TW: self harm, torture, implied/referenced child abuse, depression, etc.

Hong Kong's brooding, muddled night sky gave a cold and unfriendly farewell as she boarded the helicopter.

The ride home was tense, her superior's vibrations taut and frigid. He hadn't spoken a word to her, hadn't turned his head to even look at her. She couldn't understand why or what she'd done wrong – her order was "subdue if necessary," and it had been necessary.

(And Scorch had been scared and angry, rightfully so. He hadn't asked for any of it – the high rising pitch of his begging and pleading still rattled in her mind. She wondered if he was like her, forcibly given powers that he hadn't wanted, his life changing abruptly forever. He hadn't seen the fine print before signing his life away, hadn't been read his rights or even treated like a human being, instead he was simply HYDRA's lab rat, used up and thrown away when they were done with him.)

(A small voice in her head sneered you're next.)

Instead of dwelling on the life she'd taken, her mind harped on fears of what her superior would do to her for screwing up. In the back of the helicopter, she pulled her knees up to her chest and gnawed at her knuckles, watching him warily in her peripheral, replaying the incident with Scorch over and over to try and find her fault, waiting for the storm to hit.

As the steady vibrations of solid ground approached, the first few raindrops thudded against the aluminum.

And her superior stepped out, opened the door wordlessly, and calmly brought her back to her cell.

(She'd turned her face up to the sky, if just for a moment, letting the raindrops kiss her cheeks and the wind rip through her hair – her eyes searched desperately for the pale glow of moonlight, only to be met with foreboding, rolling dark clouds.)

She'd been allowed a shower and welcomed the cool cascade down her back. The pattering of the water against the tile drowned out the voices in her mind berating her, the ones shouting wrong wrong wrong, the guilt that had been gnawing at her chest ever since LA.

(The tally marks on her wrists told her how many more bodies were trailing in her wake; that one long one down her arm that screamed Kalmowitz was met that night with another that intersected, uncoincidentally over a stray burn mark from a rogue lick of a flame, reminding her of the enhanced she'd killed – a cautionary tale for her own fate.)

They brought her a mysterious lump of meat and a limp pile of reheated blanched broccoli. Although it had occurred to her that she hadn't eaten solid food in what was supposedly days, she found it hard to choke it down with her knotting stomach.

You didn't earn this.

They're upset.

You did something wrong.

What she could imagine were a few hours' worth of time passed quietly; she sat in the corner of her cell, cuffs digging into her stinging arms, her knees pulled up to her chest and her knuckles clenched firmly between her teeth. Her eyes didn't move from the door – she was certain that the second she let her guard down they'd come and they'd do something because she'd done something wrong, she had to have. Obsessively, she dissected her actions in Hong Kong and when her mind landed on Raina, she quickly pushed that aside, determined not to follow where that path might lead.

(She hated the way her dinner rolled in her stomach and the vibrations simmered uneasily beneath her skin as Raina's buttery voice whispered those words over and over, and despite her best efforts they lingered at the forefront of her mind.)

Your father misses you-

Daisy Daisy Daisy-

Time passed agonizingly slow. The harsh, hostile vibrations of boots thudding down the hall jolted her out of her spiral, bringing her back down to earth.

(She only came to realize as she was ushered to the gym that the persistent taste of iron coating her tongue had in fact come from chewing her fingers raw, and quickly wiped some of the remaining blood bubbling in her cuticles on her pantleg to hide the evidence because her life isn't hers to-)

The smiley superior was nowhere to be found, which was odd. He usually took care of her training, and the angry one was the one who took her into the field. She didn't question it – she almost preferred the angry one anyway, at least he didn't smile like he enjoyed seeing her in pain.

But the angry one was still quiet, and it was making her chest constrict, like a snake had coiled around her lungs. She dug her stumpy nails into her palms, practically begging her airways to function, pleading with her heart to stop fluttering like a bird trying to escape a cage.

He wordlessly pointed to a spot on the bleacher and her shaking legs carried her there, her hands wringing each other on her lap as she watched him study her like a lab rat, his gaze sweeping across her like a hungry beast who'd cornered his prey. Though his expression was stoic, his vibrations roared at her with such intensity she nearly shrunk away; she actively focused on taking her own vibrations and bouncing them down to the mat underfoot, letting the high-impact foam absorb them so her bones wouldn't have to rattle again.

