-Chapter 3-

The woman was silent, but the words remained, hanging in the air.

You've been enhanced.

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?" the woman said, her tone still gentle.

I wanted to react. Deny it, maybe.

But there was nothing. A white blankness settled over me, covering me like a thick blanket of glass that muted everything around me, as if I was a stranger in my own body. Distantly, I heard the woman talking to Diaz and the others, but I didn't catch what they were saying.

"Ava?"

I started at the sound, and looked up from the floor to see the woman staring at me.

Or not exactly staring at me. Just at the general space where I should be. Her face is tilted slightly to the wrong angle, her eyes focused at some point behind my shoulder. It was like talking to someone who looked like they weren't paying attention.

An ugly feeling rose in my chest. Again. Of course she wasn't looking at me. You don't look at people you can't see.

"I'll show you to your room," she said. "Come on."

I followed her. I tried to remember the path we used, but there were so many twists and turns that I gave up at one point. On the last elevator ride, the doors opened to reveal a large living room—or maybe common room would be a better term. The space was clean, not exactly neat but lived in, and an obvious work of expensive interior design.

The woman ushered me off into one of the hallways that branched from the room, until we reached the last door. She opened it and gestured for me to go inside.

"You'll be staying here," she said. "There's some snacks and drinks in the mini fridge, but you need real food. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, kind of." I was still busy gawking at the room. Or more of an apartment, really. A small family of three might not have trouble staying here for a few days. There was even a kitchenette, the type one might find in an expensive hotel in a movie. Sunlight streamed through open windows framed by gauzy white curtains, and there was not one water stain or pencil mark on the walls or ceiling. There was a TV. And a laptop—a laptop for me. This had to be the fanciest place I'd ever been told to stay in.

"I'll bring you some sandwiches," the woman said. "While I do that, why don't you go and take a bath? I'm sure it'll make you feel better. We have all your clothing moved here, by the way. And all your possessions are in that cabinet beside the closet." She pointed to the closet by the bed in the corner. "You going to be okay on your own?"

"Sure," I said. "But can we talk when you come back?"

"Talk?"

"Fill me in on everything."

The woman nodded. "Of course." She moved toward the door.

Just before she disappeared, another question popped into my mind. "Wait, who are you?"

She looked back and gave me a wry smile. "I think we'd better save the introductions for later." And she was gone, closing the door behind her.

I stared, confused and uneasy.

Shaking my head, I went to the closet and opened it. Familiar objects in an unfamiliar setting, as well as some new clothing—it seemed strange. I took out two pieces of clothing at random, a red shirt and loose pants. My hands lingered on the fabric, and I stared into the closet at the slightly rumpled clothes. Leaning back in, I plunged my hands inside, searching.

It wasn't there.

"The bag," I said.

Nobody responded, of course.

A hint of panic began to break through. The image of the photos and the golden rings flashed in my mind. They were things I hated to look at—that's why I put it in the bottom of the closet—but at the same time the thought of them being gone was unbearable.

I clenched at the red shirt, hard, for a moment, before I threw it down on the bed. Flinging the cabinet door open, I looked inside and began pulling everything apart. My old schoolwork, books, other useless things I don't know why they would bother taking when I couldn't find the most important thing, the bag. I found my phone—no charge, though—but the blue bag was nowhere to be seen.

A sudden stab of anger sparked in my chest. I banged the cabinet shut, as hard as I could.

"Miss Ashford?" A soft, male voice rang out.

I spun around to the door, the phone still clutched in my hands. "Who's there?"

But the door was shut, just as it was before.

Great. Other than becoming invisible, I'd gone crazy too.

"I am sorry," the voice said. It was British. "It wasn't my intention to scare you. My name is Jarvis, and I am an artificial intelligence."

The voice didn't seem to have a source, although it had to come from a speaker somewhere. "What the hell," I said.

"As many other people say when they first meet me," Jarvis said. "I am a personal assistant to my boss. A part of my program, though, is incorporated into this building to help it run smoothly. I was told to especially take note of this room and its resident."

