May, 2014.

Washington, D.C., United States.

As you can see, the above data proves the popularity of the Captain America exhibit. For this reason, the War History Department of the Museum of American History respectfully requests a joint effort with the other Museums to bring a series of Avengers focused exhibits throughout the Smithsonian. We believe these exhibits would provide...

"'A boon to Museum attendance.' As long as none of the other Avengers end up on the FBI's most wanted list," I muttered. I reread my funding proposal and couldn't quite figure out why it bothered me. The idea of all the Museums coming together to give the public more information about the Avengers had been my bright idea, and now it was up to me to ask for the money to make it happen.

I left my computer in the kitchen and went into my bedroom, hoping to find inspiration. Every flat surface in my room was covered in newly published biographies about Steve Rogers, the Howling Commandos, and the SSR. At one point, I had slept surrounded by those books and their sticky-note tagged pages. I simply hadn't found the time to put them away. I began picking through the books halfheartedly when I heard buzzing from one of the drawers in my dresser.

It was a burner phone. I only took it out of the drawer, where it was normally covered in winter socks, to charge it once a week. Only one person had its number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Gail?" a quiet voice asked.

"Is this Bucky?" I said in return.

"I want that information," he told me quickly.

"I'm doing well today. Thanks for asking," I answered sarcastically. I shut the drawer and sat down on my bed. "Where are you? I'll meet you tomorrow."

"I think I'm in Canada," he said.

"You think? What's around you? How are you calling?" I quizzed him. There was a bit of background noise on the phone, but he was silent. Hopefully he was looking around.

"I'm at a payphone," he informed me.

"Those are rare nowadays. It's either a bus or train station. Look for a welcome sign."

"Welcome to Dartmouth," he read. Dartmouth was in New Hampshire. "Nova Scotia."

That wasn't New Hampshire.

"I'm not sure I can get there by tomorrow, but I can try. Canada isn't exactly a car ride away," I warned him. "Where are you going to stay?"

"I'm getting out of the city. I can't stay here. He's all over the news. Everywhere I look," he groaned.

"Then get out. I'll find you," I promised.

"Will you bring that intel?" he checked.

"Yes. Of course, I will."

The line died a few seconds later. I looked at the phone in my hand and then began ripping it to pieces. The back cover popped off, the battery came out. I pulled the SIM card out and tucked it away to destroy later. That burner phone was used and useless now. My computer would be next, after I got what I needed from it.

Train tickets were first. D.C. to New York City to Montreal. Surely Canada had their own version of Amtrak. It took a quick Google search to find Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, and another search to find a connecting train between Montreal and the closest city, Halifax. It was across a bay from Dartmouth. What luck. My train to New York would leave from Union Station at 3:12 in the morning. It was a cheap seat. With a little acting, paying in cash a half hour beforehand wouldn't look too suspicious.

I finished my funding proposal and sent a copy of it to my secretary, my department head, and the other curators involved in the Avengers project. I sent another email to my boss, saying a family emergency had popped up and I needed emergency leave. I didn't bother waiting for a reply. It was midnight. Once I was done with my computer I took a screwdriver to the back panel and removed everything important.

The small pieces were tossed into the microwave for a couple minutes, sending up sparks and a little smoke. Once they were thoroughly toasted I dropped them into the garbage disposal. I had never gone this far before, but it seemed right.

Next came my go-bag. It was buried in a corner of my closet, half packed with the essentials and always ready. I filled the backpack with my designated mission clothes. Thick, canvas pants with enough pockets to be helpful but not enough to look ridiculous. All weather shirts, the kind that could be layered and had sleeves that rolled up nicely. Socks made for walking, a belt made with hidden pockets, a SHIELD tech jacket that adjusted to the weather. All of it was in varying neutral shades. I finished it off with my toiletries and the kind of first aid kit only former combat medics would think to pack.

My dresser held much more than clothes. The drawer underneath my winter socks was filled to busting with lingerie and stolen federal property. ID badges from half a dozen government agencies, a trio of pistols and fifty rounds of ammo for each of them, and seventy-five percent of my bank account in cash from nearly every ATM in the city. Underneath it all was a thick, clunky laptop complete with layer after layer of government proof encryptions.

The go-bag, a black military issue backpack, wouldn't go with the professional, business attire I was planning to wear on my many train rides. I took out my smallest suitcase, fitted the backpack inside, and added one of the guns and its ammo, a majority of the money, the computer, and my most comfortable shoes to the suitcase before zipping it up. I changed into black slacks, a matching blazer, and heeled ankle boots and gathered the rest of my civilian costume. My purse, my car keys, a reusable water bottle. I positioned them all by the door and began the last step of my escape.

I started in my bedroom. I emptied the drawers into the floor and left them all half open. I shoved my mattress off the bedframe and tossed the contents of my closet around the room. I took the remaining badges and guns and put them next to my suitcase while I trashed my living room and kitchen. The shelves were emptied, the drawers pilfered, the cushions thrown in the floor. There was something fun about making a mess you didn't have to clean up.

Once I was sure the apartment looked appropriate, I dumped the gear I wasn't taking with me down the garbage chute. I knew that within four hours, an early morning garbage truck would come and empty the dumpster down below. I did a rough job picking my door's lock, and then I left.

*

Author's Note:

I have to thank Elliot Alderson of Mr. Robot for the idea to microwave electronic chips. Honestly, I had never thought of doing that. I highly recommend that show, by the way. Give it two episodes before you make a decision, though. It can be kind of slow. I haven't watched any of the second season yet. I think I'll wait until I can binge watch.