Last chapter was short (and aren't most of my chapters thus far?), but I think we get to finally have something a little exciting happen. No, sorry, ain't MCU plot, just another life lesson chapter for our protagonist, but I'm hoping it will be exciting for you readers! The real exciting stuff I suppose will start in two or three chapter away, but until then, this stuff is gonna take up most room here.
Just so you guys know, I had to look through a bunch of youtube videos and some wiki links to do the lazy research of the next step to our protagonist's need in surviving. There will be mistakes abound, so read at your own risk! Enjoy the next chapter!
Disclaimer: MCU belongs to Disney and Marvel Studios/Comics, I only claim ownership over my Original Character(s) and a little bit of the plot!
Warning: Language, Violence, Adult Content, possible Triggers (there will be heads-up for these things), and whatever comes to mind.
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ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀ sρïdєя-ωσмαη
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I caught a huge break in the guise of a cook.
Waiting for another bus to make a drive through Maryland (brushing dangerously close to DC) and Pennsylvania which would take me straight to the state of New York, I stopped at the sight of a distressed-looking plump Hispanic woman with four children running around and seemingly driving their mother to hysterics. In her shaking arms was what looked to be a heavy ice chest, and she was snapping rapid Spanish at her children being a nuisance with all their running amok. Hesitant to approach, but feeling awful the longer I watched the scene, I quickly hurried over to her and took hold of the other side of the handle, slightly relieving the heavy hold she had.
"Gracias a Dios," the woman heaved a great sigh, giving me a tired small with small beads of sweat coming down her forehead. "Thank you, mija."
"No problem," I shook my head, following after her while tugging my suitcase along. The ice chest wasn't heavy for someone like me, but I pretended to struggle a little none-the-less to make the picture more convincing. "You heading somewhere?"
"Sí," the woman nodded after waving away one toddler that was tugging incessantly on his mother's shorts. "I have to take this to my younger brother, who is waiting at the next block, to deliver the meat to his BBQ shack he has up in New Jersey."
"Why couldn't he meet you here? Why isn't he helping you?" I asked.
"He got held up by his boss because the truck he's using is for business only, and his boss is also un pendejo!" the woman spat, clearly not on good terms with this boss person she spoke ill of.
"What a jerk," I remarked, earning a small laugh from the lady next to me.
With quick time, we made it to a small restaurant that smelled of mouth-watering ingredients looming over in the air, and as we approached, a man, almost a plump as the woman carrying the other end of the huge ice chest, meet up halfway. The brother—I guessed—froze when he saw me. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, a lightning strike of fear bolted down my chest and spine, and I wondered if this was where I was founded out. But then—
"Hey~, chica..." there was a leer in his face as he greeted me.
Of course, I thought with a blink and a sudden wash of relief, I was just a pretty face for him to admire. After that trip in the cosmetic shop, I visited a local library that allowed free computer use for a limited amount of time, and I observed carefully of the makeup tutorial videos and beauty techniques from the internet and Youtube. I tested my looks when I went out, I occasionally interacted with a few people to build up my confidence, and I went inside bars to work my new charm on distracted patrons. It was difficult trying to not panic when some drunk came to close or got aggressive, but I had to remember that I was not some weakling or helpless girl.
I was a woman of power, I was a blooming flower, and I was a poison painted petals to ward away filthy hands that sought to pluck me.
Easily enough, with my oblivious attitude that had men underestimating me, I was winning their money through their drinking games and challenging them to dartboards. With my charms and finance boosting, I was killing two birds with one stone. I visited different pubs and they all were pretty much the same, and like all the other places, I was painting a target on my head because the men that challenged me lost their humor from them losing their money.
Which was why I found it a good idea to split now before somebody followed me back and went to seek revenge for having lost to a doe-eyed hustler. Hey, if they were such sore losers about it, they didn't have to waste all their money trying to win back their fragile masculinity after losing to me in every round they challenged me. Whatever, I was the one who walked away with pockets full of Benjamin's.
"Miguel, behave," the woman snapped, irritated from the sweat and long haul she had to make to deliver the meat. "Here's your carne."
"Sorry, sorry," Miguel huffed, coming to my side and grabbing the handle. "I'll take this, thank you."
"Here, miss," I went to the woman's side after Miguel took my handle, wanting to relieve the load on the older woman. "I'll take it for you. You must be tired."
"Oh, gracias mija." she sighed in relief, finally letting go while Miguel and I carried the ice chest towards the back of a pick up truck.
"You're strong, chica," Miguel grinned at me, his skin was darker than his sister's as she was a bit lighter, but I caught a few similar traits between the siblings. Same eyes, same nose, and same cheeks. "You work out?"
"Yeah," I nodded, pulling up the ice chest to the back bed of the truck.
