A/N: I'd like to thank my friend, sparkyyoungupstart on Tumblr, for writing Sue Storm's section!
Alamogordo Army Air Field, New Mexico, August, 1947
The plane touches down after midnight and starts taxing. It's a clear night, not perfect for Ivan's getaway, but it makes the sniping easier. He's got a decent view of the plane; the tarmac is lit up with flood lights.
He relaxes his body. His finger isn't on the trigger yet. He just focuses on staying still.
A staircase is brought, the door opens, people start walking out and descending the stairs. Fennhoff stands out with his balding head, prison denim, and gag. It looks like he's shackled as well. All the better, it'll make him slow.
Ivan loads a round in the chamber. Starts slowing his breaths down. Finger on the trigger. Calm and clear mind. Just have to wait for other people to get out of the way.
He takes a breath, deep and slow. The guards and officers' part. Ivan slowly lets out his breath until his lungs are empty. He squeezes the trigger.
Fennhoff's head jerks away from the bullet's impact. Blood sprays onto a civilian dressed man.
Ivan runs, the moon providing enough light to get him to a dry riverbed he followed into the base. The Americans start firing into the darkness, going wide. Spotlights swerve. Dogs start barking. He takes a moment to get his bearings and catch his breath, ducking under the sage brush. Poking his head up, Ivan watches the flashlight beams move over, seemingly heading north. Lucky him.
By the time he gets to the truck there'll be at least a checkpoint set up. But he's counting on the local police taking their time to respond to the MPs. And it's not like they can tell them why there was a shooting and who the marksman was.
Or he'll risk it. Ivan knows a guy in Las Cruces who can get him a car or a truck without asking questions. Or he'll take the train. In any case it's straight on to Los Angeles.
Venice Beach, California
She stands in a cramped, plain room. The walls are painted hospital green on top with dirty white baseboards beneath. Opposite her is a door. It's dark brown wood with a brass knob.
It's a test. There's something waiting for her on the other side. A test. It'll determine her future. It'll determine if she has a future.
"The time has started, Aleksandra Nikolaevna," Madame B says. There's a soft ticking from a stopwatch.
She looks down and sees a pistol in her hand. Takes a steadying breath. Turns the knob.
Cold, black liquid erupts from the door. It fills her mouth, her nose. She can't breathe. She can't see. She flails. She can't fight it.
Come to me it says with the voice of legions.
There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
There are many things to show you.
It opens its maw. A chasm full of stars.
"Alya."
There are many wondrous things to show you.
Her heart's pounding. It feels like her chest will burst. The swirling Darkness swallows her.
"Follow my voice, Alya. I'm not far away." It's a woman's voice. Soft and calm and a little husky. It's familiar. Hands clasp hers, gently squeezing them like trying to get a numb feeling out of them. It's warm now and the room is filled with gold light.
A woman hovers over her, silhouetted by the evening light.
"You can do this. You're not alone."
The swirling stops. Her heartbeat rings in her ears. She slowly opens her eyes to her half-lit room. Her sight is unfocused, darting from place to place. Fearful of every shape and shadow.
"It's alright. Just take deep breaths." Her gaze scans over Emily at first, then snaps back to her. "You're doing good."
Emily's hands are strong. There's no pain in her grip, but firm and gentle. They're soothing. Slowly the world comes into focus and her heartbeat quiets. Her breathing becomes easier. The only sounds are the ticking of a clock.
"Would you like some water?"
Dottie nods. Unable to speak.
"Alright, I'll be in the bathroom. I'll be back soon."
Dottie's gaze follows Emily as she quietly goes to the bathroom.
How does she know that I was called 'Alya?' How would anyone know? She barely remembers that name herself. From the time she entered the Red Room, she was called by her first name and patronymic. She was always "Aleksandra Nikolaevna." For a brief time, however, she was 'Alya'.
Anya had called her 'Alya' when no one else did. Anya who shared her rations with her. Anya braided Dottie's hair and knew where to find the prettiest ribbons. Clever Anya who knew everything. Anya who's face she hardly remembered. Anya whose eyes grew dull with death. Anya was the only girl in the Red Room who called her by a familiar name.
There was one more person. She doesn't know who. She doesn't remember. Dottie knows that the person was a woman. Her face is hidden in shadow when she tries to reach back into those memories. The woman may be a social worker, a nurse, or a teacher.
"Here you go." Emily re-entered the room, glass of water in hand. The cold liquid soothes her dry mouth.
"How's your breathing?" she asks, sitting at the foot of the bed. She's close but sits at a respectable distance; in case Dottie doesn't want to be close to anyone.
"It's alright."
"That's good," Emily says, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her eyes are dark in the yellow light from the lamp. Amber brown, really. "You get these often? Nightmares?"
She shakes her head. Her subconscious will not rule her. She would never permit it.
"All right, then," Emily says. "Long time ago I had the sort where you're awake but can't move. It feels like something's on your chest, and you can't breathe…" She seems to draw into herself even closer; seemingly to make herself as small as possible. "Don't know if any of that helps. I hate thinking about it myself."
Dottie can't help but see how haunted she looks. She's running from something.
"Does anything call out to you in these dreams?" she asks.
