You remember the exact moment Diana’s words left her lips:

“This is your first mission beyond Themyscira. You’ll be with Steve. Watch, listen, and learn. But remember—he has spent his life fighting his wars.”

And yet, as you sit now on the rattling cargo plane beside Steve Trevor, heart beating as fast as the roaring propellers overhead, you can’t seem to let go of the idea that he needs your protection. He looks so… mortal. His armor is cloth, his shield is leather straps across his chest, his weapon just a gun and a smile. You, by contrast, have a blade forged by Amazonian smiths, bracers that could deflect bullets, muscles carved by years of sparring against women who could snap stone columns with their bare hands. Surely Diana must have been jesting when she said Steve didn’t need guarding.

“You’re staring again,” Steve says lightly, adjusting his shoulder holster. His eyes, a sharp blue, humorous as he glances your way. “What is it? Do I have dirt on my face?”

You fluster, caught in the act. “You're fragile.” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Steve lets out a laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Fragile? Kid, I’ve jumped out of planes, fought parademons, and been shot at more times than I can count. I’m not porcelain.”

But you don’t believe him. When the plane lands rough in a hidden airstrip outside Eastern Europe, you immediately step in front of him as soldiers’ boots crunch across gravel. You scan every rooftop, every treeline, your hand twitching near your blade’s hilt. Steve just sighs and mutters, “Here we go…”

The mission is simple on paper: infiltrate a covert lab rumored to be developing weapons meant to mimic metahuman powers—unstable, dangerous things that could tip global balance into catastrophe. To Steve, it’s standard spywork. To you, it’s war.

He walks with calm precision through the forest path, but you shadow his every move, shielding him from low branches, checking the ground for snares, and even at one point catching him by the elbow before he can step into a shallow puddle.

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Saved my boots.”

“You could have drowned,” you insist with total seriousness.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about Diana and your own exaggeration.

At the perimeter fence, Steve crouches to cut the wiring. You loom behind him like a hawk, every sense sharpened. “Don’t move too fast,” you whisper. “Your joints are not made for—”

“For crouching?” He looks back, incredulous. “I crouch for a living!”