After the whole S.H.I.E.L.D. debacle, I'm no longer sure what to call myself; who I am and what I do hasn't changed much. I still fly under the radar, clandestine and deadly, but only when I have to be. I'm a renegade, I guess. Self-certified. The truth is, I no longer know who to trust. Ever since the information leak, I've faked my own death, moved to a new city, changed my name—my hair colour even—the works. To make a long story short, I was built to be an assassin of sorts, unbeknownst to me, on the wrong side of a war between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra, among other enemies. I won't go into graphic detail about what I've done, what S.H.I.E.L.D. did to me, the lives I've taken, but I'm essentially a weapon. I'm not like most people—human beings for that matter. I can move things with my mind, if I try hard enough. Since the testing on me stopped when S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed, it generally takes much more effort, and I get migraines and nosebleeds when I try to extensively utilize the power. I can turn invisible, something I can't remember being unable to do. Though I don't know much about where I came from, my parents, my family, it's always been an ability of my own. I was sixteen when I discovered that my "parents" were not my real parents; they were simply fostering me, and they were S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in disguise, keeping an eye on me. It wasn't until S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed that I learned they were actually spies for Hydra, double agents at that. And now they're dead. It wasn't made obvious whose side they were really on until S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised. I'd sided with the Captain and Fury. But as soon as I found out my history, I knew there wasn't really any coming back from that. As far as I know, I'm everybody's enemy. At twenty-six years old, I find myself on the run, more or less. My "parents" left me all possessions in their wills, but with it came Hydra. I'd sold the house, got enough to help me try to start a new life. However, the more I dug after they died, the more I started realizing what they'd had mapped out for me from the get-go. I was supposed to have joined them and become an agent of Hydra. Hydra had me on its radar from the moment I was given to my parents. I was to be raised as a spy, believing I was serving the greater good, when really, I wasn't. Hydra wanted me to be one of their many secret weapons from the moment it was learned that I had abilities that made me different from others. If you need eyes and ears on your enemies, what's better than an invisible spy? As I slip the key into the lock of my apartment complex, a chill meets my ear. Slowly, I turn my head to find that the hall is as empty as it was when I stepped off the elevator. Yet out of the corner of my eye, I swear the door to 808 across the hall is open a crack. It closes, confirming my suspicion. As I turn the lock, I can't help remembering that the Reeds moved out of that apartment four weeks ago, and to the best of my knowledge, that apartment had been empty since. My landlord, Phillips, kept me up-to-date on the prospective new residents, and he hadn't told me any news since the Reeds moved out. Feeling thoroughly creeped out and suddenly anxious, I hurry into my apartment, drop my grocery bags on the floor, and close the door, bolting the lock securely and taking a few steps back, hurrying to turn the light switch on at the same time as I feel myself fade, and I can't be seen when I pass the mirror above the stand where I drop my car keys into a bowl. Quietly, I step through my lonely apartment. After searching the bedroom, my closet, the bathroom, the kitchen, it's secure enough to my comfort to make myself visible again. What's amazing about my power is that not only can I turn invisible, anything I touch or want to be unseen goes with me. I wouldn't have to worry about stripping naked just to sneak past the cameras when trying to rob a bank (not that I've done it yet, but if I ever get desperate enough for the money, it might be worthwhile). I turn on the sink in the kitchen and dump a few potatoes into it with a sigh, walking over to pull the shade up on the window and let the gray, rainy day, shine some light in. It's the last day of April, and I don't know how much longer I can stay here undetected, live a real life. I reach into the drawer and glance comfortingly at the Glock I put there and haven't had to use in a little over two months. I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow, when the nightmares came. I can barely sleep, living on edge the way I have been. My last S.H.I.E.L.D. mission went smoothly, and I'd had the chance to meet Captain America, but I just want to forget it all. And really, I know that I can't, because somebody, whether an ex-agent or official of some sort from S.H.I.E.L.D., someone from Hydra, or any other corporation could come after me at any moment. I call myself Amelia Barnes now. I don't know why; I guess I just chose the first A- and B-names that came to mind. It didn't matter, so long as I liked the ring of it and it was a far cry from Mikelle Hass. My parents used to call me Mickey Mouse, Elle, Kelly, and as I stand at the sink, skinning potatoes, I don't notice myself smiling, or the teardrop rolling down my cheek, until it makes wet contact with my lips. I pause to wipe my eyes, shake my head, wipe it out. They lied to you, you know. Your entire life. How do you really know if they ever actually loved you, or if you were just a weapon being kept in mint condition until deemed useful? The hate replaces the hurt and I sigh. Aside from Phillips, a couple of neighbors, and my coworkers at the record shop that I've been working at, I have had absolutely no human contact. Even my closest friends believe I'm dead. It kills me on the inside, but I need them to believe I'm gone; I pose a threat to anyone I've ever cared for. