Disclaimer: I own my own copy of the game, but I don't own the copyrights and all that. Just having fun with the characters. Er, please be somewhat kind – constructive crit is appreciated but flaming is just utterly pointless, k? It's still being proofread and worked on, but I just wanted some feedback on whether I should continue and such. I have a few chapters done . . . It's set a year after Pandora Tomorrow and it COULD have a few spoilers; then again, you probably wouldn't understand the spoilers until you've already beaten the game, so that's somewhat moot. Originally this was written for SC fans only, but I figured, what the hell, reach a larger audience, get more feedback, make the story better. Umm, enjoy?

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Chapter I

It was not the safest place for him to be. Long grass, in a desperate need of mowing, rustled along with the far-off murmurs of many men, creating a cover of sound. But the sun was still up, and somehow he had to stay in the shadows, avoid detection and make his way into the mansion. First though, he would have to find some shadows to hide in. Green eyes scanning the area he knew that while this mission would be short, it would be rather difficult. Even if no one would be able to hear his careful step, they sure as hell would see him. Stuck in his kneel beside a grand old tree, its bark gnarled and providing some measure of cover, he studied the home. It was red brick with white trim, almost cliché, with large windows; the building itself was well kept, although all around it gave the impression of being decrepit. The black iron gate was nearly covered in yellowing grass; a path was stomped through the field that substituted for a front yard, passing through a half-broken gate (courtesy the fence) up to the tiny pristine porch.

Sam Fisher wondered what sort of people would live here. Even he couldn't figure out the duality of this place. Was the strangeness itself enough to keep the curious or lost wanderers away? Who knew what traps lay in wait in the grass . . . Which reminded him, what traps were there? Once more his gaze swept the land before him and seeing nothing, his thermal vision was quickly flicked down. Another study of the ground told him there weren't any mines around. Blinking as his vision switched from artificial blue and green to normalcy, he tried to pick up on what could be there. Then again, it could have been merely the fact that it was the only mansion for miles so there was no point to keep it looking fresh and nice. Also, only this terrorist group used it - if one could even call them that - who obviously had no interest in gardening. It was a meeting place and the beauty was kept for the inside, not out. Or at least he hoped that the long grasses weren't functional.

Black outfits and hot days, Fisher was really starting to find, were not working out that well. Sure, he lived on the coast, he was used to sunlight, but this was a bit extreme. Working, in broad daylight, in full SIGINT ninja uniform, near the equator: definitely not his idea of a good time, but then again, what was?

Creeping forward, he thought it might be possible to use the grass as his cover. As long as no one was searching the so-called lawn, he should make it to the mansion without being detected. It would be slow, steady and definitely sweaty work, but no one said Third Echelon was glamorous. Although that old fence was worrying him. It seemed that it would run the full course of the house. So how could he get over it without alerting anyone? Hope that no one was looking out the window at that exact moment? He hated working on chance, although often that was the difference between life and death. Still, he liked to try and keep everything under control. There were enough people, according to recent intelligence, inside that mansion at any given time for a window to always have someone looking out it.

Some party. Unfortunately for them, he was one hell of a party crasher. Moving on his belly, crawling along, dragging himself through the grass, he attempted to squirm between the massive blades. It wouldn't do well for someone to see him in the stretch of land because he was creating a line of crushed grass as he went. Luckily, no one noticed him as he made it to the fence, sweat dripping off his face. He would really have to speak to Lambert about getting something that breathed a bit better. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the sky, studying the sun. Another hour or so and dusk would begin. If he went to the house and waited, he would have a better chance of successfully completing his mission if darkness had begun to fall. Turning back over onto his stomach, Fisher slowly got up onto his knees. Peering out to the house and seeing nothing that would inform him that they had been alerted to his presence, he went about examining the fence. It didn't take him long to realise that he could squeeze through the bars of the fence, as long as he went carefully. As he moved forward, something pricked in the back of his mind, a memory, and he knew what he had picked up in that short time was invaluable. His highly trained instinct told him to turn on the thermal once more, just to be sure. Better to be paranoid once than caught the nine other times. If it had been the place to, a smile would have crept to his lips. Instead the blue and green world filled his vision once more, and booby traps came to light. Sam was stunned. He had waded through fields of dangerous explosives before, but this was beyond anything he had ever encountered. Usually there was some way past anything that was thrown at him. This, however . . . It seemed that these people, true terrorists or not, were obsessed with keeping themselves safe. Row upon row of mines, motion sensors, trip mines . . . there was no way he could make it through without getting a leg blown off. If the only way to the house was up the path, he was in deeper water than he had first imagined.

