Los Angeles County General Hospital, Boyle Heights, Los Angeles, August, 1947

Dottie runs. Training and instinct entwined in a way that she needn't stop to get her bearings. She knows what she needs and how to get it.

She's out the doors. Down the steps. Through the parking lot. Across the street. There's an unattended Plymouth in the shade of a closed mechanic's shop. That'll be her getaway car. Dottie can smash the window on the passenger side, hot-wire it, and go.

Simple as that.

Dottie raises her arm, elbow, prepared to smash a hole to unlock the car.

"What are you doing?"

A small blonde woman stands on the driver side of the car. She wasn't there a second ago. Her accent was from the British Isles, lilting, lower class, and regional for sure. Dottie just couldn't place it.

"I ask you again, what are you doing?"

The woman now stands mere centimeters from Dottie, holding her arm. She could swear that the woman had not moved a muscle. Her face is a stony mask. Eyes large and upturned like a cat. And just as watchful. And alight with recognition

"Would you look at that! I do know you."

"You bitch!"

Dottie moves to wrench her arm from the woman's grasp, but finds herself on the sidewalk pavement, arm twisted behind her and a knee pressing down on her back.

"That was rather rude. Didn't your mother teach you better? I'd rather not do this the hard way," the woman says, rifling through Dottie's pockets.

The woman barely reaches her chin. Why does it feel like a bag of cement is sitting on her.

"Well look at that, you have a key. Naughty girl. HYDRA wouldn't like you losing such a precious thing. They don't give these out to just anyone," the woman continues with blithe indifference to Dottie's struggles.

"Let me go!" are the last words she got out before being struck and everything goes dark.

Peggy feels like she is watching a film. She's sitting down in a chair next to the nurse's station with a cup of water, aspirin, and ice for the growing goose egg. She's concussed, she's been told.

And maybe that's why she feels completely numb watching Jack Thompson's corpse be wheeled out under a sheet.

It hurts too much to think. It's like she's still had the wind knocked out of her. They were such fools. Running around like headless chickens. She lost the pin. The files may as well be gone for good. And Thompson's dead.

All for nothing.

Peggy becomes aware, eventually, of Chief Flynn's presence. He's chewing out Daniel, who's giving just as good as he's getting.

"Well maybe if we weren't being hamstrung and sent…"

"That's enough from you, Sousa! Carter!" Flynn snaps.

Peggy looks up, a little punchdrunk.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

If the situation were different, she'd have stood up and given Flynn what for. No. Not tonight. Not right now. She is tired, and hurt, and numb. The SSR will be closed down in a month. What's the point?

"Well?"

Well what? She's made enough enemies and burned enough bridges that no one in Washington in their right minds will ever hire her. She heard that Stewart Menzies still ruled the MI6 roost in London. The fire in her has dimmed. But it hasn't gone out yet. The embers are hot and could catch at any moment.

Burn it all down.

"Where do I send my resignation letter to?"

"What?" demands Flynn.

"I'm resigning, sir. If I'm going to be let go anyway, I want to do it on my terms."

"You're not serious?"

Peggy looks him straight in the eye but doesn't bother getting up. There's a certain power in the disrespect. "Ever since the war ended I have experienced nothing but one humiliation after another. I have been sidelined and ignored at the best of times. Openly mocked more than I could count. Been tasked with fetching coffee and lunches despite my record. Others have taken credit for my work. I've risked my life and yet I was barely treated with respect at the best of times. I've been called a slut and a traitor to my face. And yet I persisted. I persisted because I thought that someday, somehow, your lot would finally realize my worth."

"You're sounding rather ungrateful."

"Where do you want me to send my resignation letter? Or should I hand it to you personally?"

Flynn turns back to Daniel with a disgusted look. "So are you going to quit, too?"

"I don't know. I think she's got the right idea," he replies. "I've got a good feeling you weren't going to let us get those files back. Wouldn't be surprised if you're happy they're gone."

Flynn stalks off.

