Dignity, beauty, damnation; reflection.

The truck stops again, but this time I do not worry. I have spent the time getting to know Roxy, and actually enjoying her company. Ever since the bathroom incident, my mind has stopped focusing on what is enemy and what is ally, and it is starting to just go with what is coming. I've killed so many and done so much harm that I deserve whatever is to come.
I like this different feeling; it's nice to feel something other than hatred.
The back of the truck opens and I see Birdy standing there, looking over me worriedly.
"What?" I ask, and wince in pain. I have forgotten that I willed my powers not to heal me. I was sure of it at the time, but now I am not positive that it was the best idea. Roxy gives my shoulder a light squeeze and jumps off the back, waiting for me to follow.
I sigh and force myself to walk to the edge, slowly and painfully lowering my body out of the truck bed. Once my feet touch the ground I stumble, and the archer instinctively reaches out to steady me.
My mind flashes back to arms grabbing me, forcing me back into the cold metal chair. A mouth guard is shoved into my face and metal claps dig into my skin.
I hear a buzzing sound, and I am screaming, screaming until my voice is horse and I still scream. They all hear me, but nobody comes to my rescue. The pain makes me forget, makes me into a killer that I do not want to be. The hands control me, forcing me to do as they please.
I push his hands away, falling face-first into the mud. I feel my body shudder, as I try to block out the memory. I know that it's good to be away from them, but I do not like to be scared. To be scared is to be weak.
I lay there, shivering in the mud as Roxy and the archer gaze down at me. They both look so different, Roxy stares at me with cold understanding, her own memories being triggered in her mind. The archer looks sad, almost as if he doesn't like to see me like this. That's okay; I don't like to feel like this.
I shakily stand to my feet, not making eye contact with the either of them as I make my way over the side of the truck and lean on it, sliding down until I am sitting in the wet grass. The coldness seeps through my pants, but I hardly notice. I flinch as somebody sits near me, and I look over, only to see the archer meeting my gaze.
"What do you want, archer?" I ask, ashamed of myself as my voice quivers. I do not recognize this voice; it is so soft and innocent.
He says nothing, but simply pulls out a medical kit and opens it, pulling out disinfectant and bandages. His hands pause at my face, as if asking for permission. I look away, and soon hiss when he disinfects the cut on my forehead.
It takes a while, but when he's done with my visible wounds, he goes to leave me to treat the one on my stomach. He is walking away when I call after him.
"Wait, archer." I whisper, to ashamed to meet his gaze. I know he stops, as he soon replies.
"What?" He is curious, as if whatever I have to say truly interests him.
"I do not know how to stich wounds," I inform him, defeated. I hear him walk back over in my direction and crouch next to me.
"Are you serious?" He asks, sounding slightly amused. I feel heat in my face, unsure of what it means.
"Do not mock me, archer. I have never had the need to treat my wounds in such a way." At this I turn to look at him, anger clear in my gaze. How dare he think himself better than I?
"Hey," he says softly, taking the medical scissors from my hand. I don't let my hand linger, and immediately pull it back to my side. "It's okay, I'll show you." I sniff, and nod attentively. "And hey, you can call me Clint, okay?"
"Thank you," I say, rolling up my shirt to just above my wound. It's a long gash scraping from my side all the way to the middle on my stomach, and is bleeding pretty bad. Clint only nods and begins his work.
I watch him, slightly intrigued at how steady his hands are, and how concentrated his expression his. I don't know why he is so nice to me, but I find myself enjoying it.
He finishes on my wound and I thank him again before watching him nod shortly and walk over to Roxy and check on her. I still say sitting where I am, rolling down my shirt after admiring the stitches. Will I finally get a scar? I've always wanted one. I have a few, but I was told I got them before all of my testing.
My head snaps up at the sound of laughter, and I watch my two acquaintances share banter. I can't help but notice how different the two are as they laugh, as well. Roxy has her arms crossed in front of her chest and her shoulders shake lightly as she gives more of a scoff than a really laugh. Clint throws his head back and lets out a loud chuckle, not afraid to hide his enjoyment of whatever was just said. His shoulder shake and his eyes squint.
I don't notice I'm smiling until I force it to turn into a frown.
I watch as Clint excuses himself, running to the front of the truck to grab something out of the cab. At this point I find myself tired for some odd reason, and lean my head back with a thunk as it hits the side of the vehicle. I let out a sigh and am ready to let the sleep take over when Clint's face appears in front of mine, smiling.
