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spymistress2012-10-26 01:29 am
shootingshields) wrote in spymistress2012-10-26 01:29 am
(no subject)
Munich. October, 1937.
Anja Kaufman is a fresh-faced secretary, straight out of technical school in Berlin. Well, not technically straight out – she spent a year as a typist there before being transferred. She gets along well with Elena, her neighbor in work. They make an excellent gossipy pair, and Anja insists that new boy Peter in the office next door has a crush on her friend. They go out for drinks every weekend, they flirt, they dance, and Anja refuses offers for a smoke because she’s about ready to leave.
By day, she types, types, types away. She goes between offices, relaying messages and memos, and within a month and a half, she’s a staple. She knows Gerhardt upstairs is sweet on her; he comes down every day to make small talk, and every day she puts off his offer to go out for dinner, next time, next time, maybe tomorrow.
Peggy Carter is standing in three inch black heels, her gun strapped under her knee length pencil skirt as she hears the door click open behind her. Unexpected – it’s just after six, and the building has closed for the day. Two seconds later she hears the click of another gun, and she doesn’t need to see it to know it’s targeted to the back of her head.
Silently, she folds the files in her hands; once, twice, thrice, then shoves it down the front of her shirt where it disappears into her brassiere. When she turns around, her face is full of wide-eyed shock at the weapon pointed on her, hands raised in a gesture of confused surrender.
It’s Gerhardt who stands before her, and his own face becomes something akin to confused suspicion. “Anja?”
There’s a fraction of a moment where he falters; it’s barely noticeable, but the gun twitches. Maybe there’s still a chance for her to get out of this. “Gerhardt,” she replies, ever flawless in her German, not a trace of English accent. Her tone is a fabricated nervous as she calculates the quickest way to tuck and roll should he pull the trigger.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I was sent to retrieve something.”
“Everyone has gone home,” he says, carefully, and she knows her time is running out.
“Overtime,” she replies, matching his tone.
He narrows his eyes. She can tell the wheels are turning. She knows Gerhardt is not the harmless man he displays himself as to young secretary Anja Kaufman. Gerhardt Bauer is 31 years old and an apparent expert in firearms. He’s middle tier, but he would know exactly the meanings of the files currently pressed against her skin. He helped write them, and half the reason Peggy let him chat her up was in hopes of a slip up. It was through him that she made the copy of the key to this room, after all.
“Overtime,” he repeats, but his eyes narrow. He looks behind her, and fortunately she’d managed to close the cabinet before he arrived.
“Must you continue pointing that at me?”
“Until I know what’s going on,” he says with a steely resolve.
Her lips draw into a thin line. “I will show you.”
He nods at her, keeping the barrel on her face, and she tilts her head towards the other side of the room. She begins walking, at an angle where she can still see his face and the gun, leading them over to a narrow space between several cabinets. “Well?” he barks, patience wearing thin.
As she turns to face him dead on, to make a gesture at one of the cabinets, she can see the slowly dawning realization on his face. That something is wrong with Anja Kaufman.
Peggy lifts her leg straight up into his groin, and as he doubles over, she grabs his arm with one hand and disarms him with the other. But he flails his hands up and the gun goes flying. She swears, still in German, and darts around the cabinets.
Gerhardt follows after her, his shoulder colliding loudly with metal as she ducks into a roll and grabs his gun with her right hand. From the ground, she aims it up as he hovers above her.
He stares at her incredulously. His mouth opens, to scream for assistance. And she fires.
It has a silencer. The bullet flies without more than a tiny whirr.
There’s the moment where his blood splatters in small flecks on her face. The moment where his body crumples in a heap, and she kicks it away as it lands on her feet. Then there are a few moments where she sits in silence with only her heart beating fast for company. Her chest rises and falls in slow, deep motions.
Finally, she stands. She isn’t wearing gloves. She needs to keep the gun. She pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and wipes her face clean. On the off chance someone else was still in the building, she needs to get off this floor.
She leaves, quiet careful steps that take her down to the office where her jacket rests over a chair. It’s not very cold out today, but she slips it on and buttons it up tight to hide the blood on her shirt. She dumps the gun into her bag and slings it over her shoulder before exiting the building with an air of having only stayed a little extra after hours.
It is October of 1937. Margaret Josephine Carter is twenty years old, and she just killed a man for the first time.
She returns to her house first. Takes a shower. Changes her blouse and puts on a plaid skirt. One hour later precisely, she hands off the files to a contact, the gun with it. She gets her next orders in return and briefly explains the encounter. Already there are plans to make Gerhardt Bauer’s death into a suicide. She needs to keep her cover and so she is refused involvement.
And then she walks around the city. She buys herself a small cake for dinner. She doesn’t return home until after dark.
She climbs into bed and stares at the walls, the ceiling, tries, because tonight, she cannot fall asleep.
In the morning, she burns the bloodstained blouse.
Anja Kaufman arrives at work on the dot. Her coworkers are mourning the sudden suicide of Gerhardt, he always seemed like such a happy fellow. She offers the appropriate sympathies. But the workday must continue. She makes plans with Elena to attend the funeral.
Peggy Carter goes home and falls asleep out of exhaustion, but she can’t stay down for more than an hour. And at midnight, her next orders are put into play. She cannot allow herself anymore time to dwell on it.
