I open the passenger door and get out of the car. I feel out of place. Usually I was in the back of black van hammering my fingertips against my laptop keyboard. I was usually the hacker. But my job description changes every week. The week before last I was on the crew to extract a stolen painting that belonged to The Louvre in Paris. I got the painting and put it back in its place without The Louvre knowing it was even returned.
But this feels different. It feels like we are chasing a ghost of a problem. Or, something way bigger than us.
Zander and I are already accross the street and he's opening the door to the restaurant. I stop and look up to see that the sign above me reads "The Palace".
"Ahem," he coughs to get my attention. He succeeds and I see him holding the door open for me. Okay. I sure din't peg Zander as the gentlemen type - but whatever. I enter through the door way and take in the smell of bacon. Mmmm, breakfast and lunch mixed together! I guess I'm hungry too.
A stout little woman greets us at the door with a head nod in our direction and leads us to a table at the front windows. "Could we get a booth in the back, please?" I hear Zander ask the woman. She makes a little grunting noise, but complies nonetheless and takes us to the back of the small restaurant. Once we are seated and she is gone I ask him, "Why?"
He looks at me like I am a lost little girl. "You haven't been on many field missions, have you?" he says with moderately-fake sympathy.
"I have so!" I huff. "But... my missions usually don't involve a lot of human interaction. I'm the thief or the hacker or the... the outside man," I finish my defence.
"Well," he starts, "I am accustomed to this. I'm the fighter, investigator,... instigator, I guess. I'm the-"
"The inside man," I finish for him, before he can brag about it. I don't need his stories to make me feel inadequate.
"Anyways, you always take a seat at the back. That way you can watch who comes in, who's already here, and who leaves," he explains. And now he is waiting for my response.
"It's logical."
He rolls his eyes. "It is strategy," he emphasizes. Now, I don't know if anybody else would think so if they were in my position, but I found this amusing. He was acting like a 10-year-old boy who needed to inform his little sister of the ways of the world. And maybe he did need to, and maybe I did appreciate the tips internally, but it was still funny.
"Okay," he whispers as he leans straight against the back of the bench, "We've got a suspicious man at my 7 o'clock."
Now I roll my eyes, already having noticed the man in the corner reading his morning paper. "Zander, if anyone in here is suspicious, it is the hostess," I state plainly.
"What?" he scoffs. "You're out of your mind Decklynn."
I shake my head and lean over the table, and this time my voice is lowered to a whisper, "She is not your regular hostess. I'd say she is Russian and that's why she didn't talk-didn't want to give it away. And, she hides in the back unless she has to make an appearance to get the door."
He considers this. "Maybe," he says with a deep, low voice. I never noticed the strong voice that he had. "There could be a meeting place for the mob in the back."
Hey! He's working with me. I can't help but smile a tad. "That is what I was thinking," I say as I sit up again.
The little woman is back at our table. She places two glasses of water on the table and looks at Zander, waiting. "Oh! I'll have the special. Eggs over-hard. Shredded hash browns. White toast," he orders. She nods and directs her attention towards myself.
"The special too, please. With eggs over-easy, seasoned hash browns, and white toast. Thanks." And she disappears into the back again. We both eye her as she leaves, and then share a glance. "Believe me now?" I ask with a smirk.
"You know, I never did doubt your theory. I was only skeptical when I first heard it - as the thoughts were new to me."
I shrug. "Just teasing," I explain. And he narrows his eyes at me. "Are you studying me to see if I'm telling the truth, or just noting my reactions?" I question, humoured by his gaze.
"Why do you always assume I think you are lying?" he responds excitedly. And I didn't know the answer. Because I know what he was accusing me of was true. I guess I just had issues with trusting other people, and never expect people to trust me. It gets to be fairly lonely when you live by yourself. I visit my parents for holidays and a rare vacation day. They think I'm attending a prestigious high school. I know, it isn't normal for parents to send their teenagers to NYC. They also don't know that I finished high school two years ago. So other than my occasionally parental visits, I'm alone. No good friends to speak of, only work associates. Spies. Spies didn't usually make very appealing friends. "Decklynn?" Zander says my name with a semi-concerned look on his face.
"Yah, sorry," I say. "Um, I'm just not a very good truster, I suppose."
He nods and accepts my reason. "Zander, how were you friends with Agent Graham? In my department, nobody has friends," I prompt because I was curious, after acknowledging my own "friend" situation.
"You don't have any friends?" he asks, genuinely intrigued.
