Author's Note: This chapter title comes from Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell.

Chapter Seven - My dear (I don't give a damn)

She awoke with a hangover and it took her mind a moment to realize exactly why that was impossible. Because despite her constant teasing about the matter, there was no way she would actually sneak a drink behind her father's back.

Her father.

There was something important about him. Something he'd done. He'd sent her away? Was he angry with her? No, that wasn't it. He sent her away because he wanted her safe. And then . . . .

Danielle jerked up with a gasp, heat boiling under her skin and she was too panicked to hold it back. But it just hissed angrily around in her body, burning at her bones, and she crumpled. A scream forced itself up her throat. She clawed at the metal still around her neck, though she couldn't see anything through the white, white, white.

The heat started pulsing through her veins and she pressed into the ground with a whimper. Drums pounded in her head, echoing around angrily in her skull. She struggled against the weight on her eyes before finally forcing them open.

It wasn't white. It was grey, grey, grey.

Her hands scraped across the concrete and her arms shook, threatening to give out as she forced herself to sit up. As she studied the small room—ten by ten, small bed, small stall area with narrow shower and toilet, cinderblock walls—the shaking in her hands became easier to handle.

Breathing didn't.

She reached up at the feeling of phantom metal around her throat only to have her fingers hit something solid before she could touch her neck. Her breath hitched with a mild cry. She curled her fingers around the thick metal encircling her neck; at least, she tried. It was pressed up against her throat, no room between skin and metal, and that explained why it was so hard to breath.

She reached to the back of her neck, tracing the metal until she felt that it was fully together, not a gap available for removal. Danielle tried sliding her fingers between the metal and skin at the nape of her neck, and that was when she felt the stubble. With just a moment of hesitation, she ran her fingers over her head and felt the buzzcut there, her hair shorn away. With a shudder, she dropped her hands back to the collar.

"Okay, Stark," she mumbled. "You got this. What is this? Kidnapping number . . . ." She frowned. "God, this hasn't happened in a long time." She looked down and pulled at the grey clothing she'd been dressed in. "Alright, goal one: find out—"

She broke off as the door clicked loudly and then swung open. "Talking to yourself? I've always heard about geniuses being eccentric."

Danielle eyed the man that stepped inside, studying his sharp eyes and worn face. There was something vaguely familiar about him—she knew she had to have seen him before—but she couldn't place him. She shoved herself up from the ground and rose unsteadily to her feet. "What do you want? Money?"

"Oh, nothing like that," he said absently. He stepped inside, glancing around the small room. Two uniformed guards—dressed in black and holding guns—stepped in after him and the second closed the door. "I want you."

"Wh-what?" she asked, voice breaking. He stepped towards her and she stumbled back into the wall, shaking again. "We can pay you," she rasped. "Just, just name your price. I—"

"Oh, dear." The man sighed. Then he studied her for a long moment. "You have no idea how valuable you are, do you?"

"Send me home," she tried to demand, but her voice still shook. "We'll get you whatever you want. Money, capital—"

"You just don't understand." He reached out for her and she wanted to back away again, but she was already pressed against the wall. His rough fingers gripped her chin and tilted her head up so she had no choice but to meet his icy gaze. "Let me explain to you how the world works. It's an economy, run on exchanges and bargains and agreements. You give something and then get something back. You being here? That's me getting something."

She swallowed and felt his grip tighten at the movement. "And . . . what do I get, then?" she whispered.

He smiled and it was cold and sharp and reminded her of Natasha's angry smile in a way that made Danielle's stomach turn. "You get to live. Doesn't that appeal to you?"

She pressed her lips together and curled her hands into fists to try to stop the way they shook.

"Doesn't it?" he repeated, something in his tone hardening. "Because if it doesn't, I'm sure we can arrange for that to end."

"It does," she forced out. "It does."

He smiled again and pulled his hand back. "Good. We have a job for you, then. Repairing some of the damage you've done to our Asset. You need to fix his arm."

"Your—" Her stomach was full of rocks. "The man you sent after me?" she rasped. "I'm not—" Danielle started shaking her head frantically, pressing back against the wall. "I'm not doing a damn thing for him. Or for you."

He frowned and sighed somewhat sadly. "Such a pity. I was hoping you wouldn't have to be . . . persuaded."

"Per— What?"

He stepped back and motioned and then guards were surging forward. They closed death grips on her arms and started dragging her away from the wall. "No, no, no," she cried out, struggling uselessly against them. "Leave me alone! Please!"