(But his face never really goes away.)
Anja Kaufman is a fresh-faced secretary, straight out of technical school in Berlin. Well, not technically straight out – she spent a year as a typist there before being transferred. She gets along well with Elena, her neighbor in work. They make an excellent gossipy pair, and Anja insists that new boy Peter in the office next door has a crush on her friend. They go out for drinks every weekend, they flirt, they dance, and Anja refuses offers for a smoke because she’s about ready to leave.
By day, she types, types, types away. She goes between offices, relaying messages and memos, and within a month and a half, she’s a staple. She knows Gerhardt upstairs is sweet on her; he comes down every day to make small talk, and every day she puts off his offer to go out for dinner, next time, next time, maybe tomorrow.
Peggy Carter is standing in three inch black heels, her gun strapped under her knee length pencil skirt as she hears the door click open behind her. Unexpected – it’s just after six, and the building has closed for the day. Two seconds later she hears the click of another gun, and she doesn’t need to see it to know it’s targeted to the back of her head.
Silently, she folds the files in her hands; once, twice, thrice, then shoves it down the front of her shirt where it disappears into her brassiere. When she turns around, her face is full of wide-eyed shock at the weapon pointed on her, hands raised in a gesture of confused surrender.
It’s Gerhardt who stands before her, and his own face becomes something akin to confused suspicion. “Anja?”
There’s a fraction of a moment where he falters; it’s barely noticeable, but the gun twitches. Maybe there’s still a chance for her to get out of this. “Gerhardt,” she replies, ever flawless in her German, not a trace of English accent. Her tone is a fabricated nervous as she calculates the quickest way to tuck and roll should he pull the trigger.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I was sent to retrieve something.”
“Everyone has gone home,” he says, carefully, and she knows her time is running out.
“Overtime,” she replies, matching his tone.
He narrows his eyes. She can tell the wheels are turning. She knows Gerhardt is not the harmless man he displays himself as to young secretary Anja Kaufman. Gerhardt Bauer is 31 years old and an apparent expert in firearms. He’s middle tier, but he would know exactly the meanings of the files currently pressed against her skin. He helped write them, and half the reason Peggy let him chat her up was in hopes of a slip up. It was through him that she made the copy of the key to this room, after all.
“Overtime,” he repeats, but his eyes narrow. He looks behind her, and fortunately she’d managed to close the cabinet before he arrived.
“Must you continue pointing that at me?”
“Until I know what’s going on,” he says with a steely resolve.
Her lips draw into a thin line. “I will show you.”
He nods at her, keeping the barrel on her face, and she tilts her head towards the other side of the room. She begins walking, at an angle where she can still see his face and the gun, leading them over to a narrow space between several cabinets. “Well?” he barks, patience wearing thin.
As she turns to face him dead on, to make a gesture at one of the cabinets, she can see the slowly dawning realization on his face. That something is wrong with Anja Kaufman.
Peggy lifts her leg straight up into his groin, and as he doubles over, she grabs his arm with one hand and disarms him with the other. But he flails his hands up and the gun goes flying. She swears, still in German, and darts around the cabinets.
Gerhardt follows after her, his shoulder colliding loudly with metal as she ducks into a roll and grabs his gun with her right hand. From the ground, she aims it up as he hovers above her.
He stares at her incredulously. His mouth opens, to scream for assistance. And she fires.
It has a silencer. The bullet flies without more than a tiny whirr.
There’s the moment where his blood splatters in small flecks on her face. The moment where his body crumples in a heap, and she kicks it away as it lands on her feet. Then there are a few moments where she sits in silence with only her heart beating fast for company. Her chest rises and falls in slow, deep motions.
Finally, she stands. She isn’t wearing gloves. She needs to keep the gun. She pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and wipes her face clean. On the off chance someone else was still in the building, she needs to get off this floor.
She leaves, quiet careful steps that take her down to the office where her jacket rests over a chair. It’s not very cold out today, but she slips it on and buttons it up tight to hide the blood on her shirt. She dumps the gun into her bag and slings it over her shoulder before exiting the building with an air of having only stayed a little extra after hours.
It is October of 1937. Margaret Josephine Carter is twenty years old, and she just killed a man for the first time.
She returns to her house first. Takes a shower. Changes her blouse and puts on a plaid skirt. One hour later precisely, she hands off the files to a contact, the gun with it. She gets her next orders in return and briefly explains the encounter. Already there are plans to make Gerhardt Bauer’s death into a suicide. She needs to keep her cover and so she is refused involvement.
And then she walks around the city. She buys herself a small cake for dinner. She doesn’t return home until after dark.
She climbs into bed and stares at the walls, the ceiling, tries, because tonight, she cannot fall asleep.
In the morning, she burns the bloodstained blouse.
Anja Kaufman arrives at work on the dot. Her coworkers are mourning the sudden suicide of Gerhardt, he always seemed like such a happy fellow. She offers the appropriate sympathies. But the workday must continue. She makes plans with Elena to attend the funeral.
Peggy Carter goes home and falls asleep out of exhaustion, but she can’t stay down for more than an hour. And at midnight, her next orders are put into play. She cannot allow herself anymore time to dwell on it.
(But his face never really goes away.)