"Raina tells me SHIELD infiltrated the lab," he finally said. She dropped her gaze, studying her bloodied fingernails. "She said Phil Coulson was there."

His vibrations indicated that he'd taken a step closer, and warily she lifted her gaze, letting a shudder pass down her spine and dispersing the vibrations into the mat again.

"You wanna explain what happened? Because Raina told me you had every chance to take him in, and you let him go." His scrutinizing eyes bore into her, and she bit the inside of her cheek, her whole body trembling. "For crissakes," he muttered. "Permission to speak. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put you down right now, because you've been on thin ice for a while."

A small tremor slipped from her grasp, and she quickly redirected it down into the mat, hoping and praying he didn't feel it. He narrowed his eyes, his finger hovering over that button on his watch. "I'm fucking serious," he growled. "Explain yourself right now. You've been less than compliant recently, so either shape the fuck up or I swear to God I'll have you back on the operating table so fucking fast-"

Her throat felt like sand and her heart thudded in her chest so hard she could swear he could hear it. She drew a shuddery breath, her voice coming out in a hoarse, raspy wheeze. "I-"

It burned. Her unpracticed voice gave a strange rumble in her airways, and she cleared her throat, trying to focus it into one cohesive sound, but she couldn't remember the last time they'd allowed her to speak and she wasn't sure if she even knew how to anymore.

"You what," the superior spat.

"I didn't-" Her breaths shuddered in her lungs, and she dug her fingernails in her palms in a feeble attempt to steady herself. "It wasn't… It's-" She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to quiet the whirling in her head and the blood roaring in her ears, before finally spitting out; "Not- my… orders…"

She'd felt his vibrations spike but still hadn't expected his fist to connect with her jaw.

"You fucking-"

The recoil had twisted her sideways; she brought a shaky hand up to her face to rub the tender spot. Blood pooled in her mouth, and she ran her tongue over a scrape on her gum from what she'd assumed was impact from her teeth.

The superior glowered at her, his vibrations a raging fire. "Disrespectful little shit," he growled. "On what fucking planet- Had it not occurred to you that we are literally tracking their every move? Do you think it's a goddamned coincidence that we keep 'bumping into' Phil Coulson's team? Or that they keep showing up to fuck with our progress on the Centipede Project? What part of 'they're the enemy' do you not understand?" She couldn't stop herself from shrinking under him as his eyes blazed with fury. "Enlighten me, because I'd love to fucking know how in the hell any of that got lost in translation."

He looked at her expectantly, and she worked at her nerve to speak again. "I-" The blood in her mouth gurgled in the way of her words, and she swallowed it, the lump rolling down her throat and making her stomach churn sickeningly. "It wasn't-"

"It wasn't what?" The superior balled his fists again, and she immediately flinched away, preparing herself for another blow. "If you're trying to tell me that you knew full well that Phil Coulson is a threat, that we've been trying to bring him in ever since learning that he was still alive, and you still let him go-"

"No, it wasn't-"

Pain blossomed in her cheekbone, cutting her off mid-beg. She recoiled again, her nose throbbing at the impact, blood dripping from her nostril and trailing down to her upper lip. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and disgusted, she lifted her chin, trying to get them to dissipate before they spilled over, determined not to cry in front of him.

(Crying will make it worse, crying will make it worse, don't show weakness-)

"I'm getting real sick of your fucking attitude," the superior hissed, leaning in so close she could feel his hot breath on her skin. He grabbed her by the neck; a powerful quake bubbled up inside of her. Gritting her teeth, she clamped down on it, letting it rattle her bones, her whole body giving a light shudder in response. His voice was scathingly slow as he spoke, his eyes blazing as they bore into hers. "You are property of HYDRA. You follow orders. You do not get to decide who lives and who dies. And if you continue to allow Phil Coulson and his ragtag team of misfit toys to slip through your fingertips, you will be considered HYDRA's traitor. And you fucking know what we do with traitors. Are we clear?"

Her lungs burned and screamed for air as she gave him a stiff nod. He tightened his grip on her neck and snarled; "Are. We. Clear."

