Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[August 31, 2006 (Thursday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. NYC Headquarters | Lobby—Manhattan, NYC]

Lobby chairs sit too deep for small legs, so Estelle perches sideways, her knees bent, her heels pressed into the vinyl seat, while her high-tops dangle just above the floor. She’s working on a drawing, head tilted, brow furrowed. The blue star-covered binder on her lap opens flat, as if it belongs to someone older.

Her other binder—black, labeled in block letters and snapped shut—stays at the bottom of her backpack—that one’s for plans. Drawings have to be good enough to move from her current binder into the next one.

Her colored pencils are short from use. One in her non-dominant hand is sharpened at both ends—like she thinks it makes it twice as useful.

The drawing is of Lola. Or her best memory of her. Red body, rounded tail, whitewall tires. The hood’s not perfect—too short—but Estelle’s filled it in anyway, labeling every part she can remember: "GRILL," "MIRROR," "HUBCAP," and in very careful lowercase, “rocket boosters?”

She misses seeing the car. She focuses on that feeling instead of how much she’ll miss her parents once they’re deployed in a few hours.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps makes her glance up.

“Hey, Este.”

Coulson’s voice is calm, almost warm in the echo of the wide hallway. His jacket is coffee-stained. His tie’s a little off. He crouches beside her chair rather than tower over it.

May walks past in Tac gear, already half in mission mode. She nods once at Coulson, once at Estelle. That’s all. But it counts.

She brightens a little. “Hi, Mr. Coulson.” Then, she taps the drawing without offering it. “She’s still in the shop, right?”

He nods. “Couple more days.”

Estelle sighs like she personally feels the delay. “I’m making this for you. So you don’t forget what she looks like.”

Coulson smiles, about to accept the drawing, until she frowns at him. It’s not finished.

“Thoughtful of you.”

She goes back to coloring a bumper, then pauses. “When she’s fixed…do you think a car seat can fit in her now?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not unless you’ve figured out how to make her a four-door.”

She frowns, looking at the drawing like it might need a revision. “Oh. Right.”

“But,” he offers, “I’ll let you honk the horn.”

Estelle looks skeptical but then beams like she’s just been handed a key to the city.

Her pencil goes back to the page. Two more quick lines, then she glances up again, serious now. “Are you taking me home today? After Mom and Dad leave for their mission?”

“I am.”

“Can we see Dum Dum first?”

He hesitates, thinking. “Little late for that. We’ll see how he’s feeling tomorrow for breakfast.”

“Back-to-school night tomorrow?” She squints back up at him. At this point, she’s in complete control of her schedule—he’s just the driver.

“Top of my calendar. Tamara didn’t let me forget.”

“Okay, good,” she says, more to herself. “Because I’m skipping first grade, so back-to-school night is important. I need to meet everybody.”

“Noted,” Coulson says, amused. She’s got her mother’s severity and none of her father’s easygoing streak. His wits, though—that part stuck.

She nods, businesslike. “You can wear your suit or your not-suit. We just have to be on time.”

Coulson settles onto the seat beside her with a faint sigh. “Before that, I wanted to show you something.”

She looks over, interested.

He pulls a folded document from inside his coat: three pages, a lot of text. The header says ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. INTERNAL MEMORANDUM’ … but she’s already squinting.

“Is that…for me?”

“It is. We made it a few weeks ago.”

She stares at it like it might bite her; she's not a fan of the font or the spacing. “That’s a lot of words.”

“I thought you liked words,” he teases.

“Yeah, but…” Estelle eyes the formatting suspiciously. “Can you tell me what it says?”

Coulson smirks. “Sure.”

He holds it open in his lap so she can glance at it. “It gives you provisional access. That means limited visitation. It’s official clearance, just for you, to be here while your parents are on a mission like today.”

Her brows go up.

“You’ll be allowed in some areas of HQ, but not all. You’ll need a Level Six or higher agent with you at all times unless you're in a monitored zone. And no wandering. You stick close.”

Estelle nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

“You’ll be staying in the South Admin Wing, the rec rooms, and a few other spots. You can’t go into R&D, the landing docks, or any live ops zones.”

She visibly deflates. No R&D? “Not even just to peek?”

“Nope. Not even to peek.”

“...But I’d only peek a little,” she says softly, testing.

Coulson lifts a brow. She sighs, not arguing anymore.

“I know it’s disappointing,” he says. “But the deal only works if people trust you to follow it. And not everyone’s thrilled you’re going to be around.”

“Not thrilled?” She drops her pencil at that. It slides down the page and into her lap.

Coulson backpedals. “Some people don’t get how your brain works and think all kids are crazy.”

“I’ll be good,” she says quickly, eyes wide. “I’m not a crazy kid.”

Coulson watches her for a beat. Then nods. “I know that. You’ve gotta show everyone else.”

She folds her arms, thoughtful. “So it’s like…I’m undercover as a good kid.”

“You are a good kid.”

“But I could also be undercover.”

He doesn’t argue. He just taps the binder in her lap. “Finish your Lola drawing. A few more minutes before your parents are ready for bye-for-nows.”

She looks toward the corridor where her parents disappeared earlier—getting suited, briefed, and geared up. Her mouth tightens slightly.

“Can I go up now?”

Coulson nods once. “Of course.”

She climbs down from the chair carefully, slides the drawing into the sleeve of her binder, and straightens her cardigan. Then she looks up at him one more time.

“Thank you for the horn promise.”

He grins. “Don’t make me regret it.”

She flashes a half-smile and turns toward the corridor—binder tucked tight, chin lifted, trying not to look back in case the goodbye feels heavier than expected.

As she disappears around the corner, Coulson exhales, then flips the memo open in his lap—three pages, all the permissions and precautions they had to write just to let her exist inside this place.

S.H.I.E.L.D. INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

Date: August 4, 2006

From: Interim Director Nicholas J. Fury, Level 9

To: Child Welfare Liaison Division, S.H.I.E.L.D. Admin Ops

CC: Agent Phillip Coulson, Agent Melinda May, Agent Andrew Garner

Subject: Provisional HQ Access — Dugan, Estelle T.

Background:

Estelle T. Dugan (DOB: 04/13/2000), dependent of Agents Tamara and Michael Dugan, has been granted supervised access to designated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters facilities per Clause 47-B (Dependent Oversight During Extended Field Operations) and Clause 12-F (Early Cognitive Enrichment Trials – Non-Cadet Status).

Justification:

• Both legal guardians (parents, Agents T. and M. Dugan) are frequently engaged in extended, high-risk field operations with no secure civilian caregiver available for the duration.
• Ms. Dugan has undergone preliminary psychological and sociological observation via Dr. Andrew Garner. Findings indicate above-average cognitive function, strong memory retention, and emotional resilience within operational tolerances for non-cadet minors.
• Ms. Dugan has previously demonstrated familiarity with HQ environments and staff, with no incident or breach of conduct in past instances of temporary supervised access.

Access Permissions:

Estelle Dugan is authorized for limited on-site presence under the following conditions:

Supervision Requirement:

• Must be accompanied at all times by a Level 6+ agent
• Frequent Designations: Phil Coulson, Melinda May, and Andrew Garner
• If unaccompanied, must be in surveillance-available areas
• Unaccompanied time not to exceed 0.5 hours
• Unaccompanied time must be reported

Restricted Zones Only:

• South Wing Admin Hall
• Lobby, cafeteria, and recreational rooms
• Physical Training observation rooms
• Offices of authorized supervising agents (Tier 1 terminals locked)

Prohibited Areas:

• R&D, Armoury, and Containment
• Briefing Rooms during active mission review
• Landing pads/decks, Helicarrier decks (at applicable bases), or tarmac
• Except when en route to or departing from base via air travel

Duration Limit:

• No more than six continuous hours on-site per visit
• Duration between visits must meet or exceed 4 hours
• Stays past 2300 and overnight stays are not authorized

Clearance Valid Through: August 4, 2007 (1 year)

• Extension subject to operational need and continued behavioural compliance

—

Signed

Nicholas J. Fury

Interim Director, Level 9

Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division

INTERNAL RESPONSES TO MEMO:

From: Commander Maria Hill

I understand the exceptional circumstances, but I want it on record that we are setting a precedent here. We’ve never had a minor assigned clearance inside HQ, even temporarily. Estelle is an outlier, but this could also open a door.

If we move forward, I strongly recommend that behavioural compliance not be the only qualifier for clearance extension. She’s observant, a quality that will only grow stronger with age. If this is a long-term situation, "good behavior" might not mitigate the odds that her presence on-site becomes a security concern.

From: Agent Melinda May

Estelle follows instructions, understands hierarchy, and doesn’t ask twice when she’s told no.
And she knows better than to go telling her friends and school teachers anything SHIELD-related, even innocent visits.

From: Dr. Andrew Garner

She doesn’t pose a threat to operational security. If anything, she over-corrects to avoid becoming a burden.

Her intelligence is high, and her emotional processing and maturity are even higher.

From: Agent Felix Blake

If she weren’t a Dugan, would we be having this conversation?

From: Agent Michael Dugan

You’re right—she is a Dugan. And that means she was raised to respect the rules, own her actions, and earn her place.

If that makes anyone uncomfortable, they should revisit what they think this place stands for.

And if anyone thinks my daughter doesn’t meet these standards, they’re welcome to speak to me directly.

From: Agent Tamara Samberly-Dugan

Michael speaks from instinct. I’ll offer the more measured version: Estelle is here because she’s capable of handling herself in a structured environment and because she has to be.

If any agent feels strongly that she’s receiving undue consideration, they’re welcome to use their leave time and offer themselves as her primary caregiver while we’re in the field. Be advised she runs on routines, precision, and a question cadence that tends to wear the unprepared.

Chapter Text

[September 1, 2006 (Friday)]

[The Emily Warren Roebling Elementary School—Brooklyn, NYC]

The early September sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the street by the elementary school. Parents still linger on the steps, chatting or tugging younger siblings along by the hand. Coulson stands beside a dark, government-plated sedan—unassuming, except to trained eyes. His posture is relaxed, arms crossed loosely, but his gaze quietly tracks everything.

He straightens slightly when he spots her—Estelle, her brown blazer a little crooked over a pale yellow dress. Her customised high-tops kick at a stray pebble before she looks both ways and crosses toward him. A blue star sticker clings to her cheek. She’s clutching a very second-grade-looking folder in her arms.

Coulson’s expression softens into a smile as she approaches.

“So? Did you meet the legendary Mrs. Coats?” He opens the sedan door but doesn’t urge her in. He’s learned to wait. That’s always been the trick with Estelle: let her lead the debrief.

Estelle kicks the curb a few times, then climbs into the backseat with a sigh that’s more dramatic than defeated.

“She said I could be the line leader on Mondays. Like that’s supposed to be exciting.” She scrunches her nose, clearly unimpressed. “There’s a reading corner, but it’s all farm animals and friendship. Nothing on quantum tunneling.”

Coulson chuckles, watching her buckle into her booster seat before he closes the door and settles into the driver’s seat.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but the friendship books might come in handy. Teamwork is important.”

Estelle leans in her seat to see him in the mirror. “I know how to work in teams, Mr. Coulson.” A pause, then quieter: “I bet the Academy could teach me more.”

“Estelle,” he says gently. There’s warmth in his eyes. “You’re six and already ahead of your grade. You’ve got time. One day, you’ll look around and wonder where the farm animals went—and why nobody asks your favorite dinosaur anymore.”

“…Cryolophosaurus,” she mumbles as he starts the engine.

A silence settles. The kind that’s just quiet enough for a six-year-old to notice. Estelle tilts her head, watching him in the rearview mirror.

“Did they say when Mom and Dad are coming back from their mission?”

“No. And before you ask for details, that’s classified.”

“You always say that. Even when it’s dumb stuff like what snacks are in the breakroom.”

“Some of us take snack security very seriously. If STRIKE finds out about the mini muffins, it’s over.”

She doesn’t smile. “Coulson…they’re okay, right?”

The question is small. Not quite afraid, but close. Coulson chooses his following words carefully.

“They’re the best of the best, Este. They can handle it.”

She notices he doesn’t say yes. Or, of course. Before she can press further, he steers the conversation.

“So, tell me more about this Monday line leader business. Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

“Am I staying at HQ while they’re gone? Or am I still not allowed to have sleepovers there? Who’s coming to stay with me?” She ignores his attempt to divert.

He sighs—something he does a lot around her. “You’ll be at your house. Someone will be with you the whole time. You know the drill.”

“Someone nice or someone boring?” she asks, suspicious.

“May and Garner,” he cracks, spoiling the surprise.

Her suspicion lifts. “They don’t baby me. I like that. Andrew talks to me like I’m smart, and May lets me do late runs in the park. Last time she brought a stopwatch. I’ll have to find it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have fun. And you’ll get to tell your parents all about it when they’re back.”

It’s said smoothly like a promise. But only Coulson knows they’ve gone radio silent. Only he knows it’s starting to feel like a maybe.

[September 9, 2006 (Saturday)]

[Watermarks Retirement Community—Brooklyn, NYC]

Lemon oil and old books—the signature smell of the Common Room, especially at this time of day. Estelle makes a point not to mention it, just like she doesn’t mention the patchy carpet. She sits on the edge of a vinyl-upholstered chair, legs swinging, a drawing in her lap: a rocket ship labeled Dugan Tactical Craft in blocky letters. Next to her sits an elderly man in a bowler hat—Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan.

It’s been over a week since her parents went on their mission. Not that she’s complaining (much). She knows their work—“stopping bad guys”—is important, and sometimes they’re away for weeks at a time. But this is the longest they’ve been gone all year. And she’s starting to get bummed out.

"I don’t know how many ‘First Days of School’ I’ll have if they keep moving my grade,” she had told May and Andrew earlier that week while getting ready. “I hope they can be there for all the next ones.”

Dum Dum, now 94, squints down at the drawing. “This one’s got style. That nosecone…”

Whatever thought was coming drifts off—no surprise. Estelle’s ready to shovel coal back into the train of thought.

“I added it,” she explains, pointing at the nose with a red Crayola Erasable Colored Pencil. “Streamlined shapes move faster. That’s what Coulson’s car documentary said.” She pauses. “But it’s supposed to be a satellite… so maybe I don’t need it.” She starts erasing, then stops. “But it looks cooler.”

“Prioritize style, live wire. Keeps the enemy guessing,” he smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes today, for reasons far beyond age.

“Staying out of trouble?”

“Mostly,” she answers honestly. Dum Dum might be the only person she’s never once lied to—not even a little.

“May caught me in the pantry again, but I was running a probability test on cookie rotation. Garner picks different kinds every time, so there’s got to be a pattern. She accused me of ‘unauthorized snacking.’”

“Six going on sixty,” he chuckles. His hand rests gently on Estelle’s back, trembling with age, but still steady. His voice dips lower. “Coulson’s picking you up today.”

“Mm-hmm. May and Garner are going to have dinner.” She says this as if she’s reporting an operation. Then she leans in and whispers, “She wore lipstick.”

Dum Dum raises a grey brow. “That serious.”

“She didn’t think I’d notice. But I did. And Dr. Garner wore cologne. I heard the ‘skkt skkt’ from the bathroom door.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Estelle’s sharp observations amuse him—the way she keeps track of everything.

“What’s your, err…” he clears his throat, looking for the proper phrasing, “tactical read on their date?”

“He’s gonna propose,” she replies with a sharp nod. She’s right, of course—neither of them knows it yet. “They’re happy. That’s good,” she adds, heading off any follow-up about how she feels about it.

“It is,” he nods, leaning back and closing his eyes. Estelle’s watch beeps—Coulson’s here.

“Make sure you give Phil hell for me, will you?”

“Roger that,” she gives a mock salute and gathers her drawing. She hugs him before she leaves, longer than usual.

[September 9, 2006 (Saturday)—Evening]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Coulson’s Office—Manhattan, NYC]

Coulson’s office has been made more “Este-friendly” since last week. A spare chair is in the corner, beneath a whiteboard covered in EXPO marker sketches—aircraft schematics, doodles, and a line drawing named Agent Llama. (Inspired by the farm animal books at school.)

Coulson stands over his desk with a tablet—one eye on her, one eye on a redacted mission feed. Sleeves rolled, tie loose. He looks… tired. Estelle’s not used to that. In her mind, he doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to.

She’s seated with her datapad, several models outdated, flipping through SSR files—more historical than classified. She glances up from a 1950s drone schematic by Howard Stark.

“You keep sighing,” she observes. “That means your brain is making a decision.”

Her speech carries a slight lisp. She’d been wiggling a loose tooth during the car ride, and between her tugging and a speed bump Coulson didn’t slow for, the tooth came out. It’s now wrapped in paper in her bag, awaiting the Tooth Fairy. She wanted to look at it under a microscope, but R&D was off-limits, so she didn’t ask.

“Sighing means decisions?” he asks.

“For you, yes,” she says, setting the datapad down with exaggerated professionalism. “You do it when you’re going to say ‘no,’ but wish you could say ‘yes.’”

“Sharp as ever.” He gives a half-smile, but offers nothing more. She returns to her screen.

“Did you hear from them?” she asks lightly, hoping her smallness—her child-ness—might prompt an honest answer.

“No update yet.”

“Classified,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. In that moment, she looks sixteen and completely over it.

“Still classified,” he affirms, not engaging the attitude. She recalibrates. Doesn’t push.

“Do you think Agent Llama could be real?” she asks, changing the subject—not randomly, but strategically. May once told her: Get someone talking about anything, and you might learn what you want to know.

“If he has clearance and proper training. But he needs a better codename.”

“Why? Llamas are territorial. Probably hard to disarm.”

He chuckles but doesn’t continue. That won’t do. Estelle quietly climbs into the armchair across from his desk, folding herself in like she belongs there. She wants to keep working him—but doesn’t know how.

“If you can talk to them,” she says, voice softer now, “tell them to come home soon, okay? Dad owes me ice cream from the place by the Captain America statue.”

He looks up—his breath hitching ever so slightly. He knows something. She can tell.

“I will,” he says. “First chance I get.”

It’s nearly 2100. Estelle is halfway through a worn junior field tactics manual, diagrams and hypotheticals filling her vision. Coulson’s watching her eyes get heavy. He’s about to start wrapping up when—

A knock. Sharp. Two quick raps before the door opens a crack and then swings wider. Agent Victoria Hand steps in, precise as ever. Estelle looks up, admiring.

“You’re needed upstairs. Now,” Hand says to Coulson. Her eyes flick to Estelle, then back. Whatever it is, it’s urgent enough to leave Estelle alone.

Coulson stands—alert but composed. “What’s the channel?”

“We’ll debrief you there.” That’s all she gives him. That’s all he needs.

Coulson crouches beside Estelle. “Permitted areas only. We’ll get you home when I’m back.”

“Good. I’m running out of books I’m allowed to read,” she says casually.

“Noted.” He touches her shoulder lightly, then heads out after Hand.

Estelle wanders the halls with quiet familiarity. She isn’t sneaking—just drifting, within her boundaries. If she took a right where the blue tile turns white, she’d cross into restricted zones. It’s strange: to be that close to the rules and trusted not to break them.

She heads for the Rec Room, hoping to find an overlooked shelf with something interesting. Mission logs. A misfiled dossier. Something.

The night lighting is dim—a soft, cool glow cast through the corridors. She rounds the corner into the Rec Room, too focused to hear the footsteps from the restricted hall behind her.

By the time they reach her, she’s already dragged a step stool to the fridge, standing on tiptoe to check the top.

Saltines. Possibly older than she is.

Then—

“Well, now. Look who we’ve got here.” The voice is smooth. Easy. “You lost, junior?”

She turns. The man’s smile is wide, like a worn-in shoe. Nothing wrong with it, but something in how fast it arrives puts her on edge.

“No, sir,” she replies politely. “Just looking. Staying in the clear zones.”

He leans on the doorframe, studying her. She studies back—more obvious about it, but just as thorough.

“You’re the Dugan kid. The ‘legacy,’ right?” He steps forward. She doesn’t let the pride in her family name show. “You’ve got your mom’s stare. Used to scare the rookies.”

“She says rookies scare themselves.”

He barks a laugh—too loud, too practiced. “Sharp tongue. She’s not wrong. And your dad—always trying to outscore me on marksmanship at the Academy.”

Estelle hides her interest at the mention of the Academy. She watches him closely: the way he favors his left side, though his gun is holstered on the right. Dominant hand doesn’t match dominant eye, perhaps? Or perhaps he has been injured before. His tone is friendly, but his eyes don’t quite match it.

“You work in Field Ops?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Used to. Now I do a little of this, a little of that. Consulting. Guiding the next generation.” He crouches slightly, staying at a respectful distance. Charming, practiced. “John Garrett,” he says, offering his hand.

She shakes it. The name clicks. She knows he trained with Coulson under Fury. That settles her slightly, though not enough to relax.

“Have you ever thought about what kind of agent you want to be?”

“I’ve got time to decide,” she shrugs, withdrawing her hand first. She’s grey-rocking him, and he knows it.

He stands. “Sure you do. But some of us?” He taps his temple. “We just know. Comes with the blood. You’re no exception.”

She stays silent. Garrett’s heard Coulson talk about her nonstop. But she’s quieter than he expected. That alone puts him on notice.

“Say, you ever get bored with the baby books they stock around here?”

“That’s why I’m looking. Coulson says maybe they’ll revisit my restrictions. I think he’s just…uhm...placating me.”

“Placating,” Garrett repeats, impressed. Then laughs—too much again. “Tell you what. I’ve got something better than files. Something you can’t learn from a book.” He raises his eyebrows. “Ever been to the firing range?”

“Protocol says I’m not cleared,” she replies quickly. “Developmental safeguards.” It sounds rehearsed, as if she read the memo.

“Sure, sure…” he waves it off. “But you seem sharper than that.”

“The rules—”

“Coulson’s tied up upstairs. You’ve got time to kill. Just a look. Maybe a dry run.”

She hesitates. The tug-of-war shows in her face. She knows better. But curiosity is heavy when you’re six and underestimated.

“Surveillance?”

“We’ll keep it off-book. Just between us,” he smiles. “Scout’s honor.”

Estelle nods slowly, sincerely doubting he was ever a Scout.

The security desk on Sub-Level Three is vacant. Estelle notices that right away, but Garrett swipes his keycard without hesitation. The door beeps, and the long, humming overhead lights flicker on one by one as they enter the auxiliary range, one of the older ones, barely used. It’s the kind of space people use when they don’t want logs.

Estelle’s eyes go wide. The concrete walls, the faint smell of oil and mothballs, the cavernous quiet—it all settles over her like static.

“See those eyes lighting up,” Garrett says, smug. “Figured you’d appreciate something more than coloring books and cafeteria puzzles.”

He walks her to a lower-height station. It’s not meant for someone her size, but he adjusts the bench and sandbag without comment. She stands straight, arms behind her back—like a cadet, like she’s training herself to belong.

Garrett unlocks a locker and draws a .22 caliber training pistol. Real steel. Low recoil. He loads it casually.

“Let’s see what’s in that Dugan bloodline,” he says, placing the pistol in her hand with practiced ease. “Same kick as a bad sneeze.”

He steps back, returns with earmuffs and glasses. They’re too big, slightly awkward, but he doesn’t mention it.

The next few minutes blur. He walks her through grip, stance, and breath control. Safety and mag release. It’s all rushed—not careless, but like he expects her to fill in the blanks. She wonders if that’s part of the test.

“Line up the sights,” he says. “Grip high. Lock the wrist. Three shots. Fire when ready.”

Her eyes widen a fraction—she didn't expect him actually to say go. But she adjusts.

Breathe in.

Exhale.

Fire.

The shot cracks down the range, echoing. She fires twice more.

Garrett laughs, flipping the switch to bring the target forward.

“First shot, center mass. Clean. The second one drifted. It showed more in the third. Shoulder line, just off mark. But hell of an aim, junior.”

Estelle doesn’t react, neither to the compliment nor to the grouping. She already knows what went wrong. The recoil. She hadn’t expected the feel of it—not really.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett remarks. “Be excited. A grouping like that? Clears basic quals in a few field divisions.”

She wants to ask to go again. He’s already loading a new target.

But then she thinks about the time. And the rules.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she says, flicking the safety back on.

“No. I shouldn’t have.” But he doesn’t sound sorry.

He slides in the next target. “You ever feel like they’re all lying to you, Estelle?”

It’s the first time he’s used her full name. She notices.

“About what?”

“About who you are and what you’re ready for.” His tone sharpens ever so slightly. “You’re not normal. They know it. They don’t want you to know it yet.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she disengages the safety and raises the pistol again. This time, while the target slides back into place, she asks:

“How do you know when someone’s hiding something?”

“Easy,” he says. “Watch how they act when they think no one’s looking.”

She nods, raising the gun. But now she’s watching him, reflected in the range glass.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Second round’s tighter. No surprise this time. She lets off two more, just because she wants to, then sets the gun down, safety on.

The smile on Garrett’s face—she sees it in the glass. Too satisfied. Genuine, maybe, but edged with something she doesn’t like. Something that makes her wish she’d stayed upstairs.

Then—

A familiar voice cuts clean through the air:

“And here I thought we had a strict ‘no six-year-olds at the range’ policy.”

She knows that tone. Coulson’s been watching. Long enough to gather the facts. Long enough to plan an entrance.

Estelle removes the earmuffs and glasses slowly and deliberately. Garrett, unfazed, casually calls the target back like they’ve just wrapped a workshop.

The tension thrums now—not adrenaline, but aftermath. Estelle’s still. Not afraid. Just…changed.

Garrett holds up the target like a trophy. “Don’t look at me. Your protégé’s a natural. Center mass, twice. No flinch.”

Coulson approaches, arms folded, expression unreadable. He glances at the grouping—less than four inches. The first two shots are tight. Far too good for a first-timer.

“Impressive,” he says flatly. Then, “Still not in her clearance bracket.”

“Relax, Phil. I was right here the whole time. Just a little harmless warm-up.”

“Right,” Coulson says. “Because firearm use by minors always counts as harmless.”

Estelle doesn’t speak. She stands at attention—hands behind her back, lips pressed in a line.

Garrett keeps going. “Those Dugans are raising a legend, whether you like it or not.”

“She’s got time,” Coulson replies. “Let’s not start shaving off the years just yet.”

Garrett offers a lazy salute as Coulson lays a hand on Estelle’s shoulder and steers her toward the exit.

“Your show, Agent Coulson.”

Deep down, Estelle’s gut is already filing this moment away.

They reach the elevator. The doors close. The hum of the ascent fills the silence.

Coulson stands beside her, arms crossed. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t raise his voice.

“You know you’re not allowed on the range.”

“He said it’d just be a look. Or dry fire. Then—”

“I believe you,” he says calmly. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

He’s not frustrated. Not fully disappointed. But it lands hard, more complex than any punishment she’s known.

“Garrett’s not a bad guy,” he continues, “but he doesn’t think about rules the same way we do. Or potential. And you…”

He finally glances at her. And if he were even a fraction softer, the look on her face might break him.

“…You’re smart enough to know that.”

She nods. Quiet. Then, after a pause:

“I just wanted to know what it felt like. What they see. My mom and dad.”

She doesn’t realize it, but dropping the ‘mom and dad’ card? That was the best move she could’ve made.

“I get that, Este. I do. But there’s a difference between curiosity and readiness.” He exhales. “And protocol isn’t just red tape. It’s there to protect you. This doesn’t go in your file, but next time? Think twice.”

A beat.

“Yes, sir.”

[September 14, 2006 (Thursday)]

[The Emily Warren Roebling Elementary School—Brooklyn, NYC]

The call comes in during math. Estelle is only half-listening to the lesson on Place Value. She already understood it the first time Mrs. Coats explained it on Monday—ones, tens, hundreds, thousands. Straightforward.

The Tale of Despereaux rests in her lap, open just enough to read a few lines at a time between glances at the whiteboard. Truthfully, she’s mapping out how to rewire the classroom’s “Reward Marble Jar” in her favor.

Then the intercom buzzes.

“Estelle Dugan to the front office, please. Estelle Dugan.”

A few kids go “ooh” the way kids do. Estelle ignores them, calmly packing her book and a few other items. She walks down the hallway at a measured pace—not rushing, but already knowing something isn’t right.

The front desk receptionist, Ms. Haller, meets her at the door and walks her to a teacher conference room that smells like dry-erase markers and stale coffee. Bulletin boards crowd the walls with teacher schedules and outdated training posters.

Coulson is already seated at a table that is too low. He doesn’t seem to mind. He stands when she enters.

“Hey, Estelle…”

“Am I in trouble for the range thing?” she asks quietly, taking the seat across from him. Her feet don’t reach the floor.

“No. It’s not about that.” He exhales. Watches her watching him—not nervous, but calculating. Like she’s clocking a pattern she hasn’t solved yet. “How’s school been?”

“Fine.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. It’s the perfect height for her. “I finished the math packet yesterday. The reading corner is still mostly farm animals. There’s one where cows use a typewriter to ask the farmer for blankets.”

“Teamwork, huh?”

“It’s about power imbalance and negotiation.” She shrugs, offering no further summary.

“So… more like Animal Farm .”

“What’s Animal Farm ?”

“Something you’ll probably read next year,” he says flatly.

She doesn’t get the joke. Doesn’t care.

“Is this about my parents?”

The smallness drops from her voice. It lands like a card on the table: clean, blunt, inescapable.

Coulson doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking down at his hands, at the grain of the table, at the place where his wedding ring would be if he had one. Anywhere but her face.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “It is.”

Estelle doesn’t breathe. She pulls her backpack into her lap and hugs it to her chest.

“We sent another team to the gulag. The site they were assigned to.”

He swallows.

“We found them.”

…

“Alive?” she asks. Her voice is so soft it might not even be there.

Coulson’s expression holds steady. But his voice catches.

“No, Este. They didn’t make it.”

Nothing happens. At first, there’s no reaction at all.

She sits still, rigid, like she’s listening for something far away. Her bottom lip quivers once.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“They were together?”

“They were.”

“The mission—they finished it?”

His eyes sting.

“They did. They stopped something bad from reaching a lot of good people.”

Another breath. He’s delivered bad news before. But never like this. Never her.

“They were brave,” he says gently. “They fought for what mattered.”

She swallows—hard—like she’s trying to keep something sharp down.

“…Okay.”

“Estelle—”

“Okay,” she repeats. Gentle, but ironclad.

She sits like that for a while, trying to process what she’s just heard. Small and too composed for a child who just lost everything. Coulson watches helplessly. He rarely lets himself feel helpless.

Eventually, he reaches across the table—not to grab her hand, but to place his own near hers—a silent offer.

Her fingers inch closer. They barely touch. But that’s enough.

He sees it in her eyes—she’s running some equation. Like she’s figuring something out. Something beyond grief.

“You said they stopped something. Not someone.”

Coulson closes his eyes for half a second.

Dammit, Este.

“So…the bad guy got away.” It’s not a question.

He could lie. Say justice was served. Wrap it up clean. But she’d see through it.

“Yes,” he says.

“What’s his name?”

“Arms dealer. Smuggler. Classified.”

She nods. Disappointed—not by him, but by the lack of closure.

“Okay.” She grips her backpack tightly. “Then once I’m an agent, and if he’s still out there—”

“Estelle.”

He stops her. Studies her. There’s no drama in her expression. Just a quiet, steel-framed promise. She means it.

“That’s not your burden,” he says softly.

“It’s not,” she agrees, meeting his eyes. “Yet.”

Coulson sighs. Out loud this time. What do you say to a six-year-old on a warpath?

She pulls back slightly and opens her backpack — not frantic, just focused. From the main compartment, she withdraws a plastic binder, overstuffed, its spine labeled in blocky marker:
FILES, PLANS & CONTINGENCIES

“…Okay,” she mutters, flipping to a tab at the back labeled Wayne Protocol.
Wayne Protocol. She named her dead-parent contingency plan after a comic book orphan. Jesus.

She puts up a finger, like she’s giving a presentation, and reads:

“So…does this fall under Federal Emergency Protocol 47-B or 52-A? It’s only 52-A if there’s…” She traces a finger under the words. “‘Confirmed hostile targeting of dependents.’ So, unless the bad guy comes after me, I think this is still 47-B.”

Coulson blinks. Blinks. Mouth open slightly, no words ready.

“And who’s watching me now?” she continues. “Can May and Garner stay? I prefer them.”

She doesn’t stop for breath.

“I don’t want to leave Brooklyn unless I have to. I like the library. And I just got into the faster reading group.”

“Estelle—”

“And school—do I have to stay in regular school? Or can I start at the Academy early? Garrett says there are these training interfaces. I can work on those. I only need clearance.”

“ Este! ”

His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts clean. She freezes. Presses her lips shut.

“First of all…” He looks at the binder. Then at her. “…That’s organized. And terrifying.”

“Thank you?”

“Not a compliment.” He gently shuts the binder. Has to stop himself from confiscating it. “Second—yes, this is 47-B. Yes, May and Garner are your guardians. No relocation. No handoff.”

“What about school?”

“You’re staying in your regular school.”

“But what about—”

“You are not starting Academy training.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re six! Because you’re grieving. Because you need to be a kid, Estelle, even if the world just handed you something that makes you feel like you can’t be one.”

His tone is firmer than she’s ever heard it. His eyes are slightly glassy. She’s never seen him like this. It’s unnerving.

She wants to be mad. But she can’t. Not with sad Phil Coulson in front of her.

She glares instead. Pulls the binder back and slides it into her bag with more care than aggression.

“It’s fine,” she mutters. “But tell May I’m skipping recess. It’s… ineff—”

She fumbles the word.

“In…efficient.”

“Yeah,” he exhales. “She’ll love that.”

Chapter Text

 S.H.I.E.L.D. FILE EXCERPT — ASSET PROFILE

SUBJECT: Dugan, Estelle T.

FILE NO.: 1126-EDT-04

CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: Level 6 — Family Asset Archive

COMPILED BY: Jasper Sitwell, Internal Affairs

DATE COMPILED: 15 Sept 2006

EXCERPTED FROM: Historical Holdings — Special Legacy Properties

PROPERTY HOLDING: 13 Cranberry Street, Brooklyn Heights, NY 11201

Title Holder (Historical): Corporal Timothy Aloysius “Dum Dum” Dugan

Current Status: Held in trust under Dugan family inheritance clause

Zoning Class: Residential Brownstone (4 bed / 3.5 bath / partial basement)

Lot ID: B-2153-00913

LEGACY DESIGNATION: MUNICIPAL ORDINANCE RES. #712-F (1946)

FILED: April 29, 1946

ORIGINATING AUTHORITY: Office of the Mayor — Fiorello H. LaGuardia

SUPPORTING AGENCIES: NYC Council, Veterans Housing Oversight Committee, Office of Wartime Services

SUMMARY OF ORDINANCE:

Pursuant to wartime service exemptions and post-conflict civic recognition initiatives, Corporal Timothy A. Dugan was awarded symbolic and material commendation for his actions during World War II under SSR Command, including but not limited to:

• Strategic command of Howling Commandos and other combat units behind enemy lines throughout several operations
• Covert infrastructure disruption in Axis-controlled zones, including those in affiliation with HYDRA
• Lifesaving action on behalf of allied operatives and civilians

COMMENDATION INCLUDED:

• Formal Key to the City of New York (presented at Gracie Mansion - May 3, 1946)
• Lifetime residential grant of municipally held property: 13 Cranberry St, Brooklyn Heights
• Tax Exempt Designation: Residential tax exemption effective FY 1947
  • Conditioned upon continuous direct family occupancy
  • Valid through seven (7) successive generational transfers
  • Reinstatement review every 25 years (first review passed 1971, second passed 1996)

SHIELD ANALYSIS:

The property holds symbolic, historical, and emotional significance for Subject Estelle T. Dugan and remains her primary legal residence. Under current NYC municipal records, the tax exemption remains active and valid. Deed to property still held under Corporal Timothy A. Dugan, though he is not an active resident. Mr. Dugan is advised not to sell or commercially repurpose the said property without consulting the legal liaison [REDACTED] and establishing a relocation plan for Estelle T. Dugan.

Addendum — Authorised Note from Agent Philip J. Coulson:

Recommend preserving the residence as part of Estelle’s long-term stability plan. Dugan legacy runs deep in this organisation. Some roots are worth keeping intact.  

Chapter Text

[September 14, 2006 (Thursday)]

[13 Cranberry St, Brooklyn Heights — Brooklyn, NYC]

The brownstone is still when Coulson pulls up. London Plane trees line the street, their mottled trunks like old sentinels that have seen generations come and go. He opens Estelle’s door without a word, and she steps out. She clutches her backpack—not tightly, but with precision. Her spine is straight. Her chin is high.

She ascends the sun-warmed stoop like a soldier reporting for duty.

Inside, she moves with practiced efficiency: her boots are off, her cardigan folded into its cubby, but her backpack stays on her person, as if she needs it. She doesn’t glance at the dark brown leather jacket with the embroidered peony or the men’s running shoes with fraying laces by the door. She knows who they belong to. She doesn’t want to think about them now.

…But her eyes flick, just for a second, to the jacket’s sleeve—her mom’s—where an embroidery thread hangs loose near the cuff. Mom never got around to cutting it. Estelle had meant to remind her.

She slips past the gallery and into the parlour. Down the corridor, in the kitchen, May is speaking in hushed tones on the landline—probably with Logistics. Garner is at the island, tinkering with some SHIELD-issued gadget and its instruction manual.

May turns as soon as she hears Estelle’s footsteps, hanging up.

“She’s home,” she says softly.

Garner looks up and rises, moving toward the parlour. He crouches, not close enough to crowd her, but near enough to be present. His eyes are calm and practiced.

Coulson steps past them, heading into the kitchen with May.

“Hey, Este,” Garner says.

“Hi, Dr. Garner.” Her voice cracks—raw from disuse. The car ride with Coulson had been quiet. Unusually so.

“It’s okay if you want to just sit for a while. Or unpack. Or…not talk. Whatever you need.”

“I’m okay.”

Garner nods, accepting the answer without pushing. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder and walks with her to the couch along the nearest wall. She sits, placing the bag beside her. Garner settles across from her on the coffee table.

After a few moments of silence—and the growing, unbearable weight of being watched—Estelle unzips her backpack and pulls out her binder. Again.

It’s heavy with tabs and folded notes, color-coded by her invisible logic. She opens it without hesitation but flips through with purpose, as if she can just rearrange something, anything, maybe her brain will follow.

Her fingers trail over a plastic divider. A corner is peeling. She smooths it down.

Garner leans forward slightly. “Is that your planning book?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, then subtly pulls it closer. Coulson’s earlier reaction to it made her wary. She wasn’t sure if other adults could be trusted with it.

“Smart,” he says, reading her guardedness without judgment.

She keeps flipping. Quiet. Too quiet. He watches her—the shallow breathing, clenched jaw, the tension building under the surface.

“Can I ask you something?”

She nods, barely. She’s fixated on a page that doesn’t feel safe anymore—a detailed plan about adopting a German Shepherd, naming it Dodger, and training him to smell out threats.

There’s a crude sketch of him, too. All ears and legs. His tail’s crooked—she couldn’t get it right. That bothers her more now than it did when she drew it. She traces it with her thumb as if that’ll fix it, along with everything else.

“When you think about them right now—your parents—are you trying not to feel it? Or… does it just feel too big?”

Estelle freezes.

Nobody’s asked her that, not like that.

Too big? What does that mean? Feelings don't come in sizes.

Her chest tightens. Her throat does that thing where it tries to close up, and it reminds her she doesn’t have anyone left to explain things like this. Her mom would’ve helped her find the words. Her dad would’ve drawn it out on the whiteboard.

Instead, she just stares at the picture of Dodger and sets the binder down carefully, like it’s fragile. Like everything is.

She scoffs and sets the binder aside, folding her hands in her lap.

“I don’t wanna cry,” she mutters defensively. “It’s…it’s so annoying.”

“That’s okay.”

“If I do…” Her voice wobbles. Garner moves gently to sit beside her. “...I think it’ll be for a really long time.”

“That’s a real thing when it’s really big. Happens to a lot of people.”

“Well… how does it go away?” Her eyes are glassy when she finally looks at him.

“With time,” he says gently. “But you have to let it start first, Estelle.”

Her shoulders curl inward. Her chin drops to her chest. She draws a shallow breath—and then—

It comes.

Not loud. Not messy. Just a quiet, spine-deep sob. Her fists ball in the hem of her astronomy shirt. Her teeth, minus the one she lost last week, clench. She fights it, but the tears still come.

May and Coulson return to the room. They don’t speak. They just stay.

Estelle leans into Garner’s side. He lets her.

[September 16, 2006 (Saturday)]

[Green-Wood Cemetery—Brooklyn, NY]

The morning light is golden, soft—almost offensively beautiful for a day like this. The wind rustles the trees in long, sympathetic sighs. Rows of headstones stretch across the green. Two of them are fresher than the rest.

Agents gather, quiet and solemn. None linger too long on the girl in the black wool coat, clutching two weathered badges in her lap.

Coulson steps forward. No notes. Just memory.

“Tamara and Michael Dugan were agents. Partners. Parents.”

He pauses at the sound of Estelle’s shaky breath. May, beside her like a sentinel, wraps an arm around her small shoulders. Her eyes tell him to keep going.

“They were skilled, loyal, and smart. But more than that, they were good. Good in quiet ways. The kind of good that didn’t make noise about their sacrifices, because they believed the work mattered. They believed it was their responsibility to make the world better, in every small way they could.”

Estelle leans fully into May. Dum Dum, on her other side, rests a trembling hand on her back. Still, Coulson continues.

“They leave behind a legacy. Not just of service, but of heart. Of duty without cruelty. Of sharpness without coldness.”

He hesitates—just a beat. Barely audible, but the agents notice.

“And they leave behind a daughter,” he says, voice taut. “And she carries them forward better than anyone else could.”

He steps back. There are no more speakers. The ceremony is brief. Fitting, for SHIELD’s best.

As the crowd disperses, Estelle stands. She approaches the caskets, looking at them like they might answer her. Like they might show her how to move on.

She thinks about the sound of her mom’s laugh when she burned pancakes, and her dad singing along to boomboxes at parks and subway stations—off-key, unapologetic—sometimes enough to make her complain. It’s impossible to believe that those sounds won’t come back.

A shadow cuts the light.

“You’re supposed to be out West doing ‘Deputy Director’ things,” she mutters, referencing his recent promotion.

“And you’re supposed to be six,” comes the dry reply.

Fury steps up beside her. His movements are slow and deliberate. Even without the long leather coat he’ll become infamous for, his presence is unmistakable.

“Don’t say how brave they were,” she says.

“I wasn’t going to.” He studies her. “Are you feeling anything right now?”

“Yes. It’s…big. That’s what Dr. Garner said. And he’s right.”

“But you’re not showing it.”

“I did that yesterday,” she says. The words are thick. Her mouth is dry.

“It was… exhau… exhau… exhausting,” she finishes.

It takes effort, that last word. Too many syllables. She hates that grief steals her big words like that—like it’s not enough to take everything else.

He nods. “Do you want something?”

“Paying respects,” he says simply, knowing she won’t believe that’s all. “And sizing you up, if I’m honest.”

Estelle shifts her weight. She doesn’t fully get it, not really. But she also knows better than to ask him to explain. He’s not that kind of adult.

Her mouth is fixed shut. But her posture straightens—subtle. Watchful. She knows she’s being evaluated.

Fury crouches slightly, eye level, but never condescending.

“You’ve got time, Ms. Dugan. No one’s putting a gun in your hand tomorrow.” A pause. She thinks about the literal gun in her hand last week, but gives away nothing.. “But there will come a time when you’ll have to decide what kind of person you want to be. Not just an agent. Not just a Dugan. You.”

Estelle looks down at the badges in her hands.

“What if I already know?”

“Then remember it. Because a lot of people will try to change your mind.” He straightens. “People like you don’t stay small. Just make sure you’re in control of how you grow up—not just why.”

He walks away. No goodbye. Just the sound of boots on grass, fading into the wind.

[September 16, 2006 (Saturday)]

[The Krazy Kanoe—Manhattan, NY]

From the outside, the bar is unremarkable—brick exterior, a narrow staircase down to a basement-level door. Most would pass it without a second thought.

But to SHIELD, it’s sacred ground.

Coulson stands at the top of the stairs, holding Estelle’s coat. She grips the railing as she makes her way down.

“This is technically against protocol,” he says behind her.

“I shot a paper target with a .22 last week,” she replies with a touch too much snark—snark he feels partially responsible for.

“That was Garrett,” he sighs. “And if you’re not quiet about it, I’ll have to file a report.”

They reach the door. Estelle hesitates, absorbing the history. She knows the stories—the SSR, FDR, the fight against HYDRA. But this is her first time standing inside a chapter of it.

“Just knock when you’re ready,” Coulson says.

She does. A panel slides open—not a face, but a camera and mic. Coulson gives the password: “Swordfish.”

The door swings open. Estelle steps into the warmth of dim lighting and preserved history. The walls are lined with photos, medals, and propaganda posters. A shadow box of SSR gadgets. A framed picture of the Howling Commandos—the same one hanging in her own home.

“Hey,” Coulson nudges her. “Check this out.” He nods to a brass plaque on an empty table: ‘SSR Chief Roger Dooley’.

Her mouth opens in wonder. “This place is so cool. It’s like…they’re all watching.”

“They are,” Coulson says, guiding her through.

A few minutes later, Estelle sits perched on a tall barstool, legs swinging idly. A Shirley Temple rests in front of her, untouched, while she twirls a cocktail umbrella between her thumb and forefinger. Nearby, Coulson is deep in conversation with a couple of agents she doesn’t recognize.

The room is settling. The noise is thinning out. And that hollow feeling is creeping back into her chest—the kind that sneaks in when distractions fade. She’s starting to think about it again. The loss. The people who should be here.

“Wanna see something classified?” a voice says smoothly from behind the bar.

Estelle looks up, narrowing her eyes on the man with the warm grin and pressed jacket. He’s younger than most agents here, but he carries himself like someone raised on SHIELD history. She likes that about him right away.

“I’m Agent Trip,” he adds, leaning in slightly. “I usually only pull bar duty when they need someone with dimples and charm.”

Estelle doesn’t laugh, but her head tilts, curious.

Trip reaches into his jacket pocket and, with mock ceremony, pulls out… a kazoo.

“Prototype morale booster. SSR issue. Came straight out of my grandfather’s war trunk,” he says, placing it gently on the bar between them. Trip doesn’t usually bring up his grandfather, but today was supposed to be about sharing anyway.

She blinks at the brassy object. Then at him. She can’t tell if he’s being serious.

He blows a single, solemn note.

“It’s loud enough to scare pigeons,” he says with a grin. “But quiet enough not to alert a sniper.”

Her shoulders lift in a small laugh, quick, almost startled. But real.

Trip beams. He blows another short note and lines up a couple of cocktail straws like mission vectors on the bar. “This was the Howling Commandos’ op in ’44,” he says, arranging cocktail straws and toothpicks like a tactical diagram. “Real messy. Standard extraction turned into a full-on rescue op. Code name was Operation Lime Wedge, but don’t tell anyone I told you that.”

Estelle lets out a soft laugh. The sound surprises her. Not because it’s big, but because it doesn’t hurt. Not like before. She doesn’t care if it’s even a true story—she likes laughing again.

Estelle smiles. Genuinely this time. She knocks her boots against the stool legs while Trip gestures at her cherry garnish and tells her it’s a detonator.

From across the bar, Coulson watches. Watches her laugh. Watches her lean forward, still tired, still grieving—but lighter.

Right now, she’s not on a mission. There’s no two-inch binder waiting to be sorted. No plan to finish.

She’s just Estelle Dugan. Daughter of SHIELD. Laughing over a fizzy drink in a sacred bar with ghosts on the wall, a kazoo on the counter, and a future at her fingertips that hasn’t asked too much of her yet.

[The Rest of September, 2006]

[New York City, NY]

In the weeks that followed the funeral, structure became a survival strategy.

May runs the house like a tight, quiet ship, and Estelle thrives in the routine. Mornings start at 06:45: teeth brushed, school clothes on, breakfast eaten—always something warm, quick, and plain. Lunches are packed with military precision.

The house is clean, minimal, and calm. Family pictures are moved around or covered up until Estelle decides she’s ready to see them again. Estelle keeps up with her chores, undeterred by the tasks that anchor her.

It takes a week, but eventually, she puts up a framed photo of her parents on her desk—a silver frame. Quiet gesture. Throughout the month, it is flipped down only a few times, for a few days.

Her favorite place is the reading nook in the top room. A fortress of pillows under the skylight. When it rains, she watches the droplets race down the glass and pretends they're escape routes. She starts calling it the Safe Zone in her sketchbook diagram.

Mom used to call the bathtub her “thinking pod.” Estelle figures this is kind of like that, except with more pillows and less shampoo.

She’s still in second grade, technically, but makes it known that the curriculum doesn’t impress her.
She finishes her work early and spends time in the third-grade classroom down the hall while her peers review their lessons. Her teachers describe her as “focused,” “precise,” and “weirdly mature.” One adds, “She looks like she’s waiting for orders.”

May considers a private school. Private tutoring. Garner vetoes both in the name of maintaining normalcy and budgetary constraints. Estelle, unfazed, brings it up every time they walk to school. “I’d adjust faster in a challenge-based environment,” she says. May smirks, sips her coffee, and doesn’t answer.

Her extracurriculars are built with intention, as they’d have to be with SHIELD’s involvement.

Mondays: piano. She learns that feelings can be turned into sound. She never says which feelings. One week, she plays the same eight bars repeatedly. She insists it isn’t wrong—just not finished.

Tuesdays: the library. Estelle gets free rein and makes the most of it. She tears through a Nancy Drew phase with controlled fervor, guessing most of the endings before they come. Dad once said Nancy Drew had “the instincts of a SHIELD agent and the wardrobe of a Sunday school teacher.” Estelle’s not sure what that means, but she reads faster every time she remembers it.

Wednesdays: karate. About a year in, she'd pair up with a girl who doesn't talk. They communicate just fine and observe how the older kids fight together. May sits in the back corner, too still. Too focused. Watching for something she won’t explain.

Thursdays: therapy with Garner. It doesn’t feel heavy like she expected. Sessions are soft, built around drawing and storytelling. Estelle calls them mission logs, pretending she’s fine. Garner encourages her to show her emotions and name them in her journal. One week, she cries a lot and then sleeps through dinner.

Fridays: start as a free slot but quickly become Family Day. Board games. Movie nights. Sometimes crafts. As long as they’re all doing it together. They work to stay close. Estelle works to keep score of their games.

Saturdays: ballet, which Estelle chooses over gymnastics “because it’s harder.” May expects her to change her mind later.

Sundays: brunch with Dum Dum at Watermarks. He listens to her stories, even when he’s tired. But the more he laughs, the more quickly he tires. It never crosses Estelle’s mind that she could cry in front of him—or that one day she might not get to. She convinces herself that he’s permanent because he has to be.

Coulson stops by when he can, mostly on weekends. He steals her away for a few hours now and then—lunch or a movie. He tries to be present and steady. To balance out her SHIELD obsession with something resembling a childhood. She knows he means well, even when he downplays her questions about clearance and Comms Academy.

She never says it out loud, but part of her is still waiting for the phone to ring, for a shadow on the stoop, for someone to say they got it wrong.

Until then, she learns. She listens. She gets stronger.

And she watches the rain hit the skylight, thinking about all the things she can’t yet name.

Some nights, when it’s late and the house is still, Estelle lies in bed and tries to remember her mom’s voice saying her name. She gets close, sometimes. Close enough that she mouths the words along. Other nights, she pretends her dad is still out on assignment—and that he’ll be the one to tuck her in when the mission’s over. It’s easier than admitting she misses the way they made the world make sense.

[October 1, 2006 (Sunday)]

[Brooklyn Bridge Park, NYC]

Crisp breezes coming up from the water made Coulson and Estelle second-guess their choice to get ice cream on this particular outing, but neither of them commented. They sat side-by-side on a bench bolted into the promenade, cups of ice cream in their chilly hands. Chocolate peanut butter, her mom’s favorite—even though she’d always said it was too sweet halfway through. Estelle disagrees and ordered it anyway, asking for gummy worms on top. His is some smelly coffee flavour with a scoop of plain vanilla on top.

In front of them: the Captain America statue, bronze and sun-kissed, carved with care and a slight wear. Tourists pass it by exclusively to take pictures, or they don’t slow down at all. Estelle doesn’t.

She stares at the statue of her great-grandfather’s war buddy, asking its secrets. The line engraved into the plinth:

“I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

Coulson spoons at his top scoop, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She hasn’t touched her ice cream in a minute.

“Statue isn’t gonna change its mind, Este. You can stop staring it down,” he chuckles.

“It’s kind of a dumb line,” she retorts with a head tilt.

“You think?”

“Steve Rogers was Captain America. He threw motorcycles at tanks! He punched Hitler! He jumped out of places without parachutes!”

Coulson takes a slow bite, amused, and lets her keep going.

“He was brave. Smart. Strong. And he says that ?” She gestures toward the statue as if it’s personally insulted her. “‘I’m just a kind from Brooklyn?’”

“That’s why it matters,” he speaks up softly.

She cuts him an incredulous look. “How?”

“Because Captain America was all those things. But he started as just a skinny kid who got bullied behind corner stores.” He looks down at her, making sure she’s really listening now. “That line? It’s not about what he became. It’s about who he never stopped being.”

Estelle looks back at the statue. Her lips press together like she’s trying not to frown. She’s not sure she gets it, but she wants to. She’s more focused on the changes right now—the other stuff isn’t as impactful to a six-year-old girl who wants to be a hero, too.

Coulson watches her a moment longer, then nudges her elbow gently with his own.

“You ever feel small?” he asks.

“I am small,” she remarks, shrugging without looking up.

“Yeah, but I mean…not just in size.”

She’s quiet, brow furrowing again. Garner said feelings can be big, and now Coulson’s implying there’s more than one way to be small. She understands that even less, but she’s trying to equate it back to feelings. To think about a time when a feeling felt small, and it was a bad thing. It doesn't take her long.

“...we’re doing gym tomorrow at school and the boy with the spiky hair is gonna tell me I do everything like a girl,” she murmurs at last. “It makes it not fun.”

Coulson hums, nodding once. “That’s a kind of small, I guess.”

She thinks about it a moment longer, then starts thinking about smaller feelings, like not having time to stay up and read or not being invited to the curly-haired girl’s birthday…or not having parents. Quickly, she doesn't want to think about small stuff anymore.

Estelle glances up at Coulson, one of the biggest people she knows. “What about you?”

“Sure,” he smiles a little crooked—a little sad. “Lots of times.”

“But you got big again,” she announces with certainty.

“Honestly, still working on it sometimes.”

She thinks about that, too. She likes that he gives her a lot to think about, but in a way that doesn’t feel mandatory like sessions with Garner. Then she leans back, eyes on the statue again. “And Captain America felt small even after he stopped being small?”

“I’m sure he did. There were a lot of people telling him what he could and couldn’t do.”

“But he still did it,” she grins a little, like the dots they’ve both placed are starting to connect.

“That’s right,” he bumps her elbow again, earning a small chuckle from her.

Estelle’s quiet for another moment after that. Her spoon digs halfheartedly through her ice cream, tracing the ridges along the rim of the cup. Then, finally:

“Yeah, I like the line better now.” 

Coulson’s eyes soften. “Yeah?”

She nods a little firmer than she means to, her hair falling into her face. “Yeah. And I’m a kid from Brooklyn, too.”

He reaches over with the back of his fingers, giving an amused chuckle while pushing her hair back out of her face. “You just stay who you are, Este.”

Estelle looks up at him then, every wide and steady—the statue momentarily forgotten, its bronze hero eclipsed by the real one sitting right beside her.

Chapter Text

[Over a Year Later—November 24, 2007 (Saturday)]

[Prospect Park Picnic House—Brooklyn, NYC]

Music has just started to drift in. Guests are seated. Melinda’s somewhere in the bridal suite doing a first look with her father, William May. Lian May has urged Estelle into the venue foyer once she’s certain the seven-year-old girl is as dolled up as can be.

