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Over the course of her, God, nearly two years now at the IMF, Nyah has spent a lot of time wondering what her life would look life if, when Sean Ambrose had swanned into her jail cell with promises of a secret American government agency and a full pardon, she’d told him to piss off. The logical part of her brain said prison, still wearing that wretched orange jumpsuit that washed out her complexion and itched like mad when she laid down. The more fanciful part of her mind offered her scenes from the way things used to be. Laying on the beach in Nassau without the looming knowledge of possible impending nuclear annihilation. Skiing down the Swiss Alps without being pursued by men with guns.
Attending swanky parties in Seville just because she wanted a glass of good wine and something nice to line her pockets. As Nyah finished her glass of Chateau Yquem, she acknowledged sulkily that she was at least getting one out of two. It was a cold comfort.
Nyah put the now empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. She’d kill for another, but she had a hard limit for how tipsy she could get on the job, no matter how complex the flavor profile might be. Besides, she had a feeling she’d want to stay especially sharp tonight, given that she’d been tasked with a mission so impossible, most government agencies hadn’t been able to accomplish it.
Needless to say, Nyah had been quite surprised when she’d been tapped to bring in Ethan Hunt. Then, so were her superiors. They’d wanted Luther Stickell for the job, given that two of them were not-so-secretly known to have a friendly relationship, but he was deep cover in a Bosnian cyber-crime ring they were set to bust in just a few days and the situation was too delicate to disturb. So, onto plan B.
If Nyah was shocked by getting chosen at all, she’d practically fallen out of her chair when she’d learned that it was Luther himself that handpicked her. It wasn’t as if they were total strangers - they’d worked a couple of missions together - but they’d hardly done more than that, and Nyah couldn’t imagine just what she’d done to earn his confidence. The working theory was it had more to do with her ass than her assets: according to Hunt’s file, he had a weakness for pretty faces.
As Nyah scanned the crowd, she mentally reviewed just what else that file said. Ethan Matthew Hunt: Wisconsin farm boy turned IMF golden child turned free agent after some nasty business in ‘96 where his mentor murdered his entire team and tried to leave Ethan holding the bag. The thought called to mind Sean, his recent betrayal a raw wound, but she shoved it down with ruthless efficiency. There would be time, she knew, but not now. Not on the job.
Nyah crossed the room, looking for a different vantage point as she returned to her train of thought. Hunt had managed to prove his innocence, but only after escaping IMF custody, evading recapture, and pulling off what many people had said at the time - and plenty still did - was an impossible heist. He’d declined the offer to return and spent the last four years striking out of his own. Not that Nyah could blame him. If they’d arrested her parents, assuming in this scenario her parents were still alive, then she probably would’ve-
There.
There he was. Standing on the other side of the room, just barely noticeable behind the spectacle of the flamenco dancers. Nyah’s first thought was that he looked different from his pictures. There were a couple of recent ones in his file, all taken at a distance and rather blurry, but the majority were from his time as an agent. Gone were the cropped, spiky hair and the slightly ill-fitting leather jacket, replaced with a swept back, chin length haircut and a well tailored suit. She studied him with an appraiser’s eye and cocked her eyebrow in approval. A definite improvement.
It was then that he saw her, catching her gaze before she had a chance to redirect. Shit, shit, shit, she thought, terrified she’d been blown before she’d even gotten within twenty feet of him, but after a beat he gave her a slow, sly grin in return, blatantly checking her out. Oh. Oh! He was a cocky one, wasn’t he. She returned it with a brief, vaguely promising smile, then headed off in a random direction, hoping that his own mission would take priority over pursuing her, at least for the time being.
Her gamble paid off. Once Nyah was an appropriate distance away and had confirmed she hadn’t been followed, she resumed her surveillance much more carefully. It was no small feat. Ethan was like a ghost, present but never quite tangible, moving through the scattered clumps of people like they weren’t even there, making his way to where Nyah knew he was going all along: De L’Arena’s master bath.
Nyah trailed him up the stairs, careful to always stay out of sight until he arrived at the bathroom’s entranceway. She supposed that she could’ve stopped him then, made her case in the relative privacy the secluded area offered them, but she wanted the chance to see him at work. Call it professional curiosity.
