Monster

Four

Romanoff decided my house wasn't friendly enough for this mission and had a group of movers on my doorstep first thing in the morning. I left my house just as they were coming in with pots of flowers I'd never water, and armloads full of cleaning supplies. They were already getting started on the lawn I only ever mowed when the kid down the street needed money. Or when the neighbors put angry notes on my door.

Romanoff wanted me to come off as "easy to approach." Or, as translated by me, a fairy princess. I wasn't the least bit surprised my house didn't make the cut. I only really used it to store my stuff, sleep, and shower. Which apparently wasn't exuding the "threat-free" facade she was looking for. I was expecting to come home to a completely different house.

But, by far, the worst part about this mission actually wasn't the high possibility of being murdered, or even the fact that my house was being changed. It was that I had to wait tables. Hill set up the job so I could establish a semi-false identity at least a week before Rogers was scheduled to show up at my house and (possibly) bring along a trailing shadow.

I only had one real job before the military. Usually, I just made extra money doing yard work for my grandparents or working at my dad's garage. But when I was a senior in high school, and my parents said they couldn't afford the prom dress I wanted, I got a job and paid for it myself. I waited tables at a pancake restaurant, hated every second of prom, and left early. Only to lose my virginity in the backseat of a Bronco. With my pink sparkly dress up past my waist.

I loved that dress.

But I hated the job I had to work to get it. And I could feel all that hatred returning when I stepped into the diner. It was supposed to be 50s-themed, with celebrity portraits and old car paintings on the walls. Their biggest gimmick was their old-fashioned malts in flavors ranging from traditional chocolate to peanut butter and banana. I'd never even heard of the place before Hill sent me the information. I knew I wasn't going to like all the greasy food, and I'd probably want to murder the malt machine before my first shift ended. I was, at least, grateful there wasn't a uniform. Thank God for small miracles.

The dining area was relatively small, with several booths along one wall under the windows, and a bar along the back that was lined with nonworking jukeboxes. When I headed in, a girl was standing behind the counter making a milkshake. She was the only person in the dining area besides a man nursing a mug of coffee. As well as a sleepy mom with an energetic kid, bouncing on the seat as he waited for his early-morning milkshake.

The girl told me her name, but since she wasn't wearing a nametag, I couldn't remember if it was Megan or Morgan. She was a tall girl with short dark hair and chunky wedge sneakers that must have been agony on her feet. Her sweater seemed a tad too tight for a full range of motion, and she hopped from foot to foot as if she was already regretting her choice of footwear. But she looked young enough to be someone who chose style over comfort.

I would only be in training for two days and then under probation for the rest of the week. I knew how to do the job, and I didn't have much trouble getting started. The only suggestion Megan/Morgan had for me was that I needed to smile more and look less murderous whenever someone ordered a milkshake. She refrained from using the term "resting bitch face," but it was implied.

I couldn't help it. I was miserable. I never wanted to go back to waiting tables, and even though there were plenty of reasons to hate Hydra, forcing me back into it was definitely on that list. Some people were cut out for this line of work, but I wasn't one of them. The only consolation was that the double income would be enough to cover my bills. And that's what I chose to remind myself of whenever I had to plaster a fake smile on my face.

By the time my shift ended, everything below the waist hurt. My thighs ached, my calves burned, my knees, and especially my feet. I used to wake up every morning at 4 AM to run laps, and I'd rather go back to doing that than serve one more milkshake. My head was pounding. I wanted to go home and never come back. So I hurried out of there the second I was off the clock, just in case they tried to convince me to work overtime.