"Uh,.. no," I answer carefully.
"So, you-"
"Stop it. Answer my question, idiot," I demand.
He sighs. "Fine. It's simple, really. We both worked in Combat departments in California. We liked the same things, talked the same way, had the same type of family. We asked the rooming supervisor if we could board together. And the rest is for our memories only," he finishes with a devious smile. Obviously some trouble going on there, I conclude.
I nod slightly. Should I thank him for telling me that? For being honest and sharing personal information? I have a hard time thanking people, for some reason unbeknownst to me. It's awkward.
"So," he starts up again with wide eyes and an annoying fake-giddiness in his voice, "Why doesn't Agent Carter over here have any friends?"
"Friends aren't usually for spies, you know. I go on missions. I have particular people who I prefer to do jobs with, but that's as far as my preferences go, I guess."
"Why do you always end sentences with 'I guess', or 'I suppose' ", he asks me with an amused smile.
Uh. "I don't know! I'm nervous, I-"
"STOP! Don't say it! It makes you sound self-concious and freaked out about your situation, which is bad when people aren't supposed to be able to tell that this isn't normal for you. We are just two teens on a date."
"Ugh, I. Don't. Care. And we are siblings, obviously."
"I don't think so, babe," he coos as he leans over and grabs my hand that was laying on the table. I jerk it away laughing.
"Stop that! That isn't normal sibling behaviour," I explain, still laughing.
"Well, I. Don't. Care," he mocks. I shush him as I see two plates of eggs and bacon coming our way. A different, skinny lady delivers them. "Where's the other woman?" he whines to the new one. I let my giggle slip as I figure it would probably help our cover. Gawking at his rudeness, which would have been my normal response, definitely would not have helped.
"She got off work," the skinny lady says with faintly accented K. I deduce this means she's probably Russian too.
"Oh, okay. Good," Zander tells her. This time I can't help but gawk a little. Nobody notices, thankfully. The lady actually kind of smiles and simply leaves us with our food.
As we are busy scarffing food down our throats, a huge voice yells something in another language. Zander looks up from his plate and into my eyes. "Russian," he manages to mumble with a mouth full of egg.
I nod. "Do you speak it? Do you know what he said?"
He curls his lip up. "I'm in Combat training, dear. Not Foreign Communications."
I roll my eyes. "Well I'm in Tech and Theft, but I know Italian!" I say. I may have jumped at the oppurtunity to one-up him. Maybe.
"Well, that's kind of impressive," he admits.
"Thank-"
BANG. Startled, I look at Zander who is already on his feet looking around. "Sit!" I harshly whisper. There's enough commotion from the few people in the restaurant that nobody can hear us.
"What?" he snaps. And he actually sits back down, much to my surprise.
"You can't. We'll be blown before we even start if you go in there and kick the crap out of a few guys. Plus, this could just be a mob fight and have absolutely nothing to do with us," I explain.
"You know, that was pretty good - you noticing the Russian woman - but you didn't follow you're theory the whole way through. Why would there be a meeting place right next door to the base? I say either BOSS was spying on them, or the Russians just moved in here and are dealing arms or drugs or something and they want to use the base as a shipping depot," he rambles.
"Okay, now you may be following it through, but with no reasoning there Brekkie. They would never come in and actually use the base because they know whoever it belonged to would be coming to check up on it or get it running again."
He huffs. I am noticing he impersonates a small child a lot. "Whatever. But it is reasonable to speculate that BOSS could have been spying on them!"
Maybe. Well, not really. "Uh-uh. BOSS wouldn't have set a base here strictly to spy on the Russians. They would just send a team in to set up... I don't know, a shop beside them to spy," I shake my head. "Never a full operating base. It would compromise too much and would be highly unecessary." Once I finish my contemplative theorizing, I finally notice the way he's looking at me. Could I say that it's awe?
He seems to mentally push aside whatever complimentary feelings he had for my logic and a serious look washes over his strong features. "You should be in Governmental Planning. Or Terrorist Defence. You think offensively and defensively. And then both together."
"Thanks." This time, I manage a thank you because he truly deserved it.
I notice that everything is calmed down. "Whatever happened is over now," he states. More to himself than to me. And then something seems to hit him. Probably a thought. I'm hoping it is a legitmate breakthrough. We need something to work off of. "The cops never came."
Well, not a breakthrough Zander. But definitely a legitimate concern.
{NOTE: What's with the Russians, Hey? ;)
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