A/N: Hey guys. I apologize for the super late update. Dealing with finals and such. But here it is! I hope you all enjoy, and please review so I can know what you guys think about what you're reading. Thank you and enjoy.
March 9th, 2012: Uptown C Platform at 14th Street Station, Manhattan
If you were to grab a handful of New Yorkers by the shoulders, you'd hear a handful of opinions about the Subway system. Some love, some hate, some hate it for the people, the smell, the peddlers… And some love it for it's bizarre culture.
But it seemed like a New York-universal opinion that the C train was, and still is, the worst train the the New York City transit system. Yes, even worse than the 6 at rush hour.
On this particular night, 1:30 a.m. specifically, Caroline, dressed in a faded blue and white waitress outfit and a black peacoat, and carrying a backpack that, without the added mass of the tote on her left shoulder, swallowed her willowy body, clamored on just before the doors closed at 14th street. She strategically took up a corner double seater, her body stretched on a diagonal, a protective layer for her turtle shell of a backpack, along with the tote, which had her normal clothes in it.
Of course, she hardly stood out, one exhausted college student who clearly just finished her second job, and now had to trek back to her college dorm. She sat amongst others with red rimmed eyes, though from the way that one gentleman with the jeans pulled past their boxers was twitching, it was easy to assume his eyes were a result of something other than tiredness and stress.
She had been waiting on the platform for 20 minutes, and had resorted to changing out of her low heels into her Doctor Scholl's flats. On top of exhaustion and irritation, she was in pain from the heaviness of her bags and standing in those awful uniform-shoes, and she had an exam on Monday.
She opened her shell-pack, and pulled out a textbook, MCB for the Common Age, which had been sandwiched between Mutant Studies: X-Genes vs. Non-X-Mutations, and a stack of ungraded exams. She began to leaf through it, eventually rummaging for Post-it Note strips. Stations passed, their appearances shifting in a wave-pattern, like looking at a landscape through heavy heat. 23rd, 34th, 42nd, 50th, 59th… and at the crux between 59th, Columbus Circle, and 72nd, the train squealed to a halt, and the lights flickered, blackness engulfing the car, and the two that hugged it, only to re-brighten moments later.
People, all who have shifted in the unexpected stop, righted themselves, a drunken girl in hooker heels clamoring to her feet, clutching her boyfriend's shirt-neck, and the possible druggie clutching his head, which he had smacked against a pole. It seemed like the only people in the car who hadn't become skewed in the surprising top were the girl, and a 30-something year old blonde male, with a squarish face and tinted sunglasses.
Who wears sunglasses on the subway… or this late at night as it is? she thought.
The lights flickered off again, and then almost immediately glowed again.
"We're sorry, we're currently delayed due to a disturbance on the train tracks ahead of us. We'll be moving shortly. We're sorry for the inconvenience."
There was a collective groan that harmonized throughout the entire train. The blonde woman glanced at her watch, her eyes screwing shut. She breathed and exhaled loudly, her thumb and forefinger pinching the top of her nose, before she went back to reading her textbook, her eyes flying across and down paragraphs, flipping pages at an unbelievable rate. One would assume she didn't absorb anything she read, but her eyes were filled with exhausted determination.
They stood at a standstill for 15 minutes. The speakers crackled, before a different voice was emitted, feminine, and non-recorded.
"We're sorry, there's a disturbance at 86th Street. The train will move as soon as the area is cleared and safe."
Her watch now read 2:15. Heinous.
She attempted to continue reading, but her mind her began to drift. Her eye were open a fraction of an inch as her mind became lucid. She wasn't sure how much time passed, but the train began to move, it's slow crawl rocking her to sleep.
Swarms of people crowded her. Professors, undergraduate students, customers, her boss, Mikey, Jer, Garrett, Aunt Jo, doctors, politicians, paparazzi. They seemed to form a tornado around her.
"Rory!"
"Caroline!"
"Miss Masters!
"Miss!"
"Ms!"
"Hey lady!"
"Lady!"
"Lady!"
Her eyes jutted open. A husky man in a MTA uniform stood before her. His eyes were yellowed, his hair oily, but wore a sympathetic look on his face.
We've all been there.
"End of the line. You need to get off."
Rory's eyes tried to focus, them looking through the window of the train car at the sign jutting out of the subway station's ceiling.
168th street.
6 stops and 52 blocks late.
"Sorry," her voice was filled with a bit back groan, as she shoved the textbook into her bag. Its heaviness had made her legs tingle as she stood, the impression of the impressive textbook marking her thin legs a fleshy pinkish-red. She collected her belongings, almost stumbling out of the car and onto the platform.
Her watch read 3:11. She was supposed to wake up in 3 hours for class.
Rory pondered actually skipping work, as her body seemed unable to hold herself up. She shuffled up the stairs and around, going halfway down to the downtown platform side, before stopping short.
The C rarely runs late nights.
"Fuck."
She stumbled up flights of the stairs, almost leaving the terminal before realizing that she could take the 1 back downtown to school, where her bed waited for her.
