I work for the SSR, the Strategic Scientific Reserve, pushing papers, a glorified secretary. In another life, a different life, I helped in the effort to win the war, and in the process, lost my love. You know him as Captain America.
The boys at the office think nothing of a woman working at the next desk. This makes it possible for me to work undercover, glean information on a Mr. Howard Stark. Stark has gone into hiding after he was accused of selling deadly weapons of advanced technology. What the boys at the office don’t know is that I’m a double agent. I work to clear Stark’s name, but he didn’t leave me entirely alone.
Edwin Jarvis, his butler, with a secret past of his own, helps in our missions. This gentle man, good with a tea set and a duster, has turned into a partner, a friend.
I stand at the window. A gentle breeze brushes through into my bedroom, sending goosebumps rippling across my arms. I shiver in my night clothes and wrap my silk robe tighter around me. Night time is the hardest, when the heart has time to feel the heartbreak, the loss. It’s the one time I allow myself a few brief moments to think about him.
The tap of dress shoes click against the pavement below on the street. Outside of The Griffith, the boarding house for women where I rent a room and receive meals, the sense of mystery is thick in the air. With a gun in hand, lowered at my side, I peer down, hesitant, waiting. It could be a man out for an evening stroll, perhaps completely innocent.
I learned to suspect everyone.
“Are you coming or not, Ms. Carter? I daresay we don’t have all night.” Jarvis steps into the halo of light from a street lamp, his hat pulled low, but his sarcasm unmistakeable.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a dark suit, my hair pulled back in a low ponytail, I step out from The Griffith. “I hope it’s more than a late night tea. Though, it is a bit chilly.”
He lifts the brim of his hat, offering me the hint of a smile. “I believe I’ve found one of Mr. Stark’s inventions. Top secret, mind you. The Micro Mind Blaster. If one was to receive a hit from the blaster, their mind would be putty, the person at the mercy of the shooter.” He hesitates, as if not sure how much more to tell me. “Down at the old warehouse by the docks. Let’s go.”