Life After Lies

Title: Life After Lies

Genre: Romance/Drama

Rating: PG-13 for Adult Situations

Characters/Pairings: Heather/Noah

'''Summary: Heather's path has taken her to a place that she never expected to be. They told her to say goodbye to her old life, and that she did. Of course, complications arise, including one she never saw coming.'''

'''Disclaimer: This fanfic is solely intended for entertainment purposes. The author does not own or is affiliated with Total Drama Island, its characters, or its producers in any way whatsoever.'''

'''Author's Note: Hello, people of Total Drama Island Fanfiction Wiki! I'm new around here, but I'm no stranger to fanfiction. Your feedback is appreciated and feel free to contact me on my talk page or the discussion page of this fanfic at anytime. Thank you!'''

Chapter One
Life after Lies By FadingSilverStar16 Chapter 1 Closure I got to hear my eulogy today. I still don't know why I didn't shut the stupid TV off. I knew full well that I would rather not have watched those idiots on the screen pretend to mourn me. There was no use lying to myself in an attempt to chase away any regret or remorse I felt for my decision. It was obvious to everyone that I would not be missed. It was sad really. Everything about that funeral was a lie. The bowed heads and solemn faces; the tears; the casket of polished oak and the wax figurine inside. Even the flowers, fresh roses and gorgeous lavenders, were being used to remember someone who had not met their end. A ceremony of lies. Tearing my eyes from the image of my coffin sinking into the earth, I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand. Gently, I took my index finger and traced over the words etched in raised gold print. Heather Martison; December 3, 1992 – March 12, 2009. A copy of my certificate of death. I let out a bitter chuckle. If only they knew that I was not a memory just yet. The video ended with a shot of my small granite tombstone and switched to crackling static. I pressed the 'eject' button. The TV made a series of whirs, and the tape slid out of the VCR compartment. I held it in my hands, debating with myself on whether to keep it or toss it. I was pretty sure I would never watch it again, and it would sit on my small shelf collecting dust forevermore. It was pointless to keep it. Sure, watching it all the way through for the first time was a nice way of saying a permanent farewell to my old life, but now I'd gotten my closure. It was useless now. I looked toward the little trash can in the corner of the room, and confirmed the tape's fate in my mind. I walked to the can, and raised the hand holding the unneeded object. Saying one last goodbye in my head, I let it slip from my fingers. It fell into the plastic bin with a clatter. Good riddance. &ldquo;You could've just come to the lounge to watch the tape, y'know,&rdquo; came a familiar voice from behind me. Charlie's voice. Joy. I sighed. &ldquo;Does it matter?&rdquo; I answered a little less angrily than I'd hoped, not bothering to turn around. I could hear his footsteps getting louder; when they stopped, I could tell he was right behind me. &ldquo;Not really,&rdquo; said Charlie, &ldquo;but the interrogation room?&rdquo; &ldquo;What's it to you?&rdquo; I snapped, facing him. &ldquo;I just wanted to watch the thing and get it over with. This place was empty, so I just sat down without having to walk all the way over to the lounge!&rdquo; Thoroughly annoyed, I glared up at him, and he stared right back down at me. Why, exactly, did he need to be so nosy? For a split second, his sharp blue eyes flickered behind me. Suddenly remembering the copy of my certificate of death behind my back, I crumpled it up and let it fall into the trash can. My co-worker's expression turned into one of disapproval. &ldquo;Most people I know would keep those. Y'know, for sentimental-&rdquo; &ldquo; Mind your own business! &rdquo; I cut him off. Fed up, I pushed past him and walked swiftly from the room to stalk my way down the hall. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was walking in the wrong direction, toward the computer room where I had done my fair share of handling clients and scheduling appointments. No, I wanted the path that would take me back to the crummy apartment that I called home. However, I didn't stop when I realized my mistake. Instead, never ceasing to move, I just spun on my heel and started in the opposite direction. Charlie was leaning against the door frame of the room I had just exited, smirking at me. I let out a huff as I passed him, and that was the last acknowledgment of his presence I intended to give. I could practically feel his smug gaze on my back. &ldquo;And by the way,&rdquo; he called after me, &ldquo; the boss wants you in his office. I think it was something about a new assignment .