Let me tell you why my dumb ass decided it was a good idea to work in a library.
First off; I figured out of all the places that would hire teenagers in Hell's Kitchen, a library is the least likely place to have serious competition for jobs. No teen with a half decent rep in this city would EVER be caught dead in a library. Ergo, I thought it'd be a sick place to search for a job.
Secondly; I actually fucking like books. The Twilight series is great and anyone who says otherwise- we have beef now.
Thirdly;
(If you admit this to anyone I will send you passive aggressive letters)
Thirdly; I'm trying to find myself.
No not in an Eat, Pray, Love kinda way. More like an sorta way.
But listen I know what you're thinking; "OMG wow holy shit a teenage girl who doesn't know who her family is wow wtf so original".
Well how about you shutup.
Being an orphan isn't fucking fun. Literally Annie the musical about the ginger orphan is my favourite musical in the world, right next to Hamilton. Annie is a top grade relatable bitch and I fucking used to wish I was a ginger, white gal who had a non sexual sugar daddy.
If you want to get into the actual details, I wasn't abandoned, at least I don't think so. Genuinely the first thing I remember is getting mugged on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, I was 12, had blue hair, a fuck tonne of bruises, and no shoes. All I had was a sense of 'what-the-fuck-help-someone-I-need-help' and also a white hospital gown.
Imagine that being your first memory, right? It's so funny, great story to tell to other kids around the campfire. Make those bitches feel grateful for their parental figures.
My second memory of course is that it was suddenly night time, and here I was wondering what life even was when I came face to face with the most hilarious poster in the world. It was of a hot, blonde, white chick getting bitten in the neck by a brown haired dude, the bold red sign splashed across their naked chests saying 'True Blood'. Don't ask me why I thought it was so fucking funny, just imagine a child with blue hair and almost no clothes laughing her ass off in the corner of a dark alley at a True Blood poster. Yeah, I'd walk away too. That's straight up horror movie shit.
But I'll always remember that dumbass advertisement for True Blood, because even though I had no clue what I was or where or when, I knew how to read, and I read those characters names, and decided my name was Bill, right after Bill Compton; redneck vampire extraordinaire.
Yes, I later realised that gender concepts existed and Bill was usually a man's name, but how was I supposed to remember what gender I was when I didn't even know where I'd come from?
I realise that this story of me is sounding greatly pitiful. It's definitely a great story I could tell a rich old man for some extra cash if I was ever short, then I'd really be like orphan Annie. But, luckily, while I was wandering the streets of Hell's Kitchen with no memory and completely lost, serendipity got involved, and someone found me.
Introducing my flat mate and first memory of an actual person (not including the bastard who mugged me); Matthew 'I'm blind and a righteous killer' Murdoch.
Well actually, when I first met Matt, he was in his Daredevil disguise, and even me, having no memory, I was rightly fucking freaked the fuck out to see a grown ass man in a black mask facing me in a poorly lit alley way.
So naturally, I turned tail and bolted the fuck out. Unfortunately, I tripped over a stray cat and fell to the gravel. However, I was still scared so I kept on trying to wriggle away. So just picture a chubby child flailing on the ground while a cat hisses in the background and a man in a mask raises his brows, and possibly he even smiles. All in all it's another pretty funny picture in my life.
As I was told many years later by Matt, he'd honestly thought I was having a seizure, he'd never seen someone flail that much except when he punched the shit out of them, and luckily, he had not in fact punched me.
Instead, Matt approached me, and seeing how I looked like I'd just escaped a mental hospital, and it was the only thing he could think to do in the heat of the moment, he took off his mask and started smiling at me.
If you asked me at the best of times I couldn't remember what he said to me, I just remember he picked me up, and that was okay, and then he told me I could stay with him for the night and we'd go to the police tomorrow, and that night was the best nights sleep of my life, well the one I can remember anyway.
Thing is we never went to the police the next day.
Because another funky thing happened to add to the list of funky things that happens in my life.
Matt came home the next night, black mask on, limping in through the window, and collapsed straight to the floor with a sickly thump, blood flowing from a gunshot wound in his side, completely ruining his carpet, it looked like a big, red shadow creeping its way across the floor. And that red shadow was stealing his life.
I remember how cold the floors of the apartment were as I woke up to the sound of Matt's grunts as he fell through the window, his shout of pain as the bullet dislodged from his ribs, sounding almost like a click of the fingers, and I remember walking over to him, how pale he looked in the moonlight, the sweat on his brows glittering like stars.