"Come on, I've got…stuff!" He stands up from his crouch and walks back over to Roxy, plopping the bags down in front of her. Once she peers inside, she appears to be delighted, and looks up to wave me over. I sigh, deciding that I want to see what all this fuss is about.
I sit across from Roxy, crossing my legs and eyeing the bags warily. Clint seems to find my hesitance funny, as he lets out another happy chuckle and reaches into the bag himself.
I don't know exactly what his hand emerges with, but by the smell of it I can determine that it is food. My stomach chooses that moment to let out a grumble, making both Roxy and Clint laugh. I eye them warily, wondering when exactly they became buddy buddy.
Next, Clint pulls out something that makes my eyes narrow with hatred. It's just a small one, but it's there, nonetheless. I catch the reflection of the sky from it, and force myself not to reach out and smash it into millions of tiny pieces. I hate mirrors.
I guess my extreme discomfort was evident, because Clint raises an eyebrow at me in an unamused way.
"Don't tell me you're afraid of mirrors." I sneer at him, shoving my mouth full of more food.
"Don't be stupid, of course I'm not afraid of mirrors."
"Then what's wrong with them, exactly?" He asks, now clearly confused.
"They're liars," I state. I thought everybody knew this? Poor fool, doesn't understand what mirrors do to you.
"We were trained to hate mirrors," Roxy explains. "To us, mirrors represent lies, betrayal, and dishonestly. They show us exactly who we are, as well as who we are not. They told us to smash every mirror we ever see without another thought. To them, mirrors meant a way to trigger old thoughts, ancient memories of who we once were. Mirrors where something that could make us whole again." I think that is the most words I have ever heard Roxy speak in the whole three or four days I've known her. I'm slightly impressed, and slightly annoyed. I like her better when she doesn't talk so much.
"Oh." Is all Clint can say. I roll my eyes.
"Here, let me see that thing." Roxy reaches out and snags the mirror from Clint, holding it in front of her head. She makes a face and nods her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her other hand.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself." She looks at me, and holds the mirror in my direction. "Come on, short stack, take a turn." I do not understand why she is calling me short, as I am taller than her, but I dismiss that thought.
My hand is shaky as it reaches for the mirror, fingers closing around the edge and bringing it to my face.
I blink, something I don't normally do, and my mouth opens slightly. My face is smudged with dry blood and dirt, hair sticking to my insanely pale cheeks. The bags under my eyes make me look like a zombie, and my lips are cracked, just making me more convinced that I might actually be a zombie.
But the more I look at the mirror; I can't help but notice how much it is telling the truth. I look like a giant pile of steaming dog shit. And, hey, guess what? I feel like a giant pile of steaming dog shit.
I set the mirror down, offering a small smile.
"At least now I know what death looks like." Is all I can say, earning two big smiles from my companions.
"Hey, she does have a sense of humor!" I can't allow him thinking that, can I?
"Shove off," I mutter, earning just the hint of a smirk in return.
We must have been outside for longer than I thought, because the sun is starting to set. It actually is rather nice to look at, but I know we can't afford to stay much longer.
"Come on," I hear Clint say, "We'll be at S.H.I.E.L.D. by morning if we leave now."
I nod my head absently, allowing Roxy to help me to my feet. She looks to be in better condition than me, only having a few minor scrapes and bruises, along with a deep gash in her cheek. I wonder how she's healed so fast, but then again, maybe she didn't have that significant of injuries in the first place.
Clint gets into the driver's side and shuts his door, the vehicle soon roaring to life. Roxy slides open the back and easily climbs in, turning around to offer me a hand. I don't hesitate before I take it this time, wincing as I shift the wrong way. I am not used to such pain, but I know I will have to be accustomed to it if I ever want to live a normal life.
Ha, that's funny. For a brief moment I thought that I could ever have the chance to be normal again. I make that clear to myself right not that that will never be an option, as that ship has sailed a long, long time ago. I can never have a normal life, but I can change my current one. If I ever gain S.H.I.E.L.D.'s trust, maybe, just maybe, they'll let me in on the fun. And maybe Roxy can have a bit of that fun, as well.
I share a small smile with Roxy before closing the back hatch, emerging us once again into the darkness. And this time, I greet it with a smile, much like an old friend. After all, darkness hides what the light brings out.
It's better for me to stay hidden, the light would expose too much.