Author's Note: Wow, the response to this story in less than 24 hours is actually mind boggling. I seriously just wrote 300 words and you guys seem to want more. I can't be any more flattered and thankful for your encouragement. I would like to point out that this story will be based on Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, therefore a lot of the dialogue is very, very similar. If you haven't seen it yet and wouldn't like to be spoiled, then sadly, you shouldn't read on. However, I am changing a lot of factors about the plot and will have a different ending than the movie. With that being said, I really hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Pitch Perfect and don't own Mission Impossible.
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, ENGLAND : 2 months later
At 26, you'd think he'd have his life figured out- probably engaged to be married, about to put money down for a house, a mini van in the driveway- but, no. At 26, Agent Jesse Swanson does not have a home- in fact, he's got dozens. His job requires him to travel so his home would be apartments that the company would set up for him. As for the engaged-to-be-married part, the job is quite demanding, meaning there is no time for a personal life whatsoever. The only stable thing to his job was his Aston Martin One-77. That car was his prized possession- his baby. It was his gift for his fifth year on the job. Parking his baby across the street from the local record shop, Jesse felt good about tonight. He was stationed in England for the next three weeks and he was seriously bummed he couldn't stay permanently. It's lovely in England. All the people, all the food, all the sceneries. He'd love to give his One-77 a home, in fact, it looked like it belonged there. Back in the States, he'd get the usual whistles and disapproving looks from the locals. Probably wondering what on earth he could be doing for a living to get a car like that. Luckily, in London, his car seems to fit in more, giving him the low profile attention that he needed. The record shop was small, hiding away in an alley, but still out in the open enough that it didn't look too shady of a place. Ready to find out his next mission, Jesse walked in, the door ringing a bell as it swung open.
"We're about to close," the old lady tells him as she shuts off a few of the lights.
"I won't be long," he gives her a smile. He walks down a few aisles and skims through the dozens of records.
"You looking for anything in particular, dear?" The old woman asked, in her shaky yet sharp British accent.
"Something… rare," He tells her. At the sound of the word, the old lady gives him a nod as she turns to the desk at the very back of the shop.
"Let me guess, classical?"
"Jazz."
"Well, you're in luck," She says and hands him a record with no title, no cover photo. Just plain white. Jesse accepts it and makes his way to the glass room with a record player.
"It really is you," the old lady calls out, stopping Jesse in his track and turns to her, "I've heard stories. But seeing as handsome and young as you are, they can't all be true." She looks Jesse up and down. Jesse answers her with a smile before making his way into the little glass booth and starts to play the record.
A brief buffer sound plays as the turntable scans his hand, and the static computerized voice starts.
"Good evening, Mr. Swanson. The weapons you had collected in Prague were confirmed that they were to be used to devastate major cities. The bodies you had left were identified as low level Swedish men with neither the access or ability to deploy the weapons they were transporting. This confirms of a shadow organization that the FO Organization had been tracking for several years. The logo found on the weapons had been analyzed and indexed. This particular logo has only been associated with the shadow organization only known as The Synleague. Speculation of the organization's existence had been a dispute between major government groups for the last ten years. Just recently, their existence had been confirmed by the FO Organization. Normally, you, Mr. Swanson, and your team would be tasked with infiltrating and disrupting this terrorist network,"
Jesse's brows furrowed. Normally? "But we have taken steps to ensure that this will not happen.. because we are The Synleague, Mr. Swanson. And now we know who you are." Jesse leaned forward to look closely at the turntable's screen. This is a set up. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to face your fate. Pursue us, and you will be caught. Resist us and you will be killed. Your precious secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. Good luck, Mr. Swanson. This message will self disrupt in five seconds."
At the end of the message, Jesse hears a faint click of the door lock and he sees a white steaming smoke flow out of the vent. He turns around to look out the glass window and there she was, the old lady standing as tall as she could with a glock pushing into the side of her head.
"No no no," Jesse murmurs. He starts to push on the door, trying to punch his way through the glass. It wasn't working. All of Jesse's strength was not enough to break through as the white opaque gas starts to run him down. The man standing next to the old lady was dressed in all black, his entire body being covered. The only visible parts were his eyes. Jesse struggled to keep banging the glass window. As the man pulled the trigger and the old woman's body lay lifeless on the ground, Jesse looked at the man straight in the eye. He was old, he can tell. He was either really good at hiding his emotions, or he had none at all. Jesse kept banging on the glass as the mysterious man looked at the young agent, struggling to breathe, struggling to escape. He lingered more than he should have, then slowly turned away, setting the gun on the desk. Jesse couldn't hold his breath any longer, the gas coursed through his body, weakening his muscles. He pounded the glass one last time before he slipped away into oblivion.
WASHINGTON, D.C. : 24 hours later
"Mr. Chairman, the FO's misadventures date back to my earliest days in the CIA when the FO broke into the CIA database to steal a list of covert operatives. The reason still unknown. The recent events of bombing important locations and the disappearance of several known men around the globe add to the fact, Mr. Chairman, the so called Frontline Operative Organization is not just a rogue organization, it is an outdated one, " Mr. Allen, CIA Chief has always despised the FO. The FO agents like to think that it's because he had failed to be recruited into the FO Organization back in his early days and had to settle for the CIA. "-outdated organization, a throwback to an era without transparency and without oversight,"
"Mr. Chairman-" Agent Donald Faison of the FO tried to interrupt but poor Mr. Allen was still drilling the FO down into the sewers in front of the Senate oversight committee.
"It is time to dissolve the FO-"
"Mr. Chairman-"
"and transfer the salvageable assets to the CIA." At the end of his argument, Agent Faison stands up.
"Mr. Chairman, the FO has operated without oversight for 40 years-"
"Yes" At Mr. Allen's interruption, Donald raises his voice to top his,
"Are its methods unorthodox? Yes. Are its results less than perfect? Absolutely. But without the FO-
"-there will be order and stability!" At Mr. Allen's interruption once again, Donald is frustrated and yells,
"Without the FO-" he is interrupted once more by the pounding of the gravel. The two men, clad in very classy, very expensive suits, sit down and gather order in their behavior.
"This panel recognizes the FO's contribution to global security, but the events laid out by CIA Chief Allen, also show a pattern of irresponsibility and total disregard for protocol," Chairman Abernathy looks at Agent Faison, who has shifted in discomfort, "From where I sit, your unorthodox methods are indistinguishable from chance. And your results, perfect or not, looked suspiciously like luck."
He can't believe this. Not only does Donald feel outnumbered and unheard, he is about to be forced to work alongside Chief Bumper Allen. Oh, his bad. Chief Stewart Allen. Donald may have only been in the business for ten years but he knows enough about Stewart Allen to know that he has never been anything nice to the FO Organization. Their previous Director, John Smith, had been college buddies with Mr. Allen and had denied his old friend acceptance into the organization. Now, under the temporary circumstance of the FO looking for a new Director, it has been embedded in Mr. Allen's mind to take down the FO at their weakest and have the CIA take what's theirs. Mostly because Bumper Allen, (only referenced by Director John Smith but his fellow agents have taken a liking to the nickname for the Chief) wants the FO answering to him.
"I'm afraid today is the day the FO's luck runs out." Donald lets go of a sigh of defeat, not knowing what to tell his fellow agents.
Author's Note: Who's ready for Beca Mitchell? ;)