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And by that destiny to perform an act whereof what's past is prologue.
One man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Your man is a lover--and to his mistress he has sighed quite deeply indeed.
A cryptic notice left so purposely in the care of one Margaret Carter, notable in her reputation for what she would one day help build. Yet that future had been put at risk by one well-meaning, horribly naive time traveler--a young soul eager to spare the world of HYDRA's influence once and for all, before they could take root so deep within her legacy. On some level Rip could truly understand those desperate emtions, sympathize with the traveler's tragedy--but purpose stretched beyond what might have otherwise stood a common bond.
Too much would unfold from HYDRA's interference, and not just for ill. They were, lamentably, the true definition of necessary evil.
So Rip found traveler, saw him make his deal with the aforementioned lover, and tipped the SSR in the right direction. Peggy, as she was called, understood his missive beautifully, sought out the subject of the man's affections, and found out the wheres and whens of a late night weapon exchange. Too bad that a stray shot in the resulting crossfire had demolished the object in question. A bullet hit just right, made the device, whatever it was, explode into so many unusable pieces.
Too bad indeed.
Armin Zola would thus not be assassinated, no future tech would fall into the hands of those of a foreign era, and Rip Hunter was free to return to his duty as a protector of time.
So he had planned. Yet how often had his best laid plans come undone?
Something was quite wrong indeed, and Gideon--the one accompanying him on the timeship--informed him with her typical cheer that actually Captain, and bloody hell, what could it be this time?
As it turned out, Miss Carter's curiosity ran deep. A plain envelope containing a plain card displaying neatly written script had ignited something in her Rip hardly intended. Instead of moving on, as one would expect any agent would do, she turned her attention towards the mysterious benefactor. Who was it that gave them the tip, she asked? How did they know to contact her so specifically, and what case they were working on, just what clue they would need? She didn't like it, apparently, and dug her heels near obsessively into the hunt.
One that would starkly damage her reputation to those who needed to be convinced of her skills. A hunt for a ghost that would lead to nothing--except a misstep elsewhere, an assignment refused, a deadly mistake pinned on her shoulders, it wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been on a wild goose chase.
Why the best agent of the whole bloody bunch had to be the most stubborn, Rip had no idea.
So one night, late at night, while Peggy was at home, she would find a new message tucked into her mail. Another plain envelope, with a plain card, with neat script written within.
Though less poetic of a message this time.
Don't you have more important things to do, Miss Carter, than hunt down a Good Samaritan?
Your man is a lover--and to his mistress he has sighed quite deeply indeed.
A cryptic notice left so purposely in the care of one Margaret Carter, notable in her reputation for what she would one day help build. Yet that future had been put at risk by one well-meaning, horribly naive time traveler--a young soul eager to spare the world of HYDRA's influence once and for all, before they could take root so deep within her legacy. On some level Rip could truly understand those desperate emtions, sympathize with the traveler's tragedy--but purpose stretched beyond what might have otherwise stood a common bond.
Too much would unfold from HYDRA's interference, and not just for ill. They were, lamentably, the true definition of necessary evil.
So Rip found traveler, saw him make his deal with the aforementioned lover, and tipped the SSR in the right direction. Peggy, as she was called, understood his missive beautifully, sought out the subject of the man's affections, and found out the wheres and whens of a late night weapon exchange. Too bad that a stray shot in the resulting crossfire had demolished the object in question. A bullet hit just right, made the device, whatever it was, explode into so many unusable pieces.
Too bad indeed.
Armin Zola would thus not be assassinated, no future tech would fall into the hands of those of a foreign era, and Rip Hunter was free to return to his duty as a protector of time.
So he had planned. Yet how often had his best laid plans come undone?
Something was quite wrong indeed, and Gideon--the one accompanying him on the timeship--informed him with her typical cheer that actually Captain, and bloody hell, what could it be this time?
As it turned out, Miss Carter's curiosity ran deep. A plain envelope containing a plain card displaying neatly written script had ignited something in her Rip hardly intended. Instead of moving on, as one would expect any agent would do, she turned her attention towards the mysterious benefactor. Who was it that gave them the tip, she asked? How did they know to contact her so specifically, and what case they were working on, just what clue they would need? She didn't like it, apparently, and dug her heels near obsessively into the hunt.
One that would starkly damage her reputation to those who needed to be convinced of her skills. A hunt for a ghost that would lead to nothing--except a misstep elsewhere, an assignment refused, a deadly mistake pinned on her shoulders, it wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been on a wild goose chase.
Why the best agent of the whole bloody bunch had to be the most stubborn, Rip had no idea.
So one night, late at night, while Peggy was at home, she would find a new message tucked into her mail. Another plain envelope, with a plain card, with neat script written within.
Though less poetic of a message this time.
Don't you have more important things to do, Miss Carter, than hunt down a Good Samaritan?