Peggy, Daniel, and Jarvis remain at the hospital until dawn. Interrogated by LAPD and the FBI. Same questions, round and round. Jarvis is the first to be let go. He insists on staying with her and Daniel until their questioning is done, but Peggy tells him that Ana is likely worried sick. They'll take a cab. He's a little disappointed, but agrees.

The sun comes up. Daniel hails a taxi. He initially gives the driver Howard's address. Peggy interrupts with Daniel's address in Los Feliz. He looks at her, eyebrow raised. She kisses him.

"I need somewhere quiet," she explains. I need comfort, too.

"That's fair," he replies. After a beat, he adds, "I'm gonna call Rose. Tell her to take whatever she thinks is necessary from the office and get her and Samberly to Stark's place ASAP."

She gives a tired, mirthless laugh, "Going rogue are we?"

Peggy rests her head on Daniel's shoulder, willing exhaustion to take her. But her mind still raced, going through questions, scenarios, retreading the events of the past few hours. Why did I see Michael and Roger Aubrey?

Stark Laboratory, Malibu, California

Jason Wilkes starts the morning with a coffee and writing down the readings of the gamma generator. Sometime later the bullet from Chief Sousa would arrive, and though forensics wasn't really his field, he'd take a look at it.

He turns on the radio, not really listening to the announcer's voice or the advertisements. Just to have something on so the lab isn't too quiet.

Since the Zero Matter left his body, he's been having strange feelings. Unsettling thoughts. The odd dream that sticks with him long after he's awake. It's like he's being watched. And whenever he looks behind, whoever's doing the watching seems to hide just beyond his peripheral vision.

There's a knot in his stomach that Jason tries to write off as hunger. The egg and toast just didn't last that long. The prickling sensation on his back and the hairs on his neck standing on end just unwarranted paranoia. Maybe a draft or cold air being pushed through the vents.

Jason.

He wheels around. For a split second the laboratory looks like a kaleidoscopic starscape. The moment he blinks, it's gone.

Looking down at his hands, Jason finds he's gripping the edges of the zinc countertop to the point of pain.

At least he's still here.

Polo Lounge, The Beverly Hills Hotel, Beverly Hill, California

The contact who got back to Howard the quickest and with the most reliable lead was one Howard wasn't really excited about. Not because he was particularly bad - one learned that everyone was unsavoury in the weapons business - but because Howard always found himself picking up the cheque for expensive lunches.

Sebastian Shaw was one of those upper class Englishmen who were more swashbuckler than gentlemen. Movie-star looks and suits that were just a tad more suitable to a gangster like today's blue pinstripe. His job at the British consulate was a jumble of words involving the trade attaché that hid his actual duties: spying. Specifically making sure Americans were giving preferential treatment to British commercial interests and that the Soviets stayed out of South America. Tin pot dictators loved their Prussian trained armies and Royal Navy knockoffs after all. Just as much as they loved American equipment.

"So old boy, trying to get back in the game I see," Shaw says after a few bites of his oyster pepper pan roast.

"I didn't 'leave' the game, I got benched."

"If you say so. Los Angeles is not the worst place to cool one's heels."

"Well I've heard that Malaya is nice this time of year."

Shaw looks up at Howard, blue eyes cold and conveying a stern rebuke. At the same time a waiter came to top off their drinks.

"Not a good time?"

The Partition of India's been a complete disaster, there's an open war in Palestine, and Malaya was looking to shake off her colonial shackles.

"If it comes to pass that Lord Mountbatten is found to be a dupe for the Soviets - he's too stupid to be a mole - I wouldn't be surprised." He takes a swallow of Haut-Brion. "No, it's not a good time for us. The Empire's been bled white. India was a done deal, but some would rather cling on to the past."

Howard gives a half laugh, "My mom used to say that 'the more you tighten your grip on something, the quicker things slip out.'"

"Wise words," and Shaw toasts the late Mrs. Adelaide Stark with his wine. "Right now the service is having a bit of an internal row. It's all York and Lancaster really. One side is rather hardline about fighting the communists. The other sees HYDRA around every corner."

Howard tops up the wine. Shaw's biggest weakness seems to be self indulgence. "Really?" Howard's got to keep this guy going. "When did this all start?"

