Peter Brown grunted and shook his head at the newspaper on the table as he shifted in his favorite chair, trying to massage the cramp out of his writing hand and taking a break from job addressing envelopes.
It was a real shame that Bucky Barnes, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., had gone missing, presumed dead — why he could still remember the time Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes and the rest had saved his company… though that could have been because it was the same day he'd lost his leg.
There was a sharp yelp of surprise from the dog as David stumbled into the previously sleeping dog, the young boy was so full of energy and inquisitiveness that Peter found himself constantly surprised. Not that he minded, every time he was reminded of his lost leg he was reminded of how much of a miracle the boy was: any higher and the boy wouldn't exist, as the shrapnel that took off his leg would have swiftly and brutally caseated him too.
Still… besides the personal loss Peter felt, the loss of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director wasn't good news in his opinion, there were too many in government that would abuse their power, and S.H.I.E.L.D., as an organization, was always suspect: along with the newfangled Central Intelligence Agency, they both enjoyed too much secrecy and lack of accountability in his opinion.
Perhaps if they hadn't been gunned down for cracking down on organized crime
Albert Patterson or
Bobby Kennedy would have been a good choice — but this interim director,
A.G. Capone, left a bad taste in Peter's mouth for some reason.
He sighed, it's not like he could do much, being a mutilated and tired old dog o' war. Not unless he was a Senator or somesuch… but he did have so many contacts that he mailed to frequently, maybe adding a slip of paper announcing his intent to run and requesting their support could help.
Grabbing up his pen he started drafting the notes he would send.