"Yessir," she sputtered, and he released her. She slumped back into the bleacher, her eyes glazed as she rubbed her neck. The metallic taste of blood still clung to her gums, the warm, sticky trickle from her nose dripping and spattering crimson onto the matted gym floor. Her arms crossed over her chest and she rubbed her arms, trying to soothe her own nerves, her breath shuddering in her lungs as her superior towered over her.

"Twenty laps."

Her body felt like cement, and she felt strangely absent, her head whirling in a dense fog. Her chest felt hollow and her stomach felt sick as she continued rubbing her arms, her eyes unseeing, the pain in her face dulling and numbing in the background. A harsh shock crackled in her neck, and she closed her eyes, letting the pain course through her before it faded into that same numb nothing.

"Twenty laps, now."

Unconsciously, she stood, her head feeling waterlogged and her chest tight with pressure. In a dazed state, she felt her legs start carry her around the perimeter of the gym.

"You did what?"

Ward shook his head, pacing back and forth by the holotable. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed as he processed what Coulson had told him; May cast a knowing glance over to Coulson, a "told you it was a bad idea to tell everyone" look that he was well used to receiving from her. Fitz-Simmons glanced at each other in a way that was not unlike Coulson and May's silent communication.

Ward sighed, turning back to face them all. "Sir, with all due respect, offering a dangerous enhanced enemy a spot on the team probably breaches a number of regulations, and is definitely against protocol. And for good reason."

"I think it would be great," Simmons offered enthusiastically. "If she can cause earthquakes like you said, then I'd love to study her biology, cut her open and get a blood sample to work with, see how her DNA differs from ours and how exactly her powers work-"

"Or if it's manmade," Fitz cut in, his eyes sparkling. "She could have technological enhancements far beyond what we've seen before. If they happen to be the same people who made the prosthetic eye-cams, I can't even begin to imagine how they'd enhance someone to give them seismokinetic powers-"

"Or if it's the Centipede serum," Simmons added. "How did they enhance the serum itself to give human beings abilities-"

"She would have blown up by now if it was the serum," Fitz pointed out. He pondered for a moment. "I wonder if her powers are simply seismic or vibrational, 'cause if they're vibrational that could potentially make her-"

Simmons jumped in, her pitch rising with excitement; "-Avengers-level powerful, because if she can manipulate the vibrations in things then technically she could do so much more then earthquake generation, she could create shockwaves-"

"-Vibrate water molecules-"

"-Manipulate sound frequencies-"

"-Tear anything apart at a molecular level-"

"Guys," Ward cut them off, shaking his head again. "You're missing the point. This is the girl who killed Agent Kalmowitz in cold blood. She's the one who collapsed the temples in Peru. And she just quaked the pyrokinetic to death – May said she snapped his neck with a flick of her wrist."

Simmons nudged Fitz and singsonged; "Shockwaves!"

Ward pinched the bridge of his nose before turning to look pointedly at Coulson. "If you want my opinion, sir, I don't feel comfortable having her on the plane."

Coulson glanced over at May, who stiffened next to him, returning his gaze hesitantly. He knew she was still wary of the girl, but as they had left Hong Kong, she'd mentioned to him that she didn't think his theory on the whole thing was too farfetched after all – but that they shouldn't mention HYDRA to the team, not just yet anyway.

"Guess you're lucky she turned us down then," May murmured wryly.

"Well, she didn't technically turn us down," Coulson pointed out. "She didn't actually say anything. Huh... Have you ever heard her speak? You think she can speak?"

May rolled her eyes at him, the corners of her mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk.

"Did she appear to have any technological enhancements?" Fitz wanted to know, but was overlapped by Simmons excitedly saying something about wanting to know whether it was "manipulated or hereditary genetics."

"Wouldn't it be safer to put her down?" Ward asked, casting a disgruntled glance at the overly enthusiastic scientists. "I have no problem crossing her off if I need to."

"I suppose I can still study her DNA if she's dead," Simmons sighed dejectedly. "But I was sort of excited to have another girl on the plane, no offense boys."

"If Simmons gets a girl, can I have a monkey?" Fitz piped up.

"Ugh, Fitz-"

"Guys!" Ward snapped, before turning back to Coulson. "What are my orders, sir?"

