Hey guys! New story time – always excited for new stories. I have a lot on my plate at the momento, so if this doesn't read so well to start with, I'll probably ditch it after the first few chapters. BUT, I kinda like the idea/plotline, so I hope you guys do as well!

All rights to Marvel, I own nothing blah, blah, blah… Enjoy!

There is a child; she looks like me

As I am, as is she

Years from now, she will never be free

My smile, her haunt,

My eyes, they taunt

And my emptiness, so hollow and gaunt,

Her they scar, to her they cling,

A lingering reminder of my curse, my sin,

And still as memories of darkness they sing,

"You will never be more than what I am."

The baby screamed and it screamed and it screamed.

It wouldn't eat; the nurses had never seen it sleeping. It just lay there, alone in its plastic box, and cried.

The other babies cried as well. But this was a manic shriek, and Darcy was afraid to go near the thing. As she stood by the glass window, Darcy listened to the whirring and beeping of the hospital's machinery. She felt a sharp ache stab at her shoulder, and she made to stretch her arm. But her elbow became tangled in the plastic tube, and tugged painfully at her cannula.

"Shit." She frowned as she went about untangling herself. Even though she had held onto her morbid childhood fear of needles, Darcy was glad that the contraption had been invented. Even though it was frustrating and more than a little embarrassing to drag the thing around all day, she knew that in its own, electronic way, it was keeping her alive. She hadn't eaten since her admission; if it weren't for the cannula delivering several doses of liquefied nutrients and essential proteins every three or so hours, Darcy would be dead.

She wrapped her fingers around the metal pole, and absently rocked it back and forth, back and forth on its little wheels. She had been stuck in the hospital for over a month; there was no sign of leaving.

As Darcy gazed into the nursery, she felt a twinge of sadness. The babies all looked peaceful; even the blue bundle that was mewling in the corner seemed content. But her baby wasn't there; it was lying somewhere in the hospital on an operating table, unconscious and helpless, surrounded by a bunch of people who had spent the last month trying to figure out what the hell was the matter with it.

As she clung to the peaceful scene before her, Darcy realized what it was that was troubling her most – more than her baby's absence, more than the constant question of "What now?" It was the fact that if the baby didn't return from surgery, Darcy worried that she wouldn't care.

What kind of person – mother – does that make you?

In the past nine months, Darcy had nearly died twice. The second incident had led to the immediate removal of the baby – prematurely. Minutes after the operation, her child had been declared dead. Darcy's grip on the pole tightened, and she tried to recall those emotions:

Helplessness.

Anger.

Sorrow.

But then – miraculously – the baby had started to breathe. And to scream.

Although Darcy would never admit it, she had always secretly believed that her baby would be perfect; a small part of her still hoped that it was.

There will be nothing normal about this child.

But Darcy hadn't listened; she hadn't wanted to. She'd thought – like an idiot – that if she just clamped both hands over her ears and walked away, everything would be alright.

But whenever she saw the baby, the sight of its slit-like eyes filled her with terror.

The baby always screamed.

It screamed as she drove home from the hospital, nearly two months later. And it screamed as she carried it through her door for the very first time. The apartment was tiny; Darcy didn't mind the small space, but simply being alone with the baby made her feel claustrophobic.

For the first time, Darcy tried to feed it. It cried and cried and cried, and in its frenzy, it bit her breast so hard that she screamed. Even though it was yet to grow teeth, it felt as though razors were clamped into her skin. Darcy pulled the thing away, and left it screaming in its sheets. Across the room, she lay down and cried.

The baby continued to scream, and Darcy buried her face in her hands and shrieked, "Shut up! Just. Shut. Up!"

The baby cried harder.

Such a tiny creature she was, and yet, he could sense her power.

Can I take what is rightfully yours?

Darcy had forgotten to close the window, and now, the night air blew unchallenged into the tiny bedroom. Loki hardly felt it trailing across his face, but even he could tell that the air was wintery. The old curtains fluttered quietly; every now and again, the material would wrap around Loki's body, and he would irritably swat it away. He supposed that he could draw them closed, but he revelled in the moonlight that flooded the room. It was cold and pale, and a welcome change from the harsh sunlight that plagued him throughout the hours of day.

