Leigh sat behind the counter on a stool, balancing its uneven legs as she stared intently at the phone screen. She held it sideways in her hand, one earbud in her ear, the other dangling freely from the place where both cords met. Today was a slow day for the flower shop. There hadn't been any special orders in the past few days, and there weren't many walk-in's either. Though, Leigh didn't mind the calm.

Cassandra, however, was restless. She worked tirelessly to rearrange the bouquets, wiping off the display tables and various shelves. Now, she pushed a broom across the concrete flooring and Leigh's eyes followed her along the width of the store. "Claire, that's the third time you've swept in two hours," Leigh spoke up, tugging the cord of her earbud to better hear a response.

"It's just always so dusty in here," Cassandra sighed, turning to push the broom back across the store. "Do we have a bucket? I think I might scrub the floor."

"Scrub the floor? Why on Earth would you do that?"

Cassandra stopped, thrusting an open palm out to gesture toward the murky gray beneath her feet. "It's disgusting! Who would wanna come in here when it looks like this?"

"Uh...okay," Leigh stared at her quizzically despite the normalcy of her tone. "I think there's a bucket in the back. Want me to get it?"

"No, that's okay, I got it."

Leigh's eyes followed her once more as Cassandra continued on her quest, pushing what little she'd swept together to a corner to rest the broom, before stepping into the back room. It was such peculiar behavior. Leigh had never seen Cassandra act so scattered, so obviously not alright. Although, this was Leigh's first shift in almost two months.

Before she left for a much-needed vacation, Leigh did notice Cassandra seemed a little down. But that had never manifested into a germaphobe-esque assault on the store. Leigh sighed and shook her head, plucking her earbud off her lap and reinserting it to continue watching the news. Today's episode of The Eddie Brock Report was centered on the Stark Industries warehouse explosion investigation.

Government officials had been spotted coming and going from Stark Tower while the security at the warehouse site was scaled up, with armed National Guardsmen in and outside the fenced facility. Across the board, it did not look good—but it was especially popular for those already critical of Stark's military connections. He claimed to have stopped selling weapons. So, then, why did the government care what happened to a warehouse? What was inside?

These were questions the lead journalist, Eddie Brock, was asking, filming outside the tall fence surrounding the torched warehouse. The building was still standing, though aerial photos taken by drone suggested the brunt of the fire was met by whatever was housed inside. Some on the internet theorized it was another weapon, others suggested things like UFOs and flying cars. Leigh wasn't sure how much of any of it she believed—if anything at all.

But the coverage had all but died out on every other network, all while new details were still coming to light. It was not surprising just how fast the story died. Leigh startled, wobbling on the uneven stool, at the sound of a loud clank. As she looked up from her phone, Cassandra was just coming back from the storeroom with a bucket of sudsy water and a scrubber.

"You know, I'm all for getting out some anger while being productive at the same time," Leigh said, sliding off the stool. "But you're gonna be on your knees all afternoon."

Cassandra lowered herself to the concrete, tucking her legs beneath her, and sunk her scrubber in the sudsy water. "It's fine, Leigh—it's not like we have customers waiting."

Leigh leaned into the counter, forearms pressing down on the countertop to peer over the edge at Cassandra, her phone and earbuds resting beside her elbow. "What's going on with you? Did I miss something?" she questioned, confusion and curiosity getting the better of her.

"No. I just feel like doing things, you know?" Cassandra shook her head, scrubbing the concrete in front of her. "I can't take all this sitting around."

It was then that their recurring customer, Phil, walked into the shop. Leigh stood upright and plastered on a polite smile—but confusion screwed her brows. She glanced to the left, to the small calendar hanging near the register. Was it really Tuesday already? Or, was it Thursday? "Good afternoon, Phil. What brings you in today?" Leigh asked him. She ignored the oddity for the sake of a paying customer, turning her eyes back to him as he approached.

He came to stand two feet from Cassandra, still on her knees in front of the counter. "I was in the neighborhood and had a question about flowers, thought I'd stop by and ask one of my favorite florists," Phil replied. Then, he peered down at Cassandra. "You look pretty busy down there. Would you mind if I bothered you for a minute?"

Cassandra looked up, sitting back on her heels. "Um, no, of course. What's your question?"

She pushed herself up from the concrete and dusted off the knees of her jeans. Phil sidestepped, turning halfway before gesturing a hand toward the door. "Walk with me," he instructed, casually, before walking toward the door. Cassandra looked to Leigh questioningly. Though, Leigh had as many answers as Cassandra did. Another behavior on the list of odd things Leigh had seen today.