"It's been brewing for a while, old boy. A lot of the anti-HYDRA crowd were the service's redheaded step-children to begin with*. Wartime recruits, and they were the field agents. Wouldn't call them friends to bolshevism, but they saw a greater threat from fascism. The hardcore served in the Balkans. And I don't know how much you know, Howard, but there were things, utterly vile things, done there by the local fascists* that even shocked the SS. Moscow Centre* looks positively reasonable by comparison. I doubt they've actually gone over that way. They often butted heads with Stalin's men. But that group traditionally worked with leftists and anti-establishment movements."

"And the anti-communists?"

"Old boys club. Upper class, public school, Oxbridge - though there's plenty among the Balkan group. Old school when it comes to spying. The sort of stuff we're doing; very mannered and gentlemanly. They are still furious about the Russian Revolution and think the cook and valet will stab them in the night given the chance."

"Jesus Christ," Howard leans back in his chair. He knows that that old boys club is very close to the old boys club that rules Washington and New York. And he knows about their pet Nazis as well. "So what happened? Some big blow out at service HQ?"

Shaw is once more digging into his oyster pan. He thinks a bit, "I don't know. I've been told to 'sit tight' while they sort out an administrative problem."

"And you don't believe that," Howard replies, leaning forward with interest.

"Not when a top secret laboratory went up in smoke back in March. The official story is that it was a terrible accident, of course."

"Of course. Let me guess, someone lit a cigarette around something flammable?"

"Pretty much."

"And the rumour?"

Shaw takes another sip of his wine, cautiously looking around. He puts down his glass, leans forward himself, placing a fist in front of his mouth, just in case someone is watching.

"They say Union Jack's gone rogue."

Howard's eyes go wide. No one throws that name around lightly in these circles.

"Why?"

"Lord knows. He was king of the Balkans, so one must assume some idiot went after him for that. In any case, a few well placed people in Washington and London very suddenly turned up dead. One's even gone missing."

"And you think that's all his doing?"

Shaw shrugs, "Who's to say. In any case London is spooked about something."

London's in turmoil, a perfect opportunity to make a few files disappear.

Shaw glances down at his watch, "Well look at the time." Howard flags down a waiter, asks for the check, and hopes they'll go Dutch. Maybe his luck will win out and Shaw will pay for the entire meal.

"Are you still interested in Isodyne, by chance?"

"Perhaps. They've got some patents I'm interested in. And I'm too curious to sit on them like Chadwick."

"True. Anyway, I ask because Hugh Jones is sniffing around."

"Everyone knows about that."

"Of course. He's never been subtle about his business interests." Shaw gets up. "But I have it on good authority that Cassandra Romulus flew into town last night. Likely to claim her inheritance, which includes Isodyne."

"Chadwick's Nazi niece?"

"The very same."

"She's got an arrest warrant on her, right?"

"She must have powerful friends. Anyway, I have a prior engagement, old boy. Tah!"

Howard waves Shaw off just as the waiter comes with the bill.

Los Feliz, Los Angeles, California

Peggy's at first confused by the unfamiliar ceiling and bed. She wonder's which part of Howard's mansion she found herself in until Daniel walks in with a plate of food.

"How long was I out for?"

"A good while."

She looks over at the clock and it's getting close to one in the afternoon. They've lost about half the day.

"We should get moving," she says.

"How about you have some food first?"

Daniel hands her the plate with a ham sandwich, then sits down beside her.

"How long have you been up?" she asks after a bite. Daniel's cleaned himself up, dressed casually, and the swelling around his eye has gone down.

"Not too long. Enough to eat, make a few calls, and make you something," he says with a shrug.

She nods, then after a swallow, "Who to?"

"To Jarvis. He's bringing over some clothes and stuff for you. And I wanted to make sure Rose and Samberly got to Stark's place safe. They're just finishing up lunch when I called."

"That's good," Peggy says, finishing up her sandwich.

A thought strikes her when she looks up at Daniel again and the purplish bruise around his left eye.

"Daniel, did you see who punched you?"

He thinks for a bit, then answers, "I had just come out of the bathroom and I heard some people coming down the hall, so I turned to look of course. Saw these two cops walking down. Thought they were the new guys taking over the watch."

