Title: Wednesday's Child
Author: Mars Carter
Rating: T (possibly M later on)
Pairings: Napoleon Solo/OFC, Gaby Teller/Illya Kuryakin
Summary: "Are you satisfied with an average life?" No. She isn't. So when the CIA tries to recruit Irene Acosta for their new women's program, she agrees. And when they give her a mission in Istanbul, she agrees. But then they tell her that she's working with a team-one East German, one KGB agent, and one American-and Irene isn't so sure about the extraordinary life anymore.
Warnings: Violence, sex, mentions of rape in the past, attempted sexual assault, etc. If there are warnings specific to a chapter, I'll list them at the beginning.
A/N: This is the first TMFU fic I've written. It's Napoleon/OC, and while there are no canon characters in this chapter or the next, it'll pretty much revolve around them and my OC once they're introduced.

Prologue

" I have nothing in this place for me." -The Neighbourhood

Irene is a name that means "peace."

Which is ironic, considering.

The year is 1951. Irene Acosta is working as a waitress in a trashy little diner along a Florida highway. She looks white. She looks American. She looks perfectly innocent.

What the customers that enter the diner don't know, is that the hands serving them their sandwiches and milkshakes are the same hands that have killed six men. The hands that she wipes the table with are, in reality, filthy with the blood of six men.

But that was then. This is now.

Then was Cuba; then was her father and a gun waved around carelessly; then was home; then was the night stars she used to make wishes on. But then was also snapped necks and bruised jaws, and large, large hands running up her body. Hands that should not have been there, and were later cut off.

But that is no more.

Now is America; now is enduring the men who seem to think that slapping her ass will make her like them; now is the dumb little hat and the skirts and the heels; now is where her father is no more; it's cash under the table by a manager not asking questions; it's a tiny apartment with another woman. But now is also freedom; now is no more guns, no more men trying to get revenge on her for what she's done to them. Now is hope.

So Irene works. She serves privileged teens their milkshakes and sleeps on the floor when that's done. And when the morning comes, she'll repeat.

But her hands still have blood on them. It seems like they always will.

1957.

A lot has changed.

Irene doesn't wear the skimpy dress or the stupid hat anymore. She wears beautiful clothes, and lots of jewelry.

She doesn't understand why people are so desperate to rise above the middle class. Can't they see how wonderful life is? Can't they see how beautiful their rings are, how nice it is to be able to eat three times a day? How great it is to wear nice dresses and curl their hair?

Can't they see how lucky they are?

At night, she lies in bed with a man named Drew. He's got light hair and blue eyes, and he comes home smelling of perfume that isn't Irene's, but she doesn't care. As long as he keeps paying for her food and her house and her, she's happy.

Until she isn't. 1961.

Her accent has almost entirely faded, but Irene can still speak Spanish.

She's befriended the women on her block. They sit and gossip and get their hair done together, and sometimes they ask her when she and her husband will have children, and Irene wants to tell them the truth. She wants to say that she doesn't love her husband and he doesn't love her either, but instead she just smiles pleasantly and goes, "We're trying."

That satisfies them.

Satisfaction.

By 1961, she understands their need to claw their way up to the upper class. Well, she understands some of it.

Irene doesn't get the need for more money. Why do they need more money? They've got too many pairs of shoes to wear in a week. They've got hair done nicely only to stay home all day. She doesn't understand the need for more luxuries.

But she does understand the boredom. Waking up at six a.m., cooking breakfast, cleaning the house, having lunch with Susan or Cheryl or some other woman from the neighborhood, drinking a glass of wine, cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, bathing, going to bed. It's all a routine. It's so boring. An endless cycle of serving a man and not getting thanked. Her life is so damn dull.

It's a Sunday in June when something in the universe shifts.

Irene is walking to church, briefly remembering how, at six, she'd wished on a star for an extraordinary life. Her heels click against the sidewalk. To her left, Stacy is gossiping about Lucille's husband while Mary whispers viciously back to her. Irene doesn't quite understand—these women are all friends, aren't they?

They arrive at the chapel, where a group of blondes harmonize songs about God and other things that Irene doesn't believe in. She feels much like the children in the pew across from her—only, she doesn't get to squirm around and kick her feet back and forth and close her eyes. She only gets to sit.

After what feels like an eternity, she makes her way down the aisle. People must notice how bad she is at…well, religion. Irene is constantly late, and usually leaves as soon as possible. Her donations are small, she never closes her eyes during prayer, and not once has she gone to confession.

Even God can't wash away the blood lodged underneath her fingernails.

Sunday mornings after church, Irene gets a pastry from one of the bakeries nearby. Then, she heads home to check on her husband—he's usually hungover on Sundays—and spends the remainder of the day reading. Or sometimes, if she's sure Drew is asleep, she'll lie on the carpet in the living room doing sit ups and push-ups. If Drew didn't come home Saturday night, she'll practice swinging a knife around in their bedroom, where there are no windows facing the street.