"Don't shoot," Coulson responded. "I won't deny she's a threat. But I think we can get her on our side. I think she'd be a real asset if we can."

Ward sighed. "Tristan, sir."

"I know." Coulson glanced over at May, who'd dropped her gaze. He knew full well her stance on that particular matter, but he also knew from the way her brows knitted together and the downward tick of her lips that she was conflicted. "But I don't think she really has any control over her own actions. She follows orders without a choice."

"With all due respect, sir, if she comes after Fitz or Simmons, I'll have to disobey mine."

Coulson didn't have too long to dwell on the subject – the next week was jam-packed with dangerous missions that put his new team to the test.

Only a couple days after Hong Kong, they'd gone to Pennsylvania to investigate a floating body, the cause of which stemmed from an alien virus that had been lying dormant on a Chitauri helmet. Spread via electric shock, the infected only had a brief amount of time before their brain would be struck with two thousand megajoules of electricity; and then, they'd float.

Everyone's worst fears came true when Jemma Simmons was infected.

Ward paced the plane, his fists clenched and his teeth gritted. Powerless to do anything, he whirled around and slammed his fist against the wall upon realizing that Simmons' life was being threatened by something he couldn't fight for her. Rhythmic, dull thudding followed shortly after by grunts and angry shouts echoed through the plane when May finally sent him downstairs to release some steam.

May, like the rock she was, kept a level head and a calm presence for everyone, but Coulson could clearly see by the minute way her brows tugged together and the subtle tightness in her jaw just how worried she truly was. This, and the way she flitted around from the lab to the cockpit to the cargo area to Coulson's office, restlessly checking up on everything and everyone. When he'd stopped her in her tracks to ask how she was doing, she'd simply responded that she was going to go see how Ward was doing.

Her voice had a slight waver to it and her eyes were glassy, as if with every passing minute the reality of the situation sunk in more and more, and because, like Ward, Melinda May hated being unable to take care of the people she cared about.

Coulson admired Fitz. The way he never left Simmons' side while she rushed to find a cure, how he encouraged her and tried so hard to be upbeat and keep her hopeful, was commendable to say the very least.

Again, the duo truly reminded him of himself and Mel in their youth – always sticking together through good times and bad, always having each other's' backs. Even the way they spoke he could see similarities, as if they were having one cohesive thought relayed through two separate beings.

They'd sat back-to-back against the glass of the laboratory door, Simmons running around frantically, Fitz encouraging her and cracking jokes to break through the thick fog of despair that had settled on the plane. This carried on until Fitz had gone in, the helmet under his arm, and physically exposed himself to the Chitauri virus, because they were a team, they were in it together.

Because he would never, ever leave her side.

Even if it meant risking exposure to a deadly alien virus.

But two dead mice and one used parachute later, Simmons was cured.

And as the leader of the team, Coulson had to be stern with Simmons and reprimand her for throwing herself off the plane, but from the uneasy stir in his stomach and the way his heart had skyrocketed its way to his throat upon realizing what she'd done, he couldn't help feeling a little bit like a father yelling at his kid for leaving the house without permission – the shock of "don't you ever scare me like that again" paired with immense relief at seeing her standing there in front of him, alive and well and able to receive an earful for her actions only added to this sensation.

From the way May's entire body had relaxed, releasing whatever tension had tied up her muscles, he'd venture to guess that she felt that same strange parental feelings – though she would most definitely kick his ass if he ever brought it up.

Not even twenty-four hours had passed when Coulson was alerted that he would lead an extraction team with May and Ward for Agent Shaw in Siberia, who had recovered intel on a weapon built by South Ossetian separatists. After extracting the storage device with all of the information from his nose – not Coulson's firstchoice for storage, but given the other orifices on the human body, he had to be at least a little relieved – they all took a trip to the Hub.

As Fitz-Simmons scurried off to the science labs, Coulson, May, and Ward headed to the briefing, where they were told that Ward and Fitz were to be the ones to go in and shut down the weapon. A twinge of concern had flickered in Coulson's chest at the thought of sending his somewhat clumsy, still inexperienced, and incredibly endearing engineer into dangerous territory to dismantle something called the Overkill Device (especially after nearly losing his female counterpart quite literally a day ago), but nevertheless he had faith that Fitz could hold his own in the field – and of course, having Ward by his side wouldn't hurt.