But perhaps he would close the window. Because the moonlight fell upon the makeshift cradle, and illuminated the child that slept there. She was swaddled in cloths, but Loki could see her; raven hair, like his, skin as porcelain as his own. She slept fitfully, it seemed. Her breathing came in gulps, as though her tiny lungs were struggling to support her fragile body. Standing beneath the moon's fingers, Loki frowned.

"How weak you are," he whispered. "How pathetically mortal."

The rustle of bedclothes drew Loki's eyes across the room. On the floor-bound mattress, Darcy sighed in sleep. After a moment, she turned beneath the blankets, and then, all was still. Even though he knew that she slept soundly, Loki watched her unblinkingly.

"If you ever come near her, I'll kill you."

He let his gaze fall to the child who slept before him. Loki had never held the girl, but in the deepness of his mind, he knew what her tiny body would feel like against his arms. She would be soft, and warm and everything that her father was not.

Her father.

Loki felt something stab at his chest, and he turned away from the slumbering babe, chastened.

"You are nothing but a child," he hissed forcefully, as though the girl could hear him. "And you are nothing to me."

Loki turned, grim determination etched across his features. He stretched out a slender hand. His fingers – long and lean, like the fine weavings of a web – hovered above the babe. He could feel power throbbing beneath his skin. But this pulse – this unique, twisting magic – did not belong to him.

It belonged to the child. Loki's hand faltered.

Can I take what is rightfully yours?

Loki jerked his wrist upwards, and instantly, the girl stopped breathing. The silence was so dense and so complete that Loki had to look away from the lifeless form that lay tangled in the sheets. He had little time; the line between life and death was blurred at best. But he found himself frozen.

He held the life of his daughter in the palm of his hand.

No. Not my daughter.

Loki narrowed his eyes, and reached down into the bed. His fingers closed around the child's body, and squeezed themselves tight. For a moment, he felt nothing. Time seemed to stand still, and Loki closed his eyes.

Then she gave a little cry, and he felt her chest rise with a shuddering breath.

The child was alive. But the power he had felt only moments ago was gone – destroyed, like a winter flake in in a candle's flame. It tingled within his hand for a time, but all too soon, even that lingering reminder of who the girl might have been ceased to exist. Bowing his head, Loki stepped away.

"It is done," he uttered.

Beneath the sheets, the babe began to stir. Her eyes remained closed, but her arms reached for the air, searching for something that was only real within the world of her dreams.

Something woke Darcy.

For a moment, she lay still, and as she did, she searched through her sleep clouded mind, trying to decide exactly what had caused her to stir. The silence around her was complete - almost blissful.

Silence.

Darcy pulled herself up, and sat upon the mattress. She felt suddenly uneasy; the apartment was quiet, eerily so. She strained her ears, searching for a cry, for the faintest whimper. But there was nothing.

It's dead.

Slowly, Darcy climbed to her sleep. Her back ached from sleeping in the mattress for so long. But as she crept across the room, she barely noticed the pain.

It's dead, it's dead, it's dead. The thought was maddening.

When Darcy reached the cradle, she stopped, and closed her eyes. She waited to feel something; fear, panic, remorse. But there was nothing. Only that same, sickening uneasiness that refused to dissipate. Taking a deep breath, Darcy's eyes fluttered open, and she gazed down at the baby.

She was awake, and she was staring at Darcy.

The world stopped turning; the dirty walls and creaking ceiling faded into nothing - Darcy couldn't even feel the stained carpet beneath her feet. She'd never seen the baby's eyes before; not really. They were always closed, or scrunched, or red with tears. But now, they were wide and clear, and green.

Her baby had green eyes; the deepest of greens. Emerald green, just like her father's.

Just like her father's...

A sob escaped Darcy's mouth, and she pressed a hand to her lips. The baby blinked up at her. And then, it lifted its tiny arms. Its perfect little finger flailed in the darkness, reaching for its mother. It opened its mouth, and Darcy braced herself for the scream.

But all that came was the smallest, most perfect laugh that Darcy had ever heard.

Leaning down, she took the baby in her arms. She was so light - much lighter than any baby Darcy had ever held. But she fit perfectly into the crook of her arm. Her little body was warm, and Darcy let her eyes fall shut as she savored the feel of the child against her chest.

Her child.

Within moments, the baby was asleep. Overcome, Darcy sunk to the floor. She held the sleeping child, and smiled down at her peaceful face.

"Hey there, Tessa," she whispered.

The monster was gone, and in it's place... her daughter.

Reviews would be great guys!