When Ethan turned his back to the doorway, Nyah slipped in, taking cover behind a particularly garish one of De L’Arena’s sculptural pieces located in Ethan’s blind spot and watched him go to work.
It was a shame that her cover as security consultant made her privy to the various safeguards in place. Almost two years on the straight and narrow, but the old itch had never left her fingertips. Even as she watched Ethan case the bathroom with clinical efficiency, she thought of how she’d do it: an electromagnetic scanner to find the switch, a programmable keycard to open the hidden compartment, and good old fashioned lock picks to retrieve the necklace itself, making sure to not trigger the weight sensor.
He’s not bad, she thought. Slower than she would be, obviously, but methodical and careful. And lucky - he popped the compartment with the Bvlgari necklace in it on the first go. Not even Nyah knew which one it was located in. She could certainly see how this man pulled off the Langley heist, and not for the first time she wished she could’ve been there to see it. Or do it.
But with the Bvlgari successfully rescued from its shameful imprisonment, it was time for her to act. Nyah arranged herself into her best Marlene Dietrich pose in the doorway before she spoke, regretful that she didn’t have a cigarette. “That’s a very nice necklace. Doesn’t seem like your style though.”
Credit where it’s due, he didn’t jump. Just froze, though not like a prey animal, caught in the grip of its predator. More like a chess player calculating every possibility before he made his move. It was only when he turned that she registered any surprise in him at all; apparently when he’d checked her out downstairs, he hadn’t registered her as a potential threat. Well, shame on him.
Seeing her clearly confirmed the route he’d been planning on taking when he heard a woman’s voice. He took on a casual, flirtatious tone, like he’d only been caught stealing champagne from the minibar. “It’s not De L’Arena’s either. It belongs to a friend of mine, Max. She asked me to get it back for her.”
He moved as he talked, tucking his tools into his pockets and triggering the secret compartment back into hiding. If it weren’t for the necklace that glittered almost indecently in his hand, it was almost like he’d never been taken anything at all. He hopped out of the bathtub in a single graceful movement.
“You sound like a good friend.”
“I try.” The fact that Nyah wasn’t freaking out about catching him in the act seemed to put a little confidence under his belt. He closed the distance between them with a casualness that would’ve seemed natural if Nyah hadn’t had so much experience with lying herself. If she had a nickel for every time she’d flirted her way out of a sticky situation, well, she could’ve retired from thievery entirely. Or maybe not; Nyah watched the necklace slip into a hidden pocket in his jacket’s interior with a magpie’s interest. Oh, how she missed her shiny things. “You’re not going to call security, are you?”
Nyah shrugged. “Far be it from me to separate a woman from her Bvlgari.” It would make her a massive hypocrite to pretend that she suddenly started caring about personal property laws. Odds were, De L’Arena wouldn’t even notice it was missing for another couple weeks, if not months. It really wasn’t his style. Ethan looked relieved; Nyah set up for the kill. “Of course, you’ll owe me one.”
“Of course,” Ethan said. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. What did you have in mind?” As he spoke, he closed the distance between them until they were practically nose to nose. Well! There was cockiness and there was full blown arrogance.
Nyah paused, pretending to consider. “A mission. Should you choose to accept it.”
For the first time since they’d made eye contact downstairs, Nyah saw the smugness drain from Ethan’s face. Served him right, she thought, before she remembered that she was trying to do that whole flies with honey approach.
“I don’t,” he replied tightly, still just inches from her face, then he turned on his heel and swiftly exited the room. Bollocks, she thought. Not that she thought it would be that easy or that she minded the chase, but she really wasn’t usually the pursuer. Especially not in heels. She sighed, removed her shoes, then headed after him.
He really wasn't all that tall, but Nyah wasn’t exactly Amazonian herself, so even walking just a shade too fast for it to be casual and drawing the occasional odd look as she navigated through the party as a result, she only caught up to him when he was almost at the valet station, though the long driveway was mercifully absent of people.
Ethan must have heard her approaching behind him because without turning or breaking his stride he called out, “I told you I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t heard me out yet!” Nyah said, indignantly.
Shockingly, this appeal to logic did not sway him. Dismissively, he said, “I don’t need to. There’s half a dozen agents that can do what I do physically, and if you need my face, why don’t you just do what you always do and get Ambrose to double for me?”