"Did you get a good look at them by chance?"

"One was blond, the other with black hair. Bit on the tall side, especially the guy with black hair. Fit, you know. I'm pretty sure the blond guy was the one who punched me."

"Well that just describes half the men in Hollywood."

"Well the funny thing about tall, dark, and handsome was that he was actually pretty pale."

"Pale?"

"Yeah. White as marble. And not in a sickly way either. Rather bizarre if you ask me. He'd have to go out of his way to avoid the sun here."

"Or he's not from here," Peggy replies.

"True that. It's easy to buy cops around here, but yeah. That just stuck out to me."

Peggy puts the plate onto the bedside table before leaning forward over her knees. Her midsection still hurts, but she says, "I ask because the queerest thing happened in that stairwell before you and Jarvis found me."

Daniel looks at her curiously.

"You see," she continues, "After Dottie knocked the wind out of me I was lying on the floor stunned. And I open my eyes and there's this police officer staring down at me. He had brown hair, and the officer behind him, when I saw him, was blond. And maybe it's nothing and my mind was just scrambled from the blow, but I swear I recognized them."

"You recognized them?"

"As I said, I was concussed - probably still am - so it's just as likely I was mixing things up. But they looked like Roger Aubrey and my…" suddenly her throat tightened, Peggy realized she'd never mentioned him to Daniel. To anyone. "My brother… Michael. And the strange thing about all of this is that he was killed during the war."

She schools herself before the tears come. But as the doorbell rings and Daniel goes to answer it, Peggy realizes that she hadn't even said Michael's name aloud since the last time she was home.

Venice Beach, Los Angeles

Dottie wakes up to the sound of crashing waves, seagulls, and the occasional car. The room is shaded, the blinds drawn and on the side of the building in the shade. The room was sparsely furnished; just a bed, a nightstand, and dresser. The walls are painted white and the wood floor creaks under tread. She looked out the window, finding only a small alley and the neighbouring wall of a building. On the second floor by her reckoning.

She sits down on the bed and starts going through what she knows. Firstly, Dottie knows that if she can hear the ocean, she's on the other side of the city. Stark's estate is over in Hollywood, the hospital is over in Boyle Heights, SSR HQ is downtown. It's all near the mountains. She's still in her stolen nurse's uniform. She'll need new clothes once she gets out of here.

But she has to get the pin key first.

Dottie takes off her shoes and creeps up to the door. She can hear music coming from a radio or record player somewhere downstairs. Maybe her kidnappers are distracted. She reaches for the door handle until she hears the creak of steps coming close. She presses herself up against the wall, ready to take down whoever comes through the door.

The door opens. It's the woman from last night. Dottie drives a knee into the woman's torso. The woman catches it. Drives it back into her chest and onto the floor. Dottie tries kicking her off, but it only results in the other woman gaining control of both her legs. She pins Dottie's calves and thighs between her legs, wedges one of Dottie's feet between her chest and the crook of her elbow, and twists. The pain on her Achilles was breathtaking.

Dottie fights through this, lashing against the woman as best she can. Trying to twist out of the hold.

"Stop struggling or I will crush your legs!" the woman snarls. Her eyes are amber and almost glowing. And then there are her teeth. Her canines are long, sharp, and white.

Fangs. This woman has fangs.

"I don't want to hurt you," she says softly. Her voice is gruff, low, and soft. "You're in a lot of trouble. And we can help you if you help us. Just stop struggling and come down for a chat."

"I don't 'chat' with fascists."

The woman lets out a sharp cackle. "Us? Fascists? We've been hunting the bastards for years now. No dear, we're not the ones hunting you. But if we're going to help you, you need to stop fighting us."

Dottie calculates the risks. She doubts Carter will be forgiving of her escape and attacking her in the hospital. But that pin is the only leverage she has. The key that will lead to her freedom. And maybe she can lull this woman and her people into letting their guard down. And she'll escape with all the treasure.

"So what will it be?" the woman asks.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

The woman loosens her grip on Dottie's ankle and allows her slip out of the woman's grasp. She gets up first and offers Dottie a hand.