&rdquo; I stopped. Now, there were two sides to this whole situation. One one side, finally. About time I received a real mission, relieving me of my then current position as a nobody who clacked at a keyboard all day. On the other hand, I was really looking forward to that well-deserved lavender foot scrub kit waiting for me at my apartment. How I would miss it so. I sighed. Goodbye, foot scrub. It had been a long time since I'd first walked into that office. A year ago, as I took my first step out of that elevator, I had to do more than I thought to keep my composure. A year later, I wasn't as nervous; but uncertainty still sat heavy in my stomach, creating that sick, hollow feeling that made me want to hunch over and moan. Although I knew in the back of my mind that it wouldn't help, I silently told myself that it was just a first mission and would probably be simple at best. At that thought, a more logical part of my brain scoffed. Seeing as how my karma (which had been biting me in the ass repeatedly since I was 16) apparently still owed me a lot, and the quality of my luck was just poor overall, the chances of things going wrong for me very soon were probably quite high. I just hoped I hadn't jinxed it by thinking that. I took a deep breath as I reached my destination, and pushed to the glass doors. The closed soundlessly behind me, and I found myself standing in front of the secretary's desk. My feet making quiet thumps on the carpet, I approached the small woman sitting there. She gave no recognition of my presence, just sitting there and using her long, French-tipped acrylic nails to type away at the large keyboard. Seeing that she had better things to do than ask me what I was there for, I made a move to speak. However, before I had the chance to successfully translate my thoughts to speech, she took of those ridiculously long nails and pressed a button under a microphone. &ldquo;Mr. DeMiller, the agent you wanted is here,&rdquo; she droned, one hand still punching keys at the computer. The woman then took her and off of the button and continued on with her work. &ldquo;Send'er in,&rdquo; came the slightly garbled reply. I took the liberty of walking and entering the room without the secretary telling me. We both had business to attend to. Everything was pretty much the same about this place. George DeMiller still sat at the same beautiful polished wood desk. He still sported the same black suit that matched his hair, which now had some barely evident gray follicles. The only thing that was really different was that when he looked up at me, he didn't smile. Of course, that was to be expected. A year ago, I was a guest. Today, I was an employee. &ldquo;Agent Umbriel,&rdquo; he said coolly, &ldquo;welcome.&rdquo; DeMiller motioned for me to sit in the chair in front of his desk. I obeyed. &ldquo;Okay, standard protocol,&rdquo; he started. &ldquo;You have been selected to receive a potentially dangerous and life-threatening mission. By agreeing to this mission, you confirm that we are not responsible for any injury, fatal or otherwise, that you may receive while on duty. Do you accept?&rdquo; He look me straight in the eye, searching for any hint of emotion. Managing to keep my face businesslike, I nodded. He gave me a quick nod in reply and leaned back in his chair. &ldquo;Good. Briefing time,&rdquo; he said, picking up a small remote from his desk. DeMiller turned around to face the back wall. He hit a button, and half of wall lit up into a giant screen. Okay, so maybe some things had changed. He clicked another button, and the picture and information of a middle aged man appeared. &ldquo;Johnathan Rhodes; Age 46, CEO of small gaming company, BlueNotes Inc.,&rdquo; he read. Turning back to me, he folded his hands on the desk. &ldquo;Fifteen years ago, Rhodes lent a sum of thirty-thousand dollars to a friend named Guy Wilshire.&rdquo; He pushed another button, and this time only the name and a picture came up on screen. The man in the picture was also middle aged, with tanned skin and brown hair that seemed eerily familiar... &ldquo;According to Rhodes, Wilshire used the money to invest in another small business that really took off within the next year. Both men prospered, and the debt was forgotten. However, &rdquo; he paused, &ldquo;Rhodes started experiencing some...financial troubles. He asked Wilshire to pay him back the money plus the promised five thousand dollars interest three years ago. Wilshire agreed to pay him back, but in due time as he was also having money problems. A month later, according to the government, he died of pneumonia.&rdquo; I could see where this was going. &ldquo;Now, recent discoveries have shown that apparently this is not the case. Rhodes is sure Wilshire is alive, and he's come to us for help bringing his old friend out into the open. If we are successful in helping him get his thirty-five-thousand dollars back, Rhodes will be able to afford to pay us very handsomely. The easiest way to get Guy out of hiding? Using something he loves to lure him out.&rdquo; A kidnapping mission? &ldquo;Guy Wilshire has nine children. We've already done the hard part of kidnapping the youngest. It'll be your job to guard the prisoner and carry out anything Rhodes wants done to him.&rdquo; Ugh. A babysitting mission. &ldquo;The prisoner is being held in cell A113. This,&rdquo; he said, sliding me a PDA, &ldquo;has access to the camera in the cell. You may use it at all times to keep tabs on him. And by the way, if we need to kill him, our specialists will take care of that. Now go down ask him what he knows about the situation. Do not tell him anything until you get his side of the story.&rdquo; I nodded slowly, clicking on the PDA. The image of the dark cell appeared, with the prisoner strapped to a lone metal chair inside. Upon studying it more, realization hit me, and everything stopped. I knew that face.