Bucky's Anchor

Chapter 1 - A Solider's Daughter

My earliest memory is the feeling of dirt beneath my fingers. I was six, and my father had me digging my hands into the cold earth, teaching me how to find stability in my stance. "Widen your base," he'd say, circling me like a hawk. "If you can't hold your ground, you're vulnerable."

I remember the sun beating down on the military base, the sweat trickling down my face, mixing with tears I wasn't allowed to shed. Sparring with my father wasn't just about physical training. It was about discipline, about proving I could take the hits, fall, and get back up again. Failure wasn't an option in our household. It was a lesson. One you repeated until you got it right.

"Again, Emily," he barked as I stumbled backwards, the sting of his wooden training stick sharp against my shin. I bit back a yelp, straightening my posture.

I didn't want to be vulnerable.

"I'm not hesitating," I muttered, more to myself than to him, as I adjusted my stance. My father had the hearing of a fox. His stern gaze told me he caught every word.

"Hesitation will get you killed. Thinking comes later. Trust your body."

That was his mantra. My father was a military man through and through, a soldier who lived and breathed combat. He wanted the same for me. For a long time, I thought that was normal—normal to wake up at 5 AM for drills, normal to be scrutinized for every misstep. It wasn't until I was older that I realized how different our family was.

---

The first time I held a gun, I was thirteen. By eighteen, I was already on my way into the CIA. They welcomed me with open arms—a prodigy of sorts, moulded by years of rigorous training. My father was proud, but his pride came with expectations. Expectations that I would climb the ranks, that I would excel, that I would become something more than he ever was.

I threw myself into my work. Missions became my life, each one a new challenge to overcome. I became the asset the CIA relied on for delicate operations. I was good at it. No, I was exceptional at it. I learned how to adapt, to blend in, to extract information without leaving a trace. But with each mission, a nagging feeling grew inside me. A sense of dissatisfaction that I couldn't quite name.

I remember one mission in particular. We were in Prague, intercepting a trade between two arms dealers. I was the contact, the woman in the red dress. It was a simple operation—get in, extract information, get out. But nothing about it felt simple. There was always another layer, another agenda I wasn't privy to.

When I reported back, the higher-ups praised the mission's success. "Well done, Robinson," they said. "You did what had to be done." I nodded, accepting their accolades, but their words rang hollow in my ears. What had we really accomplished? One less arms dealer? One less transaction in a sea of corruption?

I wanted to make a difference, but I was starting to realize that the CIA's idea of 'making a difference' was just another cog in the machine. The missions kept coming, the lines between right and wrong blurring with each operation. I started questioning the point of it all.

One night, after a particularly brutal debrief, I sat alone in my apartment, staring at the CIA insignia on my ID badge. It represented everything I had worked for, everything my father had wanted for me. But was it what I wanted?

---

The day Nick Fury walked into my life, everything changed. I had heard whispers about him—the man who operated in the shadows, the one who pulled the strings behind the scenes. But meeting him in person was something else entirely. He had a presence, a quiet confidence that made you want to listen to what he had to say.

"You've been playing in the minor leagues, Robinson," he said, his one eye fixed on me with an intensity that made it clear he wasn't just offering a suggestion. "Time to step up to the big game."

I looked at the file he had placed on the table in front of me. It bore the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia, something I had only ever heard rumours about. An organization that operated outside the lines, where the stakes were higher, where the rules were...different.

"And if I refuse?" I asked, though my curiosity was piqued. The file felt heavy under my fingertips, like it contained not just information, but a choice that could change everything.

Fury didn't flinch. "Then you'll never know what you're truly capable of."

His words hit me harder than they should have. I was already capable. I had proven myself time and time again. And yet, there was a part of me—a small, hidden part—that longed for more. For a purpose that went beyond the next mission, the next target.

"You're asking me to go off the grid," I said, my voice steady. "To work for an organization that doesn't officially exist."

"I'm asking you to do what you were trained to do. Only this time, you'll be fighting threats that go beyond borders and governments. You'll be making a real difference."

A real difference. That's what he was offering me. Not another mission, not another shadowy operation with dubious morality. He was offering me a chance to step into a world where the lines were drawn differently, where the stakes were not just geopolitical but existential.

I didn't give him an answer right away. I needed time to think. Time to consult the only other person who mattered in my life.

---

That night, I drove to my mother's house. She was a retired field agent, a woman who had spent most of her life in the CIA before retiring to a quieter life. We hadn't always seen eye to eye, especially when it came to my father's influence on my career. But she was the only person I could talk to about this.

"Mom," I began, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, the S.H.I.E.L.D. file lying between us. "I've been offered a position with S.H.I.E.L.D."

Her eyes flicked to the file, then back to me. She didn't seem surprised. "Nick Fury," she said, more a statement than a question.

I nodded.

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is not the CIA, Emily. They don't play by the same rules."

"That's what he said," I replied, a hint of frustration in my voice. "He made it sound like...like it's more than just missions and targets. Like it's a chance to actually make a difference."

My mother was silent for a long moment, her gaze steady. "The world is unpredictable, Emily. You can plan and prepare all you want, but in the end, you have to be willing to embrace the unknown."

"Is that your way of telling me to take the offer?" I asked, half-joking.

"No," she said, her tone serious. "It's my way of telling you that no matter what you choose, it will define you. Not your father, not the CIA, not even S.H.I.E.L.D. You."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. This was the moment. The choice was mine, and mine alone. I glanced down at the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the file, feeling its weight in my hands.

---

The next day, I called Fury.

"I'm in," I said, my voice clear and unwavering.

"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Robinson," he replied. There was a pause. "You'll be operating under a new set of rules. Make sure you're ready."

I wasn't sure what ready meant in this context. Ready to face threats I couldn't imagine? Ready to abandon everything I knew about the world and how it worked? All I knew was that for the first time in a long time, I felt a spark of something I thought I had lost—a sense of purpose, a sense of...hope.

As I hung up the phone, I stared at the S.H.I.E.L.D. file one last time. It was more than just a job offer. It was a doorway into a new world, one where I could finally become something more than just my father's soldier or the CIA's asset.

I was ready to step through that doorway, into the unknown, and find out who I truly was.