A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry it's been so long, I just finished with my school's musical and life's been super crazy. And I apologize for how short this chapter is. But at least it's here, right? Enjoy! :D
"Now, before we start you doing anything particularly dangerous, you need to learn to control those firebolts of yours." Ovechkin says to me.
I snort. "And who's going to teach me? You?"
He laughs as though my suggestion is completely ridiculous. "Of course not, my dear." I cringe at the pet name. "I have no experience with controlling this kind of biological enhancement. You're going to have to figure this out on your own."
The booted feet on either side of me shove me into a room. I lose my balance and fall flat on my face, of course. My face burning with embarrassment, I rise to my feet and turn to what I hope is the right direction.
"That's why I've returned you to your little home. You have until sunset to take control." Then he's gone.
This man is so frustrating! I feel like screaming at him, using all the swear words I know to tell him what I really think. But I know I can't. So I bite my tongue to keep it all inside. But the anger doesn't go away. I'm not sure it ever will now.
Then an idea comes to me. I can channel that anger, use it to become more powerful. And maybe, one day, I will be powerful enough to stand up to him, to kill him, to end his reign of terror, and still save Pietro and Wanda. But for now I am weak. So I must become strong.
: :
I sit cross-legged on the concrete floor and hold my hand out in front of me, palm up. I reach inside myself for the electricity which has become so closely bound with the anger and summon it. It crackles and snaps, flowing through my veins, down my arm, to my fingertips. I hold it there, forcing it to build up in the hollow of my hand. It takes all my fierce concentration to keep it tied to me for even the few moments I manage.
Then it explodes, throwing me back into the wall. Like it has every time I've tried today. I let out a strangled scream of frustration and pound my fist into the concrete wall, over and over again. My knuckles are bruised and bleeding by the time I'm done. It doesn't matter, though, because they already were. I know I have to succeed, but I'm running out of time. How does Ovechkin expect me to do this?
I can feel the electricity sparking at my fingertips again, called up by my frustration. I still can't keep it down. I try to take deep breaths, to bring it back inside me, but it refuses. Then another idea occurs to me. Ovechkin wants to use this as a weapon, right? So the only way to keep him happy is to make it one. So instead of turning my palms inward to limit the lightning, I turn them outward and call up even more, blasting it at the wall. The electricity surges through me, even stronger than when I'd killed the man. I feel it crackling in the air even after it's all gone out of me. I rise to my feet and carefully make my way over to the wall I'd hit.
My fingers explore the damage, and I feel a smile slip over my face at the power I hold. I am not weak. Not anymore. And I know Ovechkin is pleased with my progress, too, because in moments, he enters my little cell and says, "That's enough for now."
I have triumphed.
: :
That night, I finally sleep. For the first time in what must be a week, I actually sleep. Now, it only lasts for a few hours before I start having nightmares, but it's something. Because when I wake up, I feel like I can handle this. I feel in control. And that's in short supply these days. And, of course, it doesn't last very long, either.
"Now that you've figured yourself out, we're going to start on your real training." I'm already wide awake when he barges into my cell.
By now I'm used to his abrupt manner of ordering me around, so I just stand and let his booted feet grab my arms and lead me out. Resistance won't get me anywhere. We walk into another room and I hear the door slide shut behind us. The men release me and move away, but Ovechkin comes in close.
"For what I need you to do," he said in my ear. "You'll need to know how to fight."
I know how to fight, I think. They taught us that during the trials. You were there, remember? But I purse my lips tightly to keep these things from escaping. I've made silence a sort of defiance, almost revenge, for him taking everything from me. He can force me to do what he wants, chop all my hair off, keep me from my friends, but he won't make me talk.
He forms my hand into a fist with his, so close now I can feel his breath on my cheek, his heat against my back. I fight the urge to shrink away. But there is no escaping this man. So I let him guide me through all the basic punches that have become second nature to me over not just the trial period, but my entire life. In a tough world of kill or be killed, you have to know how to fight.
He realizes that I know what I'm doing after a few minutes, takes a step away from me and says, "You're not new to this."
No, duh, genius, I think, inwardly rolling my eyes.
My thoughts must show on my face, because I can hear the smirk in his voice with these next words: "Then show me what you can do. Fight Zolnerowich over here."
No problem. I roll my shoulders and take a stance, suddenly realizing I have no idea if I'm facing the right direction. I have no idea where he is. Oh, well. No backing out now. I try listening extra hard, but he's practically on top of me before I hear a slight rustle of fabric signaling his arrival. I get a fist in the stomach for being too slow. I double over, coughing. It reminds me far too much of when I was a child, before I learned to fight, and the bigger kids would push me around. I don't like being reminded of that time. So I force myself to straighten, wincing at the coil of pain centered over my belly button.
"Again?" Zolnerowich's voice is mocking. That stiffens my resolve even more. I have to prove I can do this. I nod, taking my stance again. This time, I'm a little quicker. I manage to bring my arm up to block his blow, but then he twists it around behind my back and throws me to the concrete floor. I struggle, but know he's gotten the best of me. I nod, acknowledging his victory, and he lets me up. We take our stances again. I almost sense him swinging his fist at my face and duck, rolling to get away from him. I come up into a crouch, hear him stumble at the lack of resistance, and then his boots thudding on the concrete towards me. Using my arms to support me, I lash out with my leg at his feet. I hit them solidly and bring him crashing down. Right on top of me.
I hear Ovechkin's derisive laugh. I will show him. Both of them. He tries to grab me, but I'm too quick. I writhe away from him, desperate to keep him from getting me. As I army crawl across the floor, my heel flies up and catches Zolnerowich in the chin. He grunts in pain and slumps to the floor.
Slowly, I stand, uncertain if Zolnerowich is unconscious or just injured. After listening for a few moments to his heavy breathing, I realize I've beaten him. This is further confirmed by Ovechkin's next words.
"Well done." He says, slowly clapping. "I didn't think you could do it."
My jaw clenches. How many times had I heard those exact words sneered at me. Men don't think women can do anything. Then a surge of pride hits me as I realize that I've shown Ovechkin that I'm not useless, not even blind. I raise my chin, hoping I look defiant. Hoping I'm actually looking in his direction.
"But it's not good enough." His voice is sharp, and my pride deflates like he's stuck a pin into it, leaving only my stone-hard bitterness. "I can't send you to do anything like that. You only beat Zolnerowich through luck." I hate the fact that what he says is true. "I need you to be better than that."
I nearly snap at him, but I remind myself just in time that I'm not talking to him. Even so, I can be better. I just have to figure out how to fight without my eyes. I've done harder things. This couldn't be too bad, could it?
A/N: There it is! Please R&R, I love getting reviews! Hope to be updating soon!