A/N: My first venture into the Carmen Sandiego fandom, and also the very first ship-fic for my favourite rare-pair, Shadowsan and Carlotta (aka. Sulotta)! Now I know what you're thinking – they've literally never met – but bear with me. Lack of screentime aside, these two were made for each other, and I intend to show you why. ;)

First things first though, let's see how the Faculty's holding up. Happy reading and enjoy!

Chapter 1 ~ Annakpok

Never had she felt such confliction regarding a place of residence – forced or otherwise.

It came as little surprise to Countess Cleo that her being jailed with her fellow female Faculty members (plus Tigress) would be short-lived. No sensible organisation would keep convicted colleagues within working proximity, especially not colleagues who specialised in criminal activity. She had known from the minute she donned those silver bracelets that their time together would be fleeting, that they'd soon be shipped off to various corners of the globe where they couldn't readily converse with one another. It also made sense that they'd be sent to locations that countered their strengths; sending Coach Brunt to a developing country would be as pointless as sending Dr Bellum to the tech capital of the world. As officials escorted her onto an ACME aircraft, she knew she wasn't destined for Egypt or anywhere remotely desirable, but that hadn't prepared her for where she ultimately landed: the Arctic Archipelago. It truly felt to Cleo as though the traitors themselves had selected the region she would loathe the most, then ACME had scoured its 36,563 islands to find the most secure prison there. She hated it. Right from the first moment, she had despised everything about it… until she didn't. That was what gave her pause.

She had been detained at the Aaqqigiarvik Correctional Healing Facility, located in Nunavut's capital in the north-east corner of Canada. That meant cold – ice-capped mountains cold! The damp, dingy climate of the Scottish Highlands had been bearable (to a point), but Canada felt like a fresh slap in the face, a few degrees south of freezing to death. Then there was the prison itself. The name alone was insulting; the locals told her aaqqigiarvik was an Inuit word meaning 'a place for help to make progress in life', as if she was being held captive in some sort of hippy spiritual retreat. And it didn't stop there either – the board behind the prison's construction had insisted upon using Inuktitut words for everything, from the kitchen to the facility's holding levels. The only thing worse than being in maximum security was being in pigiarvik – the "starting place". Besides that, it confused her greatly. She did not deign to accept it, but nobody could know everything, and she had a notable lack of knowledge in… whatever they were called these days, because apparently Eskimos was now considered "offensive".

For those first few months, she had dug in her heels, hearing none of the staffs' regular speeches about striving for "a healthier life without crime". But in time, the establishment grew on her like thick vines of poison ivy, creating the gnawing itch of begrudging indifference. Stationed so far north, there was an almost nightly display of the aurora borealis, painting the sky in the most luxurious shades of green, gold and violet. There was access to culture and country cuisine, local Elders themselves signing off on tribute designs. And true to its message of self-betterment, the venue felt less like a prison and more like a campus, complete with separate living units, a gymnasium, a nursing station and all the furnished trappings a woman could want. It made her nostalgic for the glory days of VILE – before ACME, Carmen Sandiego or even Shadowsan, when the capers were grand, and they were rolling in riches on their island paradise – and yet that almost made her hate it more.

The general consensus among the other inhabitants of her perplexing abode (she refused to call them 'inmates') was that they'd "lucked out". A handful of the more longaevous residents had come to ACHF from the old Baffin Correctional Centre, infamed for its cramped environment and appalling resources. Of the prisoners who had been transferred, many of them had made considerable improvements, at least refraining from causing any more riots and at best working towards release. A greater sense of manners, Cleo could respect. If only it didn't come with a nauseating amount of euphoria…

Maybe that was the reason for her placement there. Perhaps ACME had deemed her the most viable candidate for redemption? It made sense, really, however she rued to admit it. There were really only two ways to acquire Faculty accreditation: impress the current clique of the upper echelons in some way or achieve something truly evil. She had been the first kind, staging a spectacularly fabulous caper in which she sought revenge against her former modelling agents. Brunt and Maelstrom had been the latter whereas Bellum was a combination of the two – inventing the technology to reprogram minds by force. Those initial feats had largely guided their later capers, so she supposed she did come across in a somewhat better light. Still, that didn't mean she was about to lose her so-called "entitlement"; she was once a model, an heiress even, so naturally she deserved a lavish lifestyle.

Click. Cleo remained by the window, watching as the reflection of her door opened. A small, native woman (maybe a fraction shorter than Tigress) entered the room, her choppy black hair thrown into two messy braids. As far as "roommates" go, she was passable; her face was young and fresh despite the wear in her skin, and friendly in a way that Cleo despised. Try as she might not to – and only because she was an expert in forgery – Cleo noticed a subtle glint in her dark eyes, a newfound genuineness in her seemingly permanent smile.

"Unukut, Cleo. Qanuipit?"

"Oh, do speak English, Mishka."