"Sometimes," Emily replies. "I used to hear him. The person who made me this..." She gestures to herself. "Most of the time it's just images. Things. Makes no sense, but sometimes it makes all the sense in the world."
Dottie takes another sip of her water. "I heard someone call my name. Not 'Dottie'."
"'Aleksandra'?"
"'Alya'," She answers. "What I was called when I was small."
"Who was calling you?"
She shrugs, "I don't know. It was a woman I think."
"Familiar?"
"I don't know". For whatever reason, she somehow wants the voice to be someone. Someone familiar. Close. Familial. Dottie never knew her family and at best she has vague recollections of a woman, but she could be anyone.
"Do you have a family, Dottie?" Emily asks.
"No." She answers bluntly. "Or at least I don't remember them."
An effective agent has no ties and does not miss them. That is what Madam B taught. So, Dottie never missed a family she never knew and never met. It made things easier.
Or at least she thought until recently. Her experiences with whatever possessed Whitney Frost makes her long for a mother. At least to tell her that she wasn't going insane.
"A friend of mine once said that dreams are messages from the deep," Emily says after a long silence.
"'The deep'? Are you talking about psychic powers?" Dottie asks incredulously.
"Or the subconscious," Emily counters, her cat eyes bright and piercing. "Things are different now, but your own mind could be telling you something. Aside from dark forces trying to drag you deep into their traps, maybe there's something showing you a different path."
"There are no alternative paths for people like me," Dottie retorts.
"Do you really believe that?" Emily asks. It strikes Dottie like a bolt of lightning. "Do you really believe you're that hopeless?"
For the first time in her life, there's nothing she can say.
Stark Estate, Hollywood
Manfredi's men have come through and found the bankers boxes and account ledgers.
"This is the business," the chief goon says as he opens the boot with a flourish.
Now was the unexciting part: sifting through the mess of shell companies and creative accounting to find treasure. Peggy spreads out files, papers, and books out of the floor. She's found atlases and maps to better visualize where these places are registered and operating from. She's hoping to triangulate the secret lab's location.
Maybe glean some names too. Whitney and Manfredi have a long history and Calvin didn't get as far as he did without help. These secret worlds tend to be incestuous after all.
It takes hours, but Manfredi's paperwork takes Peggy on quite the journey - at least mentally. And on the phone. Howard won't mind a large bill for long distance calls, it's a drop in the bucket compared to what he spends on flowers alone. But Manfredi hid Whitney's lab well.
It starts with a holding company based out of an office building on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. They have numerous properties all over California, the Southwest, and northern Mexico. They're connected to an oil refinery in Long Beach that does business with a bank branch in Las Vegas that's headquartered in Mexico City. Rather convenient for Manfredi's hotels and casinos. That bank gave a loan to a company based in Oxnard that was looking to open a laboratory to develop radio technologies and was interested in a disused facility in Santa Clarita. It had previously been used to build lorries for the army during the war before the company closed up two years ago.
And didn't Manfredi's goons say something about Santa Clarita?
During all this, Peggy's mind wanders. At first it flits here and there between the various connections she's making. Then the errands she has to do. Maybe book a hair appointment.
And she'll need a place of her own at some point. She doesn't want to rush anything with Daniel. They have all the time in the world.
Angie will be here soon, and she'll have those pictures and letters with her. The remnants of her pre-war life. A life before the SSR, and Steve Rogers, and Captain America. The life she had before Michael died. Before his phantom came to haunt her.
What is she saying? He's always haunted her. Never left her side. She'll never forgive herself for what she said at that stupid engagement party. What was she thinking? How could she say what she did?
He was trying to protect you. Michael always tried to protect you.
She remembers back to those dark days early in the war. That chaotic spring in 1940. Peggy was back in the parlor of her childhood home waiting for any word from Michael.
It's the waiting that's painful.
The shock, the panic, the threat of bombs. They are made worse by the anticipation. Peggy wonders if she's doing it to herself. Mother seems completely oblivious, knitting with the dog at her feet and the wireless playing. On the one hand, Peggy is somewhat relieved that Mother wasn't in complete hysterics. But on the other hand, Peggy wishes her parents were more comforting. More emotional in a way.
Michael's regiment was in France for the invasion after all. They haven't heard from him in days. Matthew must be crawling up the walls in worry up at Repton.
She's all nerves herself. She keeps looking out the window, then looking at the phone. She tries to keep herself from biting her nails. It's such a childish habit, she's bloody twenty-one. But all noises seem to make her jump. They'll know soon enough, either way.
There's a picture of Michael, Matthew and herself on a side table, taken during a visit to their Grandmére in France. Peggy was nine and he was not quite eleven. They're pushing their baby brother on a rope swing.
Michael isn't just her brother. It isn't just about the blood they shared. Michael is her friend. Her best friend. Her oldest friend. Her first friend. The first person she can clearly remember. He has always been there; a pillar of her existence as much as Mother, Father, and Matthew. Even when he was away for school or on one of his adventures, Michael always came home.
It's impossible to imagine a world without him and it is a world she doesn't want to live in.
Peggy feels like she's about to implode. She wants to scream, to cry. She wants to shake her mother by the shoulders to get some sort of reaction from her. Michael is out there, and they have no idea if he's back in England, or captured, or dead.