"Oh, darling," the man cooed. "If you didn't want us to hurt you, then you should have agreed. Don't worry, you'll get a second chance. You just have to learn a bit first. Take her."

Danielle screamed and fought against them, but they hauled her through the doorway and down the hall without regard for the way she was dragging her feet on the concrete floor until they bled. She was shoved towards another door and it opened as she was pushed through the doorway. They swung her around and Danielle gasped as she was slammed against the wall and her arms wrenched behind her back. Something clicked and warm metal clenched around her wrists.

"What are you gonna do to me?" she whimpered as they pulled her back from the wall.

The man smiled gently at her. "Don't worry, it's nothing your family isn't already familiar with. After all . . . like father, like daughter." He glanced past her. "Go ahead."

The hands moved to her shoulders and dragged her around. They forced her down to her knees and ice stirred in her chest when she saw what was in front of her. "No, no, no!"

A hand pressed on her head and forced her forward and down. She was in the middle of screaming when her head submerged. Water rushed into her mouth and she gagged, bile backing up in her throat as a defense mechanism. Her chest swelled in an attempt to get air and she closed her eyes against the sting. Her lungs burned and burned and burned and—

The hands dragged her up and she gasped gratefully for the air. But then the hand pressed her downward again and ignored her pleas as the cold surrounded her yet again. She screamed into the water and felt the burn, the burn, the burn, the—

They dragged her up again and this time she was crying, her sobs making it hard for her to catch the air she needed. The hands pressed again. And then dragged up her. Down. And up. And down. And up. And her vision was going black and her stomach was turning and she was begging them to stop.

When they dragged her up again, her stomach heaved and burned against the roof of her mouth as she retched. The contents of her stomach splattered onto the floor and and gasped brokenly.

"That's enough."

The hands released her and she collapsed backwards, whimpering and trying to curl in on herself. But the movement pulled wrong at her shoulders with how her hands were bound behind her. A hand smoothed across her buzzed head. "Danielle, my dear," the man cooed. "I hate to see you like this. I just want the best for you, but I can't manage that if you don't listen to me."

She just sobbed in response.

"Oh, no, don't cry," he murmured, rubbing a thumb under her eyes. "Will you help me now? I don't want to see you crying anymore. Will you help?"

She shied away from the hand. "N-no."

The hand snapped away. "Oh, I just wish you hadn't said that. Try again."

"No, no, no!" She fought against the hold that was dragging her towards the bucket again. "No, no!" She caught her breath and held it just as she was pushed under again. She twisted her hands, trying and straining and getting nowhere. They dragged her up into that precious air, but hardly long enough for her to catch any before her head was underwater again.

The time between was getting shorter and her head was spinning and her heart was threatening to break through her ribs in an attempt to get away. She wailed into the water, searching for relief, when they finally pulled her back and dropped her on the floor again.

"My dear?" he asked again. A steady hand curled around her chin and moved to rub circles on her cheek. "Do you understand what I need from you now?"

Shivering, she managed a nod.

"That's a good girl. Are you going to help me?"

Another sob. Another nod.

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear that." The hand moved and an arm curled around her shoulder, pulling her up and against his chest. Danielle shuddered and pulled away. He let her go. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help. I do hate seeing you cry."

She stared at him, wrenching her hands against the cuffs. "If you need my help, fine," she rasped. "What do I have to do?"

He rose to his feet and watched as the guards grabbed her, hauling her up. She couldn't stop the way her legs shook and their hands were all that was keeping her from collapsing. He smiled. "Take her to the Asset and put the files from Project NB in her room."

"Project—" Danielle's words died in her throat and she stared at him. "Who are you?" she whispered. "How do you have my files?"

He smiled sharply again. "My name is Pierce. And believe me when I say that Hydra can get its hands on anything. Including, it seems, you."

And then the fact that they were the ones holding her, moving her, became very important because in that moment it was like she lost her ability to control her body. She sagged into their arms as they pulled her from the room, feet dragging across the concrete yet again.

Hydra, Hydra, Hydra.

That wasn't true. It couldn't be. Steve had told her all about Hydra and the part she remembered most was that it was gone.

But she also remembered what he told her they said would happen if you cut off one head.

She was jerked roughly to a stop and the metal around her wrists tightened for a moment before clicking and releasing. She drew her hands up to her chest and rubbed her sore wrists, eying the scene in front of her. The hulking, ominous figure was sitting in a chair, except . . . .