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything ever happened to them because of me. After I make myself dinner, I sit and listen to the radio, spinning the Glock on my kitchen table, and staring at the front door. I can't shake 808 out of my head. When I think I'll explode from the anxiety, I creep up to the door, Glock in hand, and stare out the peephole to the far left. I can just see the door of 808. It's closed and looks desolate without the sun catcher and welcome mat the Reeds had to decorate it. I give up on my suspicion and store the gun back in my kitchen drawer. After I'm tired of listening to NPR, I take a shower and prepare for the following day. I actually fall asleep tonight, and when I dream, I dream about throwing punches, shooting guns, using my power to get past guards and save hostages…and then a masked man I've never seen before enters my field of vision. I can barely see him, but I reach out my hand as if he's really there. With the other, I scramble for the knife under my pillow. I don't feel it there, but my other hand has gripped something cold, metallic to the touch, and it grips my wrist right back, another hand creeping into my hair, and then the face slowly fades away, and I'm asleep again. In the morning, I've woken up ten minutes later than planned, somehow managing to sleep through my alarm clock. I sit up in a hurry, tripping out of bed, cursing, praying the dream I had was only a dream—nothing more. I rush back out of the bathroom, after peeing, to slam my alarm clock off. I step on something sharp and gasp. A short ways under the bed is my knife, the one that should have been under my pillow. It's a switchblade, but it's open. I wonder whether it simply fell from under my pillow while I tossed and turned in my sleep. I sit on my bed and grab a Kleenex to nurse the small cut on the bottom of my foot, scratching at the inside of my left arm. After cleaning up my foot, I glance at my arm to find a small messy line of what appears to be spattered and gasp. I can't have scratched myself that hard, and I know so, because the blood has dried. Maybe I did it in my sleep? As a teen, when stressed, I would grind my teeth and scratch myself to the point of bloodshed in my sleep…I'd been on Lorazepam for a while because of it. I see the time again on my clock and rush into the shower and then my clothes. As I'm about to step out the front door, a significant chill and the sound of the rain greets me. I drop my purse on the stand under the mirror and rush towards the window in the kitchen. It's open significantly wider than I remember leaving it the day before. I stop in front of it and pull out the screen before sticking my head through the window and look up before looking down at the fire escape. The coast is clear, but it doesn't shake the fact that I'm damn sure I didn't leave the window this far open. I replace the screen, close it and lock it, even pull down the curtain. I try to calm myself by thinking about the fact that I'm such a nervous wreck these days, I put something down and two seconds later have no idea where it was. Maybe I did open the window further and I just forgot about it. I hurry out of my apartment and decide there's not enough time to take the elevator; I can run down eight flights of steps much faster. As I plow through the door, I bump square into the chest of a man, who exhales shortly upon the impact. I am partially past him when I nearly fall face first down the stairs. I gasp, and he grabs my arm, saving me from tumbling, as I'm now standing on my toes above the stair case. I turn to re-orient myself, finding that he has also grabbed my purse when it fell off my shoulder.
"Oh my god—I'm so sorry," I mutter, my eyes still wide and my body in a state of confused shock. The man immediately lets go of my arm and turns his face away, so that I only get a quick glance. From behind a slate gray hoodie, I can tell that he has about shoulder length brown hair. He hands my purse back to me without looking at me and I take it hastily. I glance down at the arm that had grabbed me to find that the hand is hidden beneath a black glove, but as I glance at the other hand which is reaching for the handle again, I can see that it's naked and pale.
"I'm going to be late for work—I was rushing," I mumble, descending a step.
"It's okay, Amy," says the voice, which is gently deep and calm, and isn't the voice of any man I've spoken to on my floor. I hurry down the stairs as he walks through the door and disappears. I'm down to the sixth floor when I pause, even in my rush, to realize that we have never met, and that for two months, I haven't told my new name—or nickname—to anyone except my landlord, a few select neighbors (all of which I know are not this man, despite me barely seeing his face), and my new boss. Fear grips my heart and I hurry the rest of the way down the stairs, running in the car park to my sedan, and speeding off to work. When I have driven for five silent minutes, I pause at a red light to whisper the truth to my own ears.
"Somebody found me."