Disclaimer: It should be noted that this document is a work of fanfiction and therefore any recognizable characters, events, ect. do not belong to me.
Note: Please be aware that I have taken major liberties on the timeline and so specific events as well as the ages of the characters may vary with what is canon in their proper universe
Of Heroes and Hellions
Chapter 1: Chronically Tardy
A tall brunette walks with her head ducked against the wind chilling the busy streets of New York City. She wraps her sweater closer to her body and curls her fingers beneath the old stretched and worn sleeves. She passes the Baxter Building and counts off ten more blocks until she reaches her destination. She knows she should have hailed a cab if the numbness of her nose is anything to go by, but she'd be hard pressed to find one this time of year as everyone is making last minute Christmas purchases. She knows as much because it is the same reason she has ventured out into the harsh concrete jungle.
Her bags knock against the sides of her legs as she shifts in her walk to reach into her jean pocket for her phone, which has become increasingly difficult to ignore, as it calls out its text alert—a tone reminiscent of a horn signaling battle.
Three missed calls and two voicemails from Daddy Rogers.
A text message from her older brother Peter: Where are you? Dad says you aren't answering your phone. And then a second one about an hour later: He's right… you're not answering your phone.
Next, another message from Father Stark: Working late tonight. Pops wants you home. Better make a run for it.
She checks the time off the digital clock from her cell—nine o'clock—three hours past the time she said she would be back at the tower. She sighs before typing a message to Peter, better to not interrupt her dad while he's working. On my way home. She keeps it short and tucks her phone away before lengthening her stride.
When she reaches Stark tower her lips are chapped and her cheeks are wind-whipped red. She smiles at the dark haired and tired eyed woman at the front desk—Julia, she thinks her name is—before punching at the elevator call button impatiently. She watches the floor numbers as they count down from story forty-six where it rests in the middle of the building shaft to one before stepping in. The metal lift is empty, it is too late for any workers to be coming or going from the office and everyone else must already be tucked away in their private top floor apartments. She swipes her card along the magnetic strip and waits for the computer to verify her identity. The red light above the band lights green before the paneling opens up to reveal call buttons for the top three floors of the tower; she chooses the one for floor ninety-three.
When the elevator doors slide open she expects a frustrated father standing with his arms crossed and tapping his foot as he waits for her, maybe even a mocking older brother come to join the fun. What she finds is an empty living room, the window blinds are opened to reveal a dazzling view of New York at night, and the television is still playing an old space adventure based film. It looks like dad has been trying to play catch up again. Fascinating.
"Anne?" She hears her brother's voice call from down the hall.
"Yes!" The brunette answers, "it's me."
"Dad was called into work," Peter tells her. She knows what work means. Anne sighs heavily and wonders where he is tonight, whom he'll be fighting, and whom he'll be saving.
She turns to see Peter step out from around the corner of the hallway. He's dressed in a Lycra and spandex body suit, all blue and red and decorated in a pattern of thin webs. There's a depiction of a spider on his chest. Anne smiles. "It's a bit late for trick-or-treating isn't it?"
Peter nods as he slips on his mask and reaches out to catch the handle of the sliding balcony door to pull it open, "but not too late to do some web-slinging." And with that he curls his fingers in, a trail of solified web fluid shoots forward from somewhere around his wrist. Then he's leaping, flying from ninety-three stories high on only the trust of his web-shooters. Peter acquired his powers about a year or two ago when he was bitten by a radioactive spider. He gained the proportional strength and agility of an arachnid along with a few other neat tricks like his spider-sense, as he has dubbed it, as well as the ability to cling to walls.
Anne, unlike her brother, has always had 'the gift.' She does not know whose DNA gave it to her; she has never heard the story of her biological parents. What she can guess is that she was taken in by her fathers on orders from S.H.I.E.L.D. because of her parents abilities and the talent that they would inevitably give to her. What she knows is that she can do incredible things, speak to people who once were but are now only memories. And she can fly, oh how she loves the feel of the city wind rushing around her no matter how smog ridden. Under the alias Soul she trains, she fights, she protects.
