agent [ reader x zussman ]

• i •

As a little girl, you dreamed of visiting France. All the sights seemed to be much more grand then in England. The Eiffel Tower, the art, the fine cuisine. It is a country of dreamers and of life.

Never did you imagine that the first time you'd ever see the place would be wedged into the back of an American military van, crammed to the brim with tired soldiers. They look at you funny, perhaps wondering what a quiet British lady is doing in the back of their military vehicle reading a stack of papers.

As you look out over the back door, you cringe slightly. You had seen dead before. You had made the living die, you had seen and felt it first hand. But the rolling hills of the French countryside is steeped with blood. Instead of crystal rivers, creeks of blood flow down the grass. Bodies are mangled, thrown together from explosions. Some faces you can make out, others are nothing but a fleshy mess.

It doesn't make you sick, as it does to many who first see the firsthand the effects of war. Instead, it saddens you. If only you had finished training just a few days earlier. You could have intercepted the plans, screwed up the Krauts nicely. Instead, you were being stubborn and looking through leads in the library, hoping you wouldn't have to meet the American troops at the frontlines.

To say you aren't nervous is not at all correct. Your palms are slick with perspiration, you heart thuds in your chest. The very thought that at any given moment, a barrage of bullets could tear through the sides of the van like paper and lodge themselves in your body serves as both a boost of adrenaline as well as constant reminder that your life could be over at any minute.

The van skids to a halt and rocks spray out from underneath the tires. The back door swings open a few moments later and you graciously hop out, clutching the messenger bag with all of your files in it close to your side. Here you are at last, boots on the ground in France, just minutes away from Marigny.

Soldiers hustle around you, not caring that you took a moment to adjust to your new surroundings. It doesn't quite sink in at first. You are a British woman, fresh out of S.O.E training, in the middle of a preparation of attack on Marigny known as Operation Cobra. Subconsciously, you check to make sure you left nothing on the truck. Keys? Check. Journal? Check. Files? Check. Medical equipment? Check. Trusty pistol? You pat your side; check.

You remember that you have to look for someone, a man by the name of Sergeant Pierson. Your job is to deliver the intel you had spent days decoding so that he can finish coordinating the attack on Marigny with Colonel Davis. With a slight nod, you head off to find him.

Walking through the camp, a mix of senses wash over you. Smells of blood mixed with alcohol and cloth wash over you. The air is slightly cold as the sky is overcast and slate grey. You feel the dual mix of fear and excitement buzzing around the troops as they await their next command.

A large tent at the end of the row seems like the most likely place to find someone of high standing. You head up to it and peer in, pushing the flap open with a calloused hand. You never miss the days when your palms were smooth and dainty, your nails freshly manicured. Dirt and thick skin suits you much better.

"Sergeant Pierson?" You question, stepping into the tent. A man standing around a table looks up at you and you recognize his face from the debriefing given to you by Major Crowley a few days earlier. "I'm Lieutenant L/N." You inform, letting the flap flutter closed behind you. The man waves you in. His gesture seems mechanical, not at all full of greeting.

"Good, we've been waiting on you to arrive." He says sharply, clasping his hands together behind his back and pacing back and forth in front of the table. "Give me the file."

You roll your eyes. You already didn't like this guy. Cocky, bossy, and arrogant are just a few words that immediately pop into mind.

"I can't just forfeit the papers, you know. Top secret stuff, can't let it fall into Kraut hands." You chuckle, but the play doesn't crack the soldier. Instead, he stands and waits.