AN: Just some little tidbits of something I was working on a few months ago, nothing concrete. These are just a few moments that I wanted to write with this character "Death Wish" interacting with the Avengers and Loki. If this gets overwhelmingly positive feedback then I might consider actually filling in the blank spots and making it a short story. Who knows. Enjoy.

Death Wish

Have you ever woken up with the four words "I should be dead" seemingly etched into your lips from the thousands of times you seem to say them? Your body sore and covered in the remains of a hard fought battle, your hair and face crusted with blood that you're not sure is yours, the taste of the metal pin of a grenade or the blade of knife burned into your mouth? No? Pity, because that's the only way I seem to be waking up lately. It still surprises me I'm able to sleep at all, overlooking the fact that I barely give myself time to actually wind down and slip out of consciousness, I've seen a lot of gruesome things in my days, things that would make the decomposing zombies and ax wielding murderers of your Halloween movies seem like Fairy Princesses and Sparkly Unicorns. And now you wonder what I could possibly do that forces me to witness such horribly awful scenes on a seemingly daily basis.

I could give you the watered down version of a poor little girl searching for some guidance in her sad little life, hoping for someone to accept her and her strange ways. Or I could tell you the long ass version which details quite extensively my life from when I was dumped out of my mother's womb to this very moment, where for some reason I'm going over what the epithet on my grave would say as I lean over Agent Clint Barton with one of his wickedly sharp arrows in one hand, poised at his left eye, and in the other hand an equally treacherous knife with the tip just barely pointed into his Adam's Apple as if lightly bobs up and down while he tries to regain his breath. However, I'll give you the shortened version, medium of the two aforementioned, and start with the basics.

My name is Dolores Estrada, but I've been called many things. As a child I was referred to only as "Lolita" or "Little Lola" in the training camp I was raised in. My mother, a nurse, and my father, a soldier, were POWs at a small town called Gulmira in Afghanistan. Both of my parents were American, making my grandparents legal immigrants from Mexico, though it didn't matter much to the 10 Rings. To the terrorists, everyone who wasn't one of them was an enemy. It's a good rule to live by in a world like this, so I've learned. However, my parents were horrified to learn that my mother was pregnant with me while they were being held captive and tried to keep me a secret as long as they could, though the 10 Rings eventually found out. My father was murdered soon after although my mother was allowed to continue on in her pregnancy until I was born.

I've been told many times how heartbroken my mother was as she carried me, and I think that pain and suffering influenced my fate even before I was born. As soon as my mother gave birth to me she died, but not before muttering one single word as she lay on her deathbed, my name: Dolores. In Spanish the verb "doler" is "to hurt, to feel pain", making my name literally translate into "Suffers" and "Pain", a fitting name for a child that caused the death of both her parents before she could even walk or talk. That name set my life in stone. From that moment on, I was only seen as a way to bring suffering to others, to bring pain. I was like bad luck incarnate, personified, and embodied. And once the 10 Rings realized this, they jumped to take the chance at training their very own secret weapon.

My childhood was less than desirable, I'll admit. In the beginning all I could ever really remember was bright flashes of explosions every once in a while accompanied with the sharp echoing sounds of bullet on metal, or brick, or flesh. The terrorist group ignored me for the most part. Yes, I was fed regularly, and taken care of fairly well throughout my lifetime, but I wasn't indulged as those fat, lazy, and jaded American children were. I was trained, mentally first, to think out my own solutions, to think out ways to stay alive, to outwit my enemy, whomever it may be.