When morning dawns the meows of Anne's orange tomcat Rusty wake her from a thick sleep. She remembers when she convinced her dad to get a pet after she spotted the orange furred feline in the shop window—"you're a super soldier; you're not allergic to anything!"
Anne stretches her legs as she drags herself from beneath the security of her comforter. She tames her messy bed head in a ponytail before heading to breakfast prior to her training. She finds The Captain standing over the stove and making pancakes, the shapes are a little off from round and the color varies from an appetizing golden to a burnt brown but they are the better choice to the bowl of cereal she originally had in mind. "Morning," she greats him with a kiss on the cheek before claiming the top three pancakes on the plate beside the stove, the best looking of the bunch. Anne joins her other father at the kitchen table where he sits, looking exhausted and nursing a cup of black coffee as he reads over the headlines of today's newspaper. "I wonder who this new super bug is…" Tony comments aloud as his eyes skim over an article headlined SPIDERMAN: FRIEND OR FOE? She knows that the article probably leans toward the ladder.
Steve joins them at the table with the remaining stack of pancakes. "Not even S.H.I.E.L.D. knows," he comments, "but they want to."
Anne feels a sudden burst of anxiety for her brother and preys that he stays locked away in his room lest he leave and be confronted about his own secret identity. While their parents may know about Anne and her alter ego Peter opted to leave them in the dark about his connection to the controversial Spider-man.
"They should just leave the poor kid alone," she speaks up. Tony shoots her a look over his coffee mug, a single raised eyebrow and questioning eyes. She shrugs and stuffs in a piece of pancake too big for her mouth to avoid explanation.
"If he wants to keep his identity a secret that's his choice," Steve agrees and Anne is shocked. She imagined him saying something along the lines of being responsible for any damage he's caused in his explorations. The table is silent after his comment and Anne tenses as she waits for Tony to state his opinion on the matter but such words never come. Instead, The Captain speaks up again, this time looking directly at her. "You were late last night," he says in a disapproving tone.
Anne smiles sheepishly, "traffic was bad?" It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.
Tony laughs, "of course it was! It's New York at Christmas time. If she wants to go gift shopping for the family let her, Cap," he takes a long drink of his coffee and Anne wonders if maybe he's spiked it with something a little more sinister. "Besides there are worse things she could be doing."
"I'd just like you to inform someone if you're going to be late." Steve sounds resigned.
"I will next time," Anne agrees but this isn't the first time she has said so. These things tend to slip her mind. Either way her father seems appeased.
"I'm off to work now," Tony says, checking the watch that his husband purchased for him a few birthdays ago, its thick and gold and just his style. The action seems strange nonetheless; Tony doesn't often bind to the rules of time. "I have an important meeting with Wayne Enterprises." And then he's gone.
Steve turns to look at his adopted daughter; "I guess that leaves training with me today."
What Anne wears for training and what she sports when crime fighting differ greatly. When she's flying over the city streets she wears something far more colorful. Her gladiator sandals wrap up her calves in ribbons of green, the same enchanting shade as her cape and mask; her hair hangs from the opening at the back of her visor in a thick braid of wind scattered brunette strands. Her dress is of a crystalline white. Needless to say, she's hard to miss. Now, Anne stands in the training room wrapping her knuckles in tape. She's dressed in black cargo pants and a thin tank top; her feet are bare.
In the next room over she can hear the faint sounds of a gun firing within the shooting range; she guesses it is Natasha needlessly perfecting her shot. In another room, the one prepped for high impact combat, she can hear cries of battle and un-human growls; this time she speculates it's Thor and the Hulk. In the upper stories of the room she thinks she catches some movement, Clint no doubt. And then there is Dad standing in the center of the sparing mat. He goes easy on her but she's still yet to win against him. She doesn't expect anything more than a good fight, getting in a few hits, and having the ability to hold he own against him until the inevitable take down. He is Captain America after all.