But, Leigh simply shrugged. They knew Phil fairly well at this point. He never gave any indication he could be harmful—however, just in case, Cassandra told herself she wouldn't go farther than the corner. Humoring him, she followed him through the door of the shop and down the sidewalk to the right. "I'm sorry this is so sudden, but we have reason to believe you may be in danger," Phil suddenly spoke, abruptly stopping two stores away.

Cassandra stopped quickly so as not to run right into the back of him. "You- what?" she questioned, features knitting, perplexed but the odd words. "Who is 'we'?"

"My name is Agent Phil Coulson, I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," Phil dug a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, before unearthing a badge. He held it open to her for viewing as he continued, "Your brother, Clint Barton, is an agent as well. He's been compromised, and is currently missing. We need to bring you in to assure your safety while we track him down."

Her heart dropped, sloshing her stomach, and she fought to swallow. The badge looked ridiculously real. Though, what he said about Clint was much more concerning. Clint told her he worked a government job that kept him away from home a lot. It required travel, he'd said. And was very top secret. "What happened? Why is he missing?" she quickly asked, tongue tripping over itself to get each word out as they spilled from her lips.

Phil tucked his badge back into his suit jacket pocket. "I'm afraid I can't share many details with you right now, but we don't believe him to be injured. It's standard procedure to bring in any pertinent friends or family for safety."

"B-but- the store-"

"You're feeling sick. You're going to take the rest of the day off," Phil instructed her calmly. "Meet me here, outside, and I'll escort you to your apartment for an overnight bag. Then we'll get you to a safe location."

Cassandra wrapped her arms around herself as shuffled back a step, eyes wary as she began to fill with worries. This didn't seem right. What if this was somehow connected to the warehouse? What if they'd discovered it was her, and this was simply a ruse to get her into custody? Her apprehension visible, Phil swallowed thickly—but he remained otherwise calm. "I'm sorry- why should I trust you? This all sounds real, but I don't know you. How do I know you're not just a well-educated stalker?" she questioned him.

"Cassandra Barton, twenty-four, daughter of Harold and Edith Barton—younger sister to one of our best agents, Clint Barton. A mutant with powers of teleportation. Pardoned in two-thousand-seven for crimes such as murder and domestic terrorism. A stalker couldn't know half of this information without government affiliation."

He spoke almost robotically. Repeating something memorized, she assumed—though, it was the mention of those specific details that ran a shiver down her spine. Why would he bring up these things, and not others? Was it truly just to prove a point? She felt so paranoid, appendages trembling against the sudden anxiety. But there was one part of his statement that caught her attention in particular.

Agent Coulson only listed off one ability. Did the government somehow not know, or was he simply uninformed? Either way, it could work to her advantage should this be a snare. So, she nodded, and inhaled deeply. "Okay, just...give me a minute."

He nodded in return, and she turned on her heels. It was all so sudden, the timing and substance maddening. But she played the part well. Her feet carried her back inside the shop, visibly exhaling with drooped features, a hand resting on her hip. Leigh perked up at the counter, elbows atop the glass. "So? What did he want?" she asked, more than a little intrigued.

"Oh, it was nothing—his wife has a begonia that's not doing well, so I gave him some tips to bring it back," Cassandra lied through her teeth, coming to stand at the counter. "You know, I'm actually not feeling very well. I don't know what's going on with me today."

"Really? Oh, I'm sorry. You know what? Take the day off," Leigh sat upright, tilting her head sympathetically.

Cassandra looked apologetic. "Are you sure?"

"Of course—go take a soak in the tub and get some sleep. Hopefully, you'll feel better tomorrow," Leigh said. "I can handle the shop today."

"Thank you so much, Leigh. You're too good to me."

Cassandra's features remained drooped as she shuffled to the back room, forcing herself to slow down. It would be hard to sell the act if she ran in and out as though she were in perfect health. Though, the urge to do so was overwhelming. She gritted her teeth as she slung her purse on her shoulder and grabbed hold of her bike, before walking it through the store to the exit. She thanked Leigh again to further sell it.

But Leigh had seen something wrong with her already—the sudden ill feelings were no surprise to her. No, they simply made sense. It connected dots across the odd behavior of the afternoon to form a solid picture in her mind that kept her calm and unsuspecting. Cassandra walked her bicycle outside and down the sidewalk where Coulson still stood. He turned to walk with her, the pair moving somewhat quickly along the concrete.

