Alexander Pierce had an unexpected visitor in his home—the very man who had assassinated Nick Fury: the Winter Soldier.
Strangely enough, the Winter Soldier hadn't come to kill Pierce. If anything, he looked more like someone awaiting orders.
"The timetable's been moved up," Pierce said coolly. "We don't have much time left. Two Level-Six threats. They cost me Zola. Ten hours—and they're still alive."
Just moments earlier, Pierce had received a call from Special Ops. Captain America and Agent Romanoff had survived the missile strike yet again.
"I'm sorry, sir—I forgot my phone."
The housekeeper, Renata, had returned in a fluster, clearly unsettled by the dangerous-looking man standing in Pierce's living room.
"Oh, Renata," Pierce sighed, lifting a handgun from the desk. "I really wish you'd knocked."
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
-----
Saturday morning arrived bright and clear.
Carla—freshly awake—heard the doorbell ring.
When she opened the door, she was greeted by a sharply dressed Happy Hogan, hair slicked back, suit immaculate, looking ten years younger and brimming with confidence.
"Wow, Happy!" Carla beamed. "You look amazing today. Daisy won't stand a chance!"
"You're too sweet," Happy laughed. "All set?"
"Almost. I haven't had breakfast yet—have you? I can make yours too."
"No need. I grabbed some on the way."
Noticing the multiple breakfast bags in his hand, Carla sensed his nervous excitement.
Has he… never been on a date before?
After breakfast, Carla slung on a small backpack with a change of clothes inside, and the two of them headed out. The plan was simple: arrive in Washington by nine in the morning, return to New York by Sunday evening.
Her first-ever two-day trip to the capital had officially begun.
"So, Happy," Carla asked casually as the car rolled toward the airport, "do you have a schedule for your date today?"
"Of course," he said, proudly pulling out a neatly written note. Times, locations, meals—everything meticulously planned.
"…That's a bit… rigid, isn't it?"
"I studied Daisy's personality," Happy replied earnestly. "She's very organized. I figured she'd appreciate structure."
"Well… maybe," Carla said diplomatically, deciding not to comment further. He had zero dating experience anyway.
They arrived at the airport an hour early. After checking in, Happy watched Carla board the plane, reminding her repeatedly to call him once she landed.
Flying for the first time felt strange—exciting, but nerve-wracking. Thankfully, Happy had booked first class. After the initial turbulence during takeoff, the flight smoothed out, feeling no different than sitting at home.
Carla gazed out the window, heart full of anticipation.
Washington, D.C.—the heart of the nation.
-----
Back in Washington, Sam Wilson had just returned from his morning run when two completely unexpected guests appeared at his door.
He opened it to find a battered, exhausted Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff—fresh survivors of a missile explosion.
"Man," Sam blinked, stunned, "what happened to you?"
"Sorry," Steve said. "We need a place to hide. Everyone we know wants us dead."
With nowhere else to go in Washington, Steve had come to the one person he'd met only days ago—but instinctively trusted.
"Well," Sam said, stepping aside, "not everyone."
He let them in, scanning the street before shutting the door.
Natasha was unusually quiet. Steve noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently.
"When I joined S.H.I.E.L.D., I thought I was finally on the right side," Natasha said bitterly. "Turns out I just switched from one monster to another. I thought I knew who I was lying for… but the line disappeared a long time ago."
Years of stolen intel. Countless missions.
How many had really been for HYDRA?
"I think," Steve said quietly, "you might've chosen the wrong profession."
Natasha snorted. "I owe you my life."
Steve had shielded her during the blast. Without him, she wouldn't have survived.
"It's fine."
She looked at him seriously. "If our positions were reversed—if you needed saving—would you trust me?"
Steve considered it carefully.
"…Now I would," he said honestly.
Knowing who the enemy truly was gave Steve clarity. Confusion was worse than fear. That lesson, he realized, he'd learned from a certain fourteen-year-old girl.
-----
Meanwhile, Carla stepped off the plane—only to freeze.
Security was everywhere. Guards patrolled the terminals. Planes landed, but none took off.
And Steve wasn't there.
His phone went straight to voicemail.
Standing alone in the airport, Carla suddenly felt very small—like a leaf caught in a cold autumn wind.
After a moment's hesitation, she made a decision.
If Steve works at the Triskelion… I'll just go there myself.
Outside the airport, traffic roared endlessly. Carla hesitated—then pulled out her phone to open navigation.
The screen went black.
Battery dead.
Great.
Spotting a nearby newsstand, Carla approached the elderly man lounging beside it, newspaper in hand.
"Um—excuse me. Could you tell me how to get to the Triskelion?"
The old man looked up. Snow-white hair, alert eyes.
Her face lit up. "Hey! You're the gentleman from San Francisco! You moved to Washington?"
"San Francisco?" he frowned. "I've never been there. I've lived in D.C. all my life."
The accent was different too. Carla blinked, confused.
"Have you ever been to Lesper Falls? In Brooklyn? You bought flowers from me—I still owe you 50 dollars in change!"
"No," the old man snapped. "I don't like flowers. And I've never been to New York. What do you want?"
Realizing her mistake, Carla quickly apologized and asked again for directions.
The old man pointed vaguely down the road and returned to his paper.
As Carla walked away, she couldn't help glancing back.
He looks exactly like him…
The old man lifted the newspaper higher, covering his face completely.
God's arrangements, after all, were rarely coincidental.
--------------
T/N:
Access Advance Chapters on my
P@treon: [email protected]/PokePals