Okay, basic guildlines and forewarnings to this story:
1) I've never seen MI2, nor do I want to. So, if i repeat something, bear with me. And best of all? NO NYAH!
2) Each chapter is inspired by a song, and I'll dediacte the next chapter who dares get deep enough into my head and say what the song is.
3) This fic is mainly to blow of Tom Cruise steam, so don't really expect an end, or a second chapter. (unless I get reviews!)
4) Alexandria Scott is sorta a modern version of Ashain Valcon, and kudos to anyone who knows what I'm talking about!
Vengeance, not always so sweet
There wasn't a thing in the world to set her apart form anyone else on the street, except for very nice motorcycle she was riding. Slender eyes, slender mouth, slender nose, just plain slender. She didn't stand very tall, and had always been anorexically thin due to her… profession. And, let's face it, in her profession it paid to be non-descript. So, dwarfed by her bike and blending in with the night, she rode towards the compound.
The trailer she had hitched behind the bike advertised her a security system maintenance worker. A flash of a pass at a guard tower, a foxy grin to wandering eyes, and she was in past the armored wall. She nonchalantly shrugged off her black leather riding jacket and shoved it into the trailer, not before she had removed a tool belt from the trailer. Whistling her way up the steps, she calmly asked the guard to show her to the main computer room, she had some work to do on the mainframe set-up. Now, we all know that security guards are like pit-bulls; big, mean, and stupid. All together not a good combination, but seeing no immediate harm in the woman, he led her to the desired room, left her the keys, and told her to lock up afterwards.
Now, remember that tool belt? Well, the only tool on it she used was a jump drive, or for you not-so-computer-savvy folks, a mini memory chip. And within minutes, thousands of government secrets were safely loaded on that jump drive. Or maybe not so safely. You see, there was no maintenance needed or scheduled for that night, and the very nice computer security program managed to remember that while a very nasty virus was eating it away.
Now, in case you're just a little slow today, I'll clue you in. That woman wasn't a maintenance worker. Nope, she was a mercenary, currently stealing Cuban government secrets.
Security guards rushed into the room, met with a steady rain of gunfire. None of them were killed, but the assault had been positioned from just behind their entrance, forcing them further into the room. With a deft kick and a naughty word, our mercenary had locked them in the computer room, inadvertently cuing the security systems her captives set off several seconds later.
More guards assaulted the mercenary, but this time the element of surprise was not hers. A shoot-out followed, and was quickly ended with a spatter of blood and a very convincing scream. The mercenary collapsed, and after a prod to her ribs, the security guards were satisfied that she had died. Turning to the fellow they thought had delivered the final shot, they didn't notice the wily mercenary get up, calmly stalk away, and roll a canister of knockout gas their direction until it was too late.
But her troubles weren't over. A newly instituted laser grid had popped up in the entry hall. With several muttered curses at the architect of the building, she removed the tool belt and tucked her gun and jump drive into one of the many pockets on her cargo-pants. And she was off. Twisting, turning, flipping, spinning, she danced her way through the laser grip, softly humming "Get The Part Started" by Pink. With a final head-spin and a flourish of a flip, she was back on the bike, the only evidences of her presence manifested as a burned-out computer, several unconscious guards, a discarded tool belt, and a trailer. Somewhere in the building someone happened across one of the aforementioned objects and raised the alarm – again.
The guards on the gate were ordered to lower the blast door they had at the front entrance, and slowly it began to descend. Lower and lower, until the mercenary had to give a quick yank to her bike and slide on her side. Still clinging to the bike, she got a rather nasty gravel burn, but no other damage occurred. With a final curse at the befuddled Cubans, she hopped a plane for the States and laughed the whole way back.
"Ah, Spain," Luther sighed as he checked his e-mail. He wasn't expecting anything in particular, but he did get one letter labeled "For the eyes of Ethan Hunt only." Of course Luther was curious, but he knew enough about these things to know that he'd get in some unwanted trouble if he read the e-mail. Instead, he refused the urge to hit the "open" button and slid the laptop to Ethan. Currently pool-side, Ethan had to clear a path in the sea of discarded tan lotion bottles and empty strawberry daiquiri glasses.
Several minutes passed as Ethan read the e-mail, Luther the whole time trying to resist a peek over his comrade's shoulder. The itch had to be scratched, but the only words he managed to catch were "DELETE IMMEDIATELY!" Ethan passed the laptop back to Luther and began to pull on a t-shirt with a moan.
"Where they got ya going now?" Luther made no move to follow his friend; no reason for both of them to end their vacation early.
"They've got me keeping an eye on some mercenary they hired." No use explaining who "they" were either, they both knew.
"Well, look on the bright side; all you have to do is baby-sit and make sure they don't go sell-out." Ethan only moaned again. "Look, here's what I do when they've got me baby-sitting: try and see if you can human-ize it. Those mercenaries are so caught up in what they do they're always several years behind the times. It fun to watch 'em squirm under all the attention."
"I don't see why they even use mercenaries. They can be bought just as easily from some terrorist as from the government." Ethan slipped on a pair of flip-flops and took one last longing glance at the pool.
"Hey, they're expendable resources. Only used when they think they're going to loose a life. No families to compensate, no stories to make up." But Ethan only heard half of the little explanation; he'd dived back into the pool.
Eugene Kittridge sat across the metal table, and bad feeling in the pit of his wallet. The mercenary just leaned back in her chair, grinning like a maniac. He knew she'd won, they both knew it.
As if she read his acceptance of defeat, she raised from her chair and waved the little jump drive under Kittridge's nose. "You didn't tell me the real price this little trinket would fetch. How do I know? Because I stuck it one the e-bay of the black market for a day, and do you know what types of bids I got? Pretty big ones, believe you me. I could've sold it, right then and there, but I'm too much of a patriot. So, you double the price, and we have a deal." The two had spent the past hour negotiating the terms of sale, when Kittridge had let slip that he knew the real price.
"Fine," he muttered into his hands, "six million dollars will be in your bank account by Tuesday."
"Perfect." She tossed the drive at Kittridge, who barley managed to catch it. "you know where to reach me." And she walked out the door.
Or almost walked out the door. She ran smack dab into some CIA lackey. Before she berate him for blindness and stupidity, Kittridge called from his seat, "Oh, Hunt, I see you've met your new mercenary friend. Ethan Hunt, meet Alexandria Scott, better know as Alex."
Alex whirled around, resisting the urge to jump at Kittridge. "What! Can't you give me at least one day to recuperate?"
"Oh, you'll have plenty of time to recuperate on the plane. You're going to Moscow." Alex went ridged, to Ethan's great amusement.
Several verbal arguments and two hours later, both Ethan and Alex had thoroughly established the fact that they hated each other, though niehter cared to explain why.