Cassandra's skin crawled, her eyes flickering around, taking note of every detail, sound, and passerby as she traveled. There was no chance that she'd put trust in this man. He seemed polite and respectable, but even the idea of him working for the government put a sour taste on her tongue, coloring her positive view of him with negativity. "I'm sorry this is all so sudden," Coulson spoke as they rounded the street corner. "I know you must have a lot of questions—they'll all be answered once we get in the air."

"'The air'?" she repeated the words, raising a skeptical brow.

"It's the fastest way of transport. It's perfectly safe."

"You're a government employee—nothing about you is safe."

It was then they reached Cassandra's building, and she didn't hesitate to heft her bike and take to the stairs, leaving Coulson to follow her in his own time. She carried the bike up to her floor and set it down, rolling it to the door as she dug a hand into her purse. Shaky fingers retrieved the keys and fumbled them into the lock before entering the apartment. Coulson stayed a few steps behind to allow her some space, remaining just inside the apartment so as not to violate privacy.

He wasn't there to search her things—only to escort. But, still, Cassandra kept an eye on him as she hurried into her bedroom at the end of the hall. She hadn't quite unpacked her duffel since visiting Clint. It sat slumped on the floor at the foot of her bed, half beneath the bed skirt, with folded clothes still inside from months prior. So, she plucked it from the floor and added a few things—just enough shirts and bottoms to cover the leather beneath it all.

Then some toiletries, a phone charger, and extra shoes to fill the empty spaces. There was no telling what she would be up to now, what she would be getting herself into with this. She packed for the obvious but also the unexpected just in case. Once it was zipped up, she pulled the strap over her head, the bag against her hip, and walked quickly to the front of the apartment. "All set?" Coulson asked, at the door.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Follow me, please."

He turned and exited the apartment, and Cassandra followed him to the stairs. A lump of nerves bundled in her throat as they ascended the steps toward the roof. It was a strong sense of deja vu, bringing her mind back to images, memories of her trip to Clint's. They took the same stairs, gone to the same roof. And, just as before, there was a quinjet. It was cloaked, revealed as the bay door lowered to allow them access upon reaching the roof.

Cassandra's fingers tightened around the strap of her duffel bag where it crossed her chest, but her feet continued to move. If this was all true and something had happened to Clint—what was a little air travel in comparison? If he was in trouble, she would simply have to deal with it. There wasn't much getting around it. Still, the two thoughts of he needs you and but I'm terrified tossed around inside her head with vigor, building pressure between her eyes.

Coulson lead the way up the ramp and into the quinjet. It was a lot like the one Clint had used, though a bit smaller. And, this time, there were two pilots and a third passenger, a man sitting in the seats along the left wall. He stood as the pair entered from the roof, looking on with a simultaneously curious and confused expression. Cassandra's feet froze as her eyes finally found him. Steve Rogers. He looked just as the news had pictured him. Just as he was all those years ago.

"Ma'am," he nodded in greeting.

"What the fuck is this?" she questioned, turning to look at Coulson, who had taken a seat along the opposite wall near the cockpit. "Why am I on a plane with Captain America?"

"Please, have a seat, and I'll explain what I can," Coulson gestured to the empty seats beside him.

Begrudgingly, Cassandra pulled her duffel over her head and sat it at her feet, lowering herself into a seat near the center of the right wall. Steve returned to his seat across the small expanse of the craft as the ramp began lifting to close. "The trouble your brother's mixed up in requires a little extra man-power," Coulson told her. "We asked Captain Rogers to help out. I'd suggest putting on your seat belt."

Her hands worked to pull the straps of her seat over her shoulders, fumbling with the clip in the center of her chest, but she barely took her eyes off Coulson. "Why can't you tell me what the hell is going on?" she asked, frustration coating her words as she wrapped her arms around her frame.

"I'm sorry I can't give you more information—I'm not at liberty to disclose any of the details yet," Coulson apologized.

He signaled to the pilots that all passengers were ready a moment before the craft lifted, and Cassandra's hands shot to her buckle, fingers wrapping tightly around the straps. It was a knee-jerk reaction—but it was enough for Steve to notice. He eyed her curiously, in thought. Coulson hadn't told him just who they were picking up, only that they needed to round up one more person before heading to base. It wasn't too out of the ordinary or unreasonable to do.

Though, Cassandra looked like an average civilian. The way she spoke, appeared clueless, didn't help convince him otherwise. "Afraid of flying?" he inquired, speaking up a little to be heard across the space. Small talk wasn't his greatest skill, but he knew it helped break social ice—and, by the look of it, there was a lot to break.

Cassandra's eyes glanced in his direction, but ultimately remained on the floor. "I've had some bad experiences."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, it's the safest way to travel."

"It doesn't," she looked up, offering a closed-mouth smile—a small indent of cheeks. "But, thanks."

