A/N: Okay! I feel like this was the hardest chapter to write for some reason, but now I'm over this hiccup and I think the next chapters, whenever I get around to them, will be much easier to write.
Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites. You're all amazing and I'm so lucky to have such awesome people supporting me.
I'm memorysdaughter on Tumblr where I take prompts.
Next to be updated: who knows. I'll see where the spirit leads me.
Enjoy!
Arms. Arms. Arms. Hurt.
Skye blinked up at the orderlies as they set her in a pile of soft blankets. Computer?
The nice orderly – Trip – knelt down in front of her. "Dr. Jemma will be here soon. This is your new room."
This isn't a room. Skye looked around. This is a bunker.
"I have some apples and pretzels," Trip went on.
He showed them to her. The snacks were neatly organized on a tray, along with a can of Sprite.
Skye's eyes lit up. "Bah-bahhh!"
"Dr. Jemma says you deserve a treat," Trip said. "Eat your snack."
Skye reached for the pretzels and then hesitated. Her fingers were bound in the casts. She couldn't pick up the food.
"I got'cha, girl," Trip said, and he sat down across from her.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Can we listen to some music?"
Skye nodded. No one had ever asked her opinion on something like that before.
Trip turned on something Skye hadn't heard before, music with a good beat, and he cracked open the can of Sprite, putting a straw in it. "Which one first?"
She indicated the pretzels, and Trip obediently fed her two of them.
It was quiet, except for Trip's music, and Skye felt relaxed. She knew it was because of the pain meds they'd given her, and that she wouldn't be awake for much longer, but she was glad Trip was with her, glad that no one was upset.
"Hey, girl, can I ask you a question?" Trip asked.
Skye waited until she finished swallowing a mouthful of Sprite, and nodded.
"Did you really make the hospital shake?"
Skye froze.
"Hey, hey, I'm not judging," Trip said. "I'm trying to understand what you're going through."
He put a small piece of apple in her mouth.
She chewed. Then she nodded.
"I'm so sorry."
Why? Skye wondered.
"It must be very difficult to live with something you can't control," Trip said.
Skye found her eyes closing, and she quickly reached out for Trip, trying to indicate that she wanted her computer.
"Dr. Jemma will be here soon," Trip said. "Are you all done?"
No. No. Want Sprite.
Skye hesitantly brought one hand down towards the can of soda.
"I'll put it in the patient fridge upstairs," Trip offered. "I'll put your name on it."
He gathered up the snacks and turned off his phone. Skye missed the music nearly immediately.
"You liked that? I'll see if I can bring you something else to listen to later," Trip said.
Skye nodded.
Trip hesitated at the door. "I know this seems kinda silly, but I wanted to say… I think everything's going to turn out all right."
Skye yawned and curled up in the blankets.
"Dr. Jemma will be here soon," Trip added, and he let the door close behind him.
Skye drowsed and then slept. When she woke she was unsure of how much time had passed, but the room was still around her. One of the orderlies had told her what the room was originally designed for, but she couldn't remember. Its walls were thick and even the air seemed to be firmer, denser. Trapped, just like she was.
Her body felt heavy, too; she tried to get up from her pile of blankets but couldn't move.
You're safe here, Skye heard Dr. Jemma's voice.
Safe here safe here safe here.
Here. Here. Here. Safe here.
Except when you're not.
Not safe. Not safe.
Not. Safe.
"But you're never really safe, are you, Daisy?" Her mother's voice twisted up her spine, slithering into the spaces between her bones. "No one's really safe when you're around, are they?"
Skye moaned.
Could be. Could be.
"But they're not."
Skye tried to get one hand up to her head, tried to push her mother's voice away.
"You weren't designed to be safe, Daisy."
Could be. Could be.
"You were designed to be a weapon."
Skye let out a scream, empty and sick, and managed to get her broken arms up to her ears. She rolled back and forth on her blanket pallet, hands over her ears, sobbing. No, no, no, please. I'm not a weapon. I am not Daisy. I am NOT.
She couldn't breathe; she gulped air frantically, hiccupping and writhing, her arms on fire with pain, the entire room vibrating around her.
"Oh, Daisy." Her mother's voice sounded amused. "You're not any stronger than you were when you left me. You can't fight me. You can't fight what you are, what you were meant to be."
"No," Skye sobbed.
"And you were meant to destroy," her mother continued. "I'll give you partial credit for destroying your own arms, Daisy… next time it'll be something bigger."
Skye howled, her broken hands slamming into her ears again and again and again. Panic flared in hot tongues around her rib cage. She tumbled from the pallet to the floor and lay, face down, shuddering and weeping.
"You liked it, didn't you? You liked having all that power, Daisy…"
Skye forced her aching, throbbing head a few inches up from the floor and then slammed it back down. Pain ensnared her entire body.
Again.
She lost track of how many times she raised her head and slammed it against the concrete floor, but at some point her mother's voice faded away and the gradual static white noise drifted back in.
Wssshhhhshhhh – looking for – wsssshhhhhh – for you – wssshhhhwshsshhh – coming now and –
Wanda felt the itch start at the base of her spine and wanted to weep.
"It's starting again," she murmured to Pietro in Sokovian.
He didn't respond, but she could imagine his answer. (Ignore it. It will stop.)
"You know it won't."
(Ignore it. You promised me.)
The itch grew from an irritation to a true annoyance, spreading out to her hips. She whimpered and gripped Pietro's hand. "Wake up. I don't want to do this without you."
