A/N: Still searching for a Beta. I've revised this as best I can on my own, but it's hard for me to look at this objectively, as I'm the one writing it. I really value the second opinion.

Okay, I've rambled enough! Enjoy!

Miriam's morning started early; they always did. She relished the relative quiet that came with the early morning hours. New York, of course, was never completely silent, yet there were corners, small little pockets, where, if you were careful, you could find something resembling silence. It was in one of these pockets that the man reappeared.

Miriam was sitting on a dumpster, the lid clamped tightly shut beneath her, perusing the daily paper, when she heard the telltale tap, tap, tap of footsteps. She was no idiot– she knew what happened to small girls in alleys when there was no one around. But, this was, of course, an alley, with only one exit, so she held her ground. She didn't get up. She didn't try to flee. Perhaps whoever it was would pass her by. Maybe she was overreacting.

The footsteps turned down the alley, as if they were searching for her.

Miriam reached into her back pocket, feeling for her pepper spray.

The body belonging to the footsteps emerged from around the corner, slowly and hesitantly, hands raised in the universal gesture of peace.

It took Miriam exactly two seconds to place the face– she'd beaten it nearly to a pulp. "Back for more?" she called, her casual demeanor resumed. She nonchalantly folded her paper into fourths and tucked it away.

"No," the man replied, cautiously approaching her dumpster, "I'm here about a job." He was in what looked to be the same suit– though Miriam knew it couldn't be, as she'd torn it to threads– that he'd worn the first time they'd met.

"Yeah?" Miriam snorted dismissively. "Good luck findin' one around here."

The man relaxed his arms a bit, lowering them from over his head, while still keeping them visible to the girl perched on the dumpster. "Not for me," he said, his accent thick and foreign, "I have a job for you."

"I've got a job," Miriam informed him, sliding down to the ground. Drug deals weren't her thing.

"Not like this one," the man assured her.

"Thanks," she said sarcastically, brushing roughly past him, "but no cigar."

"Look at this," the man pleaded, pulling a file from his brief case, "You will like it."

Miriam almost laughed. Almost. "And what makes you think that?"

"Your profile," the man answered, before sucking in a breath. He realized his mistake.

"My profile?" Miriam repeated dubiously, "What are you, some sort of copper?"

"No," the man replied, his hands in the air once more, "No, nothing of the sort–"

But Miriam had heard enough. She spun around and grabbed the poor man by the lapels of his suit, shoving him up against the alley wall. "Explain," she demanded through clenched teeth, "Explain or I'll give you another dose of what you deserve, assault charges or not."

"I am sorry," the man said instead.

Miriam opened her mouth to demand an explanation once more, when she felt a sharp twinge in her side. When she looked down, she was just in time to see the man's hand slip a vile back into his pocket. "What did you do to me?" she gasped, falling away from him, as her legs began to go numb. "Is this– is this some sort of drug?"

"It is a drug, I suppose, by definition," the man allowed, carefully brushing the dust off his shoulders, "And I am sorry, but I'm afraid the situation required it."

"What– situation?" Miriam spit, her hand pressed into her side, as it that would stop the drug from spreading. Too quickly, though, she lost feeling in her legs and fell to the ground, rather unceremoniously.

"Ours," the man responded cryptically.

Miriam didn't reply– she couldn't. The drug, whatever it was, had spread into her arms, leaving them as dead weights hanging from her sides. Her torso slumped against the alley wall, head twisted at an unnatural angle. It would've been painful for her, if she could feel it, but Miriam was already unconscious.

"I am sorry," the man muttered once more, as he dragged her limp body to the waiting van.

-l-l-l-l-l-

When she was a young girl, Miriam Yager had learnt to fight. She had learned to fight dirty. She had learnt all the tricks of the trade. One of her favorites, arguably her signature, was the way in which she regained consciousness after a KO. Miriam Yager didn't groan or moan. She didn't twitch her fingers or roll over. She didn't move at all. She stayed still as a stone until she was fully conscious and ready for action.

And even then, all those years later, Miriam Yager stayed still. She took in her surroundings as best she could, despite her lack of vision and movement. Her hands were tied– tightly, behind her. She was sitting in a chair, straight against it. Her feet were tied as well, to the legs of the chair. Interestingly, there wasn't a gag in her mouth.