"I'm Steve Rogers," he introduced himself. These days, Steve wasn't sure who knew his name and who didn't. So, just in case, he always introduced himself anyway. It felt almost arrogant not to. As though he expected people around him to know who he was simply because he existed. It felt wrong.

Cassandra exhaled heavily through her nostrils in an attempt to quell the nausea threatening the integrity of her stomach. "Cassandra Barton. Cass is fine."

Even when it was safe to unbuckle, Cassandra remained in her seat, hands wringing in her lap. Anxiety and stress brought heat to her hands, pooling beneath the skin of her palms. There was so much to think about, so much to worry over, all of it colliding in her gut as the jet neared its destination. But as the craft landed atop the runway of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier, it all started to reverse.

It felt as though she were covered in a warm blanket of calm. The blood in her veins began to cool, stilling the tremble of her hands, and her fingers peeled away from each other. Though, it didn't feel entirely unnatural. The wave of peace and, therefore, confidence that crashed against her spine was somehow from within. She unbuckled and stood from her seat before pulling her duffel bag's strap back over her head.

Something felt just a little wrong. A little off. Then, she felt it—a pulsating numbness at the base of her skull. Charles. The sensation was unmistakable. The professor had probed her mind a handful of times she was aware of, many more before she learned how to sense it, and only some were genuinely helpful. Objectively, it was understandable he would join her now. She was terrified.

The possibilities of Clint being hurt and the government secretly waiting for the right moment to detain her were endless. On top of that, she'd just been in a plane. So, she wasn't as apprehensive as expected—instead, she let him watch, let him listen as she followed Coulson down the ramp of the quinjet. Steve was right beside her, the duffel bag on her hip creating a barrier.

Flight crew ran around seemingly at random, performing their duties to ready the helicarrier for ascension. The deck looked fairly busy. "Agent Romanoff," Coulson spoke, pulling Cassandra's—and now Charles'—eyes away from the chaotic hustle. A woman with starkly red hair strode up to the three of them, and Cassandra's shoulders tensed. Coulson continued, introducing the others, "Captain Rogers, Cassandra Barton."

Steve tipped his head. "Ma'am."

"Hi," Romanoff returned the nod, before looking back at Coulson. "They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face-trace."

Coulson promptly excused himself, walking quickly across the runway, and Cassandra's eyes followed him—but only for a second. Then, she was looking at Agent Romanoff with knitted brows, scrutinizing the neutral expression on the woman's face. "Who are you trying to find, Agent?" Cassandra probed for information.

"A very high-profile target. It's nice to finally meet you. Clint's talked about you a lot," Romanoff replied. She tipped her head to the left, silently gesturing as she began walking, and Cassandra found herself following without a second thought. Though, she wasn't sure just who was following.

Cassandra tightened her fingers around the bag strap, blood pumping a little faster at the mention of her missing brother. "You work with my brother?" she asked the redhead. "What's happened to him?"

"Well, in simple terms, he's being mind-controlled. Forced to do some bad things," the agent explained the predicament, however vaguely.

"Doctor Banner," Steve suddenly spoke, stepping around the two women. He approached a dark-haired man in semi-formal attire. Banner, as he'd addressed him, was visibly nervous. Eyes darting from plane, to passing soldier, to flight deck crew—turning on his heels quickly to eye each thing skeptically. Although, his reaction to it all was rather understandable, given his past interactions with the government.

And, to Cassandra, it was more than relatable. The sight of all of it up close was overwhelming. Banner turned quickly as he heard his name called, mouth curving up at the edges in a casual, closed-mouth smile. "Yeah, hi," he held out his hand and Steve didn't hesitate to shake it. "They told me you'd be coming."

"Wish I could say the same," Cassandra mumbled the words beneath her breath, barely audible above the wind.

"Word is you can find the cube," the Captain commented.

Banner clasped his hands before him as he took a quick, anxious look around. "Is that the only word on me?"

"Only word I care about," Steve replied. Then, he turned to bring Cassandra into view. "This is Cassandra. In all honesty, I'm not sure why she's here."

Cassandra stepped forward, shuffling up beside Steve in order to follow suit, holding out her hand. Banner shook it as his eyes scrutinized her, just as she had done to Agent Romanoff moments ago. "Cass is fine. I don't know why I'm here anymore either," she confessed, with a gentle shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh...that's unsettling, isn't it?" his voice was sarcastic, though laden with anxieties. "I'm Dr. Bruce Banner—Bruce, is fine."