"Monica never mentioned you, I would have love to met you sooner." I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes at his obvious attempt to flirt with me, and thankfully he did not take it as an insult.
"I watched your sister struggle to carry this here by herself, so I invited myself to help."
There was a flash of genuine guilt on his face, but before he could act or say anything, a hollering voice from within the restaurant reached our ears, and our heads turned to find a man walking towards us. He was older than the woman, Monica, with his faded blond hair turning white, and his skin a bit on the pale side, and dressed in a somewhat professional manner that did not overwhelm him of the heat going on.
Just like Miguel, the older man paused and I felt nothing but disgust when those pale eyes rolled over to my legs, to my waist, taking their sweet time until those laser-focused eyes landed on my face. I raised a single brow at the lech, face blank but my eyes expressing my displeasure. Sure, Miguel did something like that, but he wasn't being a total sod like this bastard standing in front of us was. I now know why Monica was all claws and teeth when she spoke of her brother's boss.
"Mr. Connelly?" Miguel spoke, thankfully interrupting the staring. "I got the meat, so I'll—"
The old man snorted, "You really think a business will go well for you, Mike? Don't kid yourself."
Miguel stiffened up next to me, and I just glared hard at the old man's head, hoping it would combust or something.
"You need to wake up and face reality, ohm-bray, because without any hire help out there, you're business will be over before it even starts."
Now I was outright gawking like a fish at the fart's open racist and demeaning trash talk he was dishing out to Miguel. Instead of going for my first instinct of walking up to the absolute bastard and slugging him good, I paused when I heard two words: hired help.
"Are you offering jobs?" I whipped towards Miguel.
The short-haired man jerked, eyes wide like a startled deer. My question was out of nowhere, but he straightened himself out when he realized that there was a possibility of showing up his boss who was humiliating him.
"Hey honey, if you're looking for a job, I got an open spot ri—" the old cock strode towards me, but I struck a hand out towards his chest without touching him, and the older man halted in his approach to look down at my open palm.
"Excuse me, I wasn't talking to you." I spat at him before returning my attention to Miguel. "I'm actually looking for a job. What does this business of yours entail?"
"I-I'm a cook." Miguel stammered but coughed to compose himself quickly. "I'm starting a restaurant over in Ocean County. I got two other people, but yeah, I do need some more hired help."
"I'm good at working behind the cash register, remembering orders, and I can mop and sweep the place." I told Miguel, hoping that this would impress him enough to consider it.
He didn't even hesitate. "Hey chica, if it means getting more help, you're hired."
The strangled sputtering coming from beside us made Miguel and I break out into positively devilish grins. My light skin clashed against Miguel's darker tone as our hands clasped together in a professional handshake. I could hear Monica giggling madly somewhere in the background, finally seeing an upside in her bad day when she witnessed the racist bloke being dismissed.
"I hope you don't mind if I tagged along with the ride," I said, gesturing to my suitcase.
"No problem."
And that was how I landed myself a new job after Spain.
(soclosesoclosejustalittlecloser)
Over three hours was how long it took, but I spent most of the time looking out the window, listening to music, and listening to Miguel.
Miguel Castillo wanted to start up a restaurant after his old man's own had been shut down. Financial issues were the worst, but moreso when it came to wanting to use all the money to help a sick child. Miguel's father didn't regret using all his money to save his youngest daughter, Miguel and Monica's baby sister who was in high school, but the son could never forget the sad look his father had when he closed his building for good.
With the family recipe holed up, Miguel followed his family's cooking techniques, worked in a variety of restaurants such as Chinese, Middle Easter, and Italian, and dipped a little in English (that one made me sit up a little in my seat), so he learned a lot of recipes over the years. Every day after school, he would go to work and earn some experience before going home to experiment in his mother's kitchen.
I laughed so hard I almost wet myself when Miguel told me of an incident about how he made such a mess in the kitchen that his mother pulled out the dreaded chancla.
It was around almost late in the noon that we reached Ocean County, and the city lights were twinkling with brightness as the night life started to come alive. We rode along the beach line until we had to go over a large bridge that led to the Barnegat Peninsula since the restaurant was somewhere at Seaside Heights, and I looked out to see the waves rising and clashing. The radio station eased down on the music and began the radio talk that reported weather and traffic conditions to anyone in the vicinity of the broadcast. And then the topic turned to the biggest head-turning discussion that made me look from the window and towards the dashboard where the radio was framed.
"Stark's Weapon Industries is being shut down! Like, holy crap, guys! That guy's lost it! He's really lost it!"
"Assholes," I muttered at the radio, glaring at it like I could pretend I was glaring at the person on the other side.