However, learning that they did not, in fact, have an extraction plan, changed everything.

Coulson wasn't sure how May found out. But he was more than grateful to learn that she'd already set a course to Russia – even if she hadn't confirmed with him. They'd dropped in just in time to extract Ward and Fitz as they were surrounded at gunpoint, had a spaghetti dinner to celebrate three-fifths of the team cheating death in a matter of forty-eight hours, and everyone turned in for the night.

"How did you find out?" Coulson asked May after Fitz-Simmons and Ward left to play cards. She glanced over from the dish she was washing for a second before looking right back down at the soapy water, taking extra time to scrub a stray patch of tomato sauce.

"I was looking into other things," she said carefully. "Stumbled upon the file."

"What other things?" Coulson chuckled, though the way she was speaking made him uneasy. Because sure, they didn't always "communicate" openly, but they would never hide things from each other. But the way her tone had shifted ever so slightly made it sound like she was choosing her words, reluctantly tiptoeing around the truth.

She rinsed off her dish and placed it on the drying rack. "Hand me that pot."

Coulson raised an eyebrow but complied. "Everything alright?"

She nodded and began scrubbing before saying after a beat; "I searched our databases for the girl. Found nothing."

"Oh," Coulson murmured. "Is that it?"

May nodded curtly, staring intently at the pot she was scrubbing.

That wasn't it, but she wasn't going to tell him. That much was crystal clear.

"You found nothing on the girl?" Coulson backtracked. She shook her head.

"She's not anywhere on file," May elaborated, rinsing the pot. "I ran some facial recognition, conducted a mass search for the word 'quake.' Absolutely nothing."

"Interesting." Coulson didn't know what else to say.

"It's like she doesn't exist." May grabbed a towel and started drying the pot by hand.

Coulson frowned. "Well, we know she exists."

May's eyes flicked exasperatedly up at him in a "no shit, Sherlock" fashion, before stowing the pot away in one of the cabinets. She turned to rinse the dish soap off of her hands.

"I just mean," Coulson quickly added, "that the whole thing is weird, usually we're able to find something. Nothing on social media? No news reports with her in it? Nothing that can trace her to a real name, or a past life, or anything at all?"

"Not a thing." May turned off the tap, dried her hands, and folded the towel neatly back on the counter. "How are you feeling?"

Coulson frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "How am I…?"

"Any trouble sleeping? Aches? Pains?"

He cocked his head. "I'm fine, Mel. Where is this coming from?"

She shrugged. "You've had a rough couple days."

He shook his head. "If that's the case, how are you?"

She studied him for a moment through narrowed eyes. "I'm good. You should get some rest. You're not exactly a spring chicken anymore."

Coulson's jaw dropped in mock offense. "Excuse me? Of all the chickens on this Bus, I have the most spring!"

The genuine, unguarded chuckle that left Melinda May's lips was music to his ears as she turned and headed out.

As the end of the week drew closer, Coulson's team was sent into Greenwich to clean up after Thor's battle with the Dark Elves - because nothing screamed "highly skilled, handpicked team tackling cases that haven't been classified yet" like cleaning up after the god of thunder.

"Maybe the girl's an Asgardian," Coulson commented to May, who simply rolled her eyes. "Do you think she's Asgardian? Or maybe from one of the other Realms?"

"Maybe she's three trolls in a superhero costume," May deadpanned as she passed by, bending over to pick up a stray piece of rubble.

It wasn't not long before their next real call to action, however, as a couple in Norway found an Asgardian artifact and subsequently began to, essentially, raise an army.

As one does.

According to SHIELD consultant on Norse Mythology, Elliot Randolph, the staff was called the Berserker Staff, which granted the user incredible strength at the cost of uncontrollable rage. The Asgardian warrior who wielded it split it into three parts and hid each separately to safeguard it from ever falling into the wrong hands.

The Norse Paganist cult were on the hunt for the other two pieces, so the name of the game was to recover them before they could. They'd tracked down one in some underground catacombs in Seville, Spain, and Ward and May go in to find it.