"Sorry, force of habit." Mishka dropped herself onto her bed, the overly plush mattress swallowing her like a child. "How was your day?"

"Peachy."

"One might say, alianait?"

Cleo narrowed her eyes. "No, one might not."

"Come on, you should at least try to learn the language. The way you're going, you'll be in here for a long time."

She almost laughed. Granted, the wider staff had been largely vague with the others about exactly why she was in prison, but she herself took part in the rumour mill. If it was a crime, she was said to have partaken in it.

"Why are you so chipper, anyway? What have you heard?"

"I… didn't think you'd care."

"I'm in jail. I have to get my gossip somewhere."

Mishka's face softened, her voice almost timid as she replied, "I could be moving to makigiarvik soon."

"Oh." Medium security, 'in progress to move forward'. Mishka arrived some six months ago, ending Cleo's year-and-a-half of having a dorm room to herself. She had initially been suspicious of the arrangement – was this yet another ploy to wear down her resolve? – but chalked it up to the nature of Aaqqigiarvik's program, until one stormy night when she woke to broken screams. This teddy bear of a child was in for murder and threatening police, a long-suffering victim of a man whose domestic priors taught him to cover his tracks. Though she made her swear to never speaking of it again, Cleo had held her through the long, dark night, supporting her tired frame as wave after wave battered her soul. "Um… When did this happen?"

"My therapy session today." She planted herself upright, but her voice wavered and eventually cracked, "It's crazy… My whole life, I survived by just being the pretty one, you know? Keeping my mouth shut. Even after he was dead, I still felt like I had no power to fall back on. Being here, away from it all… it's like I'm hearing my own voice for the first time."

For a moment, no more was said, the two women sharing looks of pride and valour.

"You're a force to be reckoned with, my dear."

Mishka wiped a tear away, an airy chuckle bubbling in her throat. "Hey now. If you're not careful, I might think there's a heart under there."

Cleo's pillow hit the girl square in the face, only resulting in further laughter. Her arms crossed firmly over her chest, she watched as Mishka set the pillow on her lap, her nimble fingers plucking and smoothing it back into shape.

"I'm going to miss you. And however much you deny it, I know you'll miss me."

Again, she said nothing. To reply – even in denial – would be to grant her satisfaction.

A low siren rang over the PA system, rousing a chorus of opening doors.

"Dinnertime." Mishka stood up, neatly placing the pillow back on Cleo's bed. "Come on, I heard a new chef's starting today."

Cleo muttered under her breath, refusing to acknowledge her roommate opening the door for her.

"Alianait…"

"I heard that!"

The dining room – for lack of a better (English) word – was already full by the time they got there. People crowded around the intimate tables, talking amongst themselves like some loud, extended family. They'd tried many times to bring her into the fold, always in vain. To this day, only Mishka had managed to dine with her; through persistence or toleration, no one quite knew.

A shadowy figured passed their table, setting two steaming bowls in front of them before disappearing into the crowd. He probably didn't dare wait around to see her reaction. A sensible move on his part, considering the eyesore he'd presented her with.

Cleo gagged. "What is this?"

If ever a dish looked like peasant food, this was it. An island of some unidentified meat, mixed with onion, potato and who knows what else, floating in a brown pool of water and sporadic seasoning.

"It's Suaasat." Mishka held a spoonful to her nose. "Caribou by the smell of it."

"If you think that I would put this slop in my mouth, you are sorrily mistaken."

"You said the same thing about Akutaq and now that's your favourite dessert."

"That was a creamy delicacy of dried fish and fruit. This is…" Cleo shuddered, "soup."

Mishka shook her head. "You never know. And aren't you too proud to reject food?"

The little— Cleo shoved the bowl away, the putrid liquid daring to splash her delicate skin. In her haste, she almost didn't notice the thin slither of paper that fluttered from her napkin, landing upright in front of her.

Do not react. Eat the food. We'll handle the rest.

She cast a sweeping gaze across the room. The servers had all retreated back to the kitchen, leaving only herself, the prisoners and a modest handful of guards. She certainly didn't recognise anyone, even making allowances for two years of physical changes. She crushed the note in her hand, discreetly tucking it into her shoe as she further examined the bowl in question. She vaguely remembered being served this dish a time or two before, though her response had always been to turn up her nose until someone took it away, stealing quick glances as if it would suddenly turn into caviar. This attempt looked no different, so she gingerly pulled it back with her spoon. She remained poised and composed as she gathered a single mouthful of meat and potato, but the façade shattered the second the foul taste slid down her throat.

"Ugh! That's ghastly! Why on Earth would you consume this monstrosity?"

"Maybe yours is a little underseasoned? Here, try some of mine."

"No, thank you. I'd rather die than so much as—"

The nausea rolled in like an avalanche, silent and deadly as it buried her. Her vision clouded as it split and wobbled, the space around her muffling into saturated light.

"Are you okay?"