"Why's he strapped down?" Danielle asked, eying the metal appendage that was crushed beyond belief. Something twisted in her chest at the thought that she'd been the one to do that. It was nothing but crumpled metal and exposed, sparking wires.

"That's not of your concern," Pierce said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her forward. "Take a look at the arm and determine what you need to replace it."

"Replace it?" She jerked her gaze to him. "You said fix."

"And you said you'd help."

She swallowed thickly and let him push her down onto the stool. She stared at the tray of tools next to her and then turned her gaze to study her patient. He stared back with icy eyes in a shadowed face and oh, god, she wished she'd never talked to Steve about the 40s because now she had to be seeing things. So she ducked her head to focus on the arm instead.

They were right; there was no way to fix this. It was going to have to be removed and completely replaced. She reached for a screwdriver and hesitated, glancing up again at his face. And that was wrong, wrong, wrong, because all of Steve's pictures of the man—the impossible, dead, man—had him full of life and smiling and nothing like the blank emptiness dwelling in those eyes.

The Asset, they called him. And she was sharply reminded of the water in her chest and the gentle words the man had cooed to her and knew that she gave in so easily. But him? Steve had woven stories about how stubborn and brave his friend was. He wouldn't give in. They would have had to break him first.

"I need to look inside at what's left," she said softly. "I need to get an idea of how it's all wired. Okay?"

He just stared at her blankly.

Danielle began carefully prying up the panels while eying the mess where metal met skin in a mass of scar tissue. "It's tied in to his nervous system?"

"Yes," Pierce answered. "Both for motion and minor sensory."

She set aside the third panel and hunched over the wiring. It was mess, full of wires whose sheathes had worn away that were twisted around rusted metal. She moved a couple wires and watched as the metal fingers twitched. When she looked up at him, he was completely expressionless but she knew that it had to have hurt. She drew back. "Okay. Do you have blueprints?"

"In your room. You'll work on them and by the morning you'll have a list of materials needed."

"This arm needs to come off for me to start. And . . . ." She frowned and reached for the shoulder. "You need a better anchoring system. The strain this has to be putting on his collarbone and trapezius—"

Her fingers had barely touched the intersection of metal and skin when the man jerked away as best as he could, real panic being the first emotion in his eyes. The guards surged forward and Danielle snatched her hand back, eyes wide. She sniffled. "Sorry," she murmured. "I'm trying to help."

"The arm will be removed for you to look at tomorrow. Take her back to her room."

Before she could stumbled to her feet, hands grabbed her and the stool clattered to the ground as she was hauled away from it. She fumbled for footing and tripped between the guards, glancing over her shoulder at the man she was leaving behind at Pierce's mercy. Eyes burning, she turned back and dropped her chin to her chest, giving in to the guards that were leading her away.

She'd long since run out of paper and had started using the floor to write out her designs and equations. She'd decided a while ago to ignore all of the old designs they'd given her—too heavy, to crude, too painful—and had dedicated herself to her prosthetic files. The ones that they'd somehow gotten out from under JARVIS's nose, and that thought made her stomach turn.

Danielle finished calculating how much wire she needed and sat back, scratching at her collar as she studied the blueprints sketched out across the floor. She froze.

Her files. Her notes. They had ahold of her files and her notes and there was a collar around her neck that was keeping the Tesseract suppressed. A collar around her neck that was making it hard to breathe and making her joints ache from the heat trapped inside them.

The room had started to spin at one point, but she wasn't sure when. All she was sure of was that it was a variation of her own technology wrapping around her neck like a death grip. She tried to focus on breathing, counting and counting and counting just like Bruce had taught her.

She stared at the used pencil nubs scattered on the floor below her and tried to remind herself what it was like to be in control of her own thoughts. But as she tried, all she could see was the flash of a god and blue and a burning cold in the middle of her chest. She sagged backwards against her bed's metal frame and felt it digging awkwardly into her spine.

Danielle stared up at the video camera in the upper corner of the room, watching the blinking red light. "I want to go home," she begged. "Please."

Suddenly, all the lights in the room shut off and a voice came flatly through the ceiling, saying, "Lights out."

She couldn't see, she was trapped, trapped in her head, and oh god, she was trying to kill her father. Stop, stop, stop. Danielle screamed against Loki's hold on her and crumpled, curling her arms around her head. "Please," she begged. "Stop, stop, stop!"

"Technically, you're dead." He smacked a newspaper into Tony's chest and moved past him.

Tony glanced down at the headline, ready to give a snarky comeback when the words died on his tongue. The end of a line? it read. Tony Stark presumed dead; Danielle Stark missing.