Please let him not be dead. Please let him come home. Please let him come back.
The doorbell rings and Peggy and her mother look up in surprise. It rings again, and Mother asks, "Could you get that, dear."
She nods and takes a fortifying breath. Prepares for the worse. She takes a breath before gripping the handle and opening the door.
Peggy barely has time to register that it's Michael on the front step as he scoops her into a fierce hug, lifting her off the ground, and spinning her around. He puts her down as their mother enters the foyer, pale with shock and eyes full of tears. An emotion, finally.
All three embrace as Mother weeps, crying, "My boy! My boy!" They hold onto each other for a long time. They're a family. They're whole once more.
The tension is relieved, and Mother remembers to ring Father. Peggy remembers to close the front door and when she turns around and finds Michael just standing there, not really looking at anything.
"Everything alright?" she asks, putting a hand on his arm.
"Yes. Of course," he responds, a little startled from his reverie. He quirks a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just, you know. Been a rough week and all that."
"Of course."
The look on his face is too familiar and something Peggy wishes could stay in the past. The face that hides under a devil-may-care mask. It always seems like the world is out to crush her brother. She wishes that whatever god has it out for him to bugger off and let him be. He's been through enough.
"Michael, your father wants to speak to you," Mother calls from down the hall.
"Coming," he answers. The mask is back on. Arrange your face, Father would always say. "I'll be alright. Don't fret."
I always do. And I always will. Someone has to.
Ana breaks her reverie, popping her head around the door.
"Miss Carter, there's a telephone call for you," she says.
"Who is it?" Peggy asks.
"Miss Martinelli, she is calling form Fresno."
Peggy drops everything and rushes to the phone.
"Hello, Angie! Are you checking in?"
Angie replies over the crackle of the telephone, "Yeah. I just pulled in and it's another long haul until Los Angeles, but I'll be there this evening. Probably around 9 or 10 PM."
"That's good. Will the people from the studio be there?"
"Of course, they will, but I want to see you first. Hopefully we can get lunch or drinks or something."
But first, Santa Clarita.
Stark Laboratory, Malibu, California
It's always an interesting day in the lab when the pig carcasses are brought in.
At the end of the makeshift gun range are four pigs fresh from the abattoir, hanging from a frame by their back legs. There are already bullet holes in them and the air smells of gunpowder.
There's an array of pistols across a folding table. Common pistols - Colts and Smith & Wessons, Brownings - some with silencers, some without. And a few British pistols. Daniel had asked Stark for them, along with some more exotic firearms. A Webley for example. And a Welrod, too.
"Why the Welrod?" Stark asks.
"A hunch," Daniel replies as he takes up the pistol. "None of the witnesses reported hearing anything. Neither did the maid, but the shooter was likely long gone by the time she found Thompson. And I've only heard of these things. Kinda want to give it a try."
Howard gives a shrug and for the next while they fire away at the pigs. It relieves some tension. Daniel hadn't realized how tense his shoulders and back had become.
"Did Peggy ever talk to you about her family?" he asks Stark during a pause.
"Not really. No," Stark answers as he cleans a pistol.
"Really? You'd think after five years -"
"It took months before she stopped glaring at me all the time."
Daniel raises a brow.
"Are you really that surprised?
"On second thought, absolutely not. I heard about the time you tried to kiss her on VE Day," Daniel replies.
"I smelled like a sewer for a week."
"And I feel sorry for Jarvis having to clean your clothes."
Stark blows a raspberry before seriously answering, "No. In all the years I've known Peggy she's pretty cagy about anything from before the war. Heard a few stories about her school days. Had no idea about the brothers. Wilkes, did you know about the brothers?"
Wilks shrugs, "News to me."
"Why so curious?" Stark asks.
"I don't know. I guess she's always been private like that."
On the rare occasion he goes to confession, Daniel knows what he will have to admit to. He's in love with a woman he put on a pedestal, knocked that pedestal out from under her, and had to work to win back her trust. She's just a woman, not a goddess or the Holy Virgin. She's just Peggy.
Strong, beautiful, brave Peggy Carter. He'll definitely have to confess to lust.
So why does he feel this way? Like he's had the wool pulled over his eyes. Hi honey, sorry I forgot to tell you about my long-thought-dead brother who seems to be back from the grave.
Daniel sighs. Most of it was probably his own fault. Spent so long being afraid of her and pining for her that he never bothered to ask Peggy too much about herself. She didn't get along with many people in the post-war SSR, so why open up? Still doesn't answer his question. This could all be a ploy and designed to mess with Peggy's head and Lord does he hope she won't go chasing after ghosts.
So maybe he'll admit to pride. Because imagine confessing envy towards the ghost of a brother you've never met and the possibility, he may be alive. How pathetic would it be to admit he was jealous of a man pretending to be a dead man.
"Huh, look at that," Samberly says.
"At what?" Daniel asks, thankful for the distraction.
"So the bullets from the Welrod are matching up the one dug out from Thompson's chest: a 9×19mm Parabellum."
"A lot of guns use that," Daniel points out.
"Well, these look close enough, especially given the sort of silencer it uses - built in and all that."
