I walk downstairs and the sweet aroma of Aunt Peggy's pancakes fills the air. Yes, I do live with her. Why? Both of my parents are dead.

My parents, Harrison and Amanda Carter, were wealthy Virginians. But what we didn't know was that we were being watched by the National Force. One night, my parents and my Uncle James had to go to a convention for Stark Industries in New York City with Mr. Howard Stark, so they left me with Aunt Peggy in her apartment only a few blocks away from Stark Towers.

I knew the convention would be broadcasted on the news so I turned on the TV, and by 12 pm, I fell asleep on the sofa. The next morning, the music from the breaking news part of the news came on.

"This just in," said the anchor woman who was on the scene, "There's been a car bombing on the corner of Broadway and 36th. Police say by the way the car exploded, it had to have been some kind of…" she stops and looks at the officer, "are you kidding me? This is a joke." The officer shakes his head no. "This bomb was from some kind of out-of-this-world substance!"

I ran to my aunt's side and hugged her as thirteen year old me said with tears springing into my eyes, "Auntie, we have to go there! Mom and dad didn't come home! That might be them! Please?"

She rubbed my back, "If it is… it's what God wanted. It's an unfortunate thing. But it's what He wanted."

Minutes go by. Suddenly, the anchorwoman said in shock as the entire New York, it seemed, went silent, "It seems," she stopped, "the victims were… Mr. and Mrs. Howard and Maria Stark, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison and Amanda Carter, and Mr. James Carter.

That's when I let go of my aunt, crying, and went on a rage. Glass shards everywhere. Knives in the wall. It was mayhem. My aunt tried calming me but it didn't work. Last I remember is falling into a deep sleep after my aunt drugged me. Since then, I've been living with Aunt Peggy since then and I've been seeing a because of that.

"Hi, Sharon," Aunt Peggy says sweetly as she sets down breakfast, "are you feeling better?"

"Slightly," I respond as we sit down at the kitchen table eating breakfast. "I've just been thinking."

"What were you thinking about, sweetie?"

I look down at the table. "I don't want to talk about it. It'll just bring back horrid memories…" Nothing more was said. I've stopped talking as much as I used to. There's nothing much to talk about.

My ringtone, "There's a Reason These Tables are Numbered, Honey, You Just Haven't Thought of it yet," by Panic! At the Disco, went off. It was Nick Fury.

"Agent 13," he said without a hello, "we need you. We have a meeting for all agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. Be here in 30 minutes or less."

"Will do, sir." I hang up. I set down my fork, take a sip of my drink, get up from my seat, kiss my aunt's cheek and walk out shouting, "S.H.I.E.L.D meeting. No, you cannot come. Love you!" She looks at me, smiles, and waves goodbye.

I walk outside out brick apartment on the corner of 24th and 26th street. Parked right in front of the door is my 1970's jet black Chevy convertible. I run and jump into the driver's seat… literally. I speed drive to the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, park, and walk inside.