this is based off of an au idea. i could probably name this as canon divergence, but yeah, who knows really? for now, she's just hacker skye living in her van, trying to make ends meet by doing sorta-illegal things, and grant ward is just a spy living in los angeles.

also generic names are hard when my mind kept accidentally almost naming him john peterson, or john philips.

Six bucks for parking.

Twenty bucks for gas.

Three bucks for a neck pillow.

Skye pulled the pillow down around her neck and walked into the gate at the arrivals floor of the airport. Smacking on gum with a bag thrown over her shoulder, she made quick work of walking down to the baggage claim carousels that had just started rolling out bags. Watching as the people next to her search for their luggage, she let her eyes glance over as well so as to not arouse suspicion.

She didn't do this often.

Okay, she did this semi-often.

Sometimes the freelance jobs and the side jobs weren't enough to pay for the gas for the van or her steady intake of breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the local fast food dollar menus. And those sometimes were when she would make a trip down to the airport and try and score something she could pawn off for more cash. Was it noble? Was it honorable? Hell no. But desperate times sure as hell called for desperate measures. Besides, no harm in losing a few shirts and cans of hair spray.

Most of the time it was just a bunch of clothes, at this point she hoped the generic bags she pulled belonged to women so she could score some extra clothes as well since the nights were starting to get a little cold.

Leaning against the metal railing, she watched as the carousel turned four times and the remaining dozen or so bags continued to make their way around, untouched. Eyes focused on a black suitcase that looked like it could belong to anyone, and looked large enough to hold something important, she stepped forward and yanked the bag up as it came back around to her, and fuck it was heavy. No one eyed her as she faked a yawn and slipped on some sunglasses and made her way towards the parking lot.

As she passed the double glass doors of the parking level, she checked her watch. Another forty minutes before she was out another two dollars in parking. Opening the door and throwing the impossibly hefty suitcase into the back, she hopped into the drivers seat and made out of the parking complex like a bat out of hell.

It wasn't until she pulled up in the alleyway behind her favorite cafe that she was able to crawl back into the back end of her van and lay the suitcase down on its back, hoping to god it didn't have a body inside.

Fingers crossed, she hoped for clothes, or jackets, or maybe some electronics she could use. As she pulled the flap of the top part of the suitcase she was starting to wish she had picked a different bag.

"Holy shit."

She stared down at three neatly packed handguns and what seemed to be a disassembled rifle underneath. A box coated in brushed metal sat next to the guns laid out in foam. Staring at the display in front of her, she wasn't sure if she should just leave the suitcase in a trashcan and hope for the best, or call the police because she was sure she had just thwarted a terrorist scheme. Gently, she lifted the box and unclasped the lock. She cursed again as she looked at six tightly packed black orbs that had something that looked distinctly like a grenade pin. Closing it quickly, she put it back in the same spot she had found it.

Unzipping the top flap, because at this point why not see what else was in store for her, she found two separate compartments. One filled with ammunition, the other with three pairs of pants with matching shirts (matching was a general term since it was all black) along with some rolled up boxer briefs and a thin comb. Underneath the shirts and pants was a plastic bag with a stack of cash and three international passports and two IDs. Ok so, she definitely screwed up with this one.

Backing up, her mind ran at a mile a minute.

What the fuck was she supposed to do?

Some crazy murderer was probably searching for his stolen baggage, and would probably kill her if he found her with the evidence. She always knew there was insane fucking people out there, but this was seriously crazy.

The thought of attempting to sell any of this was laughable. She wouldn't know the first place to go, and this would only attract unwanted attention. She wasn't about to throw live grenades into the trash, but she did not want to keep this suitcase in her van any longer that it needed to be. Was this karma for those previous scores that landed her with an extra hundred dollars in her pocket?

Staring back at the plastic bag of identity theft, opening the bag tentatively. Taking out the cash, she stuffed it in her pocket, not too proud to pocket what looked like two thousand dollars. Pulling out the first passport, Russian by the look of it, she flipped through it. A few stamps, likely fake, and at the end, a laminated photo and name printed in Russian. The photo was of a man who definitely looked like he had some killer (good) looks. Black hair, square jaw, and something of a grimace, though he looked like he was a man who had mastered the arrogant smirk.

"Hello Mr. Terrorist," she greeted. "Well, if this all goes to shit, there's still a future in modeling for you." The Spanish and French passport followed suit, as did the two American IDs, one naming him John Richards and the other Stanley Anderson. "You don't look like a Stan," she said, as she stuffed the ID back into the bag and zipped it up before tucking it under the clothes.

Before she zipped up the compartment (completely choosing to ignore the ammunition section), she reached back into the plastic bag and yanked out the Stanley Anderson from Michigan ID and pocketed it along side the cash. "Something to remember you by."

Zipping up the suitcase, she ran her hands over it searching for some kind of tag. Suitcases with this kind of heat had to have identification. All she could find was the standard baggage tag, which held a thick barcode and some long string of numbers along with the label of FROM CDG TO LAX. Pulling out her laptop, she searched the long string of numbers and ran through the Paris to Los Angeles passengers for the day before she found a corresponding name and flight.

"Hello, Daniel Moreau. Apartment 3C." None of these names seemed to fit the dark-haired criminal that she kept in her pocket, but that wasn't the issue at hand. Some more searching got her a local address in Los Angeles, an apartment less than thirty minutes away.

Staring at the suitcase, she considered what she should do. She could leave the bag at the closest police station. Let them deal with the fake ids and the whole suitcase of weapons. She could leave it at the apartment, and possibly put people in danger by giving a bag of weapons back to someone who thought it was necessary to pack weapons on a trip to Paris in the first place. God, what if he was an assassin.

Or a spy.

Forcing her mind back into a realm of reality, she somehow ended up behind the wheel driving to the apartment complex. Parking across the street, she stared out from the passenger's window at the building. Apartment 3C. She sat there for the next hour waiting for something to happen, but as it turns out steak outs aren't as glamorous as she thought, and she woke up two hours later to the setting sun and absolute starvation.

Stomach growling and irritated at this stressful situation, Skye grabbed her keys and hopped out of the van in search of the taco truck she saw a block away.

The wafting smell of Mexican food taunted her as she stood in line behind a gaggle of people making the largest order in the world. As they finally started to make their way away from the window at the food truck, Skye stepped up and ordered herself two carne asada burritos and a large horchata before adding a third pork and chicken burrito for good measure. If Mr. Possible-Murderer was paying, she might as well eat well.

Reaching in her pocket, she felt for one bill out of the stack, trying not to take the whole stack out for caution of who might see. Nearly tearing it in two, she yanked it out of her pocket and heard the clack of something plastic against the ground. Shit.

Slapping the hundred down on the counter, she muttered a 'keep the change' before leaning down to reach for Stan Anderson from Michigan.

"Wow, big spender," someone said from behind her.

Turning around, she froze in her steps, staring up at 6'2", black hair, brown eyes, square jaw Stan Anderson/John Richards/Daniel Moreau in one of his signature black shirt/black pants combo (she could imagine it was with those matching slate grey boxer briefs). And, yup, there was that practiced arrogant smirk.

"I think you might have something of mine."

Well wasn't that the understatement of a century.

obviously this could definitely be continued, but i need to think up something for this before i can actually continue this. for now live on wondering how hard ward was judging her for getting three burritos and stealing his bag from the airport while skye considers kneeing him in the groin and making a run for her van leaving behind her dinner.

feedback and comments are welcome!

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