Chapter Six


Strings of red yarn limply traced the contours of her angular cheekbones where luscious waves of stylized auburn once framed plump curves. Empty sockets haphazardly and hastily filled by glass marbles bore unfocused into the reflective panes, begging the question: do you see more or less that way? Twin lines settled heavily over the hollow orbs, cinching together, transforming the dull bust into a negative photograph. A nondescript blunt triangle of semi-firm flesh sat down between and below the marbles; a smattering of dust was all that remained of the one-time impressive collection of captive constellations summoned forth by hours in the sunlight. A shallow channel led down to tightly pinched hinges, cracked and rusty, paint peeling away to leave them discolored and sensitive to the elements. Then dropping off the face of the earth, a subtle dip, providing a place for desperate sailors to scrabble at if they failed to grasp a handful of that yarn, choppy and uneven like the ocean in turmoil.

Lian tugged on the lackluster strands, and her moue nearly fogged up the bathroom mirror. Frail hands were raised to inspection; she cast them down to clutch the sink when they too failed to meet her criteria. What had happened to her? How could she have deteriorated in such a manner unchecked? She'd maintained a healthy weight prior to her coma; why was she skinny now where she hadn't been since high school? And the scars-

She disregarded the old ones, fingertips skipping over the pattern of slices to reach the fresh white marks adorning her already pale skin. Her furrowed brows pinched tighter together. Dismayed, she begrudgingly made the mental admittance that she seemed to have lost the tan she'd fought so desperately to attain in Malibu. Pepper would be disappointed. They'd faced the peril of being burned together, to Tony's amusement, but by the end of the summer they'd come out victorious. At least the old wounds weren't so visible with no pigment to contrast. These new ones, however . . . Were they knife wounds? Jagged seams sealed her stomach; clearly a massive injury healed by an untalented hand, the stitches must have been efficient but horrible. How could she . . . How could she not remember such pain? Where was this lost time where she acquired so many marks of what looked like war? Had someone taken to hacking at her comatose body? Why hadn't she awoken when that had been happening? More than ever, she didn't trust the doctors that had been tending to her.

This was too bizarre to fathom, so naturally her brain offered a substitute for her to focus on rather than the patchwork quilt her body had become.

"Don't be so surprised," scoffed her own voice. Except Lian hadn't spoken. She clapped her hand over her mouth, watching in horror as her reflection's lips kept moving of its own volition.

"H-how?" she stuttered.

Her reflection sneered, "Oh, please, like this is anything new. Don't collapse, darling; we wouldn't want to have to call those nasty doctors back here to hook us up to more machines."

"Us?" Lian managed, stumbling away from the mirror to press against the wall. "There is no us. This is a trick. A-a mind game, an illusion, my own head playing games. I'm dreaming."

The Lian depicted in the mirror smirked. "I'm afraid this is no dream, though I can assure you I am your worst nightmare." When the real Lian failed to muster a response, the negative image slammed a fist against the glass, spiderwebbing it on both sides. The distorted visage tipped back her head and cackled. When finished, she faced forward once more, locks of hair matted with blood obscuring an eye. The one eye Lian could see frightened her enough that its match was unnecessary; the cold fury, the blue flame, reflected in the swimming jade iris terrified her. She'd never seen such raw, pure rage before; her gut clenched at the apt description. It was pure. No insanity tainted that ferocity. If this was supposed to be a reflection of Lian . . .

"Don't you understand now?" implored the girl. Lian couldn't bring herself to think of the mirror's monster as a version of herself, no matter how hauntingly familiar the delusion appeared. The hallucination continued, "I am you. I am the you that they have locked away, hidden in a locked box to which they've thrown away the key. Only it's not so airtight as they believed, is it? You know it's true. You know I'm you. The worst of you, the strongest parts of you. The part that should be in control. Instead we've created a weakling like you to temporarily take the reins. You're the one who isn't real, Lian. You're a pathetic imitation of me when I was still innocent, despite the death I faced. I have witnessed bloodshed and emerged reborn from the fire of fortitude. I am that which you refuse to recall. I am who we had to be to survive. Accept that, or this time we will descend into madness, and you'll become more twisted than me."

Inexplicably empowered, Lian surged forward to meet the threat presented by the supposed shade of herself. "No," spat Lian, "you are the weak one, if you have succumbed to such anger. I would never have done that. You are a figment. You are not real."