I'm perfectly capable of getting up. Until Dottie puts pressure on her previously trapped ankle and rolls it, forcing her to use the wall as support.

"I can help you down the stairs; that's where we're heading to anyway," the woman says, hands akimbo.

"I'm fine!" Dottie snaps.

"You're a stubborn one. Anyway, this way." She holds the door open and gestures for Dottie to follow.

The woman leads her out down the stairs of what appears to be a Spanish mission style house and into a little courtyard garden. She sees two men - one with blond hair, the other dark haired - lounging on a rattan couch with fairly plush cushions. Rather scandalously, the blond laid sprawled on the couch with his head in the brunet's lap.

"Good Lord, Em, Michael and I were about to storm up there to rescue you," the blond says.

"Well I'm fine lazybones. Anyway get our guest some ice and a towel," the woman says to the blond.

The blond man looks Dottie up and down as she limps to one of the matching club chairs. "No blood. Everything looks intact."

"I was gentle," the woman objects.

"Children, please, there will be tears," the brunet says. "If there was blood, we'd have a different problem on our hands. So Roger, please, go get the ice."

He sighs, "Cracking the whip are we, darling? You drive me so hard."

"We spoil you, Roger. Go get that ice," the woman retorts as she takes the other club chair. Tucking her legs under herself.

"Why yes, memsahib! My feet are like wings!" he says sarcastically, and with a dramatic flourish disappears into the house.

"So dramatic," the woman says, putting on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

"Wouldn't have him any other way," the brunet says. Then he turns to Dottie, saying, "Sorry for the fuss, Miss Underwood. We do mean well, though."

Who were these people? The men had very educated British accents, like Peggy Carter. And completely unlike the blonde woman. And the way those men were lying together like lovers. So how does she fit into this? With her teeth and glowing eyes. And why does this man look just like Peggy? Darker hair and skin like marble, but their faces are so structurally alike.

"How do you know my name?" Dottie asks.

"Cornelius van Lunt. Sound familiar?"

She keeps her mouth shut. She knows better than to say anything. Let this man fill in the gaps with whatever fantasies he wants. Even if he's right.

"Well, we would have asked your old handler, Viktor Uvarov. But he seems to have disappeared."

"Went to Moscow Centre and hasn't been heard from since," the woman adds. "Probably got the 9mm treatment in the basement of Lubyanka."

Tell me something I don't know.

The dark haired man continues, "Just as well, you were a wanted woman in enemy territory and a liability back home. The whole Stark debacle led your masters to disavow you. So you go to ground and waited for the right opportunity to redeem yourself. And suddenly Cornelius van Lunt falls into your lap. Known fascist sympathizer, the real estate kingpin of New York, and a middleman for the wicked Anglo-American establishment. So imagine what sort of intelligence you could get if you got close to him? Moscow would welcome you back with open arms! And luckily he needs someone with your skills. But then you were caught and again, you were in the papers. Those with power know to keep van Lunt's name out of the public but HYDRA does not forgive failure. Is it any wonder that a man with an expensive mistress and desperate to get back into von Strucker's good graces would throw you to the wolves."

She doesn't reply; literally biting her tongue to fight down the urge. The longer she can keep them talking, the sooner they'll show their hand. But so far he's right on the money.

"Here you go," the blond returns with ice bundled into a tea towel.

"Thank you," Dottie replies, applying the ice pack to her, admittedly, throbbing Achilles.

The blond rejoins the dark haired man on the couch. He rests against the opposite arm, but there's something about the display that screams a certain intimacy between the two.

"Michael, darling, have you done the introductions yet? Rather rude if you haven't," the blond says.

"I was just about to, Roger, thank you," he replies. From a trouser pocket, he takes the pin. "We know you were hired by Mr. van Lunt to steal this for him. Roger, Emily, and myself know this pin is far more than just a club pin. We know it's a key to HYDRA and the network of Anglo-American elites aiding them."

"And how do I know this isn't a trap?" Dottie asks. "You English are known for your plots and intrigues."

"British," the woman, Emily, corrects, "We are British. I am Welsh, not English."