Estelle stands by the large wooden door that she’ll soon have to walk through, clutching her basket of petals like it might explode.

Coulson approaches, adjusting his tie—navy blue with silver flecks and an antique tie clip. He crouches beside her, one hand on his knee.

“Ready, Este?” Her eyes go wide.

“What if I drop the basket? Or trip? Or sneeze and ruin the…the mood…?” Mood feels too small. She searches her brain for a stronger word.

“Then it’ll be the most memorable wedding ever, which is what they're supposed to—”

“Ambiance,” she interrupts, thinking of a better word.

Coulson laughs a little. “The ambiance will be just fine. You won’t mess up because you’ve already done harder things. And you know what Melinda said?”

“What?”

“The only objective of this mission is to be yourself and ‘petal with precision’.”

Estelle initially huffs a quiet laugh, and then she thinks a little too hard, and the smile fades. She had yet to consider what Coulson just said, and her eyes widen a little.

“So…precision matters.”

“Not as much as joy, so let them see that, too.” He pats her shoulder. “You’re up, Este.”

Estelle takes another deep breath and steps out, scanning the aisle to decide where she’ll deposit each handful of petals, which she does with precision, indeed. Her posture is straight, her eyes are steady, and everyone can see how seriously she’s taking her role. Tucked just under her composure, a small smile sneaks back onto her face.

She makes it to the front row where Andrew gives her a thumbs up and she takes her seat, sitting up on her knees and twisting around so she doesn’t miss a second of Melinda’s entrance.

A few moments later, Melinda enters on the arm of her father, draped in a clean, classic white gown—no fuss, frill, or embellishment—pure elegance. Her hair is sleek, her skin is glowing, her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are soft. She’s not a mission specialist at this moment, but Estelle is still convinced she could stop a war just by walking into it.

[January 12, 2008 (Saturday)]

[SHIELD Headquarters—NYC, New York]

The briefing room is all concrete and a quiet hum. Overhead fluorescents flicker with that particular brand of government-issued fatigue. Natasha Romanoff leans against the back wall, arms folded tight, red hair still a disheveled braid from the op that brought her in. Her boots are damp from slush still melting in the corridors.

She’s only been back from Budapest for a few hours—hollow eyes, fractured sleep, dirt under her nails. She hasn’t even unpacked. But the Director called. And when Fury calls, you show up.

He enters like a weather front—coat buttoned to the throat, pulling his scarf down. No fanfare. No preamble. Just a thick folder thunked onto the table like it belongs there.

“Study that,” he says.

Natasha doesn’t move. “You want me to do homework?”

“Not for you. For a project.”

She arches a brow, then uncrosses her arms just enough to pick up the folder. The paper is still warm from his grip. She flips it open and skims the first few pages.

“Introduction to Secure Comms Systems...Encryption Fundamentals...Field Decryption Simulations… ” Her brow tightens. “This is cadet prep. High school-level coursework. Seventeen, maybe eighteen years old.”

“Try seven.”

Natasha stops flipping. Her eyes snap up to meet his.

She sets the folder down.

“No.”

He doesn’t sit. Just shifts his stance, calm as steel.

“Just listen—”

“Did you bring me on to vet a child agent program?”

“Hell no. This isn’t the Red Room, and I’m not exactly in the market for killers at the moment.” He’s watching Natasha very carefully now. “This one is…different.”

He moves around the table, flips a few pages forward, and taps the profile photo clipped in the back. The girl is wearing a NASA shirt, accompanied by a handmade and beaded necklace around her neck.

“Estelle Dugan. Great-granddaughter of a prominent member of the SSR. Daughter of two SHIELD agents. Both KIA over a year ago. She’s under SHIELD guardianship now.”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change, but her weight shifts slightly—one heel pressing back against the wall.

“Oh, and she’s already got a clearance file,” Natasha scoffs dryly.

“She’s not cleared. But she is obsessed. Carries her own little protocol binder thicker than her math book. Speaks in briefing format. Wears a Howling Commandos pin every day like it’s body armour. She wants in. Not because we told her to, but because she’s trying to make sense of the world in the only way she knows how.”

Fury takes a moment, seeing the extremely skeptical look on Natasha’s face.

“We’re not grooming her. She wants to understand. Not to fight or hurt. Just…to have something that makes sense. This is the only framework she gravitates to.”

“She’s a kid. You can’t tell a kid no?”

“Not this kid. Which is exactly why I want you in her corner. Just her. One girl who truly wants this, and we have a chance to give it to her as safely as possible. To serve when she’s ready without surrendering her soul. Trained—but trained ethically. Slowly. With guardrails that you help structure. I need someone who has seen the worst to tell me what to watch out for.”

She studies him. Fury doesn’t pitch often. He orders. Briefs. Commands. But this—this is something else—a plea with steel wrapped around it.

“You think I know how to raise a kid?”

“I think you know how not to. That’s the insight I need. We won’t be putting her at the Academy tomorrow. Maybe not for a long time and certainly not until we have a program appropriate for her.”

She looks down at the folder again, her fingers tap along the spine for a very long moment.

“I’m not building her a weapon track. No field tactics. No espionage.”

“Wasn’t on the table. This kid’s all about comms anyway, maybe SciTech in the future if she keeps blowing all her school work out of the water.”

“I want authority on the committee. They’ll report to me, and if they lose focus, they’re gone.”

“Done.”

“Veto power on this whole thing, too. I’m not just making her program; I want to see what happens when she’s in it. If she’s being pushed too fast or too hard—I pull the plug.”

“You won’t need to. But you’ll have it.”

Natasha finally nods, slowly.

“Guardians are open to it,” Fury says. “She’s with May and Garner. You’ll like them. Stable setup. Good instincts. Tight routine, which the girl actually likes. Consistency.”

She snorts quietly and bitterly. “Comforting.”

Another silence. Less tense now, but no less sharp.

“What’s she like?”

“You could meet her if you’d like, but all her notes from her current guardians will be accessible to you. She’s smart. Focused. Quiet, but sharp. Too sharp for her age. Channels her feelings into everything, and she’s starting to pay more attention to this organization.”

“So she’s a mirror.”

He nods. “Something like that.”

Natasha’s expression shifts. Not soft—just peeled back a layer. She exhales through her nose. The weight of a memory, of everything that could’ve been different, lingers like smoke.

She straightens from the wall, looking at the folder like it’s her own ghost.

“Let’s make sure she doesn’t have to be.”

[January 18, 2008 (Friday)]

[13 Cranberry St—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The kitchen light is soft, not dim, just…lived-in. Overhead, the bulb hums faintly, casting a golden glow across the tile. A teapot hisses quietly on the stove, not quite ready to boil. Somewhere deeper in the house, the ceiling creaks as the radiators warm.

Natasha Romanoff sits at the kitchen island, spine straight, elbows resting lightly on the marble. Her hands cradle a mug of cooling tea she hasn’t tasted. She’s watching—not in the way she would on a mission, scanning exits or reading threats, but in that quieter, more calculating mode. The one reserved for people who matter.

Across from her, Andrew Garner sits at ease, long legs crossed, his mug already half empty. Melinda leans against the counter behind him, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the hour. There’s no real tension in the room, but the air feels close, not unfriendly, just cautious. Everyone here is used to reading between the lines.

“Is she asleep?” Natasha asks.

“Out cold,” Garner replies with a faint smile. “She’s at that refusing bedtime stories age. She likes printing off museum articles and reading through those.”

“She annotates those now,” May adds. “She’s big into presidents now, especially FDR.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “At seven?”

“She’ll be eight in April,” Andrew says, like it makes all the difference.

There’s a beat of silence—one of those moments where three people sit with the weight of something absurd and almost laugh, but don’t.

“She’s not just some mini agent,” May says, cutting through it. “Don’t mistake the vocabulary for emotional readiness.”

Natasha doesn’t. That’s part of why she’s here.

She finally takes a sip of her tea. It’s gone lukewarm.

“She likes structure,” Garner says. “Daily schedule, color-coded everything, uniform socks. Tidy desk, controlled environment. If you say 0800, she’s ready at 07:50. Backpack zipped, hair brushed, checklist triple-checked.”

“Hypervigilant?” Natasha asks, though she already knows.

May nods once. “Without the anxiety. She’s not afraid that something will go wrong. She just wants to be the one holding it together if it does.”

That lands. Natasha absorbs it in silence, her thumb tracing the rim of the mug once. Estelle’s grief has turned inward; now, it is not soft and sad, but sharp and controlled. She recognizes that shape. She used to wear it.

“She likes order, but she also has a shoebox under her bed full of glitter glue and stickers,” May adds, softer this time. “She’s still a kid.”

“And a stuffed chameleon named Sargent,” Andrew says with mock solemnity. “Who may or may not be in charge of bedtime security protocol.”

A flicker of amusement crosses Natasha’s face—gone as quickly as it came, but real.

“I’m not designing her for the field,” she says. “This is just…infrastructure. A program. Guardrails. Something that appeals to her without breaking her.”

May gives the barest nod. Approval, maybe. Or understanding.

“She likes to figure things out on her own,” Garner says. “Puzzles, logic trees, encryption patterns. She’s started making up her own ciphers and leaving notes for us to decode. The last one was taped under the dining table.”

“We also had to lock the home Wi-Fi,” May adds. “She’s determined to learn all about firewalls.”

Natasha huffs. “Creative.”

“She is. And obsessive. And too smart for her grade level. We’re already working with her school on an accelerated curriculum. But the social side’s trickier.”

“She doesn’t click with kids her age,” Andrew explains. “She’s polite, not standoffish. But she... observes. Doesn't play unless she thinks she’ll learn something.”

“She’s still grieving,” May says. “It doesn’t look loud. It looks like…control. Like routine.”

“She gets fixated when she’s overwhelmed,” Garner continues, "Locks into rules, if they make sense. Gets frustrated when others don’t follow them. She has to reset if she thinks she’s lost track of something.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly. “What does she do when she’s wrong?”

There’s a pause.

“She disappears into herself,” May says. “She won’t lash out. She’ll just go quiet. Retreat. Rehearse the moment over and over until she can explain what she should have done.”

“She doesn’t take corrections personally,” Garner says, “but she takes failure personally. Like she’s got something to prove.”

Natasha leans back. Not far. Just enough to give her hands a rest.

“What does she love?” she asks after a long moment.

There’s a pause—a different kind. Not heavy. More careful.

“She loves the morning weather report,” Andrew says. “Reads it like most kids read comics. Likes spotting patterns in barometric pressure.”

“She loves Morse code,” May says. “And tries to tap messages at the dinner table when she thinks we’re not paying attention.”

“She loves peanut butter M&M’s,” Garner adds. “She has to eat them in colour order.”

“She hates the sound of TV static,” May says. “Won’t tell us why.”

“And she doesn’t like the word ‘hypocrite,’” Andrew says.

That surprises Natasha a little. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too fun to say,” May says. “Which bugs her because the meaning of the word is unpleasant to her. She hates inconsistencies.”

Natasha looks down into her tea again. The surface has cooled to a dull, reflective finish.

“She wants agency,” she says quietly. “Control.”

Garner nods. “And dignity. Not to the point of Pathological Demand Avoidance. She’s still an excellent listener, but rules and directions have to make sense.”

Another pause stretches between them—not uncomfortable, just full.

“I’m not going to fill her plate with things she can’t digest,” Natasha says. “She’s already internalized more than most adults. The goal isn’t to keep up—it’s to slow her down. Keep her from running face-first into expectations.”

“She respects precision,” May says. “She doesn’t want to be underestimated. She doesn’t want to be managed either.”

“She wants to be taken seriously,” Andrew says. “But she also wants someone to ask about the chameleon.”

Natasha finally, finally cracks a faint smile. “Noted.”

“You want to meet her?” May asks, voice even.

“Not yet,” Natasha replies. “If I show up now, I’m just another agent with a clipboard. Let me understand her terrain before I walk into it.”

“She’s going to surprise you,” Garner says.

Natasha glances at him. “Eventually.”

He smiles.

May watches her carefully, then nods—once, firmly.

Trust, offered quietly.

Natasha finishes her tea.

[February 1, 2008 (Friday)]

[Barnes & Noble Café, Atlantic Ave—Brooklyn, NYC]

Dr. Andrew Garner has claimed a corner table in the café. Papers are spread, his red pen uncapped, glasses perched low on his nose. A large hot chocolate with extra whip sits untouched across from him, waiting, along with last month's edition of Wired magazine—“The Mind of Tony Stark”. Estelle’s not allowed to read it yet, not until she picks something lighter first.

She’s been “deployed” to the children’s section with a clear directive: “Pick something fun.” It doesn’t make sense to her because a magazine about Science and Technology is fun, but she thinks she understands what he means.

Still, she gave him a signature look that he silently knew would worsen in her double-digit years. He didn’t have time to correct her on the look before she disappeared into the stacks.

Forty-five minutes have gone by since then, and she returns with a copy of Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules tucked under her arm and the kind of expression usually reserved for early morning briefings. She slides into the seat across from Garner and pulls the hot chocolate, still warm, toward herself without asking.

“That was quick. You finish it.”

“Yes.” She takes a sip, wiggling her nose as if to avoid the whipped cream from getting on it. It does anyway.

“That’s a sequel. Did you read the first one?”

“It didn’t seem necessary,” she remarks, wiping off whipped cream with the back of her sweater sleeve.

He chuckles, capping his pen and waiting for her to go on with her summary. She taps the book with one finger.

“The older brother is emotionally… underdeveloped,” she sounds out the syllables. “And mean for no strategic reason.”

Garner listens, eyebrows raising as if he can still be surprised by her.

“The main character is selfish and not very smart. He’s easily tricked, but he improves a little, I guess.”

She sips her hot chocolate again, evading the whipped cream successfully this time, and takes a breath before continuing.

“The way it’s written is…different, easier. I liked the cartoons. It’s simple, but without…uh…word for talking down…” She looks at Garner for help.

“Condescending?”

“Yeah. Conden…con—that .”

“So…success?”

“It was alright. Can I stop reading from that section now?” She not-so-subtly reaches for the Wired Magazine, maintaining eye contact.

“What’s wrong with ‘that’ section?” Garner gives a grin at her small antics.

She huffs. “There was an entire display about a pigeon who wants to drive a bus. Pigeons are good at directions, but probably not at driving. It’s a little ridiculous.”

Garner laughs louder than he means to, covering his mouth with his hand before Estelle can glare at him the way Melinda sometimes does.

“Fine, fine, go put that book back and you can have the magazine.”

Estelle beams and returns the book to the “New Releases” table in the Children’s Section. She takes one last look in the book—a comic of Greg falling down the stairs.

“He needs better situational awareness,” she scoffs to herself.

Estelle can see the bottom of her cup now when she sips her hot chocolate. She flips through the magazine one more time, slowing down. Her feet swing off the edge of the chair in slow, even rhythm. She shuts the magazine once she realizes she understands everything she can from the Tony Stark article. Some parts went over her head, but she’s sure that means those parts don’t matter.

She looks behind her at the bookstore again, thinking about the new releases and what else she might be able to find. For some reason, she keeps thinking about Rodrick and Greg.

“Why do so many books have older siblings?”

“Is this a pattern you’ve picked up on?”

“A lot of them are annoying. But they’re still…there. Even if they’re jerks, they’re around .”

“That’s true. Not everyone gets along, but sometimes having someone older means having someone to learn from—even if the thing you’re learning from is a mistake.”

Estelle thinks about it, then her face morphs into something that looks like grief rearing its ugly head again. Reading isn’t always the escape she wants it to be.

“I don’t have that,” she murmurs. “Won’t ever have that.”

Her tone isn’t bitter. It’s just a fact. The way she logs weather or stories on the news. But Garner knows the weight of what she just said.

He sets his pen down gently, deciding this is a good segue for a conversation he’s been meaning to have.

“How would you feel if…there was a baby around?”

“A baby?!”

“Hypothetically. If Melinda and I have a baby.”

Estelle freezes. Not alarmed, just calculating. Her eyes flick up to his. Her voice is flat, but earnest.

“You’d have to train it.” She says it like they’re talking about a dog, which she prefers because she actually has a plan for that. Now she'll have to put a page in her binder about a possible baby.

Gander hides another laugh.

“That’s how parenting works, but you wouldn’t need to worry about that.”

“So if there was a baby, I wouldn’t have to do anything?”

“Only if you wanted to. You wouldn’t be replaced or sidelined, Estelle.”

“But you’d worry about it more.” She says it like it’s a fact. She knows more than a baby. There are things a baby needs help with that she simply doesn’t.

“Well, we’d worry about different things,” Garner says, gently correcting the course of her thoughts. “But it wouldn’t mean we’d stop worrying about you.”

Estelle picks at the sleeve of her sweater. She isn’t sad when she thinks about it—if anything, she’s relieved.

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“If we do have a baby…you’ll still be part of it. No cutoff. No distance.”

“Okay,” she says with a stern nod. She can tell he’s still going to probe her thoughts on the matter, which is bothersome because she feels she’s made her stance clear.

“Maybe even help pick the name?”

“Just don’t name it something dumb like ‘Greg’.”

Chapter Text

[February 18, 2008 (Thursday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ Rooftop—Manhattan, NYC]

The roof access door clicks shut behind Estelle with a metal thunk and a gust of chilled air. She tugs her coat tighter across her chest, her boot soles scuffing against the concrete. The rooftop is vast and quiet, flanked with antenna arrays and angular HVAC units that hum tiredly. Pipes run along the east side, coiled and exposed, like bones under steel skin.

She hesitates a step past the threshold.

“My provisional access doesn’t cover this level,” she says out loud—not accusatory, just stating a fact. “It’s restricted.”

The voice that answers is calm, without any of the clipped cadence Estelle’s used to hearing from field agents.

“How about we make a little exception today?”

Natasha Romanoff steps into view from the shadow of a relay tower. The wind picks up her red hair, loose from its usual braid. She’s not in full tactical gear—just a dark jacket, gloved hands, boots with the weight of distance on them.

Estelle blinks, momentarily surprised. She doesn’t know or recognise the woman. No first impressions to reference. That alone is unusual.

“You don’t mind if I talk with you right? I know Thursdays are usually for Dr. Garner’s sessions,” Natasha adds, stepping closer.

“They are,” Estelle replies, realising this woman she was told she’d meet with seems to know something about her already. “But I like different things sometimes. Especially if it means being at HQ.”

She’s holding her binder clutched flat to her chest like a shield. Natasha glances at it, then at her.

“You want to sit?”

Estelle nods. Natasha moves ahead first, brushing off an old equipment box that’s positioned just near the edge, not too close to the drop. She offers a steady hand and helps Estelle climb up before taking a seat beside her, not too close, not too far. They sit at the same height.

The view stretches wide behind them: Manhattan draped in gold, steel, and glass, catching the last of the sun. From this high up, the city doesn’t hum. It waits.

Natasha’s the first to speak again.

“I’m Natasha,” she says simply. “Fury sent me.”

“I know who you are,” Estelle answers. Then, without looking, “Garner mentioned you to May. I was listening.”

That makes Natasha smile. “Not used to being the one people notice right away.”

Estelle turns just slightly, studying her not with suspicion, but with that same careful scan she tries out on everyone. A “read,” Garner called it once, half amused. She’s looking at posture, at voice, at what doesn’t match.

Natasha waits. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t offer anything else.

Finally, Estelle tilts her binder toward her.

“You can look if you want.”

Natasha takes it gently. Flips the first tab.

Her eyebrows twitch upward almost immediately. The opening pages are constellation maps with alignment notes cross-referenced against different dates. Then come decryption exercises done in different colored ink—cipher grids, key wheels, and some notes scribbled sideways in Morse. There's a five-year plan section that includes a possible Academy timeline, “shadowing rotations,” and several “If May Allows” clauses.

Natasha glances up at Estelle. “You know you’re seven, right?”

“I’ll be eight in April,” Estelle replies. “That’s half of 16. The youngest people at the Academy ever were 16.”

Natasha flips through inventory tallies on SHIELD gear she’s seen up close. A profile on Trip with the words ‘Grandson of Which Howling Commando?’ and ‘Gabe Jones?’ written in the margins. One page is a theory chart titled ‘Redacted = Important’, with her thoughts on why information is redacted, where it goes, and how to make inferences around what’s blacked out.

“You’ve got a serious head for communications,” Natasha says. It’s not a compliment or a warning—just the truth.

Estelle’s eyes light up. “I like data. Patterns. Surveillance theory. Not the creepy kind. Just the practical kind. There’s structure here. At HQ. Everybody has a job.”

“You like it here.”

“Of course I do.” She swings her legs a little, then adds, “No one tells me I’m too young if I’m useful.”

That hits harder than Estelle knows.

Natasha closes the binder gently and keeps it on her lap. “You want to go to the Academy?”

Estelle nods. “Soon as I can. I know they have a comms track. Coulson says I’d do well in Comms or SciTech. But I heard you need to be a doctor for SciTech. I’m only in third grade.”

“Only?”

“Well, I get to take the fourth-grade SOLs and the fifth-grade practice tests.”

“And what do you want to do with what you learn?”

Estelle shrugs. “Help people.”

Natasha smiles. A small, but genuine smile. “That’s a good answer.”

“Like my parents did,” Estelle adds quietly.

Natasha glances back out at the skyline. She remembers answering that same question once. She doesn’t remember if she actually answered honestly, or if she answered out loud at all. But there’s something in Estelle’s clarity that makes her chest fold in against her heart.

This isn’t the Red Room. But it could be something else. Another machine, another girl. Same gears, different paint. Estelle isn’t being pushed—not yet—but she’s already leaning into the wind and already trying to make herself useful before anyone asks her to.

She doesn’t want to be a weapon, Natasha thinks. But she’ll turn herself into one if that’s the only way to stay included.

The thought makes her jaw tighten.

“You like shadowing?” Natasha asks lightly.

Estelle’s eyes flick to hers. “Only if someone explains what I’m seeing. Sometimes I’m just there watching, and nobody answers my questions.”

Natasha nods slowly. Hands-on. But with trust.

She looks back at the binder again, one gloved hand smoothing a corner that was starting to peel.

“You built all this yourself?”

Estelle nods. “No one showed me how.”

“You ever get tired of carrying it?”

“No,” Estelle says, immediately.

Natasha exhales. Quiet and steady. She understands that better than she wants to.

She gently hands the binder back. Estelle takes it and presses it against her lap.

“You’re not put off by it,” she observes. Not quite a question.

“No,” Natasha replies. “I’ve seen scarier notebooks.”

Estelle gives a small, crooked smile. She presses a sticker back into place on the binder’s front. A silver star, slightly peeling.

They sit in silence for a long moment. The sun dips lower behind the skyline, casting longer shadows across the rooftop.

“You’ll need gloves next time,” Natasha says. “City gets colder the higher up you climb.”

Estelle glances at her, then out at the city again.

“I don’t mind.”

Natasha doesn’t either. But she’s not talking about the cold.

[April 28, 2008 (Monday)—Morning]

[13 Cranberry St—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

Scents of toasted oats and honey fill the kitchen. A pot of coffee simmers low on the warmer, the air laced with the quiet hum of a morning that doesn’t feel like one. The windows are still fogged from the night chill. Outside, the sky is just starting to bloom gray-blue over the rooftops of Brooklyn.

Estelle sits at the table in her pajamas—pale blue flannel with tiny flowers marching across the sleeves. They're relatively new, as "pyjamas without seams" had been at the top of her birthday list.

She’s bent over her sketchpad, drawing a ciphered map of the neighborhood for no reason other than testing her memory. Names are encoded. Routes simplified. Points of interest are labeled in tiny block script. It’s the kind of project she usually does with enthusiasm. Today, she’s slower.

She already knows something’s different.

May stands near the fridge, already in uniform. Her duffel bag is by the door—not the sleek shoulder satchel she takes for day trips, but the long one. The one with reinforced seams. She’s tying her hair back, hands moving with their usual precision, but there’s a delay between movements. As if her brain is five seconds ahead of her body.

Coulson leans against the doorframe, mug in hand, half-listening to the kitchen TV crackle through the morning news. Something about how Tony Stark is still missing in Afghanistan. Only he knows the fill-in-the-blank parts of the news story.

Garner is at the counter, plating eggs like it’s just another Monday.

But it’s not.

The silence is heavy in a way Estelle doesn’t like. It has weight and shape, like a shadow waiting to stretch.

She looks up from her sketchpad.

“How long?” she asks. Her voice is even. Direct. “Don’t be vague, please.”

May glances toward her. “Just for a few days,” she says. “Brief op.”

“Where?”

May hesitates—not long. Not enough for most people to notice.

But Estelle isn’t like most people.

“Bahrain,” May answers.

Estelle nods quietly. She turns to a new page in her sketchpad and writes the name in sharp, clean letters: BAHRAIN. Then she underlines it.

“Is it hostile?”

“More complicated than that,” Coulson replies, not unkindly. “We’ve got people there. Need to get them out.”

“Extraction. So you’ll be back…” Estelle does the math, gaze fixed on the page as she scribbles. “Wednesday?”

“That’s the plan,” Garner says gently.

She chews her bottom lip. Then puts the pencil down and folds her arms on the table. The silence grows claws. It scratches at the corners of the room.

“You packed extra gear,” she says.

May doesn’t answer immediately.

“You only take the duffel when it’s big,” Estelle adds, softer now.

May crosses the kitchen and kneels beside her chair. She doesn’t crowd her—just meets her at eye level.

“It’s a high-priority op,” she says. “But it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“I know.” Estelle’s voice is small.

A beat passes.

“I just don’t like it when you leave and look like that.”

May’s brow furrows. “Like what?”

“Like you’re worried.”

It hits the room like a wire pulled too tight. May flinches, barely. Coulson looks away. Garner sets down the plate he was holding.

Garner steps forward. “Este, it’s okay to say how you’re feeling.”

“I am saying it,” she says, almost too quickly. Her eyes are glassy now, but dry. “Okay… maybe I’m worried. I know it’s a little stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” May interrupts, gently but firmly.

Estelle stares down at her lap. Her fingers curl into the hem of her sleeve.

“Promise you’ll come back the same.”

May looks at her—really looks. And in that moment, the armor slips. She’s not Agent May of SHIELD. She’s just Melinda. Tired. Brilliant. A little maternal. And maybe, just maybe, a little afraid.

She reaches up and brushes a piece of hair from Estelle’s temple.

“I promise I’ll come back,” she says.

However, she doesn’t say the same.

She can’t.

Estelle nods once. That’s all she gives. That’s all she can give.

Coulson steps closer, setting his coffee on the counter. He places a warm hand on Estelle’s shoulder.

“You’ll keep things locked down here?”

She doesn’t look up. “Already have contingency plans drawn up,” she replies. “Folder’s on my desk.”

Garner chuckles, low and sad. “That folder better stay sealed, alright?”

“I hope it gets dusty,” Estelle says.

May stands and picks up her duffel. She gives Estelle a nod from the doorway, but her eyes linger for an extra second. Coulson falls into step beside her, brushing his knuckles against hers on the way out. The door clicks shut behind them.

Garner stays behind.

Estelle watches the door for a long time. Long enough that the radio loops back to the same headline. Long enough for the toast to cool and the eggs to go untouched.

Then she pushes back her chair, pads upstairs in socked feet, and opens the binder on her desk. It’s already color-coded. Indexed. But she adds a new tab anyway, labeling in careful block letters:

Melinda May—Bahrain
Uncertainty / Fallout Contingency

She stares at it for a while.

And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like writing anything underneath.

[April 30, 2008 (Wednesday)—Evening]

[13 Cranberry Street—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The sound of the front door closing doesn’t stir the house.

In the kitchen, Andrew is standing over the sink, rinsing an iron skillet. He moves slowly, like the motion’s more about rhythm than routine. A record plays softly in the background—something instrumental and old, vinyl-crackled and warm.

Upstairs, Estelle is sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room. There’s a tarp spread beneath her and a sleeve of playing cards scattered around a plastic palette of acrylic paints. She’s halfway through a self-assigned challenge: paint the cards, no planning allowed—a messy kind of discipline. The only rule is to surprise herself.

She hears the click of the lock—the jingle of keys landing in the ceramic bowl by the door.

No boots. No radio call.

Just silence.

Estelle puts her brush down. She wipes her fingers on a towel and walks to the hallway, light on the creaky floorboards. She turns the corner at the top of the stairs.

May’s just stepped inside. Same jacket. Same boots. Same silhouette she left with.

But Estelle stops short because something’s missing.

“You’re back,” she murmurs from the top of the stairs. Her voice barely carries across the gallery and into the foyer where May entered.

“I am.” May hesitates for a long time before she looks up at Estelle.

The words hang flat in the air. Not heavy, just…dull. Dull in a way Estelle’s never heard from her. It’s heavier than fatigue.

There’s no hug. No smirk. No “held down the fort, huh?” Just a static presence. Like May’s looking up at a ghost and not the girl she’s supposed to be raising.

“You didn’t call,” Estelle says.

“There wasn’t time.”

“Coulson called.”

May just nods. She drops her bag by the wall. It lands with a more resounding thud than it should, like it’s carrying something extra—or nothing at all.

“Was it bad?” Estelle asks.

“It was handled.”

That’s all—just that.

The way she says it—clipped and hollow—makes Estelle’s throat tighten. The kind of panic that Garner taught her to name starts pulsing in her wrists. Her hands go cold.

May bends to take off her boots. Her motions are deliberate, too controlled to be calm. Like she’s obeying a script with no punctuation.

“You look hurt,” Estelle says, softer.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like—”

May turns. Just slightly. Not enough to reveal much. Her face isn’t angry. Just unreadable.

“Go get ready for bed,” she says. “It’s late.”

Estelle doesn’t move.

“Are you mad at me?”

May exhales. “No.”

“Then why do you feel…” Estelle struggles with the word. “Far away?”

That stops her.

May’s eyes close for just a second. When they open again, there’s a flicker of something behind them—a cracked window quickly pulled shut.

“Go get ready,” she says again, voice low.

Estelle waits a breath longer. Then turns, quietly, and walks back down the hall. The hallway light casts her shadow long against the wood floors. She doesn’t cry.

But later, when she’s alone in her room again, she peels a pink post-it off the stack on her desk and writes: “She came back different.”

She sticks it inside her binder. Just beneath the green tab marked 'Bahrain—Fallout Contingency'. She doesn’t file it under a plan. It’s just…there. Floating. Like static in an otherwise clear signal.

That night, May doesn’t come to tuck her in.

Garner does. He notices the mess on her desk—more creativity than actual precision—and the streak of paint on her cheek. He doesn’t ask questions. Just sits with her until she’s settled. He tucks the blanket under her arms, like her mom used to. She doesn’t say much. Neither does he.

Below them, May sits alone on the basement couch. The TV’s off. The room is dark except for the faint amber glow of a lamp near the bookshelf. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap.

Like she’s waiting for something to start.

Or maybe trying to believe that it’s already over.

Chapter Text

[May 1, 2008 (Thursday)—Morning]

[13 Cranberry St—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The house is too quiet for a school day.

No coffee brewing. No clatter of pans or scent of eggs and toast. No rustling of a newspaper folded and unfolded by the couch. No sound of May’s boots pacing through the morning like clockwork, her hair already pulled tight and her eyes sharper than the sunrise. No Dr. Garner offering a dry, affectionate “Morning, Agent Trouble” on his way past the table.

Just silence, pooled thick in the corners.

Estelle sits alone at the kitchen table, legs tucked up under her, her oversized sleep shirt bunched at the sleeves. Her plate of toast sits untouched—one piece already curled at the edges, burnt just enough to make the butter bead up rather than melt. Across from her, Coulson sits with a mug of coffee gone cold in his hands, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to get to work. But there’s nothing left to file, nothing to decrypt. Not today.

He’s been quiet so far. Letting her sit in silence. Letting her figure out for herself that something’s off, as if she hasn’t known since last night.

But now he sets the mug down, folds his hands, and looks across at her with that calm, clear steadiness that she recognizes from debriefings and long car rides after tough missions.

“Estelle,” he says gently, “you don’t have to go to school today.”

She lifts her head slightly, brows drawing together.

“Why?” she asks. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” he assures her. “This isn’t because of anything you did. I just think you deserve to know what’s going on. And I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

That makes her sit up straighter. Her hands leave her lap and rest on the table’s edge, fingers flattened like she’s bracing for a mission brief. Her posture sharpens—instinct, not affect. She’s ready to receive it.

Coulson’s voice softens.

“Melinda and Andrew had to go back to HQ early this morning,” he says. “They’re…they’re not coming back here. At least not right now.”

Estelle doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches him like she’s trying to decode the parts he isn’t saying. Like…whatever’s still unspoken will reveal every detail of why this is happening.

The silence between them settles again, heavier this time.

“Bahrain was hard on May,” Coulson continues. “Really hard. I can’t tell you everything—not because I don’t want to, but because it wouldn’t be fair to her. But she came back with something broken. And right now, she doesn’t know how to fix it.”

Estelle swallows once. In a way, it’s better than hearing ‘because it’s classified”, but at least she knows why things get classified. She has no idea what he means by “it wouldn’t be fair to her”. Nothing feels fair at all today.

Her voice, when it comes, is steady. “So she’s quitting?”

“Not SHIELD,” he replies. “But…this part. Being home with you. Being someone watching over you.”

She gives that look that kills him—that look he hasn’t seen in two years.

“She didn’t mean to hurt you, Este. But she doesn’t have enough of herself right now to share.”

Estelle looks down at the table. Her toast suddenly looks disgusting—bitter at the edges, the butter coagulated like it’s sick, too.

Her fingers stay still, no trembling, no fidgeting. But the stillness is so complete it makes Coulson’s heart ache.

“That wasn’t in the binder,” she says quietly.

He blinks. “What?”

“I planned for a lot of things,” she explains. “Guardians getting hurt. Disappearing. Being reassigned. But I didn’t plan for… leaving.”

Coulson leans forward, elbows resting gently on the tabletop. His voice is low, even.

“She didn’t walk away from you. She walked away from herself. That’s the part that makes this different.”

Estelle exhales through her nose. Carefully. Controlled.

Then, with the faintest lift of her chin: “What happens to me now?”

“You’re with me,” Coulson says. “I’ve already filed it. You’ll stay here, or we can find a place that feels better to you. But I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat. The soft hum of the fridge kicks on in the background.

He adds, “You don’t have to hold it in, Estelle. You don’t have to be composed for this.”

“I’m not composed,” she says. Then, after a pause: “I’m trying not to be mad at her.”

Coulson nods, slowly. He doesn’t reach for her, but he sets his hand down near hers on the table. Close enough to feel, but not to crowd.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” he tells her. “You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to miss her and not want to see her right now. Two things can be true at once.”

She shifts at last. Just a little. Just enough to lower her head to her folded arms on the table. No tears. No shaking. Just quiet breaths. Measured. Careful. Like she’s trying to exhale the part of her that still hoped this was a misunderstanding.

Coulson doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t move.

He sits with her, in the too-quiet kitchen, until she’s ready to stand up on her own again.

[May 1, 2008 (Thursday)—Late Morning]

[13 Cranberry St—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The house is still quiet, but it no longer feels like the silence of rest. It’s a holding pattern—the kind that stretches between storms.

Upstairs, Estelle has disappeared into her Safe Zone: the attic alcove, with paper swans strung along the edges of the skylight and art books exclusively for creativity, not note-taking. She goes there when she needs to stop absorbing. When the world has fed her too much.

Coulson doesn’t intrude.

He’s downstairs in the living room, phone on the coffee table beside the second cup of coffee he hasn’t touched. There’s a crossword folded beside it, half-completed. He hasn’t filled in a word since breakfast.

When the phone rings, the sound slices clean through the stillness. No ringtone—just the standard SHIELD vibration buzz, but it feels loud against the hush.

Coulson picks it up.

“Coulson.”

The voice on the other end is gruff. Low. Familiar.

“We’ve got movement out west,” says Director Fury. “Kunar Range. Afghanistan.”

Coulson straightens slightly. “Go on.”

“Sitwell clocked it—signature was wild. Not a bird, not a drone. We think it’s Stark.”

That lands hard. Coulson’s brows lift. “Tony Stark? He’s been missing for over three months.”

“Not anymore,” Fury says. “DoD scooped him up—extraction site confirmed. I’m sending you to California to debrief him.”

Coulson’s jaw shifts slightly. No protest, not yet.

“We’re not as concerned about his captors,” Fury continues, “as we are about the conditions of his escape. The brief should explain it. We’ll coordinate your cover through the Joint Intelligence Framework. You fly out tomorrow.”

“Understood.”
Coulson hesitates. Then, voice lower: “But I need to bring something up first.”

There’s a pause.

“Dugan,” Fury says flatly.

Coulson exhales. “She’s been through a lot this month. May’s pulled out. Andrew’s off-grid emotionally. If I leave her now—”

“She’ll think you’re the next one out the door,” Fury finishes with a heavy sigh. “Yeah. I get it.”

Coulson leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee, thumb against his temple. “I’m not saying she should tag along for everything. But if it’s just a debrief…She can shadow me—no classified content. No generals. Just…the ride. Something she likes. Something to get her mind off things. I think even Romanoff would back that.”

Fury is quiet for a beat. Then: “You know the optics. You walk in with a kid—even one with a provisional clearance—and people are going to ask questions.”

“She doesn’t break protocol,” Coulson replies. “She doesn’t interrupt. And frankly? She’s sharper than half the junior analysts who’ve already done Academy training.”

A longer pause. On the other end of the line, Fury’s likely pacing. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, calculating. At least, that’s what Coulson pictures.

“We’re not in the business of carrying strays, Coulson.”

“I don’t believe that’s true. And, this one already lived here, sir.”

That lands. Harder than anything else.

Silence stretches for one breath. Then two.

Finally, Fury grumbles: “Fine. Conditions: she’s in civvies—no SHIELD insignia, no field gear. You brief her in advance on what not to repeat. Put it in that terrifying binder of hers if you have to. One foot out of line, and I’ll waste real-world resources dragging her home.”

Coulson lets out a heavy breath. “Copy.”

A beat.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Fury huffs. “Stark’s a goddamn character. You’re not walking her into a war zone, but this sure as hell isn’t daycare either.”

“She’s not looking for daycare,” Coulson says. “She’s looking for…purpose.”

“Then don’t let her lose another piece of it.”

The line goes dead.

Coulson lowers the phone and stares at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing absently over the edge of the device. Then he sets it down and glances toward the ceiling—toward the attic and the girl curled into herself in silence, holding her world together one note-tabbed binder at a time.

He wonders if she’s still curled into the corner, tracing the swan strings with one finger like a seismograph for grief.

They’ll leave tomorrow.

He just has to find the right way to tell her. How to offer it without making it feel like an apology—or a distraction.

S.H.I.E.L.D. INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

DATE: May 1, 2008

TO: LEVEL 6+ PERSONNEL, HR OVERSIGHT, ACADEMY LEADERSHIP COUNCIL

SUBJECT: Temporary Exemption Authorization—Minor Cadet Travel Protocol / Dugan, Estelle T.

—————

SUMMARY:

Effective immediately, Estelle T. Dugan (D.O.B. 13 April 2000) is authorized to accompany Agent Phillip J. Coulson (Level 8) on a time-sensitive debrief assignment (External Asset Recovery) in Los Angeles, California. The exemption permits non-operational travel and observation under supervision, waiving the standard Section 4.3.1 requirement of SHIELD Academy Cadet Transport Protocols.

This exemption is temporary and limited to May 2008.

—————

RATIONALE:

• Subject is the orphaned ward of deceased SHIELD agents Tamara and Michael Dugan (KIA 2006, Gulag-Vanchat Operation), and the great-granddaughter of Corporal Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan (SSR veteran, Howling Commandos), whose service legacy grants subject Heritage Priority clearance.
• Subject is currently under modified SHIELD observation track, with projected enrollment in the Communications Academy (Project COMM-10/ROMANOVA) at age 10.
• Following the recent withdrawal of primary guardians (Agents May and Garner) due to operational trauma and reassignment, the subject is under elevated emotional duress and in a vulnerable psychosocial state (see: Garner Report 042808-EST-05).
• Agent Coulson has served as her continuous supervisory presence for the past 20 months and maintains the strongest rapport and behavioral stabilization influence. His travel creates an immediate support gap not easily filled without additional personnel reassignment.

CONDITIONS OF EXEMPTION:

• Subject will remain in civilian attire, with no SHIELD insignia, tactical wear, or identifying credentials.
• Subject is not to be present for classified briefings or operational discussions. Observation is limited to standard post-mission debrief procedures as defined by Protocol 5.2.3.b.
• No sensitive material is to be disclosed or made accessible to the subject.
• All travel, housing, and appearance details have been coordinated via Level 6 Logistics and will be monitored by Commander Hill.
• Subject’s education will remain in compliance with New York State requirements via remote-learning equivalency. All academic assignments, logs, and progress tracking will be managed by Agent Coulson and submitted weekly to the SHIELD Academy Liaison Unit 3A.
• This exemption shall not be cited as precedent for cadet field integration. Any replication attempts will be flagged as a protocol violation (2.8.9).
• This is a contained welfare exception under Section 2.8.7 of the Academy Adjustment Charter.

Any concerns regarding this authorization may be addressed through the Office of Oversight Clearance Appeals. You can expect a response within 4–6 months.

—

Authorized and Finalized,

Nicholas J. Fury

Director, SHIELD

S.H.I.E.L.D. INTERNAL MEMORANDUM—CLARIFICATION

DATE: May 2, 2008

FROM: DIRECTOR NICHOLAS J. FURY

TO: LEVEL 6+ PERSONNEL, HR OVERSIGHT, ACADEMY LEADERSHIP COUNCIL

SUBJECT: Reaffirmation of Temporary Travel Protocol—Dugan, Estelle T.

—————

SUMMARY:

In light of the volume of internal commentary, flagged risk submissions, and advisory reports regarding Memo 0501-DUGAN, the following clarifications are issued regarding the temporary exemption granted to Estelle T. Dugan, minor ward under authorized observational development protocol:

—————

RE: OPERATIONAL VALIDITY

Agent Coulson’s assignment remains non-operational in nature. The debrief in Los Angeles concerns post-incident containment and asset engagement.

Estelle Dugan is not participating in the debrief. She is not observing the asset in any official capacity. She is accompanying her legal guardian, under structured supervision authorized via Section 2.8.7 of the Academy Adjustment Charter and Welfare Provision Protocol 4.6.

The Stark situation is evolving. So is Dugan’s placement. These realities are not in conflict.

RE: PSYCHOLOGICAL CONCERNS

The subject’s recent trauma is precisely why she is under close supervision by the most stable adult figure remaining in her support structure.

This is not a mission exposure. It is a controlled welfare exception. Removing her from all remaining anchors in favor of optics does not constitute care—it constitutes abandonment.

If any party believes the Academy's welfare policy is being misapplied, they are invited to submit a formal procedural revision, ideally after sitting across from a seven-year-old who can identify psychological withdrawal faster than most of your consultants.

RE: PRECEDENT AND PROTOCOL

Once again, this is not a precedent.
This is a case-specific application of an existing trauma-based exemption clause, tied to the subject’s unique status and prior exposure.

Concerns regarding optics are noted. This department’s priority remains the integrity of its personnel, not the avoidance of uncomfortable headlines.
There will be no Red Room under this administration.

RE: EDUCATIONAL COMPLIANCE

The subject’s academic benchmarks are being tracked through the Academy Liaison Unit. Agent Coulson is certified in instruction protocol and is reporting weekly.

Should further oversight be required, observers may be assigned. Interested parties may queue behind the current backlog of inter-agency compliance reviews.

RE: INTERNAL GRIEVANCES

All concerns and recommendations have been reviewed and logged.

This is not under debate.

—————

FINAL WORD:

Coulson is authorized. The exemption stands.

Should any party wish to assume supervisory responsibility for a psychologically displaced minor with acute pattern recognition and perfect recall, I’m sure she’ll be glad to log your objections in her next Trapper Keeper.

Until then: stand down, clear the channel, and let my agents do their damn jobs.

—

Authorized and Finalized,

Nicholas J. Fury

Director, S.H.I.E.L.D.

Chapter Text

[May 2, 2008 (Friday)—6:02 AM (Pacific Time)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Jet—En Route to Los Angeles, CA]

The jet hums around them in a steady, pressurized silence, sealed tightly against the upper atmosphere by reinforced composites and SHIELD-grade technology. Morning light filters through the narrow windows—dim, silver-blue—casting long streaks across the graphite interior.

Coulson sits upright in his seat, tablet balanced on his knee. A mug of black coffee rests on the tray beside him, half-drunk and steadily cooling. Across the aisle, Estelle curls sideways in her seat, legs bent and propped up against the armrest. Her torso is a scattered nest of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and SHIELD-internal media briefs, each one marked up with red pen and an unholy number of sticky notes.

Courtesy of Hill. Though the margin notes—those are all Estelle.

On top of the pile, a photo catches the light: Tony Stark, arms spread wide in front of a Jericho missile, grinning like the camera owes him something.

Coulson glances over and exhales a quiet, amused breath.

“You know you’re not the one conducting the debrief, right?”

“I know, ” she replies, without looking up. Her tone edges toward an eye-roll—eight years old and already allergic to being told the obvious.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re just that curious about Stark?”

“Genius billionaire weapons seller with a rep for recklessness, questionable morals, and a long list of government contracts?” she says. “Yes. He has a file. And he’s not even SHIELD.”

“Technically, neither are you.” Coulson lifts his mug, hiding a smile behind the rim.

“ Yet, ” she says with theatrical annunciation, flipping a page.

He chuckles under his breath. “So what’ve you learned?”

“He’s brilliant, impulsive, and emotionally…slippery,” she says, skimming one of the pages. “Doesn’t like being told what to do. Uses charm and sarcasm to avoid consequences.”

A pause. Then, dryly: “He also wears sunglasses indoors. That’s not really a personality trait, but it’s definitely weird.”

Coulson huffs. “He just escaped a known terrorist group with zero backup, and we have little to no idea how. We’ve got anomalous radar spikes, no clean debrief, and Intelligence is tearing its hair out.”

Estelle nods once, matter-of-fact. “Which is your interest. Mine is academic.”

“Academic,” he repeats. “Right. And how’s your actual homework?”

That earns him a look: sharp-eyed, mildly affronted.

“Finished. I did the math sheet twice, two different methods. The ratios were easy. And I turned in my reading log with a character analysis.”

Coulson tilts his head. “That’s…not what your teacher asked for.”

“No,” she says, “but it’s what the assignment should have been. What’s the point of reading if you’re not proving you understood it?”

She shifts in her seat, warming to the subject.

“Rachel says she doesn’t even read—she just fills in titles and her mom signs it. That’s the system I’m competing with.”

Coulson smiles slowly and amusedly, shaking his head. “Incredible.”

“If we’re being honest,” she continues, pushing a paperclip out of her way, “I’d rather skip the rest of elementary school. Go straight to middle.”

“Oh yeah?” He sets his tablet down across his lap. “And what does middle school have that you’re not getting now?”

“More freedom. Faster curriculum. Real books. And I wouldn’t have to sit through another unit on ‘i before e except after c,’ which isn’t even true.” She starts counting on her fingers. “Science. Weird. Ancient. Glacier.”

Coulson narrows his eyes, skeptical. “Did you practice that list?”

“No,” she says. “I’ve just been paying attention.”

He chuckles. “And you mentioned ‘better problems’?”

Estelle nods. “Middle school social dynamics are a crash course in mental resilience.”

“You’re not supposed to want that.”

She shrugs, mild and composed. “It’s good learning.”

Coulson leans back and takes a slow sip of his coffee. Across from him, Estelle watches, waiting, just barely holding back the hope that he might actually say yes. There's a sliver of belief in her expression, bright and impossible.

“What if I said no?” he asks gently.

Her eyes widen for half a second. She quickly corrects her face, then turns the page.

“Then I’d try again in a month,” she says. “With more supporting data.”

Coulson laughs—soft, genuine, inevitable. “Can’t wait.”

She nods, satisfied, and returns to her stack. The article is from a political op-ed: “The Stark Legacy: From War Machines to Weapons of Peace?” Red ink crowds the margins—underlines, arrows, question marks.

In one corner, a single note stands on its own: “Inherited power ≠ earned power.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything. But his eyes pause on the note in the corner. For a second, he wonders—not for the first time—what she’s actually absorbing when she reads. Then he lifts his coffee again.

The jet banks gently west. Below them, the morning clouds burn gold along the edges.

Los Angeles waits.

[May 3, 2008 (Saturday)—Late Morning]

[Stark Industries HQ—Press Conference Room, Los Angeles, CA]

The air in the Stark Industries press room is warm with too many bodies and not enough circulation. Reporters chatter, checking equipment and murmuring over rumor-fueled headlines that haven’t yet gone to print. The lights are harsh overhead—stage-ready, polished, performative.

Phil Coulson enters quietly through a side access point just before the main doors close. He scans the perimeter like it’s instinct, not habit. A second later, Estelle slips in beside him, her small frame nearly hidden beneath a slate-gray coat. She stays close—closer than usual—her shoulder brushing the back of his arm as the crowd swells around them.

“Stay close,” Coulson says under his breath.

Estelle doesn’t respond, just lifts her chin and keeps her eyes forward. She’s holding a slim notepad and a pen, already angled as if she’s mid-investigation.

Coulson crosses the room and intercepts Pepper Potts as she emerges from behind the curtain near the podium. She looks sharp, tired, and—at least in this moment—decidedly overbooked.

“Miss Potts?” he says.

Pepper turns, brow pinched but polite. “Yes?”

“I’d like a moment of your time.”

She glances at her watch. “I’m not participating in the press conference, and it’s about to begin.”

“I’m not press,” he replies. “Agent Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”

She blinks at him, taking his business card as he holds it out. “You know that’s…a lot.”

“We’re workshopping it,” he says, deadpan.

Her eyes flick just past his frame, then catch—

“Is it a take-your-daughter-to-work day at your agency?” she notes a little sarcastically.

Coulson turns slightly, just enough to see Estelle listening in a little too attentively. “Yes,” he says simply. “Well, no. Not exact—She’s shadowing me for the day. A ward of our agency, strictly observational.”

Pepper’s eyes widen. “Shadowing.”

“Unofficial capacity,” he adds, and offers her a diplomatic half-smile that suggests there’s no time to unpack that.

“You do realize there’s going to be a meltdown of federal acronyms by lunchtime? We’ve already heard from the DOD, the CIA, Homeland—”

“We’re separate,” Coulson says. “More specialized. We’re looking to schedule a debrief with Mr. Stark about the incident in Gulmira. We’re a bit more focused on the conditions of his escape than on what occurred to him in captivity.”

Pepper exhales. “Fine. I’ll get something on the books.”

“Appreciate it.”

Coulson returns to Estelle, who is now standing half-behind him again, scribbling something in the margins of her notepad.

“Don't antagonize the civilians,” he mutters quietly.

“I wasn’t,” she bites. “She just noticed the only eight-year-old here.”

Obadiah Stane steps up to the front of the room and claps his hands with too much practiced cheer.

“Alright, let’s get started, shall we?”

The doors seal shut. The murmur dims. Cameras shift.

Tony Stark walks up from stage left, burger in one hand, sunglasses still on. He walks right past the podium and down to the front row.

“Hey, would it kill anyone to sit down?” he calls out, already halfway into a bite of burger. “Let’s keep this casual, huh? Knees bent, voices off, not so formal. You’re stressing me out.”

There’s a beat of awkward hesitation. Reporters glance at one another, unsure if he’s serious, then begin lowering themselves into chairs or crouching. The press becomes a sea of half-squatted knees and clipboard balancing acts.

Estelle stays on her feet, appreciating the new vantage—until she feels Stark’s eyes land on her. She straightens instinctively, pen still in hand, not quite sure if she’s being mistaken for a guest’s daughter or a very short intern.

Tony clocks her immediately, and the crowd turns to see where he’s looking.

“Whoa. Didn’t realize the Tiny Press Corps was credentialed today.”

A ripple of laughter follows. Tony squints at her through his sunglasses, expression unreadable. “You lost, or just very prepared?”

Estelle doesn’t flinch. “School paper,” she says, improvising a cover.

Tony tilts his head with theatrical suspicion. “On a Saturday? Nerdy even by my standards.”

Coulson, to his credit, doesn’t blink. If anything, he’s a little proud that Estelle countered so efficiently. That pride is quickly undercut by the quiet, reflexive voice in his head reminding him she really shouldn’t be that good at this.

Tony adds, biting his burger again. “Carry on, scooplet.”

Estelle writes down "talking down = deflection humor?" in the margin of her page.

Tony slouches back against the podium and stares down at his burger like he’s deciding if it’s worth still eating. He drags the mic stand down to his level—more eye contact, less authority.

“I never got to say goodbye to my dad,” he begins, voice uncharacteristically measured. “There are things I would’ve asked him—stuff I didn’t understand until now. Like how he felt about what we built. What we gave to the world…and what we let get taken.”

The room becomes still.

“I saw our weapons used against people we swore to protect. And I realized I was part of a system built to look the other way. Built for comfort. Not accountability.”

From the back, Estelle glances at Coulson. His face is unreadable, but she can tell he didn’t expect this.

A reporter calls out, “Tony, what really happened out there?”

Tony stands, moves behind the podium, takes off his sunglasses, and places them flat beside the mic.

“I had my eyes opened. Not by a bomb. Not by a cave. By a truth I should’ve seen sooner.”

He draws a breath.

“And that’s why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons division of Stark Industries.”

The room explodes. Chairs scrape back, reporters stand, shout over each other, and lunge forward with microphones raised and voices colliding.

Coulson stands as well and doesn’t move from his spot. Estelle keeps writing. "Radical change. Unprompted. Motivations: Guilt? Strategy?"

Tony holds up a hand but doesn’t wait for silence.

“Until I figure out what comes next,” he says, “this company doesn’t get to make anything designed for mass destruction.”

Obadiah is suddenly beside him, smiling too widely.

“Well,” the older man thunders, “we’ll have some internal discussions and get back to you all very soon. But for now, let’s just celebrate that Tony’s back, and looking healthier than ever!”

Tony is led away without another word.

Coulson exhales slowly.

Estelle tugs on his sleeve. “Sir?”

“Yeah.”

She holds up her notepad. “This is going to be a very long debrief.”

He nods once and smirks. “Start drafting the questions.”

[May 4, 2008 (Sunday)—Mid Morning]

[Omni Los Angeles Hotel at California Plaza]

The TV hums at low volume, casting faint flickers of light across the beige walls and stiff hotel drapes. Onscreen, Jim Cramer gesticulates wildly, shouting like someone just lit his shoes on fire. Red arrows plunge down digital graphs. Stark Industries' stock is tanking, and the chyron spares no drama: STARK BETRAYS DEFENSE SECTOR.

Behind Cramer, Tony Stark’s face loops in B-roll—static, smug, silent. Words like “reckless,” “boardroom betrayal,” and “military blowback” bounce between the talking heads like a game of hot potato.

Estelle sits cross-legged at the edge of the bed, absently flipping a pen between her fingers. She’s not taking notes, not yet. She’s watching, tracking the rhythm of panic, who’s talking loudest, which names repeat. It’s not about the market—she doesn’t care about the market. It’s about the reactions.

The door clicks open.

Coulson enters with two brown paper bags that radiate the heavenly smell of bacon, biscuits, and fried potatoes. He sets them on the desk without fanfare, then kicks off his shoes with the kind of practiced exhaustion only government agents and teachers have mastered.

“Are you watching Mad Money again?” he asks, dryly.

Estelle doesn’t look away. “I’m trying to understand Stark’s economic fallout.”

“You’re eight.”

She flips the pen once more. “And my seven-year-old homework is done.”

Coulson sighs, probably his twentieth sigh today, and nods toward the remote.

“You know what normal people watch on May the Fourth?”

Estelle glances over, catching the shift in tone. “Star Wars .”

“Exactly. As tradition demands.”

“You mean nerds demand,” she says, a little smile creeping in.