"You don't think Stark's insane?" Miguel asked, not in a manner that he was agreeing with everyone was talking about but more like he wanted to hear my opinion on the matter.
"No." I shook my head. "He... Like he said, he watched people die by the weapons he created. He was out there, taken in captivity by radicals, and he must have been through a lot in the last three months he was there. He saw things, Miguel. So when he escaped, when he got back home, what do you think he was going to do?"
Miguel was silent, eyes on the road, but I can tell by the daze in his eyes he was really thinking about my words rather than brushing them off like most people would do when in a political or social debate.
"And that stuff they're spouting about him losing his mind? Stark just watched his escorts get killed, he was taken hostage, possibly tortured. And what? Did they expect him to come home fine?" I scoffed, glaring at the radio when the talk host continued on with his ramblings. "When you enter a war zone, whether you're a civilian or not, it doesn't matter, situations like that don't discriminate: you end up coming out different after seeing and feeling horrible things done to you."
(ohyouknowthatdon'tyou?)
"What do you think's gonna happen to the military? Won't we start, I dunno, declining?" Miguel asked as he pulled to the next lane, and I saw that there was a massive boardwalk on the side that was connected to the beach shorelines.
"The US military has more weapons than most countries, so removing Stark Industries out of the equation won't dent it." I replied. "The military has more funds that if you remove even a small fraction of money, it would still continue to thrive without trouble."
"And... what about Stark Industries?"
I shrugged. "They're very technologically advanced than most other companies in America, so I wouldn't worry too much of the direction it might take. Stark's a smart man, he'll find something that could be beneficial for everyone and take off from there."
It took a moment for me to realize that Miguel was staring at me with surprise.
"You know a lot of stuff, don't you?"
It was a harmless rhetorical question, but it still made me freeze up a little. I hoped I didn't give away too much. Thankfully, because we were at a red light, a car behind us honked and Miguel jumped when he saw the light had turned green and that he was holding up the lane behind him. The sun already ducked in the horizon of the west by the time we arrived to Miguel's restaurant, and we both hopped off the truck to get both my suitcase and the ice chest off the back bed. In no time, the meat was placed inside the establishment and I took my time to scan the place with a critical eye.
The restaurant was placed between the streets and the boardwalk that led to the beach, so two entrances for people to go through when wanting eat, and it was in a sort of style that was like a bar and grill place. There was wooden benches, but there was also tables that had two wooden high chairs for people who just wanted to keep mostly to themselves. There was also booths against walls that could be used for families that wanted to keep away from the crowd to cause less inconveniences if their children went wild. The ceiling was high but it had a couple of fans spinning to keep the air in here cool for customers from the heatwave coming outside during daytime, and at the very corner of the entire place was the kitchen.
Miguel showed me the machines he purchased through his money, and the dishwasher, and the supply closet where there was stored items such as cleaning supplies, another storage where we placed the ice chest full of meat in with the rest of the food supply stored inside. Then he showed me where there was an upstairs that led to an office.
"This is neat, I like it." I said, giving the entire place an appreciative look.
"Yeah, this place won't open up 'till Monday though," Miguel informed me. "I gotta go back to Virginia to drop off the truck and then catch a bus ride back here."
I just nodded, still looking around and taking the beautiful view of the beach where several lamp posts were illuminating the path for people walking by.
"Hey, I never actually got your name." I blinked, also feeling surprised myself.
In all the months I had been here, no one actually asked for my name. And... it had been such a long time since I said it out loud.
(alreadyforgettingwhoyouarelittleflower?)
"My name is—"
(theywillfindyoutheywillcatchandtheywillkillyou!)
"Anemone."
I inhaled shakily, a crack in my perfect mask as I spoke.
"My name is Anemone Wakefield."
I was a woman of power, I was a blooming flower, and I was a poison painted upon petals to ward the evil that sought to take me.
On the way here, I decided to stay low and slow down on the road to Manhattan. Those people were on my tail, there was no doubt, and if they were the clever bastards I knew they were, they could be waiting for me in New York. Those agents had been sent to kill Richard and Mary Parker, and it would come to their attention that there was an extra passenger who was not suppose to be on the plane. With the near miss back in Spain, and the the Richards having also come from the country, the dots would be connected and they would be waiting for me.
So I had to keep my head down, play normal for a little while, try to immerse myself before taking off again. Besides, I thought as I parted ways from Miguel in order to find a cheap motel for me to hole up in, I needed to learn how to cook. Box dinners did not count. It would benefit me, this job, in watching the cooks prepare food to serve for the customers. Miguel had years of experience, and I hope he would be kind enough to teach me should there be time between serving customers and keeping the place squeaky clean.
Here's to hoping that Miguel won't ask for my non-existent social security number or my identification since I have none of those on me.