Prologue:
"I am so late," Miles panics as his feet leave the pavement once more, wind brushing under his feet and blowing away his hair. Adrenaline pumps through him, flowing from his heart to his legs.
He loves the feeling - but he longs to swing. His bare wrists itch from the lack of pressure; he knows better, though. He came to New York for a break; no one knows of him and he plans to keep it that way. Releasing a heavy puff of air, Miles gazes at the people venturing through life the normal way - a sidewalk. A rush of bitter humor clogs Miles' throat and the next leap he takes makes him stumble. Rocks dig into his palms before he rights himself once more. He grimaces, throwing a sneer to any pedestrians looking up at him. He despises all of the people who crowd the sidewalks and walk as slow as humanly possible. However, he hates the people who rush so much that they slam into you without any apologies. Huffing, Miles rushes forward again and leaps off the roof, waiting for the moment his feet collide on the concrete before moving once more. His irritation spikes further as his hair flies in his face. Throwing a strand of hair out of his face, Miles makes a note to visit the barbers. However, as he glances down to observe the time, he sees little spider-piggy's hands pointing at 11:23. Miles sighs, trying to push his limbs to move even faster. He was supposed to be at work 23 minutes ago - a depressing fact he's grown used to.
With a simple glance ahead, Miles finally sees the horrid sign belonging to his workplace. Miles' only had his job for a few months, and yet he can never get up on time to avoid his boss' wrath. A sinking suspicion tells Miles he won't be keeping his job for much longer if he continues the streak of late days. He's easy to replace; everyone knows that, but his boss loves reminding him. Working as a simple guide for customers leaves him at the bottom of the food chain. If Miles is honest with himself, he knows getting fired won't be as bad as people believe. His pay isn't amazing and none of his co-workers necessarily like him. Losing this job just means getting a better chance to work for something he enjoys doing. Until then, though, Miles is happy to simply pay his bills. Without batting an eyelash at the dark alley, Miles jumps down and rushes through the back door to his job.
Work clothes prepared, Miles slips his work-hours sheet to check-in, steals his nerves, and walks through the employee door to reach the lobby. Even with the threat of another long night, Miles holds his blazing personality at bay. He hasn't been fired yet, by some miracle, but he will be if he lets his insanity flare at work.
"Nice of you to join us, Morales."
Miles can't stop himself from cringing away. His boss's sharp tone reminds Miles too much of his father; he can't seem to avoid trouble.
"You know me - wouldn't miss hanging out with you guys," Miles chokes out, his throat suddenly dry and scratchy.
Joel, his boss, simply raises an eyebrow before he points Miles towards his section and walks off. Miles follows Joel's silent instructions, slowly moving towards the fancy phone section. A man gazes over the phones, face twisting as he searches for something. Taking a deep breath, Miles walks towards him with a politely forced smile.
"Are you finding everything okay, Sir?"
The man startles as he spins around to face Miles. His eyes are a fraction too wide for normal and Miles worries that he spooked him. It wasn't close to Halloween and the last thing he needs is scaring off customers too often. Miles searches for a way to calm the stranger, but nothing comes up. He should probably consider walking louder, but the thought leaves quickly. It's trained into him to hide his steps - and it's saved him many times. He will not endanger himself just because he startled someone. As the silence continues for several moments, Miles' guard shoots up. There's never a moment Miles is completely safe to let his guard down. Miles tries to relax but this guy is staring at him funny - his eyes hold a kind of suspicion that comes from someone expecting a fight. Miles isn't sure if it's because of their past interactions, but it feels like more. The way this man's stance is now wide and balanced - a fighter's pose. Miles doesn't want to get in a fight, but he will gladly throw the first punch if the guy tries to attack him any time soon. If anyone asks, he'll simply say self-defense or blame it on his reflexes.
However, all thoughts come to a halt as the stranger finally responds.
"I don't believe so. I'm just browsing." His voice is hard, but his stance loosens.
"Alright," Miles nods before turning around to walk back to the front of his section. The best way to earn a fighter's trust is to turn your back, Miles remembers. If they attack they're a threat. If they don't, it means they relax their guard. Use that. "If something comes up, feel free to ask me anything you need, sir." To earn one's trust, you must allow them a chance to prove themselves. Miles sighs, slowly leaning against a sign to allow his mind to wander. Though, the painful images of the little spider-squad make him almost regret that decision. They've helped him through so much - even in their absence, he confides in their words. Because of them, Miles can be confident of himself. He can trust himself - he doesn't need someone else to protect him. Though his hero job causes a slight problem - he's not very good at making friends. The only exception lies within his recent besty, Chris McCoul.
Miles grins as his best-man marches through the door, heading straight for Miles. His smile is teasing but his eyes are warm, and he gently sets his hand on Chris' shoulder. "How are you, Miles?" Chris asks. A simple, accidental, collision in their hallway within their shared apartment building has gone far.
"Aw, nothing much," Miles laughs as he rubs the back of his neck. He looks around him before leaning in and whispering, "I'm doomed to another late night though."
Chris laughs, shaking his head. "You were late again."
Miles shrugs sheepishly, his head ducking down as he scratches the nape of his neck. "At least it's quiet at night."
