Undercover Badge ; Mercinary's Mission. (Completed)

***THE FINAL EPILOGUE***

THINK THIS SONG->

***THE FINALEPILOGUE***

The throbbing increased somewhere between the connection of his neck to his skull and his frontal lobes. When his blurred vision cleared, he looked up to the cheap tiled roof with the single florescent lamp he could see over the stall door. He rose to his feet, noticing his change into black jeans and a royal blue shirt that was too tight around the biceps of his arms.

He grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair that was still thick, black and short rubbed against his hand. His midnight blue eyes squinting, James Alegresso stood at his proud, muscular six foot five, surveying the scene. He was in a cubicle. A toilet, cubicle.

Grumbling, he unlocked the small lock on the door, walking out into the pathetically lit men's bathroom. He spotted the exit and trudged towards it, pushing the door open....

To extravagance.

The evenings sunset glow seemed to light the small, cozy café. James's heightened and trained eyes picked up a newspaper, seeing the headline in French. What the hell...

"Monsuir Allegresso." A voice called to his side, clearly French. He looked down at a small woman who smiled up at him. "Your table, sir, is this way." her voice was heavily and thickly accented with French lilting on her words.

He followed the petit little thing to a booth in the corner. "Merci Buccoup, Mademouzelle." he purred back, his eyes on the face of the woman sitting, sipping coffee from a cup. He hadn't seen that face for four years, and seeing her brought back so much pain and-

"Oh, for the love of God, James, sit down and stop gaping like a bloody fish, you moron."

Yea.

Amy's back.

James sat down, looking at the blond before him. Amy hadn't really aged, except for her tone which seemed to have hardened.

"Where am I?" James asked.

The blond snorted. "Bloody hell, James, if I'd have known you were going to ask such stupid questions I wouldn't have gotten a window seat so you could see for yourself." Amy cocked her head in the direction of the window. James looked and was shocked. In the distance, a tall, metal structure stood, beautiful, and signifying only one possibility.

"Welcome to Paris, James." Amy said, and he could hear the smirk.

"What am I doing here?" he asked.

"You're being briefed, you idiot." Amy snapped, raisin the coffee cup. Amy hadn't changed. The very light bond locks still curled to about her mid back, some spilling down her shoulders and torso, clad in a white trench coat, beneath which were black slacks with black, sensible shoes. A blood red beret sat on top of her blond hair, her lips the same startling shade. She was still beautiful.

"This task force that you are a part of. I am a part of it too. As is my husband." James was sure he'd died and heaven was playing tricks on him. "YOUR MARRIED!?" He yelled. Couples across the room glanced at them disapprovingly and a French man to their left muttered beneath his breath. "Damn Americans."

Amy's perpetual frown turned into a loving smile. Her eyes softened. "Yes, I got married. Not long after we finished our assignment with you, actually. It was a month later when Kat told me she was leaving, so I'd be left partner less-"

"They just let her leave!?" James cried. Amy's mouth's corners turned down a bit as she cocked her head exasperatedly. "James you don't just leave the CIA, there's protocol, meetings, and ninety-eight percent of the time they kill you."