They hadn't been expecting to find Randolph with it first, and when Ward tried to take it from him, he experienced firsthand what the staff can do to someone.

"I'm concerned that my exposure to that weapon has compromised my ability to do my job," Ward confessed later on the Bus. Coulson stood up, watching him carefully. Ward's muscles tensed as he described how the weapon had stirred up his worst childhood memory, filling him with rage that had caused him to lash out at Fitz-Simmons while they conducted their examination. He shook his head, remorse twisted all over his face. "I don't trust myself," he admitted, unable to look Coulson in the eye. He chuckled wryly to himself. "I didn't realize that the thing I'd have to protect Fitz-Simmons from was myself."

"Grant," Coulson reassured him. "You telling me this makes me feel I can trust you." Ward didn't look convinced, so he added; "Besides, I don't think either of them will take it personally." He nodded towards the screen, where the image of Randolph in the Cage flickered. "It's him I don't trust. I can't get him to talk. You've got some built up anger – maybe it's time to let it out."

They found out that Randolph was the Asgardian warrior, and he eventually revealed the location of the final piece of the staff. Ward and May both wielded the staff to defeat the cult, and they headed back to a hotel to stay the night. As Ward approached Fitz-Simmons to apologize, Coulson pulled May aside to check in.

"Hey," he murmured gently. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Her jaw tightened, her eyes downcast. She responded, "I'm going to bed."

He frowned. If holding just one piece had affected Ward as much as it did, he couldn't help but to worry about what holding all three had done to May, especially where he knew she still grappled with her demons on the daily. But, knowing better than to push it, he reluctantly let her go.

To cap off the week, only a day later they received information on a supposed telekinetic located in Batesville, Utah. A new enhanced meant she was unheard of on the Index, so by protocol it was time to conduct an Index asset evaluation and intake.

But, by the time they touched down in Utah, the girl had vanished.

The first time she'd killed someone had been one of the most horrifying moments of her life.

It had been pretty early on in her HYDRA career. She'd had vivid memories of the lab and the operating table, of the man with the rounded glasses, of that one other man, the one with the dark, shaggy hair and the wild eyes. The cell had been new and she wasn't quite used to the buzzing bees beneath her skin yet; her skin was relatively unmarred (comparatively speaking) and her cheeks still had a little bit of that youthful teenage baby fat.

She remembered entering the room, her eyes landing on the man in the chair, his mouth gagged and his hands tied. Late 20s, early 30s. Brunette, skinny, scared. She remembered her superior smirking at her, saying that this was the ultimate test, let's see what you're truly made of.

He'd handed her a knife. He said you can't rely on your powers. He told her that the first is the hardest, but it was necessary, you have to push past your weakness.

She hadn't quite understood what he was asking of her – or maybe she didn't want to believe it. She wondered how she'd gotten herself into this mess in the first place.

She didn't want to do it.

He'd said you will be compliant. He'd said you will prove your worth. He'd said do it, fucking do it, look him dead in the eye and slit his throat.

And she'd cried. She spun around to face him and begged, tears streaming down her face, wondering what this man had done to deserve to die.

That was when she learned they'd implanted a device in the back of her neck that would shock her at the mere push of a button.

He'd said next time you speak, I rip your tongue out. He'd said a good HYDRA agent follows orders, nothing more, nothing less.

He'd said you are property of HYDRA, you don't get a choice.

After all, you owe us your life. The least you could do is follow orders like you're supposed to.

The electrical shock scared the shit out of her. He pressed that button again and it hurt like nothing she'd ever felt before – worse than cigarette burns and angry drunken fists and belt buckles. Her heart drummed in her chest, and she approached the man and he thrashed and kicked, and her hands shook and her superior said give him hell, fight past your weakness.

And out of the corner of her eye, she saw his finger hovering over that button and she'd lashed forward and crossed him off.

And as she watched the life drain out of his neck, as she watched his shocked, terrified eyes glaze over, as his guttural cry echoed through the room and cut into her soul like the knife she'd slit his throat with, a piece of her died with him.

The superior's voice faded into the background and she'd dropped to her knees, the knife clanging against the cement floor. Her whole body shook uncontrollably, and she couldn't find it in her to cry or to feel anything at all – a hollow void had opened up in her chest and swallowed her whole.