"So you're like a super powered Siri."

"I'd like to think myself better than that," he said. "You seem to be having trouble with something. Is there anything I could do to help?"

"I don't know. Maybe." I eyed the room, still trying to find the source of his voice. He didn't sound like he meant badly, but then again, it was hard to trust somebody you couldn't even see. Oh wait—who did that also remind me of? Irony. Imagine what a random person who came in right now might feel like. Insane, maybe, with two disembodied voices floating through the air. "Who's your boss?"

There was a pause, as if he was debating how to phrase his next words. Unnerving to have something so seemingly intelligent to be monitoring the room I was staying in.

"I'm not allowed to tell you that right now," Jarvis finally said. "You're overwhelmed as it is. There will be more information forthcoming."

"Right," I said. "Well, thanks for offering, but I'm fine." Maybe I would ask the woman later.

"Alright. I will be here if you need me." And with that, the room was silent again.

The bathroom I found was large but tidy. I stripped down the thin white clothes I was dressed in and stepped into the shower. The shampoo and soap were the familiar tangerine scent, warm and sweet. The same brand as the one in Nick and Julia's house that I used, which was comforting but also unsettling. They really did do their homework about my life.

I stood for a few minutes after washing myself, enjoying the relaxing warm water, watching the soap foam circling lazily around the drain.

That's when I noticed it. Some purpling bruises on my legs that I somehow missed before. Frowning, I looked down, and found more on my torso.

Now I have souvenirs from my earlier wrestling match with Diaz. Yay.

I stepped out of the shower and in front of the tall mirror placed beside it, wanting to see the extent of whatever damage there was. My hands automatically reached forward to brush away the steam blurring the mirror, expecting to see my eyes staring back, the ugly scar on my right cheek.

There was nothing there.

I stood there for a few moments, hand still on the mirror, then quickly wiping down the rest of its surface.

Nothing. Only swirling steam and the walls behind me.

Because I was invisible.

The intangible wall of glass suddenly shattered, and the weight of everything happening, the entire mess, crashed down on me.

If I didn't fully comprehend what was happening before, I did now.

Sinking to my knees, the floor cold and wet, hands burying in my face. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening—

I stumbled on something I should never have.

I had no idea of where I was.

I had no idea of who I was with.

But worst of all—

I was in danger.

Nobody would care if something happened to me. I was in the hands of whoever this organization was. So far, the woman seemed to be okay, but if they decided to do something to me, who would stop them? Certainly not Nick and Julia. They might not even have custody over me anymore. They could do whatever they liked with me, and would probably get away with it.

There would be no evidence of my presence in the world.

And the bag—oh God—those things were gone too. The photos, the rings, the stuffed dog, those last things connecting me to what had mattered were gone—

I was washed out, faded, literally blurred into the background where I could not be found. Not even by myself.

After that, I somehow managed to dress myself

There was a knock on the door. "Ava?" The woman's voice sounded. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," I said.

The woman stepped in, holding a large paper bag. "I picked up sandwiches. I don't know what you like, so I got all of them." Her eyes flickered up and down, like they were trying to decide what to latch onto.

I expected her to say something mundane after that, maybe an "are you okay?"

Instead, she stepped closer and sat down beside me, setting the bag down on the floor. "Do you still want to talk?"

"I do." I turned to her. This time, I studied her. Come to think of it, everything had happened so fast I didn't have chance to properly consider her face.

Now that I did, I noted again that she seemed familiar. The slope of her eyes, the curve of her cheeks, and more importantly, the way she carried herself. Which was strange because I would definitely remember if I saw her in real life, and I didn't.

"I know you from somewhere," I said.

"You probably do," she agreed. She still seemed concerned, but now there was also some wry amusement in her gaze, as if she was waiting for me to figure something out.

"Oh no." Extraordinary fighter, with iconic red hair curling to her chin. "You're …"

"Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow," the woman said.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been thrilled. Because who wasn't excited to meet an Avenger? There were kids I knew from foster care and school who would kill to have a chance to talk to them.