So that explains the accent.

"Of course, Emily. Right as usual," soothes the brunet Dottie assumes is called Michael. "But 'Perfidious Albion' comes by honestly, so I understand your unease when I propose you work with us. We are three former British agents who served His Majesty's government faithfully and with complete loyalty. And yet, we've been met with abuse and betrayal in the name of clinging to a dying empire. Like you, we've been set adrift. Our government, particularly our intelligence services, would rather let themselves be infected by fascism just to maintain the old world order. They are willing to play with forces they do not understand and cannot control. The sort of forces that if they were unleashed, well, the consequences would be apocalyptic."

Dottie will give Michael credit, he is charismatic. She had listened to him in rapt attention. The truly frightening thing about Whitney Frost was that she seemed to know exactly what the Zero Matter was and didn't care. Whatever that stuff was, it was alive, and it could think.

And yet, she still has her doubts about these people.

"Pretty words, but I haven't seen anything backing up your claim."

"Very understandable, Miss Underwood. One should always be suspicious in this business," he replies.

She knows that Emily is strong and fast despite her small stature and boyish physique. Dottie thinks she could take Roger. Michael, though, he was powerfully built. He hadn't moved all that much the entire time, but watching him was like watching a wolf in a forest. And he holds the pin rather delicately in his hands.

"So if you want, you can walk out the front door and we will not stop you. We have no one waiting to ambush you, so you can just leave and forget any of this happened."

"I doubt you'll get the pin back, though, love. We sort of need that for our plans," Roger says.

Red hot rage rushes through Dottie. She wants to wipe that shit eating grin off his smug face. She grips the arms of her chair, preparing to lunge. A hand comes to gently rest on her knee. She looks down and finds Emily crouching in front of her. The sunglasses are off and she's squinting up at Dottie. Maybe there's something wrong with her sight? A little too sensitive to light. But her eyes have shifted to rather pretty hazel green.

"I'm sure you were trained to act alone," Emily says softly, once again low and husky. "And you've long accepted the risks, as well. Betrayal and death have always been a possibility. But you walk out that door, you'll have nothing. They will find you, and they will kill you. You're being hunted, just like us. You've been hurt, betrayed, and abandoned, just like us. But if you work with us, we can bring this entire system down. And then you can walk away free, and never have to hear from us again."

Chihuahua, Mexico

Ivan arrives in Chihuahua late in the afternoon by train in a heavy monsoon rain. He dashes to a hotel near the station and checks in as Victor Colón Navarro, a cattle purchaser for a ranchero down in Durango. From his room he waits out the storm before going to meet one of his contacts.

At a nondescript tavern not far from the Metropolitan Cathedral, Ivan sits at the bar next to Joaquín (not his real name). The crowd is large, busy, and distracted. He orders a drink, lights up a cigarette and lays down the almost empty packet next to its twin at Joaquín's elbow.

Joaquín finishes his drink, pays his tab, and takes Ivan's cigarette pack. The exchange was over in a few minutes.

Somewhere private, Joaquín will take out the slip of paper with a microdot, hastily created last night. It contains his instructions to go to Los Angeles and set up shop. It takes time to hunt a Widow; a task only done once before as far as Ivan knows.

Tomorrow morning he'll pick up a truck from a contact and make the journey to Alamogordo.

Stark Estate, Los Angeles, California

They're back in the parlour. Back to square one. This time without the SSR.

"Well, I've spent the better part of today storing as many files as I could steal into that office," Rose says, having collapsed into an armchair after arriving from the soon to be defunct SSR station. "Thank God that blonde thought we were an actual talent agency. If that meltdown was an act, she should get an Oscar."

"So Flynn came over?" Peggy asks, accepting the offered sherry from Jarvis. It's not her favourite drink, reminds her too much of her aunts and Fred Wells, but Jarvis will insist.

"Yeah, near miss, really. Came barging in looking for your two, so we didn't get everything," Rose explains.

"But we got the essentials," Samberly finishes.

"Good," Daniel says. "We won't be starting from square one."

