CURRENT DATE CORRELATION: MAY 1945 AD
LOCATION: NEW YORK SECTOR / SOUTH BROTHER ISLAND MAINHEAD
CLEARANCE LEVEL: SOVEREIGN DESK ACTIVE
The transition from the rain-swept streets of Manhattan to South Brother Island did not involve motorcars or ferry crossings.
Stepping through the violet portal from the Stork Club's private reception room, Peggy Carter found herself standing in a vaulted, limestone-walled conservatory that smelled of rich earth, blossoming jasmine, and aged leather. Beyond the arched windows, the lights of Manhattan gleamed in the distance across the East River, but here, the silence was absolute.
Steve walked beside her, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. He was calm, familiar with the grounds, his posture that of a man who finally felt steady under his own feet.
Standing at the center of the conservatory around a wide mahogany conference table were David Bater and Selene.
David wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, his sharp features and calm green eyes giving the impression of an unhurried titan of industry. Selene was seated in a high-backed armchair, draped in a gown of dark plum velvet, her porcelain hands resting on the arms as she observed Peggy with an amused, appreciative warmth. Resting on the table between them was a thick, official leather-bound portfolio bearing the embossed golden seal of the United States Executive Branch.
"Agent Carter," David spoke first, his voice level, resonant, and entirely devoid of theatrical pomp. "I trust the evening met your specifications."
Peggy stepped forward, her chin lifted, her professional composure snapping into place despite the extraordinary surroundings. She looked at David, then at Selene, measuring the sheer unyielding presence of the pair.
"The dinner was acceptable, Mr. Bater," Peggy replied, her crisp British cadence holding firm. "Though your recruitment methods border on theatrical kidnapping."
Selene chuckled, a rich, melodic sound that seemed to warm the cool air of the room. "Theatrical, perhaps, Margaret. But ordinary men require years of bureaucratic flirtation before they see what is standing right in front of them. We prefer our conversations to be efficient."
Peggy moved to the table, her eyes dropping to the executive ledger. "Clara made an extraordinary pitch in my London office. She spoke of an Agency that supersedes the War Department, operating beyond the reach of prime ministers and presidents. I served the Crown and the Allied cause to stop tyrants who believed they were above the law. I will not become an unregistered mercenary for an invisible syndicate, no matter who you pulled out of the ice."
David did not take offense. Instead, a ghost of an approving smile touched the corner of his lips as he slid the leather folio across the polished wood toward her.
"Open it," David said flatly.
Peggy unbuckled the brass clasp, turning the thick parchment pages. As her eyes scanned the typed text, her breath caught.
The charter bore the signed, wax-sealed authorizations of President Woodrow Wilson, the senior leadership of the War Department, and the Joint Logistics Commission dating back to the winter of 1914. The mandate was extraordinary in its legal scope: it established the Agency for Sovereign Oversight and Anomaly Containment, granting it absolute, non-reporting jurisdictional authority over any domestic or international incident involving anomalous metallurgy, exotic biological contamination, or extra-systemic threats. It held blanket statutory veto power over the military police, the nascent Central Intelligence Group, and any subsequent civilian intelligence bureaus.
It was completely, impeccably legal.
"This... this predates the SSR by nearly three decades," Peggy murmured, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the signatures. "It has no oversight committee. No congressional budgetary reviews."
"Because it requires none," David explained, leaning forward, resting his hands on the table. "I built Bater Ltd and Bater Engineering to ensure the Agency is entirely self-funding. We do not ask the taxpayer for silver, nor do we require permission from politicians who trade national security for election cycles. When the war machines of the world modernize, my switching relays handle their routing. Every federal agency operates under the legal assumption that our oversight desk is an established, classified department of the executive chain. You are not betraying your uniform, Agent Carter. You are simply stepping into the senior office."
Peggy closed the ledger, her gaze rising to meet his. "And what does the senior office require of me?"
"Autonomy," Selene answered smoothly, leaning forward, her dark eyes flashing with sharp intensity. "The SSR will dissolve now that Berlin has fallen. In its place, you, Colonel Phillips, and Howard Stark will forge a permanent, global intelligence apparatus. You will lead it. You will write its operational doctrines. We will not dictate your daily cases, nor will we micromanage your agents."
David tapped a keystroke on a concealed obsidian panel in the table, pulling up a series of intercepted telegrams from post-war Europe.
"Your mortal colleagues will believe the war is won," David said, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical cadence. "They will attempt to return you to a secretarial desk, treating your service as a temporary wartime concession. We will not permit that waste of administrative capability. Through our Bater banking connections and industrial contracts, Stark and Phillips will be given whatever capital they require to secure your absolute authority. Furthermore, one of our elevated operatives—trained directly by Clara and Selene—will be permanently assigned to your executive detail. She will act as your shield, your courier, and your direct conduit to this island."
Peggy's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "A watcher."
"An insurance policy," Selene corrected with a soft smile. "Because the war is not over, Peggy. Johann Schmidt was merely the loudest dog in the pack. HYDRA did not die in the burning ruins of his factory. It is a many-headed organism rooted in ancient, corrupted doctrines of discipline and subjugation. As the Allied nations begin Operation Paperclip—recruiting German scientists, engineers, and intelligence officers to build their rockets—HYDRA will walk straight through the front doors of your new agency."
David's green eyes locked onto hers with absolute clarity.
"Arnim Zola and his associates will play the role of compliant, repentant academics. They will offer Howard Stark advanced rocketry formulas and chemical syntheses. And beneath that veneer, they will systematically weave a parallel shadow network directly into your agency's foundational code. You cannot stop their recruitment without triggering political paranoia in Washington. But with our Bedrock relays in your offices, and our intelligence feeds on your desk, you will know every move Zola makes before he even dips his pen in ink."
Peggy stood silent for a long moment, the scale of the board stretching out before her mind.
She looked at Steve, who gave her a quiet, encouraging nod. She looked at the sovereign charter resting on the mahogany table. For the first time in years, she felt neither isolated nor dismissed. She was being handed the ultimate lever to protect the world Erskine had died trying to save.
"I will require absolute authority over my field teams," Peggy stated, her chin firm, setting her terms with clear eyes. "And if your Agency ever moves to exploit the people I have sworn to protect, I will treat you as an adversary."
David's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile of profound respect.
"Agreed," David replied softly. "We do not seek subjects, Agent Carter. We seek architects capable of holding the line. Welcome to the Agency."