“Because Ambrose is the problem.”
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks, finally turning to face her. He looked surprised, but - Nyah noted with an uncomfortable feeling in her chest - not too surprised. The way none of them had been, really, the indications so obvious in retrospect. Nyah swallowed it down and delivered the really bad news. “Two days ago he took down a commercial airplane wearing your face. No survivors.” Ethan made a noise like he’d been punched. “Now he’s shacked up in Australia with a compound of mercenaries and we can’t touch him. We don’t even know what he’s up to.”
His voice was raw but his eyes were flinty. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
Here came the hard sell.
“We think you might be able to infiltrate his crew.” Ethan snorted unkindly and turned to walk off again, only stopped by Nyah running ahead of him and physically holding him in place. Physically, he could’ve overpowered her, but he allowed himself to be restrained. He was willing, she thought. He just needed the push. “He knows you. He knows you’re ex-IMF, just like he is. We can fake a job gone bad, make it look like you need money quickly. He’ll bring you in, I know he will. He’d love to be able to hold something over you.”
Nyah didn’t know much about the history between Sean and Ethan, but based on the scattered few things she’d heard him say about Ethan over the years, it was clearly a rocky one. Sean wasn’t stupid, but he was petty.
Ethan shook his head, not buying it. “He won’t believe it. I don’t do those kinds of jobs.”
Nyah wondered if Ethan was aware of just how much of his general existence was redacted and locked behind layers of security clearances. The IMF didn’t much like having one of their former best and brightest running wild, choosing his work at his own discretion. It wasn’t until Nyah had gotten access to his file specifically for the purpose of recruiting him that she learned just how much of a white hat mercenary he was: security work, hostage recovery. Really, Nyah got lucky that this was the weekend he decided to do a favor for the arms dealer-in-remission that occasionally liked to tug his leash. A week ago they would’ve been having the same conversation in the middle of Siberia. Not even Nyah looked good in a parka.
The concept of someone doing freelance work guided by their moral compass would be a foreign one to Sean. Of course, a moral compass itself would be an enigma. Nyah’s voice came out brittle and cold. “He doesn’t know that. Sean thinks everyone is like him. That was always his problem.”
“You talk like you know him.” It wasn’t accusatory. There was something more, something hidden behind his guarded expression.
All at once, Naya realized the real Luther had chosen her in his stead. Ethan, it seemed, was a fundamentally decent person. He must’ve known that Ethan would see right through her, knew he would empathize with the betrayal Nyah felt, even now, even after all those years and all the distance he put between himself and the team he left behind. How raw the wound must’ve been to still show on his face at all.
Even seeing this, Nyah’s instinct was to lie or deflect. But she had a mission to accomplish at all costs, so she trained her gaze on a tree in the far distance just over Ethan’s shoulder and forced herself to articulate something she’d barely allowed herself to think. “He recruited me. He trained me. He loved me. I even loved him back for a little bit.”
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said softly. He placed a single warm hand on her shoulder. Nyah closed her eyes and let herself lean into, just for a second, before breaking contact.
“Me too,” Nyah replied. “But that’s why I- we need you. You’re the only one who can do this, Ethan.” Painfully aware of the vulnerable underbelly she just exposed, she switched back to her flirtatious mode, tugging at the lapels of his jacket. “Come on. If you won’t do it for the world, do it for me.”
Ethan fixed her with a look that told her he saw right through her act. It might’ve bothered her more if she couldn’t see through his. She didn’t know if it was the insult of Sean using his face, compassion for Nyah’s situation, or her feminine wiles, but she had him right where she wanted him. She just barely restrained herself from batting her eyelashes at him. Ethan let out one long breath before defeatedly saying, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Nyah. Nyah Nordoff-Hall. A pleasure.” She stuck her hand out delicately.
“Ethan Hunt,” he said with an endearing amount of self deprecation, clearly aware of just how much she knew about him. He sighed, sending a pleading look towards the heavens, and then with a level of determined resignation that transported Nyah to a jail cell in Brussels almost two years ago, maneuvered so successfully into a box that she hadn’t realized exactly what happened until she'd signed her life away, asked, “So. When do we start?”