The physical training came later, of course, when I was around 6 or 7 I was introduced to prisoner that had been kidnapped from an American tour in Afghanistan (even as a child I knew that was a stupid thing and had come to associate the word "American" as a synonym for "Idiot"). The prisoner was a 26 year old gymnast trainer for Olympic athletes who decided she'd take a vacation in the Middle East. It wasn't her lucky summer. The woman was forced to teach me gymnastics until I was around 9 or 10. I had grown closer to the woman throughout the years, as much as I hate to admit it. Yet one day some men toting guns (that's a bit redundant, they're always toting guns) came in on one of my lessons. They stole my teacher, drug her outside by her hair and forced her to her knees in the middle of the village. One of the men slammed the butt of his gun into the base of her neck and I heard a little crack as my gymnast teacher fell over onto the ground. No sooner than had she fallen did the other man aim his gun and shook her in the head 17 times. I counted as I watched from the doorway of the "training room." It was a day I would never forget, because it finally showed me that wherever I went, death followed.

I suppose that's why my birth name and my alter ego are so fitting for me. As I grew older around the town I was known to the Spanish POWs (ones that remembered my parents fondly yet feared me) as "Deseo de Muerte" or Death Wish. Soon it almost felt like I was never Dolores or Lola or Lolita, I was only Death Wish. The name had come to not only describe me, but define me. I was Death Wish, I brought death wishes, to fight me was a death wish I soon figured out as I continued in my training. The 10 Rings had raised me to be a tool for slaughter, a killing machine. And they had done a very good job. No longer was I Little Lola. That nickname had died with my innocence.

"Hola, me llamo Lola," I say to them, a little smirk playing on my lips.

"And of course she only speaks Spanish," growls Fury through the glass at me. "Somebody get a fucking translator in here!"

"Hold up," Stark says, pushing his way to the front of the line until he's directly in front of me. "I got this, public communications worldwide and all." I cock and eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest as he straightens his tie and clears his throat. "Hola, Lola. Estás libre esta noche?"

I only give a single little cruel laugh though it's more melodic than I intended it to be as I roll my eyes towards the ceiling of my little cubicle.

"Stark, we need to interrogate her," Agent Romanov growls as she smacks him on the back of the head. "Not ask her if she's free tonight. Let me handle this." The Black Widow turns her indifferent gaze on me and I can't help but smile at little bit more at how hard she's trying not to let her eyebrow twitch. It's taken me years to get to the point where reading faces is a habit instead of an art, but now that I was finally there it was more simple and second nature than breathing.

"¿Quién eres tú?" the Russian woman demands furiously. I allow myself another smile. Who are you?

"Mi nombre es Lola. ¿Y tú? ¿Quién es?" I counter, my Spanish accent impeccable as I toy with her a bit, only repeating my name and asking who she was in return. "Or perhaps I should speak in your native tongue, Natasha?" I challenge the woman in Russian. She lets her mask fail for a second, looking the slightest bit shocked before it's back in place.

"She's toying with us," the woman relays to the group, arms crossed over her chest as she mirrors my stance and expression, right down to the cocked eyebrow. "I'm sure she speaks English as well as Spanish and Russian. Probably among other things."

"Took you all long enough to figure out," I scoff with a smile. "Apparently none of you were trained in linguistics. I was sure someone was going to catch the slightest little dialect slip up I had towards the beginning. My accent came out more South American, Peruvian or Brazillian than Mexican." I give them a light shrug. "Guess we all can't be experts."

"Oh, there's no need to hide from me," I purr, leaning against the glass containment unit I've been locked in. There's at least 4 cameras trained on me, and those are only the obvious ones. I give a sultry little smile to them all, knowing the Avengers are watching me from somewhere in the Helicarrier. "It's not like I don't know all of you. Should I start at the beginning of the roll call?" I theatrically clear my throat and start to list off people on my fingers. "Captain America, the leader of the team of misfits. Steve Rogers…" I let the name roll out slowly off the tip of my tongue, each syllable stretched out for as long as it can be before ending the name in a light rumble on the back of my tongue. "The not-so-super-soldier from New York, newly awakened for the Tesserect Battle fought with Loki.