Flicking the vision back up, Fisher sought out a rock, his eyes unfocused on one of the open windows along the side of the house, deep in thought. Perhaps if he made a big enough distraction - a few explosions could do the trick - it would give him enough time to make it to the door, along the established path. His arm came back, then went up in an arc, as if he were throwing a grenade. The explosion rumbled the ground as dirt and grass was thrown through the air, one detonation setting others off as well. He saw someone hanging out a window, then the shadows of more people behind her.

"What do you think that was?" one muttered in English as the woman out the window turned, facing back into the room and snapped back to someone in French.

Once finished her intelligible dialogue, she leaned back out the window, scanning the area. She said slowly with a pronounced sneer, "Probably another squirrel." For some reason that produced much laughter, an almost scary laughter. The debris had begun to settle back down. Sam weighed his options in a split second. Either blow up more lawn and raise suspicion (although clear a path for himself) or run to the door, right now, and pray that he could get his fifth freedom in less than a minute. The chance for the latter was slim, but the first choice seemed just as viable. Taking a deep breath, he went to the path, and still in his crouch, ran head-long for the door, rolling the last few metres. Spinning about quickly and slamming his back against the wall, he regulated his breathing, eyes wide as he took everything in, ears ready for any warning sound. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered why he had wanted to get back into the field and pass up all the extra time he had to spend with Sarah. Things had been good before Third Echelon, although teaching the new CIA brats the ropes could be tiring and frustrating. No, the field had been a break; but some things were sacrificed. Like his daughter.

There were obviously stairs near the front door, because he heard someone storming down them; it sounded like a pissed off woman and he wondered how many times he had heard his own child doing that after a fight on the phone with a friend. Men stepped heavily and shouted; women tried to break the stairs and screamed. Listening harder, he was nearly sure it was a woman, and from the muffled sounds around her, it sounded like her lackeys. For some reason women almost always ruled in large opulent mansions. He had no idea where or when the terrorist rulebook had been written, but there had to be one. Every time a woman was in charge of something she had a mansion, gorgeous but unsuitable clothes, and stupid men parading about her. She was almost always the cover for her male counterpart, the head of a real terrorist organisation, but then at the last moment the woman always managed to be the superior powerful one.

He knew no movies portrayed anything about spy life or the government roles in pretty much anything correctly, except for that one detail: what female overlords were like. Perhaps they had no fear of over-charging their credit cards. What were creditors going to do? Come knocking? With a sigh, he went for his gun. Perhaps this would be a lot easier than he had first considered: a pseudo-terrorist group run by a spoiled woman was easier than anything else he had been up against in his years in the NSA. Why were his talents being wasted and nearly neutralised on this crap?

"Lambert," he grumbled, "why am I bothering with this?"

His boss was short. "Just do your work, Fisher."

Scowling, Sam reached for his optical cable and pushed it under the door. Spinning it, he couldn't see anyone in the main hall - and he had been right, the main staircase was right before him. Taking it back, he went for the doorknob and turned slowly. It was unlocked; then again, who else other than friendlies would these people be expecting? Pushing it open, he shot out all the lights he could see and rolled into a corner. Squatting, he examined the room with the barrel of his gun, and found nothing. Back to the wall, he edged along to an opening in the house and looked around the corner. It was a long hallway, ending with a small table, a highly decorated vase atop it, filled with fake silk flowers. SWAT turning, he gave the hall another look, then went to the other side of the room. The front hall was symmetrical, and it seemed the mansion was as well. This hall looked exactly the same. Aiming up, he blew out the light. On went his night vision. But where everyone had gone, he had no idea.

The basement. He didn't know why he thought of it, but he had. Could they all be in the basement? Would it just take a few gas grenades to incapacitate a whole terrorist cell? That would be nearing pathetic, but it would make his life a lot easier. Sneaking back across the hall, he heard light footsteps on some stairs behind him. There was no one on the main staircase but didn't these places usually have servant stairs? Eyes darting from one hall to the other, he waited, not wanting to move until he knew where his enemy was coming from. His left. A man walked out into the corridor, then stopped short, raising his weapon. He looked around, then began walking slowly, obviously alarmed by the lack of lights. Sam suddenly realised the possibility of being silhouetted against the light of the hall on his right. Taking a few slow steps back, he felt a bit better about his position. Waiting until the man crossed the threshold into the main hall, Fisher then began to move with intent. Toeing around the man, he followed him at half-a-pace faster. Nearing the other hall, he stood and his arm was around the other's throat in a second. First a choking sound issued, then Sam clamped his free hand over the man's mouth.

