A/N: It's finally here! Chapter 2! Sorry it's so short, I just kind of hit a spot where it worked well to stop. But at least it's written, right? :D


I don't expect to wake up. I don't want to wake up. Because if I don't wake up, if I'm dead, he would have lost. He would be cheated of his triumph. But I do. I slowly shift into consciousness, the pain resurfacing. But it's duller now. I can take it. I've always been good at swallowing pain.

My eyes hesitantly open. I'm sure they do. I feel them blinking, my eyelashes against my cheeks. But I can't see anything. It's all still dark. Panic grips me, my chest tightening. My breath comes faster and faster, and my hands grope around for something, anything, to hold on to. It can't be. I reach my fingers up to my face, praying for there to be a blindfold covering my eyes, just something to explain why I can't see. They feel all over my face, but there's nothing. Just the regular features. I rub my eyes hard, wondering if there's something in them. But it does nothing. I'm blind. Panic grips me afresh, and I start sobbing uncontrollably, desperation erasing any shame I might have felt.

Booted feet, as if summoned by my tears, enter the room, grab my arms, and hold me down, even as I struggle. I'm desperate now, and as the fear rises, electricity crackles along my skin. I hear several of them gasp in surprise, but they don't let go. A hand shifts, and a needle sinks into my forearm. Blessed oblivion takes me once more.

: :

I'm calmer the next time I wake because I already know I won't be able to see anything. So instead, I feel. My fingers grope all around me, and I find myself lying on a more or less smooth concrete floor. I can't feel any walls, so I slowly sit up, raising a hand above my head to ensure I don't smack it on anything. Finding nothing, I straighten, then unsteadily make my way to my feet. I feel weak. I'm not sure if it's because of the operation or the drugs they've been pumping into me at every opportunity. Probably both. Carefully feeling ahead with my toes, I take my first step in this new environment.

With a few more, I find the first wall. It's concrete, my fingers tell me, just like the floor. I follow along it, my steps tentative and hesitant. It leads me to a corner. I turn, keeping my hand pressed to the wall. I find two more corners, then a glass wall. At least I assume it's glass. It's smoother than the rest of my tiny cell. Suddenly I feel exposed, realizing that anyone could be on the other side of that glass, watching me, and I'd have no idea they were there. Panic rises again, and I try to fight it down, knowing it'll only get me drugged up again. But it's persistent. I back against one of the safe, concrete walls, trembling, electricity sparking up. My breath keeps coming faster and faster, but I'm not crying. At least not yet.

But even this brings those booted feet thudding toward me. The glass pane slides open, and more hands grab me. I lash out, feel my hand smack into someone, feel them give beneath my blow, feel the electricity coursing through me. They won't send me back this time. All of the other hands suddenly release me, and I fall against the wall. Their boots scuffle around their fallen comrade.

They start whispering. I can't catch all of it, but I distinctly hear a few words like "dead" and "killed." Confusion swirls through my head. I can't have killed him. All I did was hit him. Then I remember the feeling of all that power, all that energy coursing through me. I barely hear them dragging the man's body out of my cell. Disbelief and horror drown it all out. I'm a murderer. I can't control it. I'm dangerous.

: :

I stay huddled in the corner, as far from the glass wall as possible. And they leave me alone. For a few days, at least. And I'm grateful. Even though they put food and water in my cell with me, they don't try to force me to eat it. Some part of me hopes that they'll just let me die in here alone, before I hurt anyone else. Maybe if I die, he'll leave Pietro and Wanda alone. But I know he wouldn't. He'd just go after them and force them to help him.

But even knowing this, I can't make myself get up. I can't make myself tell him to go ahead with whatever awful things he has planned. I just sit there in the corner, my mind taking me to Before. Before the experiment. Before Ovechkin. Before the darkness. I lose myself in my memories, remembering Pietro and Wanda, the only two bright spots in my life. I relive all the best moments of our friendship. It's the only way to dull the pain.

This doesn't last for long, though. I can't be sure how many days it takes, but eventually, Ovechkin himself comes to visit me. At first, I don't care. I'm far too weakened by hunger and drugs and pain. But then he grabs me by the throat, forces my head up. I can't see him, but I can imagine the cold expression on his face. He's angry with me for giving up like this. He thought I'd fight harder. And I would have. Before. But this is not Before. So I give up. Except he won't let me.

"Look, Korzhakov." He spits into my face. "I chose you because I thought you could handle this. You seemed stronger than the others. Every second you spend in this corner is proving me wrong. And I don't like being wrong. Sometimes I get so angry when I'm wrong that I kill people. Be careful, Korzhakov. Don't get on my bad side." He releases me and I slump back against the wall. As he thuds away in his boots, he tells me, "If you want to keep your friends alive, you'll be ready to start your training tomorrow morning. If not, you can rot in your little corner for all I care." Then he's gone. And I'm out of time.

So the next morning, when the booted feet thunder into my cell, I don't say anything, don't protest. I just stand and let them take me away. They lead me through a twisting labyrinth of tunnels, which probably isn't that confusing, but since I'm blind, it's pretty easy to lose my sense of direction. I'm forced to a halt suddenly, and I can tell that Ovechkin is there.

"One good thing about you being blind," he said from a few feet away. "I don't have to blindfold you to keep you from discovering your secrets." His voice was smug.

I want to ask him if he's been thinking on that one since yesterday, but I keep my mouth shut and my seething fury behind a mask of indifference. Instead, I asked, "What am I doing here?"

"I'm glad you asked." He replied. "To start out, you're going to get a haircut. We can't have that long hair of yours getting in your way." With this, he fingers a lock of it. I can feel his breath on my ear. So I jerk away, disgusted, but the man on my left holds me in place. And I realize what this is really about. It's not a matter of efficiency or practicality. This is all just to show me how powerless I am, that I can't even decide when I cut my hair. He's asserting his dominance. As if he hasn't done that enough already.

Obediently, I allow them to seat me in a hard little chair and shave all my fiery red hair off. Through it all, I keep telling myself that it doesn't really matter, that it's just hair. But all I can hear in my head is Pietro telling me how beautiful my hair is. He said so the first time we met. I was putting it into a ponytail to get it out of the way for the first set of trials. But it didn't want to do what I told it and I got frustrated. I said that I was going to chop it all off someday, and Pietro, who I didn't even know at the time, said that would be a shame because it was so beautiful. He said it with that little smirk of his that I had later grown to love. I can still see his face in my head. And even though I know I'll never see it again, it still brings me a small measure of comfort. It gets me through the feeling that a big part of me is falling to the floor, dead, along with all of my hair.

When it's finally over, I rise. I don't touch the stubble left on my head, don't acknowledge what he's done at all, I just stand there, waiting for someone to lead me away. I hate my dependence on others now. I hate the blindness. It feels like something is just in front of my eyes, blocking my vision, and that it will be removed any moment, but it never is. It's horribly infuriating. The booted feet grab my arms and steer me out of the room. I hear Ovechkin's steps preceding us.

"It's time to start your training." He says. "Though I'm not sure what I'll be able to do with you since you're blind. Ah well, we'll figure it out."

I don't reply. He doesn't deserve that much. He's ruined my life, and he knows it. He revels in it.

I hate him.


A/N: There it is, folks! Hope you enjoyed! Please remember to leave me a review, I NEED feedback!