(You're not going to do anything.)
"I need to. It's going to hurt."
(You promised me.)
"I know I promised!" she half-shrieked at him. "And you're here in a hospital bed tethered to enough machines to build an army of robots and I can't make it stop!"
Wanda grit her teeth. The nagging, tugging feeling rose from her hips to the bottom of her rib cage, feeling less like an itch now and more like a nasty sunburn. It was difficult to breathe. "Please, Pietro," she begged in their native language. "Please make it stop."
(Stay here,) she knew he'd say. (Don't give into it. It will stop.)
Wanda tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to focus on Pietro's breathing machine and time her inhales and exhales precisely with it. "It's too hard," she moaned.
(It's your fault we're in this situation, you selfish bitch.)
Wanda jerked back from Pietro's bed. His eyes were still closed. "Did you…?"
She stared down at him, trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't.
The itch took advantage of her movement, of her loss of concentration, and redoubled its efforts, running the length of her spine, attempting to crush her like an action hero in a jungle temple's room of treasures, pressed between two swiftly-moving walls that would meet in the middle. Wanda gripped Pietro's bed for stability but the room was swimming all the same.
"I have to go," she managed to get out.
(Selfish. Bitch.)
"No, Pietro, I'm not," Wanda sobbed. "I just want it to stop!"
She got to her feet, her entire body shaking, and forced her complaining limbs to somehow work in harmony. Two steps, three, four…
A wave of relief rolled over her in the hallway, as though the firm hand squeezed around her rib cage released.
And as she stumbled out of Pietro's ward, down the steps and away from her brother, the itch only lessened. It made her sick.
(Selfish,) Pietro's mocking voice rang in her ears.
Wanda shook her head as she stopped on the ground floor. The itch was minimal, but it was still there. She closed her eyes and let the voices flow over her, searching for the point to anchor her compass.
One-eighty over ninety…
… two units of O-neg, type and cross
… at a meeting with Robert and Elaine
… multiple MVA traumas at the intersection of….
I am not a weapon.
Wanda's eyes flew open. The itch coiled itself into a red-hot ball and pummeled her spine, shoving her forward. She weaved through knots of people, of nurses and doctors and patients, of life and of death, until she stood before a heavy white door covered in bright red-and-white signs.
She looked up at them. The white letters detached themselves from their positions and swirled around, rearranging eventually into new words.
Wanda still couldn't understand them. She shook her head, hard.
The signs waited, leering.
"Skye is here," she murmured. She couldn't read the signs, but the itch was singing in her bones; it was undeniable.
Wanda reached out and grasped the door handle. She tugged the door towards her, but it remained firmly locked.
Panic leapt in her chest and the itch flooded through her.
I have to get in there.
Wanda turned around and scanned her surroundings. The area was clear, the door almost hidden in a back corridor.
(If they catch you, you're dead,) Pietro's matter-of-fact voice informed her.
So they'd better not catch me.
Wanda took a deep breath and turned back to the door. She grasped the handle with her left hand and brought her right hand up. With a practiced movement she trailed her fingers through the air for a few inches before curling them in. Scarlet energy surrounded her fingers in wispy strands; she hesitated only briefly before pulling her fingers back and shooting some of those strands towards the door.
The lock gave a resigned poof and red energy exploded through the keyhole. Wanda called the energy back to her, dissipating it into the air around her, before pulling the door open and disappearing into whatever lay beyond.
Skye felt warm hands roll her face-up, scoop her aching body from the floor, and cradle her close. She tasted blood and her vision was blurry; her arms throbbed and her throat was raw from screaming. She was too weak to fight whoever it was, and found hot shame bubbling up in her chest as she curled in closer.
"Pretty girl," a soft voice breathed. "Stay with me, pretty girl. Is all right."
Turn it off, Skye begged mutely. She tried to get her eyes open but couldn't. The noise in her head was overwhelming.
"Will maybe hurt only a little," the soft voice responded, and Skye placed it. Wanda.
"Hold very still," Wanda went on, and Skye did her best.
She felt Wanda's hand gently brush her hair away from the back of her neck, and then two of Wanda's fingers pressed against the device planted at the top of Skye's spine. Skye tried not to move or whimper as Wanda pushed in, hard.
Something like an electrical shock snapped through Skye's body and she screamed.
"Is over," Wanda's voice promised. "Is over."
Skye gulped in air, her arms and legs loose and disconnected. She was nauseous and the room spun around her. Then her heart rate began to slow and she realized something.
For the first time – the first time – in nearly six years, the white noise in her head was gone.
Not just turned down, not simply waiting for her.
It was gone.
Her head was quiet.
Her head was her own.
Tears of joy flooded Skye's eyes and she snuggled closer to Wanda. The older girl stroked Skye's hair and began singing in her sweet voice, the words still foreign but no less beautiful.
Skye closed her eyes, feeling content and centered, and dropped into a clear, deep pool of unconscious slumber.
Jiaying couldn't believe what she was seeing – an error message. One she'd never seen, at least not from Skye's equipment.
"Fatal Device Error 08-4. Status: Permanently offline due to major device malfunction or surge-through. Consult manufacturer for more information."
"Shit," Jiaying swore. She shoved back from her monitoring screens. Someone was going to pay.
Someone was meddling with her prize, with her golden child, and whoever that was would live just long enough to regret it…
… but not much longer.