How about Fallout, guys? What a freaking great movie! I've already seen it a few times in theaters and was so inspired by it that I wanted to know if I could write my own sort of Act 1/Act 2 Mission: Impossible heist! I'm afraid I might've tried to be a little too funny with Brandt's and Luther's back and forth, and there might be a little too much exposition, but I hope it worked out! Also, it's touched upon lightly in the following fic, but Ethan x Ilsa is wonderful, and you all should expect a hefty helping of it in Pt. 2. Please let me know what y'all think in the comments! Thanks for reading!

On an unnamed island roughly 65 miles off the coast of Venezuela, a boat docks at a small pier, and a general debarks. He flashes a salute to the contractor holding the door open to the black car, his tie flapping in the wind. The general climbs in before it takes off towards the facility at the other end of the island.

The island is sparsely vegetated and entirely flat other than the large hill immediately next to the dock. The only other feature of note on the mile-long stretch of land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea is a heavily-guarded facility. Inside the car, with the partition up, the general fusses over his bushy mustache and rearranges his hat and glasses.

"I don't know if I mentioned this before, but my Spanish is a little rusty," whispered the general. "I'm fairly certain I'm mixing in quite a bit of Portuguese, as well."

"You only mentioned it about a dozen times at the briefing Benji," said Ethan. "And if you had wanted to infiltrate the facility by SCUBA, you should've said so."

Ethan went back to working the torch on the grate, the fire oxidizing into bubbles that floated up, a variety of the more curious species of fish swimming around him.

"I've only had to fend off three barracudas so far," added Ethan, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

"Barracudas you say?" said Benji. "Yeah, I think I'm okay in the car."

"Are you sure?" chimed in Luther. "I'm pretty sure we could land this prop plane on the island, and we could switch. You can land a plane, right?"

Luther sat cramped in the back of a King Air 200 flying a mile away from the island, surrounded by monitors and electronic surveillance equipment, security footage and computer terminals rolling across the various screens.

"Yes, I can land a plane," an exasperated Brandt crackled in over the comms. "They don't just give licenses out to people that can't actually fly."

"A license you've had for a whole month. Why couldn't I do this on a boat?"

"And I was the top trainee in the program, Luther! I don't see what you're upset about!"

"I'm sure Luther has full confidence in you, Brandt," chimed in Ethan, slicing through another bar on the grate. "And besides, you can't really outrun that storm in a fishing boat."

The plane buffeted against the increasing winds, the tell-tale dark clouds of a tropical storm gathering off the plane's starboard side.

"Yeah, Ethan, I meant to have a word with you about that," said Brandt.

"Don't worry, Will," said Benji. "It's not even a hurricane! Yet…"

"Yet? Benji, did you just say yet?" asked Luther.

On an island not too far north, a few old men sit in a bar, its shutters flapping in the wind and rain starting to come down. They watch an old TV as the weatherman talks about how Tropical Storm Marco is now officially a Category 1 Hurricane, with winds exceeding 75 miles per hour and shifting course quite unexpectedly towards a chain of uninhabited islands. The old men continue to drink their beers, unconcerned with the development.

"The storm is supposed to miss us by 50 miles," continued Benji. "And I don't know why anyone else is complaining. If my cover gets blown, the only person looking out for me is the rookie."

"Rookie?" asked Brandt.

"Yeah, the rookie," said Benji. "You know, the newbie, the greenhorn, the raw recruit still wet behind the ears."

"I'm not sure I'd say any of those things," said Luther.

"Oh, come on guys! What's a little good-natured ribbing between colleagues?" said Benji, his smile skewing his mustache.

Ethan stopped his torch a few bars short, "Benji, do you really want to be ribbing the person sitting behind the high-powered rifle?"

On top of the hill next to the dock, nestled between a rock and some brush, Ilsa Faust lay perfectly still in a ghillie suit, practically invisible and cradling her sniper rifle, slowly tracking the car as it drove towards the facility through her scope.

"Right," Benji said as he considered Ethan's words. "Sorry about that, Ilsa. Have I mentioned how excited I am that MI6 so generously loaned you to the IMF?"

"A few times, Benji," said Ilsa. "You might want to remember that I can take the hat off a man at three kilometers, though."

Benji gulped and unconsciously took off his hat. A mile away, Ilsa smiled as she watched him through the scope.

"Three kilometers?" asked Benji, noticing his hat next to him and putting it back on. "I thought you said two?"

"The three-kilometer shot was unofficial," said Ilsa. "Off the books. Now eyes up, Benji, you're at the first guard post."

"Just remember, Benji, the guards are South African, they probably don't hear Spanish that much," said Ethan as he sliced through the final bar, removing the grating.

"Or Portuguese-" interjected Benji.

"Or Portuguese," said Ethan, swimming through the grate towards the facility. "They're not even supposed to talk to you. General Santos is known to be a bit of a hot head, just give them a good glower, and you'll be fine."

"A glower?" asked Benji.

"You know, a glower," said Luther, who proceeded to make a low-timbre guttural noise into comms.

"You sure this isn't a glower?" asked Brandt, making a similar noise in a slightly different tone.


"No, it's gotta be lower than that," said Luther, continuing to make low growls in the back of his throat.

"Guys, I think Benji can manage!" interjected Ethan. "Luther, I'm at the entrance point."

"Wouldn't want Ethan to fry down there, would we, Luther?" asked Brandt, at least somewhat pleased that he wasn't the one potentially getting barbecued for once.

"Well, it would be more 'cooked' than 'fried,'" said Benji, taking a brief moment to stare down the nearest guard in what he hoped was an intimidating manner. "There're at least 3,000 milliamperes flowing through that tunnel. If it hits Ethan, his heart will seize up, his other organs will cook, and he'll be covered in severe burns."