"What's not real?"

The illusion shattered, the glittering malicious fragments raining down around Lian until the dizziness threatening to overwhelm her forced her to close her eyes. When she opened them, she once more met with her reflection, docile this time. Dubiously she leaned closer to inspect it, her gut clenching when she grimly conceded that the cracking of the glass had also been envisioned. Although her parry to the shade's words had apparently been truly vocalized, the exchange appeared to be a mirage, and a cunning one at that. Was it possible the hallucination was the effect of a medication? Could someone here oriented in mind games be playing an elaborate scheme on her?

Lian wrapped her arms around herself. As soon as possible she needed to consult her father's old psychological texts and erect a mental wall between whatever transpired in her coma, whatever demons burrowed into her soul, and now, this hopefully extensive respite. She doubted it would be permanent, especially after this most recent episode simply surveying herself in the mirror.

Lian's gaze shifted to the expectant face hovering above her reflection's shoulder. She summoned a soft smile for Wanda, the assumed identity of her mysterious benefactor. She'd awoken early that morning shortly after dawn, her biological clock still unaccustomed to the time change, though that once again may have been more a consequence of her coma. A set of clean clothes awaited her, along with toiletries and a large fluffy towel. Lian had immediately taken advantage of these gifts, unsure if such priveleges were doomed to be revoked soon but intent on utilizing them while available. Wanda was about two inches taller than her, and she possessed curves Lian no longer did. It would make sense if the clothes were on loan from the other woman, seeing how they were a bit baggy and fell flat like a sheet where they were designed to cling. Lian tilted her head. Yes, they were most likely from Wanda.

"Thank you for the clothes," she said hoarsely. Her hand scratched at her throat; it must have been raw from her screaming match with her imagination.

Wanda shrugged. "It was the least I could do; you have no need to thank me. I see they suffice for now, until you regain lost mass or we find you new outfit." Lian's contemporary covered her mouth, cheeks staining delicately. "I apologize if my English is lacking; I've been practicing in my native tongue with Clint all morning, and sometimes that makes the translation difficult."

"I understand. Speaking Swedish with my mother's family always had that effect afterward," empathized Lian. She plucked at her sleeve, turning fully now to avoid glimpsing her perturbing reflection, lest the delusion creep back up on her. She would be sure to smash it for sure later or cover it with a blanket. Perhaps both would be necessary.

Wanda shifted footing. "Are you having a rough morning? I thought I heard you yelling that someone was not real when I came in," the twin tentatively broached.

Lian mastered the wavering in her voice, though the sudden rigidity of her spine was sure to give away the lie. "I had a nightmare. I dozed off while sitting on the toilet. The doctors warned me I might experience narcolepsy."

Arched eyebrows followed this deception, though her tentative new friend didn't remark upon Lian's lack of transparency this morning. Lian appreciated the show of faith; she preferred to interpret it as such, eager to cultivate some form of pleasant companionship in this facility barren of camaraderie. In a desert where scowls replaced the sand and humor fell as often as rain, receiving a smile was like finding a flask of self-replenishing water. Also like a desert, temperatures dropped drastically as night fell, a cold exterior sliding smoothly into place, and those treasured smiles vanished like the heat in the face of accomplishing the day's tasks and business.

"Your appetite should be intact, so we'll be eating breakfast in the cafeteria. It'll give you a chance to see more of the residential wing other than the lounge and our quarters. This is just a standard dorm here; I'm sure when they determine the longevity of your stay they'll assign you permanent quarters, as I have, and as do the rest of the members of the team. After that, you will be visiting an army of doctors, and as I understand it, being tortured by a celebrated partnership of a physicist and psychiatrist? Their renown in interrogation techniques is extensive and frighteningly impressive. I wish you luck in advance." Wanda offered a sympathetic smile just a tad too saccharine to be totally sincere; it was the facetious malevolence of a friend mock-delighting in another's troubles, and the familiarity warmed the chill in Lian's bones even as her shoulders slumped at the impending monsoon of medical professionals and specialists. In her more pronounced accent, the twin added, "If my presence is not required elsewhere, I will try to maybe catch dinner with you afterward?"

"Sounds good," agreed Lian, bracing herself for the coming trials and praying for strength, though she somehow doubted anyone was listening.


