiker's, you might wanna try Terry Pratchett's stuff. And Neil Gaiman's. They've all got that same ultra-British, dry humor voice going on in their books."

If that was not masterful misdirection, Gary will lick the locker room floor.

"I—okay, sure."

For a second, Gary thinks it's the beginnings of a crush that has the younger Venture's face all flushed and stammering. Which, ugh, worst idea if he's ever heard it. It hits him, though, when he sees that there's no adoration in the way that Dean is looking up at Sloane. Dean is merelysurprised. Because almost no fucking one has had a simple conversation with him about the kind of books he might like, least of all a stranger. For the ordinary person this is chitchat, something struck up randomly at the supermarket or the library. But not to Dean because the kid is not "normal", has never been such, and has only the faintest idea of how "normal" works.

While Gary gets pounded by fresh, new waves of guilt and self-loathing—he helped tie Dean up with creepy mecha-caterpillars once, shit he'd even suggested it—that haven't crossed his mind before, Dean seems to be having that exact same epiphany.

"Well, uh, thank you. I'm gonna go read now, Miss—Agent Sloane. Nice meeting you." And off he runs. Or at least the version that Dean can best do with an awkward, overladen crate in his arms.

If Sloane is taken aback by the kid's behavior, she doesn't say anything. Her eyes widen, just a little, but that's all. Not that it matters; Dean disappears and Hatred reappears, this time with Doc in tow, and his tenseness has anything but abated.

"Hey, you boys don't bother the Sentinel, now, you hear?" To anyone else those words would be innocuous, something any guardian might say to a couple of kids so that they don't annoy the policeman standing on the street corner. Gary knows though; Hatred has a past that Sloane is aware of, she doesn't like him, and they both know it.

Yet again, he reminds himself he shouldn't be so amused by the old warhorse's sweating. To clarify: Gary shouldn't be but he totally is.

Hank and Dermott's response is the typical, almost Pavlovian thing teenagers do when an authority figure speaks. They roll their eyes, make a face, and wave it off even as they obey to make themselves feel like they aren't.

"Ugh, come on, we've got band practice anyway." Hank gestures to Dermott. "See ya around, Gary. Bye-bye S.P.H.I.N.X. lady." Dermott only nods, turning from them before his friend does.

"It's Sloane..." The words come out just beneath the Sentinel's breathe, muttered and not intended for anyone else's ears. Gary lets her have that, waving to the boys instead of laughing.

"See ya, guys. Rock on."

"You know, according to the interagency ethics code, neither Guild nor O.S.I. operatives are supposed to question minors without parental consent during times of peace." For a man who acts as if he wants to avoid Sloane's bad side, Hatred doesn't seem to have smart way of going about it. Thumbs hooked into his belt so that he can get the extra chest-puff going on, he sidles over to her as he talks. "Just common courtesy, you know."

That feeling that someone is going to get shot is back. It's strange, how her face doesn't even twitch and somehow fury bruises the air around Sloane.

Stranger still is how Gary realizes, when Hatred's eyes snap briefly to Hank and Dermott's retreat, that he isn't being territorial or watching his own back. Hatred is doing his best to keep the boys away from a class of agent that Gary's already been told is known for unquestioning loyalty. Loyalty that might come with orders from the General to disembowel anyone who's too nosey even if they're kids (though, he highly doubts that would happen).

Parental is the best word for Hatred's concern. Maybe it shouldn't strike Gary as weird; the guy has lived with the Ventures for going on two years and re-tattooed himself to prove his commitment. Then again calling yourself "Hatred" doesn't normally lend to any warm fuzzies. Still, Even with the "huh?" factor prominent, Gary finds a little bit of sympathy for Hatred's gruff ass worming its way in there.

And then it's flooded out by that not-entirely-objective satisfaction that Gary gets whenever Hatred gets owned.

"Of course." The scary-pleasant smile is back. "Though, I'm sure you already knew that since the O.S.I. placed you here, pays your salary, and we," she motions to Gary, but doesn't look at him, "are technically colleagues, neither Agent Stewart nor myself could be liable for violation of that code."

Of course she can't just say, "Dude, they weren't being questioned. We were talking about books. Chill the fuck out." Nope. Sloane twists the proverbial knife as far as she can without making it a kill.

"Unless, of course, this is a proclamation of break from the agency?"

Gary winces at that. He is morally obligated to.

While Hatred pales Sloane smiles again, giving him one last courteous (not really) nod before sidestepping to Doc. From one of the pouches on her waist she brings out a j-pad mini which she flicks on and holds out to their landlord. A brand new face is in place, one that brings to mind real-estate agents and car salesmen. The really good ones who you know are sleazy and out for your wallet but, hey, fuck it; they're probably going to get your money in the end so you don't struggle so much.

"Hi, Doctor Venture, so nice to meet you. I'm S.A.S.S. Sloane, and I will just need about five minutes of your time."

Voice Fancast

Special Agent Samantha Sloane—Laura Bailey

Dr. Archie Carrey—Damon Wayans Jr.

Agent Miranda Hart—Ashly Burch

Jayashri "Shri" Krrish—Liz Sroka

Author's Note: I feel like I need to explain this least I am flamed.

I love Sgt. Hatred. LOVE. I love pretty much everyone on the show, but I really do adore Hatred.

That being said, however, Sloane isn't the viewing audience who has watched him fight to be good, protect the boys, nurture them, and so forth. Sloane knows a guy who turned and bit the hand that feeds him not once but TWICE. And since Sentinel's act as a sort of IAB for O.S.I. (at least in this silly little AU I made up). She has files on the shit he's done but she doesn't KNOW him and that'll probably change. I just felt the need to assure everyone that I have no intent on vilifying Uncle Vatred in this story. I'm writing him mostly through Gary's POV and you all know how much they loved each other in "What Color Is Your Cleansuit?" which is where this bit matches up time-wise with the canon 'verse.