Authors's Note:

It started as a joke in my mind, really, because I love the spy genre and Pitch Perfect, and I sorta got writer's block for my other fic. I got to mulling the idea in my head, and I thought, what the hey. Might as well. There is a severe lack of AU fics out there for this ship, so here's mine. As always, I'd like to know what ya'll think, because I really don't know anymore. Haha. :)

Finally, I would just like to say that I am not a spy, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I would appreciate creative output from ya'll, and I really would like to take this time to thank you in advance. Please don't take this espionage thing too seriously, as it comes from my imagination and has no shred of truth to it. With that said, if someone out there would care to read this, I'll try my best to keep writing. No promises, tho. :))

Thanks guys. Hope you like it.

.:.

PROLOGUE

SOMEWHERE. ANYWHERE. IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE...

The right side of her face is swollen, and there's still that tiny tingling of a voice in her mind that reminds her to lay down the fucker who had done this to her. Her hair is matted to the side of her face and neck, sticking to the skin with her sweat and blood. Well, mostly her blood. She was on a record, for that matter, when all of a sudden, a needle jabs into her arm and it's game over. Oh, well. Whatever. She'll lay these fuckers down in a moment. Right now, she just needs to sleep.

The drug has made her so groggy that it takes her a total of five seconds to register that someone had come into the white-wash room and is now kneeling in front of her sitting form. Normally, it would take her less than a split.

"Finally, room service. You got some wifi in here? I feel like tweeting this."

Rebeca Mitchell. 27. Works for a shadow organization that is only ever known as The Bellatorum. The Warriors. So much skill packed into such a tiny body; the ultimate Trojan Horse. She will wipe the floor with your sorry asses before you even realize you're not wearing pants anymore.

"I hate to break it to you, but that's not in my job description."

James Swanson. 25. Works for the highly non-existent organization dubbed by many as Triplus. Don't even try, because you do not stand a chance. In a world where charm is deceptive, he is Frank fucking Abagnale.

She can feel him brushing the strands of her stiff hair off her neck. Strangely gently, she feels a semblance of a palm on the side of her face, but she doesn't have enough energy (or blood in her system) to hold her head up long enough to get a good look.

Today is a good day to die, she thinks.