"And the other bullet?" he asks.
"We'll need to do a few more tests - got some heads from the butcher - but the Webley's a good candidate for the coup de grace," Wilkes says.
Daniel schools his expression, restraining himself to a raised, interested eyebrow. There's a thrill of vindication even if the evidence is weak.
One step closer to you. Maybe I'll add pride to my confession.
In his mind's eye he sees Michael Carter. His imagination fills in where his memory fails, truth be told. The pale white face contrasting with the black hair and eyes. A resurrected man sent to sew chaos and destruction.
A demon. A ghost. Whatever you are, Carter, Thompson didn't deserve to die.
Needham Ranch-Santa Clarita
"Turn up here," Michael directs Emily off the main street and onto a narrow dirt road next to a rail line. It's rather rough going, though she navigates with aplomb.
The information gathered from Hugh Jones seems to indicate that the Crown was moved to some off the books facility. There was only an address scribbled onto a memo regarding a wire transfer. It was so innocuous, so haphazard, yet so interesting.
No one ever said fascists were intelligent.
"Good Lord, they need to fix the potholes. Last thing we need is to lose the transmission," Emily grouses.
"In your capable hands, the transmission should be fine. I just wish the addresses were displayed more clearly." They just have a map for reference. He checked a registry and found nothing. They just have 23584 Pine Street to go by.
"It's probably at the end of the street, given the addresses," Emily says, pointing at an upcoming mailbox.
"So, it seems."
"What do you think we'll find?"
He shrugs and keeps his eyes out for the street number. Eventually they come up to a corrugated steel gate and cinder block with the right number and 'private property' sign. The road goes on further, though there are more signs reading 'private' and 'not a through street.'
"So that's it," Emily says, stopping the car a few feet away.
"So, it seems."
They can't see anything past the gate. Michael gets out of the car to at least try to see what's in the yard. A fence runs to the left of them, keeping in an overgrown lot filled with rusted, abandoned cars and thorn bushes.
"You know, all we need is some bolt cutters to get in," Emily says, handling the chain.
"Very good, we'll keep that in mind," he replies as he inspects the fence. The gate is just short of Michael's height. The fence itself is rather rusted but thinks he could put most of his weight on the cinder blocks.
"Do you need me to spot you, Michael?"
"I won't be long."
He hoists himself onto the fence and leans over the cinder block wall. From his vantage point, he can see a seemingly abandoned warehouse and yard full of steel bundles dotted with a few trees. It's very quiet. He strains to hear the birds and insects. The wind has gone still, and the air acquires a haziness that doesn't seem right.
Not seeing anything else - feeling an uncomfortable strangeness fall over him - Michael jumps down.
"Nothing going on?" Emily asks.
"Seems quiet. We'll come back later with Roger and Dottie."
"If they haven't killed each other yet."
"I'm sure they're getting along swimmingly," Michael assures her. At the car he asks, "Have you noticed how quiet it suddenly is?"
She nods, "I noticed how still it got. Couldn't hear the cicadas. Could be one of those mountain lions about."
"Perhaps."
She turns the car around and they start driving back down the road. Michael gets an idea and several yards away from 23584 Pine Street, he asks her to stop the car.
"Why?" She asks.
"Just pull up over her," he says, pointing to a slight turn in. Once stopped, Michael turns off the wireless and rolls down the window. As he thought, the air was filled with the noise of cicadas and wind.
"Well, that is interesting," Emily says.
Michael and Emily take a different route back, one that would take them by the ocean. The radio's on and Michael hardly hears. Emily doesn't talk either. They keep the windows rolled down from Santa Clarita, and the wind is a welcome to the stifling heat.
He watches the ocean pass and lets his mind wander. It's hypnotic in its strange way. His mind goes back to a different time and place. A continent away. A world away.
To the last time he spoke to Peggy.
She storms off to wherever her sod of a fiancé is and Michael finishes his drink in one gulp then stares off into middle distance.
He hates that she's throwing away her life like this. The people at Bletchley are brilliant - many are absolute geniuses - and the value of the work is incalculable. But Fred Wells is at best a middling intelligence analyst. The personification of mediocrity who, after the war, will get a job with some firm in the City, have a nice house, with two moppets, and leave Peggy to rot in the kitchen and drink sherry. And maybe Michael hates him a little.
But Peggy's meant for the field. She's meant for action. He knows it in his bones.
Michael lights a cigarette to mask his regret. He has to go to RAF Tempsford early tomorrow and will be returning to France soon. He really doesn't want to leave without apologizing to Peggy. He should have known his sister wouldn't react well. She's had too many doors closed in her face, and he understands why she'd reject this offer now. Just another disappointment. Especially when there's a whiff of nepotism to it.
He says goodbye to his mother and father. His father claps him on the shoulder and gives him a patriotic yet fatherly platitude. His mother is more tearful, gives him a peck on the cheek, and promises to sooth his sister.
Michael then presses his way through the crowd of partygoers to find a bored looking fourteen-year-old boy at a corner table. He sits with a glass of punch at his elbow and head buried in a book titled City of the Monkey God. Such was Matthew Carter. And like any good older brother, Michael roughly tassels his brother's auburn hair.
