Chapter 1
"Well, well, what have we got here, boys?"
She tried to ignore the group of men as she passed by them. She hated walking home this way, but it was faster than waiting for the bus, or taking a 'safer route,' as her parents said. She almost laughed at the thought. There were no safe routes in Brixton. There were only dangerous streets and slightly more dangerous alleyways. She adjusted her bag across her shoulders, glad that she carried a messenger bag. They were easier to carry if one had to run.
"Aw…c'mon, love, don't be like that." They were following her now. She could feel their eyes on her back like daggers. She sped up a bit, hoping that being ignored would bore them and they would leave her alone. She could never get so lucky. A rough hand jerked on the strap of her bag, pulling her backwards. She fought to regain her footing as two of the men grabbed her arms and pushed her up against a wall. Her heart beat loudly against her ribcage, and she was sure that her assailants could hear it. She did her best to school her face, to keep the fear and panic out of her eyes. Nothing good ever came from her being afraid.
"Whotcha running from, love?" The pungent smell of beer and body odor filled her nostrils. She pushed down the urge to gag, choosing instead to keep her mouth shut. She stared at the man, committing him to memory just in case the police got involved. He was burly and stout, with thick, greasy blonde hair. His eyes were too close together, and his nose bent at an odd angle, as though it had been broken several times. His teeth were crocked, chipped and yellowed.
"Looks like we got ourselves a quiet one, boys." He sneered. "That's too bad. I do love it when they scream."
The light of the street lamps gleamed off of the blade of a knife as he pulled it out of his waistband. She closed her eyes as he pressed the flat of it against her cheek, the coolness making her feel ill. He slid the blade down her cheek and along her jaw, before pressing the edge against her throat. Her body shook with the effort it took to remain calm. The tenuous grip she held on her composure was slipping and she could feel the cold seeping deep into her, beyond her bones and into her very core. She knew what was coming; she could feel the darker side of herself taking over.
The moment she felt the knife begin to cut through the fabric of her top, she knew it was too late. She smirked as she opened her eyes, the shadows making them almost black. She cocked her head to the side.
"You should stop while you can." Her voice was soft, too soft. It echoed through the alleyway as though she had yelled, yet it never rose above a whisper. The man laughed as he sliced a button off of her grey Oxford shirt.
"You're hardly in any position to be making demands, love."
"I'm not your love." She flashed a feral smile as both men holding her fell to the ground, their lifeless eyes glassy in the dim light of the street lamps. The man swallowed harshly. She didn't move, though she felt like running as far and as fast as her legs would carry her. She spared a glance to the men at her feet. They could only blame themselves for their deaths. She looked at the man with the knife.
"W-what the hell did you do to them?" He yelled, backing away from her, holding the knife out as though it could really offer him some form of protection from the woman in front of him.
"I killed them." Her voice was still much too soft, and the lighter side of her hated the way it sounded. It made her sound cold and harsh. She took as step towards him, her heels clicking against the pavement. Faster than he could have thought possible, she lunged at him, knocking the knife from his hand and sending it skidding into a gutter. Her long, thin fingers locked around his neck as she forced him against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. "I told you to stop, but you didn't listen. You laughed." She trailed off, talking more to herself than to him. "Why do they always laugh?"
He clawed at her fingers, but she paid it no mind. She was focused, the world around her gone. The only thing that mattered was survival, and she'd be damned if she let some drunken street-thug threaten hers. Her midnight eyes locked with his dull hazel orbs and she 's when she heard it, over the pulsing of her heart and the howl of the wind in her ears.
The sound of tires on wet pavement. She glanced up, her hand never loosening its iron grip on the man's throat. A van had stopped at the end of the street, blocking the alleyway off from the rest of the world. She looked back at him, reaching out and brushing against his soul. She wanted to watch the light leave his eyes, wanted to watch as he crumpled to the ground like a discarded ragdoll. She wanted to, but she wouldn't. She closed her eyes, her hands falling to her sides.
"Go."
The man was petrified. She was pretty sure he had soiled himself at some point, but it was irrelevant.
"GO!"
He scrambled off down the alley, tripping over his own feet and clipping his shoulder on the edge of a fence. She stood still for a moment, catching her breath and calming her heart rate. Without thinking, she turned and bolted towards the opposite end of the alleyway. She rounded the corner only to be met with a group of severe-looking men and women, dressed in matching black uniforms with matching black guns. She skidded to a halt before doubling back. If she could just get across the street, she could make it home. More uniforms and more guns. She was surrounded. She had nowhere else to run.