And she sat, curled in on herself, her hands coated in his warm sticky blood and the knife stained crimson with his blood and his body slumped over dripping with blood and blood and blood and she was a killer now she was a killer and there was blood on her hands and he didn't deserve this and killer killer killer-

At some point over the years, it had become easy. Her heart had sharpened into a cold, hard, lifeless stone in her chest. It was kill or be killed, and it was a simple choice. But it was easy when they were nameless. It was easy when they were nobodies.

(And countless bodies trailed in her wake, tallied up on her wrists. A part of her drowned in guilt and self-loathing, a part of her told her she was a monster. But it was just survival. It was necessary.)

(A tiny sliver of her wondered now if survival was even worth it anymore.)

She was brought into an empty room to see the woman tied to a chair, whispering to herself, her eyes wide and huge and swimming with fear, her vibrations loud and unstable, throwing her off balance. She'd turned her head sharply as she entered, her voice shaky as she begged; "Please, no, please, help me, please, I'm not who you think I am, I'm Hannah, Hannah Hutchins, I don't know what's causing it, I just want it to stop-"

And she'd frozen. This wasn't a nameless nobody – this was a girl who was afraid. Who had a first and last name. Maybe she had a family. A home. A job. People who cared about her.

(She wondered, not for the first time, if there had been anyone who noticed her disappearance all those years ago. If anyone had looked for her, or even cared about her. If the kids at school had turned their heads to look at the empty desk in the back of the room. If the family she'd been staying with had any idea that she didn't return from school that day, how long it had taken them to realize she wasn't coming back.)

(A small part of her hoped someone had noticed when she'd been wiped out of existence, that someone had searched for her, that someone had missed her, but she had a sinking, sickening feeling that she'd been too inconsequential for anyone to even notice she was even gone.)

"You've got one last chance," one of the superiors growled. "Prove you're telekinetic, and we'll let you live."

Hannah shook her head, her eyes wild and her voice hysterical. "It's not me," she sputtered. "Please you have to believe me, it's not me, God's punishing me, please, I just want it to stop, it's not me, it's not me-"

Her blood turned to ice as the superior turned his head, his dark eyes landing on her. "Give her hell, Quake."

Hannah's sobs bounced off the concrete and echoed around the room, each wail piercing right into her soul. The woman's cries turned to shaky whispers, and as she'd approached, gathering the nerve to even lift her hand at her, she'd heard her praying.

(And she didn't want to do it. She didn't want to do it – she couldn't even look as she snapped the woman's neck in one quake. But she knew that she couldn't afford to hesitate, that her superior was watching, just waiting for her to slip up, and the thought of what he would do to her was almost worse than seeing the girl in her nightmares for rest of her insignificant little life.)

Hannah Hutchins didn't deserve to die.

Who was wondering where Hannah was? Who was watching the clock, waiting for her to come home? Who was now realizing that there was an empty space now where Hannah was supposed to be? Would they fall to their knees, wail and cry, or would they hold on, deny it for days, maybe weeks, until people started whispering rumors in the streets of what had happened, where she'd gone?

It was harder when she had a name, when she knew who she was killing. It was harder when she saw the effects removing a life had.

A man, falling to his knees, his face pale with horror and disgust, whispering in hushed agony the victim's name as if a plea to bring him back.

(Agent Kalmowitz and Scorch and Hannah Hutchins and blood and blood and killer killer killer-)

And her superior merely nodded in approval. Two other agents stepped forward to carry Hannah's limp body out – her head rolled and her glazed eyes trailed on the ground and she had to look away or they'd burn right through her.

(But it was easy, it was easy, it had to be easy, why wasn't it easy anymore-)

She hated that killing this woman meant that she could eat. She hated that at the cost of a life she would be allowed a pile of lukewarm peas and some soggy chicken nuggets. She hated the way she suppressed her emotions, her chin raised high as if she was proud to have killed an innocent. She hated how her superior looked pleased at her performance, like she was a circus animal who'd done a trick for a lousy treat.

She hated how her stomach swirled with nausea as she choked down her dinner, how she nearly threw up in the corner of her cell, and how for the first time in potentially years, long after darkness engulfed her cell, silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized all over again what a monster she truly was.