"So, when I do get to contact my family?" Lian prodded over breakfast. She leaned heavily on the table, masking her fatigue as emphasis on the question. Despite Wanda's reassurances to the contrary, while waiting on the other girl to finish dressing, Lian had been surprised when the medics who had attended to her so diligently didn't simply march up to the private living quarters floor and demand she return to her sickbed and dratted therapy sessions. (She remained suspicious of the staff's motives in scheduling various appointments rather than strapping her to a wheelchair and dragging her to them.) She'd awoken from her coma in deplorable condition; apparently, there was only so much they could do while she was stranded unconscious without risking her chances of surviving. Lian resisted a smile. It was strange, how she, along with the rest of the staff, viewed her coma as nothing more than an extended sleep. They never viewed it as what it was: her straddling the line of life and death. They all firmly rejected any possibility of eventually unplugging her. Lian appreciated it whenever the realization happened upon her that she could've died.

She'd assumed that they had informed her family of her current status weeks ago; her frenzied, ravaged state of mind prohibited any form of communication between them. However, now that she'd been freed from the roiling black wasteland of her nightmares, Lian hoped she might visit them soon, or at least instigate correspondence, even if that involved writing letters.

She frowned, nonplussed by the bafflement and panic coloring her companion's faces. Across the table, Maria Hill pursed her lips, winding her fingers together on the table in front of her, forming a protective barrier around her prized coffee with her bare arms. Next to the older woman, a younger man, presumably a contemporary of Lian, choked on the scrambled eggs he'd been enthusiastically shoveling into his mouth at light speed. He had introduced himself mid-chew in a foreign already garbled language, so Lian didn't trust she'd heard his sloppily announced title correctly. Beside her, Wanda froze, fork poised halfway to her mouth. The food speared on its tines slowly slid off the metal, returning to the plate. Wanda failed to notice or care if she did see.

The most interesting and insulting reaction was that of Hank Thierry, an intern who'd cockily stated his name and dropped into the remaining seat, prompting an eye roll from Hill and a grunt from the eater. At Lian's question, Hank erupted into raucous laughter, positively cackling with mad humorous glee. Soon the attention shifted; everyone seated in the cafeteria within hearing range of his guffaws turned to scowl at him for disrupting their meal. Hank ignored them, settling down only to obtain breath. He wiped tears from his eyes, cheeks still split by the widest grin, a true Cheshire Cat.

"Oh boy," coughed Hank. "That was a good one. A right ole knee slapper, there." He continued to dry his eyes with his light blue polo shirt while half the people in the room regarded him with disdain.

"What's so funny?" demanded Lian.

That response nearly set him off again until Hill clamped a hand over his mouth.

The unidentified man audibly swallowed. "It's just . . . Once you're here, you don't go back," he enlightened, spreading his hands apologetically.

Lian mulled over his words, attempting to comprehend what he was trying to tell her. She shook her head, still mystified. "But I'm not one of you," she persisted. "This isn't my job. When can I go home?"

Hill sent him a sharp look when he opened his mouth to reply. Her hand still in use as a muzzle for Hank, she pushed her tray aside with one hand to lean across the table. She stared intently into Lian's eyes, assuring their gazes were locked before she spoke. "No, this isn't your job. You aren't an Avenger, and you aren't an agent. However, we have taken you in and provided you with medical care when other hospitals would have pressured your family to pull the plug on your life support. Our doctors would like to spend more time studying your health. We would appreciate it if you would cooperate on your own without intervention. Once their research concludes, you have the option of going home. We'll see about the alternatives when that time comes. Until then, due to the sensitive nature of our location and the research, you will not be able to see your family. You may exchange email via an encrypted address through a secure network. Mr. Stark says you're big on pictures; you may receive them but you won't be able to send any. High security risk. Those are the conditions of your stay here, Liana. Violate them, and you'll be back on the happy meds."

Lian gazed wide-eyed at the woman, the epitome of strict power with her stern, straightforward mien teeming with conviction and the collected composure she so meticulously maintained. The immaculate bun only heightened that image. "Is that a threat?" Lian asked meekly.

Hank weaseled out from behind Hill's hand and barked a laugh. "Of course it is!" Hill slapped him upside the head, effectively silencing him.