Anne steps into the white painted ring that circles the mat and takes a deep breath. Concentrate. The Captain moves first, his fist punching out. Anne ducks, the movement sharp and jarring from her nerves. "Relax," her father tells her. She takes another breath and centers herself. She kicks out only to have her ankle grabbed, forcing her weight out from under her. She tucks her arms and rolls to lessen the impact of the fall before standing back in position. She moves fast and aims a jab at his abdomin. It feels like punching flesh-covered steel. She moves back, swift and light on her feet, to avoid his retaliation. "Nice one," he compliments. He moves in towards her this time and she spins, turning her back on him and swinging her fist around but he catches it. Now she's trapped with her arm held at an uncomfortable angle behind her back, he sweeps her feet out from beneath her and she's falling. Steve catches her shoulder to slow the descent, kneeling beside her as she gasps for breath. Her cheeks redden when she speaks, "You win! …Mercy," she grumbles. He lets up his grip on her and helps her from the ground. Behind them somebody begins a slow clap. Anne turns to face them with a dotty smile.
"Good to know the great Captain America can still take down a teenage girl," Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, jokes. So that must have been him in the rafters, Anne's grin widens at her small victory.
"Not just any teenage girl," the brunette laughs before striking a ridiculous pose, "the masked wonder Soul!"
When her father informed her that they were going away to New York on business she never thought the trip would become permanent.
Bruce Wayne steps into the prim hotel entrance hall situated in downtown Manhattan. Overhead golden chandeliers drip clear diamonds that reflect and scatter their light. His black business shoes make soft noises against the polished marble tile. The main lobby is busy and small crowds move in and out of the elevators. He gives his level number to the elevator conductor with a tight smile—"Fifty, please"—And shuffles his way to the front of the group when they reach his floor. His eyes slide over the room numbers until he catches 5021. He slides his card into the slot and opens the door easily when it grants him admittance. The door within connecting his room to that of 5023 is opened but he knocks on it lightly in fair warning anyways before he enters. They have always been a family that has appreciated privacy.
He opens the door wider and steps out from its shadow. Sitting on the bed with her legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles, her back propped up by two feather-down pillows is a blonde girl of average height. She folds the corner of the page on the novel she had previously been reading and shuts it, looking up at her father with faint annoyance over the fact that he interrupted her reading if nothing else. "Your meeting went longer than expected," she comments, not bothering to check the time on the digital clock sitting on the bedside table next to her. Perhaps there was something else.
He smiles, laughing a bit, "You know how these business types are," He answers, loosening his tie a fraction. It's a light blue color with an almost dismissible pattern of dark blue pinstripes running down its length, one she purchased for him as a gift on his birthday just last year.
"Yes," she agrees, her lips turning up in a catlike smirk, "I live with one."
"Come on," he motions toward the door with a nod of his head and a shrug of his shoulder, "lets get some lunch."
They're situated in a corner booth at the back of the restaurant on Bruce's insistence. The tables are dark polished wood and mainly empty at this time of day. There are a few men sitting quietly at the bar on the opposite side of the room drinking whatever beer they may have on tap. At one spot in the middle of the dining room a group has pushed together two tables to accommodate their number; they're most likely white-collar businessmen taking an early lunch break. Bruce takes his daughter's beige pea coat and hangs it on a hook next to their booth, doing the same with his own dark jacket. It isn't until their drinks come—two waters—that he speaks.
"The entire purpose of this trip to New York was so that Mister Stark and I could discuss becoming business partners," he gets straight to the point but the girl isn't really listening; she is fiddling with the paper wrapper from her straw. "Ellery," he catches the blonde's attention when he speaks her name; she turns her green eyes on him, "if I were to follow through with this partnership that would mean us moving to New York so that I could help oversee the processes."
It's not a suggestion, not a question. It's a statement.
No, she never thought this trip would become permanent, but it has.