Bringing us to Thor Odinson, Norse god according to Mythology, real life god according to the world, or 'Midgard' as you aliens call it. Next in line for the throne of Asgard, though he declines his calling as deity to protect his precious Earth from, well," I give a light laugh. "People like me. And then we have the brilliant scientists, Robert Bruce Banner and Anthony Edward Stark, both geniuses in their own ways, though battling such horribly scarring things in their lives. Brucie's got some multi-personality problems while Stark can't seem to rid his guilt long enough to notice that as he's trying to help people he's only killing himself faster in the process.

Then, of course, there's Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton, both registered agents for SHIELD, the base of which I'm currently held at, blah blah blah. Both trained assassins with an undying and unprofessed love for one another, something that seems to be straight out of one of those daytime soap operas no one ever watches because they're so predictable. The ending for the Hawk and the Spider? They either get together and realize that they just love each other so much they can't stand it and leave to never see the other again OR, and this option is my favourite, they go out Romeo and Juliet style, double suicide, or perhaps a homicide-suicide if fate is feeling generous. Not much else to say."

"Who do I think I am?" I echo Loki's question, looking him straight in the eyes as he glares at me. "Well, I like to think of myself as an agent of chaos."

Loki snorts rudely at this yet I only smirk at his nasty look, continuing on before he has a chance to speak. "And you immediately find that preposterous, don't you, Odinson?" He scowls at the name. "You assume that since you're the God of Mischief, the God of Lies and Deceit and Treachery that you're the original agent of chaos, don't you?" I laugh cruelly at him as if he's a little boy that's asked a stupid question. "You really have a lot to learn, Jotun. Defeat is not an option for those who serve evil. Yet you've already allowed yourself to be drawn to the level of the humans that you so desperately despise, only because your dear brother cares for them." I sneer at the look of disgust on Loki's face, going on almost instantly. "You claim to hate your brother, you weakling, but if you stopped and took the time to actually analyze your situation, you'd be bright enough to see that the only true opposite of love is indifference. Hate requires passion, which is also a prerequisite for love. By hating your brother, you love him, your hate fuels you to try and best him but you'll never be good enough because you care for him too much. You can never get to the level of indifference with Thor because underneath your callous and despising shell that you've put up, Thor is the brother you grew up with and you love him more dearly than anyone ever can."

Loki looks shocked, and stays that way for a good 5 seconds or so before snapping out of it, a snarl lighting up his face fiercely though it lacks conviction. I smirk knowing my words of truth have gotten to the Asgardian. "You listen here, mortal, there is nothing stopping me from coming in there and breaking every single bone in your body until you scream for mercy for the blights you have just committed by accusing me of such a thing as loving the idiotic oaf that I grew up with living in the shadow of."

"There's quite a bit stopping you," I say casually, turning so that I'm leaning against the glass with my back to the angry god.

"You must not comprehend the level of fury you have unleashed, human-" Loki begins, obviously trying to sound as if he's threatening me.

I give a scoffing sigh, glancing over my shoulder to look at him. "You've done it again, Loki."

"What do you presume that I have done again, minx?" he roars. Some of his angry spit hits the outside of the glass of my chamber.

"You let someone get to you," I tell him softly with a secret little smile. "You let someone get under your armor, under the tough skin that you just assumed would be bullet proof to any attack that may be waged on it." I turn my head to rest my chin on my shoulder, looking at Loki expectantly with my deep brown eyes. "You're hating me, Loki. Hate is passion. Passion leads to love. Your lack of indifference is refreshing, and I yearn to see more of it." Loki sputters blankly at me, seeing how once more he's been led into a verbal trap where he really has no sufficient response. He finally settles on glaring at me, his green eyes narrowing in disgust and distaste though I can see the uncertainty blooming in them, evident in his too-deep crease lines between his eyebrows. I've made him actually think, for once.

"I shall deal with you later, mortal," he growls under his breath, trying to seem intimidating. Before he turns to stalk off I blow him a light kiss, uttering a final farewell in Spanish as he leaves, his long over coat fluttering behind him as he walks off.

"Adios, mi amor." My smirk is too large to contain and I feel like the Chesire Cat knowing he can't understand a word I say.

Goodbye, my love.