Funny thing, how sometimes your instincts to do certain things kick in, like they just come naturally at the oddest times.
Like how I put my hands across his bullet wound, pressed down, and how Matt started to gasp- because his wound was closing, right under my hands. I didn't know my own fucking name, but fucking hell I just knew I could heal this darn man.
Healing him, I could feel it all under my hands, could taste the metal of the bullet, could hear the ring and bang of it when he was shot by a mugger, could feel his muscles pull and his skin stitch back together. It was like I was talking to his cells, telling them to come back together, as easy as telling someone to put something back on the shelf at the library.
I was healing his body like it was second nature, like I did this every Sunday or something. If I had to go into full detail, it was like sewing, or maybe even crochet, but with flesh. And yes I realise that's a shit description but fuck you I never went to school that I can remember, ergo no one taught me to creatively write, so you'll have to use your imagination.
Point is, it felt natural, like I'd done it time and time again, and when I pulled my hands back, Matt and I looked at each other through the moonlight, the confusion and amazement mixing brightly in his blind eyes, the flicker of relief run through my skin, as if discovering the fact that I had powers was like cracking a knuckle, just something I needed to do.
Matt let out a chuckle, and he grasped my hand, and opened his mouth to thank me.
Until my hand was ripped from his, and an invisible force blew me back, like a door in a hurricane, my back pummelled into the back wall with a gross crackle, Matt jumping back at the sound noise of my scream and the smash of the drywall, and then everything I could ever feel hit me all at once.
I tasted the metal of the bullet, I heard the ring and the bang of the gun, and the wound that I healed on him... had found it's way onto my body.
Yeah, isn't that fun. You discover you've got these miracle powers, right? Just my luck that my powers have the biggest possible blow back affect. What I heal happens to me. An eye for an eye I suppose. I guess with my great powers comes some great responsibility.
When Matt recovered from his initial shock of first having a fatal wound to suddenly having none to then having this random child he had just rescued being blown back across the apartment, he came to, scooped me up in his arms and rocked me back and forth, trying and failing to decide how the fuck to deal with this situation.
The next thing I remember was the hospital, where I woke up atop this cold ass, silver slab in the mortuary, Matt clinging to my hand and a very distressed look on his face like he really should be screaming but thought it best not to.
That's right, bitches! I died...but I survived!
Propping myself up on my elbows on the cold slab and clinging to Matt's hand as he frowned deeply, and I could feel the utter confusion roll off of him in waves, it suddenly dawned on me that I had just died. Man, it was weird, but don't ask me what I saw when I died, because it was literally nothing, like waking up from a nap, but a super painful nap, a nap where you get shot.
The next great thing that happened that you can imagine is Matt realising that he can't rationally explain to the doctors and workers of this hospital that a little Asian child he picked up off the streets who healed his wound then took it on herself, then died then woke up. Honestly, just try to imagine his face trying to process that. Then imagine his blind ass trying to shovel a child and himself out of the small mortuary basement window and into the world above without being noticed. I dare you.
He took me in that night, unofficially adopting me, making excuses to his best friend Foggy that I was a distant relative from an abusive family that needed a place to stay, and Foggy being the blessed angel that he is didn't even bat an eye, instead he welcomed me with open arms. I call him my step mom. I suppose that would make Matt my dad, but in reality he's another step mom as well. Just me and my two mums: a masked vigilante, and a punny lawyer.
Honestly it was a weird thing to take on for Matt. Becoming a mum under normal circumstances is hard enough. But for a struggling, blind, lawyer/crime fighter, who has never dealt with kids that suddenly gets landed with a power-having, blue-haired, girl with no memory...let's be honest it's a tonne to deal with. But that's just what we did, we dealt with it. Matthew Murdoch, for all intents and purposes, became my mum.
Of course it was a shit show at first. I never stopped talking as soon as Matt reassured me that I was staying with him, that he was a family to me now. He couldn't get me to shutup, but secretly I know he loves hearing me talk, because I feel like that night I healed his gunshot and then literally died in his arms, a little bit inside of him was broken more than he would ever admit to. It's all that catholic guilt I tell you, it's worse than doing any actual sinning. So just the fact that I talk non-stop is really a miracle to him, and he's grateful, because I wasn't the girl that died in his arms, I'm the girl that healed him and then came back to stay with him.