"Hey! Stop that!" Matt whines, voice cracking, "What's your problem?"
"I'm your brother, that's what," Michael retorts, sitting down across from his brother, "Anyway, I'm off soon and I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye to you."
"Tactical retreat? Looks like you pissed off Peg something awful," snorts Matt.
"In a way."
Matt sighs and asks, "More hush-hush stuff then? Won't be hearing from you?"
"Not if I want to break the Official Secrets Act," he answers, then after a beat, he asks, "Could you do me a favour?"
Matthew gives him a fearful look, "I am not apologizing to Peggy the Hun for you!"
"Of course not!" Michael replies, putting his hands up in a plea for mercy, "I made the mess, I'll clean it up… eventually. Anyway, I want you to do something else."
"Take care of Mother and Father? Stay out of trouble?" the boy lists off obvious instructions.
Michael stubs out his cigarette, "Do you get into trouble at school?"
"Compared to you, I'm a bloody saint," Matt retorts.
"You snot," Michael swots at Matt's head again and the boy dodges, "First off, give Fred a kick in the arse for me. And" Michael says in a serious tone, "If Peggy takes up my offer, you're going to be the last of us at home. So of course, it's expected you'll look out for Mother and Father. But you need to take care of yourself. Especially if something happens to us. Heaven forbid both of us."
Matt replies, "But you're the one heading into danger."
"I know," Michael sighs, "I just don't want you getting overwhelmed by all that. You're too young to have that burden shoved onto your shoulders."
The sun reflects brightly off the car ahead of them, bringing Michael back to the present.
I hope you're alright, Matt. I hope you didn't have to grow up fast. I hope you weren't alone.
And Peg. God. Michael wonders at his cowardice.
What are you so afraid of? You keep telling yourself that all you're going to do is drag her down with you. Into what? She's in this secret world, too. She ultimately chose this, and you have to trust her to handle herself.
Michael glances at Emily. The wind whips the loose ends of her hair, most of it held back by a black ribbon. Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses - the California sun hurts her eyes - and light glints off the gold bangles on her wrist.
How do I explain her? It's not like Peggy would be of the jealous sort. Emily means so much to him. She saved him so many times. Her and Rogers' natures change reality. Expand it. Complicates it. And Emily is as different from Peggy as water is to fire. But still…
It's something else. Something that's been plaguing him for a while now. The transition to peace had not been kind to them, the Invaders. It wasn't easy and everything is different. They're not the same people they were when they met. They're not the same people during the war. Or at the end of it. Michael can hardly remember what he looked like before his transformation. They've all aged. They're older, wiser, and battered. Some more so than others.
Emily's always been quiet. The silence now is deafening. Yet she keeps pushing on. She keeps trying to hold things together. He stands in awe of that.
And what about Peg? She's changed. When the war started, she was up at Girton College. She was still his little sister. The last time he saw her, he feared she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Look at her now, Michael. She's not your little sister anymore with wild curls and a gap tooth smile. The one person he was excited to see when he came home from school. The only one in the family who knew the truth for a long time. The little sister who's victories he cheered and whom he comforted in her defeats.
Now look at her. Look at Peg. She's a fully grown, fully realized woman now. She's her own person with her own life and he's trespassed in such a way that he knows he's thrown everything off. He's supposed to be dead after all. Buried in a lonely grave out on the desert plains outside Tobruk. Maybe she and Matthew would lay a wreath on it in a couple of years.
He wasn't supposed to be a revenant. He never planned to be a ghost haunting the sister he loved so dearly.
How could Michael explain any of this and expect forgiveness?
Chadwick House, West Hollywood
Cassandra Romulus has been keeping a tight lid on everything. She can keep Whitney's disappearance under wraps. She was getting too old for the studios anyway; too hard to work with. And Uncle Cal was old news anyway before his untimely demise. Her baron won't like a loose end and she's running out of time. The crown wasn't at the Arena Club and Hugh Jones was lying through his teeth about knowing nothing. Didn't help that he was distracted by Cornelius' men, she needs to send someone to make very sure he's dead.
The problem is Manfredi. There are people who miss him. Or at least need him. In any case they will look for him. She needs to find him first. It's not like her men are incapable, but searching for two people in a city as massive as Los Angeles is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
It's not impossible, just challenging. And Whitney needs so much care, they can't just go anywhere.
But perhaps…
Cassandra looks through Whitney's old notebooks. There was an address, no context, and she's sure it's outside Los Angeles. She gets to one of the last pages Whitney wrote on before the madness took her. On the top of the page, above a series of complicated formulas and helpfully underlined, H & C Steel, Pine Street, Santa Clarita.
The Kensington Hotel
Sue takes a deep breath before entering the hotel room. She's done this dozens of times since finding the body, but what used to be a simple chore for her now feels like a huge undertaking. Every time she opens a door, she expects to find someone in a pool of their own blood, and every time she hears one slam she wonders if it's a would-be murderer trying to make their escape. It makes an already exhausting job almost unbearable.