No… Pride be damned in that moment; Mishka was safe, after all. Her lips trembled as she tried desperately to form the word, her whole body caving in from the effort.

"Cleo!" Mishka sprang forward, catching her before she hit the vinyl floor. "Ikajunga!"

One by one, her senses ebbed away, until all that remained was the distorted echo of Mishka's already unintelligible language. Her last ember of strength fizzed out as a small, grateful smile – not that she appreciated her or anything. Definitely not…

Cleo couldn't exactly say which of her senses returned first. All she knew as she woke was that she was moving, or perhaps floating. She was lying flat on her back but the surface beneath her rocked and swayed, not unlike a boat at sea. The ringing in her ears cleared, replaced by the whirring of propellors, and a slender, sharp-chinned figure loomed over her in complete silence.

"Vlad?"

The man nodded, removing a wet rag from her forehead. "You recognised me. That's a good sign."

Cleo blinked a few times, finally getting a good look at his face. "Oh, I thought you were the other one."

Vlad briefly looked to the pilot – Boris – then turned back to Cleo, taking an old VILE phone out of his pocket. "Try to remain still, Countess. The antidote is still taking affect."

"Antidote?" The sickening taste lingered in her mouth. "Did you fools poison me?!"

"My apologies for the theatrics, Cleo."

Vlad handed her the phone, lifting her head to prop pillows behind her back. The man on the screen hadn't changed a bit, his pale face every bit as greasy as she remembered.

"Gunnar. I should have known this was your doing. You could have killed me."

"Nonsense, my fair lady. Lady Dokuso provided thorough instructions on how to safely administer the toxin."

"She's out?"

The man waved a disinterested hand. "In hiding somewhere. I had no other use for her."

"And the others?"

"Dr Bellum left Africa yesterday morning. She's in Germany now, assisting in Coach Brunt's rescue as we speak."

He really hadn't changed; he was dressed in his usual blazer and turtleneck, his very hair – unlike her own – the exact length it had been two years ago. Surely, he couldn't have been out long? It stood to reason that his escape would have garnered more strict supervision, rendering the rest of their jailbreaks next to impossible, but this guise of him seemed ageless, ghostly even. Another of his mind games, it seemed.

"You do work fast… How did you even—"

"Solitary confinement provides an unparalleled habitat for a genius, such as myself, to engage in immersed contemplation. I only needed but a few small messages from the outside to fully conspire—"

"Oh, zip it. I only wanted to know how you got me out of Frost Knox."

His expression soured instantly. "The Cleaners intercepted the ferry transfer to the Mainland while you were still unconscious."

An additional box popped up on the screen, loading for a moment before revealing two dishevelled faces.

Cleo smiled. "Saira, Coach. Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes…"

"It is those guards who will be feeling sore, Cleo," Bellum quipped, adjusting a tacky pair of glasses. No doubt a 'gift' from the authorities…

Brunt didn't look much better, sporting a few new scars. "Impressive plan, Maelstrom."

"How kind of you to notice, Coach Brunt." Maelstrom feigned a bow. "Should I be worried you've gone soft?"

"Never. Doc's already told me about the Sandiego sightings, and if she weren't dead to me before, she sure is now."

Maelstrom drummed his fingertips together, a sadistic smile creeping across his face. "Revenge is a dish best served vile, is it not? Let us first concern ourselves with restoring our empire."

"And how do you propose we do that, Professor?" Bellum removed her glasses, trying miserably to clean the lenses on her sleeve. "I may have managed to secure a few of my inventions before our arrest, but not nearly enough to stage any profitable capers."

Cleo attempted a nod. "Not to mention the authorities will be anticipating said capers."

"Rest, my criminally underdressed countess. You have done quite enough already."

She could think of a thousand different ways to insult him for such a slur, but said thought required strength she did not currently possess. As he continued to speak, Brunt's and Bellum's own smiles grew, clearly piecing together Maelstrom's plan. How they knew was beyond her, and frankly, she was too weak to care. So instead, she merely listened, focusing her efforts on following his pompous string of syllables.

"Your temper and jealously have fortunately provided us a suitable down payment. One not even ACME will think to look for. And should Carmen Sandiego somehow intervene, she will be faced with a most unpleasant revelation."

A/N: Gotta admit, I did not expect Cleo to be this fun to write. XD

Fun fact: The chapter title – annakpok – actually means "not caught". Not a perfect fit, but the Inuit language doesn't have a word for freedom, so I used the word closest to it. I did my best to correctly represent Inuktitut culture, but it was a challenge considering I was writing from the perspective of someone who not only would have no knowledge of the culture, but who also wouldn't care enough to refrain from potential racial slurs. All I can say is that I apologise on Cleo's behalf for any discomfort or offense she incites.

Next chapter is where things really pick up, so be sure to follow and review if you enjoyed this prologue. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts! :)

Translations:

Unukut. Qanuipit? = Good evening. How are you?
alianait = wonderful
Ikajunga! = Help!