Coulson picks up the remote. “So we’re nerds. I hope you’re ready to embrace your destiny.”

Estelle starts unpacking the food. She claims the hashbrowns immediately, dragging the carton toward her like territory. She’s halfway through her first bite when her tone softens.

“Do we have a timeline update?”

Coulson doesn’t look up as he queues the movie. “No word yet. Ms. Potts hasn’t called.”

“So we’re just...waiting?”

He clicks through the menu. “Welcome to government work. We call it ‘hurry up and wait.’ You show up early, prep your report, sharpen your pencils—then sit around while someone decides whether they’re in the mood to talk.”

Estelle chews slowly. Swallows. “Sounds inefficient.”

“You have no idea.”

A pause stretches between them, filled by the menu loop and the hum of the air conditioner kicking on. Coulson finally drops onto the bed beside her with a groan, balancing his food on his knee. Estelle stops eating for a moment, and he knows she’s running scenarios in her head on how to speed things up.

“We might be in California for a while,” he says.

Estelle doesn’t respond right away. She finishes her bite, wipes her fingers on a napkin, then speaks into the space between them.

“If we’re here long enough…can we stop by a souvenir shop?” she asks, trying for casual.

Coulson glances over, caught off guard by the shift. A born-and-bred New Yorker like Estelle wasn’t one for tourist stops.

“I want to send a postcard to Dum Dum,” she explains. “He won’t care about the Stark stuff, but he’ll want to know I saw palm trees. I won’t tell him they look fake. He’ll just like knowing I’m looking.”

Coulson smiles—small, sincere. “Yeah. I think that can be arranged. Anywhere else?”

“Griffith Observatory,” she says as though she’s been waiting for him to ask. “Oh, and Dodger Stadium. They’re playing the Mets tomorrow.”

“We’ll see, Este.”

A flicker of something eases in her posture. She leans back against the pillows just as the Star Wars intro crawl begins to roll. The fanfare kicks in, and golden words stretch across the screen: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

Estelle watches quietly. She sips her orange juice slowly, not because she’s savoring it, but because it gives her something to hold. Something real.

“...Isn’t the West Coast SHIELD HQ built into a cliffside bunker?” she asks, eyes still on the screen.

“Classified,” Coulson smirks.

She rolls her eyes, full on today. “That’s a yes.”

He doesn’t deny it.

As the music swells and stars slide across the screen, Estelle lets herself ease into the moment. Not because anything is solved—not because she’s not still calculating—but because, for a little while, the galaxy far, far away is quieter than the one she lives in.

Chapter Text

[May 16, 2008 (Friday)]

[Omni Los Angeles Hotel at California Plaza]

He pockets his phone as the door shuts behind him, and then he stops.

Estelle is standing in the middle of the suite’s sunlit living room. Not in her usual cardigan and leggings. No—she’s wearing a sleeveless blue-green dress that’s a little too formal, a little too big in the shoulders, and a little too adult.

She’s brushed her hair. Her shoes have a slight heel. Her expression is radiant with the precise confidence of someone who knows she’s about to be challenged and already has her counterargument ready.

Coulson blinks once. “Okay. I have…questions.”

“I have answers,” Estelle says, smoothing the skirt of the dress. “But if it’s about the price tag, I already removed it.”

He gestures toward her with an open hand. “Start from the top. Where did you get that?”

“The Macy’s on West 7th,” she says brightly. “Their formalwear department is all over the place.”

“You went out alone?”

“No, not technically,” she says, almost offended. “I made friends with the hotel shuttle driver. Did you know he’s retired from the Secret Service? Anyways, I got the dress, and then he stopped for smoothies. Very nice man.”

“Estelle.” He hasn’t raised his voice, but it flattens into that tone. The tone she knows means trouble without theatrics. “You don’t go off-property with a cleared escort. You don’t reroute a hotel shuttle for formalwear. You definitely don’t charm ex-agents into letting you run errands in a major metro area.”

Her defenses shoot straight up. “It was not an errand. It was, uh, an acquisition .”

Coulson lets out a slow exhale. He’ll get into that later—maybe. “And why, exactly, are you in a dress right now? What undercover op are we apparently conducting in a four-star hotel?”

Estelle marches over to the desk, picks up the remote, and flicks on the muted local news. A bright banner rolls across the screen: TONIGHT: STARK INDUSTRIES HOSTS CHARITY GALA – DISNEY CONCERT HALL TO WELCOME L.A. ELITE. Below it, B-roll of limos, paparazzi setups, and archival shots of Tony Stark cycle on loop.

“Stark Industries is hosting a gala,” she says, matter-of-fact. “At the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Press coverage started this morning. They said there will be important people there, not just celebrities. Contractors. Government. Military…stuff. Feels important.”

Coulson folds his arms. “Estelle.”

It's been two weeks since they landed. Fourteen days of holding patterns and ‘pending clearance’ and politely worded brush-offs.

Coulson has followed the chain of command. Initiated contact. Left voicemails. Asked higher-ups for more actionable directions. Everyone is “working on it.”

Meanwhile, he’s been haunting the local field office like a ghost in a suit. Estelle filled an entire notepad, read seven books, and now apparently made friends with the hotel staff—and built a plan around cable news coverage.

She turns toward him, composed. “I know what you’re going to say, that I’m eight. That I’d stand out. That I can’t just blend in at a gala like it’s a SHIELD holiday party.”

“All of which are true,” he says gently, thinking.

“But. ” She presses the remote to turn the TV back off. “The news keeps saying Tony Stark probably won’t show. They’re doing that thing where they say it like a dare. Like they want him to show up just so that they can say he does when he does. No way he doesn’t take the bait.”

Coulson doesn’t immediately argue. He wants to. He really does.

But as absurd as it may sound coming from an eight-year-old in a department store formal dress, she’s not wrong. She’s observing Stark like a strategist, not a fan.

And the worst part? She saw it first.

Not Hill. Not West Coast operations. Not him. Estelle seized the opportunity while everyone else hesitated; not with all of SHIELD’s resources, but with local news and creative thinking. Coulson couldn't help but respect her initiative and resourcefulness.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, then pulls his phone back out.

“I’m not saying we crash the party,” Estelle continues, observing him. “But someone there might be able to move your debrief forward—or at least drop intel. And either way, it’s a bunch of Stark people under one roof—like two blocks away!”

“Recon,” he scoffs, dialing. “You want to attend a high-profile event for recon.”

“Well, technically, you would be attending for recon,” she corrects. “You’re the one with actual credentials who can find a way in. I’m just your—” she searches for a term, “—unassuming plus-one.”

“Uh-huh,” Coulson says as the line clicks. “Yeah, it’s me. We’ve got eyes on the gala at the Disney Concert Hall. I’d like to take a look in person.”

A pause. Coulson listens. Estelle can hear Fury’s unmistakable voice on the other end.

“She’ll be with me,” he says, glancing toward Estelle. “Yes. She. And no, I’m not joking.”

Another pause.

“She put this together herself just from watching the news, sir. She got a dress and came up with the whole pitch. It’s…scarily hard to argue with, actually.”

He holds the receiver a few inches away as Fury’s muffled reaction crackles through the line.

Estelle gives him a tight smile. “You didn’t have to say that part.”

Coulson covers the mouthpiece. “You kinda earned it.”

[16 May 2008 – Evening]

[Walt Disney Concert Hall – Stark Industries Charity Gala]

The lighting inside the concert hall lobby glows warm gold, spilling off chandeliers and refracting through champagne flutes. Music hums beneath the din—strings and soft brass, something orchestral with too much polish to be improvised. Guests in tuxedos, evening gowns, and military outfits flow through the atrium like drifting pieces of art.

Coulson moves with purpose. Calm, steady. He keeps one hand loosely in his pocket and the other lightly guiding Estelle at his side, a fingertip’s worth of contact to keep her close without making it obvious. She’s dressed down as much as her cocktail attire allows—no glitter, no bows, an appropriate dress, and a severe expression. She looks like someone’s extremely well-behaved niece on a diplomatic leash. Unassuming. Unsuspecting.

They track Stark across the room just as he slips past a hedge of photographers and approaches the bar.

“Scotch. I’m starving,” Tony tells the bartender, loosening his tie with one hand as the other tugs open a cufflink.

Coulson’s already steering them in.

Tony senses movement and glances sideways—only to pause when he sees Estelle. His eyes narrow a fraction.

“No way,” he says. “Scooplet? ”

Estelle lifts her chin. “It’s Estelle.”

Tony points at her, turning to the bartender again. “Make that a Shirley Temple, too. Extra cherries. Hope that’s not too much sugar too close to bedtime.”

The bartender hesitates, then nods and moves.

Tony turns more fully now, intrigued and grinning. “You crashed a black-tie gala? Bold. What’s next—Senate testimony?”

“She didn’t crash it,” Coulson cuts in smoothly. “She’s with me. I’m Agent Coulson with—”

“Right, the…Strategic Homeland…Inter... something...Division?”

“Enforcement Logistics Division.”

“No way that fits on a business card.” Tony takes the scotch, glances at Estelle again. “So what’s the kid doing here? Is she ‘Bad Cop’?”

Coulson replies smoothly, “She’s just observing.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, and sips his drink. “Sure. Observing. Totally casual.”

The bartender returns with Estelle’s Shirley Temple. She accepts it with a polite nod, pinky finger extended just slightly like she’d seen May hold glasses before.

“Mr. Stark,” Coulson says, steering them gently back on course, “we’ve been trying to follow up since you shook things up at your press conference. We’d appreciate a debrief.”

Tony gestures vaguely with his glass. “Right, yeah. The whole incident with the cave. Very classified. Very traumatic. Whole ‘held at gunpoint’ thing.” His tone is too light for the words, deliberately slippery.

Coulson doesn’t blink. “We can schedule something official. How does the 24th, 7:00 pm, Stark Industries?”

Tony glances over his shoulder and freezes. Pepper Potts has just entered the room, radiant in her backless dress, lit from within by some personal sun. She’s laughing with someone from the board.

Tony doesn’t look away. His face flickers, just a heartbeat. Coulson sees it. Estelle sees everything.

“Sure, sounds official,” the billionaire says absently. “Let’s call it a date.”

He raises his glass in a lazy salute. Then, to Estelle: “Good job blending in, Spy Kid,” as he fades into the crowd like a Pepper-seeking missile.

Coulson exhales slowly. “Well. That happened.”

Estelle sips her Shirley Temple. “‘Spy Kid’? This guy…”

Coulson glances down. “You worried?”

“No,” she says. “But I think we’ll want to be early on the 24th.”

[May 16, 2008 (Friday)—Evening, Continued]

[Walt Disney Concert Hall—Reception Bar]

Estelle is alone again, nursing the last of her Shirley Temple and spinning the straw with quiet focus. The air’s gone thicker since Coulson slipped away—checking their escort, or possibly just giving her space to recalibrate. She doesn’t mind. The gala is loud and slow, and there’s more intel in five minutes of watching people than a whole day of local news.

Tony Stark appears at the bar again, weaving through mingling guests like they’re part of some slow-moving obstacle course. He looks distracted, loosened by the night—a suit built to impress and an expression that’s stopped bothering.

“Can I get two martinis?” he asks the bartender. “Bone dry, extra olives. If you can make one a little meaner than the other, even better.”

Estelle looks straight ahead, pretending not to be listening in.

Tony catches sight of her again and quirks a brow. “You’re still posted up, I see.”

“It’s not a school night.”

He chuckles, just once, and turns his focus to the bartender.

Estelle glances sideways, not turning her head. A new voice cuts in from her right—pointed, practiced, and unmistakably not here for the cocktails.

“Well. If it isn’t Tony Stark.”

Estelle tilts her head slightly now. The woman is sleek, severe—a folder under her arm and a tone as sharp as a heel click.

“Ah, Crystal.”

“Christine,” the blonde woman hisses back.

Tony doesn’t flinch. “Christine,” he says, not quite warmly. “I figured someone would try to corner me tonight. Wasn’t betting on you, though.”

“You’ve been hard to pin down,” she says. “Bold of you to show your face in public.”

Tony accepts one of the martinis, still keeping a casual lean. “I was invited.”

“Right,” Christine says, tone hardening. “That explains why your company’s name is on the donor wall downstairs... and on the shipment crates being offloaded in a war zone.”

That gets him. Estelle doesn’t need to see his face to see the way his posture shifts—not defensive. Just sharp.

Christine opens the slim folder in her hand and slides it toward him on the bar. No fanfare. Just facts. Photos. Markings. One image slips forward far enough that Estelle sees it: a village somewhere warm-looking and sandy—a faint Stark Industries stencil on a large shipment container.

Tony picks up the pictures, just staring for a long moment.

“Where is this?” he asks.

“Gulmira,” Christine says. “Taken yesterday.”

A pause.

“I shut down all weapons development,” he says, quietly now.

Christine raises a brow. “Then someone forgot to tell your board.”

Tony exhales. Something in him closes off. “Obviously, I’m not my b—this isn’t what I signed off on.”

“Maybe not,” Christine replies. “But it still has your name on it.”

Estelle studies his face. Not anger. Not confusion. Just a crisp, sudden understanding that somebody missed or messed with something, and people will pay for it.

Tony pushes away from the bar without another word. Christine pursues.

Estelle doesn’t hesitate. She slips off the stool, grabs the folder, and follows. She glances around—no eyes on her, no camera lenses turned. It’s not theft if it was abandoned—just the collecting of evidence.

[Walt Disney Concert Hall – Front Entrance]

Estelle follows at a careful distance. Not directly behind Tony—that would be obvious—but behind Christine, who storms out a few paces behind him with her folder clutched like a blade she’s not done using.

Estelle sticks close to Christine, just outside the photographers’ line of sight, thankful for once that she’s small enough not to be seen or noticed.

From her spot, she can see Tony reach the railing. She sees Stane move to meet him. And she hears it all.

He appears out of the crowd with a glass of something amber and expensive, his expression practiced—smiling, but taut at the edges. Paparazzi are snapping photos now. Tony’s profile is already turning toward the light, toward the pressure.

“Tony,” Stane says, too smoothly. “What’s got you storming around like that?”

“You tell me,” Tony replies, keeping his voice low. “Because unless I’m hallucinating, our munitions are showing up in places they shouldn’t be.”

Stane doesn’t blink. “Let’s not have this conversation here.”

Tony raises his voice, but still stays measured. “These conversations are already happening here.”

The cameras catch another angle—Stane waves to them like a politician. “Smile for the press, Tony. Just breathe. You’re rattled.”

“I told you to shut it all down,” Tony says. “I meant it.”

“And I told you,” Stane murmurs, stepping in closer, “that you’re not the only stakeholder in this company. You wanted to play idealist—fine. But I had to make the responsible call.”

Tony’s jaw tightens, shock behind his eyes at the revelation. Estelle knows the look of broken trust. “Responsible? That’s what you’re calling it?”

Stane places a hand on his shoulder just as the cameras flash again. “Let’s take a picture,” he says smoothly. “Come on. Look pleasant.”

Tony doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

Another flash.

“Let’s take a picture,” Stane says, louder now, arm sliding around Tony’s shoulder with performative ease. “Come on. Give the people what they want.”

Estelle’s stomach knots while she watches Stane murmur something more to Tony.

Then Stane walks away—a hand in his pocket, nodding to a reporter with a raised hand like nothing happened at all.

Christine lingers for a breath longer, staring at Tony. She doesn’t say anything and ultimately decides to follow Stane to learn more about his side of the story.

Estelle watches her go, notebook instincts kicking in. That was a tactical pivot—when someone avoids answering, sometimes you chase the quieter trail.

Now it’s quiet.

Tony turns back to the railing and exhales, the weight of the city hanging below him like an accusation.

Estelle steps forward. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks up beside him, the edge of her dress catching a gust of wind.

“You followed me,” he says without turning.

“I followed her,” Estelle replies. “You were just...in the same direction.”

Tony lets out a quiet huff of something like amusement.

“She’s aggressive,” Estelle adds, nodding toward where Christine disappeared. “But she was surprised. She didn’t think you’d care.”

Tony leans back slightly against the rail. “You get all that from five minutes and some overhead gossip?”

“I get it from body language,” she says. “Yours changed. A lot.”

He studies her for a second. Then, quietly: “You’re a strange kid.”

She shrugs. “You’re a strange adult.”

Tony chuckles, low and brief. “Touché.”

They stand there for another moment, side by side—the billionaire in a suit worth more than the average apartment, and the eight-year-old with three cocktail skewers in her pocket. Both have tactical minds—minds that are running through revelations of the past five minutes.

“I think you’re going to do something,” Estelle says finally.

Tony raises a brow. “Yeah?”

She nods. “And I think it’s going to make people very uncomfortable.”

Tony considers that.

“Good,” he says.

Then he pushes off the railing and walks back inside.

Estelle stays behind for a moment longer, watching the skyline and thinking about the impending reprimand if Coulson catches her outside.

Her grip tightens around the folder; 'GULMIRA' is stamped in bold on the front.

Chapter Text

[May 16, 2008 (Friday)—10:14 PM]

[Omni Los Angeles Hotel at California Plaza]

The elevator dings softly as it reaches their floor. Estelle doesn’t wait for Coulson to step out first. She walks fast, half purposeful, half nervous, down the carpeted hallway toward their room.

Coulson unlocks the door with a flick of his keycard and holds it open. Estelle brushes past him and heads straight for the desk. She doesn’t ask if she’s in trouble. She already knows.

The freshly turned-down hotel room smells like linen spray and lemon. Coulson clicks the door shut. Before she can reach the chair, he sets the confiscated manila folder down, right in her path.

“Alright. Let’s make something else clear,” he says, loosening his tie. “You don’t get to ghost off at high-profile events—even if you do come back with something interesting.”

Estelle opens her mouth, hesitates, then sits. Her fingers trace the edge of the desk.

“I didn’t ghost,” she mutters. “I...scouted.”

Coulson arches a brow. “You’re eight,” he says. “You’re not an agent.”

“And you still haven’t gotten your debrief,” she says. “I just thought maybe I could help.”

She’s already flipped to a fresh page in her notebook, but he can see earlier ones, scrawled with small, uneven handwriting.

How did Stark escape?

Why was he taken, not killed?

Why stop the weapons now?

Would Stane lie to Stark? Or just not tell him the truth?

Her pen scrapes the paper as she begins writing more questions. Below them, answers begin to take shape—some hesitant, some bold.

Coulson walks over, slower now. The heat’s left his step.

“Este,” he says, quieter. “You know I have to say it—what you did back there was dangerous. You didn’t know who might follow Stark. Or what he’d say. Or how people would react.”

She nods once. “I know.”

“Then why do it?”

“To help,” she repeats, gesturing toward the notebook like it should be self-explanatory.

He hesitates. This isn’t a parenting manual situation. She’s not lashing out—she’s retreating. Quiet. Focused. Almost brushing him off.

Her eyes drop back to the page. She adds: Is Stane letting bad guys get weapons?

Coulson studies her. One shoe has slipped halfway off. Her left hand is still stained with purple marker from earlier in the day.

She’s eight. She’s exhausted. And she’s still connecting dots faster than most analysts he knows.

“You’re building a case file,” he says.

“No,” she replies. “I’m…writing it down before I forget it.”

What’s Stark going to do?

“So, you’re collecting questions,” he says. “What about answers?”

“I’m trying,” she mutters, clearly irked that he keeps interrupting her train of thought.

Coulson’s mouth twitches despite himself. He rests a hand on the back of her chair—not to stop her, just to be there. She doesn’t lean away.

“You want to act like an agent,” he says. “Then I expect a full report. Clear headings, observations, and recommendations.”

She looks up—no surprise—just readiness.

“I was gonna do that anyway,” she replies.

Coulson smiles faintly. “Figures.”

He pushes off the desk gently. “One hour. Then it’s lights out. Even ‘Spy Kids’ need sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Estelle murmurs.

She’s already scribbling again as he heads for the bathroom. Behind her, the city glows through the window, distant and bright.

And for now, she writes like it’s the only way to make sense of what she saw—and what’s coming next.

[May 16, 2008 (Friday)—11:42 PM]

[Omni Los Angeles Hotel at California Plaza]

The hotel room glows in soft amber, courtesy of the floor lamp in the corner. Outside the window, Los Angeles flickers and stretches—cars cruising under streetlights, the city humming like it never learned how to rest. It reminds Coulson of a certain eight-year-old.

Estelle is curled up in bed, one arm draped over a teddy bear she charmed the front desk workers to hand over. Her breath is even. Her face, usually composed or calculating, has gone soft in sleep—a whisper of hair curls across her forehead.

Across the room, Coulson sits at the desk.

Her notebook lies open in front of him, still warm with urgency, like it hadn’t wanted Estelle to go to sleep.

He reads in silence, flipping through each page slowly. Her handwriting tilts and tightens depending on her mood: looser when she’s thinking fast, sharper when she’s certain. He finds annotations in the margins—crossed-out ideas, bullet points, even a doodle of Stark’s sunglasses with a tiny caption: “Why indoors??”

But underneath the humor, the theory has taken form. And it’s not the wild imagination of a precocious eight-year-old. It’s reasoned. Pattern-aware. Alarmingly plausible.

He exhales, then reaches for the burner phone on the nightstand.

One ring. Two. Then the line clicks.

“Fury.”

Coulson speaks quietly, not to avoid waking Estelle, though she is a light sleeper, but because the weight of the information doesn’t deserve volume.

“I got the appointment,” he says. “Debrief with Stark’s scheduled for the twenty-fourth. Pepper Potts put it on the books herself.”

Fury’s voice crackles back. “Took long enough. He's still playing PR chicken or has the severity kicked in?”

“A little of both,” Coulson replies. Then, after a pause: “I’ve got something else.”

Fury doesn’t interrupt. That’s rare.

“It’s from Estelle,” Coulson says. “Unofficially.”

“Define unofficial.”

“I won’t lie. She did some recon of her own at the gala. That’s on me, but it admittedly had some interesting results.”

A beat. Then: “Go on.”

He turns another page, careful not to crease the margin notes.

“She thinks the Ten Rings didn’t kill Stark because they wanted him to build them a weapon. A big one. They had stolen Stark gear—missiles, components, full systems, whatever.”

Fury grunts. “We knew about the gear showing up in that corridor. Didn’t know Stark saw it firsthand.”

“She believes he tricked them—built something for himself instead of the weapon they wanted. Same suspicion we’ve had, but she connected the dots on her own.”

“Does she have any theories we don’t already share?” Fury huffs.

“Yes. She thinks there’s foul play. She thinks someone inside Stark Industries enabled the supply chain—and someone else, maybe the same, sold Stark out.”

Fury goes quiet. It’s not that Estelle’s come up with anything he wasn’t already suspicious of—it’s that she came up with it by herself. At eight. With comparably limited resources.

“She suspects Obadiah Stane,” Coulson continues. “She’s got a list. Starts with smiling too much. Ends with him dragging Stark into a photo op, the second that things got tense.”

That earns a sharp breath from the Director. From any other kid, he’d brush it off, but from Estelle, it gets more of his attention.

“She believes Stark built something in that cave, not for the Ten Rings, but for himself. Whatever it was, it worked. He escaped. And what he saw made him want to shut it all down. Which he attempted, very publicly at the press conference.”

“She’s not wrong,” Fury mutters. “Stark made noise without a plan. Classic.”

“She also thinks Stane didn’t just disagree. In a roundabout way, she thinks he’s still selling—quietly. Possibly under the table. Possibly that he’s the one who set Stark up in the first place. Sold him out.”

Silence settles again. Coulson lets it hang, knowing Fury doesn’t rush until it matters.

“You got all that from an eight-year-old?”

“I’ll admit a lot of it’s speculation, but this is Este we’re talking about. She’s not guessing, she’s been observing.”

He thumbs through to a new page, where the handwriting sharpens again, decisive now. Coulson lowers his voice even more.

“Last note: She thinks Stark’s going to build again. Whatever got him out the first time, she believes he’s going to rework it. Not to wait on the government. Not to wait on anyone. He was confronted by a reporter about more of his weapons ending up in Gulmira, and he might do something there.”

He glances at Estelle, still asleep.

“She thinks he’s gearing up to act alone. She spoke to him directly and quoted him on it.”

Fury breathes through his nose. “Hell.”

“She’s not basing this on fantasies. It’s how she thinks. It’s how we think. If she’s right, we’re behind the curve.”

Fury is silent for a few beats. Coulson can almost hear him rubbing his forehead on the other end of the line.

“You know I can’t pull bodies or redirect ops based on the instincts of an eight-year-old, no matter how close she flies to the truth.”

“I know.”

“We wait. We watch. We let Stark hang himself a little further—then you reel him in.”

Coulson exhales. “Copy that.”

“Get what you can out of the debrief,” Fury says. “Let her keep writing, too—and keep listening.”

Click.

[May 17, 2008 (Saturday)]

[SHIELD West Coast Operations–Los Angeles Office]

Fluorescent lights, the low click of keyboards, and miscellaneous beeps, buzzes, and pings from consoles around the room. A perimeter of monitors glows dimly in the Tactical Surveillance Room, each displaying staggered grids: satellite scans, radar pings, and heat signatures blooming like brushfires across the Afghan desert. The walls are soundproofed and sealed.

This room is where information moves faster than explanation can keep up.

Estelle Dugan sits quietly in Coulson’s office down the hall, legs swinging just above the floor as she works through a math worksheet, deliberately pacing herself. She’s got her binder out, but she hasn’t opened it in weeks. All her recent work has lived in the notebook Coulson took to show Director Fury. 

She’s restless, watching the second hand on Coulson’s desk clock like it’s dragging its heels.

Then the door opens.

Nick Fury fills the threshold, coat hem stirring slightly from the corridor air. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t explain.

“Come with me.”

Estelle doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t ask if he’s taking her somewhere she’s even allowed to be. She’s on her feet before he finishes the sentence. Multi-step word problems, while entertaining, could wait.

They walk in silence. Overhead lights flicker as they pass. Estelle counts the turns discreetly, out of habit. She doesn’t ask where they’re going. If it’s Fury, it matters.

He pushes open a thick metal door that hisses faintly at the seal. The room inside is a command-and-control layout—half radar station, half mission pit. Circular tables. Raised terminals. Recessed lighting. Dozens of screens track atmospheric heat signatures, object velocities, and communications intercepts.

Coulson is already here, posted near the rear wall, arms folded tight. He doesn’t speak.

Jasper Sitwell glances over his shoulder at their entrance. “Seriously?”

“Give her the rundown,” Fury says—end of discussion.

Estelle steps into the room slowly, neck craning as she takes in the surveillance feeds. “What is this place?”

“Tactical Surveillance,” Fury says. “We don’t give tours. But today, we’re making an exception.”

She furrows her brow. “Why?”

Fury jerks his chin toward the main screen, where a sand-colored map rotates in slow, resolution-refreshed frames. “Because we’re about to find out if you were right.”

Sitwell sighs, but taps the console. “Alright, junior analyst—basic context. SHIELD’s got radar on the Kunar region. A civilian distress signal came in this morning, followed by high-yield heat signatures. It could be weapon fire. Not ours.”

He gestures to a jittery side screen. “We’ve got satellite imaging from one of the birds we loan to the DoD. Resolution’s garbage today.”

Estelle steps closer, careful not to touch anything. “So a village called for help, and explosions started. What are we doing about it?”

Sitwell raises an eyebrow. “Not our jurisdiction. That’s Air Force territory.”

She scowls. “Then why watch it if we can’t stop it?”

He doesn’t answer.

One of the smaller feeds flickers, red blips spreading outward in jagged arcs. A radar operator curses under his breath.

“Sir,” Sitwell calls over his shoulder. “We’ve got an unidentified object entering airspace from the west. Doesn’t match any known drone signature. It’s—hell, it’s way faster than the bogey from Kabul. Look at this climb pattern.”

Estelle squints at the screen, and Sitwell mistakes her focus for confusion.

“It means something fast entered airspace and we don't know—”

“I know what a bogey is, Agent Sitwell,” she cuts in sharply. Coulson shifts slightly at the tone. It’s her mother. It’s May. It’s both. Estelle’s eyes go wide. “That’s him.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions—” Coulson starts.

“It’s Stark,” she says again, firmer. “It’s got to be. Look how he’s turning. Jets don’t bank like that.”

She points to the sharp V-shaped dip in the radar’s climb slope, referring to vector return without knowing the proper terminology for it.

Fury doesn’t blink. “Get her a headset.”

Coulson steps forward. “Sir—”

“She’s already in the room,” Fury says flatly. “Let her listen.”

A tech passes her a comm set. It’s too big for her head, but she adjusts the strap with quick fingers and sets the pads over her ears.

“Channel six,” Sitwell tells her begrudgingly. “Air Force band out of Edwards.”

Estelle clicks in.

The voices filter in instantly—crackled, clipped by distance and encryption. Pilots barking coordinates, speeds, and threat assessments. Then:

“Unidentified craft is non-responsive. Moving to intercept.”

Estelle’s breath hitches. “There are two jets. F-22s. They don’t know he’s on their side.”

Fury turns toward Sitwell. “Get me Edwards.”

“They’re mid-engagement,” Sitwell warns. “This isn’t a confirmation delay—it’s live fire protocol. If they already declared a threat, they—”

Estelle’s eyes widen behind the headset. “They’ve fired.”

She freezes. This is no place for a child.

Coulson takes a step toward her. “Este—”

“He needs help,” she says, voice cracking. She rips off the headset and sucks in a sharp breath.

On the main screen, the radar pings again. A sudden sharp movement—a lunge downward, then a high flick of altitude. The bogey drops, spins, survives. One F-22 veers away. The other tumbles into a blackout. Silence on the comms.

“He’s okay,” she breathes a sigh of relief as her eyes flicker across the monitors. “He probably practiced for it.”

Fury watches the feed. “Or he built something for it. That might not be him.”

“Name a UAV that flies like that,” she snaps, not realizing how hard it lands. Agents glance up, unsure if they just witnessed insubordination or something else entirely.

He gives away nothing.

Sitwell, finally, mutters under his breath: “Whatever that is…it’s not in our playbook.”

Fury turns to Estelle. She’s pale, fists clenched. But she’s not overly emotional. She’s processing.

“It’s Tony Stark,” she says quietly, mostly to herself. “He’s stopping the bad guys.”

Coulson studies her from across the room. For the first time since she came to SHIELD, she’s not just a ward of the state.

She’s right—and the world just changed around her.

Fury doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches her like a piece on the board he didn’t know had started moving.

He looks at Coulson. “So long as she’s safe, she stays in the loop. From now on.”

Coulson’s eyes flick to him, but he doesn’t argue.

Estelle doesn’t hear the line—she’s too busy staring at the last radar blip still fading off the edge of the screen.

[SHIELD Secure Intra-Org Correspondence]

Classification Level: 7

From: Romanoff, N.

To: Fury, N.

Timestamp: 17 May 2008—22:14 PST

Subject: Tactical Access Violation (Dugan, E.)

Director,

While I continue drafting the developmental framework you personally requested, I have two questions:

1. At what point did surveillance rooms begin to allow elementary school field trips?
   
   
2. Why was I not informed that an eight-year-old was given access to real-time radar feeds during an active engagement?

Estelle is not unqualified—she's simply unfinished. Giving her a headset mid-threat scenario isn’t a test; it’s a live variable. You and I both know what that kind of exposure can do to a kid.

You wanted a curriculum. I’m building one.
Next time, let me finish it before someone hands her the red phone.

— Romanoff

[SHIELD Secure Intra-Org Correspondence]

Classification Level: 7

From: Fury, N.

To: Romanoff, N.

Timestamp: 17 May 2008 – 22:37 PST

Subject: RE: Tactical Access Violation (Dugan, E.T.)

Attachments: Dugan_Notebook_Extracts_Stark.pdf

Noted.

Before you assume I dragged a kid into a live op for shock value, review the attached. These are scans from her notebook. Entries she wrote before the Gulmira footage hit the feeds.

She flagged Stark’s behavioral pattern shifts, anticipated his isolation strategy, speculated internal sabotage, and identified Gulmira as a likely retribution site…all without access to formal intel, tactical context, or adult confirmation. No briefings. No prompts.

She walked in knowing about bogeys and vector return.
She walked out, asking if we track cover stories the way we track heat signatures.

You’re right: she’s unfinished.

That’s why she’s not in a training program.

She’s in secure observation.

—Fury

Chapter Text

[May 24, 2008 (Saturday)—7:06 PM]

[Stark Industries HQ – Los Angeles, CA]

The lobby at Stark Industries is all glass, marble, and steel—engineered to impress and intimidate in equal measure. Estelle sits beside Coulson on a low, leather bench that appears to be designed to be challenging to get up from. Her feet don’t touch the floor. She kicks them once, gently.

Coulson checks his watch while Estelle fiddles with her visitor's badge.

“He confirmed the time,” he murmured.

“He was distracted. Plus, he’s been busy,” she murmurs, giving Coulson a knowing look.

The whole building feels off.

She’s watching the receptionist—tense shoulders, no eye contact. When the receptionist does glance up, it’s quick—like checking for a fire escape, not a greeting. The security guard near the elevator has shifted positions four times in ten minutes. And there wasn’t any ambient music playing since they’d arrived. She notices that, too.

A minute ticks by. Then another. Coulson doesn’t fidget, but she can tell he wants to. His finger taps once against his watch. Just once.

Footsteps break the silence. Louboutins, she guesses.

Sure enough, Pepper Potts appears at the top of the stairs, walking fast and holding something too tightly in her right hand. She looks like someone who's just sprinted out of a war room; the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet.

“Ms. Potts,” Coulson says, rising politely. “Were we mistaken on the meeting time?”

“No—no,” she exhales, breath catching on the word. “Yeah, we’ll do it right now. Your office.”

“Something wrong?” he asks, his tone kept as neutral as a paperweight.

“No,” Pepper shakes her head too quickly. “Not exactly. Just—let’s go.”

Coulson doesn’t move right away. He studies her face for a moment, then gives the barest nod and motions to Estelle.

Estelle gets up and falls into step just behind the adults as they make for the exit. Pepper is trying to explain something about Tony being unavailable, her voice brittle at the edges. Estelle only half-listens.

Something is tugging at her attention—an itch behind her eyes, the kind that usually means: look again.

She slows as they near the security booth, her pace adjusting half a step behind Coulson’s without needing to think about it. May taught her that: never stop walking—just glance back as if you forgot something.

Up the stairs, standing perfectly still on the landing, is Obadiah Stane.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t call out. He only watches them, one hand resting on the banister like a man surveying a threat. His gaze tracks Pepper. Then Coulson. Then Estelle.

Her chest tightens, and she steps a little faster to catch up with the only two grown-ups that she trusts at the moment.

She says nothing. Just mentally files it. Notes the tilt of his head. The tension in his jaw. The fact that he made no effort to pretend it was a coincidence.

She doesn’t have the words for what that stare means yet—not in her binder, not in her therapy sessions. But her stomach knows.

It means war.

[May 24, 2008 (Saturday)—7:22 PM]

[In Transit—SHIELD Escort Vehicle, Los Angeles]

The SUV’s cabin is quiet in that way that feels too quiet—all insulated glass and soft leather and tension trapped in the seams. The evening light cuts sideways through the tinted windows, casting long shadows across the backseat.

Estelle sits buckled into a booster seat—federal issue, unfortunately—next to Pepper Potts, who hasn’t stopped clutching the flash drive since they left Stark Industries.

She watches Pepper tap the casing—rhythmic, shallow—like she’s checking to see if her heartbeat is still there. Coulson sits in the front passenger seat, already half turned toward them.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” he requests evenly.

Pepper hesitates.

Estelle leans forward slightly. “Is that evidence against Stane?”

Pepper blinks—Estelle’s presence kicking in for the first time. “Excuse me?”

The girl hesitates for half a second. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it out loud—people don’t always like it when she notices too much.

“The flash drive,” she finally says, squirming upright in her seat. “You’re holding it really tight. You looked spooked back there. And then Stane was watching us leave like…”

Her face scrunches into an exaggerated glare, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

Pepper looks to Coulson, then back at the girl. “Why is there a child here again?”

“Classified,” Estelle says before Coulson can answer. It isn’t really, but it’s just fun for her to say.

“She’s observant,” Coulson puts it mildly, hiding a faint smile. “And accurate. So?”

Pepper sighs. “Tony asked me to pull what I could find from Stane’s private directory. Internal communications, export logs, transaction records. He thinks Obadiah’s been selling Stark weapons to overseas buyers behind his back—maybe even since Afghanistan.”

Estelle’s eyes widen in the I-knew-it sort of way without saying anything out loud.

Coulson’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen. “And you saw something?”

Her hands are steady now, but her shoulders stay tense. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear twice in thirty seconds—a loop Estelle clocks without even meaning to.

“I saw a lot,” the woman says, voice thin now. She looks at Estelle, unsure how much she should divulge with tiny ears present. Eventually, she decides the information is too pressing. “He was…working with them. With the people who took Tony. There were agreements. Transfers. Dates that match. It’s all on there.”

Coulson leans back slightly in his seat, like the sentence hit harder than expected. Estelle notes the subtle shift—not retreat, but recalibration.

Estelle doesn’t speak, but she sits back slowly in her seat as well, eyes locking on the drive like it might start glowing.

As the vehicle pulls into the SHIELD LA field office’s underground entrance, Coulson shifts forward. “Alright. We’ll image the drive, check the information you pulled, and assemble a team for retrieval.”

Pepper flinches. “Retrieval?”

“Obadiah Stane,” Coulson elaborates. “If this holds up, he’s done.”

They park with a soft hydraulic hiss. Coulson opens the door and gestures toward the elevators. “You two wait up in the foyer. Shouldn’t take long.”

Estelle unbuckles her seatbelt and hops down.

Pepper follows her out slowly, still gripping the flash drive before handing it over to Coulson.

“Please tell me this isn’t normal for you.” She looks down at Estelle as they step into the elevator.

The girl gives a faint shrug. “No, I’ve never done corporate espionage before.”

[May 24, 2008—7:34 PM]

[SHIELD LA Field Office—Foyer]

The lobby smells like cold coffee and copy toner—a scent Estelle now associates with places where grown-ups lie through their teeth. The lights are too bright, and the chairs are the kind that pretend to be soft but feel like waiting room punishment.

Estelle picks a loose thread on the arm of a faded blue waiting chair and perches sideways on it, knees drawn up. Pepper paces once, then sits across from her, hands a little shaky now that she doesn’t have the flash drive to grip.

For a few seconds, neither of them speaks.

Then Pepper gives a breathy, trying-to-sound-casual exhale. “So…Estelle, right?”

Estelle looks up at her and nods.

“You come to government buildings often?”

Estelle gives her a small, dry smile. “Kinda.”

Pepper laughs nervously, but genuinely. “That’s not a very normal answer, you know.”

Estelle shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not very normal.”

Pepper leans back in her chair, trying to shake off some of the tension in her spine. “So what’s your deal, then? You work for SHIELD or just consult?”

Estelle blinks at her, expression flat.

Pepper holds up her hands. “Kidding. I’m just curious.”

A pause.

“My parents were agents,” she begins. “Now Agent Coulson is my…guardian.”

It was more of an answer than Pepper was expecting, but it doesn’t exactly quell her questions. Still, she doesn’t push the matter.

“So…what about school?” she asks more gently. “What grade are you in?”

“Third,” Estelle says, a little too fast. “They won’t let me skip anymore.”

Pepper tilts her head, trying to be gentle. “They won’t let you?”

“I already skipped first grade,” Estelle elaborates matter-of-factly. “They said I need more time to ‘develop socially’ and ‘stay grounded.’ But most of the kids in my class just talk about Webkinz and hating homework. I already know how to be polite. That’s not the same thing.”

Pepper blinks, then gives a half-smile. “Wow.”

“Even the ‘special group pull-outs’ aren’t that hard,” Estelle adds. “Sometimes I finish the packets before we even start the lesson. Mrs. Spivey started sending the work to me in individual pages so I don’t work ahead.”

“Any reason?”

“Mrs. Spivey says it’s to ‘keep me focused,’ but she looks smug when she says it. Like she’s winning. I think she’s sabotaging me.”

She says it dramatically, but part of her means it. Grown-ups always call it ‘slowing down for her own good,’ but it feels a lot like getting locked out.

If Pepper asked her any more, she’d tell her that it goes all the way to the top with the school principal and probably the school board, too. She wouldn’t complain about how Coulson does it, though—she actually trusts Coulson.

Pepper laughs weakly. “Well, you sound like someone Tony would either hire or hide from.”

Estelle gives her a sideways glance. “He told me I’m strange, but so is he.”

Pepper smiles at that—not a big smile, but a real one. The first one she’s been able to manage all day.

She sinks a little deeper into her seat and looks around the quiet lobby. “You know, this morning I was doing performance reviews and ordering lunch for the board. I thought that would be the most stressful part.”

Estelle looks up again. She’s not used to grown-ups venting. Most people either keep her out of the loop or fold her into their plans like a miniature asset. But Pepper’s talking like she expects comfort, like Estelle has something to offer besides data.

The girl doesn’t answer, but after a moment, she slides one of the little peppermints from the dish on the side table across the gap between them. She pushes the peppermint across the table with one finger. It feels weird—not the action, but what it implies. She’s never really been the one to reassure someone before. Not out loud.

“For your nerves,” she murmurs.

Pepper blinks, then reaches out and takes it with a slight, grateful nod. “Thanks.”

The elevator dings softly, and Coulson steps out with purpose in his stride and a team of agents around him. He spots the pair immediately.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re moving on Stane.”

Pepper jumps up from her chair. “You’re arresting him?”

“If even half of what’s on that drive holds up, yes. Arms trafficking. Corporate espionage. A backchannel to the Ten Rings. He’s been playing both sides of the war.”

She doesn’t ask what the other half says. She’s already digging in her bag for her phone.

“I’m calling Rhodey. If Tony’s alone with him—”

“Do it.”

Estelle rises too, brushing her hands down the front of her pants. The room feels brighter than it did before, as if the fluorescents had suddenly started working harder. Or maybe she’s just more awake now—blood humming in her limbs.

She walks beside Coulson, keeping up quickly. He’s already syncing comms, rattling off coordinates, requesting containment and medical support to stand by if needed.

She waits until they clear the foyer.

“Sir?”

He glances down. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not backing out,” she says, carefully. “I still want to go. I just—”

She pauses, hunting for the words that make her sound smart and calm, not scared.

“—Stane could be hostile. He could even be close to reverse-engineering Tony’s tech. That’s dangerous. For everyone.”

Coulson slows a fraction. Enough to show he’s listening.

“I know I’m not trained for that kind of scenario. So…is it smart to bring me?”

It’s a fair question. A grown-up one. One she shouldn’t have to ask.

Coulson looks ahead, jaw tight, then back at her.

“In perfect conditions? No. You’d be upstairs waiting for me to get back.”

He scans the corridor—quick, practiced. His fingers still hover near his earpiece.

“But these aren’t perfect conditions,” he says. “We’re short on time, short on coverage. And Stane saw you. That makes you part of the equation whether I like it or not.”

Estelle nods slowly, her mouth a neutral line.

“I’d rather know exactly where you are,” he adds, quieter. “I’d rather you know exactly where I am.”

She doesn’t answer. But she understands. This isn’t permission. It’s a strategy.

“And,” he continues, with a glance that lands somewhere between warning and trust, “you’ve got good instincts. Better than some Level 4s I’ve worked with. So if you see something, say something. Fast.”

Her heart gives a little thud at that. Not pride—more like gravity, settling into place.

Pepper’s voice echoes behind them. “Rhodey’s going. He’s on his way to the house now.”

“Copy that, now we head to Stark Industries,” Coulson replies, keying his mic. “My team is preparing to converge on site. Estimated contact window is seven minutes.”

The doors to the parking garage slide open. Concrete warms the air, dry and metallic. Estelle straightens her posture, staying alert.

Because this—this is the part in her binder she hadn’t filled in yet.
The part about what happens when you stop watching and start walking into it.

She doesn’t feel scared, but she does feel seen.

For the first time, she knows what it means to be a variable.

And for the first time, she understands what that costs.

[May 24, 2008—8:11 PM]

[Stark Industries—Building 2, Section 16]

The SHIELD escort pulls up to the rear loading bay with its lights dimmed. No fanfare, no sirens—just boots on concrete and silent gestures. Coulson leads the way, issuing orders under his breath as two agents fan out to secure the perimeter.

Estelle stays close to Pepper as they move down the wide, dimly lit corridor. Pipes run overhead. Emergency lighting flickers along the walls in dull red pulses. The whole wing smells like metal, grease, and ozone.

They reach the entrance to Section 16—the private R&D chamber buried at the edge of Stark’s facility. Heavy double doors. A keycard panel.

Pepper steps forward and scans her badge.

Nothing.

She tries again. The red light on the reader blinks angrily and unmoved.

“They’ve revoked my clearance,” she mutters, heart pounding now. “He knows.”

Coulson doesn’t hesitate. He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a slim, puck-shaped device.

Estelle’s eyes widen, sparkling slightly. “Is that a Lock Pick Device?”

Coulson raises a brow. “You know your gear.”

She nods, grinning. “May said it makes too much noise for stealth missions.”

“Mark VI should be a little quieter.” Coulson hands it to her without missing a beat. “Want to do the honors?”

Estelle’s fingers curl reverently around it. She grins. “Absolutely.”

She presses the device to the seam between the access panel and the lock, twisting it so it activates, and steps back. Coulson turns her around so her back is to the door and stands behind her like a human shield. Pepper follows their lead.

A quiet beep. Then a sharp pop! and a puff of smoke. The metal around the card reader sizzles, the locking mechanism hissing open.

Estelle beams. Coulson retrieves the device and nods. “Nice work.”

The doors creak open. Inside: shadows, machinery, and silence.

Coulson gives a signal, and the agents move in, weapons raised. Pepper and Estelle follow behind, stepping into the cavernous room. It’s cold. Humming with residual energy.

Against one wall stands something large and strange—a suit of armor. Rough and bulky. Riveted together like a wartime relic.

“The Mark I,” Coulson murmurs. “But…it’s smaller than I expected.”

“Well, Tony needed to build it without the Ten Rings noticing,” Estelle muses. “Just enough to escape.”

Chains hang from the ceiling, heavy and rust-streaked, swaying slightly. Estelle feels her pulse rising. Her brain starts indexing details: burn marks on the floor, cracked plating near the workbench, a gap in the arc reactor storage.

Then—

A mechanical hiss.

A shape shifts in the shadows. Metal scrapes against metal. Something glows.

From behind a column of dark steel, Obadiah Stane steps out, fully encased in something massive, industrial, weaponized, and alive. The Iron Monger.

Pepper gasps. Stane’s eyes—or what’s visible through the narrowed glare of the helmet—lock on her.

“Pepper,” he says, voice amplified and guttural. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

She freezes. Stumbles.

Estelle doesn’t. She grabs Pepper’s wrist and pulls hard, yanking her away just as Stane takes his first thundering step forward.

“Run!” Estelle shouts.

Behind them, Coulson and the agents open fire.

It does nothing.

The bullets spark against the metal plating and ricochet off harmlessly. One of the agents shouts—“Fall back!”—but it’s already too late.

Stane roars—the sound mechanical and human all at once—and swings a massive arm through a support beam. It shatters, sending a cloud of concrete dust everywhere.

The backhand catches one agent. Another screams before the suit’s hydraulics crush him into silence.

Estelle looks back just long enough to see Coulson jump out of the way to safety, then keeps running—her life depending on it.

She runs, dragging Pepper with her down the corridor they came in through, the pounding of Iron Monger’s footsteps echoing like a death drum behind them.

Chapter Text

[May 24, 2008 (Saturday)—8:15 PM]

[Stark Industries—Front Access Lot]

The doors hiss open, and Estelle and Pepper burst into the night like bullets from a chamber.

They’re back where they started—outside the main entrance of Building 2, just ten minutes and an entire world ago. The parking lot is empty. No agents. No sirens. Only shadows and floodlights, carving sharp lines through the dark.

Pepper’s breath stutters. Her fingers tremble as she hits redial on her earpiece.

Estelle tries to tug her toward the car—toward cover—but Pepper’s still mid-call.

The line connects.

“Pepper?” Tony’s voice crackles through wind and static—he’s airborne.

Her words tumble out. “Tony—Tony, he’s in it, Stane—he’s in some kind of suit, it’s huge—he killed agents—and the kid’s with me, Estelle’s with me—”

A pause. Sharp as glass.

“…Spy Kid? Pepper, get her and get the hell out of there. Now.”

But it’s already too late.

The pavement shudders. Lights flicker. The earth groans.

Then—eruption.

Concrete explodes upward in a geyser of fire, dust, and shrapnel. A steel fist punches through the ground, dragging with it a body of industrial hate and heat. Rebar screams as it twists. Smoke spills out in choking clouds.

The Iron Monger rises from the crater like something ancient and unstoppable.

“Pepper Potts,” Stane growls, voice rendered monstrous through mechanical amplification. “You should’ve stayed out of this.”

The minigun arm lifts. The barrels begin to spin.

Estelle doesn’t scream. She moves.

She grabs Pepper’s wrist and yanks her down, her small body flinging itself between the woman and the weapon with pure, unthinking instinct.

Estelle plants her feet. Dust coats her tongue. Her ears are screaming with static.

Where’s Coulson? Still below. Still inside. Still there.

And then—

WHAM.

A red-and-gold missile slams down from the sky.

No warning. No banter. Just velocity.

Tony collides with Iron Monger at full force, a metal scream wrapped in light and momentum. The shockwave slams Estelle to the ground. Debris rains like gravel. Both elbows scrape raw against the asphalt.

Stane is torn off his feet and hurled backward, crashing through the ruined concrete in a hellish clang of steel and fire.

Then: silence. Followed by a distant honk. Far down the hill, headlights flicker. The fight has already moved.

Pebbles tumble into the smoking crater. Heat makes the air ripple.

Estelle coughs. Her chest heaves. Her scraped arms are trembling.

Pepper stumbles to her knees beside her, pale and blinking like she’s just been resuscitated.

“We have to go,” Pepper says. Her voice is thin. Shaky. She grabs Estelle’s hand. “We have to go—right now—”

“No.” Estelle rips her hand back. “I’m not leaving without Coulson.”

Pepper stares at her. “Estelle—”

“I saw him jump away before the rafters came down. He’s still down there.”

Without waiting, Estelle turns and runs toward the smoke, toward the burning edge of everything.

Pepper doesn’t follow. Can’t.

The panic short-circuits her. Her hands twitch, but her feet stay locked. Her mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

She stands frozen at the edge of the lot, watching a child vanish into fire.

[Stark Industries—Building 2, Section 16 Sublevel Lab]

Estelle’s lungs burn as she races down the corridor. The emergency lights strobe red along the walls. Her shoes slap through puddles from a burst pipe above. She doesn’t stop.

The lab is half-collapsed. Platforms hang crookedly on battered supports. Smoke drifts from the ceiling—the air reeks of scorched metal and ozone.

She climbs over shattered concrete and twisted steel, wincing as both her elbows brush against debris. Her eyes sting.

“Coulson!” she shouts. “Coulson, are you—”

“Este?” The voice is hoarse, steady, but not unshaken.

She scrambles up a slanted slab and spots him through the wreckage, trapped behind a wall of toppled server towers, collapsed girders, and sparking cables. He’s crouched low, one sleeve torn, blood matting his temple, but alive. Breathing. Alert.

Relief almost knocks her off balance.

“I’m here!” she calls. “I saw you jump—”

“I’m alright,” he cuts in. “Minor hit. You shouldn’t be down here.”

“I came back. We made it outside, Pepper and me, but then he—he came through the ground after us. Tony flew in. They’re fighting now. Somewhere out on the road, I think.”

Coulson exhales, processing.

“Can you get to me?” he asks.

She tries. Steps forward, then stops short. The wreckage is too dense. The steel and cables are wedged into a cage. Even if she got through, she couldn’t pull him out alone. They’d both get pinned.

“No,” she says. “I can’t…”

He nods once, grim. “Okay. Then listen carefully.”

She straightens. Instincts click into place.

“Get back to the lot. Find the escort vehicle. Use the onboard radio. Call for backup—we’ll need medics and containment. Then get somewhere secure and stay there. Understood?”

Estelle hesitates. Not out of fear. But resistance.

“Dugan.” His voice sharpens. “That’s an order.”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

He meets her eyes through the smoke and twisted steel. “Attagirl.”

She turns and bolts. Her boots skid slightly on the soot-slick floor as she runs back toward the surface.

Behind her, the lab creaks—steel groaning and tense.

[Stark Industries—Building 2, Arc Reactor Chamber]

The building shakes around her as Estelle climbs the last flight of stairs. Light pulses erratically from the walls—red, then white—like the place can’t decide whether to evacuate or fight.

She rounds the corner into the main arc reactor chamber and nearly collides with Pepper, who’s flipping a series of circuit breakers at the far wall.

“Ms. Potts?” Estelle gasps. “What are you—?”

Pepper doesn’t look up as she paces rapidly to the center console, fingers flying over the controls.

“Tony’s still fighting him,” she says. “They made it up to the roof. He said if I overload the reactor, it’ll surge through the roof supports. It might be enough to short Stane’s suit. But it could k—” She cuts herself off, deciding not to finish that thought in front of an eight-year-old.

Estelle blinks, then looks up.

The ceiling above the reactor is made of reinforced glass and steel—cracked, soot-smudged, fractured in places. Through the broken panels and sweeping beams, she can see them —two armored figures locked in brutal combat. Sparks arc from impact points. Metal-on-metal howls like war drums.

She can hear them too. Distant, but clear: Tony grunting. Servos straining. Repulsors firing.

Pepper’s earpiece is still on speaker. Tony’s voice cuts in.

“Pepper—what’s your status?”

“I’m at the console,” she pants. “Almost ready.”

A beat of static.

“…Was that a kid’s voice?”

“Hi,” Estelle says, without thinking. Dumb time for it, but it’s out.

“ Why is the kid still there?! ”

“She came back,” Pepper snaps. “She went after Coulson. I didn’t know—I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Estelle interrupts. “He’s alive, but trapped. I couldn’t get him out.”

Tony’s voice crackles in disbelief. “Okay, Pocket Agent’s giving mission updates now—what world is this?”

“We need to focus,” Pepper says sharply.

Estelle watches as the bar graph climbs, edging into red. Every monitor flashes WARNING, the console pulsing like a heartbeat.

She should be calling for backup. The vehicle. The radio.

But she doesn’t move.

“Go,” Pepper says, softer now. “You’ve done everything you could. Get to the car. Go. Before I press this.”

Estelle lingers—gaze flicking one last time to the ceiling, where Tony’s silhouette reels under a crushing blow. Glass shatters. She doesn’t want to leave. Not again. Not when people she loves are still inside the blaze.

But she knows the look on Pepper’s face—the finality of it.

So she nods.

And runs.

[Stark Industries—Exterior Escort Vehicle]

Estelle reaches the car. Her sweaty hands slip once, twice, before the door yanks open.

She climbs into the passenger seat, breath ragged, fingers trembling as she reaches for the comms panel below the dash. The vehicle hums with quiet power, its lights blinking softly, like it doesn’t realize a war is unfolding ten feet away.

She flips the switch and sets the channel. Static. Then:

“—Sitwell. Go ahead.”

Estelle leans in. “This is Dugan. I’m at Stark Industries, Building 2. Coulson’s alive but trapped in the sublevel. Pepper Potts is—”

“Wait, what? ” Sitwell cuts in, sharp and incredulous. “Estelle, what the hell are you doing on-site?”

“I was with Coulson,” she says quickly. “Then with Potts. There’s been a—Stane’s in an armored suit. Stark’s engaging him. Potts is trying to overload the—”

BOOM.

The sound hits like a shockwave, even inside the car.

The dashboard flickers. The ground shakes. Glass spiderwebs around her. A rush of white-blue light explodes across the sky, then collapses into smoke pouring from the arc reactor dome.

Estelle twists in her seat.

Pepper stumbles out of the building—coughing, disoriented, her sleeve torn. She drops to her knees on the pavement before Estelle can even move.