Almost. There are a few things that help to keep her going. For one, her family is happy for her continued support. Aunt Mary is a godsend for letting her and Johnny stay with her and the other guests free of charge. Johnny being in town helps to keep her motivated - one look at him and she knows who she's doing all this for. And her secretarial classes are going well - in a few months time she'll be able to start applying for jobs with better pay and less manual work. True, there are many places in the city that wouldn't be keen on hiring a girl like her - putting a Black woman on the phones or as the first face one saw when entering a building wasn't probably what some people have in mind - but she's got a near-photographic memory, a keen head for numbers, and can type a hundred words a minute. Who can say no to skills like that?
And yet, she can't shake the feeling that her life has been headed down a different route ever since that day. She's jumpy when she does laundry, barely speaks to the other maids, and more than once Mr. Yorkes has chewed her out for not being quick enough in her duties. It's hard to sleep soundly when she wonders if each day will be her last on the job - or her last, period.
These are the thoughts that bounce around her head as she changes the towels and bedding in the room, making sure to be perfect and not take too long. It's not exactly an art or a science, but she'd seen guests get incensed over less than a poorly folded sheet and didn't want that to come back to her. She wets a cloth and wipes some dust from the windowsill before giving the room a once-over and satisfied with her job, hurries out.
It's the last room with a Service Request on this floor, and her trolley is empty, so she has to head back to the lower levels and restock. The guest elevator is separate from the one heading into the basement, so she passes through the lobby in order to reach it. As she does so, she overhears the raised voice of Mr. Yorkes.
"- that girl has been a thorn in my side the past few weeks. It's just how her kind gets. You know, things have been going missing ever since, and I give you three guesses who I think is responsible."
"I'm sympathetic to your situation, Mr. Yorkes," said another voice. Sue kept walking, glancing in the direction of the conversation. Her boss was involved in a heated conversation with a pair of men - specifically, the two men from the FBI who had interrogated her when she found the man at death's door. "We just want to know if she's working today."
"She better be, she was scheduled to. Been late recently as well. I try to take care of those people, you know, but her lot simply lack the proper work ethic that you and I have. I never would have hired Miss Storm if I thought she'd end up embroiled in a matter of national security."
They're talking about me. Sue stops in an instant, stunned. The sudden act causes the wheels of her cart to squeak, and the sound is just enough to catch the attention of the three men. "That's her!" the other FBI Agent says, and he starts running. Running.
Sue's running too, faster than she can think about it. If they just wanted to ask her a few questions then they would have done so, but pursuit like this means they think she's responsible for something - or more likely, they think she's just the right kind of person to take the fall so they can close their case and look good doing it.
She reaches the staff elevator with a solid twenty feet between herself and the men, slamming the cage closed and hitting the button to descend as fast as she's able. "Definitely fired now," she mutters to herself as she disappears from their view. She knows they'll take the stairs, and she won't have much time to stay ahead of them. Shucking her heels, she's running out of the elevator as soon as the door opens and finds herself darting into the laundry room.
Most of the ladies are on lunch, but May Reilly was still holding down the fort. "May!" Sue hisses, her tone desperate enough to make the woman jump a little. "The FBI is after me and I need to hide."
"The FBI?!" May says in surprise. She's the same age as Sue, but her red hair and innocent eyes made her look several years younger. "Sweetheart, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything, but I don't think they care."
May nodded, then threw open the closest hamper. "I just washed these, but I don't mind doing it again. Hurry!"
Sue didn't need to be told twice and clambered in. May ruffled some folded sheets and dropped them on top of her, hoping it was enough to make the woman invisible. Sue tried to breath as quietly as she could, stopping altogether when she heard the door to the stairs slam open.
"Where is she?"
"You're gonna have to be more specific Tiger," May's voice responded, acting as casual as she could. "There's a good number of ladies who work down here."
"The Black woman. Susan Storm."
"Oh, Sue? I'm afraid I haven't seen her all day."
Footsteps approached where she hid. "I'm sure you don't mind if we look around?"
"Be my guest, but I'm telling you I'm the only gal down here."
Sue could hear the men throwing open the laundry hampers and rooting around, and she was a sitting duck. She moved slowly as she tried to maneuver more bedding on top of her, but she knew that they wouldn't have to look very hard to spot her beneath everything. As their noises got closer, she wondered if it was worth it to fight back or submit, and what would happen to Johnny.
A door slammed, then the elevator started up. "Oh shoot! She must've been hiding in the supply closet!" May called out. "You just missed her!"
"Dammit!" one of the agents said from just beside Sue before she heard them both make their way back up the stairs.
After a moment, she heard her hamper lid open. "All clear, dear!"
Sue emerged from the bedding with a gasp. "Who was using the elevator?" she asked.
"Nobody! They were so focused on finding you over here they didn't see me sneak over and send it to the top floor." May grinned cheekily. "Pretty quick thinking on my part, huh?"
"I owe you one, May," Sue said as she climbed out. She turned to leave but May held something out to her - a wad of bills.
"For a cab home - or wherever you need to get to."
"May, I can't take your money."
"Oh, it's not mine! I found it in a pillowcase. You know how people are always forgetting stuff."
Sue smiled and took the cash. "You're a lifesaver. Thank you." She didn't look back as she ran to the back of the room, where a hallway led to a small stairway, itself going up until it reached a door to the alley behind the hotel. Pulling her heels back on, she looked around until she spied a cab with a driver like her and hailed it.