Defeated, she held up her hands and leant against the side of a building. Her breath was ragged and her throat felt tight. Despite her best efforts, she had lost control of herself. She had killed two people and would have killed a third. What would they do to her? Lock her up? Cart her off to be tested? She sank to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest as she fought to take in a breath. What about her parents? What about her job? Tears blurred her vision as her mind ran through every possible scenario it could conjure. None of them were good.
A warm hand fell on her shoulder, causing her to jump and emit a small squeaking sound. She looked up at the man, her ice blue eyes wide.
"You should calm down, before you hyperventilate." His tone was kind, but neutral. Everything about the man screamed of calm and professionalism. She nodded. He wasn't going to hurt her. She hoped he wasn't, at least.
"Better?"
She nodded again, sandy blonde bangs falling over her eyes. He offered a hand and helped her to her feet.
"You have nothing to fear, Miss Aberdeen. We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help you."
"Help me? H-how do you know my name? Who are you?" She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to physically hold herself together.
"I'm Agent Coulson. I represent the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. You can call us S.H.I.E.L.D." His words made no sense to her. He was American. What was an American agency doing, armed, in the back streets of Brixton?
"You didn't answer my question. How do you know who I am?"
He smiled, looking around the alleyway before meeting her eyes again. "We know everything about you, Miss."
"Why? What's so special about me?"
He glanced at the bodies of the men she had killed without even lifting a hand. "Something tells me you already know the answer to that question, ma'am."
She looked down, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. So, they knew about her abilities. That frightened her more than the fact that they knew her name. She blinked back her tears again and tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, for starters, we're going to get you cleaned up and calmed down. Then we'll figure out where to go from there." He said over his shoulder as he climbed into the back of the black van. He looked at her, waiting for her to make her move. If she ran, they would shoot her, or Taser her. Either way, it wasn't preferable. She quickly walked towards him, taking his offered hand and pulling herself in behind him. She took the only empty seat, directly to his left.
She jumped again as the doors were slammed shut and the engine was started. She didn't know what to think. Her mind refused to focus on any one aspect of what had happened in the past twenty minutes making it hard to make sense of any of it. Five minutes into the drive she looked up.
"You still didn't answer my question, Agent Coulson." She twirled a strand of her long sandy hair between her fingers. It was a nervous habit that had stuck with her since childhood. "How do you know who I am? What I can do?"
He was silent for a moment. It seemed as though he was trying to find exactly the right words to say whatever he needed to say. He looked at her, a guilty look in his eyes and sad smile on his lips.
"Honestly…"He paused. It looked as though it caused him pain to talk about it. "We know because we made you, Fynleigh. S.H.I.E.L.D. created you. We just didn't know you would turn out so…perfectly."
-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-
Author's Notes
First off, I want to thank you all for reading. This is my first Marvel work. I hope you all have enjoyed it thus far. I am hoping to update once a week (sometimes twice a week, depending on the length of the chapters). I do have a few chapters ready for posting, but I'm going to hold to my once-a-week plan for the moment, just to give myself some wiggle room to write and edit. I do work full-time, and attend university full-time, so if I'm a little late on updating once in a while, I apologize in advance. Life gets in the way of things from time to time and I ask that you all be understanding and bear with me.
Also, I would like to thank everyone that has taken the time to read over everything before I post it. Jesse, Carrie, and Ryan: thank you all so much. I love you all (albeit in VERY different ways).
For anyone that may be wondering, her name is pronounced as Fin-lee. It is of Gaelic origin and it means 'Fair-haired Warrior.' Her middle name (which hasn't been used yet) is Mara. It is of Hebrew origin and means 'bitter,' though the Swedish meaning of 'nightmare' and the Sanskrit meaning of 'death' could be equally as applicable in regards to their relation to who/what she is.
Required Disclaimer
I own nothing save for the plot and Fynleigh. Everything you recognize belongs to Marvel and the amazing Stan Lee. I'm making no money off of this, as nice as that would be.
As always, please review and let me know what you think. All reviews are welcome, good and bad. You've already taken a few minutes to read the chapter, please take just a few more and leave a bit of feedback. I won't continue with it if I don't feel that anyone I enjoying it. Thank you.