𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

5 An Unknown fate

SHIELD HEADQUARTERS, New York City, 2011

MY VISION slowly cleared, revealing a grainy, worn-out light fixture suspended on a whitewashed ceiling. The surroundings had a peculiar familiarity, reminiscent of an era I thought I'd left behind. My fingers instinctively traced the coarse texture of the bedspread, feeling both the softness and antiquity of the fabric beneath them.

The silence of the room was interrupted by the melodic hum of a vacuum tube radio, its crackling tune echoing across the white-curtained space. The familiar sound of a Dodgers game playing in the background on the radio, a comfort I hadn't expected, filled the room.

Questions swirled in my mind, leaving me disoriented and unnerved. Where was I? How did I end up here? My last memory was far removed from this serene, nostalgic environment. Despite the comfort exuded by the classic setting, a sense of alienation wrapped around me like an uncomfortable shroud.

As I peered around the room, it felt like a place from a distant memory—a different time and reality, far removed from my recent life's trials and tribulations. The simplicity and antiquity of the setting clashed sharply with the world I had known—a world of complex technology, modern advancements, and chaotic battles against forces beyond my wildest imagination.

Disquiet gnawed at my thoughts, the room providing no answers but offering a strange solace that was both unsettling and inexplicably soothing. The unease was not solely because of the unfamiliar setting, but the abrupt displacement I experienced. The sight of the room, the sounds, and the comforting familiarity of a bygone era cast a veil of confusion upon me.

For a moment, I was stranded in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, a stranger in a place that resonated with the past yet felt far removed from my present reality. The Dodgers' game echoed against the white-walled room, an anachronistic comfort that added to the tangled web of emotions I was trying to navigate.

"Workman up for the Phillies, now. Holding that big club down at the end. He sets, and Chipman pitches. Curveball, outside. Ball one."

In the midst of this jarring experience, I grappled with the dissonance between the past I remembered and the uncertain future I couldn't fully comprehend. The abrupt, inexplicable situation left me feeling adrift in time and space, attempting to grasp a fleeting reality that eluded my understanding.

Unable to stay in bed, my feet touched the worn, wooden floor just as the door opened, and in came a lady with long brunette hair with soft beach waves and a signature red lipstick. She wore an agent's uniform, similar to Peggy's. "Good Morning, Captain Rogers."

British, I thought as I recognized her thick accent. She holds a copy of The Brooklyn Eagle under her arm and checks her watch. "Or I should say, afternoon." Her smile was gentle, but I didn't buy it—something was off.

"I don't...remember going to sleep."

The SSR Agent's gentle smile turned into a sad one, her eyes betraying her calm demeanor. She was hiding something. "Well, it was quite a while ago."

"So the Dodgers are ahead eight to five." A lot didn't make sense, I rubbed my face with my hands and paid close attention to the radio. "And Chipman knows one swing of the bat and this fella's capable of making it a brand-new game."

I eye the radio, and a glimmer of familiarity caught my eye—an old radio playing the Dodgers game. My eyes travel to the woman standing there, my eyebrows etched together into a deep frown. I'm being lied to.