"Now," Fisher said lowly, "you're going to answer a few questions of mine. Or else."

The man's eyes looked wildly around. He had been so close to the safe light.

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. If you shout for help, I'll make sure you never speak again. Or breathe."

The threat seemed to work. Very nearly audibly gulping, the man nodded vehemently. He understood. After all, he was a nobody; he didn't know anything about the mistress or agendas or plans.

"Good." Fisher took his hand away slowly, ready to return, just in case. When no cries came, he took his gun and held it to the man's head. "Where is everybody?"

That information he did know. But could he tell this man, who obviously had a presence, but seemed invisible? How dangerous could someone like this be; it would put everyone in jeopardy. That was something he could not do.

The silencer dug into the man's temple when he was mute for too long. "Tell me," Sam growled, becoming impatient. He wanted this over with.

He didn't like the feel of the metal straining his skin. It would be even worse to have a bullet in his brain. "Th-the mistress left. Th-through the b-back."

"Where is everybody?" His voice was becoming rougher, nearly spitting his words out. Repeating himself was something he did not enjoy.

"Nearly everyone's in the basement – or at least, they were." The man whimpered, his knees starting to go weak. Fisher's arm was the only thing really keeping him up. "A few people are upstairs, but that's it, I swear."

"Do people live here, or is it just a meeting place?" The intelligence had been somewhat sketchy on this point.

"S-some l-live here," the man gasped, slumping further in Fisher's grasp, being a man of little backbone. Raising his gun, Sam knocked him out, figuring that was the most he would get out of the coward. Dragging the body to the corner he had previously occupied, he spoke to Lambert.

"What's the point of hiring guards like this?" he wondered, sounding nearly dumbfounded.

Lambert's reply was cool to the untrained ear, "Usually men with big guns look and feel scary, no matter how much of a pussycat they really are."

"Point well taken," Fisher said with a snicker, voice near a banter. "So where's your big gun, Lambert?"

"Just get the mission done, Fisher." With that, Lambert was off and waiting for a completion. Sam looked around the darkened room and started his way up the stairs. For some reason the government wanted information on this "Mistress" person. The group seemed so childish and useless he wondered what all the curiosity was about. But perhaps it was the lack of information that made everyone edgy. A group so illprepared and weak should have been easy pickings, yet nothing was documented. So now was the time to document; but the main thing Echelon was wondering was how "Mistress" had avoided detection. No one had ever seen her (had she been that woman hanging out the window?) and no one could figure out why. Usually terrorists wanted their faces splashed across screens and posters and billboards so they could proclaim their anti-american, anti-west message. Yet she was silent, what must have been an offshoot of a larger terrorist group (too extreme for the extremists?), surrounded by weaklings it seemed, yet never found out. What he already had was the most anyone had ever got. Probably because previous operatives ended their budding careers by blowing themselves up on the lawn.

Stepping slowly up the staircase, Fisher kept swivelling his head around, to try and see if anyone was coming. He zoomed his vision ahead as he turned on the stairs, looking to the upper hall. He saw no one and hustled through the glow of intact lights, briefly wondering how much these people liked red, as the carpets and upper halves of the walls were all said colour. The lower part of the walls were dark panelling, matching the railings he was walking past. Up at the top of the stairs, in the doorway between hallways, he was in enough darkness to stay inconspicuous. He took this opportunity to look around and to above all listen. First one had to listen for footsteps. Then to the actual stepping. That could tell you where the person belonging to the disembodied footsteps was going, what they were doing and what they were going to do; he remembered those lessons. At first he had scoffed, but when it was demonstrated, then learned, he believed. And it was an invaluable tool to have and it had saved his life on many occasions, he was sure. If you moved too soon, guards were alert and would spot you earlier. Listening to how they walked would tell you when they were more at ease and thought it had just been their imaginations.

He was like a ghost; people suspected he was there, but until they were knocked out cold, they had no hard evidence.