She waited another 20 minutes for the train, and time peeled away painfully, like trying to slowly remove a strip for waxing painlessly.
Sluggishly, she drifted from 116th street station to the apartment, one of a few specifically leased for Columbia's graduate students. She climbed 14 flights of stairs to the 7th floor, keys jangling from her fingertips, their twisted melody only giving her a headache.
She felt worse than she had ever felt from a hangover.
Reaching her apartment, a tiny studio, she gave up caring about decency as she flung open the door, just by flicking her eyes. It banged against the wall, the hinges shaking.
Too hard.
She winced, and opted to close it with her hands, though really, with the music blasting from above, how would anyone hear her?
She dropped her things, and stumbled to her bed, stripping down to her underwear as she went.
Rory meant to change into pajamas, really she did, but her bed just looked so inviting, with all of its ancient mattress-springs-stabbing-her-spin glory. She dropped, face first. With her last moments of awareness, she recalled not remembering to turn the lock before collapsing. As her vision faded, her eyes shifting with her head, eying the lock, 20 feet away. The lock turned effortlessly, clicking to alert her of safety. Her eyes then shuttered to a close, and she drifted.
That Same Morning, 4:29 AM: One Building Over
"Sir."
"Yes Agent?"
"I have a report on Masters."
Barton tried to keep his voice straight as he stifled a yawn. He dropped the binoculars to the ground; unnecessary to begin with, they were merely a precaution and possible aid. They fell to the ground, bouncing lightly off the side, and knocked over onto the Subway wrapper, which had pieces of iceberg lettuce and marinara sauce still stuck to it. the binoculars had knocked into a bottle of Arizona iced tea, sending the bottle rolling on the uneven floor to the other end of the room.
"Report then."
Barton turned away from the window, which gave a perfect view of an apartment on the 7th floor of the neighboring building, and slunk to the floor, his fingers running over the cover of the file next to him.
Filed: Agent Coulson
Updated: Agent Barton
Subject: Caroline J. Masters
Recruitment Assessment
"Subject has displayed small representation of earlier presumed abilities. Locked apartment door while being 7 yards from it. Lends proof to suspected telekinetic abilities, supporting suspicions put in place on May 17th of last year, the day of the Rogers incident and first day of his integration. Other proofs are noted in the file, as they have been reoccurring since October 23rd of last year."
"'Reoccurring' is not a word, Agent."
"Bite me, Phil." Clint puts a hand to his brow as he closes his eyes, jealous of Caroline J. Masters (or as her family called her: Rory - which made her sound like she was supposed to be a character on Gilmore Girls, because really, how do you get 'Rory' from 'Caroline'?), who is finally getting sleep, while he continues to be deprived of it. Phil Coulson's laugh emits tiredly through the receiver.
"What is your opinion of the subjects eligibility?"
"The evidence is slight, but we've gotten countless occurrences on hand. She's unregistered, but her family is clean in background."
"We might've found information on her through a private server."
Barton's eyebrow raises, while his eyes remain shut.
"Really?"
"An Xavier Institute. They've appeared on our radar before, seemingly benign but useful. They'll be looked into when needed."
"And does it help our case?"
"Exponentially. If what is documented is true, she'd be a beneficial asset."
"If this is known why am I still here, prepared to spend little to no time sleeping on a musty mattress instead of being back in my own apartment - or at least doing a more adventurous task than trailing some college chick?"
"We'll be moving in shortly. Continue shadowing her for the time being. Assets should be protected. She's not just 'some college chick.'"
"Roger that - wait, now that Rogers is in our system, does 'Roger' make things more complicated? Should I be more simplistic like 'got it?' Or should I go more Hollywood and be like 'over and out'?"
"Goodnight Agent."
"Serious questions here Phil."
"You need sleep Clint."
"By the sound of it, you do too, old man." He chided back, hearing a low yawn on the other end - making him want to yawn himself.
"Goodnight."
"Yeah," - click - "night Phil."
Having been hung up on, Barton stood up, shuffling over to the not-as-musty-as-he-described mattress, shedding clothes as he went. Collapsing, much as his stalkee had about 15 minutes ago, he propped himself up barely, as he scrolled to set an alarm.
"Three hours of sleep. Awesome." He mumbled, his eyes shifting to the empty pile of Redbull cans. Trailing overworked night-owls was the best.
He could only imagine what a piece of work she would be as a teammate, and Caroline J. Masters was his last thought as he fell asleep for a short snooze, just as she seemed to take up all of his time lately.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face, thinking of all the pranks he'd do to get back at her for these on-and-off trying weeks as he shadowed her, once they worked together.
Because of course, S.H.I.E.L.D always gets what they want.
A/N: Yess, finally an update done. This chapter was initally longer, and much of the ending of this one didn't exist, but I've been a bit stuck with the next part, and what I did have of the last part of this was lost when OpenOffice shut down. So this was born! I hope you enjoyed. Since I have at least a third of the next chapter done, it might actually be done by next weekend (last week of my senior year of high school, bring it on). Please review, and I'll see you guys next update.