Now, I felt annoyed, even a little angry. Everything had to be out of the ordinary now, didn't it? Why couldn't things just be normal?

I sighed. "I guess I should've figured that out earlier."

"To be honest, a lot of people don't recognize me." Romanoff shrugged. "I've never liked the spotlight. Tony, on the other hand, can't live without it."

Tony … as in Tony Stark. I was stuck in a morbid balance of not wanting to hear another word and dying to know more. "Why are you even telling me that? Shouldn't you be professional or something?"

"Because by how things are going, you're going to be stuck here with us a long time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I tried to keep my voice calm, but it was hard with my earlier suspicion beginning to burst forward again. "Who has my custody? What are you guys going to do to me?"

She shook her head, raising a hand, the universal sign for silence. "First of all, Ava, you need to understand that we're not going to hurt you. We—the Avengers—have your custody, so we'll provide everything you need here. Please, know that if we could have avoided this situation here, we would have. I know you don't trust us right now, and to be honest, I wouldn't either. But I'm telling you anyway. We want to figure this mess out just as much as you do. If we cooperate, we could both help each other."

Not that I'd have a choice, would I? But her eyes seemed sincere enough, and I've had a lot of experience telling whether or not adults are being genuine. This had to be enough for now.

"Yeah, okay. Fine," I said quickly. "I'll work with you. But first I want to know what's going on and everything. How long am I staying here? And actually, where is here?"

"This is the Avengers Tower," Romanoff said.

Good. I was still in New York.

"But I can't say for sure how long you're going to stay here," she finished.

"Er … what do you mean? Wait," I said. "How long have I already been here?"

"To answer your second question, you've been unconscious and kept here for two months—"

"Two months—"

"And to answer your first, we're still working on tracking down all the people behind this. Whatever information you could provide us with would be very helpful," she said. "But there's also the problem of you being invisible. Even if we do crack the case, we still need to find out how to correct that. When you feel up to it, we could start running tests on you."

"Do you guys think you could … fix my problem?" I said.

"I will be honest with you." Her gaze was serious. Or more serious, if that was possible. "I don't know. I'm not an expert on this kind of situation. But based on my experience, there definitely are viable chances. We've got some of the smartest minds in the world working on this."

At least she wasn't trying to sugarcoat anything. "And if I do get cured? Can I go back to my normal life?"

"Ava," she began, her voice softening into the same gentle tone she used in the room I woke up in. I tensed, bracing myself. "Your life will never be normal again, at least not in the ordinary sense. Even if we do get rid of your invisibility forever and without reoccurrence—and I think that's unlikely—you'll always be labeled as enhanced. There will always be someone who is monitoring you."

"I …" The heavy dread settling over me before slammed back into my chest, an almost palpable presence pressing against my lungs. "Right. Thank you."

I expected something along those lines, but to hear it put so bluntly like that … hurts.

The other questions I had—Who were the people behind this? How much do you already know? How much can you tell me?— was suddenly pushed back against my mind. Because there was no point. No amount of answers would ever make me normal again.

"It's a lot to hear, so take your time. Call Jarvis if you need anything. Have you met Jarvis?"

"Yeah."

"Good," she said, and there was some hesitance in that word, like there was something else she wanted to say. "Is there anything else you need?"

"My bag," I said. "It's blue and made out of nylon. A drawstring bag. I didn't see it around here. I was wondering if you guys have seen it anywhere?"

"I'll make sure to get it for you," she said, standing up. Just before she left the door, she turned around. "Take as long as you need to rest. When you feel ready, we'll run the tests."

I kept myself inside the room. For the most part, nobody bothered me, other than Jarvis. He occasionally asked how I was feeling, and I would say I was fine. Three times a day, somebody would knock on the door, and when I opened it, I would find food. Sometimes I ate it. Sometimes I didn't. I stuck my head out of the hallway a few times to see who sent it, but it was empty each time.