Sluggish footsteps echo on the creaking steps. Fuzzy socks slide across the floor - a little sway of the loose pajamas adorning the five-year-old's body. He scans the room; paintings hang near a crackling fireplace, and pictures capture themselves upon the walls. He scopes out the familiar faces, his eyes hiding confusion tying with a wrinkling age. Everyone's smiling with flashing teeth - no sign of spite or hatred. The natural tint surrounding the living room makes his shoulders droop. An unconscious relief gifts its presence as he travels further into the kitchen. A young woman stands, leaning on the counter with dazed emeralds. A mug is clutched in her grip, though the steam billowed away long ago. The little boy lets his steps guide him forward, his head ducking low to look into his mother's eyes. They aren't sad - that haunting scream hasn't made its appearance.
Everything's fine - it was just a dream.
"Mommy?"
The woman takes a moment, her eyes slowly gaining life as they trail to his concerned orbs. Only a second later, the woman's smile returns with a new life to it. She acts as if nothing weighs on her mind, grinning large and putting down the forgotten cup.
"What is it, sweety?" The woman asks, squatting down to be on the same level as her son, allowing his head to drop to a comfortable resting spot. Her voice is smooth and sweet - honey pouring out of her lips in rhythmic waves. If there's anything the little boy missed throughout time, it's her voice; the kindness in every word and the motherly notion never leaving her beautiful, bronze eyes.
He doesn't respond to her question, a sudden lump in his throat cutting off his airways. As tears begin to gather all over again, he doesn't hesitate to throw his arms around his mom. She jumps in surprise, a worrying hum escaping her lips as she hugs him close. Only seconds in and the tears begin to fall in waves. Then, he's hiccuping, disgusting sniffles echoing in the silent house. His mother hushes him, lifting him into her arms and guiding them over to a couch. He clutches at her neck, never releasing his grip. Everything's back to normal - he has his family back.
"I've missed you, mommy," he whispers, forcing the scratchy words out.
More soothing hums follow the statement and he can feel her hand brush through his hair. It calms him - his shoulders seize their shaking, and the tears finally slow. However, once the beating of his heart clears and he can hear properly, a brick falls in his stomach. The house is quiet - much too quiet. A family of four, with his dad and twin sister, there's bound to be movement. Especially with how loud he was - he knows his sister would've heard him. Slowly, he catches on to every little detail - listening to the training that he wished was all a lie. Not a single sign of life was in the house - no snores, no dogs, no noisy neighbors - absolutely nothing.
Then, a haunting suspicion makes his breath hitch. His mother wasn't humming a random tune - he recognizes that pattern anywhere. Slowly, he allows his gaze to fall upon his mother's eyes once more. They aren't bronze anymore - now, she stares down at him with a wide grin and haunting red eyes. She continues to sing the rhythm, rocking you at every beat.
"You're not my mom."
The woman laughs and brings lyrics forth from the song. A scream rips through the boy's throat, but his small body can't fight against the monster's grip.
"Боль. Печаль. Конец. Рабыня. Подчиняться."
Each word shoots panic through him, and his fight grows larger. However, as his back finally hit the floor with freedom at his doors - everything disappears. The horrific grin etched into his memory, the complete and utter hopelessness he felt - none of it will ever leave.
"Soldier - get up!"
The man shoots up, gasping for air and holding himself close. Shivers rack through his body and the command doesn't reach past his ears. He can't move, his entire body lay frozen to moldy concrete. However, he isn't allowed a moment of peace as his arms are gripped in iron and his body is forced off the floor. In front of him, the foggy figure of the one he despises most stands - the bastard's hand resting on his cane and his mouth in a teasing, hostile grin.
"Did you rest well, Забытый?" He asks, tilting his head with a mock pout.
The man snarls, not bothering to answer the bastards question. He attempts to shake the guards off, but his limbs are still shaking and his muscles feel as if they've zapped themselves senseless. Nothing is said but he can feel the laughter within their eyes. A simple gesture with the bastard's cane and the man is dragged from his cell and to the cave's make-shift training room. He snarls again, yanking himself free from the soldiers' grips. They yell in alarm, reaching for their weapons - but they freeze upon instructions.
"Let him be. He feels like being a fighter - he's gonna need it."
The man growls, resisting the guard who shoves him into the room. The doors shut behind him, iron locks activating - leaving him inside. He turns around, making his features hard and his stance prepared for an attack. Only one other person lies in the room, and his presence sends fear spiking into the man's soul.
"Winter Soldier - you know what to do. He needs training." The command comes through the speakers, and the soldier doesn't hesitate to start marching forward.
With nowhere to run, Iidil is forced to face the soldier. Putting his fists up in a feeble attempt to block incoming attacks. The soldier throws his metal arm first, and the blow sends a shock through Iidil's system. The time it takes to recuperate is the moment he uses his leg to kick Iidil's sides, sending him to the floor with ease. A cough rattles his bones - only gifted with another kick to the stomach. He curls up, trying to move away from the monstrous man. However, his movement is met with resistance - a foot straight to the head. He screams, holding his head as black begins to dance in his vision. Just before the man can toss another blow, Iidil forces his body to roll away from the attack. It shoots pain throughout his body, but he forces himself to his feet.
