agent [ reader x zussman ]

• vii •

[Two Weeks Later]

You had returned home a week ago, back to England with the information you had gotten. You had hitched a ride on a plane taking severely injured soldiers back to England for medical attention. You paid your fares in helping the doctors on board as best as you could.

Being back in England brought mixed feelings. The first day back was all paperwork; writing firsthand accounts, getting medical examinations, reporting on everything and anything you could find. Life began to simmer down after a few days, the thrill of your previous battles seeping away to make room for the extreme concentration that had consumed you for the past few days.

You had a meeting with Major Crowley the next day after returning home. You were exhausted, both physically and mentally, and but still looking forwards to meeting with your superior. After all, he seemed to be the only one left at home base with any common sense.

Being somewhat of a baby in the S.O.E meant that very few commanders held much, if any, respect for you. Being a young female made it incredibly hard to push your way up the ranks. It isn't impossible, but many of the higher ups that watched over your work gave the big tasks to the men in the group, even if you were clearly more than qualified.

Your meeting entailed drinking some incredibly good whiskey and recalling the events over a warm meal. You didn't miss the field rations in the slightest. As tight laced as the Major seems, when he's at home and with someone he respects, that familiar sense of strictness ran dry.

The meeting went smoothly. In fact, more smoothly then you had been expecting. Major Crowley had read your reports and, impressed by your work, decided to allow you to fully take over the investigation behind the papers and what information they held.

You had attempted to return to your apartment to work but distractions kept filling your mind. The birds on your windowsill, the seemingly foreign comfort of a soft mattress, the gentle music pouring through the radio. Most importantly, the newspapers that arrived on your doorstep each morning.

The headline was always about the war. A new advancement, or perhaps a failure. News on rations, job advertisements for the factories manufacturing weapons and supplies, even listings to join the army. Every time you saw the headline, a sense of guilt washed over you.

It felt wrong to be home. Sure, being safe and comfortable is a welcomed perk for most, it felt wrong to you. Every time you looked in the mirror and saw the gash on your cheek slowly turning into a scar, you thought about your American friends back on the field.

You had written them a letter, along with a sort of care package. Contained neatly in a cardboard box, a package of cigars for Aiello, a small pocket photo album for Stiles, a new journal and pen set for Daniels, and a small bottle of rum for a Zussman. You sent it off as soon as you got the chance.

You had enjoyed working with those men a lot, though you had only known them for a few days. In those few days you knew each other, you felt safe and respected. Everyone had each other's backs as a team, something that you simply weren't used to on the field. Working alone has its perks, of course, but there was something about that team that made you want to return.

It didn't take you long to realize that working at home would be nearly impossible. With your papers in hand along with a small briefcase filled with important files and useful notes, you decided to head back to head quarters.