Then screams for Tony.

Estelle bolts from the car.

Her legs move before her brain can catch up. She doesn’t know if she’s running to help or just to know what’s left—but she has to know.

​​[May 25, 2008 (Sunday)—11:46 AM]

[En Route—Cedars-Sinai to Stark Industries]

The hospital’s automatic doors slide shut behind them with a soft whoosh, sealing out the sterile chill and fluorescent buzz. Happy steps ahead without a word, pacing toward the waiting Stark Industries town car.

Tony walks slower. He’s dressed and officially cleared, but everything about his gait still reads like a guy who’s been in a fight with a building—and didn’t win on the first round.

Pepper keeps pace beside him. She doesn’t hover, doesn’t touch, but watches the set of his shoulders like a second vitals monitor.

They make it past the lingering press and reach the car. Happy opens the rear door, and Tony sinks into the seat like it’s more complicated than it should be. Pepper slides in after him.

“Press conference is in an hour,” she says, pulling out her phone to double-check the time. “Coulson’s meeting us there with the finalized statement.”

Tony closes his eyes behind his sunglasses. “I don’t want to talk about the press conference.”

“You will when you hear the script.”

“Let me guess.” He shifts slightly, jaw tight. “Gas leak. Power failure. Military testing gone sideways.”

Pepper exhales. “Prototype mishap. You weren’t there, and neither was Stane.”

Tony doesn’t even smirk. “You ever wonder how many synonyms there are for ‘we almost blew up the city’?”

Pepper glances at him. “More than there should be.”

The silence settles. The car hums along the freeway, tires slicing smoothly over sun-warmed asphalt.

Then he adds, quieter, “So, the Mini-Bond, what’s her deal?”

Pepper looks at him. “Seriously?”

“I know you talked,” Tony says. “I don’t want to think about the press conference until it’s happening, so just…humour me. What’s with the girl?”

Tony tilts his head back against the seat, the faintest wince ghosting across his face while he waits for Pepper to begin.

“She’s finishing third grade.”

“Not at an Ivy League already,” Tony mutters, mostly to himself. “Maybe not that strange.”

Pepper huffs a weak laugh. “Still a year ahead. She told me they won’t let her skip any more grades. She’s still bored, but her teachers are holding her back for socialization. She hates it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “They’re locking out the kid who notices everything because she doesn’t fit ?”

Pepper nods once. “She didn’t say it exactly like that. But… yeah.”

He looks out the window, jaw ticking faintly.

Pepper lets the silence stretch again before nudging it gently.

“If you’re serious about trying to do some good now—about legacy, or whatever you want to call it—maybe that girl’s a good place to start.”

Tony’s gaze doesn’t shift, but something behind it does.

“She doesn’t need spy suits or gear,” Pepper adds. “She needs support. Space to be who she is. Somewhere they won’t try to clip her just to make her manageable.”

The city rolls by outside the tinted windows. Press crews are already gathering at Stark Industries ahead.

Tony finally speaks softly. “Find out where she’s from and the best schools there. Talk to that agent she’s always velcroed to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just watches the city blur by, remembering the sound of her voice in the comms. Clear. Unshaken. Eight years old.

Pepper glances at him. “You serious?”

“I’m not doing it as a headline,” he says. “No scholarship gala, no gold plaques. No ‘Stark Academy for Gifted Youngsters.’ Just… anonymously. Quietly. Cover the tuition. Get her out of that sabotage classroom and into a place that can keep up.”

Pepper smiles. Not broadly. But fully.

“You’re sure?”

Tony’s voice is dry. “She saved your life. Probably mine, too. Seems like a fair trade.”

The car slows as it approaches the Stark Industries campus. Cameras flash in the distance. Happy mutters something about crowd control up ahead.

Tony straightens in his seat and finally removes his sunglasses.

“Alright,” he says. “Now we can talk about the press conference.”

[Stark Industries—Press Room Green Room]

Pepper adjusts his tie for the third time in as many minutes.

“You’re going to be fine,” she mutters, smoothing the fabric like she’s trying to iron out the day itself. “Just stick to the cover. Don’t improvise. Don’t ‘rebrand the narrative.’ Don’t mention the suit.”

Tony stares past her at his reflection in the full-length mirror. “I’m literally here to lie about the suit.”

“Yes, well—you know what I mean. ”

There’s a knock at the door. Before either of them can answer, it opens.

Estelle slips in, holding a folded copy of the Los Angeles Chronicle.

Pepper straightens, already tensing. “Estelle, are you supposed to—”

“Surprise,” Estelle says, tone dry. She holds the paper out to Tony as if it were evidence. “You made the front page.”

Tony takes it, unfolding it with one hand. The headline reads: "WHO IS IRON MAN?" Below that, blurry but unmistakable: a grainy shot of two metal figures clashing mid-air.

In crude marker—someone’s sidewalk speculation—someone’s scrawled in the corner of the photo: GOVERNMENT DRONE!!!

Tony exhales through his nose, barely smiling. “That’s catchy.”

“People online are already using it,” Estelle says. “Internet is melting down. Some people think you’re a government drone. One guy thinks you’re a Terminator prototype.”

“Stay off the internet, pipsqueak.” Tony flips the paper around to show Pepper. “It’s not even Iron. That’s the part that’s gonna keep me up at night. It’s a—”

“Gold-titanium alloy,” Estelle cuts in. “Anywho…Coulson’s on the phone right now getting chewed out for ‘bringing a minor into an active combat zone,’ so he sent me to brief you.”

Tony arches a brow. “Oh, did he?”

She pulls a set of cue cards from the crook of her arm—laminated, color-coded, paper-clipped.

“You’re supposed to read these verbatim,” she says, glancing at the cards herself for aid. “Your official story is that you were on your yacht in Avalon during the incident. Obadiah Stane is on vacation. The person seen piloting the unidentified suit was a member of your private security staff operating without authorization.”

Tony takes the cards. Glances through them.

“You’ve got bullet points,” Estelle adds. “And timestamps. Try not to make stuff up. SHIELD’s press contact is going to monitor for deviations.”

“You really don’t do warm-up chatter, do you?”

Estelle blinks at him. “Lovely weather we’re having. See any sky explosions last night?”

Tony laughs and leans back, tapping the cue cards against his hand. “So. Estelle. That is your name, right?”

She frowns. “Yes?”

“How’d you end up shackled to Coulson? You a freelance operative? SHIELD’s youngest intern?”

“Elementary schooler.”

“Do you have a family, or did you just sprout out of the shadows one day fully formed?”

Estelle folds her arms. “I’m from Brooklyn. My parents were agents. They died. Now I’m Coulson’s responsibility. Not that it’s relevant to your press conference.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “That’s a bit heavy for a kid.”

“So is getting shot at by your former business partner.”

Pepper coughs to cover a laugh.

Tony flashes her a mock glare. “Are we sure she’s not black ops?”

“She’s not,” Pepper says.

“I mean, she could be. There’s something very ‘shadow asset’ about her. I bet she’s got a go-bag under that blazer.”

Estelle does not confirm or deny. Instead, she pulls a mint from her pocket and peels it with quiet precision.

Tony watches her pop it in her mouth. “What do you do for fun, exactly? Build bombs? Decode CIA intercepts? Watch PBS Kids ironically?”

She shrugs. “I read.”

“Of course you do.”

A knock at the door: three quick raps.

Pepper checks her watch, then leans over to open it.

“Five minutes,” a production assistant says.

Tony stands up straight. He hands the cue cards back to Estelle without looking at them.

“Keep those. Just in case I, you know, black out and need to be resuscitated with government-issue talking points.”

She pushes them back at him, not taking them. “Nice try.”

Pepper smooths his jacket and steps back. “Please don’t go off-book.”

Tony looks toward the door. The hum of reporters beyond it. The lights. The microphones.

Then down at Estelle.

“Thanks for the briefing, Miss Intel.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

And with that, he walks toward the stage.

[Stark Industries – Press Room, Stage Left]

The moment the door closes behind Tony, Estelle steps through the opposite side of the press room and makes her way toward the wings. The overhead lights are blinding. The noise from the crowd—reporters rustling, murmurs buzzing like flies—thickens the air.

Coulson is already there, standing with arms folded near the far wall, half-shadowed behind a row of camera equipment. His expression is its usual neutral, serious, calm, unreadable.

Estelle walks up beside him without a word. He doesn’t look down, but she knows he registers her.

“Well?” he asks quietly.

“I gave him the cards. Told him to stick to them.” A pause. “Didn’t seem like he was going to.”

“Mm.”

They both watch the crowd shift as Tony steps up to the podium, the lights flaring hot across his chest and the sunglasses he wears. The noise swells with clicks and flashes.

Estelle folds her arms, mirroring Coulson’s stance without realizing it.

“I hope you’re not in too much trouble,” she whispers. “For bringing me last night.”

That earns a glance. Coulson’s mouth presses into a line, not hard, but thoughtful.

“Some,” he admits. “And I probably deserve it.”

She’s quiet for a moment. That he admits it matters more than if he hadn’t.

“In hindsight,” he adds, “not my finest judgment call. And Sitwells says we need to work on your radio etiquette.”

Estelle nods. “But it wasn’t the worst outcome.”

Coulson huffs softly through his nose. That’s the closest she’ll get to a laugh right now.

The room dims slightly as a monitor flickers on, syncing live with the press feed. Tony’s already dropped the cue cards on the podium. He hasn’t looked at them once.

Before the first question lands, Coulson leans down slightly.

“After this, also, we need to talk about your school,” he says under his breath. “And a surprise.”

Estelle blinks. “A what?”

“You’ll see.”

She turns back toward the monitor, but her mind doesn’t follow.

School. Surprise. It could mean anything.

She pretends not to hope.

Coulson doesn’t flinch at the first burst of camera flashes. Estelle does—just a little—but she hides it by shifting her weight and folding her arms tighter.

At the podium, Tony sets the cue cards on the stand. They glint under the lights, laminated and color-coded, just as Estelle gave them.

Rhodey stands off to the side, hands behind his back, clearly trying not to look like a handler. But the stiffness in his stance is telling. His eyes flick to the cards, then to Tony, then back again.

“Alright,” Tony begins, clearing his throat. “Um. Good afternoon.”

Coulson murmurs, “Let’s see if he can manage a single sentence before improvising.”

Estelle tilts her head. “He’s got the cards.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Tony glances at the cards. Picks one up. Looks at it like it’s written in a language he never learned.

“There’s been…some speculation,” he says, eyes narrowing. “As to what happened last night. Who was involved. Who wasn’t.”

He flips to the next card. The silence in the room starts to shift—no longer anticipation, but tension.

Rhodey leans in just slightly, low enough that only Tony can hear him. “Just stick to the cards, man. We’ve got a version that works.”

Tony holds the next card up between two fingers. Stares at it.

He sighs.

“I mean, let’s be real,” he says suddenly, loud enough for every mic in the room to catch it. “This isn’t exactly my style.”

The reporters pause—pens lifted, flashbulbs waiting.

Tony lets the card fall flat on the podium.

“The truth is…” he starts.

Estelle leans forward.

Coulson mutters, “Here it comes.”

Tony looks up, almost directly at the camera.

“I am Iron Man.”

Coulson exhales slowly, the ghost of a headache forming behind his eyes.

Estelle’s mouth opens just slightly, not quite a smile—more a quiet of course.

The room detonates.

Chapter Text

[September 3, 2008 (Wednesday)—7:24 AM]

[Kitchen at 13 Cranberry Street—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The muffins are a little too crumbly this morning, but Estelle eats them anyway. She’s dressed already—wearing a white polo shirt with the Léman logo, a navy cardigan, and pants, her hair braided in the way Natasha taught her. Her shoes are polished, laces double-knotted. Dum Dum’s SSR pin is discreetly tucked into her collar, for luck.

At the far end of the table, a SHIELD escort agent stands by the door. Mid-thirties. Sunglasses are still on. He hasn’t said a word since arriving. Might as well be a coat rack wrapped in Kevlar.

Estelle doesn’t mind.

Her tablet is propped up on the fruit bowl. The video call flickers once, then steadies—framing a half-awake Tony Stark, coffee in hand, leaning back in some expensive chair that doesn’t look like it belongs in a lab.

“You look like a tiny CEO,” he says by way of greeting.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Estelle replies.

Tony lifts his mug in a mock salute. “Touché.”

She glances at the screen. His goatee’s trimmed. No sling, no bruising. A new watch on his wrist. No one else is in the background.

“So?” he prompts, tapping his temple. “What’d the fancy people decide after your testing spree?”

Estelle straightens her collar. “Fifth grade. With pullouts for math and science.”

“Pullouts,” Tony repeats. “Sounds like a training op.”

“It is, sort of.”

“Then you better dominate.”

She doesn’t smile, not really. But her chin lifts a little.

“What about you?” she asks. “How was Al-Kut?”

Tony blinks. “What—are you reading Foreign Affairs now?”

She just lifts one eyebrow. She has definitely been reading Foreign Affairs .

“I saw the footage,” she says. “It’s got Iron Man written all over it, and the WHiH agrees.”

Tony makes a vague gesture. “That could’ve been anyone. It could’ve been a sandstorm. Could’ve been Santa in a Humvee.”

Estelle tilts her head, suppressing a giggle. “Oh…and thank you.”

He pretends not to hear her. “Did you say something?”

“I said thank you,” she repeats. “For the school. I know it was you.”

Tony exhales through his nose. “Who’s to say? Maybe SHIELD finally put some R&D budget toward your brain.” He lifts the mug again.

Her wristwatch chirps once—a crisp, pre-programmed chime.

“That’s my alarm,” Estelle says, reaching for her backpack. “I have to go.”

“You got this, Brainiac.”

“I know.”

The call ends. She unplugs the tablet, folds it into her bag, and turns toward the waiting agent.

“Let’s roll,” she says simply.

[Wednesday, September 3, 2008 — 3:41 PM]

[Léman Manhattan Preparatory School – Curbside Pickup]

Estelle sits on the edge of a granite planter outside the main entrance, cardigan folded over her lap, swinging her legs slightly like it’s not the most expensive private school in Lower Manhattan. Her backpack rests against her shin, and her lunchbox—clean, repacked—is clipped neatly to the side.

The curb has thinned. Most kids are gone now, swept away by chauffeurs or parents in business casual. She spots a few familiar faces—a pair of fifth graders from her homeroom who’d offered to trade parts of their lunch, a sixth-grade girl who gave her a tour between classes and promised to grab her for math and science pullouts tomorrow.

They waved when they left. That part mattered more than she expected.

She glances at her watch. 3:42.

“If you’re timing us, I want it noted that my friend here stopped for drinks,” a voice behind her says.

Estelle looks up, blinking against the sun.

Natasha Romanoff stands just past the gate in dark jeans and a soft gray jacket. Her hair’s half up, casually pinned, and she’s holding a cafe coffee cup like someone running late for a friend’s lunch date. She looks more civilian than usual, but not any less alert.

And next to her—

Estelle freezes, eyes darting. The man’s taller, heavier build, with a relaxed slouch that reads as trained rather than lazy. He’s got a slight grin and two other cups. He’s not trying to be subtle.

She straightens immediately.

“That’s Hawkeye,” she says. Not asking—stating.

Clint grins like she just said the secret password, handing her the smaller of the two cups. “Busted.”

She sniffs the cup. Hot chocolate.

“You’re the one who did the Yerevan tower run. And the KGB decoy ops. And the warehouse sting where no one ever found the arrows afterward.”

He lifts both brows. “Wow, that’s…thorough. And probably a little classified.”

Estelle shrugs one shoulder and sips her drink. “You’re mythical.”

That gets a flicker of something between Clint and Nat—subtle, shared. Amused.

Natasha nudges her head toward the sidewalk. “We were thinking ferry, unless you had your heart set on a bulletproof SUV.”

“Ferry’s fine,” Estelle says quickly. Then, with a glance at her watch, “As long as I’m not late for karate.”

Nat arches a brow. “Even if I bribe you with an hour of rooftop drills when we get back?”

Estelle narrows her eyes. There’s not a lot that would get her to skip karate. “Target drills or conditioning?”

“Your pick.”

“I’ll get on the ferry.”

[Wednesday, September 3, 2008 — 4:06 PM]

[East River Ferry]

They move through the terminal at a relaxed pace, weaving between commuters and tourists. Natasha walks slightly ahead, carving the path. Clint lingers closer to Estelle’s side, letting her take the middle without making a thing of it.

“So…” Clint ventures, “first day at genius school?”

Estelle doesn’t correct him.

“It was good,” she says. “The other kids are older than me, but they didn’t care. I like it better than public school. No one called me a robot or ‘spy baby’ or made fun of how I talk.”

Clint’s brow ticks up. “That…happened?”

Estelle shrugs again. “It doesn’t anymore.”

“What about the teachers?” Natasha asks, surprising Clint that she unknowingly stole his next question.

“One of them wears a bowtie that spins,” Estelle deadpans. “Science teacher. No notes.”

Natasha grins.

“And I have a buddy for the pullouts,” Estelle adds. “Her name’s Peyton. She’s in sixth grade and she likes constellations, too. So it works.”

They board the ferry and make their way to the upper deck. The air smells like salt and engine oil. Estelle presses a hand to the railing, looking out toward the Brooklyn Bridge, its outline hazy in the late sun.

“So,” Estelle says, still watching the skyline, “how do you know Natasha?”

Clint gives her a sidelong look. “We go way back.”

“Back how?”

“She once stabbed me through the hand with a dessert fork.”

Estelle looks up at Natasha, who does not deny it.

“Was that before or after you trusted her?”

Clint exhales a laugh, surprised. “Same day, actually.”

She doesn’t ask what Clint’s doing here. She doesn’t ask if he’s staying. But she watches how close he walks to Natasha, how easily they move together. It’s the way she moves next to Maya at karate. She’s filing it away.

Estelle studies him, expression unreadable. “Are you going to be around more?”

There’s no challenge in it—just the quiet sort of question that wants to file a fact under temporary or not .

Clint pauses, then leans against the railing beside her.

“I think so,” he says. “Unless you kick me out.”

“I don’t think I will,” Estelle says without looking up.

Natasha’s gaze shifts between the two of them, eyes slightly narrowed—but not in suspicion. More…calculation. Like something’s fitting into place that she hadn’t expected.

Clint doesn’t say anything, but his weight shifts slightly, like he’s rebalancing. He doesn’t know this version of Nat—the one who’s responsible for something fragile and unrepeatable. And yet…she looks comfortable here. Centered, even.

It’s new.

“Is the bow in your bag?” Estelle asks Clint.

“It’s not a bag,” Clint corrects. “It’s a mobile quiver platform.”

“So…yes.”

He laughs. “Yeah. It’s in the bag.”

Estelle leans forward slightly, watching the skyline begin to move again as the ferry cuts through the water.

“Would you let me try archery with you someday?”

“Only if you let me survive this conversation,” Clint says.

She finally cracks a smile. Small. Earned.

[April 12, 2009 (Sunday)—12:22 PM]

[Banquet Hall at Watermarks Retirement Community—Brooklyn, NYC]

Dum Dum Dugan had just turned ninety-seven yesterday, and he insists on standing to greet every single guest.

He does it with a cane in one hand, a mock-salute in the other, and the same theatrical gravel in his voice he used in wartime press reels.

“You’re late,” he tells Jasper Sitwell, who arrived exactly on time.

“Had to look my best, sir,” Sitwell replies, deadpan.

“Try again next year,” Dum Dum mutters, then grins and swats him on the arm.

Estelle hovers nearby, part greeter, part shadow. She’s not hovering for Dum Dum—more like she’s holding the perimeter. Watching for someone else. She’s acting like this isn’t also her party.

But she still smiles when Trip walks in.

“Hey, Duganette,” he says, opening his arms. “You’re officially an old lady.”

“Takes one to know one,” she counters, and lets him scoop her up into a hug.

“I found a LEGO set. You can make an airplane, a rocket, or a helicopter. I wasn’t sure which one you’d want to build most…so I got three.”

“I’ll build them all and write up comparisons.”

Victoria Hand arrives in a stark black blazer with a white orchid pinned at the lapel. She nods to Estelle and hands her a slim package wrapped in SHIELD-issue brown paper. No tape. No frills.

“Are you old enough for Hunger Games?” Hand asks, but hands over the package anyway.

“Probably not,” Estelle replies with real warmth and a grin. “Thank you.”

John Garrett crashes through the door half a minute later, trailing one of the STRIKE team lieutenants and claiming he was caught in the city traffic. Estelle does not believe him. Neither does Coulson, who raises a brow from near the refreshments table.

Dum Dum grabs Garrett by the collar and pulls him in like a grizzled uncle. “You got older and somehow less useful.”

“Happy birthday to you, too, Corporal,” Garrett fires back with his signature smile.

Estelle thanks each guest. She checks the cake. She hands out napkins. She even puts on the paper crown Dum Dum insists they both wear—matching gold with a lopsided “97 & 9” written in Sharpie.

“Nine years, huh?” Dum Dum says, watching her balance the paper crown. “That’s nine more than I was supposed to make it past Azzano.”

“You say that every year,” she giggles. The joke never makes sense, and she never asks him to elaborate on it. It’s the only time he mentions Azzano.

She’s too focused on watching the door to let this be the year she finally asks him more about it.

But the door stays closed.

By 2:03 PM, she’s stopped pretending not to check it.

And then it opens.

Fury enters like gravity. No trench coat this time—just all black, sharp and straightforward. His presence shifts the energy instantly. Even Garrett stands up straighter.

In one hand, Fury carries a flat silver envelope. In the other hand, a present that does not match his outfit.

He moves through the room with a practiced ease. Dum Dum waves his cane from his wheelchair, tired of standing.

“I didn’t order any ghost stories.”

“Then consider me dessert,” Fury replies, dry but with a smirk.

He reaches Estelle and crouches slightly, not condescendingly, but levelly.

“She’s alright,” he says first. “Took a hit. Didn’t go down. She’s recovering.”

“Where?” Estelle asks, eyes widening with the type of fear she hasn’t felt in about a year.

Fury pauses. He considers. Then: “Odessa.”

That’s all he offers.

“Was she alone?” Estelle asks, voice low. “Or was she made to be alone?”

The wording is deliberate—sharp. She’s not asking for classified details. She’s probing for circumstances.

Some of the agents nearby glance over. Sitwell’s brow twitches. Trip’s smile fades. Coulson doesn’t move, but his focus sharpens.

Fury’s expression hardens. Not in anger—more like shielding.

“The op changed midstream. She adapted.”

“That’s not—,” Estelle begins, then bites the inside of her cheek.

A few seconds of silence stretch between them, tension held like wire.

“She’ll come to see you when she’s cleared. That’s all you need to know.”

“For now,” she replies.

Fury studies her. The line of her shoulders. The set of her mouth. Too sharp for someone turning nine tomorrow.

“For now,” he affirms. “The rest should come from her.”

Estelle’s eyes flick to the silver envelope. She doesn’t ask—just holds out her hand.

Fury gives her the envelope and his present. One feels decidedly heavier than the other.

“Message came through from her a few hours ago. Encoded. Doesn’t match any of our codes.”

She opens the envelope, smiling a little at the contents.

“We made it up.”

Fury gives a hum that sounds like “of course you did.”

She steps aside, out of the flow of the party, and starts deciphering.

She decodes it quickly, whispering the real message to herself under her breath.

Hey, Little Star.

I’m sorry I missed your day. I caught a rough patch and got rerouted. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

You’d have liked the chaos.

I’ll bring you a story next time. Real-world edition.

Don’t let Coulson stop you from eating all the cake. I owe you one.

 —Romanoff

Estelle folds the letter carefully and slides it into her pocket.

Fury watches her do it. “She meant it. About coming back.”

“She always means it,” Estelle replies, but worry is still etched into the greens of her eyes.

“You’ve got too much clearance, kid.”

“You gave it to me,” she says plainly.

“I regret everything,” he mutters, then softens, just a fraction. “Eat some cake.”

She doesn’t argue, knowing he doesn’t mean it.

By the time the candles are lit, Estelle is smiling again—real, if quieter than usual.

Dum Dum makes a speech he forgets halfway through, misquotes Churchill, and accuses Hill of eating the last lemon bar. The agents play along. The frosting is messy. Wrapping paper is everywhere.

But when the party winds down and Coulson starts gently herding people toward coats and exit strategies, Estelle lingers by the door one last time.

She doesn’t check her watch.

She just looks—until the hum of the hallway settles, and the room feels a little too still.

And hopes.

HYDRA INTELLIGENCE DIVISION

Sub-Level Red / Asset Early Threat Index

[Codename: TAGALONG]

File #: HSD-0808-ED

Date Logged: August 8, 2008

Classification: LEVEL 2 / LOW PRIORITY

Compiled by: Operative 234 (STRIKE liaison)

———

SUBJECT NAME: Dugan, Estelle T.

DOB: 13 April 2000

Status: Minor dependent (civilian)

Legal Guardianship: SHIELD oversight—Coulson (field agent)

Residency: 13 Cranberry Street, Brooklyn Heights

———

GENETIC ORIGIN:

 Lineage confirmed:

— Michael Dugan (Agent 234-C), deceased

— Tamara Dugan (Agent 442-F), deceased

— Paternal connection to Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan (SSR, Howling Commandos)

No known enhanced biology. No genetic modifications.

Psych Eval: Mild dissociative tendencies consistent with grief-related trauma.

———

EDUCATIONAL STATUS:

• Accelerated academic standing (completed Grade 3, functioning Grade 5–6 in cognitive testing)
• Pull-out instruction for mathematics and language arts
• Civilian schooling maintained per SHIELD policy; no formal integration into Junior Ops Division
• Approved for limited facility access under Level 0 observation status

———

BEHAVIORAL NOTES:

• High compliance with adult supervision
• Emotional detachment masked by performative affect regulation
• Displays curiosity toward SHIELD protocol; maintained primarily as mimicry
• Social patterns are stable within educational environments
• No evidence of field training or weapons proficiency at this time
  

———

RISK ASSESSMENT:

• Current threat: Minimal
• Projection: Domestic civilian outcome likely unless adopted into SHIELD pipeline
• Psychological resilience suggests useful long-term infiltration potential (e.g., grooming, mentorship vector). Recommend passive containment via SHIELD handlers (Coulson, Romanoff).
• Monitoring continues via embedded assets (Garrett, STRIKE team).

———

PROJECT INSIGHT COMPATIBILITY:

Status: Not flagged

ZOLA INDEX: 2.1 (Dormant)

Classification: Legacy civilian—not a present or predictive threat

Note: No elimination directive necessary.

—————

APPENDED MEMO — 17 April 2009

Operative: S-117 (Sitwell, embedded)

REQUESTING FILE REEVALUATION

Recommend immediate reclassification of TAGALONG from Level 2 to Level 5 or higher and an overhaul of the internal file.

• Reports from embedded assets have been inconsistent. Re: Garrett's encounter with the subject on 9/9/2006, undocumented.
• Subject made unsupervised contact with classified intel at Stark Industries gala on 5/16/2008, extracted visual evidence from Gulmira incident, and submitted actionable analysis within 12 hours—reportedly reviewed by Coulson and passed to Fury directly.
• Current handlers (Romanoff, Coulson, Barton) are complicit in subject’s intellectual and tactical development.
• If trajectory continues unchecked, subject will no longer be a passenger in SHIELD infrastructure. She will become part of the engine.

Additional note: Recently translated journal entries recovered from Dr. Werner Reinhardt (Whitehall) , dated late 1945, include references to “the Dugan line” as a point of interest for long-term biological observation.

Civilian status is a façade . Recommend adding to Insight Candidate Tier-3 Watchlist immediately.

Further delay will yield instability.

— Operative 117
HAIL HYDRA

Chapter Text

[April 18, 2009 (Saturday)—SHIELD Secure Medical Facility, NYC Region]

[Ward B3—Restricted Recovery Wing]

The hallway outside the recovery suite smells like antiseptic and cold soup. Coulson signs in with a tired nod to the Level 7 guard at the door, and Estelle follows at his side—her shoes polished, blazer too oversized in the sleeves, expression unreadable.

She’s clutching a notepad, just in case.

As they near the door, it opens from the inside.

“Hope she’s not expecting privacy,” Barton says dryly, stepping into the hallway with a half-finished energy bar in hand. “Our redhead’s been asking for this kid like she’s gotta ration visiting hours.”

Coulson doesn’t react beyond a faint lift of the brow. “Vitals?”

“Stable,” Barton replies, popping the last of the bar into his mouth. “Bored. Stubborn. Medic says she keeps doing stretches when no one’s looking. Told him if he tries to sedate her again, he’ll be doing paperwork with a splint.”

Estelle steps around Coulson and peers into the room. Natasha’s propped up against a bank of pillows, one arm hooked with an IV, the other flipping a page of Jane Eyre like she’s just waiting for the scene to start.

She glances up. Sees Estelle. Smiles—sharp, bright, and just a little too composed.

“Well,” she says, “they let in the tiny analyst. I must be very lucky.”

Estelle walks in slowly, not rushing her like she did in years past. She stops a pace from the bed.

“You look good for someone who got shot,” she observes.

Natasha raises a brow. “And you look grown for someone who’s only nine years old now.”

“Coulson brought me,” Estelle says simply, glancing sideways at him.

“Voluntarily,” Coulson confirms. “Only after some slight harassment.”

Natasha hums, satisfied. “Progress.”

Barton stretches and slaps Coulson lightly on the arm. “C’mon, Phil. Let the girls talk.”

Coulson gives Estelle a slight nod— you good? —and Estelle gives one back— go.

The door clicks softly behind them. Natasha exhales, a sound not of pain, but of weariness hiding underneath bravado.

Estelle stays standing for a moment longer, notebook hugged to her chest.

“You promised me a good story,” she says.

Natasha pats the edge of the bed.

“Then sit down, Agent Dugan.”

The story unspools slowly, measured but honest.

Natasha doesn’t show her bandages. She doesn’t show the bruises. But her voice carries their shape.

She tells Estelle about Odessa . About a mission gone sideways, an escort that became an ambush, a gunman with no name and no warning. She talks about the shot— “center mass, through me and the target. Surgical. Not luck.” —and about the silence that followed.

She doesn’t name the diplomat. Doesn’t say who ordered the escort. Doesn’t mention counterplay.

But she does say the name.

“He’s called the Winter Soldier.”

Estelle’s brow furrows, and she writes it down.

Natasha watches her. “It’s not a title, not really. It’s what the files call him. When there are files. Most of the time, there’s just damage.”

Estelle glances up. “He’s real?”

“I didn’t believe he was,” Natasha admits. “I’d heard rumors. A ghost. A weapon with a face. KGB whispered about him in the '90s like he was a curse.”

“Like Baba Yaga,” Estelle mutters.

Natasha gives a dry smirk. “More like what Baba Yaga checks her closet for.”

Estelle’s hand pauses over the notebook. “How long’s he been around?”

Natasha shrugs one shoulder—carefully. “Long enough. Maybe since the Cold War. Some say longer.”

“Does SHIELD have records?”

“Scattered ones. Mostly theories. Missing persons, sniper patterns, high-profile kills. All tied to a left-handed shooter, never caught.”

Estelle’s brows lift. “Left-handed?”

Natasha gives her a look. “Don’t catalog this like it’s trivia night.”

The girl shrinks back slightly—not chastened, just reminded.

“You want me to be scared of him.”

Natasha’s eyes flicker. “No. I want you to understand him. What it means when you start chasing shadows. What it costs when you believe you can outrun them.”

A beat.

“I’ve had friends who thought they could match people like him. They didn’t all get out.”

Estelle is quiet. For a moment, she sees a little more of Melinda or Tamara in the woman than someone akin to a big sister or mentor. She sees genuine concern. Real severity.

Then she closes her notebook.

She places it down beside her on the bed, rests both hands on her knees, and looks straight ahead.

“Well then, when I’m older,” she says calmly, “I’ll train. I’ll get strong. I’ll get smart. And if I ever see him…”

She lifts her chin.

“I’ll stop him. Before he hurts anyone else.”

Natasha exhales through her nose. “That’s not the lesson I meant for you to take.”

“I know,” Estelle says. “But part of the lesson is being prepared, yeah?”

Another beat of silence. Then Natasha, tired and stitched up, smiles in recovery.

It’s small. It’s fond. And it carries the ache of someone who knows she won’t be able to stop the girl from becoming exactly what she’s already becoming.

“Alright, kid,” she says softly. “Then let’s make sure you survive long enough to try.”

[June 20, 2009 (Saturday)—Late Morning]

[13 Cranberry Street—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

Estelle lies belly-down on the living room rug, her copy of Hunger Games cracked open beneath her elbows. A pencil is trapped behind one ear. A pack of sticky notes (for annotating) rests against the carpet as she reads, eyes narrowed in faint concentration.

Outside, Brooklyn hums in its usual summer rhythm—heat wavering off stone, dogs barking down the block, someone blasting jazz from an open window.

She doesn’t hear the door open.

“Thought you said you finished that one.”

Coulson’s voice cuts in, smooth and dry.

Estelle doesn’t flinch. “School’s out,” she says, flipping a page. “I’m revisiting it now that there’s more time on my hands.”

Coulson steps fully into the room, holding a slim binder in one hand. It’s matte black with no SHIELD logo, but the three-ring silhouette is unmistakable.

Estelle eyes it. “What’s that?”

He tosses it lightly onto the coffee table. It lands with a flat thump. “Summer school.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s cruel.”

“That's an opportunity,” he counters, pointing firmly. “That’s opportunity,” he counters, gesturing toward the binder. “You aced your exams. And last year, well…you remember.”

“Being attacked by a mech suit? Yes, my elbows remember.”

He lets out a huff of a chuckle. “Right. So now, if you’re up for it, you get to study for something a little different.”

She sets the book aside and scoots forward across the floor. Flips the binder open. Tabs. Acronyms. Redaction bars like zebra stripes. A faint smile curls at the edge of her mouth.

“You’re serious.”

“Comms Division summer prep,” Coulson says. “Foundational training for internal protocols, file structure, briefing syntax. You’ll continue to shadow low-level intelligence reviews. Add a couple of new units: SOP identification, documentation analysis, tier-one comm roleplay.”

Estelle frowns. “So…homework.”

“Spy homework,” Coulson clarifies.

She grins, then flips through a few more pages. “This…this looks like SHIELD Academy stuff.”

“It is.”

Her mouth drops. Eyes widen. Hands freeze. “Wait. Like… officially ?”

Coulson sits down in the armchair across from her. His tone softens. “If you can keep up this summer—and it doesn’t affect your actual school performance come fall—then yes. You’ll be eligible for Level 1 status at Comms Academy next year.”

Estelle stutters for a moment. “I’d be a Level 1 Trainee?”

“You’d be…enrolled as one,” he says cautiously. “Which means coursework, limited field sim access, internal status elevation. It’s a commitment.”

She studies him. “So. That’s a yes.”

A beat.

“Would I be…an Agent?”

Coulson exhales slowly. “Technically, no. Not yet. But yes…it’s the start of that path.”

Estelle leans back on her elbows, face thoughtful.

Then, almost as an afterthought: “This smells like Natasha.”

Coulson’s mouth quirks. “I’m not denying that.”

“She built this, didn’t she?”

“She drafted the framework. Fury reviewed it. Hill threatened to burn it if it included weapons training before high school.”

Estelle smiles faintly. “Sounds about right.”

Coulson stands. “You’ve got the weekend to look it over. Monday, we start. If you decide it’s too much, no shame in scaling back. You’re nine. You’re not expected to—”

“I want to,” Estelle interrupts. “I have the time now.”

Coulson nods, eyes thoughtful. “Alright. But you can’t think on an empty stomach.”

As he turns to leave for the kitchen, Estelle flips to the first tab.

SECTION I: SHIELD COMMUNICATIONS STRUCTURE—INTERNAL BRIEFING CODES

She reads the first line.

And smiles.

[December 26, 2009—8:43 PM]

[Barton Family Farm, Guest Bedroom—Iowa | Secure Line Encrypted: Level 4A]

The line clicks twice, then connects.

“Coulson,” says the voice on the other end—gruff from long hours, but unmistakably warm beneath the static.

Estelle’s grin is audible. “Hey, stranger.”

She’s curled up in an oversized armchair by the window, legs tucked under a sherpa blanket, still wearing flannel pajamas with tiny pine trees on them. Lila’s giggling echoes faintly from downstairs, followed by the sound of Laura corralling bedtime.

“Let me guess,” Coulson says. “The Hawkeye Holiday Hideaway is still standing?”

“Barely,” Estelle says. “Cooper tried to turn a gingerbread house into a whole village. Lila slips a marshmallow into every single hot chocolate without asking. And Mrs. Laura makes the kind of ham that puts me to sleep within thirty minutes.”

“Sounds like a proper mission,” Coulson deadpans.

“Mission Joyful,” Estelle confirms. “No fatalities, just sugar casualties.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, the distance doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

“How’s the schedule balance?” he asks.

Estelle stretches slightly. “Good. I finished my semester project early, so I’ve been reviewing the Academy materials. I just got to the part on multi-channel encryption tagging, and it’s so cool . There’s a whole section on tonal phasing and carrier redundancy.”

“So...you liked it?”

“I LOVED it. It’s stuff I never even thought about, but it all makes sense.”

“Your brain is something else, Este.”

“Advanced,” she replies—matter-of-fact, not bragging. Then, more quietly, “It’s fun. Even when it’s dense.”

He’s quiet for a beat, but it’s a listening silence. Estelle knows it by now.

“And school’s still good? Apart from the schedule? You’re not bored?” he asks.

“Grades are fine,” she says. “Still trying to figure out if Léman’s French program is advanced or just unnecessarily cruel.”

“Probably both.”

She smiles. “Oh—and I got your gift. The pen set. It’s ridiculous. It looks like it came from a tactical stationery vault.”

“It did,” Coulson says, completely serious. “Classified compartment. Level 7.”

“You’re lying.” Estelle laughs, muffling it into her sleeve. “Clint got me noise-cancelling headphones for when Cooper’s drumming. Lila made me a beaded keychain with ‘ED’ on it, and said we’re in a gang now.”

“You kind of are.”

“We’ll see how many of the goats and ducks we can recruit before New Year’s.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Coulson, when am I going to see you?”

It comes out softer than she means it to, but not tentative.

Coulson exhales on the other end. Not tired. Just…careful.

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “Fury’s got me on something tight. Even tighter than usual. Can’t tell you what it is. Can’t tell anyone .”

“Yes, yes, you’re doing classified with classified at classified for classified …” Her attitude shines through—an increasingly common occurrence.

“Yes, it’s all classified.”

She huffs, leaning back in the chair. “You’re no fun.”

“It’s important, though.”

Another pause. She doesn’t ask again, but he knows the silence is full of wanting to.

“I’ve got dibs on you,” he says. “First mission, first briefing, first smoothie run—I don’t care what it is. As soon as I get something you’re cleared to see, you’re in.”

Estelle blinks hard once and nods, even though he can’t see her.

“Okay.”

“Are you keeping the binder up to date?”

“It’s at home. I left it with Dum Dum for safekeeping.”

“Not with you?” Coulson sounds a little shocked.

Estelle offers no explanation. She doesn’t really understand it herself—why her old binder feels like something she’s outgrown.

She doesn’t really understand it herself—why her old binder feels like something she’s outgrown.

Maybe it was hers before she knew who she wanted to be. Before she was handed a pathway that felt right.

Then Estelle says, “Goodnight, Coulson.”

“Goodnight, Agent Dugan.”

[May 6, 2010 (Thursday)—5:57 PM]

[Outside the Brooklyn Public Library—Eastern Parkway, NYC]

The lamplight glows soft and amber across the library steps, catching on Estelle’s shoelaces as she double-knots them for the second time tonight. Her backpack rests beside her—neatly packed, zippers aligned, with a single library book by Pseudonymous Bosch wedged under her arm like it’s a top-secret file. It kind of is, she figures. Spy fiction written for kids who already read like analysts.

She’s halfway to the sidewalk when her SAT phone buzzes.

Only one contact triggers that tone.

She flips it open with the resigned flair of someone expecting either a joke or a favor.

“Stark?” she answers, half-suspicious.

“Double Digits,” Tony says by way of greeting. “They grow up so fast. How’s the library? Still standing?”

Estelle blinks, mid-step. “It’s after hours. How do you know where I am?”

“I know everything,” he replies breezily. “Also, your SHIELD detail is a very loud coffee orderer.”

“You hacked Agent Rowe’s comms?”

“No, I hacked Starbucks. But the effect is the same.”

Estelle glances down the street, suspicious now in earnest. “Why are you calling?”

“Happy’s coming to pick you up.”

“Why?” she asks, though her brain is already assembling theories with quiet efficiency. She doesn’t ask why Happy isn’t in LA. Some part of her—a part she doesn’t want to name—is quietly thrilled at the prospect.

“Because I asked him to.”

She waits. Silence. The line doesn’t crackle—it just…holds.

“That’s not a good reason,” she says flatly.

“Sure it is. It’s just not the whole reason.”

She opens her mouth to press further, but the line cuts off with a clean, surgical click. No static. No goodbye.

A second later, a black Audi glides up to the curb like something summoned by a spell. The paint gleams. The windows tint themselves opaque as it slows.

She watches the passenger window roll down.

“Hi, Miss Dugan,” says Happy, voice warm and familiar. “Need a lift?”

The rear door swings open—seamless, like it’s been rehearsed. In the backseat, Tony leans sideways so she can see him, wearing sunglasses despite the dusk and holding a half-empty cup of something citrusy with a sprig of mint in it. Probably some bizarre health concoction designed by someone with too much money and not enough of a functioning immune system.

Estelle raises an eyebrow, grabs her bag, and gets in without ceremony.

“You know SHIELD’s going to think I’ve been kidnapped,” she says, buckling in.

“I’m a consultant,” Tony replies. “I have clearance. Technically, this is a supervised off-site enrichment exercise.”

“Yes, I’m sure they nodded and smiled when you called this in.”

“You’re ten now. You’re clever. I’m respecting your maturity.”

She narrows her eyes. “Where are we going?”

Tony gestures vaguely out the window. “I trust you’re not too good for Queens?”

Estelle exhales. “This is about the Expo, isn’t it?”

Tony points at her like she just solved a magic trick. “Bingo. Stark Expo. Re-opening day. Big deal. Press everywhere. Civilians with cameras and churros. I figured you’d want a sneak peek before the chaos.”

“You’re inviting a child to a secured pre-expo tour.”

“No, I’m inviting you .”

She leans back against the seat, arms crossed. “I have school tomorrow.”

Tony shrugs, unbothered. “Do you? I heard your entire class might’ve been spontaneously invited to a very exclusive field trip.”

Estelle’s eyes almost widen, but she catches herself in time and rolls them instead. “You forged a district-wide permission slip.”

“I orchestrated a learning opportunity.”

“You blackmailed my principal.”

“I sent them free tickets.”

Estelle doesn’t respond. The silence speaks for her.

Tony sips his drink.

She sighs like someone twice her age. “Fine. But I’m home by ten.”

Tony checks his nonexistent watch with dramatic flair. “Make it eleven and I’ll throw in a limited-edition Expo pin.”

Estelle groans, dragging the sound out. “You’re not playing fair.”

He grins. “That’s why I win.”

She pretends to mull it over, then leans toward the front. “Happy, does this pin have a holographic element?”

Happy glances at Tony in the mirror. “If it doesn’t, I’ll make sure it does.”

Estelle hums, satisfied. “Deal.”

The car merges back into traffic, heading toward the glowing skyline of Queens. In her lap, Estelle opens her book—but she doesn’t read.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

[May 14, 2010 (Friday)—4:38 PM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ—Manhattan, NYC]

Estelle expects to be dropped off at home. She doesn’t ask questions when her SHIELD escort detours toward HQ—because by now, she knows better than to expect explanations.

The SHIELD escort doesn’t speak. Just taps the driver’s screen now and then as if assessing their route.

Estelle adjusts the strap of her backpack, careful not to fidget. There’s no music. No static. Just the hum of reinforced tires on aging Manhattan asphalt.

By the time they pull into the underground garage, she’s already tucked her ID tag into her jacket sleeve and double-checked the snap on her watch.

She expects a quick detour. A file pickup for more SHIELD homework. A courier run.

What she doesn’t expect is Nick Fury waiting by the elevator, arms folded, coat collar turned up like the spring wind’s been warned off.

He doesn’t look like he’s waiting. He looks like he’s timed this.

Her escort doesn’t make introductions. He just nods and disappears.

Fury jerks his head toward the elevator.

“Walk with me.”

[SHIELD HQ, NYC—Director’s Office, Level 7]

The walk is quiet. No handlers. No security check-ins. Estelle recognizes the corridors but not the permissions. Everything feels slightly off-center—like she’s walking into a protocol that doesn’t exist on paper.

Fury’s door swings open without clearance. That, too, is a message.

Inside: minimal clutter, one window with smart tint, and a desk that’s seen more classified briefings than sunlight. A single SHIELD crest glints on a steel plaque.

He nods toward the chair across from his.

“Sit.”

Estelle does.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he starts, watching her posture. “Unusual for you.”

She keeps her back straight. “I’ve been reading.”

“More than reading, I hear. You’re flying through your work.” He rounds the desk, slow and deliberate, like a lecture is loading. “What have you learned about history? SHIELD’s history, specifically.”

She doesn’t need long.

“Formed from the SSR. Post-WWII. Designed to handle global threats that traditional intelligence bodies can’t. In theory, nonpartisan. In practice, adaptive. I understand Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, and Chester Philips wanted it to be exactly that after all the hiccups the SSR was encountering.”

“Hiccups?”

“I read about the Council of Nine. Political corruption. That weasel Jack Thompson. SHIELD was supposed to be a way around that.”

Fury nods, hiding his amusement, still watching her.

“Good. Now tell me—what makes SHIELD different from the alphabet soup? CIA, FBI, NSA, Department of Defense.”

She blinks once.

“Well…SHIELD isn’t limited to one nation. It’s global. Response-based. Proactive instead of procedural. Less red tape, slightly less politics.”

Fury tilts his head. “You think that’s enough to matter?”

Estelle’s silent for a beat, her brain working the hardest it has all day. Then: “I think SHIELD’s meant to catch the threats no one else is even looking for.”

He narrows his eye. “And what kind is that?”

She meets his gaze without flinching.

“Enhanced people. Terrorist cells that other orgs haven’t caught onto. Technology that outpaces treaties, like Iron Man. I’m guessing aliens, too.” She pauses. “I mean—there have to be aliens. Right?”

Fury raises one eyebrow.

“Aliens, huh?”

Estelle doesn’t blink.

“You’re not gonna confirm or deny it,” she says plainly. “But I’m pretty sure.”

Another long silence.

Then Fury opens the desk drawer and sets a thin folder down in front of her.

Unmarked. Except for the header: THE AVENGERS INITIATIVE

She doesn’t reach for it—waiting, just in case it’s a test.

“This doesn’t leave this office,” he says. “Not even your notebooks.”

Her pulse jumps. She opens it carefully.

Inside: profiles. Partial dossiers. Photos. Technical blur. A glowing arc reactor photo with half the metadata blacked out.

Most of it was redacted for her eyes, but she was learning to read between redacted lines.

One page halfway down stops her cold.

“Stark,” she says aloud. Not surprised. Just… activated .

Fury watches her read.

“What’s your take on him?”

She exhales slowly. “Brilliant. Intuitive. Dangerous in a way he doesn’t always admit. Doesn’t like to be told what to do. Big savior complex.”

“Do you think he’s Initiative material?”

Estelle hesitates. “Shouldn’t an analyst answer that?”

A silence stretches. Fury leans back, steepling his hands.

“You said SHIELD is meant to catch what no one else sees coming,” he says. “You ever thought about what that means for you?”

She tilts her head. “Me?”

“You’re sharp. You notice things. Stark noticed that, too. You’ve got instinct—and impulse control, and you catch on quick.”

Estelle glances back down at the file.

Then—

Fury picks up a pen, clicks it, and adds a single name—just above the header, in sharp block print:

DUGAN, E. (PENDING)

She stares.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

“Since you’re looped in now,” he says. “You keep leaning and listening.”

She nods once.

He closes the file. Stows it. Gone, like it never existed.

“Stark’s got a soft spot for you. He won’t call it that, but you no doubt know where the ‘anonymous’ supplies and tuition are coming from. And you’re close with Agent Romanoff. That’s why I’m letting you know something not even most Level 7s are cleared for: she’s embedded at Stark Industries. She’s doing her own evaluation of Stark for the Initiative. Following?”

Estelle’s mouth tightens. “And I’m part of the cover?”

“You’re part of the test ,” he corrects. “If you’re ever around Stark and you encounter her, I hope you’ll maintain that cover. You’ve never met. You’re not close.”

She swallows. “Understood.”

Fury stands.

“You don’t tell Coulson. You don’t write it down. You just remember.”

He nods toward the door.

“Dismissed, Miss Dugan. Enjoy your weekend.”

Her lips flicker. Not a smile. Something steadier. A resolve he doesn’t need to test—yet.

She leaves without another word.

[May 21, 2010 (Friday) — 4:26 PM]

[Watermarks Retirement Home – Brooklyn, NY]

The community piano has a few keys that stick, but Estelle doesn’t mind. She plays around them like potholes—adjusts mid-phrase, lets the melody warp slightly when the G above middle C chokes.

Across the common room, Dum Dum Dugan snores in a sun-faded recliner, newspaper slack on his chest. One of his socks is halfway off. The staff gave up trying to keep shoes on him after the second week.

Estelle finishes a few bars of “Moonlight Serenade” before her new SHIELD-issued watch buzzes once—sleek, black, no labels. Not quite standard, not quite civilian.

[STARK—INCOMING CALL]

She exhales. Stands. Quietly slips out onto the side terrace with her school blazer slung over her arm.

She answers before the second buzz finishes.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.”

“Hey. You like races?”

Estelle blinks. “Um. What kind of races?”

“Fast ones. Loud ones. Not the metaphorical kind.”

“…Yes?”

“Great. You got a passport?”

“…Yes? I think Hill has it.”

“Ever been to Europe?”

Her eyes narrow. “Mr. Stark, are you—”

“Good. Bring it. Also sunscreen. Jet’s wheels up tomorrow.”

She rubs her temple. “Wait, wait—jet?”

“Yeah. Kidnapping you again. Thought I’d get ahead of the paperwork this time.”

“Tony, you can’t say that.”

“Fine. Surprise educational field trip. Europe edition.”

Estelle sighs. “I can’t go to Europe. I have school on Monday.”

“You know how many Lémen snobs are on international vacations this time of year?”

“Tony—”

“But!” he cuts in, “you can bring schoolwork. You can do geometry at 30,000 feet while sipping orange juice and ignoring world-class luxury.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the country without escort clearance.”

“I’ve got that covered.”

She pauses. “You do?”

“I know people who know people. Fury owes me two favors and half a hospital wing.”

Estelle leans against the railing, watching a squirrel attempt espionage near the bird feeder. She knows Natasha will probably be close—undercover—and that’s the only reason Fury is letting it slide. But Tony can’t know she knows that.

“What time do I leave?”

“Escort’s picking you up at 9:00 AM tomorrow. Don’t bring anything that explodes. You won’t get it past Monaco security.”

“What should I pack?”

“Whatever says ‘responsible minor accompanying billionaire mentor to high-risk public event.’ Also sunglasses. And one thing that can pass for formal in case we wind up at some kind of gala.”

“Why would we end up at a gala?”

“You think I plan these things?”

She hesitates. “And Pepper?”

A pause.

“Around, for sure. She’s not too busy running the company to say hi.”

Estelle adjusts her grip on the blazer. “I’ll bring workbooks. And I want to be back by Tuesday.”

“Define ‘want.’”

“Tony.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. Can’t promise Monaco doesn’t fall into the sea or get attacked by killer drones.”

“…Is that something I should plan for?”

“You’re travelling with Iron Man.”

Estelle sighs. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”

“See ya, Smarty Pants.”

Click.

She walks back inside and reclaims her seat beside Dum Dum, who now has one eye open.

“Friend of yours?” he asks without looking.

“Mr. Stark.” Estelle folds her blazer neatly over her knees. “He invited me to Monaco.”

Dum Dum snorts. “For drinks or demolition?”

“The Grand Prix.”

“Same thing.”

She leans her head against his armrest. “Why does he keep doing this?”

Dum Dum yawns. “You mean checking in?”

“I mean—insisting.”

He opens his other eye. “He likes having you around. That’s easy to understand.”

Estelle looks up at the ceiling. “Or maybe he wants to impress someone.”

He chuckles. “Either way, enjoy yourself.”

She nods. Watches the light move across the floor. Wonders what kind of person demands your company at a Grand Prix and still lets you pack math homework.

[May 23, 2010 (Sunday)]

[Hotel de Paris — Monte Carlo, Monaco]

The Hotel de Paris smells like leather seating and expensive decisions. Estelle pads across the polished lobby, her Mary Janes slightly too soft against the marble. Her outfit today—pressed khakis, a striped button-up, and a navy blazer—makes her look like someone’s preteen diplomat. She carries a notebook tucked neatly under her arm.

The bar is crowded with race spectators and the kind of wealthy people who act allergic to silence. At a corner table near the window, Tony’s unmistakable posture leans against the world like it owes him a drink.

Pepper sits beside him, all elegance and posture. A redheaded woman in a perfectly pressed pencil skirt occupies the third seat, legs crossed, eyes alert. Estelle prepares to act oblivious.

Tony spots Estelle first and waves her over with a flourish. “Hey, Matilda. We saved you a spot. Want a booster seat?”

Estelle doesn’t bother responding. She threads through the crowd with the same expression she uses in school hallways: calm, uninterested, impossible to knock off balance.

Tony grins as she slides into the fourth chair next to him. “That’s a no, then.”

The redhead looks amused.

Before Estelle can debate “introducing” herself, a tall man in an ill-fitting designer blazer materializes near their table.

“Elon,” Tony says with a nod.

“Tony,” the man replies, smiling just a beat too long. “Have you seen the Merlin engines?”

“Yeah, yeah, great work. What’s with all the emails about electric jets?”

“I’m hoping you can make the idea work.” They shake hands. Elon glances at Estelle. “Your daughter?”

Tony looks like he’s about to answer when Estelle cuts in.

“He wishes.”

Elon blinks. “Oh.”

“She’s not mine,” Tony clarifies with a smirk. “We’re just doing a long-term social experiment. Results are pending.”

Estelle rolls her eyes and stares out the window.

Elon chuckles awkwardly. “Well, I’ll let you guys enjoy the day.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Estelle turns back. “Elon Musk?”

“Guy who builds rockets and says weird things on the internet,” Tony replies.

“I know who he is,” Estelle says flatly. “Tech cultist.”

Pepper chokes on her drink.

Tony points at her. “See, this is why I bring her places.”

The redhead finally speaks. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Natalie. Tony’s new assistant.”

Estelle schools her face. Natalie. Right.

“I’m Estelle,” she replies evenly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Natalie tilts her head, eyes flicking across Estelle’s face with quiet calculation. “And how do you know Tony? Niece? Cousin?”

Estelle opens her mouth, pauses. “It’s…complicated.”

Tony leans back in his chair, looking extremely pleased with himself. “I’m her Make-a-Wish, if that passes through legal.”

Estelle side-eyes him. “That joke stopped being funny two years ago.”

Pepper steps in like a gentle moderator. “Estelle’s here as Tony’s guest. Not sick—just a very responsible minor.”

Natalie raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t question it.

Before anyone can comment further, Justin Hammer appears like a bad pop-up ad—sleek suit, smarmy grin, and Christine Everhart practically dangling from his arm like an accessory.

“Tony!” Hammer says too loudly. “Nice to see there’s no shortage of fellow rich, fancy car owners.”

Tony cuts Estelle an ‘I hate this guy’ look, then turns and grins like he’s just found something under his shoe.

“Justin. Always interesting to run into someone who thinks they’re relevant.”

Christine gives Estelle a quick double-take, like she might recognize her from somewhere but can’t quite place it. Estelle doesn’t help. She stares directly at Hammer, unimpressed.

