Spring 2014

Same Old Love—S.G.

You and Steven have been a problem since 1943.

Two sides of the same coin, they used to say—a soldier and an agent. Two faces for the country’s shining dream. Both handpicked, both born out of the same experiment, and both cursed with the same impossible expectations.

Back then, Steven was the heart. You were the edge.

When you arrived in New York from Los Angeles, you were less than half his new weight (of which he was still getting used to) and twice as loud. You’d been through the same clinics, the same routine of needles and promises, and the same rejection from every branch that didn’t want a woman with bones too brittle to stand for more than an hour.

But you were relentless. Stubborn. Too sharp for your own good.

The science did its work. Gone was the wheelchair-bound, sick girl with paper for lungs and trembling hands, and out stepped something fierce and dazzling; legs that could outrun bullets, lungs that could sing underwater, eyes that could cut through smoke. And just like that, America had its second miracle.

But while Steven played poster boy for the frontlines, shaking hands and kissing babies, you became the one they sent behind enemy lines. No fanfare, no spotlight, no newspapers. Just missions that “didn’t exist” and orders that weren’t written down.

And every time your paths crossed, a shared gala, a debriefing, a battlefield too big for one of you to cover—you argued. About strategy, about ideals, about how he still believed the world could be good. You called him naïve. He called you cruel.

The only thing you ever agreed on was that you couldn't stand each other.

Until March 1, 1945.

You still remember the way his voice broke when he said goodbye to the agent whom he truly loved. How something in your chest ached in response—not sympathy, not love, just something. A piece of you hated him for that. Hated that while he'd go down in history as th martyr, while you'd just be while you'd just be another ghost no one remembered.

You didn't die, though.

You woke up seventy years later in a glass box, labeled as "asset unknown," and realized the world had moved on without either of you.

Now it's 2014. The uniforms are tighter, the morals murkier. And somehow, you and Steven are right back where you started side by And somehow, you and Steve are right back where you started side by side, knives drawn, pretending you're not one spark away from burning the world down together.

The missions are simple.

Infiltrate abandoned bases, gather intel, and get the hell out before sunrise.

You're crouched on a catwalk above the main floor, body cloaked in matte black stealth gear, pulse steady as you watch Steve your body cloaked in matte black stealth gear, pulse steady as you watch Steven move through the room below. He's all precision and principle, shield flashing in the dim light like a promise.

You move differently-fluid, ghostlike, not a sound wasted. You watch his back as he clears a corridor, and he glances up once, as if he can feel your eyes on him. For a moment, it's 1945 again—the two of you back-to-back in enemy territory, waiting for something to go wrong.

It's funny. For all his discipline and all your defiance, you've never quite figured out where It's funny. For all his discipline and all your defiance, you've never quite figured out where the line is between rivalry and reliance. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe that's the problem.

A blast goes off down the hall, shaking the floor beneath your boots. You swing down beside him, landing with the soft thud of muscle and metal. His jaw ticks when he sees you—same old reaction, same old tension—and you smirk beneath your breath.

“Don't get sentimental on me, dammit," you whisper, drawing your gun. "Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation."

He doesn't answer, but the look he gives you could melt steel.

The war’s over, the world's changed, and you're still fighting the same battle—with history, with morals, and with each other.

And God help you both, it's starting to feel like you enjoy it.