When I could manage to get myself to move, I found a charger and hooked my phone up. It was a battered iPhone 4 with a giant crack in its screen from when a kid in foster care—Toby, that idiot—borrowed it and then threw it across the room at me when I asked for it back. My mom passed down to me when she got a new one a few years ago.

Everything seemed to work well, other than the lag, but that was usual in this phone. A few odd things, though—I couldn't call anyone. Literally. When I dialed a number and pressed the button, the call was automatically canceled. All my social media accounts were frozen, too. It was annoyingly understandable. Who knows what posts the hysterical teenage girl might make, right?

It would not be the best press release.

Most of the time, though, I laid on the bed, watching the yellow square of sunlight from the windows crawl slowly across the ceiling as the day passed.

But the worst thing was I wasn't turning back to normal. Every morning, the first thing I would do was to check the mirror in the bathroom, and each time, I found nothing there.

This was like the car accident. How can my life tilt on its axis so suddenly again? How can another of my choices—one so insignificant, to smoke a cigarette—turn the world into a place I don't recognize anymore?

On the afternoon of the fourth day, there was another knock on my door. Weird. It was too early for them to send up dinner. I waited for a minute, before I got off the bed and went to open the door and looked down.

The blue nylon bag.

A wave of relief crashed over me. I snatched the bag, holding it close to me.

"Thank you," I whispered. Then more loudly: "Thank you." Like before, there was no one to be seen in the hallway. But I had to say it anyway.

I closed the door. Too impatient to wait, I opened the bag right there, and checked everything inside it.

Pair of golden rings, stack of photos, stuffed dog—all there.

I carried the items back to the bed and sat down. I brushed a finger against the plastic wrapping of the stack of photos—my parents as college students, with a group of friends at a party on school campus were at the top. My dad was on the right, grinning broadly with arms thrown around two other boys, light brown hair sticking up the way Andy's used to. Mom stood on the far left, a bit removed from the rest of the group, which was understandable since this was her first year as a foreign exchange student from China. But she was smiling too. She was happy. I could tell. 1999, New York City, I read on the label of the photo.

Then I did something that surprised myself. I peeled the plastic wrapping open and took out the stack of photos.

I hadn't looked at them in three years, but each image was familiar to me. The first few were of my parents, and I spent some time on their wedding photo. Then I appeared. As a newborn, on my first birthday, and much more—and when I became a toddler Andy was there too. Our whole family, a complete set. There were some photos of more birthdays and first-time-evers and anniversaries, but there were also some of just random daily life.

A feeling like dread settled over me as I went further into the stack. I knew the end was coming. The last photo was taken just a few days before the accident, by my dad. Andy and I sat on either side of my mom on the couch, watching TV, some Disney film I think. None of us realized that we were being photographed.

I shifted this photo to the back of the stack like I did with all the other ones. My parents, as college students, looked back at me again.

Abruptly, the small smile that had grown across my face without me even realizing vanished.

Putting the photos back into their plastic wrapping, and then into the bag, I yanked the bag close and stuffed it, again, deep inside the closet.

Who was I kidding?

This is why I don't like to look at these pictures. The end was always sudden, even as I know the photos are ending. I always half-expect, half-hope that after the picture of us watching TV, there would be something else. But of course there wasn't anything. They were all dead.

In the past four years, I been on my own. Sure, there were foster parents and groups, but they weren't my family. I had been alone, afraid, constantly passed from hand to hand, and I'd lived. I'd survived.

And what was I doing in the past few days? Just lying on the bed, moping, wishing something or someone would change the situation.

I thought back further into the past few days—to how Moores had put a gun to my head, the way I begged him to let me go, and gritted my teeth. Then to how Diaz had pinned me down, how I couldn't run. And I said to her—I'm sorry, I thought this was the hospital, and cried like some dumb little girl. Pathetic. Weak.

I had to help myself. I owed it to my parents and brother.

And I was going to start by getting some more answers.

"Jarvis?" I asked again.

"Yes, Ava?"

"Can you help me with something else?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"Call Ms. Romanoff and tell her I'm ready for the tests."