“And who’s this?” Hammer asks, peering at Estelle like he’s waiting for a tech demo.

“Confidential,” Tony says. “You wouldn’t pass the clearance level.”

Hammer laughs, clearly thinking it’s a joke.

Tony turns to Christine. “Hanging out with him? I didn’t realize ‘Rich Failson’ was a cover story now.”

Estelle tunes out.

The TV above the bar flickers to coverage of the Monaco Grand Prix. Cars whine in formation. The sun glints off their chassis like knives made for speed.

She glances up, grateful for the noise. It drowns out the adults for a few seconds.

The laughter around the table simmers down as Hammer and Christine wander off in search of more flattering lighting. The bar returns to its usual buzz—champagne clinks, soft jazz, engines in the distance.

Tony sips what’s left of his drink and glances at the TV. The Monaco Grand Prix coverage has shifted to shots of the pit lane—teams adjusting tires, wiping windshields, pacing like generals before battle.

Estelle follows his gaze quietly.

Tony waits a moment, lets the noise settle.

Then he leans just slightly toward her, dropping his voice below the casual din.

“You want to see it up close?”

She doesn’t look at him right away. “The race?”

He nods. “Yeah, with a better view than one turn out the window and a TV. I mean up close—pit level. I can introduce you to the crew—Stark Industries is sponsoring car #11. You’ll be able to smell the burning rubber up close.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why are you acting like this is a secret?”

“Because the race organizers think I’m just here to smile and wave and maybe sign a few checks.” He glances sidelong at Pepper and Natalie, both engrossed in small talk. “They’d prefer I not wander off with any small civilians.”

Estelle folds her arms. “I’m the least civilian civilian ever.”

“Exactly. Let’s go.”

She doesn’t move yet. “Why?”

Tony hesitates. Not long—just a quarter-second—but Estelle’s trained to spot moments like that.

“Because you’re here,” he says, light again. “And you’re smart. And you should see the kind of money we vaporize just to shave a second off a lap time. Ridiculous. Questionable ROI. Glorious combustion.”

Still, something in his eyes doesn’t match the smile. There’s a weight behind the sparkle, like his shine’s running on battery power and no one’s told him how long he’s got left.

Estelle frowns. “Are you planning something?”

Tony raises both hands, mock-offended. “Me? Planning? Never. I’m improvising in advance.”

She looks him over. The slightly paler skin. The tension around his jaw. The way he’s pressing his fingers against his chest like the arc reactor’s whispering something only he can hear.

“…You sure you’re okay?” She stands up after him, making herself small to mimic how oh-so-obviously sneaky he’s trying to be.

Tony’s already two steps ahead. “Let’s just say hi to the crew. Smile for a few photographers. Maybe sign a helmet. You’re my PR buffer. Just scowl if someone asks questions.”

“Tony.”

He turns back. “Yeah?”

She hesitates, watching him with the same careful focus she reserves for people right before they stop showing up.

“Don’t disappear on me.”

He winks. “Miss Protocol, if I disappear, it’ll be with a champagne bottle and a dramatic explosion. You’ll see it coming.”

Estelle isn’t reassured. But she follows anyway.

Chapter Text

[May 23, 2010 (Sunday)]

[Hotel de Paris — Monte Carlo, Monaco]

The TV at the hotel bar is muted, but it doesn’t need sound to command attention. Every set in the lounge has been switched to the Monaco Grand Prix, and the chatter from patrons thins to a hush as the camera pans suddenly, unexpectedly, to the pit lane.

Pepper lifts her glass, half-listening to a conversation behind her, until a flash of familiar motion on the screen makes her freeze mid-sip.

There, on the broadcast, is Tony.

Not waving from a sponsor’s box. Not shaking hands in a VIP suite.

No, he’s in the pit lane.

On the track.

The footage lurches as the cameraman hustles into position, catching Tony mid-stride as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it onto a nearby bench like he owns the whole circuit. In this moment, he does.

And just behind him, smaller, still, and plainly out of place—

“Is that—?” Pepper squints.

Estelle Dugan.

Standing beside one of the pit techs, arms crossed tightly, wearing a headset that’s too big for her. Her mouth is moving—probably trying to reason with him—but she’s too far back in frame for the camera to pick it up. Her brow is furrowed. Her eyes don’t leave Tony.

She doesn’t look thrilled. She looks…worried. A little perturbed.

The image cuts wide. Tony is stepping into the Stark-sponsored Formula One car, as if this has been the plan all along. A man in a matching racing suit—presumably the actual driver—flails his arms nearby, shouting at a pit engineer and gesturing wildly at Tony like someone’s just walked off with his job. Because someone has.

The TV cuts to a different angle—close on Tony as he pulls down the visor and glances, almost too casually, toward the camera. He leans into the mic just enough for the production crew to pick it up. A short delay, then subtitles appear:

“What’s the point in making the car if you don’t drive it?”

Pepper is already on her feet. Her drink hits the bar top harder than she intended. The bartender jumps.

“Natalie!” she barks, spinning on her heels.

Natalie Rushman—poised as ever—turns her head from her seat by the window, one eyebrow already raised.

Pepper points at the screen. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

“No ma’am, I did not,” Natalie replies smoothly, though her voice is too neutral. Too even.

Pepper doesn’t miss it. “Did you know Estelle was with him?”

Natalie doesn’t blink. “No.” She corrects her tone this time to be lighter without losing any of the severity.

Pepper’s breath hitches, then comes back like a whip crack. She jabs a finger toward the door. “Get Happy. Get the car. I need to get down to the track now.”

Natalie nods once, already moving—but not rushing. Never rushing. She doesn’t ask if Estelle is okay. Doesn’t let anything slip through the polished veneer of her alias. Not even concern.

But Pepper is already spiraling.

The screen behind her flickers again—Tony’s in the car now, pulling out of the pit lane like this is just another tech demo, like the crowd roaring in the background is cheering for him specifically.

The driver he replaced is still yelling.

Estelle, now pressed against the back railing of the pit zone, clutches the headset in both hands, clearly trying to listen for something over the comms.

She doesn’t wave. She doesn’t smile.

She’s locked in.

And Pepper mutters to no one in particular, “If he survives this, I will strangle him.”

[May 23, 2010 (Sunday)]

[Monaco Grand Prix – Pit Lane / Trackside]

The start of the race is chaos in the best way.

Engines scream. Tires spit fire. Tony is grinning behind the visor, cutting along the circuit like he’s piloting one of his prototypes. And in the pit, Estelle sits poised, holding the headset on straight, feet dangling off the pit wall bench, her eyes glued to the screens. She's not just watching—she's locked in, murmuring telemetry to Tony over their shared comm line with the kind of calm usually reserved for NASA engineers.

“Your temperature is fine. Watch the inside coming out of Chiron. Driver 6’s been hugging that wall.”

“Copy that,” Tony replies. “Should I be worried that you’re better at this than half my team?”

“You can’t take me to a race and expect I wouldn’t study first.”

“Right, right, The Girl of All Contingencies,” Tony laughs. The camera cuts to his car flying through the Pool Complex.

And then the image on Monitor 2 flickers.

Estelle’s head tilts.

One screen is fixed on Turn 16—La Rascasse—and something’s wrong. There’s a figure walking onto the track. Not a marshal. Not a tech.

A man. Shirtless. Harnessed. Cables slung down like tendrils. A pale arc reactor glows on his chest—a hateful mirror of Tony’s own.

Estelle doesn’t blink. “Tony—brake. Brake now.”

“What?”

“There’s a man on the track past Turn 16. He’s got—he’s got something.”

There’s no time to explain. She yanks off her headset, bolts upright. The crew around her is still catching up, some leaning toward the monitors, others yelling into comms.

She doesn’t wait.

Her eyes dart to the pneumatic wheel gun—still warm from the last tire change, detached, resting on the bench. She grabs it with both hands. It’s heavy—more than she expected—but she holds on.

A marshal yells, “Hey!” as she ducks between stacks of crates and tires, heading for the side exit gate used by crew to move between sections.

The noise on the track shifts. People gasp. That’s not engine noise anymore—it’s metal splitting.

She bursts through the gate. The concrete paddock path curves behind the media barricade—narrow, scattered with folding chairs and plastic tape. A small access corridor cuts between grandstand scaffolding and portable fencing, leading downhill toward Turn 18, then hooks sharply behind a barrier to the outside edge of La Rascasse (Turn 17).

A man is filming on his phone. He barely notices her.

She runs past, dragging the gun with the occasional metallic scrape when her shoulders forget to keep it off the ground. Her shoes slip—rubber soles catching on loose gravel and sunbaked tarmac. Her breath is ragged now. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck.

She ducks beneath a length of wire rope. Slides behind a stack of tire barriers. Jumps over the concrete wall through a kid-sized gap in the fence.

And then she’s there—crouching near Turn 17, only twenty, maybe twenty-five feet from where the mystery attacker stands amid the wreckage.

She sees the sliced car, but no sign of Tony. The enemy’s arc reactor glows—the crackle of electricity licking the edge of the whips.

Tony is bleeding from one side of his face, scrambling to evade in a wreckage field of fire and smoke. He’s vulnerable—unarmed, unsuited, exposed.

Estelle blinks sweat from her eyes. She tightens her grip on the wheel gun. And she moves.

She leaps. It’s not graceful. It’s desperate.

She raises the wheel gun straight into the tangle of wires at his lower back, jarring metal-on-metal with a sharp, dull clang . The force isn’t enough to stop him, but it knocks him off-balance. One whip sputters, flickering out mid-arc.

The attacker whirls around, eyes blazing. Furious. There’s a moment of realization that he’s standing before a child, but it quickly disappears.

He lunges.

…

And that’s when the Rolls-Royce roars in from the street like a cannonball. Estelle jumps back, and Tony scrambles up the track wall, grabbing for the chain link.

Happy Hogan slams the front end straight into the man, pinning him against the track wall with a sickening crunch of concrete and metal. Sparks burst from the impact zone.

Estelle staggers back, the wheel gun clattering to the pavement.

The man is pinned. The Rolls-Royce creaks from the force of his struggling. One of the electrified whips flails wildly, sparking weakly against the pavement. The other is caught beneath the bumper, twitching like a grounded eel.

Pepper has the rear driver-side window rolled down, eyes locking onto the ten-year-old.

“ESTELLE, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!” she yells, voice shrill, somewhere between rage and panic.

Estelle is standing in the open, the now-bent wheel gun at her feet like it was the only thing powering her until it hit the ground. Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are wide. She turns toward Pepper but doesn’t speak.

Tony jumps down from the fence while Pepper opens the door and scoops up Estelle. She shuts the door again like it’s a barricade to all harm.

“Are you hurt?” Pepper’s hands are on her arms, checking her shoulders, her face, her hairline, like she’s searching for blood.

Tony stumbles up. “Security’s here. Late and almost smushing me, too. New CEO should work on that.”

“You snuck off and took Estelle with you!” Pepper rounds on him, practically snarling. “She’s nine, Tony!”

“Ten,” Estelle corrects automatically.

“That is not the point! Tony, in the car. Now!”

Tony goes to the passenger side without protest, but as he opens it, the man has his left whip free, lashing it forward to slice the door in half.

Pepper screams, holding Estelle tight. Happy backs the car up and accelerates forward again to hit the man.

“Yes, Happy, keep hitting him!” Tony calls. “Pepper, give me the case.”

“You brought a child to a Formula One race and then drove in it!” Pepper shouts while clamoring to hand off the Mark V case.

Tony’s struggling to reach her with the half-cut door swinging every time Happy moves the car.

“Not the time, Pep. Need the case!”

The man slices the car in half between Happy’s blows. Estelle screams this time, tucking into Pepper and making herself as small as possible while the slicing continues all around them.

“THE DAMN CASE!” Tony shouts again, now running to the opposite side.

Estelle flinches and shifts her weight, giving Pepper just enough space to hurl the case out of the sliced-up driver’s side.

The panels unfold as Tony steps forward, slick red and silver encasing his arms, his chest, his legs. He straightens.

The crowd watches from above now.

With the suit sealed, Tony kicks the mangled car clear and squares his stance, ready to end this.

The attacker snarls and steps forward like an animal loose from a trap. Sparks fall from his arc reactor; the cables of his whips hiss against the ground, sizzling where they touch oil and rubber.

Estelle huddles in the hollow of what’s left of the car, squeezed between the bent frame and the cracked console. She clutches the door’s edge with white-knuckled hands, too small to brace against the terror rising in her chest.

For a breath, all she can hear is the static pop of the whips and the pounding of her heartbeat.

Then Tony moves.

He ducks the first swing—the whip searing through empty air and gouging a molten scar across the asphalt. The heat of it reaches Estelle even from where she crouches, the air shimmering. The crowd above is screaming now—layers of voices, a wall of sound that doesn’t stop.

Tony closes the distance, one gauntlet raised, the repulsor flaring. He fires—

A blast of energy strikes the attacker’s chest, staggering him, but not stopping him.

Estelle flinches at the flash, her eyes watering, but she won’t look away.

The attacker lunges, both whips snapping forward. One catches Tony clean across the chest, hurling him backward onto the wrecked car. The impact rocks what’s left of the frame, sending loose debris clattering to the ground. Estelle lets out a small, involuntary cry and presses back against the cracked console as if she can disappear into it.

Pepper and Happy shout from where they’re pinned in what’s left of the vehicle, but their voices are drowned by the roar of the crowd.

Tony pushes himself up, armor scorched across the chestplate, repulsors flaring back to life. He vaults off the crumpled hood and charges, grabbing the end of one whip as it cracks toward him again.

The cable coils around his armored arm. He pulls it tight, deliberately wrapping it around his forearm, his gauntlet, his torso. The suit crackles as the voltage courses through, the plating glowing red at the seams, but Tony keeps advancing—inch by inch, absorbing the punishment, sparks flying from the armor.

Estelle can hardly breathe. The smell of scorched metal fills her nose; her ears ring from the sizzle and pop of electricity.

Tony hauls the man in close. The attacker struggles, but the whip tightens with Tony’s every step.

And then, Tony’s gauntlet clamps onto the arc reactor at the center of the man’s chest. With a wrenching twist, he tears it free.

The man collapses, whips going dead in his hands. The reactor sputters in Tony’s grip, its light flickering and dying.

For a beat, everything is still.

Tony stands over him, chest rising and falling inside the armor, repulsors still humming.

Estelle stays frozen, watching, heart pounding so hard it hurts. The air smells like scorched ozone and fuel.

The man on the ground stirs as security finally swarms in, shouting orders in a dozen languages. He glares up at Tony as they haul him to his feet, blood at the corner of his mouth. His lip curls.

“You lose!” he spits, voice thick with venom, saliva hitting Tony’s chestplate.

Estelle’s breath catches. She blinks, and for the first time in the adrenaline haze, she notices the sea of cameras beyond the track walls—lenses pointed not just at Tony, but at her . The girl in the wreckage. The girl who ran at a man with electrified whips.

She shrinks a little behind what’s left of the car door, heat rising to her face in waves of sudden self-awareness. Every moment of this will be on the news. On the internet. On every screen.

Above, the crowd erupts into applause, relief overtaking panic. Sirens wail as the scene is secured.

Tony glances back at her, arc reactor clutched in one hand, expression unreadable behind the mask.

“You okay, kid?” His voice is softer now, low enough that only she can hear.

Estelle nods—because she still can’t find the words.

“Good…you’re going home.”

[May 24, 2010 (Monday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. NYC Headquarters—Manhattan, NYC]

There’s a quiet tension in the briefing room. Estelle sits at the table, blazer crisp, posture straight, a slim notebook open in front of her. The first few pages are already filled in her compact, precise handwriting. She’s wearing the same composed expression she used at the funeral, the same one she used when sitting beside Coulson after her parents’ last mission.

Maria Hill leans against the far end of the table, arms crossed, appraising her.

“Coulson wasn’t kidding about you,” Hill says at last, dry but not unkind. “By the time you landed, you’d filled half a notebook and watched every broadcast you could get your hands on. I didn’t even have to ask for your preliminary report—it’s right here.” She nods at the notebook.

Estelle doesn’t reply, but a faint flush creeps into her cheeks.

Hill lets the silence stretch a moment longer. “I’m going to assume I can skip the lecture. About running into an active engagement. About the cameras. About how every news outlet in the country has your face on loop and how that’s not exactly a great move for someone who might want a future in the field.”

For emphasis, Hill flashes her a datapad with headlines scrolling across it:

MYSTERY GIRL AT MONACO BATTLE

IRON MAN’S YOUNG ALLY?

CHILD HERO OR ENDANGERED MINOR?

Hill sighs, putting the tablet down. “We’ll handle that fallout. But enjoy school. I hear math is hard enough without what the world just saw you doing yesterday.”

“I still have to go to school today?”

“Yes,” Hill says bluntly. “Right now, though, I want to know what you make of it. Of Stark’s behavior over the past few days. Start with that. Why invite you? Why race? What did you spot about him?”

Estelle draws a breath, focused. “Tony invited me because...I don’t know. He likes having me around. Maybe it makes him feel better about himself. I don’t know.”

Hill nods, saying nothing.

Estelle presses on. “He seemed his usual self at the hotel. Like he was trying to make sure everyone saw him having a good time. Which is normal for him. When he decided to drive the car, it wasn’t spontaneous. I mean, it was , but it wasn’t just for fun. It felt like…I don’t know, like he needed it.”

“Gonna need more than that, Estie.”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t have a better answer than he was being weird.”

“Weird how?”

Estelle hesitates, but then: “Weird the way grownups act when there’s something they’re not telling me. Like…when my parents didn’t come home. Like when May left. It felt like that, I just don’t know why.”

Hill tilts her head, considering. “Alright, not much to go on there. Now, Vanko. What do you know?”

Estelle straightens, almost relieved to hit firmer ground. “Ivan Vanko, son of Anton Vanko. Anton worked for the SSR, then with Howard Stark on the arc reactor project. Stark senior had him deported for espionage when they fell out—there were accusations of selling secrets. The Soviets put Anton on reactor research after, but he didn’t get far. Ivan would’ve grown up with that resentment. That obsession. His tech was crude, but he knew where to hit Stark, publicly and with a mimic of his tech.”

“Motivation?”

“Legacy. Revenge. Probably both. Prove his father’s genius. Destroy Stark’s in the process.”

“And the encounter?”

Estelle swallows but answers steadily. “Vanko had electrified whip conduits powered by a chest arc reactor. The harness had visible weaknesses—cabling at the back, poor shielding at the output junctions. His demeanor was…fixated. He didn’t care about the collateral. He wanted Tony. Nothing else registered. He told Tony ‘You lose,’ even after the fight was done. It’s in my report.”

Estelle gestures to the extremely unofficial report in her notebook.

Hill studies her for a long time. “Good. Now the part you don’t know yet.” She crosses her arms tightly. “Vanko escaped Batiment B3 overnight. We believe someone helped him. You want to guess who?”

Estelle’s mind races, but she keeps her voice level. “Someone with resources who aligns with Vanko’s motivations. Maybe one of Stark’s corporate rivals—Stane’s connections, or Hammer. Hammer always wanted Stark’s tech, but couldn’t match it. He’d benefit from Stark being humiliated or destroyed.”

Hill narrows her gaze slightly. “And no one closer? No one more directly around Stark who might want to see him fall? Maybe someone you saw. Someone in his orbit this weekend?”

Estelle thinks hard, reviewing every interaction, every face at the hotel, the track, the pit. The industrialists. The clingy sycophants. The sponsors and execs.

“Justin Hammer stands out the most. He was even there in Monaco this weekend, which would give him access to Vanko. He's my number one suspect.” A pause. “Unless I missed something.”

“It wasn’t your job to be in there observing, but it’s appreciated.” Hill gives her a slight, approving nod.

Estelle hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “Are we going to investigate Hammer? Or check any of his facilities? His R&D labs, his supply lines, any of the bases he contracts out of?”

Hill’s expression barely shifts, but there’s a flicker of…something. Not surprise. Maybe regret.

“SHIELD will certainly keep an eye on him. If Hammer steps out of line, we’ll know.” She straightens a little. “But right now, your speculations aren’t actionable—and they're not officially on record. Hammer’s a prospective government contractor. That means oversight. That means optics. SHIELD doesn’t start kicking down doors without something solid.”

Estelle frowns, her brow furrowing. “But we know he’d have motive and the ability. That he could have helped Vanko. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Hill’s voice stays steady and patient, but firm. “It counts. It’s noted. But it’s not jurisdiction. And it’s not evidence. We don’t kick down doors without both. I get it—you don’t like the answer. Neither do I most days. But that’s how it works.”

Estelle folds her arms, frustration clear on her face. “So we just wait for him to do something that hurts somebody?”

Hill meets her gaze evenly. “SHIELD will stay vigilant. And you? You’ll go to school. And stay out of life-threatening situations—for a while.”

Estelle doesn’t argue further. But she doesn’t look satisfied either.

Chapter Text

[May 29, 2010 (Saturday)]

[13 Cranberry Street – Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The afternoon light filters soft and pale through the skylight of the Safe Zone, casting warm geometric patterns on the papers spread around Estelle. She’s seated cross-legged on the floor, the low hum of a small desk fan keeping her company. The rest of the house is still. Too still. The sort of quiet that means her usual detail is somewhere else—an assignment, an errand, or a rare moment of reprieve.

Estelle doesn’t mind the solitude. She’s halfway through a trigonometry problem set that no ten-year-old should be touching and has three different SHIELD comms protocols open for comparative analysis. The binder at her side is overstuffed, tabs sticking out at odd angles, pages weighted with annotations and sticky flags.

The house creaks, the faint sound of a door closing. Not in the wind, but deliberate. Estelle freezes, pencil hovering mid-solution.

Someone is walking from the first floor to the second, then the third, only one set of steps away from her saferoom now. A shadow crosses the stairwell before she hears the voice, calm and unhurried.

“Saferoom, huh? I expected something a little less cozy.”

She doesn’t look up at first. She knows that voice.

“Director Fury,” she says, deadpan, as she finishes her calculation before glancing over her shoulder.

Fury stands at the top of the stairs like he’s always belonged there, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the bannister. No clearance requested. No escort announced. Just there.

“You didn’t knock,” she says, not accusing, just observing.

“Didn’t need to. You heard me coming.”

“And saw you,” she adds, pointing to the security monitor on her desk just within her view.

He steps fully into the space, eye sweeping over her nest of notebooks, printouts, and problem sets. A small smile, or what passes for one, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Keeping busy?”

“Trying. School has been eventful this week. Everyone’s seen the news. Especially the older kids. I’m tired of talking about it.” She says it without needing to elaborate. Monaco. Stark. The chaos that always bleeds into the real world.

She thinks, not without a grim sort of humor, that maybe Fury’s here to put her under house arrest. Or to announce she’s getting wrapped in SHIELD-issue bubble wrap for the rest of her life.

Fury leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he’s already read her mind and found it wanting. “And if I’m here to ask about Stark?”

“I haven’t heard from him.” Estelle taps her pencil against her binder, faster than she means to. “Not since Monaco. I think he feels guilty. That’s probably why he’s keeping his distance. But that didn’t stop him from sending me a souvenir. And a biochem kit.”

Fury snorts, but there’s no humor in it. He crosses the room, dropping into the old armchair without knowing it’s Dum Dum’s, and Estelle would be yelling at him if she weren’t already nervous.

“You know we’re gonna talk about that, right? What the hell you thought you were doing out there. No field training. No clearance. No awareness of the fact that cameras were all over you.”

Estelle’s chin lifts, sharp. “Those aren’t requirements for doing the right thing. Tony needed help.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “Don’t give me that Captain America documentary crap, Dugan. This isn’t some feel-good PBS history special. This is the present. And you’re still ten. The right thing? Sometimes that means staying out of the damn way and letting the people with training handle it.”

“Oh, really?” Estelle fires back, voice low but cutting. “So who else was there? Who showed up to help Tony fight Vanko? Because I saw a whole lot of civilians and no SHIELD.”

Fury’s jaw tightens. His fingers drum against the chair arm, sharp and fast, before he stills them. When he answers, his voice is low, but this time, there’s steel behind it.

“You scared the hell out of me. That’s what this is. You think I’ve got time to explain your corpse to Coulson? To Natasha? To the Corporal? You think they’d care that you were doing ‘the right thing’?”

Estelle hesitates, but the fire in her isn’t out. She looks down at her notes, then back at him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Fury’s eye narrows. The room feels smaller.

“I don’t owe you an answer to that,” he says, the Director now, not the mentor. “You don’t get to sit here and judge SHIELD’s response like you’re sitting on the oversight committee. You’re ten. You don’t have the full picture. And I’m not about to stand here and be dressed down by someone who should’ve stayed behind the line.”

Estelle goes still, the weight of his authority hitting harder than any shout would’ve. She’s sure her eyes are glassy and her ears are burning.

Fury leans forward, gaze locked on hers. “You’re smart. Too smart for your own good sometimes. But you don’t get to pull that on me. Not today. We clear?”

She swallows hard, nodding defeatedly. “Clear.”

“Good, because I’m not here to argue. I’m not even here to pick apart that weekend’s events with you. I’ve got all the intel I need on Stark. Romanoff’s been thorough.”

Estelle’s eyes flick up. “Any updates on her? Or is that classified, too, like whatever Coulson’s doing?”

Her voice is sharp at the edges, still carrying the sting of being kept out of the loop.

Fury studies her, then shakes his head, half amused, half resigned at how little she lets up. “Coulson’s fine. Doing his job. And you’re in on more than most, Dugan. Avengers Initiative. Natasha’s status. Hell, I probably shouldn’t have let you see half of what you’ve seen.”

“Definitely shouldn’t.” Estelle doesn’t argue. She just waits, drawing her SHIELD documents closer to her like she expects him to snap and confiscate everything.

“That’s why I’m here,” Fury continues. “Because, as reckless and hotheaded as you’ve been, I trust your instincts. I want you to learn how this all works. And because I’m going to keep sharing what I can. Even the heavy stuff. You’ve earned that.”

He stands again, gesturing toward the stairs.

Estelle closes her binder with a snap and follows.

[En Route—SHIELD Vehicle, Brooklyn to Manhattan]

Streaks of steel, brick, and summer haze blur past the window as they make their way through the city. The SHIELD Suburban hums beneath them. Smooth ride, reinforced shell, built like a tank disguised as a commuter car. Estelle is very used to these vehicles. Most of her escorts are trainees, learning to move in formation and always calling her “Madame,” pretending she’s some political figure worthy of all the security.

Fury drives with one hand, the other resting near the console, fingers tapping once in a while, in rhythm with thoughts he isn’t voicing.

Estelle sits quietly in the passenger seat, binder at her feet. Yes, she brought it, but it likely wouldn’t go inside with her. The sedan is safe enough. Her forehead leans lightly against the window. She counts the bridge cables as they pass, but it doesn’t anchor her the way it usually does.

Fury breaks the silence first.

“My intel from Natasha tells me that Tony Stark’s dying.”

Estelle’s head snaps up, eyes sharp. She waits for a punchline, for one of Fury’s dry follow-ups.

It doesn’t come.

“Palladium poisoning,” Fury continues, tone flat but not cruel, just a fact. “The arc reactor that’s keeping him alive is also killing him. The core’s leaching into his blood. He’s got maybe seventy-two hours, give or take.”

Her stomach sinks, cold and fast, like an elevator missing its stop. She clamps her hands tightly together. Her voice, when it comes, is small but steady. “You’re sure?”

“We’re sure.”

She stares out at the skyline now, but her reflection watches him, waiting for more.

“We’ve got people working on slowing the poisoning,” Fury says. “We’re prepping to bring Stark everything we can dig up. Howard’s reactor research and clean energy trials. Anything that might help him come up with a better solution.”

Her heart’s pounding harder than she wants to admit. She hates this feeling—the way it mirrors every other loss. Her parents. May and Garner pulling away. Coulson’s absence. That creeping pattern of people vanishing, one by one.

“He knows?” she asks, voice tight.

“Natasha found he’s been documenting it on his private servers,” Fury says. “He’s…processing it his way.”

She exhales, slow and shaky. It explains everything about Tony’s recent actions. He’s been quite literally trying to live like he’s dying. “And you’re telling me this because?”

Fury glances at her, one brow raised like he’s surprised she’d even ask. “Because I told you I would. Because you’re close enough to Stark already, whether you meant to be or not. And I want you to see how we move when things matter.”

Estelle nods, trying to pull herself together. But the edges of her composure are fraying. The bind of duty and fear is too familiar. The pattern of loss is too close.

“If Tony Stark wasn’t a candidate for the Avengers Initiative… if he wasn’t of future use to SHIELD—would you still be doing this? Would you still care enough to try?”

Fury doesn’t answer right away. The car rolls through a yellow light, tires humming over a metal plate in the road. When he does speak, his voice is low. Measured.

“Does it matter?”

Estelle looks at him, really looks at him. The kind of look that wants to see behind the patch, the title, and the armor. “It matters to me.”

Fury exhales, not quite a sigh, not quite frustration. “Tony Stark’s a lot of things. A risk, a resource, a pain in the ass. But he’s also a man who’s trying, finally, to be better. And sometimes, that’s enough to make the effort worth it. Initiative or no Initiative.”

But Estelle doesn’t let it drop. She never lets it drop. Her voice is quiet, but the edge is back. “You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say we’d help him no matter what. You’re saying…we help when it makes sense for us.”

Fury’s grip on the wheel tightens just slightly. His eye flicks to her, then back to the road. The city rises around them, the skyline sharp and bright.

“Sometimes,” Fury says, quieter now, “we help because we can. And sometimes, because we should. The trick is knowing which is which. And learning how to live with yourself when you get it wrong.”

Estelle turns back to the window, swallowing hard. She doesn’t say what she’s thinking—but it sits between them anyway: And what about the times you don’t help at all?

Estelle presses her forehead back to the glass, swallowing down the knot in her throat. She doesn’t trust herself to answer. Not yet.

Fury doesn’t push.

The car keeps moving.

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ—Manhattan, NYC]

HQ hums with controlled urgency from the moment they step through the security gates. The usual low-level bustle is cranked up. Agents are moving with purpose, comms crackling, screens alive with data streams and schematics. Fury strides ahead without needing to look back, but Estelle keeps pace, mind racing to keep up with everything she’s just learned.

They don’t stop at Fury’s office or a surveillance room. Instead, he leads her straight down two levels, deeper into the Research and Development wing.

The air here smells faintly of saline and machine oil. The corridors are lined with reinforced glass, behind which teams work in labs that are too brightly lit, crowded with equipment, half-assembled devices, and the unmistakable clutter of a scramble.

“Stick close,” Fury says, voice low. “And pay attention. You’re here to see, not to fix.”

Estelle nods, heart hammering, but steadier now with purpose. R&D is supposed to be off-limits, but she’s learning not to question how quickly her access can change.

They enter a lab near the far end of the hall. Anne Weaver looks up from a table crowded with test vials, blood panels, and reactor schematics. Despite the obvious pressure of the moment, she offers Estelle a small, warm smile.

“Director Fury,” Weaver greets. “And our young analyst. You’re just in time. We’re about to run a synthesis test on one of the chelation models.”

Estelle tilts her head. “Chelation?”

Weaver gestures her over, patient even in the chaos. “Chelating agents bind to heavy metals in the bloodstream. They help the body flush them out before they do more damage. It’s one of the things we’re trying, though palladium’s tricky. The molecular bonds are stubborn.”

Estelle takes it in, scanning the data without pretending to understand every line. “I haven’t started bio or chem at school yet,” she admits, feeling the need to say it.

Fury snorts from behind her. “That’s never stopped you from studying it on your own.”

She offers him a glance that says, fair enough.

Weaver pulls up a stool and a model of Stark’s arc reactor on a nearby screen, showing the palladium core and its breakdown cycle. Estelle steps up onto the stool and watches, absorbing everything she can. After a beat, she speaks, slowly and thoughtfully.

“It reminds me of nuclear rods in reactors. They decay over time, right? Have to be replaced because they stop working, and if they’re left too long, the byproducts are dangerous.”

Weaver exchanges a glance with one of her assistants, then nods encouragingly. “That’s…an excellent comparison.”

Estelle’s eyes stay on the model. “Except palladium decays much faster. The way Tony uses it to power the reactor and his suits. It makes sense that the decay would enter his bloodstream. Leaking into his system with the energy output.”

“That’s the problem we’re trying to solve,” Weaver says. “Slowing that process down.”

Estelle bites her lip, thinking hard. “Well, even if you…'chelate' what’s already there, it’s just going to keep building up. The Arc Reactor keeps Tony alive. There’s no cure. Not really. Not unless he finds a different way to power the reactor.”

Weaver’s smile is tinged with sadness, but also with respect. “That’s exactly right.”

Fury watches her, silent but approving. Estelle straightens a little, feeling the weight of what she’s just reasoned out.

“You can’t cure him,” she says quietly.

Weaver nods, turning back to her work. “But we can give him time.”

Fury claps a hand lightly on Estelle’s shoulder. “And that’s why you’re here. Now, keep watching. Learn something.”

Estelle takes a deep breath and steps closer to the table, ready.

[May 29, 2010 (Saturday)—11:47 PM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ—Director Fury’s Office]

At this hour, most of the floor is quiet. Quiet in the way HQ only gets when the truly dangerous work is happening somewhere out of sight. The hum of equipment, the soft buzz of overhead lights, and the distant murmur of comms are all that break the stillness.

Estelle moves down the hall, the injector case clutched tight in her hands. She’s remembering everything Dr. Weaver told her. Her heart pounds harder than it should, but she keeps her steps steady. She reaches Fury’s office just in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

“...it’s under control. Keep monitoring the Banner situation, but don’t escalate without my say-so,” Fury says.

Sitwell’s voice replies, quieter. “Understood, sir.”

The door opens as Sitwell steps out, his expression neutral, but his eyes acknowledging Estelle with a nod. “Miss Dugan.”

“Agent Sitwell,” she replies automatically, stepping past him into the office.

Fury doesn’t look up at first. He’s staring at a tablet screen, but whatever he’s reading, he sets it aside the moment she enters.

“That's about the Hulk?” Estelle asks, voice low, but curiosity sharp as ever.

Fury gives a small snort, neither confirming nor denying. “Sitwell’s on it. You don’t need to worry about Banner. Focus on Stark. What’d R&D come up with?”

Estelle steps forward and sets the case down on his desk. She opens it, revealing the injector and the slim vial of lithium dioxide solution.

“They finalized this about an hour ago. The lithium dioxide should help slow the palladium’s spread. Bind to it, at least partially, and reduce some of the toxicity. I watched them synthesize the batch. They were careful. Double-checked everything.”

Fury studies the kit for a beat, nodding once. His eye shifts back to Estelle. “You did good.”

She straightens at the words, though the tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. She didn’t really do anything, in her opinion. She just watched and listened. R&D did all the work, but here he was complimenting her like she’d just come back from the field.

“And while you were downstairs,” Fury adds, “Colonel Rhodes walked off with the Mark II. The military’s got their hands on it now. There was a disturbance at Stark’s mansion during his birthday party. Got messy.”

Estelle doesn’t bother asking why he’s telling her. She doesn’t bother asking where he’s going when he starts toward the door. She just follows, her legs moving on instinct.

“So, I guess that means Tony’s getting more…erratic,” she murmurs in conclusion while walking fast behind him.

Fury says nothing as they take the elevator up, the silence heavy but shared. When the doors open, the cool, sharp night air hits, the city lights stretching out below. A Quinjet waits at the far end of the rooftop, engines powered but quiet, ready.

Fury glances at her, just briefly, as they cross the roof. “Time to go help Stark.”

Estelle nods once, tight and sure, and matches his stride all the way to the ramp.

[May 30, 2010 (Sunday)—12:28 AM]

[In Transit—Quinjet, en route to Stark’s location]

The Quinjet hums beneath them, a steady vibration that feels almost like a heartbeat. The city lights fade away behind them as they cut through the night sky, the hum of the engines blending with the low hum of the instruments.

Fury sits in the back cabin, legs stretched out, reviewing data on a slim tablet. But every so often, his eye lifts—not at the screen, but at the cockpit, where Estelle perches in the copilot’s seat, wide awake despite the hour.

Behind the controls sits Agent Triplett—the kind of pilot SHIELD likes for these jobs: calm, steady, good with kids, and even better in a crisis. He’s focused, but not so focused he can’t field questions from the small voice beside him.

“So, how fast can this thing actually go? I’ve seen the specs, but is that max speed with or without the additional fuel cells?”

Trip grins, adjusting a dial. “Without. And I’m not tellin’ you the number. You’ll try to calculate fuel burn rates next, and I’m supposed to be keeping you calm, not making your head spin.”

Estelle leans forward off her pillow, eyes tracking the readings. “Do you prefer manual or autopilot on a night flight? How much lift do the rear stabilizers add when you hit turbulence?”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Trip teases, glancing at her with a warm, sidelong look. “Little analyst like you, you’re supposed to be out cold by now. That’s in the SHIELD handbook, Section 12—bedtime on ops.”

Estelle rolls her eyes, but she’s still studying the console. “I’m too wired to sleep.”

Trip softens, tapping one of the stabilizer controls. “Manual, by the way. I trust my hands over the machine any day. Especially on nights.”

Fury doesn’t interrupt. He watches from the shadows of the cabin, tablet forgotten for the moment. His expression is hard to read, perhaps a mix of approval and worry. Maybe just the quiet reminder of the weight he’s put on small shoulders. But the corner of his mouth twitches once, like the scene in front of him eases something he didn’t realize had tightened.

Estelle’s voice drifts back again. “What’s the emergency descent protocol if we lose power over water?”

Trip chuckles, shaking his head. He snatches her pillow and gently swings it so she goes back down.

“Girl, if we lose power over water, you better believe you’re gonna be sitting right here helping me run that protocol. But for now, how about you close your eyes for five minutes, huh? Just five.”

“Okay. But I’m timing you.” She curls against the seat while readjusting her pillow, eyes still on the stars. Just in case they need her.

Fury closes his eye again, the ghost of that twitch still lingering as the Quinjet carries them into the dark.

Chapter Text

[May 30, 2010—Late Morning]

[Randy’s Donuts—Inglewood, CA]

Tony Stark sits in the hollow of a giant fiberglass doughnut like a monument to bad choices. His legs dangle over the side, and sunglasses shield his eyes from the brutal California sun. The remnants of a cruller rest in his hand. His other hand grips the edge of the structure like it might tip him into reality at any second.

On the ground, Nick Fury stands with his arms folded, one eyebrow raised, as if he’s been here long enough to get impatient but not long enough to leave.

“Mr. Stark,” Fury calls, voice carrying easily over the traffic hum. “Get down from the pastry.”

Tony peers down. “Hey! Fury. Nice of you to join me in my hour of…whatever this is.”

A smaller voice cuts in before Fury can respond. “If you fall and break your neck, the tabloids will say ‘Iron Man Defeated by Baked Goods.’ That’s not the legacy you want.”

Tony groans. Estelle Dugan stands at Fury’s side, small arms folded, gaze sharp as glass.

“Et tu, Scooby-Doo?” he calls down. “Don’t you have a school spelling bee to take over? Or a diabolical plan to take over SHIELD?”

Estelle smirks. “This is my school today.”

Tony snorts, but the sound lacks its usual spark. He slides down, landing with a thud that rattles his bones more than he’ll admit.

They move inside. At a sticky booth, Tony slouches like the chair is attacking him. Fury sits, calm as ever. Estelle slides in next to him, posture perfect, taking in everything.

“So what’s the story?” Tony gestures vaguely at them both. “You guys come to host an intervention? Did I win something? Or is this about your super secret book club?”

Fury doesn’t miss a beat. “I came to see how long you’re gonna keep playing with matches before you burn down the neighborhood.”

Tony rubs his eyes. “Do I look like I have the energy for metaphor right now? I’m—what’s the polite word—hungover. Also, do I look at the eye or the patch? Because I’m getting cross-eyed.”

“Focus,” Fury says. “Pick one.”

Estelle tilts her head. “They’re both unimpressed.”

Tony lets out a dry laugh, then points at her. “You’re such a tough crowd. Seriously, does SHIELD have you in a lab somewhere? Test tube super-agent in training?”

Estelle doesn’t blink. “You’re dying. You keep giving me stuff, you made Pepper CEO, and now Rhodey just passed off one of your suits to the military.”

Tony grimaces. “Wow. I liked you better when you were stealing secret folders at charity galas.”

Fury’s eye flicks to Estelle, amused enough to keep letting her do the talking.

Estelle leans in, voice low but steady. “That was because I thought you might do something useful with it. Now you’re…this.”

Before Tony can reply, a familiar figure approaches: sleek suit, red hair. Natasha Romanoff. No pretense now. No Natalie Rushman. Just the quiet force of nature SHIELD keeps in reserve.

Tony lowers his sunglasses. His gut clenches. “Huh.”

Natasha stands next to Estelle, putting an arm over the girl's shoulder now that her alias is gone and she can.

“I’m Agent Romanoff. Embedded by Director Fury to keep an eye on you.”

Tony shakes his head. “Well, thanks for making my life a sting operation.”

Estelle crosses her arms. “No. A rescue mission. You just keep fighting the people trying to help.”

Tony shoots her a look. “And you’re what, the mascot?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’m the one still hoping you’ll do the right thing.”

Tony rubs his temples. “All right. I get it. Everyone Pile on Stark Day. Where’s the cake?”

Natasha produces the injector. Tony’s eyes widen. “Whoa, whoa—that’s not cake. I like my organs where they are.”

Before he can move, she’s already administered it. The tension drains from his shoulders faster than he’d like to admit.

He groans. “What was that?”

“Lithium dioxide,” Fury says. “Temporary. Stops you from falling over before we’re done talking.”

Tony flexes his fingers, glances at Estelle. “Is this one of your daily supplements? I’ll take a few crates.”

Estelle rolls her eyes. “It’s a chelate to slow the palladium poisoning. Learned that word yesterday.”

Tony leans back, watching her. “Right, when they uploaded it to your robot brain. You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Estelle smiles, small and sharp. “A robot wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”

Tony exhales and rubs his face. “I’ve tried everything to fix this, you know. Every element, every design, every permutation. It’s not for lack of effort. What’s your plan, group hug?”

Estelle leans in, gaze unwavering. “The plan is you stop acting like you’re alone and let us give you resources to help.”

Fury leans back and actually laughs a little. “Might make her my next speech writer. So, ready to stop burning the house down, Stark?”

Tony exhales, slow and ragged. For once, he doesn’t have a joke ready, and they take that as a yes.

Estelle folds her arms. “Smart choice. Finally.”

And for the first time that morning, Natasha almost smiles.

[Stark Mansion — Malibu, CA]

It looks like a hurricane picked a fight with Stark Mansion and came out on top. Shattered glass crunches underfoot, light fixtures hang at odd angles, and the Pacific wind whistles through the broken windows. Tony sinks into what’s left of his couch, shoulders slumped, boots propped on the ruined coffee table like it’s all beyond fixing, including him.

Fury surveys the damage, unimpressed. Estelle hovers near Coulson, though the distance between them feels heavier than the physical space. She hasn’t seen him in over six months, and part of her wants just to stand there and stare—but she buries it beneath the stubborn edge she’s been sharpening all day.

Fury’s voice cuts through the quiet. “That thing in your chest? It’s built on tech that wasn’t finished.”

Tony gives a weak laugh. “No, no—it was finished. I made it work. Miniaturized it, popped it in like a glorified battery pack.”

Fury shakes his head. “Howard didn’t finish it. The arc reactor was just the first step. He was trying to build something bigger. Something that would’ve made nukes look like one of Este’s circuit board kits.”

Tony snorts. “Sure. And let me guess—Anton Vanko was his secret partner?”

“Vanko was the guy who saw dollar signs,” Fury says. “Howard saw potential. Vanko saw a payday. That’s why your dad booted him back to Russia. The Russians figured out Vanko couldn’t deliver and threw him in a hole. You met the fallout in Monaco.”

Tony rubs his temples, as if trying to press the headache out through sheer force of will. “And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

Estelle can’t help herself. She steps out from Coulson’s shadow, arms crossed tight. “It’s supposed to help you know your enemy.”

Tony glances at her. “You’re starting to sound like the SHIELD welcome committee.”

She shrugs, mouth twitching at the corner. “SHIELD welcome committee is an oxymoron.”

Coulson looks down at her, but she keeps her gaze on Tony, defiant.

Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So what’s left, Fury? You said I hadn’t tried everything. You got some magic element stashed away somewhere?”

“Howard believed you were the key to finishing what he started,” Fury says, voice low but steady. “Question is, do you believe it?”

Tony laughs, bitter and tired. “Howard Stark? The guy who shipped me off to boarding school and called it parenting? I don’t think he left me a secret decoder ring.”

Fury eyes him. “Maybe not. But he left you enough. If you stop playing the martyr long enough to see it.”

Tony opens his mouth, but Estelle beats him to it, stepping closer. “I could help.”

Tony tilts his head, intrigued. “See? This is the kind of assistant I need.”

Coulson frowns. “Estelle—”

She cuts him off, half out of mischief, half out of that raw need to prove herself after being sidelined for so long. “What? I know the specs. I’ve been reading everything Fury let me near. And Tony’s not exactly swimming in options. Your plan involves him doing it all alone.”

Tony gestures grandly. “Finally. Someone with taste. Coulson, you can go watch Supernanny. The kid and I will crack this in no time.”

Coulson gives Fury’s favorite brand of deadpan. “She’s ten.”

Tony grins. “And the only one here offering hands-on help.”

Estelle smirks, glancing at Coulson, victory gleaming for a second in her eyes. “You gonna tase me if I try to leave, too?”

Coulson sighs, like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds. “I’m authorized to keep him here by any means necessary. You, I’m supposed to reason with.”

Tony slouches deeper into the couch, a smirk returning. “Reasoning sounds overrated. Let’s break out the blueprints, Sidekick Supreme.”

Fury glances between them, one brow arched in amusement. “I’ve got bigger problems to babysit than the two of you forming a think tank. Stark, don’t make me regret this.”

He heads for the door, adding over his shoulder, “Don’t forget I’ve got my eye on you.”

Natasha lingers long enough to make sure nothing’s on fire. “All comms disabled. Don’t even think about calling out. Good luck.”

As she disappears down the hall, Tony looks at Estelle, mock conspiratorial. “You ever build a particle accelerator in a living room?”

Estelle beams. “I’m told I’m a fast learner.”

“Aw, baby’s first soldering iron.”

Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose, already regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

[Stark Mansion, Tony’s Basement Lab — Malibu, CA]

Tony flips through the fraying edges of Howard’s workbook while cross-legged on the floor, the smell of old paper and ink filling the air. He squints at a half-finished diagram that looks more like a Rorschach blot than anything useful.

Across the room, Estelle wrestles with the projector screen, finally snapping it into place on the third try. The thing lists to one side anyway.

Tony glances up, smirking. “Hey, new intern—I didn’t drag you into this for the brain power, so we’re clear. I just liked watching you stick it to G-man. I respect your priorities.”

Estelle wipes her hands on her skirt, arching a brow. “Rebel against federal agents to get your respect. Got it.”

Tony grins. “He’s not just some federal agent to you, though. It was ballsier than that.”

Estelle steps back to admire her handiwork. The screen immediately lists to one side. She groans, fixes it, and shoots him a look. “So, what, you think I’m just here for moral support? I’ve got ideas, you know.”

Tony taps Howard’s notebook. “Yeah? You want to explain what this means?”

She crosses the room and kneels next to him, looking at the pages.

“That part’s a capacitor. And uh…diagrams of…energy flow?”

Tony scoffs, nudging her with his elbow. “Someone isn’t getting handed back with her theoretical physics degree.”

“Rude.” She nudges him right back before getting up to mess with the projector.

Tony leans back, one arm draped over his knee. “You know, for a second I thought you were gonna tase him . And believe me, I would’ve supported it.”

The projector whirs to life with a creaky groan, the bulb flickering on. Dust motes dance in the pale cone of light.

Estelle glances at him, the glow from the screen catching the faint smirk on his face. “That’s something you’d like, right? Sticking it to the guy who let you down?”

Tony’s smirk fades just slightly, enough to let the truth through. “This internship is unpaid, so you know. And I won’t be a reference on any future resumes.”

Estelle sets the reel in the projector, waiting for his mark to start it up.

Tony leans back on his hands, watching her work. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t, y’know, caught up in all this SHIELD business? Normal kid stuff?”

Estelle studies the reel for a long beat, then glances at Tony. “No.”

Tony huffs a laugh. “Well, you seem disappointed enough in Coulson right now that I’m guessing it’s not all sunshine and spy gear.”

Estelle’s mouth twists with guilt and stubbornness. “Stuff gets classified. He disappeared for six months, and I couldn’t know a single detail. He’s supposed to be…family.”

Tony nods, unexpectedly serious. “Yeah. I get that. People who are supposed to stick around, but don’t? It screws with your head.”

Estelle shifts, tracing the edge of the projector with her finger.

Tony grins, softer this time. “Look at us. Orphans with boundary issues.”

Estelle looks at him, their shared truth hanging between them. “Like Batman and Robin.”

He scoffs, abhorring the comparison. “I don’t do capes and tights. Play the tape or you’re fired.”

Estelle snorts, starting the reel up. “That makes JARVIS Alfred.”

Tony taps his arc reactor idly while watching the screen. “JARVIS is way better looking.”

They fall into silence as Howard’s reel plays on, both of them thinking about the man they’re trying to understand, and maybe, in some strange way, forgive.

The day drags on.

Estelle sits cross-legged on the floor near an open crate of Howard’s things, sorting through blueprints and old files. Most of it looks like another language—engineering sketches, reactor specs—but she lingers on the more human pieces. A newspaper clipping of Howard at a ribbon cutting. A worn photo of him with other SHIELD founders. She traces the edge of the picture, seriously thinking about pocketing it.

Across the room, Tony is still hunched over Howard’s notebooks, flipping pages faster now, like he’s trying to outrun the emotions creeping up on him. The tapes play softly in the background—Howard’s voice, tinny with age, praising innovations Tony barely remembers or berating the pace of progress.

Tony scrubs a hand through his hair, tension winding tight. Finally, he slams the notebook shut with a sigh.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over at Estelle. “If I went off-site for a bit…you gonna tattle?”

Estelle looks up from the photo, considering him. “I won’t tell.” A beat. “But I’m not gonna lie if Coulson asks me directly, either.”

Tony smiles—crooked, tired, but genuine. “Fair enough. Honor among rebels.”

She sets the photo down carefully. “Where are you going?”

Tony hesitates, then shrugs. “Out. Drive. Clear my head. Get some air that doesn’t smell like charred ego.”

Estelle tilts her head, studying him. “You’re not just gonna go sit in another doughnut, are you?”

Tony chuckles softly. “Nah. I’m trying to keep my sugar intake reasonable.” His gaze softens. “I’m just…I need space to think. Away from all this.” He gestures vaguely at the mess of papers and memories.

Estelle nods, understanding. “Okay.”

Tony rises, dusting off his hands. He lingers a second longer, then says, quieter, “You should give Coulson another shot, you know. He’s not perfect, but…he means it. That family stuff. And it’s rare to have someone who actually sticks.”

Estelle looks down at her hands, fingers absently smoothing a crease in the photo. “Maybe.”

Tony smirks as he heads for the door. “You’re already smarter than I was at your age. Don’t waste it on a grudge.”

She watches him go, the afternoon swallowing him up, leaving only the soft crackle of the projector and the tension of nostalgia.

A low rumble outside pulls Estelle from her quiet sorting. She sets down a faded SHIELD photo just as headlights cut across the lab from the driveway tunnel. Moments later, Tony comes through the lab, windblown and energized, wheeling the dusty 1974 Stark Expo model like it’s treasure.

He sets it down and kicks the cart aside, grinning like a kid who’s just raided the candy store.

Estelle straightens, eyeing the model. “What is that ?”

Tony scoots the extensive model into a place he likes. “That is what hope looks like when it’s covered in forty years of dust.”

She folds her arms, suspicious and intrigued all at once. “Okay…”

Tony’s already gesturing toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, scan this thing. I want a wireframe I can actually use. Make it clean—Vac-U-Form style.”

“Right away, sir.”

The room glows blue as the model is scanned, a ghostly projection of the Expo rising like a miniature city made of light. Estelle steps closer, gaze flicking between the hologram and Tony, who’s already swiping through layers, breaking it apart piece by piece.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, his voice tight with the kind of focus that leaves no room for doubt. “What were you hiding, old man?”

JARVIS interrupts with a chime of confirmation. “Sir. The proposed element matches the theoretical specifications in your father’s notes. It should serve as a suitable replacement for palladium.”

Tony freezes, staring at the projection that he’s morphed into some sort of holographic atom. Then that familiar smirk creeps back in, the kind that means trouble for someone, usually himself.

“However,” JARVIS adds, “the element is impossible to synthesize using current conventional methods.”

Tony turns on his heel with a snap, finger pointed dramatically at Estelle. “Time to get into hardware mode.”

She grins, tugging her sleeves up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Their work begins in earnest.

Tony sketches rough plans on a scrap of blueprint, explaining half out loud, half to himself. Estelle trails him, gathering the parts he points at—pipes, wires, random pieces of scrap that might become something brilliant.

She holds a length of pipe steady while he welds it into place. Sparks fly, lighting her face in flickers of orange and white.

“Is this safe?” she asks, half-laughing, half-concerned.

Tony doesn’t look up. “Just keep doing your safety squints.”

They rig together a frame, Tony barking out wire colors from a newly-jackhammered hole in the ceiling as Estelle sorts through the mess on the table.

“Color-code these right, or the whole place goes boom,” Tony warns, tossing down a bundle of cables.

“No pressure,” she says, rolling her eyes as she sets to work.

Time blurs as they build. The hum of tools and the crackle of energy fill the space where silence might have lived.

They pause just long enough for Estelle to sip water, leaning back against the wall, cheeks flushed with effort. Tony wipes sweat from his brow, glancing at her.

“This is what normal ten-year-olds do on a school night, right?”

Estelle smirks. “If they’re lucky.”

JARVIS projects the evolving schematics onto a nearby wall. Tony crosses out half of what’s there, and Estelle writes some of his ramblings down so he can occasionally come back to it.

“See that?” Tony gestures to the mess of wires and parts coming from a hole he’d made in the wall. “That’s art.”

Estelle eyes it. “That’s a junk pile.”

Tony grins. “Same difference. Alright, one more hour, then I think I’m supposed to make you go to bed.”

Together, they press on—two minds, one manic, one methodical, tangled up in invention, legacy, and the impossible hope of fixing what’s broken.

[May 31, 2010 (Monday)—Early Morning]

[Stark Mansion, Tony’s Basement Lab—Malibu, CA]

The hum of machinery fills the lab, punctuated by the clatter of tools and the low murmur of Tony and Estelle debating the coil’s alignment.

Tony squints down the length of it. “It’s leaning. We can’t have a lopsided coil. That’s how you end up with explosions and news choppers.”

Estelle braces the section with both hands. “It’s not leaning because of me. I triple-checked it.”

Tony smirks, adjusting a bolt. “Sure you did, Wire Whisperer.”

A new voice cuts through the noise. “Heard you broke perimeter.”

They both look up as Coulson appears at the edge of the lab, arms folded, the quiet authority of someone who’s already expecting excuses.

Tony barely glances at him. “Relax, Agent Supernanny. I went out, I came back. The world’s still turning.”

Estelle shrugs, hands still on the coil. “I didn’t tell him.”

Coulson gives her a look that’s more tired than stern, but he doesn’t press it.

Tony wipes his hands on a rag, eyeing Coulson. “Where’ve you been, anyway? Besides obviously not keeping tabs on your star pupil here.”

Before Coulson can answer, Estelle cuts in, voice sharp with practiced sarcasm. “The answer is ‘classified.’ It’s always classified.”

Coulson says nothing at first, just watches them work—Tony guiding Estelle as she rechecks the coil.

“Make sure the sections line up with the guides,” Tony reminds her, crouching beside her. “You rush it, the whole thing’s useless.”