"Where to, miss?" the man asked.
Sue didn't want to go to her Aunt's house and lead the FBI there. For a moment she feared she'd fled one problem only to land in another, but then she remembered the card she'd been carrying in her pocket and pulled it out. "Hillcrest Avenue, La Cañada."
Stark Estate
"Oh, you're back already," Peggy says, seeing Daniel walk into the study. "How was the range?"
"Good, I think we…" Daniel looks around the room stunned. "Wow."
The study looks like a bomb went off. Papers litter the floor or are tacked up to the cork boards with pushpins, some connected with yarn and her own notes. To Peggy there's a method in her madness. From Daniel's perspective, it looks like sheer madness.
"So, I think I found that hidden laboratory Manfredi got Whitney," Peggy explains.
"Uh huh."
"It's quite the shell game Manfredi created. Hotels in Los Vegas and Galveston. Mexican banks. An oil refinery and holding company. So many real estate deals."
"And this led to?"
"A closed down steel cutter and welding workshop in Santa Clarita. I think we should give it a look."
"Do you want to go tonight?" Daniel asks, leaning on his crutch.
Peggy sighs, "I wish, but Angie will be here tonight, and I promised to meet up with her."
"Really? She's finally taking the plunge?" Daniels asks.
"Well, it helps that a producer from Paramount noticed her."
"Lucky girl!"
Peggy's about to reply when she notices Jarvis' flustered noises from the foyer. She follows the noises out of the study, at first thinking it's something to do with Bernard. Until…
"Please, sir! I need to talk to Agent Carter!"
"I know, but she's rather busy…"
"Miss Storm?" Peggy says as she enters the foyer. "What are you doing here?"
Susan Storm turns. She's still in her maid's uniform and looks like she ran here from her work.
"FBI agents came to the hotel looking for me," she answers.
"How'd you get away?" Peggy asks.
"Hid in the laundry then, caught the first cab that would take me."
"And just why would they be looking for you?"
Susan answers, "I don't know, ma'am, I was just… oh no…" Her hands fly up to her mouth. "Oh God."
"What's wrong, Miss?" Daniel asks.
"My brother said there were two white men sitting in a car outside our house."
"And where do you live?"
"Crenshaw."
"Right." To Peggy he adds. "It's a mostly Black and Japanese neighborhood."
"Not far from where Mr. Wilkes lives if I remember," Jarvis says.
"We must have been seen by someone when we searched Thompson's room. Perhaps one of Flynn's men?" Peggy says.
"Perhaps," Jarvis replies.
Susan interjects, "In any case I need to let my aunt and brother know I'm okay."
"Of course. What's your phone number?" Daniel asks.
"It could be tapped," Peggy states.
"That's true."
"We could drive down there," Jarvis adds.
"And stick out like sore thumbs," Peggy replies.
"And Crenshaw is at least an hour from here with the current traffic."
"And the FBI could be watching the house," Daniel says.
"And my aunty won't like seeing two white people on her doorstep after what happened last week," Sue says.
From behind Howard speaks up, "There a flower shop nearby?"
Everyone turns somewhat astonished.
"How long have you been standing there?" Peggy asks.
He shrugs and answers with a sly grin, "A while."
Susan stares at Howard wide-eyed, muttering, "I am in Howard Stark's house."
"Anyway, you are, miss?" Howard asks her.
"Sue Storm…" she sputters, then corrects herself. "I'm Susan Storm, sir."
"Mind if I call you 'Sue'?"
"Go ahead!" she replies, positively an octave higher.
"Great! Anyway, is there a flower shop or a butcher shop close to where you live? Something your aunt would know and probably run by someone she trusts?"
Susan thinks for a bit before answering, "There's… Comfort Flowers. It's on the corner of Jefferson Avenue and Bronson. Mrs. Emmitt does the flowers for our church."
Howard says, "Good, Jarvis, call up the flower shop and order the biggest bouquet of… what's your aunt's favorite flower?"
"Peonies…" she replies hesitantly.
"Peonies? Good." Turning to Jarvis, "Order the biggest bouquet of peonies for… What's your aunt's name?"
"Mary Dinkins."
"Right. Biggest bouquet of peonies for Mrs. Dinkins with a message like 'I'm safe - Sue' and make sure to add the phone number for here."
"Yes, Mister Stark," Jarvis replies.
"And Jarvis, see if Ana could spare some clothes for Sue, here. The uniform's a bit obvious."
"Of course, sir."
Peggy turns to Sue, gently touching her shoulder. "How are you holding up?"
Sue, who's been clutching her elbows the entire time, lets out a shuddering breath. "Just, you know, gotta pinch myself. It's been something of a whirlwind."
Union Station, Downtown Los Angeles
Peggy stands on her toes to see over the crowd, trying to spot Angie over the newly arrived passengers. She has no idea what Angie's outfit is, but it's not like it's been years since they've last seen each other. She did have a new hairstyle, more slicked back and her hair a little straighter.
"English!"
Angie comes running up to Peggy, giving her a great bear hug in greeting.
"Oh, I missed you so much!" she cries.
"Same, Angie!"