The name sounded familiar, but not to her. Images flashed before her eyes—glimpses of what felt so much like a memory—of trees, a field of grass, and a blue sky. Then came the horror of it all, the fear and the anger—so much anger. Green colored almost everything from the trees to the grass. She saw a flash of something else, a shade of green all its own. A mass of muscle on two legs, covered in sweat and grime, filled with pain and rage.

Cassandra blinked hard as she retracted her hand, allowing it to hang freely at her side—feigning a casual facade of calm despite the return of a light tremble. "You're gonna want to step inside in a minute," Agent Romanoff said, gaining the attention of the present three. "It's going to get a little hard to breathe."

It was then that the sudden pace change of the flight deck crew was noticeable. Everyone hustled a little faster, a voice over the PA ordering them to secure the deck. Cassandra's heart lurched into her throat, fingers clenching down hard on the strap across her chest, as her eyes darted across the expanse of the deck. "Is this a submarine?" Steve questioned, as he began taking absentminded steps toward the edge several feet away.

No, it's an aircraft.

The thought bounced into her mind like a rubber ball, flitting through too quick to catch—but she could feel it in her chest. It was true. Though, the men continued to hypothesize, Banner adding to it with a huffed chuckle. "Really? They want me in a submerged, pressurized, metal container?" They walked to the edge and peered over as the concrete deck began to rumble violently.

Strong wind gusts and ocean sloshing joined the loud sound of deck commotion and engines as the turbines broke the surface of the water, rising to meet the sides of the craft and lock into place. They whirred to life, creating a hellish whirlwind and air. "No, no—this is much worse," Banner corrected himself, shouting over the volume.

"If you'll all follow me..." Romanoff also shouted to be heard, but mostly to get the attention of the men at the edge—and she succeeded. Though, she wouldn't have to tell Cassandra twice. The redheaded agent lead the three outsiders inside, out of the harsh wind and noise, and it was somewhat of a relief. However, the fear was quickly replenished by the sight of armed guards along every hallway. They were stationed at entrances, exits, almost every doorway, and they passed by frequently.

It was worrisome, despite its understandability. Then, finally, they arrived at the bridge. Walking through the doors behind Agent Romanoff revealed a small hive of other agents, all sitting in front of screens on varying levels of flooring, stretching almost all the way to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the end of the room. The display was impressive—and vaguely concerning.

There was a table to the left, a few feet behind the Director's command center. Cassandra lowered herself into one of the chairs without hesitation as Steve went to the right, eyes scanning the room with a small gleam of wonder, and Banner rounded the left end of the table in his attempt to look around. Though, he stopped promptly at the sight of two agents blocking the way up a short set of steps, and turned away on his heels, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck.

Cassandra set her duffel down at her feet and leaned into the table, folding her right arm as her left bent up, fingers reaching to touch her temple. Her shoulders arched, folding inward to further hide herself, as she took a deep breath. Charles? she thought, her free hand curling into a fist atop the table. What's going on?

Do not be alarmed—they have no intention of harming you. Your brother is in fact in great danger. I'm unable to find his exact location, but he is working with someone you know-

"Are you alright?"

Charles' voice faded quickly from her mind as a foreign one entered her ears, causing her to glance up quickly. Mild irritation filled her chest. Though, when her eyes settled on a man with an eye patch and a dark trench coat hanging from his shoulders, something within her relaxed. "I'd be better if someone told me what the hell was going on," she answered him honestly, readjusting in her seat to better see him.

"Well, allow me to enlighten you. My name is Director Nick Fury. My apologies for all the secrecy," he replied, hands clasped behind his back at the wrists. "We didn't want to alarm you before it was necessary. However, the time has come—Agent Barton has been, in a sense, kidnapped. He's not acting under his own control. We're in the process of searching for him as we speak."

Cassandra sat back, folding her arms across her chest. "How did that happen?"

"He was helping safeguard something known as the Tesseract. It's power allowed someone not from our world to open a door to our facility, where he encountered the individual," the Director stepped forward then, reaching into a pocket inside his coat. His hand pulled out a set of photographs. Sliding them onto the tabletop near Cassandra, Fury added, "I'm fairly certain you've already met."

Her eyes drifted down cautiously, an eyebrow instinctively quirking in confusion upon hearing his statement. Then, her muscles tensed, stomach contents sloshing, and the skin of her face turned a ghostly shade of white. Careful, she reached out a trembling hand and pulled the photos closer. Each was a screenshot from surveillance footage, the dates and timestamps in the corner, along with the street addresses. And each one featured her face, accompanied by a tall and dark-haired man, the pair seen outside the doors of a familiar flower shop. Loki.