“I’m not rushing,” Estelle mutters, adjusting the alignment.

Coulson, maybe needing something to do, drifts toward one of the boxes of Howard’s relics. His hand lands on a small, dented model—a crude, half-finished mock-up of Captain America’s shield.

He lifts it, brow raised. “What’s this supposed to be?”

Estelle doesn’t even look up. “Already called dibs.”

Tony glances over, grin returning. “Gimme that.”

Coulson blinks. “Why?”

Tony takes the model, kneeling to wedge it under the coil. “Because it’s going to save us all from crooked pipework.”

Estelle frowns as Tony adjusts the coil, the shield scrap holding it perfectly level. “That’s not what it’s for.”

Tony waves her off. “Relax. I’ll mail it to your Captain U.S.A. shrine when I’m done.”

The coil hums steadily now, level and locked in. Tony steps back, satisfied.

Then his gaze flicks back to Coulson. “Why are you still hovering? You come down here for a reason, or just to critique my interior design choices?”

Coulson’s mouth twitches into what might almost be a smile. “I’m here to say goodbye.”

Estelle glances at him, confused. “See you in six more months?”

But Coulson shakes his head. “You’re coming with me. We’ve got a new assignment.”

Estelle freezes. “Wait—what? Now? ”

“You remember what I promised,” Coulson says gently. “After Christmas. I said I was taking you as soon as I could.”

Her shock melts into reluctant excitement. “Where are we going?”

“New Mexico,” Coulson says. “We’ve got an 0-8-4 to check out, and I’m sure you’ll be done with all the schoolwork your teacher’s sending you this week before we hit the state line.”

At that, Estelle’s eyes light up, curiosity overtaking everything else.

Tony watches her reaction, grinning at her. “0-8-4? What is that, a snack pack?”

Estelle shakes her head, distracted by the possibilities.

Tony gives her a nudge. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this from here. Be a tiny agent. Save the world.”

For a moment, she hesitates. Then, without thinking about it too hard, she throws her arms around him in a quick hug.

Tony stiffens, caught off-guard—but then pats her back lightly.

“Don’t die.” She pulls back, meeting his gaze, serious now. “The world needs you.”

Tony’s smirk softens into something quieter. “That’s the plan, Circuit Sprite.”

And with that, she straightens up, falling in step with Coulson as they head out, leaving Tony in the glow of the half-finished project, watching them go.

Chapter Text

[May 31, 2010 (Monday)—08:04 AM (Pacific Time)]

[SHIELD Jump Jet — En Route to Roswell, NM]

Engine thrum fills the otherwise quiet cabin. The jump jet’s interior is utilitarian—gray steel, restraint harnesses folded flat, only the essentials bolted down. Sunlight streaks through a narrow port, casting sharp lines across Coulson’s travel case and the edge of Estelle’s shoes.

She’s never been a fan of jump jets, though this is her first time physically flying in one. Too narrow, too crowded, not enough gizmos to marvel at.

Coulson is seated at the small fold-down table, one leg crossed over the other, flipping absently through a mission dossier. His jacket is off, his sleeves rolled, and his tie loosened—classic “transition mode” Coulson: somewhere between briefing and action.

Across from him, Estelle is half-curled in her seat, shoes tapping an irregular rhythm on the floor as she reviews her notepad.

“I still don’t know how you didn’t leave with a pet robot,” Coulson says at last, glancing over the top of the file.

Estelle smirks, eyes still on her notes. “SHIELD would confiscate it in a heartbeat, or Dum Dum would flatten it with his cane.”

Coulson exhales a soft chuckle. “Accurate. How’d your work with him go?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I helped him with the particle accelerator. Lined up the components, ran checks. He’s…close, I think. The new element—he has it mapped. I didn’t see him synthesize anything before we left. But I assume the designs were solid.”

Coulson watches her, the flicker of tension behind his steady gaze easing just a little. “You believe he’ll pull it off?”

“I do,” Estelle says simply. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Coulson leans back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You’re starting to sound like someone who likes him.”

Estelle finally glances up. “I get along with him.”

He quirks a brow. “That might be worse.”

Coulson gives her a look. The kind that says I’m proud, but also mildly horrified .

Coulson leans back slightly, drumming his fingers once on the file. “Fury mentioned your...proactive moment with Vanko.”

Estelle’s foot tapping slows. She doesn’t look up.

“You’ve been in enough trouble about that, don’t worry. But trying to intercept an assassin wasn’t in your clearance bracket, Este.” His voice is mild, but it carries. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’d rather not test your survival instincts against guys with electrified whips, though.”

She nods once, tight-lipped. The cabin hum fills the silence for a beat.

“You scared me,” Coulson says, quieter now. Not dramatic. Just true.

“I scared me too,” she admits, softer.

He glances out the port, watching the desert unfold far below. When he looks back, his expression has gentled. “Stark might want you around more often,” he says. “Not sure that’s a good thing.”

Estelle considers that. “He’s lonely.”

Coulson raises a brow. “You diagnose him, too?”

“I observe him. He’s different because he knows I don’t want anything from him.” She hesitates. “He was good to me. Not just the school thing. He listened.”

Coulson smiles, faintly. “You’ve always had a talent for attracting complicated people.”

“Including you?”

“Ooh, ouch.”

He leans forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “Hey. We’ll have time in Roswell before we head out to the site. I want you to write a report on Stark’s breakthrough with the reactor. Walk me through the facts, what worked, what didn’t, and your analysis of why he succeeded.”

Estelle’s eyes brighten. “You’re letting me write your report?”

“Really. First draft’s yours. I’ll review it before we submit anything formal.”

She straightens, already flipping to a clean page. “Should I use standard SHIELD report headers?”

“Stick to mission-style structure,” Coulson advises. “Executive summary up top, keep your language precise. Avoid editorializing unless it’s in a clearly marked analysis section. And Este?”

She looks up, pencil poised.

“Don’t be too much of a smartass. That’s what follow-up memos are for.”

Estelle grins, and for the first time since Malibu, the knot in her chest eases.

Outside, the desert stretches vast and endless. The jet presses east, toward Roswell and the storm waiting beyond it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. FIELD REPORT

Dugan, Estele (under direction of Agent Coulson)

Stark Ongoing Observation—Palladium Poisoning: Malibu, California

—————

Director Fury,

This is my first formal field report. Agent Coulson suggested I contribute my observations before we continued on to New Mexico.

Mr. Stark has been working on a replacement element for palladium in his Arc Reactor. He seemed inspired by his father’s work. He used JARVIS to wire-frame the City of Tomorrow model from the 1974 Stark Expo. The pavilions acted like a map for him, and he turned that into a structure for the protons and neutrons of the new element. I watched but didn’t fully follow that part of the science. I’m still learning atomic models on my own.

He’s built a particle accelerator in his workshop. It’s honestly very impressive for something put together in a house. It has coil tubing that looked similar to designs I’ve seen from particle colliders, but scaled down. He tapped into his main power and was doing final checks on the system when we left.

From what I could see, all appeared in order. Mr. Stark was focused and confident. The particle accelerator seemed well-calibrated. I believe he was close to being able to synthesize the new element, though I didn’t see that part completed.

As a side note: While assisting, I came across some of Howard Stark’s notes that mentioned the “Tesseract”. I realize I probably shouldn’t have seen those, but I wanted to report all information I was exposed to. We can sidebar.

Respectfully,

Estelle T. Dugan

Filed through Agent Coulson’s clearance.

[June 1, 2010 (Tuesday) — 11:42 AM (Mountain Time)]

[Highway 380 — En Route to 0-8-4 Site, NM]

Estelle kneels backwards in her seat, chin resting on folded arms atop the headrest, watching the SHIELD convoy trailing behind their vehicle, like beads on a string. Dust kicks up in shimmering waves behind the line of black SUVs and equipment trucks, the desert heat making everything ripple at the edges.

Coulson glances at her in the rearview mirror, opening his mouth like he might tell her to sit correctly. He closes it again. Let her have this one.

“Convoy’s tight,” he says instead. “Staggered diamond formation around the equipment truck, our biggest asset. There’s an overwatch drone running a perimeter grid. You can tell by the spacing they’ve got eyes on both sides.”

Estelle grins over her shoulder at him. “I remember. VIP Escort Sim Two, right? You know, I used to tell my escort drivers to pull over without warning so they’d have to regroup.”

Coulson snorts. “Good practice for them. In the business, we call that pulling an Obama.”

Estelle dissolves into giggles. The convoy, perhaps sensing its small audience, responds in kind—several agents waving or flashing lights, one leaning on the siren and honking in a friendly manner as they pass on the left.

She waves both arms out the window in return, laughing as the last SUV rolls by. “That’s not protocol at all.”

“No, it is not,” Coulson muses, easing the car onto the shoulder as the convoy passes. “Gas stop. Snack stop. Any requests?”

“Something salty. Surprise me,” Estelle says, sliding back into her seat properly.

Coulson nods, stepping out to fuel up. Estelle gets out to stretch and watches the pump meter tick upwards, the dry air humming with cicadas and the low rumble of engines as the convoy shrinks into the distance.

“Watch the pump and the perimeter,” Coulson ruffles her hair and walks into the gas station.

Estelle gives a mock salute and stands with exaggerated posture until he looks back and gives a small laugh at her antics.

She’s about to dig out her notebook when a battered sedan screeches to a halt at the other end of the station lot. Two men jump out—one with a shotgun, the other waving a pistol as they storm toward the station door.

Estelle freezes for half a second before she ducks behind the car to be sure she isn’t seen. Her mind spins through possibilities. She could throw one of the bottles scattered around, create a distraction, maybe clip the guy with the shotgun with the squeegee—but the risks stack up too fast. This isn’t a drill, this isn’t her job, and she’d gotten enough of a lecture after Vanko.

She stealthily slides into the passenger's seat, clicks the radio on, and calls through to Coulson’s comms piece. “Sir. No joke, two armed suspects just entered the station. I’m staying in the car.”

There’s a beat of static, then Coulson’s voice, low and even. “Copy that. It’s an open carry state, so maybe—” She can hear the moment that he sees the two perps. “Never mind. Stay put.”

Estelle grips the radio and listens. From the other end, she catches snippets: Coulson’s calm instructions, the robbers’ barked threats, the clatter of something hitting the floor. Then, a sharp series of sounds she knows from training but has never heard outside of it. Two clean disarms, a thump, another, the clatter of a gun skidding across tile.

It’s over in less than a minute.

When Coulson strides back out, the station clerk peeking nervously through the window behind him, he looks exactly the same as when he went in—except for the faintest smirk and a smudge of dust on his sleeve.

He slides into the driver’s seat and hands her a bag of chips. “Good eye, Dugan. Thanks for the heads-up and for staying put.”

Estelle exhales a nervous chuckle. “Anytime.”

The car pulls back onto the highway, the empty road stretching ahead, the convoy’s dust cloud still faint on the horizon.

[June 1, 2010—1:23 PM]

[0-8-4 Crater Site—Near Puente Antiguo, NM]

The afternoon sun beats down on the crater site, washing the desert in a glare so bright it turns the sand almost white. Around the rim, SHIELD agents bustle between hastily erected tents and connector tunnels, setting up the mobile lab and perimeter defenses. The low hum of generators and comms chatter fills the air, mingling with the dry wind.

Coulson spots Estelle near the mobile lab van, her boots kicking at the cracked earth as she walks a slow circle, head bent over a datapad. She looks up as he approaches.

“Status?” he asks.

“I made everyone put on sunscreen and Barton’s running late,” Estelle says, without looking up from the screen.

Coulson sighs, not surprised in the least. “Of course he is.”

He follows her gaze toward the center of the site, where the 0-8-4— the hammer —gleams dully under the sun, just out of view. Wedged deep in the earth like it’s been waiting centuries to be found.

“No signs of radiation or harmful emissions in the latest readings,” Coulson says, hands resting on his hips. “If you want to take a closer look.”

Estelle’s head snaps up, eyes bright. “Really?”

“Really. Stay close.”

They descend toward the center, boots crunching on loose rock. The hammer looms larger with every step, its edges etched with symbols that catch the light like silver fire. Estelle stares at it, awed.

Coulson sees her awe and decides to seize a teachable moment. “You know the first 0-8-4 was recovered by Peggy Carter—”

“—and the Howling Commandos in 1946. It was found in the last HYDRA base, controlled by Werner Reinhardt. Stashed in crate number 84, which the SSR later designated an ‘object of unknown origin’. That’s where SHIELD gets the 0-8-4 code from.”

Coulson blinks. “Wow, you…did some homework.”

“Dum Dum still talks about it. He said the first 0-8-4 looks more like a paperweight and he swears he touched it, even though the file on it says nobody can survive touching it. It’s been sealed up since ‘46.”

“Did the file also say Corporal Dugan likes to exaggerate?” Coulson laughs and begins to circle the hammer with crossed arms. “Or is that on the family crest?”

Estelle laughs in return, but her interest isn’t so much on stories of the past she’s heard a million times before. Her interest is in the new 0-8-4, for which she already has a solid theory.

“So that’s Thor’s hammer,” she says, half under her breath.

Coulson pauses mid-step, casting her a sharp glance. “Thor’s hammer? What makes you call it that?”

Estelle turns, datapad hugged to her chest. “It looks like the pictures in my books. Mythologies was a unit in Language Arts this spring—we read about Norse gods. Thor had a hammer crafted by dwarves or elves or something.”

Coulson wants to be amused, but he also wants her to take this seriously. “Este, myths are myths. Stories. That’s not fact.”

“Or maybe,” Estelle says, tilting her head thoughtfully, “ancient gods were just aliens. And this is Thor’s hammer for real.”

Coulson presses his lips together, choosing his words with care. “That’s…a leap.”

“So’s the Tesseract, but I saw files on that.”

Coulson’s mind races. Deny it? Confirm it? Neither is a good play.

“Howard wrote about it in some of the files you gave Tony. I probably shouldn’t have been left unsupervised with those. Anyways, he said the Red Skull called it the ‘Jewel of Odin’s Treasure Vault’ which furthers my theory. Gods are aliens and they’ve been here before.”

“The Red Skull being a crazy person doesn’t mean there’s aliens.” Coulson offers, still trying to find ways to talk her out of something she should be clueless about.

Her eyes flick up at him, curious but cautious. She gives him a look that he knows she subconsciously picked up from Melinda. 

“Anyway….” Estelle huffs, ready to move on. Her gaze returns to the hammer. “No one can lift it, right? So Thor—or whoever it belongs to—must be really strong. Not human strong.”

Coulson folds his arms, studying her. He wants to wave it off, remind her to stay grounded. But she’s been right before. Too many times. And the hammer’s presence defies easy explanations.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he says gently. “Let’s stick to what we can observe.”

Estelle nods slowly, but her eyes stay on the hammer. The wind gusts, tugging at her hair, and Estelle almost smiles—like the desert itself is telling her she’s right.

[June 1, 2010—3:17 PM (Mountain Time)]

[0-8-4 Crater Site—Near Puente Antiguo, NM]

Various electronics buzz quietly throughout the command tent, screens casting pale blue light across the fabric walls. Estelle sits cross-legged at a side table, her datapad balanced on her knee, science homework glowing on the screen. A comms array crackles softly nearby, tracking perimeter chatter and sensor feeds.

She’s so focused on a particularly stubborn physics equation that she doesn’t notice the hand until it sets a cold refresher drink down beside her with a soft clunk. Fingers ruffle her hair, and she twists around fast—half startled, half ready to scold.

“Hey, kiddo.” Clint Barton’s grin is all ease and sunshine, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, a little dusty from the drive. “I heard you invented a new element. That’s pretty impressive.”

Estelle’s mouth quirks in amusement. “Tony Stark made the element. I was mostly moral support. And I helped with the particle accelerator, but that’s it.”

Clint drops into the chair beside her, slouching like the desert heat melted half his bones. “Huh. That’s not what Natasha’s report said. Her version is you did all the work, and now SciTech Academy’s fighting to enroll you.”

Estelle snorts, shaking her head. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?” Clint arches a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “Hard to tell these days.”

She narrows her eyes playfully, then pulls up one of the live reports on her datapad, turning it so he can see. “Have you seen my alien theory?”

Clint takes a sip from his own drink, smirking. “If your theory is aliens, I’m a hundred percent on your side.”

Estelle studies him, trying to gauge if he’s serious—but Barton’s grin is infuriatingly unreadable. She presses on anyway. “Look. These close-range scans of the hammer—see this three-sided knot on the head? It appears sometimes in response to scans and touches. That’s a Norse symbol. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Clint leans in, eyes on the screen, nodding along as she talks. “Okay, okay, that’s solid pattern recognition. Any chance you’ve cooked up a non-alien theory, or are we full tin-foil today? Could be…uh…”

She picks up the drink and impatiently sips it. “What else could it possibly be?”

“No clue. Just saying—aliens might not be the only explanation,” Clint shrugs.

Estelle huffs, sitting back in her chair. “You’re all so boring.”

He nudges her shoulder. “Hey, how about this—we’ll go into town once I’m settled. I’ll show you how to do a proper patrol. Lookouts, tells, the whole bit. But your homework’s gotta be done first.”

Her grin returns, bright and unguarded. “Deal.”

Outside, the wind rattles the tent flaps, and beyond the crater’s edge, the hammer waits—silent, immovable, patient.

Chapter Text

[June 1, 2010 (Tuesday)—9:42 PM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Crater Investigation Site—Puente Antiguo, NM]

The surveillance room is actually quiet this evening, which is perfect for Estelle. Monitors line the walls, cycling through a few camera feeds of the perimeter. The storm brewing outside makes the cameras fade to static every so often.

Estelle’s tucked into a corner, cross-legged on a battered swivel chair, her boots hooked onto the edge of the console. A library book she’d acquired while in town sits open across her knees: Norse Mythology: Legends of the Nine Realms . She keeps making notes and placing sticky notes in the margins as she reads, looking for anything about Thor and his hammer.

She’s been like this for over an hour, tuned halfway into the chatter of the agents and halfway into the myths. She’s almost certain now. The hammer. The symbols. The storm that didn’t touch them but bubbled in the sky. It fits.

Footsteps approach, soft at first, then with the easy weight of someone who isn’t trying to sneak. Clint leans against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her.

“You’re supposed to be unwinding,” he says, nodding at the books. “That doesn’t look like unwinding.”

Estelle flips a page. “It’s not for school. It’s for the hammer.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Your alien theory on the big metal block?”

She doesn’t look up. “It’s not a big metal block. It’s Mjölnir.”

When Clint gives an unconvinced huff, she flips the book around to show him the illustration of Thor and Mjölnir—as if it was the most damning piece of evidence in the world.

Before he can answer, the room shifts—tension pulling tight. The monitors flicker uselessly from the storm above. A low alarm thrums, steady at first, then sharp. The comms crackle in and out.

“Perimeter breach. South tunnel. We have an intruder—visual confirmation—male, unarmed—moving fast—”

Agents start moving. Chairs scrape. Voices lift. Estelle snaps the book shut, heart jumping. She slides off the chair, heading for the bank of monitors by the central console, fingers brushing the controls as if she can get them operational again.

“I need visual—” she starts.

“Nope.”

She barely registers the voice before Clint’s arms sweep her up, clean off the floor. She lets out a sharp breath, kicking once in surprise.

“Barton—put me down—”

“Not happening, kid.” His grip is firm but not unkind as he strides from the room, already angling toward the saferoom corridor.

“It’s him!” Estelle says, twisting to try to see the monitors as they pass. “It’s Thor. I can prove it. He’s just here for the hammer—”

“That’s great. We’ll ask him all about it when he’s in custody.”

“I’m serious!” She presses both hands against his shoulder, pushing at him, but he doesn’t even slow. “You don’t understand, he just wants to get his hammer back so he can—”

Clint snorts. He can’t help it, even as he jogs down the hall. “You’re really giving me a mythology lesson right now?”

“Yes! Because you’re making the wrong call!” She’s breathless with frustration, not physically trying to get away anymore, but very much being vocal.

He skids to the saferoom door, slaps the panel, and sets her down inside. She considers bolting, but she doubts it’d work.

“Stay put. Not kidding.”

Estelle’s glare could shatter the reinforced glass if it had any. “You’re going to see I was right.”

Clint flashes an exhausted grin, backing away out the door. “Can’t wait.”

And then she’s alone with nothing to fill the sealed room except her seething silence. Estelle presses both fists against the wall for a second, breathing hard, then sinks to sit on the floor, knees pulled up. Her books are gone—left behind in the rush. All she can do now is listen.

The comms filter through the walls—muffled, fragmented. Orders shouted. The crack of boots on the ground. Someone yelling about the target reaching the hammer. A beat of stillness, then the voice again: “Subject down—on his knees—he’s not attacking—he’s…he’s stopped.”

Estelle closes her eyes. She lets out a slow breath, a mix of vindication and fury.

“See?” she mutters, voice small in the saferoom’s echo. “I was right.”

[June 2, 2010 (Wednesday)—7:12 AM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Crater Investigation Site | Saferoom—Puente Antiguo, NM]

The Saferoom is sealed and relatively cold, which is welcome compared to the desert heat outside. Estelle’s sitting upright on the cot in the corner now, back against the wall, legs crossed, staring at nothing. The adrenaline’s long gone, but the heat of her anger stayed all night, coiled tight in her chest.

The door unlocks with a soft hiss.

Coulson steps inside, looking every bit like he hasn’t slept either. His tie is loose, jacket slung over one arm.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Sorry about having to put you up for the night. There was a hostile. That shouldn’t have happened.”

Estelle pushes up before she remembers she’s mad. “Did he get the hammer?” The words tumble out. “Is he still out there? Is he going to help us? Are more aliens coming—?”

Coulson holds up a hand—not to stop her, just to slow her. “Another man named Dr. Selvig came shortly after we apprehended the hostile. According to Dr. Selvig, the man’s name is Donald Blake. A scientist friend. He was upset with SHIELD for apprehending research related to the 0-8-4 and atmospheric data around the time of its appearance.”

Estelle frowns, fast. “Apprehending research? We stole from other scientists?”

Coulson doesn’t blink. “We secured materials from an unprotected site during an active investigation.”

Her eyes narrow. “So we did.”

“Estelle.”

She folds her arms, staring hard at the floor, chewing on that. But the pieces don’t fit. “That’s just what Selvig said to cover for him. I mean—if it was Thor, of course he’d have allies trying to help him stay under the radar.”

Coulson’s face is unreadable. “You’re building an entire hypothesis on nothing but stories.”

“They’re not stories.” Her voice is quiet but fierce. “They’re patterns. Myths come from somewhere.”

“And we’ve got no proof of gods. No proof of aliens.”

Estelle’s fists clench, then relax. She bites down her next argument. No point. Not right now.

“Fine.” She exhales sharply. “Do we still have eyes on the town? On the scientists?”

Coulson nods. “Patrol units report in every hour.”

“Good.” Estelle pushes herself to her feet, dusting off her pants. “Then I’m going to shadow the patrol. I want to see for myself what’s going on in town.”

Coulson opens his mouth—instinct ready to tell her to stay put, rest, regroup.

But Estelle cuts him off, chin high. “I’m here to learn. Not to be in a box.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Coulson’s mouth quirks, just slightly.

“Don’t give Barton a heart attack.”

Estelle’s already moving. “Not my fault if he spooks easy.”

And she’s gone down the hall, determined, leaving Coulson watching after her, the ghost of a smile lingering.

[June 2, 2010 (Wednesday)—11:03 AM]

[Puente Antiguo—Downtown]

Heat shimmers faintly on the streets below, the sun nearly as high as it’s going to be all day. Estelle crouches on the edge of a low rooftop, binoculars trained on the quiet town below. The streets look peaceful—too peaceful—like the storm hasn’t broken yet.

Her eyes are trained on the townspeople going about their business below, utterly oblivious to the alien artefact a few miles from here and the fact that their whole street is on watch.

Agent Cade stands behind her, arms crossed, his boot tapping against the rooftop gravel. Agent Peters leans against the AC unit, chewing on a toothpick like it’s his only job. Two more agents are dining in the restaurant below, not taking patrol as seriously as their appetites, in her opinion.

Estelle lowers the binoculars. “We should spread out,” she says, glancing between them. “If we fan east and west, we can cover more ground. I can take east.”

Cade snorts without looking at her. “Oh, yeah, let’s split up. Great idea.”

Peters doesn’t even move his eyes from the street. “Tell you what—why don’t you look for any unusual locals. Like maybe someone with three heads.”

Cade grins. “Or little green men. Let us know if you see any of those.”

Estelle straightens, the weight of their dismissal settling cold in her chest. “Copy that,” she says, voice clipped but calm. No use arguing. They’re not listening anyway.

She slings her backpack over her shoulders and moves toward the ladder, feeling their eyes on the top of her head until she disappears from view.

Once her boots hit the pavement, she slows, breathing in the stillness. The air smells like dust and sun-baked brick. Her mind hums, cataloging what she knows: Thor’s allies would have come for him. If they were hostile, there’d be commotion already—sirens, people shouting, damage. But the town is still quiet.

She cuts down an alley, angles toward the next street—and that’s when she sees them.

Four figures, one woman and four men, walking steadily down the sidewalk like they own it. The woman moves like a blade unsheathed; the largest man swings an axe like it’s an afterthought. The other two scan their surroundings, alert but not tense.

Their armor gleams like polished coin under the sun, and the air around them seems to hum with something she can’t name—not menace, but power.

Estelle freezes in place, breath caught, heart racing.

Are they a threat?

She watches—really watches—the way they move. No use of their weapons. No aggression. Just purpose. And curiosity. People on a mission, not a rampage.

Okay, she thinks. Driven, not hostile.

Decision made, she steps out of the alley, keeping her hands loose at her sides, posture open.

“Excuse me!” she calls, voice carrying clear across the street. “Are you Thor’s friends? Are you from Asgard?”

They stop as one. The woman’s hand falls to the hilt of her sword, but she doesn’t draw. The large man tilts his head, squinting at Estelle like she’s some odd creature he can’t quite place.

“We are,” says Volstagg (though she doesn’t know his name), voice warm but wary. “And…yes. From Asgard.”

Sif steps forward, studying Estelle’s petite figure, the determined set of her mouth. “How do you know of Asgard, little one?”

“I read,” Estelle says, like that should be obvious. “And I pay attention.”

Fandral’s grin flashes. “Then perhaps you can aid us. Have you seen Thor? Is he well?”

Hogun’s gaze sharpens. “He was banished here, but we must retrieve him.”

“Banished?” Her head tilts sharply, filing and processing this new tidbit. “Is that why he couldn’t lift his hammer? Did he lose his power?”

“He is without Mjölnir?” Sif’s eyebrows etch together with concern.

Estelle hesitates, choosing her words with care. “He tried to get his hammer back last night. From my base. He couldn’t lift it.” She pauses. “One of his other friends came to get him after. He wasn’t hurt. Just…frustrated, I think.”

They exchange glances—relief mingling with confusion.

“Your base?” Sif asks, frowning.

Estelle nods, keeping it vague. “A secure site. It’s not important.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Hogun asks, voice low, steady.

“No,” she admits. “But I can help you find him!”

Fandral is instantly amused. “Oh, a scout familiar with the terrain. Delightful.”

“Yeah,” Estelle says without hesitation. They’re taking her seriously, which she’s eager to maintain. “But let’s not start looking here. Too easy for patrols to spot you.”

She waves them toward the side street, leading them away from the main drag. Every step, her mind races: I was right. I was right about everything.

For a second, she thinks about calling it in and telling SHIELD. But she remembers the Saferoom. Cade and Peters. Coulson’s doubts. Being treated like she was chasing fairy tales.

No.

This is hers.

As they move through the quieter streets, Estelle looks up at them, curiosity burning through her like wildfire.

“What’s Asgard like? Do you really have a rainbow bridge? Is that how you got here? Can anyone else lift Mjölnir? Are there other weapons like it? How long can you stay before you have to go back? Do you age like us?”

Volstagg booms a laugh. “Such a sharp mind for one so small!”

“I like her,” Fandral says. “Ask, child. We will answer.”

And they do—taking turns fielding her questions, painting pictures of shining towers, lavish feasts, battles fought for honor, and the strange magic that brought them to this world.

Estelle pulls her notebook from her backpack and soaks up every word, walking beside them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Volstagg chuckles, peering at her scribbles. “A scholar and a scout. Truly, even in banishment, Thor finds the most remarkable allies.”

She smiles to herself. Ally of Thor has a nice ring to it, she thinks, though they’ve yet to meet. Every step away from the patrol, from the agents who wouldn’t listen, feels like stepping closer to where she’s meant to be.

[June 2, 2010 (Wednesday)—11:41 AM]

[Puente Antiguo—Smith Motors]

They walk the town’s side streets, Estelle leading with quiet confidence, the Asgardians keeping pace, their armor catching the morning light in odd, flickering patterns. She scans ahead, watching for patrols as if they’re actually being diligent. Seeing none, as expected, she carries on leading the way.

And then they round a corner and there it is—Smith Motors, the empty auto shop.

The building slumps under the weight of time and weather, a patchwork of corrugated siding and cracked windows. But through the dusty glass doors, Estelle can see activity—figures moving, heads bent around a table in the way a team formulates a plan.

“He might be there,” she says, pointing.

The Asgardians follow her gaze. Without hesitation, they cross the street, boots crunching gravel and dust, until they stand at the doors. Thor is inside, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leans over a table, listening to Jane Foster. Selvig gestures at some readout, while Darcy scribbles something down, tongue poking out in concentration.

It takes only a second for the group’s approach to draw attention. Jane looks up first, eyes wide, and then Thor turns, freezing as he sees who stands outside.

Estelle pauses, letting the Warriors Three and Sif take the lead, but she stays close. They push open the glass doors, the creak of old hinges loud in the quiet shop. The air inside is only slightly cooler than outside, heavy with the scent of old oil and dust disturbed by their entrance.

“Thor,” Volstagg booms, relief plain in his voice. “At last!”

Sif steps forward, smiling despite the tension. “We have come to bring you home.”

Jane glances between Thor and the newcomers, bewildered but intrigued. Selvig looks alarmed. Darcy just blurts, “Okay, wow, more Asgardians? And…a kid?”

Thor’s face opens with hope, then twists with grief—like seeing them hurts more than not seeing them at all. “You should not have come,” he says softly. “I cannot go with you. I am exiled. Odin is dead.”

Sif’s brow furrows. “No. Odin lives.”

Hogun’s voice is low and steady. “We have seen him with our own eyes. In Odinsleep. It is Loki who speaks for the throne now, and he must be stopped.”

Thor’s shoulders are hunched, his hair hanging loose around his face while he processes, as if the weight of the world presses down. Jane’s hand hovers near his arm, a silent comfort.

Fandral nods. “Come with us, Thor. All is not lost.”

Estelle stands a little back, watching the reunion unfold, heart pounding. She can feel the eyes of the scientists on her now—small, out of place, but part of this somehow.

“I’m Estelle,” she offers, almost as an afterthought, not wanting the silence to stretch. She keeps it simple—no context, no SHIELD, nothing to complicate things. “I’m…not an alien.”

Thor’s friends glance her way. Volstagg grins. “She was of great help to us. A most resourceful guide.”

Jane studies Estelle, questions forming, but she says nothing—not yet.

Estelle keeps her expression neutral, but her mind races. These must be the scientists SHIELD stole from. She files that away, the weight of nuance too heavy to unpack here.

And then—before more can be said—a shift in the air.

A distant sound, like wind pulling at the edge of the world. They all turn as one.

Far off, beyond the town’s edge, the sky swirls and fractures. A column of light begins to pierce down through the clouds. The Bifrost.

Estelle notes the swirl of light, the concentric pattern where it touches the clouds, the way the ground hums faintly beneath their feet—already trying to map cause to effect, already seeking the logic beneath the spectacle.

For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks.

Nine figures, human and Asgardian alike, stand together in the doorway of a forgotten auto shop, staring at the impossible made real.

Chapter Text

[June 2, 2010 (Wednesday)—11:47 AM]

[Puente Antiguo, NM]

The light splits the sky wide open.

Estelle fumbles in her backpack, hands shaking as she pulls out the binoculars and adjusts the focus. Colors pour down from the heavens—silver and violet, blue and gold—a storm of light and wind that crackles against the ground like a living thing. The air hums with energy, static raising the fine hairs on her arms.

She gasps. There, in the heart of the storm, something takes shape. Towering. Humanoid, but wrong. The thing’s surface glints like molten metal frozen in time, all smooth plates and edges, no face—just a slit where eyes should be, burning white-hot. The ground quakes beneath it as it steps forward, impossibly steady.

Estelle’s voice is tight, clipped. “It’s tall. Humanoid form, but it’s not human. Metal? The face is just—just slits. Glowing from inside. No pilot. I don’t see a cockpit, I don’t see—”

Volstagg swears under his breath. “The Destroyer.”

Fandral’s expression darkens. “Loki. He’s sent it after Thor.”

The words barely register. Estelle lowers the binoculars. She’s already moving.

“Get them out of here,” she shouts, breaking into a run down the main street. People are clustered, pointing, and gawking at the strange light in the distance. “You need to clear the town! Now! It’s not safe!”

Some turn. Some sneer, the way adults do when they think a kid’s playing at something. But her tone—sharp, authoritative—makes more than a few hesitate.

Selvig’s the first to act. “She’s right. Everyone go! Move!” He grabs the nearest person by the arm, steering them toward cover.

Darcy blinks, then finds her voice. “Yeah! This isn’t a show! Go, go, go!”

Jane runs after Selvig, pulling at people, yelling over the rising wind.

Estelle keeps moving, waving her arms, directing—herding—anyone who’ll listen out of the buildings lining the main road and to sturdier shelters out of the line of fire. The sky is greyer now, clouds swirling, the storm of the Bifrost leaving bruises on the horizon. The Destroyer’s steps pound like war drums, getting closer.

Estelle ducks and presses in tight around the corner of a concrete building, hard against her shoulder. The others join her in the space, breathing hard. Jane, Darcy, Selvig…and Thor.

The Destroyer pauses. The furnace-glow in its slit-face builds—white to yellow to searing orange. With a hiss like a thousand forges, it opens. Fire erupts, a focused blast that vaporizes whatever it touches. The Warriors Three scatter, Sif vaulting high, spear flashing as she strikes at a joint. Sparks shower the ground. The Destroyer doesn’t falter.

Estelle peeks every so often to see the Asgardians minus Thor doing their utmost to bring the Destroyer down to no avail. Volstagg is thrown onto the hood of a car, and Sif’s spear proves useless in harming the Destroyer, even when stabbed through its chest. Fandral and Hogun run into the fight as well, only to be sent through the glass of the local diner.

Estelle wonders where the SHIELD patrol has gone. Either they fled, or—she doesn’t let herself consider something worse. Even in the chaos, she surely would’ve seen them. All she sees now is a winless fight and…

Her thoughts snap back into something more organized, and she turns on Thor. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re Thor. You should be out there!”

Another blast. Hogun’s shield shatters. Volstagg is thrown back, groaning. Sif moves like lightning, drawing the thing’s attention—but it’s too strong, too relentless.

Thor shakes his head, eyes on the street. “They can handle it. I have no power now. I would only get in their way.”

Estelle scowls, actually leaning forward and smacking his arm. “It’s after you ! You think hiding is going to stop it? Cowering won’t bring your power back. Take responsibility.”

Her words hit him like a blow.

Thor draws a slow breath, the weight of truth settling on him. “Loki means for me to perish.”

Estelle’s voice softens but stays fierce. “Then don’t let him win. Be the Thor all us Earthlings read about.”

For a beat, Thor holds her gaze. Then he straightens. Walks out.

Estelle presses back against the wall, her breath shallow as she watches him go.

Thor stands in the open, unarmed, small against the great, gleaming monster. The Destroyer halts, head turning as if listening for some silent command.

Sif and the battered Warriors Three fall back as if Thor alone can stop what’s coming.

Estelle’s breath catches. She’s seen courage before—Coulson’s, May’s, Natasha’s—but this is something else. Something older. Larger.

Thor lifts his voice, steady and strong. “Brother. Whatever I have done to wrong you, I am truly sorry. But these people have done you no harm. I beg you—leave them be. Take me, if that is your will.”

Estelle’s heart drops to her stomach when she hears that. No, that’s not the plan.

The Destroyer pauses, acting like Thor’s words have reached it. The glow in its face dims for a breath. It even turns away, causing the others to believe the fight has truly been quelled. Too easy , Estelle thinks. Then—

It whips back around with an arm swinging and strikes.

A single, brutal swipe sends Thor flying, his body hitting the ground with a sickening crack, skidding limp across the dirt.

“No,” Jane breathes, breaking from cover. She runs to him, tears starting, calling his name.

Estelle follows, slower, fear thick in her throat.

The Destroyer turns away. Mission complete. It begins to walk, slow and deliberate, the fire in its core cooling.

Something in the wind shifts yet again. Thor, weakened as he was, pleaded for the lives of humans as being above his own. And paid greatly for that. Such a willingness to give his life, to see the worth of this realm’s people, has made him worthy again.

Estelle looks up, eyes wide. “Jane. Look.”

High above, Mjölnir stirs. The storm answers.

The hammer flies, a comet of silver, roaring toward its master.

Estelle grabs Jane’s sleeve, tugging her back, shielding them both as power crackles through the air.

“Stay back,” she murmurs, eyes on the sky. “You’ll wanna see this.”

Mjölnir slams into Thor’s palm with the sound of the world snapping into place. Lightning bursts outward, a star’s heart made flesh. It wraps around him, arcs of white-blue electricity dancing across his skin, his hair lifting in the charged air.

Estelle blinks against the brilliance, awestruck. She’s seen incredible things—Stark’s suit, SHIELD’s tech—but this isn’t science. This is legend made real.

Thor rises. The dirt and blood on him vanish in the light. His armor forms out of the storm itself—silver plates sliding into place, the red cape unfurling behind him like a banner.

The Destroyer, halfway turned away, halts. It pivots back, as if realizing—too late—that its task is unfinished. 

For a breath, the world holds still.

Estelle feels Jane’s hand tighten on her arm. Darcy lets out a stunned “Holy shit.” Selvig just stares, mouth open.

Thor lifts Mjölnir high, and the storm answers again. He hurls himself skyward, hammer pulling him into the air. Wind screams through the town, debris and dust whirling in a furious dance. Cars shift, pushed by the vortex he summons.

Estelle’s neck cranes to look up, heart in her throat. She’s read about gods, seen their stories in books, but she’s never imagined what it would feel like to be there , to feel their storms.

Thor spins Mjölnir faster and faster, pulling the storm tighter, higher. The Destroyer fires, streams of furnace-light that he deflects with arcs of lightning and the hammer’s unbreakable head—sparks rain like meteors.

He closes the distance, a blur of red and silver and stormlight. He drives Mjölnir forward, catching the next blast mid-air and hurling it back down the Destroyer’s throat.

The world shatters.

A shockwave blasts outward, rattling windows, sending pebbles and dust flying. Estelle staggers, and Volstagg steps in behind her, bracing her with a steadying hand as the ground trembles.

She swallows hard, eyes locked on the sky. Of all the heroes she’s seen, Thor is the most mythical.

The Destroyer crashes to the earth, limp and broken. The storm begins to fade as the clouds part, the sun slicing through the dust.

And through that haze, Thor strides forward. Calm. Unhurried. Like he’s always been meant to walk through storms and come out the other side.

Estelle exhales, long and slow. “Okay,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “That’s… that’s Thor.”

Thor strides from the dust, and the town holds its breath.

The storm’s last winds die away, leaving the intersection quiet, save for the soft creak of a swinging shop sign, the distant clatter of a dislodged trash bin rolling to a stop. Estelle, Jane, Darcy, Selvig, Sif, and the Warriors Three gather in the street, hearts still racing, faces streaked with dust.

Jane steps forward first, her voice shaky but warm. “I like the new look.”

Thor smiles, the tension easing from his face. “I’m glad.” His gaze softens as it settles on her, and for a second, the destruction around them fades from Estelle’s mind.

Then Thor turns to Estelle, lowering himself to one knee so they’re eye-to-eye. His armor gleams, but his tone is humble. “Your words gave me strength. Your courage reminded me of my duty. I thank you, brave one.”

Estelle opens her mouth, unsure what to say, when a sharp voice cuts through the moment.

“Brave one?”

Coulson.

He appears from the edge of the square, stepping out of a SHIELD SUV that’s somehow slipped onto the scene unnoticed. Three agents fan out behind him, hands resting near their sidearms, eyes wary. Coulson walks briskly, pulling Estelle gently but firmly behind him, one hand on her shoulder.

“Well, Donald,” Coulson says, the name dripping sarcasm, “that was…impressive. You want to explain why I had to watch a giant tin can level a small town because nobody around here could be straight with me?”

Selvig shifts guiltily, but Estelle jumps in first. “Because you wouldn’t have believed them.” Her tone is sharper than she intends, some form of adrenaline and exasperation bubbling up.

Coulson gives her a look—measured, unimpressed—but there’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

Thor rises, stepping forward. “Peace, Son of Coul. I wish no harm to your realm. I wish only to protect it, as you do. And I tell you this—your young comrade was a great help to me and mine. She is a valuable warrior.”

Coulson’s brows arch, mouth twitching toward a smirk he schools quickly. “She’s ten years old. Not a warrior.”

Thor looks genuinely puzzled. “She is not? She has the heart of one.”

Estelle glances at Sif and the Warriors Three. Sif nods, solemn. Fandral and Hogun bow their heads in silent agreement. Even Volstagg gives a proud grin beneath his beard.

Estelle lifts her chin. “We’re friends now. Maybe SHIELD could start by returning Jane’s and Selvig’s property.”

Coulson sighs, but there’s a glint of reluctant pride in his gaze. “We’ll see what we can do.” He gives her a subtle, cool it look—his version of a reminder not to push her luck. “After all, they have a lot of research to continue.”

Thor’s attention shifts back to Jane. “It is time,” he says gently, “to see the bridge.”

Before Coulson can open his mouth, Thor wraps an arm around Jane and lifts off, Mjölnir spinning, carrying them skyward.

“Hey! I still need to debrief—” Coulson calls, but they’re already gone, lost to the wind and the widening sky.

Estelle crosses her arms, smirking just a little. “Happy to give my version of events. For the official report. Just stating the facts from my perspective. I’m sure I…noticed some things that maybe others didn’t.”

Coulson levels a look at her. “Estelle.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “Or you could ask the patrol team…Say, where is the patrol team?”

One of the nearby agents coughs awkwardly, pretending not to hear. Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose, but there’s no real heat behind it.

[June 3, 2010 (Thursday)—9:18 AM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Field Office—Roswell, NM]

Estelle is getting tired of the hum from small rooms, overhead lights, and walls of computer monitors. That’s all she thinks about in the field office debrief room, waiting for the inevitable reprimand that would overshadow the legitimate report she wanted to give.

Her notebook sits in front of her with notes from the past few days scrawled over the last fifteen or so pages. Morning light filters through the reinforced windows, casting pale stripes across it as she skims over her work.

Estelle sits straight-backed at one end, hands folded tightly in front of her. Across from her, Fury walks in, studying a datapad, silent long enough that the low whir of the A/C feels deafening. Coulson follows and leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.

Fury sets the pad down. His gaze pins her.

“Miss Dugan,” he says, voice low but steady, “let’s start with your version of what happened yesterday.”

Estelle takes a slow breath, glancing over her notebook for assistance, for her script. “There was an energy signature consistent with SHIELD’s observations. I tracked the Bifrost’s arrival visually and identified a hostile entity, later confirmed as the Destroyer. I evaluated the civilian threat, attempted to evacuate the town, and indirectly supported Thor and his allies in neutralizing the target.”

Fury’s brow lifts slightly. He reaches over, closing her notebook and sliding it away from her. “Good summary. What are you leaving out?”

Estelle hesitates, her armor gone, then answers. “I deviated from my designated patrol. I engaged civilians and unknown parties without clearance. I placed myself at risk.”

Coulson’s expression softens for half a second. Fury steps closer, voice quiet but firm.

“And what would’ve happened if that Destroyer decided to aim at you ? If Thor hadn’t gotten his hammer back?”

Estelle meets his gaze, pulse loud in her ears. She thinks about it, only needing a moment. “The Destroyer was sent for Thor. That was its objective. I did not directly engage it, so there was never a risk of it targeting me to get to him. When it thought it had killed him, it disengaged. If Thor hadn’t regained his power, it would have left.”

Fury pauses, considering. But he’s not done. “You’re not wrong about its intent. But you don’t bet your life on what an enemy should do. That’s not how this works.”

Estelle thinks hard, then leans in, her voice low but earnest. “I understand, sir. I do.”

There’s a long silence wherein she’s still thinking. Then, something occurs to her and she speaks up again. “But I’m confused about what any other agent would’ve done differently in that moment. Unless it’s above my clearance, there’s no protocol for alien threats. No containment strategy, no tools that could stop something like that. The Asgardians were our best chance—and I deferred to them when it mattered.”

Fury looks ready to speak again, but she continues. “Also, where was SHIELD’s patrol? I didn’t see them once it started. Coulson’s team got there after it was over.”

The words hang in the air, sharper for how calmly she delivers them.

Coulson glances at Fury, the barest flicker of agreement in his eyes. Fury doesn’t bristle; he listens, weighing her logic.

“You’re right,” Fury says finally. His voice stays even, but there’s a steel thread beneath. “We didn’t have a plan. We’re hoping to change that, which is above your clearance right now. And you’re going to help build that someday. But you can’t do that if you don’t live long enough to see it through. That’s what this is about. Preparation.”

Coulson steps forward, adding gently, “Which also means consequences. So here’s what happens. For the next month, no shadowing. You’ll wrap up the school year, then start Widow’s curriculum at Communications Academy—no field proximity. You’ll stay on campus and keep learning safely. Until we’re sure you’re thinking strategy first.”

Estelle nods, jaw tight but accepting.

“And you’re writing the official report on New Mexico,” Coulson continues. “Every detail. You’ll own it, top to bottom.”

Fury’s gaze softens just a fraction. “You did good, Dugan. No one’s saying you didn’t. We just want to make sure you’re here to do good again.”

Estelle lets out a breath, shoulders easing. “Understood, sir.”

Coulson uncrosses his arms. “Let’s get to work.”

INTERNAL RESPONSES TO REPORT—NEW MEXICO INCIDENT_ETD030610

—————

[Extract—SHIELD Internal Messaging | Agent Jasper Sitwell to Agent John Garrett]

“Hey, are you reading the New Mexico after-action? I hit page two before I realized who the author was. It’s one thing they let her be there, but writing big reports now? Still reads tighter than most Level 5 submissions I’ve audited. She’ll need a Supervising Officer someday if you don’t plan to retire by then.”

—————

[Extract—SHIELD Operations Review | Maria Hill Notes to Self]

“Dugan’s report shows meticulous situational awareness. Her assessment of the Destroyer’s behavior and the Asgardian engagement is clear. I want to flag this for internal training review. Note: Maybe don’t mention in the training review who wrote it.”

—————

[Extract—SHIELD Internal Messaging | Agent Felix Blake to Agent Victoria Hand]

“If you haven’t read the New Mexico AAR, bump it to the top of your queue. It’s Dugan. Yeah, that Dugan. The kid’s sharp. Little unsettling how sharp. And a little unsettling Coulson gets away with having a non-cadet minor in these settings.”

—————

[Extract—SHIELD Science Division | Agent Clint Barton to Agent Phil Coulson, CC: Romanoff]

“I’ve attached the SHIELD report on the Destroyer’s body for your records. Dr. Selvig has agreed to join the team and assist with alien assessments going forward, and I expect Fury will assign him to PEGASUS. Este’s report here is insane, by the way. Comms better watch out.”

—————

[Extract—Fury’s Private Margin Note on the PDF]

[RESTRICTED. CLEARANCE LEVEL ALPHA.]

[See attached directive—potential asset trajectory]

—————

[Extract—SHIELD HR Flag | Auto-Generated Summary Note]

“After-action report on New Mexico incident authored by Estelle T. Dugan, age 10. Content reviewed: no security breaches. Noteworthy: unusually detailed threat assessment, accurate tactical timeline, recommendations flagged as reasonable. Forwarded for archival in Strategic Lessons Learned.”

—————

[Extract—SHIELD Oversight Division | Agent Robert Gonzales to SHIELD HR, CC: Hill, Hand, Sitwell]

“Request immediate reconsideration of the attached HR auto-summary regarding after-action report New Mexico Incident_ETD030610. The AI’s ‘no security breaches’ flag fails to address the core issue: the author is a ten-year-old non-cadet minor with no official standing in SHIELD’s field operations or reporting hierarchy.

That fact alone constitutes a procedural breach, regardless of content integrity. Further, I have serious doubts the AI algorithm weighed the author’s age and status when producing this note. At minimum, this should trigger a formal review at the directorate level. Recommend we halt archival to Strategic Lessons Learned until this is addressed.”

Chapter Text

[June 14, 2010 (Monday) through July 2, 2010 (Friday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Communications Academy]

The Comms Academy campus didn’t look like much at first—a classic, unassuming complex like any other college campus. But to Estelle, stepping through its doors on the first day of her summer break from Léman felt like crossing into something enormous.

Her uniform blazer felt stiff despite the tailoring. The Academy crest felt heavier than the patch’s weight could explain. She kept a hand on the strap of her bag, thumb brushing over the zipper pull like she was grounding herself.

Inside, the air smelled like clean plastic and stationery. New carpets, new whiteboards, new faces.

Her first few weeks unfolded in a rhythm that felt almost familiar, like the first pages of a textbook she'd already read. The fundamentals came first—

SHIELD ethics: prioritize preservation over pride; the truth is a tool, not a trophy.

Lab Protocols: for analysts, wear your badge where it can be seen, gloves where they’re required, and your humility everywhere else.

Incident Procedures: emphasizing emotional regulation—breathe, assess, report, assist if qualified.

And a primer on SHIELD’s preferred digital systems.

The instructors introduced voice-matching software through polished demos. Snippets of distorted chatter were cleaned into recognizable words. Face-matching modules followed, accompanied by warnings about bias and the potential for false positives. Estelle absorbed it all, hungry for the challenge she’d built up in her head.

She took notes out of habit, but half the time, her pen moved ahead of the lecture.

By the second week, the cracks started to show.

Reviews of digital literacy became repetitive, the same commands and workflows she’d mastered on her personal systems long before summer started. The ethics modules circled back on themselves, restating principles she’d internalized when she first set foot in HQ at six. Lab protocols became safety theater—hand-washing reminders, badge etiquette, and how to hold your datapad properly during a technical debrief.

At first, she thought the instructors were just easing the class in, that the summer track was meant to smooth the transition before the real pace kicked in with the full academic year. In the middle of week three, she wasn’t so sure.

The frustration built quietly. She finished the exercises early. She coded her own face-matching simulations in the corner of her notebook, setting parameters more stringent than those in class. She compiled lists of software limitations the instructors hadn’t mentioned, then politely held her tongue when the same limitations tripped up her peers.

It was out of boredom. It was out of need. Need for pace, for precision, for a sense that the walls of this place were as sharp and solid as she’d imagined.

And something else nagged at her.

Each module on incident protocols referenced hostile actors, rogue operatives, cyberattacks, domestic and international threats. But nowhere—nowhere—did the materials mention extraterrestrial encounters.

Not once.

No exercises framed around off-world threats. No debrief templates for “unidentified celestial phenomenon.” No protocols for what to do if a glowing hammer fell from the sky or a biomechanical giant walked through Manhattan.

She scoured the training server in her free time, certain she’d missed it. But if it was there, she didn’t have clearance.

That, more than anything else, gave her pause.

Was SHIELD this underprepared? Or was she still too small a piece on the board to be handed the real playbook?

[July 2, 2010 (Friday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Communications Academy]

Estelle steps out into the sticky summer air, grateful for the breeze that cuts between the buildings. The sky’s a flat, hazy blue, the kind that makes the campus feel uncharacteristically serene. She tugs at her blazer, debating whether it’s worth keeping on until she reaches the dorm.

She’s halfway down the path when she spots him.

Coulson, sitting on a bench like he’s been there all along. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, posture loose in that careful way of his—relaxed, but alert.

Estelle slows, raising a brow as she approaches.

“Well,” she says, dropping onto the far end of the bench. “This is familiar. You’re not here to tell me someone died, are you?”

The words are out before she can stop them. The joke’s sharp around the edges, even for her.

Coulson’s smile flickers, just briefly, behind the glasses.

“Nope,” he says gently. “Not today.”

There’s a beat where she considers apologizing, but it feels clumsy. Instead, she pushes herself up again.

“Walk with me?”

“Always.”

They fall into step along the path, the sound of their shoes mixing with the hum of cicadas and distant traffic.

Estelle kicks at a pebble. “It’s been…fine—the Academy. I mean, I like the work. I like some of the instructors. I’m learning things. Just not at the pace I thought I would. They’re...slowing it down. I don’t know if it’s because it’s summer or because they think I need it easier, but it’s like I’m stuck re-learning things I already knew.”

Coulson nods, listening, hands in his pockets. “Sometimes a revision is good,” he offers.

“And there’s nothing in the materials about extraterrestrials. Not one single mention. Either SHIELD doesn’t have any protocols, which I don’t believe for a second, or I don’t have clearance for them, which is probably more accurate.”

He lets her get it all out before replying.

“You’re overdue for a vacation,” he says, like he’s been waiting for just the right pause.

Estelle shoots him a look. “Monaco was a vacation. New Mexico was a vacation.”

“Monaco was a Stark fiasco you stepped into,” Coulson says, smiling now. “And New Mexico? That was a front row seat to a literal godfight. Neither of those count.”

Estelle snorts. “I don’t really get the appeal of grown-up vacations. Sitting around doing nothing. I like doing things.”

“This one comes with a dash of SHIELD business,” Coulson offers, and sure enough, that gets her attention.

She narrows her eyes. “Wait—I thought I was grounded from shadowing. After New Mexico.”

“It’s been a month,” he reminds her. “Your Academy work’s solid, you’ve kept your head down, and the organization’s had a little time to cool off. I wouldn’t call this shadowing, anyway. You’re mostly going to unwind. Actually unwind. That’s an order.”

Estelle considers that, gazing at the treeline.

“Where?” she asks finally.

Coulson’s smile widens, just a little. “Pack light. You’ll find out soon enough.”

[July 4, 2010 (Sunday)]

[A Diner off US-41—Everglades, FL]

The last few days had felt like living someone else’s life.

Estelle could admit, at least to herself, that Florida hadn’t been as boring as she’d feared. Of course, very few ten-year-olds, even Estelle, could resist the most magical place on earth: Disney World.

Coulson, of all people, had leaned into the vacation with an almost unsettling enthusiasm. She’d caught him in a tropical shirt (the kind with parrots and pineapples, no less), sunglasses that looked like they belonged on a beach, and a pair of Mickey ears that he’d worn unironically for most of an afternoon. He took pictures, actually stopped to watch parades, and pointed out Hidden Mickeys like it was his full-time job.

Estelle had played along, more or less. Disney World had been fun in its own way, even if she’d spent most of her time at the Jedi Training Academy in Hollywood Studios. The show was a little too theatrical for her taste—too much smoke, too much rehearsed banter—but pretending to duel Darth Vader with a plastic lightsaber wasn’t the worst way to kill an hour.

Now, though, the vacation vibe had finally cracked.

They were sitting in a tired diner at the edge of the Everglades, the kind with sticky menus and a faded gator head mounted above the register. The afternoon sun slanted through warped blinds, catching the dust in the air.

Estelle leaned forward over her plate, eyeing Coulson.

“So…what’s this meeting about?”

Coulson stirred his coffee. “What do you know about the Hulk situation?”

Estelle frowned, trying to piece it together. “Not much. I remember…after I got back to Brooklyn from New Mexico, the mayor came on TV. Said something about the danger in Harlem and told people to stay inside. That’s it.”

Coulson nodded, as if he’d expected that. “There was an incident in Harlem about a month ago. Hulk was involved. But so was someone else—Emil Blonsky. You’ll see him referred to as Abomination in the reports. Enhanced operative. Went rogue. Caused massive damage before Hulk stopped him.”

