This is Prompt No. 91-Strangers

Mitchie left the base the next morning after hugging her family tightly and sharing a tearful goodbye with her daughter. When it was Caitlyn's turn for a hug, Mitchie pulled her friend close and whispered in her ear, "If something happens to me-"

"Nothing will happen to you," Caitlyn hissed, giving Mitchie a slight shake. "Nothing."

Mitchie shook her head stubbornly. "Just promise me that if something does, you'll make sure that Shania remembers who I am."

Caitlyn nodded solemnly, her own stubbornness showing through as she replied, "She won't need me to remind her. You'll be here for a long time to come." However, Mitchie's look became so pleading that she nodded hesitantly and said, "No matter what, she won't ever forget you. If you aren't here to make that perfectly clear, then Nate and I will take care of it for you."

"Thank you," Mitchie said sincerely.

She gave Caitlyn one last look and then moved to stand in front of the general. "You remember your story, correct?" he asked.

Mitchie nodded, unconsciously fingering her short hair out of nervousness. "Yes," she said.

"Good," the general said with a nod. He looked Mitchie up and down, examining her outfit and making sure that every piece of the ensemble was in place. "You look the part."

Mitchie looked over at Brown, who was trying not to cry at her departure. "It's all thanks to Brown," she said, directing the credit his way.

The general nodded in acknowledgement and then said, "You'd better go now," he said. You'll want to arrive before dark."

Mitchie nodded. "Very well," she said. She turned and looked back at her family and saw Shania perched on Caitlyn's hip, clinging to her possessively. The sight, the idea that her daughter would not remember her if she didn't come back, nearly broke Mitchie's heart. Only a few minutes had passed, and her baby had already adjusted to another woman's arms.

She bit her lip and lunged forward, hugging first Shania and then Caitlyn once again before she turned her back on them and left the base, not looking back even once. She made her way up through the cupboard of the old house and stood shakily when she reached the top. Her knees threatened to give out as she once again remembered the scene she had just left.

"Stop!" she ordered herself. "You can't think that way."

With that order in mind, Mitchie squared her shoulders and stepped toward the door, pushing it open and walking out into the open. She found an agent from another division of the UUS seated on a horse, waiting for her. He tipped his hat and offered his hand so that she could mount the horse. "Ready?" he asked as she gripped the sides of his shirt.

"Yes," she said.

With a spur, the horse shot forward. Mitchie's grip on the agent's shirt tightened as gravity pulled her backwards. She was soon able to settle into the gentle rhythm of the horse's gait and her mind wandered as she headed closer and closer to her old home. Could she really do what was being expected of her? Could she simply walk into her old world and pretend that the last segment of her life had never happened?

Mitchie snorted. "Unlikely," she said aloud.

"What?" the agent in front of her asked, turning slightly in the saddle.

Mitchie blushed, realizing that she had spoken out loud. "Nothing," she shouted to be heard over the whistle of the wind in her ears. "Just talking to myself."

Nothing more was said for the rest of the ride, and soon, Mitchie began to recognize landmarks. Places became clear once more, and she began counting down the miles before they reached the plantation. Just outside the first town, the agent pulled the horse up sharply. "Whoa!" he called. He offered Mitchie a hand again and explained, "This is as far as I'm ordered to take you."

Mitchie nodded and took the hand offered so that she could swing down from the saddle. "Thank you," she told the agent.

He tipped his hat to her and whirled his horse around. "Good luck," he said as he rode away, kicking up dust as he went.

Normally, a woman would step back from such a dust cloud, fearful that it would ruin either her hair or her dress, but Mitchie stayed where she was. Any dust she could get on her would further her story in a useful way. For a moment, she eyed the dust on the road, thinking about picking it up and sprinkling it on, but then shook her head and turned away. She wasn't that desperate.

She began walking, coming upon the first town after an hour. As she walked down the main street, Mitchie tried to ignore the stares and whispers that were directed her way. She tried to ignore the overwhelming feeling of having to look down at the road while she walked. Most of all, she tried to ignore the pitying glances of the Virginian women who eyed her up and down and whispered.

Mitchie gritted her teeth. She knew that she looked terrible. Her hair had been styled to look as though a proper comb hadn't been run through it in ages, her clothes were dirty and faded, her apron had traces of blood on it, and her shoes looked like they were about to fall off. She had a collage of colors around her eye and temple, creating a deep, ugly bruise, and her fingernails were dirty and chewed. All in all, she looked no better than a prison of war, which was exactly her goal.

She walked for three more hours, making her way as slowly, and as tiredly, as she could, kicking up dust whenever possible and coating her already dusty shoes and the hem of her skirt. "Whoever invented skirts should be shot," she muttered under her breath as she walked, feeling the heat beating down on the many layers she wore and creating a trickle of sweat that ran down her spine.

Finally, she reached the area of her parents' plantation and paused to take a breath and steady herself. She could do this. She slumped down a little further and began walking towards the gate of the plantation. She slipped inside, glad that there was no one, not even the family slaves, in sight. She needed time to think about her approach.

She had made it all the way down the long drive and up to the plantation steps and still could not think of anything. "Play with it," Mitchie muttered, repeating the advice Jason had given her before she had left. She raised her hand and gave an open-palmed knock, trying to make it sound week and pleading.

There was a scuffle and a loud banging inside, and then a shrill, "Oh, never mind!" that Mitchie knew could only come from her mother. The door opened and Mrs. Torres herself stood behind it. When she saw Mitchie, battered, bruised, and looking feverish, she screamed slightly and then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and unbelieving. "Mitchelle," she whispered.

"Mother," Mitchie whispered weakly, and then her eyes rolled back and she slumped against the door, crashing to the ground because her mother didn't try to catch her. Training kept her from wincing as she made contact with the wood, but her eyes rolled sarcastically behind her eyelids on their own. Some things would never change. Mrs. Torres was probably worried that some of the dirt would spatter onto her clothes.

As if to solidify her assumption, Mrs. Torres called out, "You, girl, find my husband in his study. He'll have to come get her. I can't get my dress dirty."

The next thing Mitchie knew, she was being carried upstairs by a pair of arms that held her carefully, possessively, and she knew without a doubt that it was her father. She was placed gently on a bed and was left alone with a maid assigned to check on her periodically. Mentally, she began counting the minutes. She would lie in bed for an hour and then wait until the maid came to check on her again before she "awoke."

Counting kept her occupied, but not interested, and she was pleased when she reached one hour. Now, all she had to do was to wait for the maid to open the door.

The maid arrived soon after and Mitchie "awoke" at the sound. The maid scurried down the hall to get Mitchie's parents, who arrived soon after, coming in through the door quietly so as not to scare her with their suddenness. "Mitchie?" her father asked as he stepped closer to the bed. "Honey?"

Mitchie turned her head to focus on them and she almost gasped. She had expected her memories of them to be rather fuzzy, perhaps slightly distorted, but nothing compared to the way she saw them now. Gone were the parental figures that Mitchie had expected. She felt no connection with these two adults that stood in front of her. It was as though they were strangers and not family, and that realization somehow made it easier for Mitchie to go through with her plans, for they were not family, they were just another case.

And so began her mission.

A/N: Hope you liked it! Please review! It makes my day! :D