No one's going to save him - there's no escape. The only way home is to fight back and follow the rules.
Iidil releases a battle cry and rushes forward, putting everything in him to bring the soldier to the ground. The tackle only makes them stumble. Iidil takes the time to kick the soldier's legs out from under him, finally sending him to the floor. Iidil leaps, sending punch and punch to the soldier's face - aiming to leave many bruises. Iidil's tired; tired of this stupid place, and completely over all the fighting. But he refuses to give up - he will not die until he sees his twin again. Releasing another scream, he throws his arm back to deliver another blow. However, the soldier recovers - sending his medal fist right into the side of Iidil's head. Iidil yelps, rolling away. His vision goes foggy, and everything begins to fade. Just before it goes dark, the speakers squeal to life.
"Nice work, Soldier. Pull back."
Without warning, Iidil's brain shuts down and he collapses into the clutches of his constant nightmares.
Deep in Nepal, a temple dedicated to things beyond the average human's capabilities stands tall. It's known for healing those with injuries so severe, no doctor could serve. Many have ventured through its walls searching for miracles. This is no exception for Naomi; a lonely woman who sits in the traditional pose- one leg folding on top of the other as she focuses within herself. Her hands are folding in an intricate sign, no concentration being spared away from lowering herself in a river of deep tranquillity. She focuses on improving the little fire she holds inside her spirit. It's the one thing that makes her special, the one thing that makes her stand out from the rest. She knows how to harness her spirit's flame and use it to improve her as a whole.
Inhaling a slow, steady breath, she starts to release herself from all that holds her back. She blocks out the world, forgets her past, and ignores the future. Closing her mind, the only focus she holds is put in strings - ones that slowly lift her from the hard ground. When she peels her eyes open for the first time in hours, a blazing gold takes in the room. Her hairs were inches from the ceiling. No amount of movement could allow her feet to reach the floor. Even with this accomplishment, she does not allow herself the grin that wishes to escape. She simply closes her eyes and slowly gifts gravity its control once more. When her legs touch the ground, there's a sudden round of clapping that resonates around the silent room.
"Well done, Miss Testardo."
Naomi stands from the floor and proceeds to walk right past the one that spoke such a compliment. Naomi's eyes spark with annoyance as she moves through the busy halls. Her mood clashes with the natural and peaceful barriers that separate the temple from the people of Tungnath. Naomi marches outside where many people, much like her, are practicing spells out in the open air. She travels to the end of the line, occupying a spot next to a man dressed in traditional blue robes. They both respectfully ignore the other as they practice their spells.
However, Naomi's guest follows her out, looking over Naomi's shoulder.
"Focus more, picture everything to the highest degree," the woman instructs - forcing her presence into Naomi further.
Naomi drops her hands, destroying the glitching picture. She turns to face the woman that pesters her for the second time that day. She holds a smirk, batting away Naomi's annoyance. Her tall frame of 6"2' makes her tower over Naomi, her legs stretching long enough to make a giraffe jealous. Her skin is a nice tan to match her brown eyes that sparkle in the sunlight. In a sense, her name fits her perfectly; Callista, meaning beautiful.
"I'll keep that in mind," Naomi snaps. She turns back around and tries a different trick. She finds it easier to perform the act of looking through her memories- like a little mirror into her mind. Νοσταλγία- the greek's word for nostalgia.
Her image is steady, but it isn't the memory she had been searching for- the memory of a cute dog waddling down the street near her house. Instead of the fat dog she remembers, Naomi's staring at the small building she used to call home. Watching the flowers in her old garden dance to the early morning wind as her dog pranced around. Her mom was making breakfast in the kitchen, dancing around and humming with a gentle smile. Every little movement leaves a burn on Naomi's skin. She stands for a moment, reminiscing when her family was whole. However, the picture collapses once Naomi sees the child version of herself prance in with a girl around the same age, both grinning as their parents present them with a birthday cake.
"You miss them, don't you?" Callista questions, her voice soft and hesitant.
"Of course I miss them! What kind of question is that?" Naomi yells, tears gathering in her eyes. She storms back into the building when she notices some of the students staring at her. Of course, Callista decides to follow her.
"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you - I'm just worried about you. You need to rest, you're overexerting yourself," Callista scolds, her tone teetering towards motherly.
Naomi screeches to a halt, almost resulting in a collision with Callista. She doesn't turn around; her eyes are trained ahead as she glares into the open space.
"I can't rest. Why should I worry about myself when my family is out there, possibly in more danger than they can handle?" Without waiting for a reply, Naomi continues. "My duty as a daughter and a sister is to protect my family. I won't rest until I find them and know they're safe."
Then, Naomi stalks away. No longer are her steps rushed and loud - they're soft and precise. Naomi's hunched shoulders and gradual steps make her look like she's holding the world upon her shoulders. People like to say Naomi's invisible, but that isn't true. She may be strong, but her worry is going to crash down on her one day. Like a building once standing tall and strong, Naomi's nearing closer to the hurricane that waits to destroy her.
Word Count: 3,360