Estelle picked up a fry, turning it over between her fingers.

“Okay…”

Coulson set down his mug. “The World Security Council thinks Blonsky would be a good candidate for the Avengers Initiative.”

She nearly choked. “That’s—Coulson, that’s a terrible idea!”

“Agreed,” Coulson said, amused at her reaction but dead serious underneath. “That’s why we’re waiting for Sitwell. We’re going to come up with a strategy to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Estelle sat back, heart picking up a little. This was better. This she understood.

She pulled the debrief packet Coulson slid toward her, flipping through it while the clatter of plates and low drone of conversation filled the space. It felt good— right —to have something SHIELD-related in her hands again.

Outside, the cicadas buzzed in the heat, and Estelle let herself focus, already marking up the report in her head.

[Three Minutes Later]

The door jingles, and Sitwell walks in, scanning the diner with the wary glance of someone who’s been on one too many stakeouts. His suit jacket is already off, his tie a little crooked, as if the Florida heat had defeated him hours ago.

He spots them and heads over, brow furrowing when he sees Estelle sitting at the booth, debrief file open in front of her, a pen tapping rhythmically against the table.

“Uh…am I late, or is Estelle off her grounding?” Sitwell asks as he slides into the booth next to Estelle.

Estelle sighs, leaning back. “Apparently, I’ve been on vacation. We’re going to fireworks after this.”

Coulson gives her a look that’s fond but edged with warning, then turns to Sitwell. “It’s been a month. Her Academy work’s solid, and SHIELD’s calmed down. She’s earned this.”

Sitwell lifts both hands. “Hey, no complaints. Just surprised. This whole op’s already weird enough.” He glances at the debrief packet in Estelle’s hands. “You’re caught up?”

“Mostly.” Estelle flips a page. “Blonsky. Harlem. Abomination—though I guess I’m not supposed to call him that?”

Sitwell snorts. “You’ll make friends fast.”

Coulson takes a long sip of coffee. “Here’s where it stands. The World Security Council wants Blonsky on the Initiative.”

Estelle sips her Dr. Pepper, savouring it because she already knows she won’t be allowed another glass. “Which is a terrible idea.”

“Exactly,” Coulson says, exchanging a look with Sitwell.

Sitwell shakes his head. “Right. They see a decorated soldier. A war hero who had one bad day. They want him exonerated and cleared for duty. And they’re pinning Harlem on Banner.”

Estelle’s pen stills. “So not fair.”

“Nope,” Sitwell agrees, nudging her. “But fair’s not part of the job description.”

Coulson leans forward, lowering his voice. “Fury doesn’t want Blonsky. But he can’t ignore a direct order from the Council. So our job is to make sure he doesn’t have to follow through.”

Estelle’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “So…we send someone to make the request, but make sure it goes badly. On purpose.”

Sitwell points at her with his coffee stirrer. “She gets it. That’s what I said. We send a patsy. Someone so bad at the job that Ross refuses to cooperate. I could go.”

Coulson smirks. “Your patsy act is legendary. But we need a different skill set this time. We need someone Ross will hate . Someone who’ll get under his skin and make him dig in his heels.”

Estelle tilts her head, catching on. “You’re talking about Stark.”

Coulson sighs. “No. I’m not talking about Tony Stark.”

Sitwell’s grin widens. “You so are.”

Coulson rubs his temple. “I am not calling ‘the Consultant.’”

Estelle leans forward, eyes bright with mischief. “Okay, then I’ll do it.”

“Estelle—” Coulson starts, but she’s already rummaging through her bag.

She pulls out the SAT phone from beneath a mess of pens and notes, sets it on the table, and dials. The phone hums to life, and she hits speaker, glancing up at Coulson and Sitwell like this is happening .

Two rings, then:

“You’re too mature for prank calls, Whiz Kid, so this better be good.”

“Hi, Tony,” Estelle says, tone innocent. “Want to irritate a general and save SHIELD the embarrassment of following a terrible WSC order?”

A beat. “You had me at ‘irritate a general.’ Go on.”

“We need someone to meet with General Ross. Politely suggest he keep Blonsky locked up. Subtly convince him to reject the Council’s directive. But make it seem like it’s his idea, not ours, y’know. Maybe just be yourself.”

There’s the sound of ice clinking in a glass. “Sounds like fun. I’m in. But only if you’re tagging along. I want backup that isn’t allergic to personality.”

Coulson leans in. “That’s not an option.”

Sitwell mutters, “Hard pass.”

Tony chuckles. “Didn’t realize the conference callers had options. Look, you need me. I need her. She keeps me on task. Package deal.”

Coulson glances at Sitwell, who’s already throwing in the towel with a shrug.

“Twenty-four hours. Florida. Don’t make us regret this.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Tony chirps. “See you soon, Sidekick.”

The line cuts out.

Estelle tries not to look too satisfied as she closes the phone and slides it back into her bag.

Coulson lets out a long breath and waves at the waitress for the check. “I want it on record, this was not my idea.”

[July 5, 2010 (Monday)—5:02 PM]

[Bar near Fort Johnson—Florida Everglades]

Ross glances up from his bourbon as the bar door creaks open, already irritated before he even sees who it is. The irritation deepens when he clocks Tony Stark striding in like he’s making a grand entrance at an expo, not a dingy bar. Sunglasses on, shirt open at the collar, jacket nowhere in sight, every step radiating confidence that borders on rude.

Estelle keeps pace beside him, blazer crisp, ponytail neat, but with that same glint in her eye. The look says we know exactly what we’re doing, and you’re going to hate it.

They spot Ross at the side of the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon that looks like it’s been sitting untouched for a while.

Tony claps his hands once as he heads straight for the bar, loud enough to make Ross glance up. “General Ross! So glad we could finally connect. Mind if we join?”

Ross blinks, staring at Estelle like maybe the heat’s getting to him. “Is that—Is that a kid?”

Estelle folds her arms and stares him down. “Don't worry, I don’t turn green like some other people I hear you know.”

Tony grins as he slides into a barstool. “She’s my strategic advisor slash handler. Consider this premium consulting.”

Ross gives her a look like he’s not sure if he should laugh or storm out. “Is this a joke?”

Tony signals the bartender. “Scotch, neat, and a Shirley Temple. Relax, General. Or are you worried the ten-year-old will outmaneuver you?”

Estelle sits up at the bar and props her chin in one hand. “Statistically likely.”

Ross’s face flushes. He sets his shoulders—mostly, it seems, to stop himself from yelling. “Say what you came to say, Stark.”

Tony leans forward, drink in hand now, all mock sincerity. “We want Blonsky. He’s a hero, right? I mean, sure, there’s the minor issue of Harlem looking like a war zone, but who’s counting?”

Estelle adds helpfully, “Also, the ‘Abomination’ branding doesn’t test well. We were thinking ‘Cuddle Monster.’ Gets the public onside.”

“And let’s be honest—who wouldn’t want that guy on the team? Real stable, great teamwork, absolutely the poster boy for controlled aggression.”

Estelle nods, deadly serious while sipping her drink. “I hear his conflict resolution skills are as good as his property destruction record.”

Ross stares at them, incredulous. “Are you trying to mock me?”

Tony raises his glass when it arrives. “Not at all. This is how we consult. Very official.”

Ross just glares. “Two children.”

“And believe me, she’s the most qualified,” Tony says cheerfully. “More than some senators I know.”

Ross grips his glass so hard it looks like it might shatter. “I’m not giving Blonsky to SHIELD. Not to you, not to this—this circus.”

Estelle brightens. “Well, this is the part where we insist.”

“Simple negotiation. Let’s talk about handing over Blonsky. I mean, what could go wrong? Guy’s the picture of mental stability.”

Estelle adds, “Really great with buildings. And crowds. I see why you picked him, General.”

Ross’s voice rises. “That’s it. I’ve had enough. I want you out of here. Both of you. I’m getting the manager—this is a bar, not a goddamn daycare!”

Tony doesn’t even blink. “Oh, great idea. Hey—” he snaps his fingers, getting the bartender’s attention, “what’s it cost to buy this place? Double it. I want the paperwork started by tomorrow.”

The bartender blinks. “Uh…what?”

Ross’s face is red enough to match the neon beer signs. “You can’t just—!”

Tony leans back, looking far too pleased. “General, I think you just got yourself kicked out of my bar.”

Estelle folds her arms, perfectly calm. “That went well.”

Ross is on his feet, spluttering, as he storms out, muttering about clowns and lunatics and goddamn SHIELD .

Tony winks at Estelle. “That’s how you win a meeting.”

Chapter Text

[October 7, 2011 (Friday)—3:52 PM]

[Léman Manhattan Preparatory School—Manhattan, NYC]

Light from the afternoon sun cuts sharp between the buildings, glinting off taxi roofs and high-rise windows as Estelle steps out onto the sidewalk. The autumn air is crisp, scented faintly with the smell of street pretzels, exhaust, and the last of the day’s warmth fading into the concrete chill.

Her Léman uniform is neat as ever: navy blazer buttoned, white polo collar sharp under the weight of her backpack. The straps dig slightly into her shoulder, heavier than usual—not because of textbooks, but because of the slim SHIELD datapad and Academy coursework tucked between her history binder and science notes. The edge of her Comms Academy pin glints, hidden beneath the fold of her lapel where no one from school will notice.

She stops near the wrought-iron gate, adjusting her hairbow. Around her, clusters of students scatter in twos and threes—laughing, calling out weekend plans, or checking their phones. Estelle watches without watching, eyes tracing the crowd for patterns, posture shifts, anything out of place. Nothing is. Not today.

Her phone buzzes once in her pocket. She answers before the second buzz.

“Coulson?”

His voice is warm on the line, familiar, steady as always. “Hey, Este. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, sir. Just finished school. I was going to review my notes on signal jamming protocols during the train ride home.” She says it lightly, but means it.

“Of course you were,” he chuckles. “How was the day?”

She shifts her weight to her left foot, gaze flicking up and down the block automatically. “Good. The math section’s reviewing material I already know, but they let me help proctor a quiz for the fifth graders today. Social Studies is...slower than I’d like, which is weird because I’m in Honors. But Mr. Perez says I ask good questions, so I guess that’s something.”

“And SHIELD Academy?”

Her voice lifts, just slightly. “Better. We finished the silent comms drill yesterday. I got my module assignments today—they’re pairing me with the encryption team for my final phase work. I feel like a real Level 2 Trainee.”

“Level 2,” Coulson repeats, with that soft pride that never sounds forced. “That’s the last stop before they start tossing you real work.”

“I know,” she says, trying to keep the excitement contained, though it sparks at the edge of her words anyway.

A beat of quiet hums between them, filled by the city’s noise at the edge of the line.

“Good,” he says finally. “Because I’m about to change your plans for the day.”

Estelle stills. “Yes, sir?”

“Don’t head home,” Coulson says, his voice shifting subtly from warm to business. “Come straight to HQ.”

She doesn’t ask why. Not right away. Just lifts her chin slightly, scanning the street again, recalculating. “Copy that. For anything specific?”

“Nothing you should be worried about,” he replies. Then softens. “Fury wants to see about giving you that first assignment. Maybe a little ahead of schedule.”

Her breath catches, but only for a second. “Observation or action?”

“Won’t know until you get here,” he says. “But bring that brain of yours. And maybe an extra sharp pencil.”

Estelle’s lips quirk in the hint of a smile. “On my way.”

The call clicks off.

She tucks the phone into her pocket and adjusts her bag again. The weight no longer bothers her. It feels like the right weight—the right next step.

[October 7, 2011 (Friday)—4:27 PM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ—Manhattan, NYC]

Estelle steps lightly into Fury’s office with soft footsteps. The room is as stark and controlled as always—clean lines, spare furnishings, and a view of the city that feels more like a reminder of responsibility than a luxury. Fury stands at the window, back to her, one hand resting on the frame like he’s holding up the sky.

He doesn’t look at her when he speaks. “Have a seat.”

Estelle crosses the room, slides into the chair opposite his desk, and sets her backpack down beside her feet. A slim folder waits for her on the desk—no name on it, just the SHIELD crest. She opens it without hesitation, already thumbing through the pages like she’s done this a hundred times.

The first page hits like a history book come to life. SSR header. File excerpt. Valkyrie Aircraft—Strategic Scientific Reserve final report, 1945.

Her brows rise slightly. She knows this one. She’s read this one. The Valkyrie—the Red Skull’s death machine. Captain Rogers’ final mission. The sacrificial crash in the Arctic. It’s classic SHIELD history, that she knew by heart.

But then she turns the page.

Her heart stutters.

October 5, 2011—Recovery of Valkyrie wreckage confirmed. Arctic site secured. Preliminary analysis in progress.

Estelle’s fingers tighten on the edge of the folder. Her pulse races, not with fear, but with pure, unfiltered fascination.

“You found it,” she says, glancing up at Fury. “The actual Valkyrie. After all this time.” She’s already piecing together possibilities. “You need help cataloging the onboard equipment? Archival assistance? I can cross-reference the SSR specs with modern materials analysis—”

Fury, who has remained mostly silent until now, turns from the window at last. His gaze is steady, serious. “This conversation doesn’t leave this room.”

Estelle straightens. “Of course not, sir.”

He nods once, satisfied. “The Valkyrie didn’t just have equipment onboard. We found Captain Rogers.”

She blinks, caught for a moment between the awe of history and the cold fact of time. “I—sir, I’m sorry, but...you mean his body ? I don’t understand why you’d call me in for that. Shouldn’t forensics or science division be handling—?” She stops herself, frowning thoughtfully. “You’re not planning to try Project Rebirth again using...remains...are you?”

That earns the barest hint of a smirk from Fury, though it vanishes almost as fast as it appears. “You’re thinking too small, Este. Captain Rogers is alive.”

The words hit like a punch. Estelle’s breath catches, her mind stumbling over the impossibility of it.

“Alive?” she repeats, voice low.

“Cryogenically frozen,” Fury says. “Perfectly preserved. Hasn’t aged a day.”

Estelle sits back slightly, processing. “So...he doesn’t look...ninety-two? Ninety-three?”

“Biologically? Same as the day he went into the ice.” Fury crosses to his desk, leaning both hands on it, fixing her with a look that brooks no nonsense. “He’s here. In this building. Right now. Body’s in a controlled thaw as we speak.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed despite herself. The weight of it settles over her—not just the science of it, or the legend of it, but the reality . Steve Rogers. Here. Now.

“But why me?” she says at last, voice steadier than she feels. “Why call me in for this?”

Fury doesn’t answer right away. He straightens, studying her like he’s weighing every piece of who she is.

“Because you’re adaptable. Because you don’t just memorize history, you learn from it. Because you work with people, really work with them. Because you see the details no one else does, and you act on them. And because you’re a Dugan. And I know you know what that means.”

Estelle holds his gaze, the pieces falling into place. She thinks she knows where he’s going, but she lets him say it.

“Captain Rogers is going to need help adjusting. We’re giving him as gentle a wake-up as we can manage. And you—” Fury’s voice softens, just a fraction “—you’re going to be that wake-up. Your first assignment, Miss Dugan. You’re the first person he’ll meet.”

The room feels suddenly larger, the weight of history pressing in from every angle.

Estelle doesn’t answer right away. She leans forward slightly, the folder still open in her lap, gaze fixed on the pages as if they might offer some hidden instruction.

“I...I don’t understand, sir.” Her voice is steady, but beneath it there’s a thread of genuine doubt. “Why me? I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m not a historian or teacher. I’m not even a certified agent. There have to be people more qualified for this.”

Fury’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice gains that quiet edge that always means he’s serious. “You’re more qualified than you think. Stark trusts you—and that’s no small thing. The Asgardians didn’t scare you off, didn’t rattle you. You adapted. You watched. You learned. And more than that, you kept your head when most grown agents wouldn’t have.”

Estelle shakes her head, almost despite herself. “But I’m eleven. An eleven-year-old is probably the most alarming greeter you could choose.”

That earns her a genuine spark of amusement from Fury. His mouth tugs into the ghost of a grin. “Or maybe exactly the one he needs. We’re not trying to scare Rogers off or make him feel like he’s under a microscope. We want him to wake up to a world that feels human, not like another lab or another fight.”

Estelle looks at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt—but finds none. Just the same unflinching resolve that’s guided her since the day she met him.

“You sure about this?” she asks quietly.

Fury nods once. “I’ve never been surer.”

The room settles around her again, the moment hanging between what was and what will be. Estelle draws in a slow breath, closes the folder, and meets his gaze.

“Okay,” she says. “I guess this is the part where Coulson would say ‘time to go to work.’”

[October 8, 2011 (Saturday)—8:19 AM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ—Recovery Room]

The world comes back slowly.

A radio hums in the corner, the scratchy voice of an announcer calling plays that shouldn’t matter anymore. The Dodgers. 1941. He knows this game. The exact rhythm of it. The way the crowd reacts to the swing. The way the announcer trips over his words when Reiser takes the game from a tie to 8-4.

Steve opens his eyes.

The ceiling’s plain. The walls are dressed up like memory. A calendar from the war years. Posters asking him to buy bonds, to do his part. A chair in the corner that looks stolen from a barracks rec room. Everything looks right. Smells right.

But it feels wrong.

And inside, something cold and hollow starts to spread.

His body feels strange—lighter than it should, weaker in ways that make him want to move, to test it. But his mind is sharp. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

The door opens.

And this...this is the strangest part of all.

A girl steps inside. Eleven, maybe. Brown hair pinned back in neat waves, trying to echo a decade she’s never lived. A blouse, a skirt, a brown vest that doesn’t quite belong. She’s carrying a binder so thick it looks like it’s holding the world’s secrets between its covers.

Steve stares. The sight of her jars him more than the posters, more than the game. What is this?

“Where am I?” His voice comes rough, but steady. His instincts coil tight under his skin.

The girl stops a pace inside, clutching that binder like a shield. Her voice is careful, practiced. “You’re in a recovery room, sir. We’re making sure you’re all right before we move you.”

Steve’s eyes flick toward the radio again, to the play-by-play that keeps droning on. That game. That damn game. His heart beats faster. “That’s May 1941. Ebbets Field. I was at that game.”

His gaze sharpens. His fingers twitch against the blanket. “Where am I really ?”

A flicker, barely a flicker, crosses the girl’s face. Her eyes dart to the radio, listening to the cheers and the commentary. She realises she recognises it, too. This game made history. Her voice drops to a murmur, almost like she’s scolding herself. “I told them to play something from ’46 at the earliest…”

The words slip out, unguarded. They land like a stone in Steve’s gut.

His pulse jumps, and so does his body, right out of bed until he’s standing. The tightness in his chest grows. The room suddenly feels like it’s closing in—like the walls, posters, and furniture are made of lies. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. Because something about the girl’s face, the openness in her eyes, makes him hold still. Makes him wait.

Estelle draws in a breath, resets. She steps closer, carefully, and sets the binder down on a side table. Her hands stay visible, steady, like she’s offering peace.

“Woah,” she says, voice soft but clear. “I’m going to tell you the truth. But you have to promise me you’ll stay calm. Don’t run. Don’t do anything crazy. Just listen. Please.”

Steve looks at her, letting his suspicion go for just a moment as he studies her face. The earnestness. The courage it takes to stand there, to say that. And he nods, slowly. “All right. I promise.”

“Okay,” she says softly. She sits down on an armchair in the corner and waits for Steve to settle into a sitting position on the bed. “Let’s start easy. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Steve’s eyes stay on hers, even as his world tilts. He swallows against the dryness in his throat, the dread creeping up his spine. His voice is quieter now. “The Valkyrie. I put her in the ice. I...I knew I wasn’t coming back from that.”

His gaze drifts, as if he can still see the cockpit and the ocean of white below. The radio fades into background noise. “I was ready. I said goodbye.”

Silence stretches, heavy. His eyes come back to hers, searching, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Well, you didn’t die,” she says at last as if that’s supposed to make it all better.

“How long did I—” Steve begins, but loses his voice. His mind is already coming to the correct conclusions, but a much louder side of him wants to deny it.

Estelle answers gently, but with the kind of honesty that doesn’t try to soften the blow. “It’s October 8th. 2011.”

The number hits like a hammer.

Sixty-six years.

It crashes down in an instant—sixty-six years of gone. The war, the fight, Bucky, Peggy, his whole world. Lost in one breath.

Steve sits back, staring past her, seeing nothing at all for a moment. His chest tightens. His hands grip the blanket, not to lash out, but to hold himself together.

“I’m sorry,” Estelle says quietly. And somehow, she means it like no one else in the world could right then.

He drags his focus back to her. “You’re not the one who should be sorry.” His voice trembles just at the edge, but his eyes stay steady. “And the war—?”

“Over,” she says gently. “Shortly after you went down. The Allied Powers won. The world changed.”

He glances around again, at the walls that suddenly feel less real. “What kinda changes?”

Estelle exhales heavily. Where to begin? “Well, the SSR sort of morphed into an organisation called SHIELD. That’s where you are now. We don’t mean to be deceiving with the whole fake room setup, but we didn’t want to…y’know, blindside you either.”

Steve pauses, considering. His throat still bobs like he’s swallowing glass. “I get it. And…you? You work for this SHIELD?”

She nods slowly, then it slows to a stop. “Sort of. I’m a trainee. Youngest there is.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he huffs out a humorless chuckle. “You got a name, kid?”

“Estelle,” she says, deliberately leaving out the last name. “Hope my age isn’t too big a deal for you.”

“Kinda low on my list of concerns, I won’t lie. Considering…everything else.” A long pause, then he tries her name. “Estelle…Estelle what ?”

“Oh, uh…Dugan,” she exhales.

“Dugan?” Steve repeats, his eyes going wide, the flood of memory breaking through the haze for the first time. “As in...Dum Dum Dugan?”

She nods, a little more quietly now. “His great-granddaughter.”

Steve exhales, the breath shaking as it leaves him. His eyes dart away for a moment, lost in the memory of grins beneath a bowler hat, of bad cigars, of loyalty that never wavered. He looks back over to her, the resemblance suddenly as clear as day. “I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah,” she deadpans, not wanting to dwell on it. “I put together some notes,” she continues while looking at the binder, voice still soft, measured. “It’s nothing fancy—just the basics. I thought...maybe it’d help to have something to start with. But it’s not a script. You can ask anything. We can talk about whatever you want. You can take it at your own pace.”

Steve watches her. The binder, the neatness of it, the way she’s trying so hard to do this right. The weight pressing down on his chest doesn’t lift—but it shifts. Changes shape. Something about her calms the storm that’s been gathering inside him.

But he’s not ready. Not yet. Not for the binder, not for the history, not for the facts that will remind him just how much he’s lost.

Estelle sees it. Feels it. And she shifts, leaning back slightly in her chair, giving him space without stepping away.

“We also have a facility outside the city,” she says, voice still calm, offering him the thread without tugging it too tightly. “A place called the Retreat. It’s quiet. Remote. I think you’d like it. Very...Thoreauvian.”

That earns the faintest tug of a smile from him, just at the corner of his mouth. “ Walden ,” he says, almost under his breath. It takes him back to the library. To Bucky, the absolute bookworm. “Haven’t thought about that in years.”

She nods, as if that’s exactly the reaction she hoped for. “It’s not a cage. No missions, no press. Just trees and air and time.”

Steve draws in a slow breath. The walls feel a little less close now. The pressure in his chest eases enough for him to look at her again, to really see her sitting there, steady, patient, waiting without pushing.

“You’re good at this,” he says quietly. “Talking someone down off the ledge.”

Estelle shrugs modestly, but the flicker of gratitude in her eyes is real. “I think that’s why they picked me.”

He huffs a soft, tired laugh at that. Then: “Tell me about you. I mean...more than the name. More than Dugan’s great-granddaughter. Who’s Estelle?”

She quirks a smile. “Grab the binder and I’ll tell you on the way to the Retreat.”

They sit in the quiet for a long moment, the radio’s crackling forgotten, the fake room forgotten. Just two people, holding the weight of history between them.

Finally, Steve’s gaze drops to the binder again. “All right,” he says, steadying himself. “Let’s see where I left off.”

Chapter Text

[October 9, 2011 (Sunday)—Arrival]

The Retreat is a pocket of quiet tucked into the world’s edge—cedar-smelling, leaf-strewn, and hushed. Steve steps out of the escort jet like he’s stepping into another century. Estelle helps him unpack, both of them slightly unsure how to start this arrangement.

Their rooms are adjacent to each other, separated by a fireplace. She lights it before Steve has a chance to offer. He nods, grateful.

They don’t talk much that first night. Estelle does homework quietly while Steve just…observes. The silence doesn’t press. It stretches and is comfortable.

Before bed, she offers him a pair of fuzzy socks from a pile she had packed just for him. “You’ll thank me,” she says. He does.

[October 10, 2011 (Monday)—First Walk]

Leaves crunch underfoot as they walk the forested trails behind the Retreat. Estelle walks a few steps ahead with purpose; Steve walks like he's trying to remember how.

When she points out rabbit tracks, he gently corrects her: “Deer. Just a baby. See the spacing?”

 She blinks, impressed. “Who taught you that?”

“Boy Scouts. And war.”

They don’t go far—just enough to see a creek and a clearing—but it’s enough for Estelle to stop trying so hard to impress him. They walk back in an easier rhythm, side by side.

At one point, she catches him looking up, eyes tracking the rustling canopy. “Hope the parks in Brooklyn haven’t changed much,” he says, almost wistful.

[October 11, 2011 (Tuesday)—First History Lesson (Post-WWII, SSR into SHIELD)]

They spread papers and books across the dining table—Estelle’s timeline, old SHIELD files, even a battered SSR manual she borrowed from Coulson. Steve listens, silent at first, as she traces the path from war’s end to Cold War tensions. She answers his questions.

But she doesn’t stop there. “You should know what became of the SSR,” she says gently, sliding over documents: the founding of SHIELD, the first missions, the early Council of Nine hunts. Steve studies the names—Peggy, Howard, Chester Phillips—and the symbols that evolved from the star he once wore.

“So much happened without me,” he murmurs.

Estelle pauses. “But it happened because of you, too.”

He lets that sit, quiet and heavy.

[October 12, 2011 (Wednesday)—First Computer Lesson (How to Do Research)]

Steve leans back like the desktop might explode as it whirs to life. Estelle rolls a second chair over and opens up the browser.

“This is how you do research without libraries now,” she says. She types ‘ Civil Rights Movement’ , hits enter. Steve flinches at a pop-up ad.

They scroll through digital archives and scanned newspapers. He reads slowly but with complete focus.

“So this is...all free?”

“Mostly,” Estelle says.

He takes notes on yellow legal paper while she sets bookmarks. “Can I save this?”

“Yeah. We’ll make you a folder.”

“A real folder?” 

She grins. “A virtual one. Here, you try for a bit, but then I’ve gotta take over and do classwork.”

[October 13, 2011 (Thursday)—More History (Media Focus)]

Tea for her, black coffee for him. They sit at the desk again, Wikipedia’s homepage on the screen.

“Let’s talk about TV,” Estelle says. She shows him footage from the 1950s, early sitcoms, and the rise of cable.

“Television was kind of your fault,” she jokes. “Everyone wanted the news faster.”

They trace the arc from radio to broadcast, color to digital. Steve frowns at commercials.

“Doesn't your brain ever hurt, kid?”

“Depends on what I’m looking at.”

He nods slowly, then pulls out a small notebook she’d packed for him. “Should probably keep a list.”

“Of what?”

“New things I should check out.”

She leans over, grinning. “Top of the list. ‘I Love Lucy.’”

[October 14, 2011 (Friday)—Radio, Modern Music]

She tunes the Retreat’s old radio, the dial crackling through static until a station sticks. Steve listens to synth beats, brows drawn.

“This is music now?”

Estelle smirks. “Modern radio might be starting too strong.”

She ditches the radio for a curated playlist on her laptop. Rock' n’ Roll born from Jazz in the 50’s, into Soul of the ‘60’s, and Disco of the ‘70’s. She rushes through ’80s Pop and Techno just to get to ’90s Hip-Hop. It becomes another NYC history lesson at that point.

Biggie, Tupac, West Coast versus East. She explains the feud like it’s Shakespeare with bass lines.

Steve takes it seriously, enjoying how animated she becomes while playing Hypnotize.

[October 15, 2011 (Saturday)—Card Games]

It starts with Go Fish. Then Crazy Eights. Then, inevitably, poker. Steve has a chance to teach her something now.

Estelle fishes a mason jar of change from the pantry and declares, “We play for keeps.”

Steve raises an amused eyebrow. “You sure?”

Four hands in, she’s down fifteen cents and ready to bluff her way back.

“You’ve got the face of a stone wall,” she accuses.

“Years of practice.”

”Cheater.”

He shrugs. “This was wartime downtime.”

They play until Estelle’s grinning and out of change, and Steve’s laughing the loudest she’s ever heard.

Before bed, she reclaims three dimes as a “child tax.” He lets her.

“Rematch tomorrow,” she threatens.

“Quarters only,” he replies.

[October 16, 2011 (Sunday)—Movie Night (Moneyball/Dodgers News)]

They pop popcorn the old-fashioned way—stovetop, oil, and kernels—and settle on the couch for Moneyball . Steve watches, fascinated by the numbers-behind-baseball angle.

“We never had stats like this,” he murmurs. “Just gut, instinct, and hot dogs.”

Estelle lets him soak it in, then drops the bomb bluntly.

“By the way, the Dodgers left Brooklyn.”

Silence. Then: “ What!? ”

“Moved to LA in ‘58. Ebbets was demolished.”

Steve’s face twists like he’s been force-fed something curdled. “That’s awful.”

“I know. Dum Dum’s been on about it since before I was born.”

He stares at the credits, stunned. “So this new Mets team, do we root for them now?”

She scoffs. “Dodgers for life.”

He laughs slowly. “Understood.”

[October 17, 2011 (Monday)—The Cold War Deep Dive, JFK, Space Race, Moon Landing]

Estelle spreads out printouts on the dining table: photos of JFK, Soviet propaganda, moon dust footprints.

“This is the Cold War,” she says, tapping each phase. “Not like a full-blown conflict, but just as tense.”

Steve absorbs it all: the Cuban Missile Crisis, duck-and-cover drills, John Glenn. Then she shows him the Apollo 11 video. He watches Neil Armstrong descend the ladder, still as stone.

“We really did it,” he whispers.

“Yeah. People watched it live.”

“And what about Kennedy?”

“Assassinated. Dallas. ’63. It was madness.”

Steve doesn’t react right away. “Seems the good ones still go first.”

Later, over s’mores and a campfire, he stares up at the stars while she names the constellations.

[October 18, 2011 (Tuesday)—Berlin Wall]

Estelle queues up documentary clips of the Berlin Wall being built—and then torn down. Steve watches people cheering, climbing over the rubble, hugging.

“We fought hard to stop something like this,” he says softly. “And this ‘UN’ did nothing?”

She nods. “I’m still learning about this myself, but I guess the UN isn’t always useful.”

He studies the graffiti on the fragments. He wonders how many people died trying to cross, but thinks the question is a little too heavy.

Steve looks out the window, jaw tight. “Everything always takes time.”

Estelle doesn’t interrupt when he slides the laptop closer to his half of the table.

He adds a note to his list: “Visit Berlin.”

[October 19, 2011 (Wednesday)—Phones, Text, Calls, and Email]

Estelle sets her phone on the table between them like it’s an artifact. Steve picks it up gingerly.

“That’s…it? It’s so small.”

She grins. “It’s everything. Watch.” She calls her landline back home, lets Steve hear the ringtone, then hangs up before it connects to voicemail.

She shows him how to text in the Notes app. “Type it here.”

His first note: ‘My name is Steve Rogers.’ It takes him an unsurprising amount of time to type out.

She makes him try email, too. He types like it’s Morse code, slow and careful.

“And I don’t need to pay postage like a real letter?” he wonders aloud.

She laughs. “No, save your nickels for poker.”

[October 20, 2011 (Thursday)—Steve’s Choice of Learning Topic]

It’s his turn to pick. Steve spends breakfast thinking, thumb idly brushing the edge of his coffee cup.

Finally: “We didn’t get that into the Civil Rights Movement.”

Estelle nods solemnly. She pulls out the timeline she’d set aside from her binder—Jim Crow, MLK, Selma, the March on Washington, the Voting Rights Act. They read speeches and watch clips. Steve’s eyes well slightly at I Have a Dream.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmurs.

Estelle offers no platitudes, just sits beside him and pays deep attention. She’s learning, too, she realises while creating a reading list from Malcolm X to Toni Morrison.

That night, Steve adds: ‘Visit National Mall’ to his growing list, underlined twice.

[October 21, 2011 (Friday)—Cell Phones Part Two (Games and Apps)]

Steve’s ready to try the “other stuff” phones do. Estelle installs a few games. “Try this one.” Angry Birds launches, and he frowns at the cartoon slingshot.

She hovers for a minute while he fumbles the control until she’s certain he’s got it and pivots to her schoolwork.

Ten minutes later, he’s muttering, “That shouldn’t have missed.”

They move on to focus on the utilities, a news app, a weather app. She takes him outside to take pictures with the phone’s camera.

He explores cautiously, marveling at voice memos, the map, the clock, the sheer absurdity.

“Crazy, this all fits in your pocket.”

“Welcome to the future, Cap.”

He just shakes his head, but smiles.

[October 22, 2011 (Saturday)—Social Media]

They huddle around the computer. Estelle opens Twitter first. Steve squints at hashtags.

“That’s not English.”

She laughs, showing him what’s trending, and Steve finds more topics for his list.

Facebook is next. He scrolls through mock profiles she made up as examples, studying pictures and milestone updates.

“So everyone tells everyone everything all the time?”

“Some see it as a way to stay connected,” she shrugs. “Makes SHIELD’s job finding people much easier, too.”

Instagram puzzles him. “Why is everyone taking pictures of their food?” He doesn’t say much more, just shakes his head, confused.

Later, she catches him sketching in his notebook—old-school style, no filters, no captions.

“I’ll stick with this,” he says.

[October 23, 2011 (Sunday)—Pumpkins and Pies]

Aromas of cinnamon and pumpkin fill the cabin as they work on opposite sides of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up.

Steve watches Estelle roll out the pie crust, impressed. “Where’d you learn to bake, Es?”

She hesitates, fingers pausing on the rolling pin. “May. And Garner.”

Steve catches the flicker—how her voice catches. He’s been out of the ice long enough to know what bittersweet nostalgia looks like on someone else’s face.

Her eyes stay on the dough, but the warmth drains from her grin a bit. Steve nudges the conversation.

“Bet they didn’t teach you to carve a pumpkin like this.” He lifts his finished jack-o’-lantern: a perfect, classic face.

Estelle laughs, grateful. “Show-off.”

[October 24, 2011 (Monday)—Shield Practice]

There’s a large clearing beside the cabin where the fog slowly lifts as the sun rises each day. Steve stands at its edge, shield in hand for the first time since arriving.

Estelle perches on a fallen log, notebook forgotten in her lap. He tests a few easy throws—controlled, precise, no need to show off. The shield’s familiar weight steadies him. 

Estelle watches with awe. “You’re not rusty.”

He smirks, breath clouding the autumn air. “Thanks.”

When the shield smacks against a tree and rebounds perfectly, she claps, grinning widely.

He stops when the trees have taken enough damage and asks Estelle if she could get gym mats or something on the next drop shipment.

[October 25, 2011 (Tuesday)—Hiking]

They set out after breakfast, following a trail Steve mapped in his head days ago. Estelle tries to keep up with his long stride, cheeks pink from the effort. Occasionally, he’ll have to effortlessly hoist her over a rock, ledge, or fallen tree.

The forest air smells of pine and leaf mold, the crunch of boots loud in the quiet. They pause at a ridge where the world opens up below.

“Could see for miles on a good day,” Steve says, shading his eyes.

Estelle snaps a photo with her phone; he just takes it in.

On the way back, she muses, “Next time I vote we revisit the creek.”

He grins. “It’s a deal.”

[October 26, 2011 (Wednesday)—Rough Day]

The mood’s different today.

Steve spends hours scrolling through history articles, eyes hollow as he rereads the losses: friends gone, conflicts fought without him, causes unfinished. He’d found 9/11 and Desert Storm on his own.

She doesn’t speak, just stays close with the binder. At lunch, he stares at his plate.

“It just feels like I don’t belong anywhere.” He says it out loud without meaning to. After all, he doesn’t want her to bear his emotional baggage.

She meets his gaze. “You belong. Just find where you want to put yourself.”

He nods, grateful, but doesn’t eat much. That night, the fire crackles between them a little dimmer than weeks before—no words needed.

[October 27, 2011 (Thursday)—Time on the Pond]

The morning mist curls over the large pond as they push off in an old canoe they found in the shed. The world hushes around them. Steve rows steady, sure, like he’s done this a thousand times.

Estelle’s lines of dialogue keep running together as she fights sleep. She’s tired after last night’s impromptu Star Wars marathon, a late attempt to lift Steve’s spirits. The late night catches up with her, and soon she’s dozing against the boat’s side.

Steve notices, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and rows them quietly back to shore. When she wakes, it’s on the cabin couch, a blanket tucked securely around her. Steve’s nearby, whittling quietly.

[October 28, 2011 (Friday)—Online Shopping]

The rain keeps them inside, and Estelle decides it’s time to introduce Steve to online shopping. She pulls up Amazon, clicking through books, kitchen gadgets, hiking gear, and art supplies.

Steve leans over, incredulous. “So…you just pick it, click it, and it shows up at your door?”

“Yup.” She adds a set of oil pastels to the cart. He watches every step of the checkout process, brow furrowed.

“And people trust this?”

“Most of the time.” She scrolls to show customer reviews; he reads them like intel reports.

“Bucky wouldn’t believe this,” he mutters, half in awe, half suspicious. Later, he adds ‘visit a real modern store’ to his list, just to balance the scales.

[October 29, 2011 (Saturday)—Board Games]

They unearth a battered chess set and a well-worn Monopoly box from a high closet shelf.

The chess game is quiet, intense. Steve studies the board like a battlefield map. Estelle wins, but just barely, and her brain hurts.

“You almost had me,” she breathes, half exhilarated, half exhausted.

Steve just grins.

They move on to Monopoly, expecting an easier pace, but much later the board is a mess of money, hotels, and good-natured bickering.

“That’s extortion!” Estelle protests as Steve offers to trade the last railway for free rent on Park Place.

“It’s negotiation,” he insists. Neither wins; they abandon it, both vowing never to start again.

“War was calmer than Monopoly,” Steve mutters.

[October 30, 2011 (Sunday)—Modern Art]

Estelle pulls up a slideshow of modern art on the desktop. Bright splashes, jagged sculptures, stark installations fill the screen.

Steve leans in, squinting. “That’s it? That’s the piece?”

Estelle does her best to explain—intent, metaphor, deconstruction—but Steve looks unconvinced.

“So…someone spilled paint and called it genius?”

“Not always ,” she says, trying not to laugh. He listens politely as she clicks through: Rothko, Pollock, Warhol. By the fifth abstract canvas, he leans back, arms crossed.

“I miss Norman Rockwell.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Fair point. That evening, she finds him at the table sketching a quiet cabin scene, pine trees shading the roofline.

“Art I can live with,” he says, smiling satisfied.

[October 31, 2011 (Monday)—Halloween]

They spend the afternoon carving the last two pumpkins. Steve’s is a textbook-perfect haunted house; Estelle’s is a lopsided owl that makes them both laugh.

After dark, they huddle on the couch with a candy bowl between them, the fire crackling low. Estelle picks movies she figures Steve might actually enjoy: The Wolf Man, Frankenstein, House on Haunted Hill—classic monsters, black-and-white shadows—nothing too gory, nothing too modern.

Steve watches with interest, occasionally glancing sideways to check on her, just in case. Estelle isn’t fazed at all.

“I’ve watched mech suits and god fights,” she teases. “A haunted house isn’t gonna get me.”

He chuckles, relaxing. By the third film, they’ve both dozed off, candy forgotten.

[November 1, 2011 (Tuesday)—Online Maps]

Estelle boots up Google Earth, spinning the digital globe with a flick of the mouse. Steve leans in, eyes wide.

“You can see the whole world like this,” she grins, zooming in on Brooklyn. They trace the streets he knew, pausing at an apartment complex in Crown Heights.

“That’s where I lived,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the screen.

They hop across the map: Coney Island, the Lower Manhattan skyline, Berlin’s open plazas where the Wall once stood. She shows him Japan after the nukes. Paris at night, glittering from space. Steve lingers on each place.

“The whole world in your hand,” he says quietly, voice thick. Estelle lets him take over and stays close by.

[November 2, 2011 (Wednesday)—Sunrise]

The air is sharp and clean, the dawn sky streaked over the treetops. Steve stands alone on the porch, shield resting by his side, watching the sun climb. His breath clouds in the cold, shoulders relaxed in a way they haven’t been in weeks.

Estelle steps out, two mugs in hand—coffee for him, cocoa for her. They stand together in silence, listening to the quiet shift of the woods waking up. Finally, Steve speaks, low and certain.

“I think it’s time.”

She doesn’t ask for what. She knows. “You’ll be okay?” she says gently.

He nods, managing a small smile. “I’ve got a list.”

She bumps his arm, warmth in her voice. “And a friend.”

[November 3, 2011 (Thursday)—Departure]

They pack side by side in the soft morning light, both precise in their folding. No rush, just quiet purpose.

Steve slips the deck of cards into Estelle’s bag without comment; she notices but says nothing, only smiling softly.

Outside, the Quinjet descends, its engines a low hum that grows louder as it settles in the clearing beyond the trees. The wind kicks up leaves, scattering the last of the season’s gold.

Steve takes one final look at the Retreat—weathered wood, empty porch, the quiet they shared.

“Place grows on you,” he says.

Estelle slings her bag over her shoulder. “Like moss.”

As they board the Quinjet, neither looks back. What matters comes with them.

Chapter Text

[November 3, 2011 (Wednesday) to April 13, 2012 (Thursday)]

[New York City, NY]

By the time Estelle and Steve return to Brooklyn in early November, the quiet rhythm they built at the Retreat follows them like a steady pulse beneath the city’s noise.

Their re-entry into the world isn’t without ceremony: Estelle, still not quite twelve, is formally recognized as a SHIELD asset. Her badge—clean silver with Level 3 clearance etched on the reverse—feels heavy in her hand the first time she holds it. The clearance comes with strings: official designation as an analyst-in-training, special dispensation to review Level 6 and 7 materials where prior exposure has made secrecy impractical, and a responsibility she carries like a legacy.

Steve, repatriated with quiet efficiency, is also issued his badge—Level 7 from the outset. SHIELD might have debated what to do with a man out of time, but when it comes to Captain America, some decisions make themselves.

They make their home together in Estelle’s brownstone on Cranberry Street, a space that has seen generations of Dugans and now plays host to the threads of two intertwined legacies. SHIELD check-ins are scheduled and unobtrusive: a wellness check here, a quick debrief there.

 Estelle submits her reports like clockwork: Steve’s progress, adjustment markers, subtle notes on mood and health, all tucked between her school assignments and analyst briefs. If she’s tired, she doesn’t say so. If Steve notices, he doesn’t say so either. They keep pace together.

Thanksgiving arrives like a quiet promise of normalcy. Estelle introduces Steve to the entirety of The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition—hours of Elves, Orcs, and sweeping New Zealand vistas. Steve watches with the kind of reverence usually reserved for maps and memories. Somewhere around the Prancing Pony, he mentions Bucky—how his friend used to carry The Hobbit in his pack, dog-eared and battered.

By dinner, they make their way to Watermarks, where Dum Dum meets Steve’s gaze across the common room, and the decades melt like the butter on the cornbread. They eat surrounded by stories.

Christmas is just the two of them. Quiet, and somehow perfect for it. Estelle, determined to make the day feel whole, decorates the house herself. Packages arrive in waves: Stark’s name on one box, Natasha’s on another, Coulson’s careful handwriting, Barton’s scrawl, Fury’s minimal card.

Steve carves the roast chicken with the same precision he brings to a mission, and Estelle unwraps each gift like it’s a mission too—methodical, grateful, with little notes of thanks tucked away for later.

On New Year’s Eve, they stand on the rooftop of SHIELD HQ, Estelle half-hidden behind Steve’s bomber jacket, which is much too big on her. Steve is in quiet conversation with agents who treat him like a myth made real.

She watches him come alive that night. The ease in his laugh, the glint in his eye, the way he speaks and listens like the world hasn’t changed so much after all. But by the end, she sees the weight return—the strain behind his eyes as the night’s noise sinks in. When they make it home, he goes straight to bed, and she lets him, guarding the quiet like a promise.

Spring brings her twelfth birthday, and with it, the soft blush of cherry blossoms at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Beneath their canopy of pale pink, petals drift like confetti, and Estelle swears she can name every shade.

The day is quiet, uncomplicated—just the two of them, walking familiar paths, trading stories. And when they stop for lunch beneath a sprawling tree, Steve hands her a small, wrapped box, rough paper folded with surprising care.

Inside is a necklace she admired months ago at the Union Square Holiday Market: an old and unassuming New York City subway token, hung on a simple, sturdy chain. She pointed it out in passing that day, fingers brushing the vendor’s display. She seemed dazzled that the coin was in such good condition for being dated around the 1940s, but she didn’t linger—didn’t want to appear greedy. And yet, here it is.

He went back for it. Remembered. Chose it because it belongs to this city—the one they share now—not just the one he left behind.

Tucked beneath the necklace, in the same box, is a pocket knife: clean lines, practical steel, small enough to fit in her hand. No fanfare. Just Steve’s quiet way of saying he trusts her to use it well.

[April 30, 2012 (Friday)]

[Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility—Mojave Desert, Nevada]

The helicopter sets down at the edge of a massive concrete platform, one that appears to belong to another century, perhaps the next one. The April sun bakes against the Nevada desert, painting the horizon in shimmering waves of heat. Estelle unbuckles, backpack slung over one shoulder, and steps out with the kind of practiced efficiency that says she’s done this before , even if today she has no idea why she’s here.

The air tastes like dust and ozone. Ahead: the imposing sprawl of the Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility, all metal angles and mirrored glass, wailing faintly beneath the desert wind.

No one tells her where to go. No escort greets her at the landing pad. Estelle glances down at her clearance badge—still Level 3, still marked with those permissive Level 6-7 access flags—and resists the urge to fidget. The place feels like it’s watching her, not the other way around.

Then she spots him.

Nick Fury emerges from a low-slung personnel entrance, coat flapping slightly in the wind. He moves like the heat doesn’t touch him, like the desert air parts around him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just walks straight toward her.

“Director,” Estelle says, standing up straighter.

“Dugan,” Fury greets, tone dry. “Are you enjoying the field trip so far?”

She tilts her head. “I was kinda hoping for Area 51.”

“How do you know this isn’t?” he challenges.

Estelle quickly counters, “It doesn’t match the specs given on Area 51 in the Project Helius file.”

“Oh, you’ve been deep in SHIELD history at the Academy,” he actually laughs.

Without waiting for more, he gestures, and she falls into step beside him.

They enter the main complex—cooler inside, but no less striking. The corridors are wide and industrial. Lights pulse faintly along the floors—the place buzzes, deep and low, like a machine breathing beneath the surface.

Fury leads her past rows of workstations, banks of screens, and clusters of scientists in SHIELD-issue lab coats. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t explain. Estelle catches flashes of schematics on monitors—energy output graphs, containment parameters, particle simulations. Her mind begins to assemble the pieces, but the picture remains incomplete.

Finally, they stop before a reinforced viewing window. Far beyond it: the Cube.

The Tesseract floats in its chamber, suspended by what looks like nothing at all. Its glow is steady, soft, and unnatural, casting a faint blue light across the containment rig. Even through the glass, the air seems to vibrate around it.

Estelle’s breath catches. She’s seen Howard’s files, but seeing it in person is something else.

Fury watches her watch it.

“We’re harnessing it,” he says at last. “For energy. Clean, unlimited energy. Could power cities. Nations.”

Estelle doesn’t look away. “It’s beautiful,” she admits quietly. Then, adds, “It’s dangerous.”

Fury nods, hands folded behind his back. “So is any source of power if you don’t respect it.”

They move on. He gives her the tour: the containment labs, the energy converters, the data center that logs every fluctuation the Cube emits. Technicians murmur in controlled urgency as they pass. Monitors chart everything from temperature gradients to cosmic radiation levels.

Fury points out potential applications. “Imagine a world where we don’t fight over oil, where we don’t bleed for fuel. Where cities don’t go dark during a storm because the grid fails.”

Estelle listens until they return to the viewing window. She hears him. But her mind keeps circling back to the Cube itself.

“This is why you brought me here?” she asks finally, as they pause near another observation deck. “To see the energy project?”

Fury gives a small, almost imperceptible smile. “That’s the part that gets filed in your report, yeah.”

“But that’s not what I meant.” She looks up at him now, not letting up. “Why me ? Not just on paper. Not just because I have clearance and know how to keep secrets. Why are you showing me this?”

Fury studies her for a long moment. The thrum of the facility fills the space between them. The Tesseract’s glow flickers faintly against the glass.

“Alright,” he says at last, his voice lower, weightier. “Let’s drop the official line. Just you and me, kid. This stays between us.”

Estelle nods once. No hesitation.

“I brought you here because I do need eyes on this that aren’t compromised. But it’s more than that.” His gaze holds hers, steady. “You’ve got a scary amount of people’s trust. Mine included. You’re already an asset— a real one . Not just on paper, not just because it’s convenient. You’ve earned it. And you deserve to see as much as you can while it’s still ours to see. Before the World Security Council buries it in red tape, or repackages it for their purposes.”

Estelle listens, heart pounding, because this isn’t the Fury most people get. This is the truth.

“I’m showing you this because I believe in you,” he says simply. “You’ve got a big future in SHIELD, whether you asked for it or not. One day, a lot of this? You’re going to inherit it. Decisions, risks, responsibilities. I want you to see what you’re getting into. All of it. Not just the sanitized version.”

He lets that sink in.

“I don’t want another set of yes-men in the room. I want someone who sees the cracks before they spread. Someone who doesn’t flinch at the stakes. And that’s you.”

Estelle swallows hard, glancing back at the Cube. The glow reflects faintly in her eyes.

“Wow,” she says at last. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

“I know.” Fury straightens, giving her a brief nod. “That’s why you’re here.”

And with that, he claps her lightly on the shoulder, his touch more grounding than dismissive, and strides off down the corridor. Estelle lingers, eyes on the Cube, mind already working—because if she’s meant to inherit this one day, she’s damn well going to understand it.

Estelle processes that. She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is steady, but quieter.

“You didn’t ask Steve to come.” She knows precisely what bear she’s poking now, but can’t help herself.

“No,” Fury says flatly, removing his hand. “I didn’t.”

“Because he’d tell you this is HYDRA all over again.”

Fury meets her gaze. “And I didn’t feel like having that conversation today.”

Estelle folds her arms, eyes flicking up to him. “You don’t want a yes-man, but you don’t want a messy conscience either?”

“I want you to observe, smartass,” Fury corrects, calm as ever. “File it in your head. Spot what needs flagging. Keep your eyes open.”

“And if I see something wrong?” she asks.

“Then you tell me.” He nods once, sharp. “Not Coulson. Not a notebook. Not Steve. Me. ”

They stand there a moment longer, the warble of the Cube filling the silence. Fury trusts her. She’ll have to trust him back, even if that seems like the sort of thing he’d contradictorily tell her not to do.

Estelle finally exhales. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll observe.”

Fury glances at her, remembering when he used to look down much farther to meet her eyes. She’s grown in more ways than one. “Good. Welcome to PEGASUS, Agent Dugan.”

He walks off, coat trailing, already moving on to the next fire to put out.

Estelle stays at the glass, watching the Cube glow against machinery. She stays steady. And she files everything away—every detail, every concern, every crack she thinks she sees in the grand design.

Because someone has to.

[April 30, 2012 (Friday)—22:56]

[Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility | Bunks—Mojave Desert, Nevada]

In true government facility fashion, the facility bunks are functional at best. Thin mattress, thick blanket, walls the color of dry sand. Estelle sits cross-legged on the bed, headset on, the dim light of her laptop casting faint shadows on her face. The static sound of the facility is ever-present, as if the desert wind has seeped into the walls.

“Hey, Steve,” she says softly when the line connects.

His voice comes through a beat later, warm despite the static. “Hey, kid. How’s the trip? New state under your belt?”

She smiles, letting herself lean back against the wall. “Yeah. Fury wanted my eyes on a project. Learning opportunity, he said.” Not untrue. Not the whole truth either. “It’s been... interesting. The way SHIELD sets up comms and server security out here’s different from how they do it in the city. You have to think about dust interference, heat signatures, signal degradation…kinda cool to see it all in practice.”

Steve chuckles. “You would think that’s cool.”

“Obviously,” she teases, letting the sound of his laugh ease the tension she’s been carrying since the tour.

There’s a pause, just long enough that she can hear the weight in it, even if he’s trying to keep it light. She softens her voice. “How’s home?”

“Oh, you know,” Steve says, tone easy. “Quiet. Been making a dent in that pile of books you keep pushing on me. I rearranged my room again. Pretty sure the neighbor’s dog likes me better than its owner at this point.”

Estelle grins, picturing it. “You’re making friends.”

“I try.” His voice stays steady, but she can tell there’s more he isn’t saying. The heaviness is there, under the words—the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be heard.

“You holding up okay?” she asks, as gently as she can.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quick, too smooth. Then, more genuine: “I’m just glad you’re out learning new things. We’ll find something fun to do when you’re back. And, hey, send me the first postcard so I can make Dum Dum jealous, yeah?”

Her heart warms at that. “No deal, but I’ll send them both at once and we’ll see who gets theirs first.”

“Sounds perfect.”

A soft tone pings on the terminal—a reminder of the lights-out curfew in the bunks. Estelle sighs, glancing at the clock. 23:00.

“I should go.”

“Yeah, make sure you rest up.”

“You too. Night, Steve.”

“Night, Este.”

She disconnects, the faint glow of the screen fading, and the bunk feels quieter now, the drone of the facility louder in its absence. Estelle lies back, staring at the ceiling, the Cube’s glow still playing behind her closed eyes.

“Y’know,” comes a voice from the doorway, low and amused, “you could make friends with a rock if it looked at you twice.”

Estelle startles, bolting upright. Clint leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, grin in place.

“Billionaires, aliens, super soldiers, assassins…What’s next? Gonna charm a sentient robot?”

She narrows her eyes, but there’s no heat in them. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to hear your riveting commentary on server redundancy in desert conditions.” He steps inside, hands in his pockets. “Seriously, though—Captain America? You really are collecting the full set.”

“He’s my assignment.” Estelle huffs a laugh, pulling her knees up to her chest. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re on security detail. You’re usually around for, like, major threats or VIPs, not babysitting projects in the middle of nowhere.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, smirking like she’s walked right into his trap. “Relax, Dugan. It’s just SOP. SHIELD pulls in extra eyes when we’re dealing with something this classified. I’m not here to breathe down anyone’s neck.” He shrugs easily. “Mostly I came by to say hi. And, y’know, to let you in on a secret.”

Estelle tilts her head, skeptical. “What kind of secret?”

“Nobody actually enforces curfew around here. Lights-out is more of a suggestion.” He grins. “So don’t panic if you can’t sleep. Just don’t hack into the mainframe or anything. You’ll make me look bad.”

She snorts, finally relaxing a little. “No promises.”

Clint winks, ruffling her hair. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, already half-turned to go. “Get some sleep if you can, ‘Stelle. Tomorrow’s gonna be another long one.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Estelle alone again with the hum of the facility—and the quiet reassurance that she’s not entirely on her own out here.

[May 1, 2012 (Saturday)—02:03 AM]

[Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility | Bunks—Mojave Desert, Nevada]

The facility’s deep mechanical rhythm fills the empty corridors like the pulse of some great machine beneath the desert. Estelle slips out of her bunk, boots soft against the floor, hands tucked in the pockets of her sweatshirt. The clock had glared 2:03 AM at her, and there’s no use trying to force sleep now.

