Because somehow - out of half a dozen agents who'd decided to proceed without permission - I'm supposed to be the 'best candidate' for this form of torture.

Veronica glared at the new ID in her hand. Hair freshly cut and with next to no make-up, the latest picture on the shiny new card did look different enough at a glance.

She sighed.

At least Vanessa Mason wouldn't have as many bad hair days as Veronica Mars.

Irrationally angry at the bland pastel shades around her, she shoved herself on to the rustic sofa with a blatant grumble. Her right hand lifted involuntarily to finger through the short strands at the nape of her neck. She hadn't had hair this short since that purging haircut after Lilly died. Veronica closed her eyes for a second. That rough cut a decade ago had given her a brand new outlook on life.

And as much as she's like to deny it, this haircut was supposed to do the same.

But why me?

Veronica tilted her head as her eyes danced all over the ID once more. Lieutenant Stanley had insisted that with no surviving family members in touch, she truly was the best candidate. And since he had been the closest thing she'd had to a father figure ever since Keith's fatal accident, she had begrudgingly agreed.

Not that she wasn't regretting it now - full throttle.

A single vibrate next to her thigh had her looking down to her phone.

Man, I'm gonna miss pockets.

Apparently, throwing away all her signature leather in exchange for A-line dresses had been part of the job description.

She pressed her thumb against the power button.

"Agent Mars."

"Yeah?" She didn't bother pushing herself upright.

"I trust all is well?"

She scoffed, free hand poking holes in the couch's polyester blend with the corner of her ID. "If by well you mean bored to tears."

"Agent Mars - "

"I thought I'm not supposed to go by that name anymore?" She challenged, shamelessly grumpy.

"Yes, you are right - Miss Mason."

She wanted to throw her phone against the wall. But then that would leave a dent on the wallpaper.

"We thank you for taking this assignment, madame."

She scoffed again at the insincerity attacking her ears. "Marshall Clark, let's just all agree to stop pretending. Heaven knows how happy you are to lord it over a decorated federal agent."

"Miss Mason, I would caution you to refer to me only as Garrett hereonafter. It would not do - "

"To risk security, blah blah blah." She couldn't help it now. "Because I'm sure when it comes to facing actual danger, you're supposed to be more experienced, huh?"

The line stayed silent for a moment.

"Miss Mason, as your handler, it's my responsibility to make sure you are safe. You must know that."

The sad thing is - she did.

Veronica sighed. She closed her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine and dandy, okay? I graduated top of the class in Quantico just so I could help entitled mafia spawn transition into witness protection. It's a dream job."

"We need you, Agent - Miss Mason. Shadowing a new entrant is not a simple task."

Because we'd both rather pretend that this farce isn't punishment for acting without permission - again.

Veronica sighed. Not everyone could be as forgiving as Neptune. She'd just have to re-prove her worth.

"Yes, Marshall - I mean, Garrett. I'll do my best."

"That's great. Mr. Erickson is set to arrive within the hour. Do be ready."

"Yes, sir."

"Take care."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir."

She didn't bother to wait for him to hang up - protocol be damned. In her book, insincerity was a criminal offense.

Because if there's anything Veronica hated more than cheating husbands, it was cheaters who had mastered the loving husband charade.

You do wrong, you own up to it.

And get punished for it, apparently.

For the next ten minutes, she stared blankly at the beige wallpaper, its tiny purple flowers long faded. Slumping on a worn, floral sofa on a late summer afternoon - how did she come to this?

Her eyes almost misted at the recollection of meeting Lieutenant Stanley the first time. He had singled her out in the crowd, pointed out her potential amongst the new recruits - calling her the bureau's next big star. She had barely recovered from her father's death then. And upon knowing the middle-aged lieutenant's first name to also be Keith, the two had instantly bonded.

"You're a chameleon, Veronica," he had said her first year. "You take on new identities more fully in two seconds than some agents do in years. You're perfect for the undercover world."

She almost sniffed.

He had named her the next big thing. She had rewarded those high hopes by botching protocol and getting herself assigned to this aging doll house suburb.

Not my type of undercover.

She reached under her skirt to scratch her thigh. Those tulle linings were no joke.

Besides, what else did she have to do? Vanessa Mason was supposed to be a wide-eyed college graduate who had only ever wanted to get married. Now, that's a stranger to adrenaline.

Responding to her grumbling stomach, she dragged herself to the kitchen: the only room in the house she hadn't complained about yet. Call them old fashioned - those kitchen work triangles did make lasagna prep ten times easier.

Happy for the familiarity of the activity, Veronica busied herself with dinner, only looking out again when the sky dimmed.

For a split second, she stilled. She glanced at her watch.

But Clark had said 'within the hour.'

The change in circumstances had her senses cranked up to ten. When the front door swung open, she gripped her knife tighter.

It wasn't a gun. But in the hands of the right person, it could sure as hell be just as deadly.

The sound of two hesitant footsteps met the squeaking wooden floor. Veronica inhaled, tightened her grip, and inched towards the front of the house.

"Hello?" The male voice sounded too young for the man in her file.

Her mind catalogued information while her feet slid her effortlessly forward in a silent gait.

Gender: Male, Age: 27, Height: 6'0", Alias: Luke Erickson, Role: boyfriend

As usual, the file had included no pictures, lest it fell into the wrong hands.

She had expected multiple possibilities: a pampered mafia heir, a gangly drug addict, a sweaty reporter who had dug too deep.

The knife hit the floor with a loud clang next to her kitten heel pumps.

She must be rusty - very rusty.

Because somehow, she magically managed to never have remotely expected - him.

And if the wide eyes that met hers over the brunette goatee, the slack jaw, and the open hands were any indication, he was just as surprised as she.

Luke Erickson - but, of course.

But as always, he recovered first.

"Well, hello, Bobcat."

And she wanted to smack the grin right off his face.

Disclaimer: I know nothing whatsoever about the witness protection program except for any conjectures I make based upon online descriptions. All protocol is of my own imagination.

A/N: Lots of thanks to irma66 for being a devoted beta and friend. I'm a little iffy about this story. It feels both right and not right at the same time. Should I continue? Do let me know :)