"It's a deal," Lian said, her eyes dancing.

Hill narrowed her eyes. "A deal," she stated in a monotone.

Wanda prodded Lian in the side, her lips twitching as she resisted a smile. "I suggest you take the deal, Maria," she advised, a teasing lilt to her voice that she could not conceal.

"What am I missing?"

Lian and Wanda exchanged sly grins. "All I'm saying," Lian said, pitching her voice lower, "is that with a redhead, you can't win, Hill. If you dope me up, I shall become more troublesome and powerful than you could possibly imagine. So let's make an agreement: I behave, you don't drug me."

Hill still appeared perplexed, while the unnamed man grinned widely and Hank glowered. Wanda rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved into an unmistakable shape: a smile that said as much as Lian may exasperate her with cheesiness, she had developed a fondness for her contemporary, the only other girl she'd met here who was also her age.

"Nice little Kenobi quote variation." He smirked, mirthful hazel eyes flashing. He pitched his voice lower. "Don't worry, I won't let Maria know you compared her to Darth Vader. I'm Blake Westerly. I think we're going to be great friends. I'm glad to have another Star Wars fan among us. Maybe now someone will finally understand my definitely-not-corny jokes. The souls of these losers have died with disgraceful modern literature and film."

"Easy there, Westerly," cautioned Hank, scowling. "My uncle is one of those big Hollywood producers you're calling trash."

Blake sniggered, "I never said anything about trash, buddy. Who's really insulting your uncle here?"

Hank made to swing at the confident nerd and Lian prepared to launch herself across the table to either interrupt or join the ensuing fight. Most likely, given her current state of exhaustion, she would collapse halfway onto Blake's dirty dishes and hopefully partially land on one of the boys, providing a shield to disrupt the flow of successful punches. Then red mist floated toward Hank, capturing him frozen with his fist drawn back to his ear in an epic smack down pose. Wanda clenched her fist, from which the mist seemed to originate. Lian watched in awe as Hank abruptly changed recipients of the punch and in slow-motion socked himself in the face. He toppled off his seat, groaning and whimpering. Lian thought she saw blood gushing from his nose. Blake crowed triumphantly, leaping to his feet and prancing around the table to supply high-fives to Wanda and Lian. Hill observed the spectacle, shaking her head. The only sign of her inner amusement was the discrete thumbs-up she threw to Wanda before striding away from the table, cleaning her hands of them.

"Let's go," Blake urged, "before he gets up." Grabbing their arms, he hauled them out of the cafeteria, a spring to his step and jubilant grin adorning his elfish face.


Pietro arrived back at his hospital room no worse for wear, despite the fact he had been running all night and all morning. He had successfully decimated his boots; he was unsure whether that pleased him or not. Now that he would need new shoes, he could request (throw a fit for) more athletically-inclined footwear (he better get those Nike Air Zoom Pegasus' he ordered, or Wanda's friendships be damned, he'd tear this place apart). Still, even though he enjoyed going barefoot, a lack of protective layer over his skin didn't suit this terrain. He'd be sure to gouge a hole in the sole of his foot with a tree branch, a small affliction that would waste time, his accelerated healing aside. He grinned at the thought of yet another blessing bestowed upon him by the experiments. Quickly he sobered. His rapid self-restoration process didn't stop him from dying.

Happy thoughts, he reminded himself. Then he cursed because that sounded like something Lila would say, and he had sworn to not let the child's mannerisms influence him.

He tugged the hem of a fresh shirt over his head as one of the nurses bustled into the room. He yanked it down, freeing his face, in time to witness the normally steely-eyed nurse shriek, practically throw her clipboard at his head, and fly out of the room. He dissolved into laughter as she collided with several of her colleagues outside in her hasty flight. The realization that it was the hand clamped firmly over her eyes that caused her to run into the other medics birthed a smirk on his lips. He glanced down at his abs; while they were known to make women swoon and salivate, prompting them to flee was a first.

Shrugging, he finished dressing. The standard outfit of one confined to observation was composed of black sweats, thick socks, and alternating black and white loose-fitting v-necks—it seemed there was actually a formal schedule for wearing black-and-white around here. Wanda suspected the colors denoted rank to senior agents/officers/employees. Pietro's theory was that their laundry service sucked, and everyone wore what was clean.