She drifts through the complex, half-guided by memory, half just following the sound of the servers and equipment, until she turns a corner and nearly walks right into him.

“Ah! Oh—sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Dr. Erik Selvig says, startled, nearly dropping the tablet in his hands. He adjusts his stance, squinting at her. “Wait—don’t I know you?”

Estelle offers a small, tired smile. “We met in New Mexico. Thor. The Destroyer. The ten-year-old evacuating civilians.”

Selvig blinks, then laughs softly, the sound echoing down the hall. “Right. The child who knew more about atmospheric anomalies than our intern. And now you’re here.” His expression shifts—curiosity, then concern. “You’re twelve or so now?”

“Yep,” Estelle says, deadpan. “Long story.”

Selvig shakes his head, more amused than anything. He starts walking, and she falls into step beside him. “What’s keeping you up?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same.”

He grins, but there’s fatigue behind it. “Touché.”

They approach one of the secondary labs, where banks of monitors display live feeds of energy readings, waveforms, and containment metrics. Estelle squints at the numbers, brow furrowing.

“You’re tracking energy distortions in the output?” she asks, pointing at one graph.

Selvig glances over, surprised. “We are. It’s part of the calibration process.” He tilts his head at her. “You know how to read that?”

“Some. I only just read about phase harmonics in high-energy fields,” she admits, like it’s supposed to be humbling instead of impressive. “I mean, the Tesseract still produces distortions way bigger than anything I’ve seen on paper.”

Before Selvig can answer, a voice drifts in from behind them. “Big doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Estelle turns, startled. Coulson steps out of the shadows near the doorway, arms folded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Coulson?” Estelle says, blinking. “What—what are you doing here?”

Coulson shrugs, unbothered. “Same as you. Couldn’t sleep.”

Her gaze darts between them—Selvig, Coulson, Clint earlier. The roster of agents and specialists on site is starting to feel stacked. Like overkill. Like they’re preparing for something they haven’t told her.

“Bit much for a research station, isn’t it?” she murmurs, trying to keep it light, but Coulson catches the note of suspicion in her tone.

“Standard precautions,” Coulson says gently, but with the hint of a smile that says he’s well aware she isn’t buying it. “That’s all.”

They make their way toward the main chamber, where the Tesseract sits in its containment rig, glowing soft and steady in the dark. Selvig immediately busies himself at the controls, checking the readouts and adjusting the parameters. Coulson stands with Estelle at the observation line, both watching the Cube.

Then it happens.

Without warning, the Tesseract’s glow brightens—sharp, sudden, blinding. The air vibrates, the warble turning into a high, thin whine. Readouts on Selvig’s screens spike, numbers climbing into ranges Estelle doesn’t recognize.

“Nope, no thank you,” Estelle murmurs, stepping behind a stainless steel desk a few feet away.

Selvig curses under his breath. His fingers fly over the controls, trying to recalibrate, to dampen the surge. “It’s advancing on its own—I didn’t initiate anything—”

Coulson tenses. “Is this part of the calibration?”

“No!” Selvig says, frustration bleeding through. “This shouldn’t be happening. It’s doing something, but I don’t know what or why—”

Estelle peers over from her hiding place, eyes wide, watching as the Tesseract pulses, the light inside it shifting, alive in a way she hasn’t seen before. A deep instinct tells her this isn’t just a glitch. The Cube is reacting to something .

Selvig continues to try to stabilize the output, but nothing seems to work. The surge continues, power radiating outward in invisible waves.

Estelle’s heart hammers in her chest. “I can sound for evac.”

“Go,” he says urgently.

Chapter Text

[SHIELD Secure Intra-Org Correspondence]

TO: Director Nicholas J. Fury

CC: Commander Maria Hill, Senior Agent Phil Coulson

FROM: Agent Estelle T. Dugan

DATE: 02 May 2012

SUBJECT: Preliminary Evacuation Report—Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility (PEGASUS)

Director Fury,

As of this writing, there was no designated agent assigned to give an evacuation report for the Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility following the incident at approximately 0218 hours local time. I am taking it upon myself to submit this preliminary report for SHIELD Command.

I’ll follow up with a full report once we have a confirmed headcount and inventory of the evacuated equipment and materials.

—————

Summary of Event:

At 0218, there was an unexpected energy surge from the Tesseract. The Tesseract began to give off a higher luminal and energy output, along with vibrations and a high-pitched frequency from the chamber. Dr. Selvig was unable to stabilize or reduce the output.

Upon witnessing this escalated risk of containment failure, and in consultation with Agent Coulson, I called for the evacuation of non-essential personnel (including myself) and priority equipment. The objective was to ensure the safety of staff and prevent material loss in the event of containment failure.

Evacuation protocols were initiated between 0220 and 0300 hours.

—————

Evacuation Site:

Evacuated agents and equipment have been relocated to Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada, under provisional clearance granted by pre-established emergency protocol arrangements. We are still in the process of settling in and establishing next steps / awaiting further instructions.

—————

Current Known Status:

• Personnel count is ongoing; no fatalities or serious injuries reported as of this draft.
  
  
• Priority equipment and data modules from facility labs arrived intact; full inventory pending.
  
  
• The status of the Tesseract and containment chamber at the original site is unknown at this time. I have not had contact with any priority agents who stayed behind during evacuation.

—————

Next Steps:

• I will compile a detailed list of evacuated personnel and equipment as soon as possible, or designate a team lead / logistics officer to do so.
  
  
• I am requesting the immediate assignment of an operations officer to provide evacuated personnel with a status update on the PEGASUS facility and relocation, as necessary. We’d like to know what’s going on over there and what our orders are.
  
  
• I also recommend initiating a debrief rotation for PEGASUS personnel to log firsthand accounts of the event, to identify strengths and weaknesses in the evacuation procedure.

Please advise if additional assistance is needed from my end.

Respectfully submitted,

—————

Estelle T. Dugan

SHIELD Analyst, Level 3 / L6-7 (P)

[May 2, 2012 (Wednesday)—11:00 AM]

[Nellis Air Force Base—Supply Hangar]

The desert heat hasn’t broken, but the air inside the hangar is cooler, barely. Estelle crouches low beside an open crate, pencil tucked behind one ear, trying to decipher a handwritten inventory sheet that looks like it was filled out in the back of a rattling transport. Her hair’s in a loose, tired bun. Someone handed her a SHIELD windbreaker an hour ago—yesterday’s blouse still underneath—and one of the zippers is stuck halfway.

“That’s not an H, it’s a B,” she mutters, tilting the clipboard and pointing at the crate. “I thought you were cross-referencing with the manifest.”

“Thought you were in Communications, not Logistics,” says the taller agent next to her, grinning as he adjusts his grip on the box.

“I’m in functioning departments,” she replies, deadpan, raising her voice to the hangar at large. “Also, whoever packed Lab Unit 7 left three radiation meters in with the fiber optic coils. That’s not containment-safe.”

“Noted,” someone calls back across the floor. They’re all listening and respecting her because there’s not much else to do.

She stands, stretching her back. The evacuation went better than it had any right to, but no one’s gotten decent sleep. The whole base feels like a limb gone numb—waking up, twitching, waiting to feel again. They’re safe. That matters. But they’re also cut off, stranded in a lull they don’t understand.

Then the wind shifts.

Outside the hangar doors, a sharp gust kicks up a swirl of dust. Conversation drops to murmurs as a Quinjet descends past the threshold, rotors throwing grit and heat into the bay. Papers skitter. Estelle squints, shielding her eyes as a silhouette steps through the chaos—coat flaring, boots heavy on concrete.

Director Fury. Making the kind of dramatic entrance they don’t teach at the Academy.

She hands the clipboard to the nearest agent and squares her shoulders.

“Agent Dugan,” Fury calls. Not a question.

“Sir,” she answers, already moving.

He doesn’t slow as she falls in beside him, crossing the tarmac toward the waiting Quinjet. Heat ripples off the pavement.

“Did you get my report?” she asks after a few paces, keeping her tone even.

“I glanced at it.”

Her stomach tightens, but she waits.

“Neat formatting,” he adds. “Thorough. Calm under pressure.”

She nods once, heart drumming steadily in her chest.

“Appreciate the initiative,” he says. For Fury, that might as well be a handwritten thank-you note.

Estelle hazards a sidelong glance, but his focus is already fixed ahead.

“What’s the update on the facility?” she asks.

Fury stops at the base of the ramp. His shadow stretches long behind him.

“It’s gone.”

She blinks. “Gone?”

“Imploded. Vaporized. Gone.”

Her breath catches. “Is—Coulson? Barton?”

“Coulson’s alright.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Nothing about Clint..

Her pulse skips. One hand curls loosely at her side, but she doesn’t press—not here, not now. She follows him up the ramp in silence.

[May 2, 2012 (Tuesday)]

[Quinjet en Route to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, NYC]

Estelle sits opposite Fury, legs crossed tightly at the ankle, hands folded in her lap to keep them from shaking. The safety webbing of the Quinjet creaks with turbulence, and the kind of buzzing she’s habituated to.

“You want the full brief?” Fury asks.

“Yes, please,” she says.

He leans back, watching her closely.

“About an hour after you called the evac, the Tesseract activated again. Different behavior. It didn’t just surge—it opened a gate.”

Estelle sits straighter. “A wormhole like the Bifrost.”

Fury nods. “Someone came right through. Had a weapon—a staff, blue-glow, probably Asgardian. Used it on Barton. Selvig. Several others. Put them under some kind of control.”

“Do we know who?”

“Yeah,” he pauses to build the kind of tension she doesn’t appreciate. “Said he was Loki. Asgardian. Thor’s brother.”

She presses her lips together and stiffens, knowing the name.

“He took the Tesseract. Then the containment array failed. Full chain reaction. The whole facility went down. We’re not even sending recovery teams yet—the ground’s too hot.”

She exhales slowly and carefully, feeling the air push against her chest like pressure underwater.

“You’re the closest thing I’ve got to an expert on Asgardians,” Fury says. “Tell me what you see.”

She takes a moment. Organizes the threads. Her hand twitches like she wants to write something down, but she goes on with just what her brain can sort out.

“Last year, Loki sent the Destroyer to Earth,” she says. “He wanted Thor stuck here, even taken out, so he could keep the throne. But Sif and the Warriors Three broke orders to come after him. They wanted Thor back.”

“Meaning Loki didn’t have full control of the kingdom,” Fury says.

“Right, he was just an interim king if I’m remembering correctly. I guess that Thor returned. Got his powers back. Loki lost his position, maybe got banished. If he’s here now, with a weapon and a plan, he’s acting out of desperation—or ambition.”

“You think he wants Earth?”

“The Tesseract was Odin’s, right? Part of Asgard’s vaults? So Loki knows what the Tesseract can do. And he’s seen our lack of preparedness for an alien threat. Earth is also one of the Nine Realms and a place he’s seen Thor care about. That makes it Asgard’s jurisdiction, but also a soft spot for sibling rivalry.”

Fury’s brow lifts. “You think Asgard will come?”

“He said so. Thor did. To me. To Coulson. He said Earth mattered. If Loki’s here to start something, I believe Thor, or someone, will follow.”

Fury studies her. “Then where were they when HYDRA had the cube?”

Estelle meets his eye. “That was a human war, like the UN not stepping into every internal conflict. Loki isn’t from Earth. This isn’t internal anymore.”

He doesn’t nod, but something in his posture shifts. Listening. Measuring.

“If any Asgardians arrive, I’d like to be there. You said it yourself, I’ve got experience with them. I could help.”

He says nothing. Not a yes, but not a no.

“One more thing,” she says. “Thor had a connection to Dr. Jane Foster. If Loki knows that, she could be a target. A pawn. I recommend moving her to a secure site.”

“Already in progress.”

She breathes out, tension easing slightly in her shoulders.

They sit in the quiet hum for a long minute.

Then: “Are you activating the Initiative, sir?”

He smirks. Barely. “This is the Initiative. It started the moment you stepped on this jet. Technically, I need the Council’s green light.”

She waits.

“But yes,” he says, voice low and certain. “I’m already assembling the roster. We’ll group at HQ and then bring in Captain Rogers.”

Estelle closes her eyes for a second. Just long enough to let the answer settle. She thinks about the past few months with Steve. His recovery. His transition. She’s the one who’s been reporting on him to SHIELD, so if Fury thinks he’s ready…

“Good,” she whispers.

[May 2, 2012 (Wednesday)—18:30 (EST)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. NYC Headquarters—Manhattan, NYC]

Monitors around Fury flicker on one by one, cold light cutting across the briefing room’s dark metal walls. Five faces materialize in clean squares above the long table: Gideon Malick, suave and severe; Hawley, arms already folded; Yen, looking vaguely uncomfortable; and Rockwell, flanked by Singh, who always seems a half-second from muting himself out of contempt.

Director Fury stands at the head of the table, weight settled into his heels. Behind him, just out of frame of the video feeds, Estelle Dugan perches on the corner of a secondary console, cross-legged, silent. She wears a stretched-out cardigan and jeans, hair pulled back in a braid, disheveled from sleeping on the ride into HQ. A small notepad is open in her lap, though she hasn’t written anything yet.

She’s here to observe.

Fury didn’t say as much, but she knows. This is what “operational context” looks like.

Gideon Malick wastes no time.

“You’re way off base, Director. This plan to gamble with global security is out of control.”

Fury doesn’t blink. “This is a war we're in. Control is a nice notion, but it’s rarely a given.”

Malick stiffens.

“What we do have is an opportunity to give this situation our best response.” Fury adds.

“We’re not talking about a rogue general, Nick,” says Hawley, leaning forward. “This is an extraterrestrial force. One that’s already infiltrated your facility, taken our technology, and turned your agents into weapons.”

“Loki is a threat, yes,” Fury says. “But he is very much a rogue. He’s acting alone.”

“We can’t confirm that,” mutters Rockwell. “What about the brother? Thor.”

“Thor is not hostile. I have agents and records that will confirm. If he does show up from whatever world he's on, he’ll be an ally—but I’m not relying on that.”

Malick leans in, voice smooth. “Which is why Phase Two should be your focus. It was designed for this exact contingency.”

Estelle freezes.

Phase Two?

Her pencil stops mid-word. She glances at Fury’s back, searching his posture for a reaction. Nothing.

“Phase Two isn’t operational,” Fury says. “And it’s not a frontline solution. We need a response team.”

Estelle glances up at that, tracking the shift in his posture. She gets the feeling again that the Tesseract was being kept and studied for more than just a potential energy source, but the meeting continues, and she doesn’t have time to dwell on the theory.

“The Avengers Initiative was mothballed,” says Singh, “for a reason.”

Yen, calm but cool, adds, “The main reason being the roster itself.”

Malick’s mouth curls. “We can’t pass the torch off to a group of unstable vigilantes—”

Fury cuts him off. “I’m not passing anything off. I’m assembling the best shot we’ve got and making sure they’re working with us.”

“They’re dangerous,” Singh says.

“So’s the alternative,” Fury snaps. “You want to wait until Loki plants that cube wherever on the planet he’d like?”

Malick waves a hand. “We don’t need another soldier speech. You keep calling them ‘assets,’ but let’s talk about the quality of your judgment. You’ve got a twelve-year-old with a SHIELD badge collecting field intel.”

Fury’s jaw flexes.

Estelle’s eyes widen slightly. She doesn’t move, but she lifts one eyebrow at the back of Fury’s head like, Really? We’re doing this?

“She’s not part of the Initiative,” Fury says flatly.. Estelle suppresses a smirk. She knows a half-truth when she hears one. But she also knows when not to correct her superior mid-livestream.

Fury keeps going. “And she’s not on any roster. What she is is one of the most disciplined minds I’ve got. She’s fluent in high-level protocol, she doesn’t enter combat zones, and her clearance is provisional and monitored.”

Malick raises his chin. “She’s a child.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “She’s also not the subject of this meeting and not a strong argument to discredit the idea that people can have unlikely potential.”

He lets his defense of Estelle sit for a moment before continuing. “I’m here because we’re out of time and out of fallback plans.”

“Your solution is an unproven team with no chain of command and no accountability,” Singh replies.

Fury steps closer to the monitor bank.

“No. My solution is that we stop treating these people like variables and start using them like the assets they are. The world has changed. I need operatives who can adapt faster than a council debate.”

“You’re taking a risk,” says Hawley.

“I’m making a choice,” Fury counters. “One that doesn’t wait for permission to act when lives are at stake.”

On her perch, Estelle raises both eyebrows and gives Fury a look that says: Nice. Carry on.

The monitors fall silent for a moment, each council member assessing.

“Just remember, Director,” Malick finally says, voice silken. “When this spins out, we’ll be the ones asked who greenlit it.”

“Good,” Fury says. “Make sure you spell my name right.”

One by one, the feeds go dark.

Estelle swings her legs down and hops off the console, crossing to him with her notepad still in hand.

“Do you want my review notes?” she asks dryly. “Because I have thoughts on Singh’s mustache.”

Fury doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Let’s hear it.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“Phase Two,” she says instead.

He doesn’t respond.

She watches him closely. “Okay, so that’s a yes.”

“Drop it, Dugan.”

“Director.”

She uses the title not to challenge him, but to warn him: she’s not playing.

Fury finally turns. “You’ve already figured out half of it, haven’t you?”

“I think I’ve figured out the dangerous half. The rest is just classified confirmation.”

He gives her a long, flat look. Then: “Consider it confirmed. And consider it above your pay grade.”

She exhales, disappointed but not surprised. “Noted.”

They stand in silence for a moment.

Then: “Do you think they’ll actually make trouble for you? For keeping me on?”

Fury shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You think they’ll wait until Loki levels a city, or send the reprimand straight to your home address?”

He chuckles. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Her eyes narrow. “You said I wasn’t part of the Initiative.”

“Not as far as the Council is concerned,” he says. “Not the combat part. Not the flashy part.”

She nods.

“But you are part of it,” he adds. “Same as anyone who keeps the mission running. I just don’t ever want to put you in the line of fire to prove it.”

Estelle swallows once and looks away.

“Understood.”

Fury checks the time, already shifting to whatever mission is next. “Time to get your friend.”

But before she turns to follow, Estelle mutters, “Malick still looks like a haunted Victorian doll.”

This time, Fury doesn’t try to hide the laugh.

[May 2, 2012 (Wednesday)—22:43]

[13 Cranberry Street—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

The basement is dim except for the single utility bulb overhead, its halo of yellow light swaying slightly with each impact. The sound of fists hitting canvas fills the space in rhythmic bursts—solid, fast, merciless.

Steve Rogers doesn’t stop.

Sweat darkens the collar of his undershirt. His knuckles are red under his gloves and tape. The heavy bag swings like a pendulum under the strain of each blow, the chain overhead creaking against the beam. The old wood of the brownstone groans in sympathy. He’s relieving stress more than training.

Steve Rogers is surviving.

He hits again. Harder. No warmup. No music. Just his breath and the beat of everything he can’t shake.

Erskine’s smile. The echo of gunfire in a back alley. Brooklyn enlistment offices slamming doors in his face. The glint of glass in the infusion chamber. Howard’s voice calling countdowns. The burn of transformation.

The silence after Erskine collapsed.

He swings.

The blinding stage lights of the USO tour. The smell of cheap wool and greasepaint. Bruised ego wrapped in fake applause.

He swings again.

The 107th. Bucky’s grin. Dum Dum’s hat tipped forward with casual menace—the sharp, precise joy of a rescue done right. Estelle’s laugh is exactly the same.

He punches harder.

Red Skull’s sneer. Holding the shield for the first time. The weight of it. The Commandos shouting behind him. Snow. Explosions. Blood on frost. Silhouettes outlined in firelight.

Then Bucky’s hand. Then no hand at all.

Steve doesn’t grunt, doesn’t yell. He just hits. Again and again. Until the chain groans again under protest and snaps. The bag flies across the gym, slams into the far wall with a heavy, wet sound, and bursts. Sand spills out across the mat like blood, soaking into the silence.

His shoulders rise and fall. The bulb swings a little slower now. The dust hangs in the air. He drops his arms to his sides and finally exhales.

Erskine gone. Bucky gone. Howard...gone. Peggy is a memory he’s not sure he’s ready to face yet.

The Retreat helped, for a while. Maybe it was just the company. Estelle says progress isn’t linear like she’s quoting someone else, but this doesn’t even feel like an up-and-down ride. It feels like a loop. A fight he’s always in the middle of but can’t ever finish.

And Este—

She’s away. On-site. Reporting in. Handling things adults shouldn’t have to carry, let alone her. She’s sharp, he knows that. Grounded. But she’s still just a kid. And he’s supposed to be—what? A mentor? A comfort? He feels like a relic. A shield that doesn’t know where to stand.

The gym still smells like chalk, sweat, and pulverized canvas. Sand fans out across the mat like a battlefield map. The bag lies in ruins by the far wall, its carcass split open, bleeding grit. The chain overhead swings in slow circles, creaking like it’s still reeling.

Steve stands in the aftermath, fists down, breath hard. He’s not shaking, but he could be.

He senses a shift in the room that forces him to glance toward the doorway. And there, framed by the doorway, stands Estelle.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him, her arms full—a folder tucked under one arm, her notebook balanced against her hip. Her hair has entirely slipped from her braid, kinked at the edges. Her cardigan sleeves are bunched at the wrists. Her expression is soft, but not uncertain.

Chapter Text

[May 2, 2012 (Wednesday)—22:48]

[13 Cranberry Street—Brooklyn Heights, NYC]

Estelle tilts her head. “You alright?” As soon as she asks, she regrets it. The question isn’t open-ended enough. There’s room for him to brush her off, and she instantly knows he will.

Steve doesn’t answer. Just runs a hand through his hair and lets it fall again. His shoulders are square. Defensive.

Then he nods toward the folder.

“That a mission?”

Estelle’s eyes flick down. “Technically.”

He huffs. “What’ve you been up to?”

She steps in slowly, each boot-heel muffled by grit. “Not punching gym equipment until it explodes.”

He just huffs again, cutting her a look while taking his gloves off. Then she adds, quieter: “Want to talk about it?”

Steve shakes his head once, but it’s not a firm no. Just…not now. Not yet. He tries again, glancing at the folder.

Estelle doesn’t move. “It’s not what I wanted to start with.”

Steve lifts a brow, waiting while he unwraps his hands.

She holds her ground. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just…don’t pretend I didn’t see it.”

Steve’s expression flickers, something caught between regret and surprise. She doesn’t press him. She never does.

“I’m not trying to fix it,” she adds, borrowing a quote from Garner without remembering where it came from. “I just don’t like watching people drown in rooms with dry floors.”

That lands. Enough to make Steve’s next exhale shudder.

For a long moment, Steve says nothing. His hands drop to his sides again. And something uncoils behind his ribs.

This girl.

He thinks of Bucky, of the way he used to step in front of trouble without blinking. He thinks of Peggy’s eyes, level and steady, never flinching. And for one surreal second, he doesn’t have to imagine what it was like for Bucky to have his little sister, Becca, around.

Steve’s got a Becca of his own right here.

“…Okay,” he says at last, hoping she’ll drop it now. “What’s the mission?”

Estelle steps forward and opens the folder on the nearest bench. Glossy stills. Energy scans. Redacted margin notes. At the top, the file name is stamped in bold:

TESSERACT

Steve stills. His hand freezes on the page. Whatever calm he'd been faking, it's gone.

Estelle observes him. “Howard found it,” she says softly. “1945. It was recovered from the ocean floor. SHIELD’s had it under secure observation ever since.”

She doesn’t mention the details about PEGASUS or “Phase Two.” Just knowing SHIELD has it will irk Steve enough, and the punching bag on the floor was their only one.

His jaw clenches. “HYDRA tech.”

“Originally.” She nods. “It predates them by centuries, but yes. They used it, as you well know. Mis used it.”

“And how’s SHIELD using it?” He challenges. She doesn’t back down, knowing full well his frustration isn’t directed at her.

“Well, they can’t right now…,” she clarifies, hoping he’ll catch her drift.

Steve swipes a hand down his face. “Who took it?”

Estelle hesitates. Then, with deliberate calm: “You need sleep.”

“Este—”

“I’ll brief you en route tomorrow,” she says, tucking the photos back in. “Promise. The details might be a bit shocking.” She meets his eyes squarely.

Steve laughs once—a low, worn sound. “Nothing can shock me anymore.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

“Then, when I’m right and you’re shocked, you’re taking me to Malted’s.”

He folds his arms. “We’re wagering milkshakes now?”

Estelle thinks for a second. Then nods. “We’ll wind up at Malted’s either way.”

Steve almost smiles. Almost. “Loser buys, then.”

“Not fair because I know you have a gift card, but fine,” she mutters, offering her hand like it’s a death pact.

They shake on it. Her palm is smaller, colder. His hand is still raw.

She looks up at him for another long moment. Something in his shoulders still hasn’t let go.

Estelle glances toward the hallway.

Without another word, she turns and walks out of the gym straight into the basement den.

Steve watches her go. Doesn’t rush. But he follows.

In the den, it’s dim and quiet, blanketed in the warmth of the string lights that May put up years ago instead of putting them away after Christmas. Estelle pads across the rug and flicks on the Blu-ray player like she’s done it a thousand times. The perfect movie is already in.

The Wizard of Oz begins—no fanfare, no commentary. Just black and white Kansas and an old, familiar overture.

She sinks into the couch and curls her legs under her. Doesn’t pat the seat. Doesn’t ask. Steve appears a moment later.

“You starting without me?”

“You were slow.”

He pulls up a chunky-knit blanket and lowers himself beside her with a sigh and no further protest. The couch dips under his weight. The screen throws pale light across both their faces.

Estelle doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t either.

Dorothy runs from home. Miss Gulch steals the dog. The tornado winds begin to howl.

They speak in murmurs, here and there: when the sepia fades into color, when the Scarecrow sings his lines with familiar physical comedy. He teases her when she mumble-sings along. She elbows him when he interrupts with the wrong lyrics on purpose.

And sometime around the Tin Man’s rusted debut, Estelle’s head tips onto his arm. He doesn’t move.

By the time Dorothy steps into the Emerald City, both of them are asleep, curled up like the world might not end soon. The remote slides to the floor. The house is silent, save for the cheery songs of Oz and the faint sound of breathing.

On this rare night, neither dreams about war.

[May 3, 2012 (Thursday)—09:23 AM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet en Route to Helicarrier—Somewhere Over the Atlantic]

Another day, another steady and low Quinjet flight. A constant pressure beneath the wind shear and the quiet churn of altitude. It’s not loud enough to drown out thought, but it’s just enough to keep conversation from feeling too casual.

Steve sits near the forward bench, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he studies the tablet Coulson handed him. The footage flickers under his thumb—grainy camera angles of a green, furious blur tearing through tanks and Humvees at Culver University. The creature slams a jeep into a crumpled smear of metal and steel.

Steve frowns, not at the violence, but at the rawness of it. The rage. The pain it takes to move like that.

Across from him, Estelle Dugan sits cross-legged on the bench, one boot heel bouncing against the strap of her seat harness. She’s got homework for Global Politics on her own tablet, but she’s not looking at it. She’s watching Steve watch the Hulk.

From the cockpit, the pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom.

“We’re about forty minutes out from base, sir.”

Coulson unbuckles smoothly, stepping into the aisle with the practiced grace of a man who’s done this more times than he’s slept. He walks toward Steve with something between purpose and pride.

“That footage’s from about two years ago,” he offers. “Doctor Banner was trying to recreate the serum. The one they used on you.”

Steve doesn’t look up yet. He just swipes to the next frame.

“Gamma radiation?” he says. “That’s what he thought would do it?”

“Among other things.” Coulson nods. “You were the world’s first superhero. Everyone’s been trying to catch lightning in that bottle ever since.”

Onscreen, the Hulk bellows, throwing a troop transport into a tree. The footage cuts out in a burst of static.

Steve finally lowers the tablet. “Doesn’t look like it went his way.”

“No,” Coulson says. “Not so much. When he’s not…” He gestures vaguely to the screen. “...that, though? He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever read a file on. Stephen Hawking level.”

Steve gives him a look, one brow raised.

“Add it to your list,” Estelle pipes up, making a mental note to go over more modern figures with Steve.

Coulson blinks, recalibrates.

“He’s like a really smart person,” he clarifies.

Across the aisle, Estelle long, slow exhale, just loud enough to be heard. She shoots Coulson a sideways look that’s all dry edge and preteen precognition. It’s a ‘ Don’t embarrass me in front of my new friend ’ look.

Steve tries, and mostly fails, not to smile.

Coulson clears his throat, shifting his stance. “Anyway. It’s, uh…officially an honor to meet you.”

Steve finally looks up, his expression softening. “Likewise.”

Coulson brightens. Not just polite-bright…giddy. Estelle’s eyes widen in silent horror. She’s seen that look—elevators, intel briefings, and once, disastrously, on a school field trip when Coulson ran into Neil deGrasse Tyson.

Steve notices the shift. Coulson’s whole demeanor starts tilting toward reverence.

“I sort of…met you before,” Coulson adds. Estelle’s begging the universe to take her. “Back when you were still…uh, frozen. I was assigned to the observation rotation. You know, during the cryostasis recovery.”

Steve stills. Coulson keeps talking. The nearby twelve-year-old is thinking about evacuating the aircraft and trying her luck with the ocean.

“I watched you. While you were sleeping.”

Estelle coughs, trying to hide a groan behind her hand.

Steve glances at her. Her eyes flick to Coulson and back to Steve, full of apology. ‘ I forgot to warn you, he’s like this .’ It’s all in the look.

Coulson appears unaware that his dignity is slipping away.

“I mean, not watched you. Not in a weird way. I was just…present. In the room. Sometimes. Not staring. Just...monitoring vitals. I wasn’t the only one! There were a lot of people. A whole team.”

“Mm-hm,” Estelle says under her breath. “We got that.”

Steve can’t help it. He smiles, small and bewildered.

Coulson, recovering, brushes the wrinkle from his jacket and clears his throat again. “It really is just…a huge honor to have you on board.”

“I hope I’m the right guy for the job,” Steve replies, tone more earnest than modest.

“Oh, you are,” Coulson says immediately. “Absolutely. No question. We even made some upgrades to the uniform. I had…some design input.”

Steve’s brows lift. “The uniform?”

Coulson nods like a man proud of his own blueprint. “It’s got everything: mobility, breathability, strategic colorblocking—”

“Stars and stripes?” Steve interrupts, a hint of playfulness undercutting his weariness. “Doesn’t that feel a little…old-fashioned?”

Before Coulson can answer, Estelle jumps in, tone dry: “The word you’re looking for is ‘iconic .’”

Estelle gets up and moves over to be next to Steve, right between where he sits and Coulson stands. She’s deliberately coming between them before Coulson can mortify her any more. Coulson gives her a look. She gives him one right back without blinking.

Steve watches the silent volley with mild amusement. Their rhythm is familiar. Well-worn. They don’t need words to ping each other’s brains. It’s all timing, all evident familiarity. That surprises him more than it should.

This isn’t just Coulson dragging along a ward. This is…something else.

A colleague, maybe. Or a partner. A friend. A daughter.

Steve smirks down at her, his arm resting across the back of the bench behind her. Estelle doesn’t shrink from it. Instead, she leans in just a little more, like this spot by his side has already become a default.

Coulson sees it.

Not just the proximity, but the ease. The shorthand. The casual comfort of two people who’ve already chosen each other as safe ground.

He feels something tug in his chest—half surprise, half relief. Steve hasn’t been on the ground more than seven months, and already Estelle’s orbit has shifted to include him. Not cautiously, either. Not the way she usually tests new people with polite distance.

No, this is different. She’s tucked in. And he, Captain America himself, is letting her.

Coulson doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t joke. He just watches the shape of the connection settle.

When she elbows Steve, it’s playful.

“Wait until he asks you to autograph his collector cards.”

“I would never ,” Coulson says, indignant. “But…They’re all in mint condition.”

Steve actually laughs at that, a warm and genuine sound. It’s the first real laugh Coulson’s heard from him.

Estelle smiles too, catching the spark and letting it light her edges.

“You gonna wear it?” she asks Steve, chin tilted up. “The suit.”

He shrugs, that easy closeness still lingering. “Suppose I should at least see if it fits.”

“Good,” she says, slipping her tablet away and brushing a lock of hair from her face. “You’re gonna want to stretch the fabric. There’s a lot of running coming up.”

Steve glances at her. “That a promise?”

“Just a hunch,” she replies. “But a pretty good one.”

As the Quinjet banks gently, sunlight streaks in through the side window. Estelle shifts even closer, one foot knocking lightly against Steve’s boot as she peers out at the clouds.

Steve smiles again and nudges her. “Not in Kansas anymore, are we?”

Coulson catches it again.

The way they both move in tandem, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of months. Like siblings.

It clicks into place somewhere behind his ribs: Steve didn’t just walk into the future, he walked into a connection . One that doesn’t ask questions or demand explanations. Just offers a place to sit and breathe.

And Estelle, who rarely lets anyone in, has left the door open for her great-granddad’s old war buddy, of all people.

Coulson exhales slowly. Maybe, for once, he doesn’t need to be the glue. He doesn’t need to worry about what happens if he’s not a constant presence for her.

Maybe they’re already sticking.

Coulson returns to his seat with a quiet kind of satisfaction. Not smug. Just still. Content.

Steve leans back again, mission and destination now forgotten. Estelle stays right by his side, and neither of them seems to notice they haven’t moved apart in minutes.

For the first time in days, Steve’s posture eases. His shoulders uncoil just enough. And Estelle’s expression fades from her usual alertness to something more like rest.

It’s not a team yet. But it’s not nothing either.

Coulson lets himself hope. This girl, whom he feels was six years old just yesterday…maybe she’ll be alright, even in a world like this.

[May 3, 2012 (Thursday)—09:55 AM]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier—Flight Deck, Atlantic Ocean]

The Quinjet touches down with a gentle lurch on a stretch of steel that doesn’t look like it should float, but it does. The Helicarrier looms beneath them, vast and imposing, flanked by twin runways and pulsing with surface-level traffic. It looks like someone smushed a battleship into an airbase and didn’t stop there.

Steve is the first one to stand, watching the ramp descend. Estelle follows close behind, her boots finding steady ground out of instinct, but her eyes are wide, darting everywhere. The wind hits them the second they’re outside. Clean, high, and cold.

Coulson leads them down the ramp. “Welcome aboard,” he says, but it’s mostly lost to the sound of the ocean.

Waiting at the bottom is Natasha Romanoff. Black tac suit, black boots, red hair chopped below the ears like she’s got too much to do to worry about maintenance.

“Agent Romanoff,” Coulson greets crisply. “Meet Captain Rogers, Estie’s latest charge.”

Estelle chuckles at Captain America being called her ‘charge.’

“Ma’am.” Steve offers a short nod to Natasha, simultaneously nudging Estelle to wipe the smirk off her face.

“Nice to finally meet,” Natasha replies, then glances at Coulson. “They want you on the bridge. Live stand.”

“Of course.” He looks back toward Estelle and Steve, just briefly. “Play nice.”

Estelle gives him a mock salute. Coulson disappears into the wind.

The second he’s out of earshot, Estelle’s composure cracks. She lights up, eyes narrowing with a grin as she jogs the last few feet and throws her arms around Natasha.

“Skuchala po tebe,” the girl beams.

Natasha hugs her back without hesitation. It’s brief, but tight and warm nonetheless. “Missed you, too. You’re taller.”

“You always say that.”

“You’re always taller.”

They break apart, and Estelle falls in beside her like a duckling instinctively finding formation.

“So?” Natasha asks, flicking a look toward Steve with amusement. “How’s it feel babysitting a national treasure?”

Estelle huffs, the grin threatening to take over. “He’s fine. Surprisingly low-maintenance. Eats carbs. Does push-ups. Carries heavy groceries for me.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at that, deadpan. “I’m still right here.”

Natasha smirks. “He’s adjusting well, then.”

They walk toward the interior access lift, but not before Estelle’s pace slows. Her eyes take in the Helicarrier fully now—her first look at it in the open daylight. Her hand lifts without thinking, fingertips brushing the railing.

“This is…” she breathes, unable to find the right word. “It’s like a science fair, an aircraft carrier, and a classified airport all fused into one.”

Natasha gives a low hum. “Not the worst description I’ve heard.”

They don’t make it much farther before another figure comes into view. Slight slouch, eyes scanning the deck like he’s not sure he’s supposed to be there, which is ironic considering he’s one of the smartest people on board. Steve recognizes him immediately.

“Doctor Banner,” Steve says, stepping forward and offering a hand.

Banner startles like he hadn’t noticed them, but shakes Steve’s hand quickly. “Oh, yeah. Hi. They said you’d be coming. Didn’t mention, uh—” His gaze slides to Estelle.

She steps forward, too, already fishing her handheld notebook from her pocket. “I’ve read your work on gamma decay tracking. Will you be modeling the Tesseract’s spike to triangulate or using field spectrometry? I’ve got questions either way.”

Banner blinks. Then blinks again.

“Is that a child ?”

“Preteen,” she frowns.

Steve clears his throat. “That’s Estelle.”

“She’s with us,” Natasha says, calm and practiced because she’d done this before.

“That doesn’t answer the part where she’s a child ,” Banner mutters, backing up half a step.

Estelle sighs. “I’m twelve. I passed the entry clearance. I’m a trained analyst…and I’m CPR certified. It’s fine.”

Banner looks like it is very much not fine . “I—I mean, sure, yes, that’s…good. That’s reassuring.”

“She’s not on the tactical team,” Natasha says lightly, as if that’s supposed to help. “But she is mission-clearance verified.”

“She likes lab work,” Steve adds helpfully.

“That’s not—” Banner gestures between all three of them. “—that’s not clarifying anything.”

Estelle peers at him. “Speaking of clarity…Your earlier work on gamma scattering ratios in tissue was spotless. Do you have anything unpublished on exposure limits for soft-tissue density?”

Banner takes a second. Just a second to reevaluate his life. Then he mutters, “I should have stayed in Calcutta.”

Natasha smiles slightly. “You’ll get used to her.”

The deck shakes beneath their feet. A soft vibration at first, then stronger, more insistent. The air shifts. Mechanics engage. Estelle’s head snaps up as the turbines begin to rotate, enormous lift fans groaning into place along the ship’s spine.

“Wait,” Steve says, watching the structure change around them. “What’s that?”

Estelle gasps, turning so both hands connect with the railing. “It’s VTOL!”

“It will be in about thirty seconds,” Natasha affirms, completely unconcerned.

“Wait, wait —” Banner protests, stepping toward the edge of the deck. “I thought this was a ship. As in, water-based. As in not airborne.”

Estelle leans over the railing, eyes reflecting the movement of the fans. She squints toward the upper diagonal runway, eyes tracking where it terminates: right over the massive spinning lift fan.

“That can’t be active during flight,” she mutters aloud, vowing to obtain some schematics later.

The ground lurches gently as the Helicarrier lifts, turbines howling as it breaks contact with the ocean. Air whips past them. The surface of the sea falls away beneath the massive engines, and the sky opens wide in every direction.

Steve steps forward instinctively, hand finding Estelle’s shoulder, watching with awe as the clouds shift around them. Even he looks shaken, but in a good way. Banner, meanwhile, looks like he’s going to be sick.

“This is a terrible idea,” Banner mutters.

Estelle beams. “No, it’s super cool.”

Chapter Text

[May 3, 2012 (Thursday)]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier | Bridge—Over the Atlantic]

The doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss, and the world seems to tilt.

Estelle steps onto the bridge of the helicarrier, her boots crossing the threshold just a second ahead of Steve, Natasha, and Dr. Banner. She doesn’t say a word at first. None of them do.

The space unfolds in a slow, deliberate sweep—walls lined with consoles, S.H.I.E.L.D. tech operators moving like clockwork, and forward windows as tall as the front of her brownstone back in Brooklyn. Beyond the glass: sky, turning brighter with altitude. The ocean catches slivers of sun below.

“Altitude confirmed,” Hill calls, glancing over her shoulder at Fury. “Stabilizing at thirty thousand and climbing.”

Fury stands at the command table, arms folded, coat unmoved by the cabin’s subtle pressurization. “Good,” he says. “Now let’s disappear.”

Hill keys in a short sequence, then glances at Estelle. “Come do the honors?”

Estelle’s eyes flash wide. “Really?”

Hill steps aside just enough to give her access to the console. Estelle doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing. She plants both hands on the edge of the console, then lifts one to tap the illuminated key sequence, her brow furrowed in perfect mimicry of concentration. A few of the agents around the bridge glance over. None interrupt.

Outside, the glass begins to shimmer. Panels shift. A light-distorting ripple rolls outward from the hull like a heat mirage, and then—

“Cloaking engaged,” Hill confirms, though Estelle already knows. She watches the readouts update, then lets out a breath that’s half whisper, half laugh.

Steve watches from a few steps back, arms relaxed at his sides. His gaze flicks across the bridge—from the scale of it, the quiet command, the impossible sky—and he thinks, without meaning to: Buck would’ve loved this.

He sees Estelle’s back straightened by the thrill of purpose, her small frame made taller by the way she absorbs the moment. There’s no hesitation in her, just focus. It stuns him a little.

Fury turns toward them and gestures to the table. “Let’s get started.”

They take their places around the command table. The table is glass-topped, projection-lined, and already flickering with tactical overlays of Loki, the Tesseract, and known SHIELD assets in motion.

Estelle slides into a chair beside Steve and pulls her tablet from her bag, waiting for it to sync to the local network. Her feet don’t quite touch the floor, but she hooks them on the base of the chair and sits tall anyway.

Steve leans over slightly, then slips something across the table toward her without ceremony.

She glances down.

His Malted’s gift card.

Her eyes flick to his, wide.

“You were right,” he says. “It’s pretty stunning.”

Her fingers close around the card like it’s a commendation. No grin. Just a quiet beam of satisfaction, sharpened by what it means.

Steve smiles back. “I should know better than to bet against you.”

Natasha’s tablet chirps softly. She glances down, then across the table.

‘Banner,” she says, with a nod toward the lift. “Come on. You’ll want to see the lab.”

Banner follows her without protest, tugging slightly at the hem of his shirt. The doors slide shut behind them, and just like that, the bridge becomes more focused.

Fury watches them go, then turns toward the table. He doesn’t look at Steve, or Hill, or even Coulson. His eye settles on Estelle.

“What’s your read?” he asks.

Estelle blinks. “On…what part, sir?”

Fury’s tone stays even. “On all of it.”

That catches her off guard. Not the question, she’s used to those, but the scope—the looseness of it. No parameters. No packet. No assignment filter.

Her eyebrows knit slightly. “Well, I don’t have all the data. Just fragments. I can’t make—”

“I didn’t ask for certainty,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “I know you have thoughts, Dugan. I want to hear what they’re saying.”

Estelle straightens slightly in her chair, suddenly aware of the eyes around the table: Steve, Hill, Coulson, and the techs across the bridge pretending not to listen.

A year or two ago, she would’ve been told to stay quiet. To organize her thoughts. To wait for evidence before making theories. Intelligence work, she was told, requires facts. Requires proof. You didn’t act on hunches. You corroborate.

But now Fury is leaning on the table, watching her like she might already have a foothold he needs.

She takes a breath. Then speaks, voice clear.

“Loki turned and took agents with him when he left the J-DEM Facility. Two of them were high-value.”

She counts them off on her fingers.

“Selvig, Tesseract research lead. If Loki needs to build or calibrate anything to control or weaponize the cube, he needs Selvig to do it.”

A pause.

“Barton, one of our finest agents. High clearance. Background on protocols and global SHIELD infrastructure. Loki didn’t just get muscle, he got our playbook.”

Hill leans forward a touch. Coulson doesn’t move, but Estelle feels the shift in posture around her.

“And the others?” Fury prompts.

“Mixed-tier field agents, each with their skillsets. Probably used for logistics or extraction. More muscle. Builders. Pawns, to Loki.”

Estelle’s fingers tap lightly on the edge of her tablet. Her eyes are already moving again.

“We’ve gotta think like Barton. If he’s helping Loki build something, they’ll need time, cover, and a secure location.”

She looks up.

“So, where would Barton go to set up shop? What kind of place would he pick for Loki and Selvig to operate out of? How would he shield their movements? What kind of misdirections or decoys would he leave in our path?”

Fury doesn’t interrupt. Neither does Hill. Coulson, quietly, looks impressed.

She glances at the main screen.

“Do we have footage from the Facility between the attack and the explosion? There’s probably a few stones worth turning in there.”

“Not up here,” Hill replies, already signaling to one of the techs. “But we’ve got a full packet on the secure server. I’ll pull it.”

Estelle nods. “And we should start scrounging Selvig’s work,” she adds, leaning back. Her brain’s warmed up now, and thinking faster.

“If they’re building something with the Tesseract, they’ll need rare materials. If we can predict the tech, we can predict what components they’ll need. And if we know that—”

“We can intercept,” Coulson finishes. “Track down supply chains. Get ahead.”

Fury glances at Hill. “Get the footage and Selvig’s archive. I want every requisition, every request, and his lab inventory. Let’s dig into it.”

Hill nods, already moving.

Estelle hesitates when she sees people taking action based on her ideas so readily.

Fury meets her eyes again, seeing there’s more. “Go ahead.”

“How is Loki controlling them? You mentioned a scepter?”

Steve straightens at that, and Coulson nods slightly, expression darkening. Fury’s eye narrows.

“We don't know what it is. Or how it works.”

“Then we should start figuring it out,” Estelle says. “Save the world, I get that. But the agents that Loki took are our people.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but energized.

Fury straightens. “Noted.”

Coulson nods. Estelle does, too, but there’s unease behind it. Worry. People and patterns, she understands. Magic scepters are foreign—she needs to do more research.

“Hill—loop in containment. Start cross-referencing SHIELD safe zones for possible locations Barton might’ve pre-cleared.”

Hill taps her earpiece, already issuing orders.

Fury looks back at Estelle one last time.

“Keep thinking,” he says. “And don’t wait for permission next time.”

Steve watches her from across the table, expression unreadable, somewhere between admiration and concern.

She’s profiling a war from inside its fog. And they’re letting her.

[A Bit Later...]

Estelle sits at one of the auxiliary terminals just off the command table, fingers flying over the interface. The screen is split between SHIELD’s CCTV network and a blinking cluster of heat maps overlaying global supply chain routes. On a third monitor, she’s scrolling through recovered security footage from the J-DEM Facility.

On the command deck above, Coulson is talking Steve’s ear off. Hill’s nagging a few techs about jailbreaking their consoles. Fury’s on with the Council again, pacing.

Next to her, Sitwell works at his own terminal, running facial recognition software with methodical patience.

She’s faster. He hasn’t said it out loud, but she can tell it’s annoying him. She blabbed about the inconsistencies between the SHIELD Academy modules on satellite sweeps and how she prefers to run her own commands. He didn’t ask for elaboration, so she took the hint that he doesn’t care.

Her earpiece chirps as a call comes up on her screen. A private channel with an obscured caller ID. She smiles before she answers.

“Hi, Tony.”

“Well, well,” Stark’s voice crackles in. “Fury pulled you into his garage band. Should I be worried about a takeover?”

She leans forward to adjust a setting, not missing a beat. “I already have three monitors. It’s practically a coup.”

Sitwell shoots her a side glance. She returns it and glances at a screen, pointing to an error message on one of his coding simulations. He huffs and backs off.

“Where are you?” she talks into her earpiece, a little quieter now.

“Breaking in the new digs at Stark Tower,” Tony replies. “Which you still need to visit. But I’ve got mission envy now. Tell me, is the helicarrier as overdesigned as I think it is?”

She hums. “Depends. Are you gonna take the mission and come see for yourself?”

“Nice try,” he mutters. “So, what’s the sitrep?”

Estelle pauses, carefully choosing what to say. “We’re trying to narrow down a location. Dr. Banner’s onboard now. I’ve been advised to let him settle in before ‘bugging’ him.”

“Advised? You mean you’re not in charge?”

“Fury is, obviously,” she snorts. “But he’s...delegating. Oh, and Steve is here, too.”

Tony makes a noise that might be a scoff or a grudging acknowledgment.

“Your new science project?”

She hesitates just long enough to make him suspicious.

“My friend,” she corrects. “We’re going to Malted’s when this is all over, then I’m going to make him sit through my Stephen Hawking PowerPoint.”

There’s a pause on the line. Not silence—she can hear the faint clink of glass in the background—but a noticeable gap in response.

“Huh,” Tony says. “So you’re his tutor, too.”

“Yeah. He’s...catching up alright,” she offers, neutrally. “And he’s got good stories about Dum Dum.”

Another beat.

“Well, he can’t fly.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not all that counts.”

“Listen, shortstack, some of us have earned our altitude.”

Sitwell cuts in, deadpan, without looking over. “This is a secure channel, Dugan. You supposed to be using it for social hour?”

Estelle glares hard at Sitwell.

“Like all your unencrypted emails to a certain General Hale of a very flirtatious nature?”

“Wha—how’d you—?”

She cups a hand over her mic, whispering theatrically, “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad I’m running my facial scan five times faster.”

“I’m running it properly,” Sitwell counters.

“With loose parameters,” she says brightly. “Do you want Loki to have three weeks of uninterrupted free roam?”

Tony laughs. “Is that the Sitwell guy? Sounds like you’re going to take his job soon.”

Estelle’s fingers move faster.

“I narrowed my search radius based on the likely supplies they’d need,” she explains to both men now. “Not just what Selvig would use, but how he’d get it—off-grid transport, rogue intermediaries, warehouse access without oversight.”

Sitwell scoffs lightly, but her screen pings before he can summon a comeback.

MATCH FOUND.

She gasps.

“Got him,” she says, instantly professional. “Confirmed visual on Loki. Surveillance cam, Stuttgart. Timestamp: twenty minutes ago.”

“What?” Sitwell leans over to her monitor. “Shouldn’t he be hiding better?”

She pivots, waving toward the command table.

“Director Fury, I’ve got a hit.”

Into her mic: “Tony—I’ve gotta go.”

“Enjoy your new best friends,” Stark replies dryly, just before she taps off the call.

Estelle listens to the silence in her earpiece a moment longer than necessary. He’s not here yet. But she hopes he heard enough to want to be.

She leans back just enough for Sitwell to see her screen. He exhales through his nose, not quite a grunt of approval. Estelle keeps her face neutral, but her pulse has kicked up.

Fury makes his way over, reading her screen as well. “What’s in Germany?”

“Hold please,” she replies, bringing up her screen of cross-referenced locations to supplies and scanning. “Stuttgart. It’s got a biometric warehouse containing Iridium.”

“Good work, Dugan.” Fury turns over his shoulder to Steve. “You’re up, Cap.”

[May 3, 2012 (Thursday)—Late Afternoon]

[S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier 64 | Lower Hangar Bay]

Helicarrier engines cycle in the distance, steady and low, like the room is bracing for something.

The lower hangar bay buzzes with pre-mission tension—loading crew moving with clipped efficiency, final checks flashing green across display panels. The Quinjet sits ready near the platform edge, ramp down, floodlights cutting long shadows beneath its wings.

Estelle stands just outside the launch zone, her arms folded tight across her chest, jacket sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look like she’s lingering.

Steve’s beside her, adjusting the straps on his shield harness. His gloves are half on, his helmet clipped to his belt. The stillness between them feels calm, but not empty. He’s grounded by ritual. She’s anchored by observation.

Natasha is up front, speaking quietly with a tech, but her eyes flick back every so often, clocking everything. Everyone.

“The suit looks good, by the way.” She looks up at him, not saying much else about it. She wants to tell him that he looks like his statue back home. That a whole new generation of people will look up to him, she just knows it. But she keeps it detached, for now.

“You sure you don’t want to come along?” Steve asks, glancing sidelong at Estelle with a faint and joking grin. “Could use a tactical lead.”

She doesn’t grin back, but her eyebrows lift. “Tempting.”

Before she can say more, Natasha cuts in, her voice smooth but cold enough to slice concrete. “Over my dead body.”

She’s smiling, just barely, but the steel underneath isn’t for show.

Estelle presses a hand to her heart, not letting go of the banter. “Okay, but hear me out. I’m small, fast, and I look innocent. That’s gotta be worth something.”

Steve huffs softly, like he’s trying not to laugh.

Natasha raises a brow and cocks her head, trying not to see another child when she looks at Estelle.

“You want a job, zvezda? Make up our bunk beds before sundown.”

Estelle rolls her eyes, not letting her smirk fade away. Then, Natasha adds flatly:

“You can earn firing practice when we’re back.”

The shift in tone is immediate.

Estelle’s smile fades. Not in a drastic way, just a subtle drop, like a light turned off in the next room. She looks down for a beat too long, fingers twitching against the hem of her sleeve.

“Really? I haven’t shot a gun since…” she begins, the words barely audible. Then she stops. Swallows. Regroups. If anyone can get her in trouble for something that happened six years ago, it's the Black Widow.

Natasha perks up just slightly. “Since when?”

Estelle's jaw tightens, and she deflects with practiced ease. “You should get going. Stuttgart’s not gonna intimidate itself.”

Steve catches that pivot. He doesn’t say anything, but his posture shifts just slightly, like he’s storing the moment away. Natasha studies Estelle for another beat, then finally lets it go. For now.

Estelle steps forward, straightening her stance like she’s making herself into a little sentry. “Keep your comms hot,” she says, lifting her chin. “And don’t let him monologue too long. Bad guys do that.”

Steve chuckles, tapping the side of his earpiece. “You’ll hear if he tries.”

Natasha gives her a parting nod, more of a promise than a farewell. “We’ll check in from the ground.”

Estelle watches as they head up the ramp. No fanfare. Just quiet coordination and clipped motions. She stays where she is, just beyond the line where the blast dampeners start.

The Quinjet lifts in a controlled roar, tilts forward, and disappears into the clouds like it was never there.

Estelle doesn’t move for a moment. She just watches the space where they were. She wonders how long it’ll take before they stop needing her to stay behind.

Then she exhales, moves back to face the stairs, and is met by Coulson.

“This is the hurry-up-and-wait part, so you know,” he says, two Hot Pockets in hand.

Estelle takes one without asking. He hands it over like it’s a peace treaty—still warm from the cafeteria microwave.

“No,” she begins. “We don’t wait. They’re going after Loki, but we can still try to track his base. I doubt the Tesseract’s just in his pocket.”

“Which we’re doing,” he affirms. “Those of us on the afternoon shift, which you don't have to be.”

He’s trying to send her to bed, too. She pivots instantly, chin tilting just a little too high as she takes her next bite.

“What’s Lola doing in the private hangar?”

Coulson blinks down at her.

Estelle keeps going, casually vicious. “I saw the manifest.”

Of course she did.

“The only reason she’d be in there is if flight mode’s active. Which means someone flew her in. Which means—” she narrows her eyes slightly, “—I wasn’t passenger-side for her first flight. Like you promised.”

Coulson sighs through his nose and folds his arms, shifting his Hot Pocket to the other hand. For the record, he made that promise to a five-year-old. He didn’t expect her to remember, and he doesn’t have time to get into that now..

“She’s here,” he confirms. “She flies now. Testing phase is nearly wrapped.”

Estelle lifts her brows expectantly.

“And once she’s cleared for stable takeoffs,” he continues, “you’ll be the first person I call. But only if you’re well-rested enough to enjoy it.”

That seems to mollify her, for now. She takes another bite and turns it over, chewing slowly. She thinks that if she ignores the second part of his sentence, he won’t enforce it. But Coulson isn’t letting her off the hook.

“You’re clever,” he says. “But don’t start picking up the overworking habits of ops agents. That’s not a compliment.”

Estelle rolls her eyes, but there’s no real malice behind it. She knows he’s serious. And maybe, somewhere underneath, she appreciates it.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But if Loki shows up while I’m in downtime mode, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Coulson replies dryly. “Now finish that, take a break, and let your brain reset. You're sharper when you’re not pretending to be nocturnal.”

She salutes him with her remaining half of the Hot Pocket, turns on her heel, and heads for the stairs—earpiece still live, just in case.