It would be deliberate work having to search every room for the information he needed and not be caught. He needed her computer so Grim could get all the information the NSA needed out of it. Contacts, journals, day planner; people's lives were on their computers and they could get a wealth of information even from the most strictly guarded system. Sticking close to the wall, Fisher ran across the brighter patches of carpet to slightly darker shadows as he deliberated shooting out the lights. Coming to the end of the hall, he looked around the corner and saw a back. It was another man, wearing what looked like an army jacket. His blonde hair was cropped short, his weapon firmly gripped in pale hands. In three successive shots Sam had the lights around himself out; he was safe in darkness. He could almost see the guard's ears perk up. His line of view was clear, and raising his gun, his shot was perfect. One bullet would put this guy out forever. But he was supposed to avoid killing anyone until things were sorted out. Lowering his weapon slowly, he holstered it and crept back, watching with wary eyes. He timed each movement, keeping it with the guards, making sure they were evenly spaced. When the blonde was closer, trying to see into the dark spot that had suddenly appeared, Sam lunged. For the guard, there was nothing but curious darkness, pain, then ever-reaching black. With a heavy thump, the lifeless body hit the ground. Wincing at the noise and glancing about, Fisher quickly grabbed the body and slung it over his shoulders. Taking his optical cable out, he checked under closest door and saw the room was empty, and had only one door: and that was the one he was looking under. Slowly, he creaked the door open, gritting his teeth as if it would ward off the extra sound he did not need. A shaft of light split the dark patch he had created with three carefully placed bullets; then he swung the door open. It went silently to the wall, whereupon it knocked gently. Shooting out the light, he shoved the body into a nook where a tiny closet had once been and crept back out. That room had only had a photocopier, a worn medium-brown desk and a half-broken chair. The area was much more dilapidated than the rest of the house. Perhaps that was the fault of the guards.

Checking under a few more doors, it all looked much the same. As he made his way across the home, he found that the quality of the rooms improved, as did their furnishings. It must have been the difference of male-guards to woman-leader. At the end of a twisting hallway, he found a massive room, decorated in red and white. There was a bathroom en suite, but other than that, a bed, a dresser and Victorian vanity, there was nothing. In other words, no computer. Creeping back out of the unlit room, he had the feeling that a study had to be around somewhere. It wouldn't do for someone living here to not have a separate room for a computer. Logic dictated it must be near-by.

There were footsteps coming from down the hall. The door behind him was still open and shuffling back, he closed it softly, keeping himself inside. His optic cable was slipped underneath in a flash so he could see what was going on. Two men rounded a corner and began down the hall. Fisher hoped they would pass him and not try to open the door. That might prove to be a bit awkward and at least a little deadly.

" . . . Got it out? Why?" one asked with a yawn and a stretch, only the last part of his sentence audible to Fisher.

"Man, you need more sleep."

"Helper had me on guard since yesterday morning."

"That's what I'm saying man." The guard, much like the one Sam had dealt with moments beforehand, had blonde hair, and was studying his partner critically. "She's too tough on us."

"You know how protective she is of the Mistress."

Blonde two grunted at this. He was proud of young "Helper", the mistress's underling and, as the name said, helper. She was a great fighter and true to the cause. And she was always one step ahead, although they weren't too sure what she was ahead of. Sometimes though, she could be a bit extreme and push the men a tad hard.

"But why would she take it?" The tired guard, who had brown hair with bright red streaks and heavy eyebrows, raked a hand through his hair. Then he rubbed his doleful eyes and yawned again.

"She seemed to think that it was important enough to take along. Plus, why leave it here when Mistress was going to camp? She'd need it, right?"

"A computer in the middle of nowhere?"

The blonde guard shrugged and gave him a look. "They have electricity out there Jim," he responded with a slightly condescending tone.

"I know, I know . . . hey, where's Theo?"

By this time, Fisher was no longer paying attention. Heading towards the window, hand to his ear, he began to mutter.

"The computer isn't here."

"What." Lambert's voice was clear in his head, and Fisher knew he was not impressed.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam repeated: "The computer. It isn't here."

"Well, where the hell is it?!" Irving Lambert snapped. But before Sam could get a word in, his boss was speaking again. "New mission objective Fisher." He paused for a moment, typing out information at his end. "Find out where the computer is. Details on your OPSAT." And Lambert was gone.

Looking down at his inner arm, Fisher noted his instructions. Anything lethal would result in mission failure. If anyone even suspected he was there, the mission was over and he would be pulled out. Actually, he would have to find his own way out and a new job. Probably a new identity as well. Finally, he could not leave until they knew exactly where the computer had run off. The only information Fisher had was something about a camp.

Staring mournfully at the window he had almost escaped out of, Sam turned back to the door, leading back into the mansion. Now he had to hunt down those two guards, somehow separate them and get at least one of them to talk. Supporting himself on his knee, Fisher stared blankly at the door before him. How could he get them to split up . . . A diversion camera could do the trick. They'd search the halls alone to cover more ground and he could nab one. But if one found the camera, he'd have to knock him out – though as long as the other stayed awake, he was fine. What if he had no choice, though, and had to knock him out too? Well, they couldn't be the only two guards who knew what this camp was, so he'd do it that way. He'd take his semi-weighed chances; that's what his job was about, anyhow.