Peggy notices that her friend is looking more like a star. The clothes are nice and professionally tailored - a smart blue suit with a matching hat and white gloves - her hair is well coiffed, and she's been paying attention to the makeup artists. She's definitely ready for her close up.
"Anyway, Angie, how was the trip? I want to hear all about it."
"It was amazing, Peg! I gotta get out to the Rockies some day!"
"Well, if you play your cards right and you may be filming there some day."
"I know! I'm so excited!"
"Anyway, we need to catch up. Drinks are on me," Peggy replies.
"Hang on a moment, Peg," Angie says, searching her purse. "Before I forget, I got those letters and pictures right here."
She pulls out a bundle of carefully stacked letters and envelopes held together with a red ribbon.
"Silly me I'd completely forget about them," she says, handing the bundle to Peggy who has to fight down the sudden lump in her throat.
On the other side of Union Station, Ivan is met by Joaquín. He's got a bit of a hawkish appearance, but nothing that would make him stand out. Make people think about what his actual profession is.
"Long time, friend," Joaquín greets him in Spanish.
"I've only been gone two weeks," Ivan replies. "Though I hope you guys kept the place in shape."
"Oh, for sure boss! Us kids totally didn't have fun and then suspiciously cleaned up."
"Experience?"
"I was fifteen and my mother rides my ass about it."
"My condolences."
In a more serious tone, Ivan asks, "Any news on the girl?"
"She was hiding up in the Garment District for a bit. Then Pablo and Javi spotted her around Santa Monica and Venice. Not alone, either" Joaquín answers.
"Alphabet gang got her?" It's concerning if Volkova turned over to the Americans, but he doubts they could be anything useful out of her. She was trained to resist torture, and the Americans tend to prefer their fantasies to reality.
"Who knows. But rumor has it that the people she's hanging out with are English."
"Well, that is news."
There was chatter in Mexico City about a brewing turf war within British intelligence. No one could tell if it was real or yet another plot. Ivan's superiors were suspicious of the news. The Brits weren't just the masters of the game, but the inventors of it. Why would they expose such a weakness when they're trying to hold their empire together?
But it could also be that in victory, the different branches of the Service did get into a fight over the division of the spoils. Simple as that. The Brits built their empire on piracy and plunder, and some were going to get a bigger share than others believed was fair. There's a lot of egos and petty rivalries in this world anyway. One must have a plan to knife everyone they know in case of emergency.
But again, it won't matter soon.
Hollywood
"Wow! That's your brother?" Angie cries, looking at one of the photos and on her second pink lady. "What a dish," she says, then sheepishly adds after seeing Peggy's expression. "Sorry. That was a little out of school."
"No, it's fine," Peggy replies. She was only biting her tongue because she knew Michael's preferences.
They found a bar not far from the Hollywood Studio Club where Angie's got a room. They had been talking about the film Angie was cast in; she's to play a new bride whose selfish husband descends into alcoholism. They've moved on to the pictures and Peggy's past.
Angie puts down the picture. It's of Michael shortly after his officer's training. Fresh faced and in a crisp uniform. His steady gaze leveled for the camera. He was just twenty-three at the time.
"And this must be Matthew," Angie says, looking at another photo.
Peggy nods. "Definitely not a boy anymore. He's twenty and up at Cambridge." She takes a sip of her scotch and soda. It's a way of fortifying. "And he's definitely still angry at me."
"Because you left?"
"I abandoned him. Those were his words. Not much arguing there." Peggy finishes off her drink. "Mother and Father didn't handle Michael's death well. I left. Matthew was not yet fifteen. I know Grandmére did her best to help, but…"
"It's a lot for a kid to go through," Angie finishes her thought. "No wonder you never said anything."
Peggy sighs, "It's so strange. I find it easier to talk about Steve."
"I mean, you have to share him."
She looks over at Angie, not quite understanding.
"Well, more like Captain America. He's an icon that you gotta share with the rest of the world," Angie clarifies.
"That's true. Everyone has their own opinion of who Steve was supposed to be," Peggy muses.
Angie grips her wrist, "But nobody knew Steve like you."
Peggy shakes her head. "That's not true. All things considered, I was a late comer. A lot of us adored Steve. The Commandos, Howard, Col. Phillips… Erskine, rest his soul. But no one knew Steve like Bucky Barnes."
"Really?"
"Steve and Bucky knew each other since they were boys. They grew up together. They had this bond like none other." Peggy lets out a huff. "There were times when I felt like the odd one out. Funny that."
She leaves out how in some ways she was jealous of Bucky. They were so close, sometimes of one mind. One soul. Oh, how much she wanted Steve to look at her the way he looked at Bucky. And how sometimes, they made her think of Michael and Roger.
Peggy had never told Steve about Michael.
It's so clear now. "I never had to share Michael like Steve. No one knew him like I did and his name was one of millions. On a memorial somewhere in North Africa."
Angie's thoughtful for a moment before speaking, "You know, it's funny how there's 'widow' and 'orphan', but there aren't any words for when parents lose children or when you lose a sibling."
The pain is indescribable. The moment the words were said that awful day, it was like part of her very self had been ripped out from her. It left her hollow in a way that nothing else did. It changed her in a way that nothing else did.
"No. No there isn't."