Five minutes later, he was still trying to squeeze all the water out of his hair. The shower had been a necessity; running through the woods may have succeeded in calming him down, but afterward he found himself caked in mud and brush, stiff and itching. It was the aftermath he hated: you'd think he had girl hair or something, the way it took forever to dry. He wondered how long it would be before Wanda noticed. It would be ample ammunition in her already embarrassingly extensive arsenal of teasing material.

Rapping on the door frame drew his attention. A new nurse leaned against the doorframe, her pale blue scrubs streaked with red. His eyes darted over her curvy figure; surprise registered in her expression, drawing his focus back to her face. He raised his eyebrows in response.

"Usually people are at the very least disconcerted by the blood," she explained. "But not you—were you a soldier? Field agent?"

"Something like that," Pietro muttered.

The woman frowned, carving lines in her otherwise youthful face, but didn't question the vague reply. Instead she retrieved his patient file from the slot outside his door. He watched her flick through the sheets, dreading when she would inevitably see the page towards the end, his former S.H.I.E.L.D. target profile. Stamped in unforgiving red print across his picture was the word 'DECEASED.'

"Whoa," she murmured, head bent over the file, "you faked your death and managed to fool S.H.I.E.L.D.? That's impressive. What's your clearance level?"

"Level 7." Pietro remembered Clint mentioning that his clearance was level seven prior to the downfall of the agency, or whatever happened. They seemed to be functioning now.

She whistled. "Interesting file. I don't understand why they included differentiating vital recordings, especially since each is dated a week after the last. Are these notes in code? No wonder Chief wanted to read me in before I took a look. I hardly understand anything—hold on, why does it mention 'Loki's scepter' with a bunch of doodles? He was the maniac that tried to take over and started that invasion in NYC!"

Pietro shot to his feet. He snatched the folder from her hand and hid it behind his back. "Maybe you should wait for your chief," he warned coolly.

The woman scowled at him, eyes narrowed. Too late he realized it wasn't just a glare; she was analyzing his face. "You're that kid from Sokovia, aren't you? Scarlet Witch's brother?" she accused.

Scarlet Witch? He begrudgingly admitted the moniker suited his sister, though he suspected Stark held responsibility for the magical part of her public title. He'd heard him refer to her as witch far too many times in the past few months. It even seemed to be her primary nickname amongst her team members.

Did they want him to keep his identity a secret? After all, he was legally dead. He couldn't recall all the rules Selvig tried to drill into him regarding his residency at the facility. He'd been allowed little freedom prior to their rescue of that girl, but they'd let him explore the woods last night without sending a firing squad after him. What restrictions existed? What rules were there left for him to break?

He decided he didn't care. He was alive. Didn't that entitle him a right to live? "Pietro," he introduced, "though you probably garnered that from the file, and I'm her twin."

"You don't look alike," the woman stated bluntly, disbelief edging her voice. "What's up with the funky hair?"

"I honestly have no idea," he admitted, dragging a hand through the damp strands. Funky? "Started one day. I asked why it turned: scientists said 'funny reaction, we keep it that way.'"

"Scientists?" questioned the woman.

Pietro deftly changed the subject. "You haven't said your name," he pointed out.

She smiled. "Tansy Usaah, RN."

"Tansy," he repeated.

A smirk danced on her lips. "Usually it's my last name that mystifies people." She tucked a glossy lock of honey blonde hair behind her ear. Pietro followed the movement.

"Haven't you realized yet I'm not the usual person?" He sidled closer to her. With the new proximity, he could discern the color of her eyes, a rich, earthy brown.

Tansy stepped forward. If she leaned any closer, her nose would bump against his. She batted hooded eyes, oozing seduction. Their breath mixing between them, Pietro struggled to restrain himself. Tansy tilted her head, her mouth brushing his ear. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. The flirting was fun, but I prefer brunettes my own age, though I won't deny you are a fine specimen."

Abruptly, she withdrew, suddenly clear across the room and crossing the threshold before he could react. His eyes widened as she waved the folder containing his records, a cheeky smile replacing the faux flush that previously occupied her features. He lunged for the door as she slammed her open palm on the activation panel enabling it to slide open and closed. The hydraulics hummed as a barrier of steel moved into place, just catching the billowing cloth of his oversized shirt as he zipped through. Instead of wrenching him back, it tore a giant hole in the garment. The scrap of fabric fluttered to the tile floor, reminding Pietro of a sandy, solitary island floating alone in the middle of a vast sea. The comparison struck a chord he didn't know existed within himself; he nearly missed his opportunity to utilize Tansy's shock that he had made it through in the surge of loneliness.