Opening the door slightly, he loaded a diversion camera and aimed his SC-20K into the darkest area he could find. Firing it, he looked to his arm and studied the view he had. Nothing much. The guards must have wandered further down the hall. Clicking on "whistle" he waited, hoping at least one of the guards would hear and come running. Still nothing. With skill borne of years in the business, Sam slipped out the door and closed it, reached over and flicked off the lamp sitting on a small table. What was it with rich people and lit paintings on the walls, or with lamps on indiscriminate tiny tables throughout hallways? Not bothering to try and figure it out, Sam waited, listened, then made a run for it. You couldn't wait for the right time because that time was too late. You had to make the right time, take your chances and follow your gut. Because that was the only was to survive this business. The more you worried about being shot and being imperfect, the more you were shot and imperfect. Worrying left less time for thinking, and without thinking, you couldn't analyse the situation. Without that, you deserved a bullet.

Scooping up his camera from the corner, he returned it to his gun and shot it down the next hall, into the corner there. Glancing at his arm he could see the guards coming back. He made the camera whistle and he could see the guards tense up and look furtively around. Their weapons were clenched in white-knuckled hands as they tried to find the source of the sound.

"It sounded like it was from around here," Jim said, looking frantically from one hall to another.

"You look down here, I'll cover this area. Whatever it was, or whoever, it can't be far."

Jim nodded resolutely. Fisher almost felt bad for the kid, for it was now that he realised just how young some of these terrorists were. He never really questioned his killing, but seeing this young man made Sam realise that the boy was human too. But it made sense that Jim was young caught up in the glamour of rebellion, not quite understanding just what he was doing. But people choose their sides (an argument Fisher used to have frequently) and he had his job to do, no matter the age of his mark.

He waited in his corner, pressing himself firmly to the wall as to avoid detection until it was too late. Sam realised now he should have guessed the age of this guard by the fact that he had those bright red streaks. Sarah's friends had done things like that. So had some of the brats he had taught in the CIA. Shoving aside any sympathy for this fellow any regret at having to hurt him, he waited until Jim was just past him. Lifting up slightly, pushing away from the wall, he followed the brown and red-haired guard, standing at the last moment. Reaching out, his arm was around the young man's throat, his gun to his head.

"I seem to be lost and need directions," Fisher said in his low cadence.

"Wha-?"

"I talk. You listen." The guard whimpered and the gun cocked, to push the point. "I have a friend that just went to camp. You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you." Much more of a statement, as opposed to a question.

"I-I . . ."

Sam tightened his grip and growled, "Where is it?"

"The-the camp?"

"No, the bathroom." Giving him a squeeze to put a bit more fear into him, he snarled, "Of course the camp."

Jim made a slight choking sound as his trachea started to buckle under the flexing of Sam's muscles. He knew he had no choice and he just hoped that Helper would forgive him his trespass. The Mistress would never know he had betrayed their camp, but Helper would. She always knew. "It's in Montreal . . ." he trailed off.

"Montreal? Canada?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know!" His voice took on a frantic note. "I don't know," he wheezed as his brain started to lose oxygen, "and if you don't let me go, I'll –"

"Scream?" Sam finished, sounding slightly humoured. "Right." With that, he knocked Jim out, carefully guiding his body to the floor. As he was about to raise the body to his shoulders, he heard someone coming down the hall. The little exchange had taken longer than he had thought.

Speaking as quietly as possible, he asked Lambert, "How tight are my lethal force restraints?"

"Air."

That was all Fisher needed to hear to know how limited he was. Quickly loading a sticky-shocker he slid effortlessly into a shadow and waited. The other blonde guard, boots thumping confidently on the carpet, some of the sound absorbed by the thick material, came around the corner, looking haughty. He must have been happy with the fact that he had found nothing, like he had just done a good job of something. Then he saw his comerade's prostrate body. Doing a double-take, his hand went for his utility belt, where his radio hung. But as his fingers brushed the plastic, there was a soft "thunk". He blinked, and was suddenly hit with electricity. He stood there; shaking violently for a few seconds then fell to the floor as a crumpled heap. Slinging the gun onto his back, Sam stood and went to the fallen men. Lifting each of the listless bodies up, one at the time, he lumbered to the red and white bedroom, where he hid them in a dark corner.

Crouching by the window, his hand to his ear, he spoke once more.

"The camp's in Montreal."

"I hope you like poutine."