Splinter Cell: Inside

Disclaimer – Scary bald incarcerated Sam in the upcoming game disturbs me. As does his new angst. But I do not own him.

AN – Again, to the old faithful, no real changes other than corrections due to Chaos Theory (which, surprisingly, contained a lot of Grim background information).

My name is Anna Cassidy Grìmsdottìer. Sometimes Ann, sometimes Grim, sometimes "Grimmy", but if Brunton calls me that again I'm punching out his teeth. I've worked with Third Echelon ever since its inception, attracting the attention of Colonel Irving Lambert after he had discovered that I had an innate knack for finding out almost anything about anyone via a good internet connection and a few hundred dollars payment. Now I get both on a regular basis, as well as one of the highest security clearances a civvie can get. It's worth it just for the looks a major gives you when he sees you have higher clearance than he does.

I don't really have much of an interesting life: I was born, I went to school, then college, then dropped out and ended up desperate for a job. Found the Navy, worked for the Navy, and then transferred to the most top secret agency this side of the NSA: Second Echelon. I fought back and forth with the guys there about the operations (they believed that everything could get done with satellites imagery and radio/e-mail interception with filtering alone. They are idiots), then Lambert came with a new deal—Third Echelon (the government is big on making sure things are named like this. It makes sure no one has to think too hard). Then I found out that my emphasis on the "human element"—which at the time simply meant making sure the damn computer isn't screwing up by having someone monitor it—meant that we were getting a field operative. Then I saved America a few times. Well, I indirectly saved America. I didn't actually do anything other than sit on my butt and type to Sam and sometimes hack into power grids and cause strategically placed blackouts. But I suppose that can make all the difference.

Third Echelon's research team, led by me, is based deep within the NSA building. We scour the world for potential incidents, and if we find something, we label it, check with other agencies and, if necessary, call Sam into work. The process usually results in a "dead" day—everybody ends up playing Solitaire until their shift is over. Or it results in a "holy shit" day—there are five zillion crises or one really big one that would make a five star general wet his pants, and one lucky individual (alwaysme)gets to call Sam and Lambert at two in the morning. The Georgian information crisis (after the blackout) and the Indonesian incident (when we found out about the smallpox. God. That was scary) were two of a few "holy shit" days. The last result is a warning day; someone logs a possible potential incident and we actually talk about it with the jerks at the CIA before we take any action. "Holy shit" days usually blossom from warning days, a fact everyone I work with is painfully aware of.

My personal schedule works out something like this: five AM, I enter the building. I say a gruff "hi" to everyone currently not sleeping, and then drink roughly a gallon of coffee.

Still groggy, I sit down at my station before Brunton bounds in like a happy puppy. I proceed to attempt to pay attention to whatever Brunton is trying to tell me about the CIA or whom is currently dating whom or the winner of Third Echelon's current pool on Lambert's favorite color. I usually fail to stay alert and end up nodding my head until he shuts up. Brunton then leaps merrily away to go find someone else to pester—there is much rejoicing—and I sit on the computer for two hours looking for national security threats. Coen sometimes comes in to say hello if she's been around town for maintenance checks on the Osprey or the various vans she uses. Lambert comes in at eight, greets everyone, and sits in his office down the hall. I hate him for quite a few moments for sleeping longer than I do, and then continue to monitor Earth for any problems. I take my several one-hour breaks whenever I feel like eating. At two PM I check over everything with everyone who's working at the time, assign a new leader of the team, tell Lambert my shift is over and then leave. I go home, watch a little television (usually football or the news), and then sleep. Change entrance time to five PM and leave time to two AM when I switch to my night shift. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Of course, sometimes it can quickly turn into a "haven't slept, eaten, or bathed in forty-eight hours, and everyone in America is about to die" sort of schedule. During that schedule, I receive a few healthy bonuses for my hard work that I can spend if the American dollar continues to exist. I also I get to watch Sam sleep while I desperately try to prep a file when I can barely see the keys through my blurry, sleepless eyes. I watch this rare spectacle on the Osprey via his onboards, where I get to scream in his ear through the cochlear implant if any hostiles approach his location. And sometimes I end up getting so stressed I throw up. Fun.

Very, very rarely, usually as rewards for the previously mention scenario, I receive a day off. Days off are spent sleeping 'til noon, shopping with Coen or a friend I haven't been able to talk to in years, and eating out and seeing a movie. My own little version of paradise.

This, sadly, was not a day off.

It was three twenty-eight, AM, eastern standard time. There were six people working tonight's shift, a relatively large number. I was trying to play a solitaire game and pay attention to world events at the same times, before Keller hesitantly tapped me on the shoulder and met my bemused expression with worried eyes.

"I think I have something," he told me. The others in the back became suddenly and completely alert.

"Show me."

He did. I scanned the printed page hurriedly. The President's future trip to Brazil….and worrisome but detail-lacking chatter from a South American guerilla group.

I sighed. "Do we have a location?"

Keller nodded. "We traced it to somewhere near Huánuco. The CIA should have more info."

"Great." Now I also needed to call Brunton. "Everybody, start digging."

And they did. I triple encrypted the line and picked up the phone. I dialed Lambert's secure line. His wife picked it up and was remarkably civil for this time of night.

"Hi Mrs. Lambert, sorry to wake you. Can I talk to your husband?"

The transition was quick. I imagine Lambert snatched the phone away so fast it left marks.

"Grim?"

"We have a possible situation." I flipped through Keller's find. "A guerilla group, Camino de la Verdad, some chatter that makes definite reference to Bowers and his trip."

"Any specifics?"

"Of course not. Am I getting Fisher?"

"Wake him up. I'll be there soon."

I called Coen's line. Some other woman who wasn't Coen picked up the phone.

"Hello?" Her voice was hoarse.

"Hi. I need to speak with Frances Coen, please. Immediately."

Then there was some rustling and Lex spoke into the receiver.

"Anna?"

"We have work," I told her. "You, me, and Fisher get to go Huánuco, Peru ASAP."

She murmured something to the other woman that I didn't quite catch, and then she informed me she'd be ready.

Brunton didn't pick up until the phone rang seven times. He apologized, nearly spontaneously combusted on the damn phone, and hung up without so much as a goodbye. Crazy kid…

Then I had dial a passcode and the number of Third Echelon's top operative. Sam was buried under more security than anyone else. Part of the reason for that was because he would be the easiest to identify, either by picture, voice, or fingerprint.

The phone didn't even finish ringing once.

"Lambert?"

"Grim. You have work today, Sam."