But this Sunday is not an average Sunday. As Irene steps out the church's doors, she spots two men standing off to the side. They suddenly stop their conversation to look up at her. Irene expects them to turn back to each other almost immediately, but instead, they head towards her.

Both the men are handsome. One has glasses and he's wearing a sharp looking suit; the other has slightly disheveled hair and he's skipped the jacket. Irene can't blame him—it's hot out, and her skin craves shade. She convinced Drew to buy more fans recently, which is good considering the rapid temperature rise.

The one in the glasses intercepts her path. Irene gives him a small smile. "Um…hello."

"Hi, Mrs. Reynolds."

(Irene didn't want to change her name.)

The man continues. "I'm Johnny Weaver, with the CIA. This is my partner, Robert Rhodes."

Her first thought is they've found me. They're going to send me back, and the other ones will be there waiting for me. They'll be waiting to kill me.

She imagines that her face looks terrified at the moment, but she doesn't quite know what to do about that.

"Would you mind walking with us for a moment?" Weaver requests.

Irene nods slowly. "Sure." She's still wearing her frilly church clothes, and they're growing increasingly uncomfortable in the heat. But Irene walks with the two strange men in suits anyways.

"Mrs. Reynolds, I'm going to start off by saying that we're aware of your past."

There's a pang of panic in Irene's gut, and she winds back her purse so that she can hit him and escape.

Rhodes grabs onto her wrist and holds it at her waist. Irene twists her arm around until he's forced to let go, and then she tries to hit him again, grunting as she swings her fist forward.

"Wait!" Weaver says, holding up a hand. "You're not in any trouble, Missus. The opposite, actually."

Irene stops struggling for a moment, but her hands are still balled into fists. Prepared to fight back if she needs to, but not quite on the offensive.

"We're aware of your skillset, and we'd be interested in recruiting you."

Irene shakes her head, sure that this must be a joke. Things like this don't just happen. People don't just recruit people for the CIA. Especially not women. "I'm a woman, though," Irene insists.

"Listen, let's sit down, I can explain all the details to you, my partner can let go of your wrist, and we'll pay for your lunch."

Narrowing her eyes at him, Irene grits her teeth. "Fine."

Twenty minutes later, they've arrived at one of the bakeries. Irene sits on the outside chair, easiest to escape from. The two men don't object, so either they're very stupid, they aren't a threat, or they think they can take her out even if she has an advantage. "You'd work as a field agent," Weaver explains. "Undercover ops, mostly, since people are less likely to suspect a woman."

"Are there other women working for the CIA?" Irene asks, brow furrowed. Her dark hair sticks to the back of her neck, despite the cool inside of the bakery.

Rhodes and Weaver look at each other before turning back to her. "No," they say at once. Rhodes continues, "The US did send a lot of girl spies into Germany during the war. Most of the ops were successful, so the CIA is interested in launching a small program for women. You'd be the first subject."

"Subject? What am I, a science experiment?"

The two men share another exasperated look, and Irene slouches in her chair. Posture is exhausting. She used to have a perfect spine, the habit instilled by her father's insistent you'll miss the target if you, yourself, aren't moving gracefully.

"Not a science experiment. But, if your training and mission go successful the program might grow."

Irene cocks her head to the side and folds her arms across her chest. "How do you gentlemen feel about women in the CIA?"

Weaver opens his mouth to talk, looking annoyed at her words, but Rhodes cuts him off. "It doesn't matter how we feel. We were given orders to recruit you."

Staring at the duo across from her, Irene begins to chew on her bottom lip, scraping away a bit of the already-fading lipstick. "I have a husband to take care of." No she doesn't. While Drew is a completely useless man-child, he had money and mistresses, and she was just a fixture to maintain a social reputation. There really was no reason to stay, except the fear of encountering the other ones again. Do big, scary men herd together like cows? Do they all know one another? Irene plays with the pendant on the necklace Drew bought for their five-year anniversary.

Weaver rolls his eyes. "Your husband is cheating on you with about a dozen different women." He pauses. Looks like he's bracing himself for a flooding of tears.

What he gets instead, is, "Don't you think I know that?"

"So you want to pick a deadbeat husband over a job opportunity?"

Irene shrugs. "He buys me things."

Weaver suddenly bursts out laughing. It sounds like he's having a heart attack or being strangulated. "Can't argue with that. I guess we should go. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Reynolds."

Rhodes stands up and starts to follow his partner to the exit. Before he goes, though, he looks Irene dead in the eyes and asks, "Are you satisfied with an average life?"

The words are like a blow to the gut.

Is this really her eternity? The perfect rectangular lawns and well are you pregnant yet? questions until she gives in?

Six-year-old her wanted something great. Something that was worth it.

Suburbia was not worth it.

Irene jumps out of her seat, the chair nearly toppling over. The bell rings fiercely as she yanks the door open and rushes out. "No!" she calls to Rhodey. "I'm not satisfied. I want the job."

Weaver smiles thinly. "Our flight leaves at fifteen-hundred. We'll pick you up at thirteen-hundred."