I love him, like he's my mom of course, he's my first memory of any loving human contact. Well actually he's my first proper memory at all, and he'll always be my number 1 mom, even if I find my real mom. If I find the real one they'll have to battle it out for custody, and to be honest, all my bets are on my favourite Daredevil.
And it's been 4 years since we found each other, and I've been living with him this whole time. It's about as dysfunctional as you would think honestly, I mean how many blind vigilante lawyers, and wound healing Asian children do you hear about living together? But I'll be damned if we aren't a family. Like Batman and Robin but more fun and less George Clooney remakes.
All in all, I suppose you could say my life is pretty chill at the moment, and at this current moment I'm on top of the hecking world. Just me on a lovely Tuesday night, strolling cautiously down the street after being let off from work, red bull in hand, green flanny flowing in the wind around me, and I haven't had a single encounter with anything strange in at least a week!
SCREEEEEEEECH
Ah there it is, the fuckening, the strange occurrence, it arrives, I really spoke too soon, but honestly I should be used to shit.
I watched with a heavy an eye roll as I could manage as a sleek black motorcycle drilled by in an explosion of noise and debris, the rider cloaked in black, reaching back to slap the person clinging to the back of the bike, sort of like a cat clinging by his claws to a tablecloth.
And the person on the back of the bike?
My roommate, in full Daredevil mode.
"Goddammit, Matt" I sigh drearily, then with a quick glance down the street they sped down, I shrug, and continue home on my merry way, because let's be honest, a chubby teen is going to do nothing, and me being me, the most I could do is act like a healing potion when Matt backs himself into a corner. If the guy on the bike came at me I'd fucking be done for and we all know it.
Shoving the finished Redbull can into my pocket, because littering is a dick move, I continue walking, and I did so, for about 20 feet, right before a man stepped out of the shadows, a man with a literal fucking eye patch.
To be honest I'm not very tactful, and I let out a lingering snort, admiring the way his bald head shone in the streetlight. But this only made Mr Eyepatch squint at me, methinks he is used to people not laughing at him.
"If you're going to rob me I have to warn you I spent my last $3 on an energy drink, you can have the can if you want, it's a 10c refund at your local recycling centre" I chirped, stretching my arms at my sides with a stifled yawn.
Eyepatch then rolled his eyes, and funnily enough rolled his hands onto his hips.
"I drive a state of the art SUV, I have 3 houses including a holiday resort, do I look like I need a mother fucking 10c refund from a kid?!" he snapped, raising his brow at me and glaring at me with his visible eye.
I raised my hands up and my mouth let out a pfffft, "whatever, check your privilege at the door I guess" I clicked my mouth, shuffling my feet on the ground.
Eyepatch then threw his hands up, looking like he wanted to scream which made me snicker, to which he turned and glared at me viciously.
"I'm not here to rob you, dumbass! I'm here to fucking recruit you! Then again, if you're going to have this goddamn attitude every time then I might reconsider—-"
"Recruit?! Is this a cult thing?!" I suddenly shrieked, my voice echoing lightly around the alley way, almost sounding like a shrill cat.
The man watched as I began to back away slowly, and the thought that I really should run danced itself across my mind, but that was before the stranger sighed, and put his hands in his pockets, and began shaking his head slowly.
"Bill...the thing is I-we...actually need your help. And there's no plainer way to say it, and I'm not a man to ask a kid to help out, but I'm desperate" he said, and it sounded like the cold chipped begging of a man on his last straw, and it was contrasting horribly with his general visage as a very, very big man not to be fucked with.
"Help?" I echoed, raising my brow as smoothly as I crossed my arms, because against my better judgment, I was intrigued, and honestly I was trying very hard not to looked fucking freaked as to how he knew my name.
We stared at each other, the most hectic silent battle of wits one could possibly witness. If you had looked down from your balcony window and into the street to see a chubby little girl and a big, tall man with an eyepatch you would've definitely have had a laugh, maybe even a concerned chuckle. But if I'm honest, I'm starting to like this guy, and my gut was saying that this was the start of something, probably the biggest adventure of my life.
And I'm not one to tell my gut feeling "no".
Perhaps he saw the resolve settle into my face then, as the man just nodded, and then he held out his hand.
"Nick Fury, director of SHIELD. And I am here, to ask you for your help".