"Benji," said Ethan.


"Shut up."

"Right," said Benji, looking up as his car came to a stop next to the entrance. "Good luck."

"Let's make sure that doesn't happen, Luther," said Ilsa, tracking a pair of guards moving to open the door for Benji. "Ethan still owes me a Manhattan."

"Oh, a Manhattan?" asked Brandt, his flight control shaking as the wind from the storm picked up. "Do tell."

"We were at dinner," started Ethan.

"Eleven Madison Park, actually," added Ilsa. "I had to call in a favor for that reservation."

Luther whistled, not looking away from his computer and doing his best to ignore the rattles from the plane, "Eleven Madison Park? Fancy."

"We were only at the first course when the Maître D' brought a pair of reading glasses and asked if we wanted to look at the rare wines list," finished Ilsa.

"You're going to have to make that one up, Ethan," said Brandt.

"Agreed," said Ethan, still gripping the handle to the electrified tunnel. "Now, Luther, could you please -"

A mile away, Luther worked furiously at his keyboard, typing in commands and rerouting systems.

"Done," said Luther, turning to a different monitor showing the feed from Benji's glasses. "We're reading you clear, Benji. You remember the layout?"

Benji almost growled as he walked past a pair of guards at a door emblazoned with warnings of 'BIOHAZARD' and gave a heavily accented, "Sí."

At the same time, Ethan had made his way past the electrical conduits and up to a maintenance station, where he was stashing his SCUBA gear and taking stock of the drybag he had brought with him, mainly the explosives, before taking out the pistol and swinging the bag over his back.

At a security station three levels up, the feed for Ethan's level shimmered as Luther executed more commands on his computer.

"We'll have control of the security feed on your floor for the next 15 minutes, Ethan," said Luther. "Anymore and they start looking into it."

Ethan approached the door that led to the rest of the facility with characteristic quiet and waited while Luther scanned the undoctored security footage from the plane, waiting for a patrolling guard to pass.

"Now," instructed Luther, watching as Ethan made his way to a corner down the hall. "Wait three seconds."

Ethan waited precisely three seconds, his pistol at the ready, as the guard down the hall turned around and began pacing the other way. The IMF agent turned the corner, his gun trained on the guard as he quickly and silently made his way to the door and inserted a keycard with wires running to a mini-tablet. In 10 seconds, the locks on the door gave off a pop and Ethan slid into the room.

What met him were four large chambers, each marked 'BIOHAZARD,' with a variety of different liquids, syringes, and tubes in them. Ethan slung the bag from his back and went to work, placing the small explosives at crucial points of the machines and activating them.

"10 minutes and counting, Benji," said Ethan.

"And only three more rooms to go, Ethan," added Luther.

Ethan collected his bag of explosives and pistol and returned to the door.

"And… You're clear," said Luther, as Ethan slipped back into the hall, making his way to the next room filled with deadly bacterial agents.

Meanwhile, Benji, as General Santos, continued on his way to the big lab at the end of the wing, where a man in a white lab coat waited for him.

"General Santos," said the scientist in English, the common language between the South African and the real General Santos. "The latest batch is very promising, we should be done at this facility in less than a week's time once we've finished follow-up tests, but those are a mere formality."

"Excellent," said Benji, going maybe a little too heavy on the accent. "Please, show me this iteration."

Within a mile of the facility, three IMF agents' eyebrows arched up silently at the performance, the fourth was too busy to notice. Benji walked in behind the scientist, listening to his spiel as the man guided him toward the wall of test tubes, picking the last one from the lineup, it's brilliant orange color shining in the light.

"We've already sent it on to our labs in Johannesburg, they'll be able to duplicate it from there in quantities large enough for field use," stated the scientist, oblivious to the slight shiver Benji had given off.

He continued talking about his benefactor's plans before finishing, "There is another test that I think you would be very interested in, General. It's at the lab in the east wing. Please, follow me, it'll only be ten minutes of your time."

He started walking for the door, missing Benji expertly lifting the test tube from its slot and sliding it into his jacket.

"Looks like you owe Benji that $20, Brandt," said Luther, watching the footage like a hawk.

"No. He got it?" asked Brandt. "I'll be damned."

"Not even a second glance from our mad scientist friend," said Luther, noting the unmistakable smirk from Benji on the security feed. "I wouldn't be gloating too much just yet, Benji. You've got seven minutes to get out of there."

The scientist led Benji along a different path, walking past a security station buzzing a little more than the IMF Agent was comfortable with. As he walked past, he looked inside giving Luther a clear look at a radar screen from his glasses, an ominous blip popping up roughly a mile from the station.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Luther.

Meanwhile, Ilsa was clocking the different guards making their rotations around the walls of the facility, each shrugging on raincoats as the hurricane began bearing down on the island. As she was making adjustments to her scope to account for the increase in wind speed, Ilsa spotted several guards moving quickly around what looked like a large shed by the perimeter. They slid the doors open before rolling out what looked like-

"Guys, we might have trouble," said Ilsa, tracking the two drones as they were wheeled out onto the courtyard. "Predators, two of them."

"They have drones? Since when have they had drones?" asked a flummoxed Luther.

Ethan paused at the third door, "Brandt, can you handle it?"

"I think so," said Brandt, taking stock of his controls and looking past the rain driving into his windshield.

"Alright, do what you have to do," replied Ethan. "Plan stays the same for everyone else."

"You think so?" said Luther, who leaned around a monitor to get a clear line of sight to his pilot. "Even if you were a real pilot, each drone can carry two missiles, and we only brought three flairs! That math does not add up!"

Luther held up corresponding fingers to punctuate the point.

"First off, I am a pilot. I've offered to show you my license several times, Luther," started Brandt, who looked off his starboard wing at the encroaching hurricane. "Second, I've got a plan."