"Yes, because I say we comb over all our records regarding the Arena Club and the Council of Nine. Dottie said something about that pin being the key to something rotten. And clearly they're willing to kill to keep it secret. We need to know everything about them, who they are, who they're connected to, where they came from. What they want," Peggy says.

It makes what Whitney Frost did look like a distraction. "Masters gave Thompson that key. Along with those files," Peggy looks over at Howard, "Did you get anything from your contact?"

"So it seems like British Intelligence is having a bit of domestic dispute right now," Howard answers. "There's a faction that wants to keep the empire somewhat together. The other faction has a pretty different idea on what to do. Mostly of a 'let it go' variety. And apparently it's come to blows."

"Perfect time to steal something like personnel files," Peggy interjects.

"Yup." Howard leans on the back of an armchair, half-empty sherry glass in hand. "My guy also gave me an interesting pair of bomb shells. One's gonna take a bit of explaining, the other, Peggy will know right away."

"Alright, shoot," Rose says.

"Well the first one is that Cassandra Romulus is back in the United States. In fact she might be here in LA County," Howard starts.

"Who's she?" Samberly asks.

"Calvin Chadwick's niece. The Long Island enfant terrible. Little rich girl who might be getting a big inheritance from her dear, late uncle. Don't know how Whitney felt about that. Anyway, like a lot of spoiled, pretty rich girls, she got bored of safe, boring college boys with planned careers at daddy's firm or following him into the Senate. No, this girl liked the spoiled rich boys who were, probably still are, into fascism. Became a true believer, spread the gospel and did some spying for the Nazis. Probably why she got sent down to the Bahamas. Then she ran away and went down to Paraguay and allegedly made contact with HYDRA."

"Sounds delightful," Jarvis snarks.

"And to think, Chadwick was a serious contender for high office," adds Peggy.

"You'd be surprised by the dirt Washington's covered in."

"I don't doubt it," replies Daniel.

"So we'll have to be on the lookout for her," says Peggy. "What's the other 'bombshell'?"

Howard takes a moment before he answers. It's rather odd. "So you know that whole civil war going on in London, Peggy?"

"Yes?"

"Apparently the conservatives managed to piss off Union Jack." Howard takes a breath. "He's gone rogue."

Peggy's stomach dropped. One of the most dangerous men in Europe was on the loose.

"Crikey."

"Who's 'Union Jack'?" Daniel asks.

"A British agent during the war. Mostly worked in the Balkans," Peggy starts explaining. "One of our most effective agents and a complete ghost. No one knows who he is. He was this lovechild of T. E. Lawrence and Arsène Lupin. Absconded with £12 million worth in Nazi gold. Destroyed HYDRA facilities up and down the Danube. Led an assassination campaign that put Ratweek to shame. Liberated Latveria in a single night. Some say without firing a shot. And he's gone rogue?"

"Yep. Four people dead and one missing," Howard answers.

"No offence to your contact, but do you think the Commandos would know more? They've been out in Europe for a good while now."

"You know what, I wouldn't be surprised if they do."

"Shall I reach out to them, Mr. Stark?"

"Go ahead." Howard turns back to the rest of the room. "Also, before I get too ahead of myself. You're all hired."

A collective "what?" goes up.

"What? You're all probably worried about your employment situation now that you're SSR basically pariahs, so I'm hiring you." He starts pointing around the room. To Rose, "I've been needing a secretary for this coast for a long time." Then Samberly, "You can work with Wilkes in R&D." Finally to Peggy and Daniel, "Security."

They all must have completely skeptical looks - Peggy knows she does - when Howard whines, "Come on people! I pay really well, have a fantastic benefits package, and we gotta stick together if we're gonna get through this. It'll be great!"

Daniel looks down at Peggy, "Hired guns then?"

"Well if I can keep my current living situation, I don't think I'd mind some freelance work."

Trinity Heights Mental Hospital, Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles

The stars.

The stars.

They're so bright. So many. So wondrous. There are many wondrous things Whitney sees. There are many wondrous things for her to learn.

The darkness inside darkness. The end and the beginning. The Lord of the Null. The Lord of Shadows. Nameless Father.

Null.

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