Her head was lolled forward, hair flowing around her, giving her enough cover to peek out through her eyelashes. There was a metal table in front of her. Across this table was the man from the alley, still in the same jet black suit, though now he wore a lab coat and his hair was freshly combed.

All at once, Miriam Yager yanked against her bonds, as hard as she could. Her chair wobbled, but didn't fall. Her bonds cut into her wrists and ankles, but didn't snap.

She lifted her head slowly, glaring at the man across from her. "Where am I?" she demanded.

"Safe," the man assured her.

Miriam scoffed. "Sure. And I'm a tutu-wearing chipmunk."

The man shrugged. "If you'd like a tutu…"

Miriam spat at him.

He recoiled slightly, unused to this sort of behavior. "You are in a research facility. That is all you need to know."

Miriam gestured to her surroundings with her head. "I disagree."

"Very well." The man leaned forward on his hands, folding them under his chin. "You have been recruited. You will accept the job… and you will fulfill the job."

To this, Miriam made a two word reply, in which she encouraged himself to have sexual relations with himself.

The man didn't react. He simply stood and moved around the table to loom over her. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he slipped the vile back out.

This time, though, the darkness came quickly and silently, without a second for her to panic. Perhaps, he was trying to be kind.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam Yager never did understand just exactly what happened to her in that facility. She never knew exactly who the people there were, nor did she understand why they had done the things they did to her. Her memories of the place were scarce and hazy at best. When asked of her time spent there, she would shut down and refuse to speak.

She was kept unconscious, most of the time, but she would occasionally fight her way into consciousness. When she did, she was only ever greeted by pain. There were always tubes connected to her, machines beeping, and people shouting numbers at each other. Within seconds of regaining herself, Miriam would be given more of the sedative and would return to the darkness.

Over time, she grew to embrace the darkness. It was much more pleasant than the alternative. However, as the time wore on, her time in the darkness became less and less, and her time in the pain became more. That was how she came to differentiate between what she would later think of as the Two Stages– Stage One was when her time was spent in the darkness, in relative calm. Stage Two was when she spent her time in pain and suffering. If there was ever a sound that she affiliated with Stage Two, it was her own screams.

Her days were an endless repeat of each other; screaming, darkness, more screaming, then darkness. Occasionally, if she was in dire need of a difference in schedule, her itinerary could be altered to screaming, darkness, and extended period of screaming, and less darkness.

One day, though, her schedule took a drastic change. She actually woke up. She didn't wake up to her own screams– she woke up, strapped to a medical table, without any tubes or machinery strapped to her. Her body was her own. She could hear people milling around her, whispering to each other. She could hear everything they said. She could feel the table beneath her– every fiber of it. She could taste the chemicals in the air on her tongue. She could smell the sweat of the bodies around her and somewhere– in the far corner of the room– a wilted, dying flower. She couldn't see, though– her eyes were still closed.

She felt strong.

The restraints around her wrists and ankles were a thick leather; more than enough to hold the average weight lifter. But she was no longer just an average girl. She pulled her wrists away from the table first, leather and all. Her ankles were no harder.

Around her, the people in lab coats shrieked in terror and fled to the doors. Three men, two of which were in a black security guard's uniform, made their way cautiously toward her, guns drawn.

"We don't want to hurt you," one of them told her soothingly.

Miriam ignored him and marveled at the control she had over her body. Besides, his gun contradicted his statement too sharply for her to take him seriously.

Miriam hadn't the faintest idea as to how she'd done what she'd done, but as it occurred to her that these people were afraid of her, she realized she had the upper hand. She fled from the men. She ran through the facility until she reached a window. Miriam didn't slow down as she burst through the window. She hit the ground running.

Pedestrians on the street gave her odd looks, and they had every right to. She'd just jumped out a window, wearing a hospital gown that did absolutely nothing to cover her rear. So they stared and Miriam ran.

Miriam didn't know how long she ran or how far she ran. She didn't stop until she had left the lights of New York City far, far behind.

And when she finally stopped, she didn't feel tired.