After a few hours of restless sleep, I was jolted awake by the telltale sound of boat engines.
My mind, ever a planner, decided to try to hitch a ride.
As morning broke, we reached the shores of London. The air was thick with a damp, gray chill and the acrid smoke of a thousand chimneys.
Diana stirred beside me, and I greeted her with a smile that felt a little forced.
"Good morning," I said, my voice a little rough from the cold and the lack of proper sleep.
"Good morning...?" she replied, her eyes blinking open, taking in the alien landscape. "Where are we?"
"Welcome to jolly old London," I said with a theatrical flourish, trying to make light of the grim scene.
She stood up, her face a mix of awe and distaste, as she took in the smog-covered sky and the dark smoke billowing from countless industrial chimneys. "It's hideous," she said, her voice laced with disappointment.
"Yeah, it's not for everybody," I agreed, a bit defensively. Compared to Themyscira's sun-drenched beaches and endless blue skies, this place was a gray, industrial monster. It was a city choked by progress, a symbol of the world I knew.
We disembarked, and I immediately called my secretary, a wonderfully efficient woman named Etta Candy.
I asked her to meet us at a nearby boutique, a place I knew she frequented. When we walked in, her face, a mix of concern and immense relief, was the first thing I saw.
"Thank God! You're not dead!" Etta exclaimed, rushing over and giving me a quick, professional hug. She then turned her attention to Diana. "Nice to meet you. I'm Etta Candy, Steve's secretary."
Diana's brow furrowed slightly. "What is a secretary?" she asked, her tone curious, but with an underlying seriousness that made me brace myself.
"Oh, well, I go where he tells me to go and do everything he tells me to do," Etta explained with a wry, self-deprecating smile.
"Where I'm from, that's called slavery," Diana said, the word hanging in the air with the weight of judgment.
Etta's smile didn't falter. "And it does rather feel like that," she said, her eyes twinkling, "except the pay is very good."
It was the perfect response, a small moment of defiance and humor that immediately put Diana at ease.
I left the two of them to their odd conversation, needing to catch up on the current situation and find out the whereabouts of my superiors.
When I returned, Diana had changed into a tailored suit. She looked stunning, but her beauty was so magnetic that it was an immediate distraction.
To give us a fighting chance of blending in, I grabbed a pair of spectacles and put them on her.
"Now it's not so distracting," I said, a little too quickly.
"Spectacles, really?" Etta said, looking me dead in the eye. "And suddenly she's not the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?"
I ignored her jab, handed her Diana's shield and sword, and, after promising Diana to take her to the front later, we headed out.
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My instincts screamed danger. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a familiar signal I'd learned to trust over years in the field.
I subtly scanned the street, my eyes catching a flicker of movement—the quick glance of a man pretending to read a newspaper, the way another adjusted his hat a moment too late. We were being tailed.
I grabbed Diana's arm, my grip firm, and pulled her into a narrow, shadowed alley. The air here was heavy with the smell of damp brick and refuse, a stark contrast to the city's main thoroughfare.
"Stay close," I muttered, my voice low.
The men didn't hesitate. One stepped out of the shadows, a pistol pressed to my temple before I could react. The cold steel felt like a brand.
Three more emerged, sealing off the alley's exit, their faces grim and unforgiving. They were professionals—their movements silent, their eyes devoid of emotion.
I knew this type. They weren't here to capture us; they were here to eliminate us.
I feigned a moment of panic, my hands raising slowly in surrender, but my mind was already racing through a dozen contingency plans.
Just as the man behind me relaxed, I spun, my elbow a blur as it slammed into his jaw. The pistol went flying, and I snatched it from the air, a silent, deadly ballet I'd performed countless times.
I fired two quick, precise shots, one each for two men's feet, a non-lethal move to slow them down.
But the fourth man was faster than I anticipated. He raised his weapon, the barrel aimed squarely at my chest. Time seemed to slow. I saw the flash from the muzzle, heard the report of the gunshot, but I didn't feel the impact.
Diana had stepped in front of me, her left arm raised. The bullet, a force of pure violence, ricocheted off her silver armguard with a sharp CLANG, a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil.
She hadn't flinched. Her expression was utterly serene, as if a bee had just buzzed past her.
Without a word, she moved. It wasn't a fight; it was an execution.
She closed the distance in a single, fluid motion, her hand grabbing the man's wrist. He cried out, not in pain, but in surprise, as she twisted his arm with impossible strength, forcing him to drop his gun.
She then struck a single, precise blow to his cheek, and he went ragdolling a few feet like a limp sack of clothes.
The other men, seeing their comrade fall, did something I hadn't seen in years—they bit down on concealed cyanide capsules. Their mission had failed, and they had chosen death over capture.
"They won't have talked," I said, a little breathlessly, staring at the motionless bodies.
Diana looked at me, her eyes filled with a distant sadness. "They didn't have to," she said. "I know their methods. They are under the influence of something far worse than any human could conjure."
The air in the alley seemed to grow colder. My adrenaline, which had been pumping moments before, now felt thin and inadequate.
I was a trained killer, a master of my trade, but in that moment, I had an inkling that I was just a human standing next to someone greater.