serve well, and with honor.
You can only laugh around a delicate sushi roll so many times before you start to look like an idiot.

That eloquent conclusion was the last thought that Cara’d had before their chef had lifted a hand, indicating the couple before him.. Pointing warmly, albeit specifically, at her. For no apparent reason, he singled out Cara Leigh Davies: smart, sunny, lovesick and sweet; confident, powerful, and exacting when she had to be. Her. The woman that lit a beach on fire, exploded over San Francisco, and lived in a McMansion with her partner; a man who shared a headspace with the world’s most prolific engineer.. Her, the chef had said simply, with a politely certain nod in her direction. The woman.

Things snowballed from there, and none of it led to a place where Cara had actively sought for it to go. So.. When the man in the suit approached their table and requested that Cara quietly join him outside, she did not protest.

The strategy of the situation wasn’t lost on her; a superhero trying to hide in plain sight would continue to do so, and if hiding meant complying (at least for now), that would be what she did. Complying ensured the safety of others, both Cara and Carol could conclude. Complying, to the suits, meant she had nothing to hide. It was hard to deliver this particular brand of reasoning and/or war game in the four seconds it took for her to slip her bag from the floor and into her lap, but part of her firmly believed that she’d have the opportunity to explain when all was said and done.

Without an opportunity to get a word in edgewise, cut off and interrupted by the hired help, Cara delivered a swift and urgent glance to Wyatt. With all the confidence of a war-weathered Captain, and well-intentioned determination of the woman in her mental sidecar, there was still an element of uncertainty to her posture.. Not that anyone else would pick-up on it, given she already stood a head over anyone else in the room.

Laughing around a sushi roll, Cara amended, is considerably less idiotic than sitting silently in the back of an Uber X with a Mr. Smith knockoff and your hands bound by a zip tie.


The zip ties are upgraded (this time, with handcuffs that cut into her wristbones) in the back of the Uber before she’s seated in a nondescript office.

Protocol. You understand.

There are no indications of personal affects here; no human life; it’s just an expensive-looking desk with an expensive-looking chair and an expensive-looking woman in a suit sitting before her. A prosecutor, maybe. Neither of the dueling blondes in Cara’s head can really tell.

“Carol Susan Jane Danvers; does this name mean anything to you, Doctor Davies?”

“All due respect, ma’am, I’m going to decline to answer any and all questions without legal representation present.”

“Fair enough,” the anonymous woman replies, sliding a manila folder across the desk for her adversary’s cuffed hands to sift through. It’s filled with photos: ones of a red-cheeked Cara and smug-faced Wyatt outside a boutique ice-cream store, blurry shots of Sam Ruano with a smudge of paint on his face, of a figure that could be identified as Jules (if you squinted and tilted your head to the left), of Gryffin Patton exiting his music lesson, and Teddy Soriano, guffawing at a joke she can’t hear. And then there is her, luminous and unstoppable, searing down from the sky like a missile at SFO.. Documented on film.

This is all psychological, Cara knows.. But that doesn’t mean she meets the covert surveillance with a smile. The woman notes her target’s apprehension, and tries again.

“We have reason to believe that Colonel Danvers is both an immediate threat to these people, and a target of recent attacks by.. Certain unsavory figures,” she begins, pushing the folder closed; “.. Are you sure that you’re not familiar with the name?”

Cara stares at the edge of a photograph peeking out from the pile, just barely visible.

“I believe I said that I’m declining to answer any and all questions, ma’am. Respectfully, that’s my final answer.”


This holding pattern continues for another two hours, in varying degrees and with different faces, before Cara is taken to -- what she'd argue, is -- a containment room. There are no windows here, and she's stuck gauging time by the growling of her stomach and general levels of fatigue. It must be at least four hours before she, wearily, is encountered by a new suited, booted, and clipboard-wielding professional.

It seems silly, that a little pair of handcuffs seem to be the thing holding her back, and this next person ensures that she knows it. Captain Marvel, says the bad cop, bested by steel bracelets that she could melt in seconds. Caged in by walls that she could punch her way through before they could both blink. This, though, isn’t about that at all. That’s been clear from the very beginning.

Cara inhales. Worried and thoughtful. This can't be legal. It shouldn't be legal, despite the small part of her that knows it is. Carol, however, is calm. An intern with no idea who his boss is doesn't rattle her. An intern that doesn't know her can't possibly.

Her facial expression rests somewhere in the field of 'concerned, but irritated'.

There is a task-force that they’re looking to speak to Colonel Danvers about, he continues. Her skills and leadership are important to its success. Given her history with the government, and her cooperation in sanctioned factions.. She was among the top choices on the list for contact. Cara can only look down at her handcuffs and back up at her interrogator.

You've been such an ally in the past, he adds in a near-chirp, changing his tone. We've read the history books on you.

“.. You, and everyone in that folder, would be under our protective purview. Currently, Doctor Davies, you and your loved ones are under surveillance by the United States government. How do you choose to proceed?”