He grabbed the file and flung it around the corner, vaguely hoping it would land near the computer console centered in the lobby but not really caring much more. A hand clenching her throat, he shoved Tansy against a wall. A growl vibrated in his chest, a small indication of the rage he felt towards the deception.

Tansy gasped. Blunt nails scraped against the tanned, calloused skin of his hand as she scrabbled fruitlessly to loosen his grip. Fear stared intently back at him when he locked his murderous gaze on her. Pietro faltered.

Wanda clutched his hand as the mousy old woman directed them toward the staircase. They both ignored the orphanage matron as she wheezed instructions. Hesitating at the base of the carpeted stairs, Pietro squeezed his sister's hand and made to take the first step. The answering pressure halted him. For the first time since they were finally pulled from the rubble, Wanda lifted her face and met his eyes. Drowning in the fear glimmering there, Pietro trembled, his legs quaking. He had resolved to take care of his twin sister; it didn't matter that they were the same age, and he hardly comprehended how to multiply two-digit numbers, much less care for to the two of them. Yet seeing the mixture of fear and determination in his sister spurred him to gather his strength. And then he was swimming, not drowning. As if sensing the change in him, Wanda straightened, and he smiled as she tentatively started dog-paddling, like Papa taught them when they first began learning. Slowly, the fear drained from those beautiful eyes; she wasn't happy—neither would be for a long time—and she wasn't alright, but his sister was brave. Their clasped hands were their shared strength. Together they marched up the creaking steps toward their dismal future.

Pietro eased his tight grip. Tansy sucked in gulps of precious air. "Who are you really? Why do you want my file?" he interrogated.

"Not me." Tansy shook her head furiously. "My employer. They wanted all of the enhanceds' files. They wanted to recreate the experiments. They offered money if I did one little thing. But you're going to kill me anyways, so it doesn't matter."

"Kill you?" Pietro snorted. "This isn't a movie. I can't believe you talked so easily."

Confusion contorted her features. "You won't? H-he said I'd be killed immediately if they caught me. That the people here are murderers. Beasts. That you had a temper and would snap my neck," she sputtered.

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Who is your employer?" This is way too easy. It feels staged.

"I don't know his name!" cried Tansy. "I was drunk; I met him at a casino and I needed the money to pay off my debt. He hired me to infiltrate this place, using this woman's identity, and steal a couple of files. Nothing more, nothing less. I woke up the next morning w-w-with this str-strapped to me." Trembling, Tansy looped her arm around his to lift up her top. Pietro watched as a sliver of stomach appeared, then she was showcasing her abdomen, and the bomb duct-taped there. Blinking red numerals indicated the detonation countdown.

Twenty-five minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Trembling, Tansy reached down, shaking fingers scrabbling at the tape haphazardly wound around her. As she brushed the death count, it suddenly flashed. Shrieking, she yanked her hand back to reveal the revised time and the muffled persistent beeping.

Five minutes, fifty-three seconds.

Pietro released her, instead grabbing her arm. He zipped them into the lobby, pointing urgently at the device and shouting, "THERE'S A BOMB!"

The middle-aged woman sitting at the computer terminal screamed. Medical professionals streamed into the lobby, some appearing fresh out of surgery in masks and blood-stained scrubs. The woman thrust a finger at Pietro and "Tansy" and then promptly fainted. He bounced on the balls of his feet, glaring fiercely at the team gathered about him, frozen in fear. One of them rushed forward to support the computer lady's limp body; her boxy frame proved too much for him, and he collapsed beneath her bulk with a helpless squeal, disappearing behind the counter.

"DO SOMETHING!"

A few cautiously stepped forward. Another rushed to the emergency phone mounted to the wall. At his side, Tansy wept; her once delicate features contorted into a swollen red blob. She sniffled, blodshot eyes squeezing shut. Pietro searched for the talented actress who deceived everyone in the building within the puffy mess; he was disappointed to find only a melodramatic woman underneath the layer of snot and tears.

He sighed. Wanda wouldn't like him participating in dangerous affairs without backup; nevermind he was endangering his life by engaging in such egotistical stunts. He directly quoted her there, he noted with a rueful smile.

"Fine," he snapped, swiftly scooping Tansy up in his arms, careful to avoiding touching the bomb. He started toward the hallway in order to locate the stairwell, but then an idea occurred to him. He snatched a sleek black cellphone from the pocket of the one frantically jabbing buttons on the wall phone. Utilizing a trick he learned from some children-of-cons back in the orphanage, he bypassed the phone's security codes and then used the device to access the building's AI system (Wanda taught him how; he was wary of the AI's presence, it reminding him far too much of Ultron to be comfortable). Thankfully, the AI didn't override and deny him clearance by activating the locks on all the doors he breezed through. Stark must have programmed it to respond to his commands, just as it did with the ranking employees/agents, but not newcomers/visitors.

"WHERE'S THE NEAREST UNPOPULATED AREA CAPABLE OF CONTAINING A BLAST?"

"Considering the amount of available time and accounting for your average top speed, I would recommend running the bomb out into the Atlantic. That is, if you are capable of maintaining a speed that would enable you to pass over the water quicker than the surface tension would able to break; the calculations-" droned the cool, distinctly female voice.

Pietro interjected, "How far would I have to go before dropping it? Could I get away fast enough before it exploded?"

The AI rattled off a rough estimate. "I would advise removing the explosive from the carrier; the extra weight would slow you down by a tenth of a second."

"That's safe?" gawked Pietro. First time I've ever cared about what's safe, he snorted. But Wanda and Clint are here. If I can't handle this, they could be hurt. Since he was ten years old, protecting his family was his primary priority and ultimately his responsibility. He wasn't about the slack off now; he'd lost enough precious time being dead.

He ripped the bomb off Tansy's stomach and paused to deposit her in a random hallway. Freed of her hiccuping sobs in his ear, he felt lighter. He focused on weaving through the copse of trees providing a sheltering ring around the hidden facility. He skidded around armored cars trudging up the concealed gravel path that began once you breached the perimeter's extra security measures. He leaped over a chainlink fence, narrowly avoiding the electric shock, and touched down. His feet flew across the earth; they hardly rested long enough to differentiate the changing textures beneath his soles.

An undetermined amount of time later, he adjusted his speed to compensate for the approaching body of water. The Atlantic, he realized, his mental sigh colored by relief. The natural wind of the sea was overtaken by that which he created, whipping his white hair back from his face. The air carried the salty tang customary to the brackish waters. He glanced down, hoping the 'don't look down' when atop great heights saying didn't apply to watching the waves while running on water. A smirk settled on his lips; he was a glorified pioneer in the phenomenon. Azure waves rolled languidly beneath his steps, which never faltered. Whitecaps roiled and licked at his calves. The spray tickled his arms, and he greedily inhaled the crisp sea breeze. He bent and trailed his cupped hand through the water, sending up a teal spout and consequentially splashing himself in the face. Tipping back his face, he giddily laughed, exhilarated by the unique experience. Pietro grinned-he'd found his new favorite thing.

Pain pricked sharply in his palm. He opened it, revealing the neat cut sliced into his skin by the cracked glass of the phone screen. He tossed the phone over his shoulder, cradling the bomb tightly in the crook of his arm. The timer read two minutes. Pietro lifted his head, surmising he was far enough away from the coast or any ships approaching port to drop the explosive. He raised the device to his mouth and ripped through a wire with his teeth. As if burned, he flung it away and abruptly changed course, heading back toward land. He spit out the fragment of wire, wrinkling his nose at the aftertaste of the its rubber coating. He reached land in time to gaze out at the diminishing pinprick of horizon and the small burst of water coiling into the air as the final seconds of the triggered-early detonation played out. By the time he arrived panting back at the facility's heavily guarded entrance, the threat the bomb had posed was a fanciful distant memory, and Pietro had one minor success under his belt.


I'm sorry for the delay. I planned on updating yesterday, but the site was glitching or something and wouldn't let me login. Thanks, of course, to all of you lovelies who indulge me by reading this and favoriting and following. Notifications for that make my day. :) Also, let me know what you think of my portrayal of Pietro so far.