Sam looks at me in that apologetic way he always does when he leaves me in a new foster home. Only, as I look around it's plain to see we aren't in a stranger's house, but rather a facility of some sort. I frown, observing the tiny room surrounded with hideous green walls and floors covered with an unctuous white linoleum. Everything smells of disinfectant and raw metal; the taste of it coats my tongue. Sam signs a paper and nods to the woman behind a large desk, who presses a button on the wall behind her. A loud "BUZZ" honks over our heads and from the only other door in the room, emerges a tall mustached man in a crisp black Boston Police uniform. He stops in the open doorway and looks at a clipboard the woman from the front desk holds out as she stands to meet him; in full view, her coordinating uniform reveals to me that she too is a police officer.

As the two officers flip through papers, they glance up at me while speaking in hushed whispers. I look to Sam in a panic and he takes a deep, regret-filled breath "Like I said, it's only temporary. The foster system is very full and with how rapidly you've been moving through homes, it's going to be hard getting a family to accept placement with you."

My heart races in alarm as I look past the officers and down the pallid, halogen-lit hallway behind them. The male officer takes the clipboard and looks to me "Caroline Locke-follow me."

Though I'm looking straight at the man with no misunderstanding of what he wants me to do, I am frozen with the anticipation of what horrors lay beyond this sickly little admittance room. Only when Sam nudges me forward do my feet unstick from the squeaky clean floor. As the officer guides me onward into the hall, I look back at Sam through the thick glass window in the door. A dreadful despondency fills me as I watch him hang his head and rub his tired face in remorse for sending me here. His sorrow only heightens my fears; if he was that upset, this place must be unimaginably horrid.

I follow the officer's directions down the hall as he walks behind me. Everything is painted a light grey-the walls, the doors, the ceilings and floors. My surroundings seems to blend together in a dull lump, illuminated by blinding bulbs which buzz loudly over our heads as we walk further away from the entrance. I forget about Sam; about Mr. Stark and what is behind me. I keep my eyes forward, keep my focus on what awaits me beyond one of the plentiful doors we pass.

Eventually the officer tells me to stop just before he unlocks a door to my right with a thick ring of keys. I wait for him to signal me onward; I had to play his game. I was always playing games and learning the rules to each one; studying my new opponents for strength and weaknesses. As many games as I'd played, I never felt as though I never truly got the feel of one before being forced into another. For now, the officer was the rule maker, or any officer he passed me off to; which happened quite quickly upon entering into a new hallway. A female officer took the reins from here and brought me into a room with no door. She stood in the corner of the room nearest the opening and spoke in an emotionless, authoritative way as she asks "Do you currently have any illegal substances on your person at this time?"

Feeling a little surprised someone would accuse me of having drugs, I answer weakly "No"

"Are you currently in possession of any weapons, poisons, explosives or flammable objects?"

"No." I tell her quietly, wondering just exactly where Sam had brought me. The male officer who had led me here enters the room with a stack of clothes and a clear plastic bag, as well as the garbage bag of clothes from my previous foster home. He sets everything on the floor several feet from me then turns to the policewoman, telling her "Those were the smallest size we had" with a slight hint of annoyance in his voice.

The female officer nods and he leaves. She looks at me then commands "Please remove all clothing and personal items and place them inside the bag. Your belongings will be searched for weapons, explosives and illegal substances. Your property will be stored on site in a controlled container until the time of your release. At said time all items you place in the bag will be returned to you in their current state. Once you have removed all clothing please turn one full circle."

I face the wall before clumsily removing my clothes with nervously numbed fingers. The air in the empty cement room is damp and cool; it sends my body into violent shivers upon exposure. Using my hands to cover myself, I begin to turn but the policewoman commands me to put my hands at my sides. I obey; I play the game. An atrocious lump knots in my stomach as I slowly rotate on this forced display of bare-skinned degradation. I keep my eyes down, focus on the concrete as she tells me to dress in the clothes on the floor. I hastily cover myself and adorn the stiff maroon pants and shirt labeled "State of Massachusetts Juvenile Corrections". Upon reading the label it becomes clear what has happened to me.

I'd been ripped from one system and thrust into another. This wasn't a game anymore, this was a whole new enterprise. Incarcerated for being unwanted; locked behind bars to be forgotten by a world I'd never even gotten a chance to be a part of.

I'm directed to another room, this one has a door. Inside is a metal toilet and sink for washing and peeing. Opposite the stainless facilities, the painted gray concrete floor raises to the height of my hips in a flat rectangular shape. Upon the platform is a thin plastic mattress and folded on top of that is a set of white sheets, a pillow and a charcoal-grey wool blanket. Without a word, the police officer shuts the door behind me. As I hear the sound of the key locking the door to my cell I recall how Mr. Stark had trapped me in his car for a brief moment only a day before. As I unfolded the scratchy, stained sheets I determine that Tony Stark and his tower, his fancy car and his offerings all felt like a distant dream within this sudden and fresh nightmare I now found myself in.

Shortly after I settle into the bed, the single bulb in the cell ceiling turns off. The hall lights still peek through a tiny window on the door that is much taller than my head. I close my eyes and sleep, waking up what feels like only minutes later when a guard knocks on my door and tells me to make my bed then step forward into the hall. Rubbing my eyes I do as I'm told, exit through the open door and standing before it. I am not alone in this demand; on each side of the hallway, both left and right are girls following the same order as I. They stand outside their doors waiting as the guards inspect each and every room for order. I feel nervous when the guard enters mine, although she quickly exits upon seeing my made-up bed calling to her partner "107: Clear!" and moves on to the next cell where she calls "109: Clear!". None of the girls talk; only the voices of the guards clearing the cells bounces around the silent hall until each one reaches the very end of the room At this point the girls turn to face the guard to my right, and I do the same.

"Alright ladies!" The front guard yells loud and clear "Single file! No talking until you are at your assigned tables! Odd numbers first, even numbers follow!"

She waves the girl at the front of my line forward and the rest follow her out. I fall into step with them, keeping my eyes on the number "105" patched on the back of the girl's shirt in front of me. I assumed then that mine read "107" as we filed into a cafeteria. Everyone takes a tray with multiple compartments and receives a meal of oatmeal, fruit and juice. I watch carefully how girls take their seats at bolted down metal tables, determining the pattern by which we are supposed to be seated. Luckily I am expected to simply follow the person in front of me. If the table is full I take a seat at the next. I take my tray to the table where I am seated with girls 105, 109, and 111. I notice then that I am among the youngest in the room; most certainly the smallest. The other girls at my table are in their late teens and I keep my eyes on my food as the guard calls out "Ladies, remember the rules. No physical contact, no conversation pertaining to illicit activity, no swearing and absolutely no violent behavior will be tolerated!"

The end of the guard's reminder signals the granting of low murmurs from the inmates. I pick at my oatmeal with a spoon, aware that the girls at my table are eying me. Finally 111 says "Didn't know they was lockin' up kindergarteners nowadays."

"Hey-what'd you do shorty?" 105 asks, leaning down within my eyesight. She lets out a whistle "Damn, somebody knocked you 'round real good"

I take a bite of oatmeal and chew slowly.

"Hey-we're talking to you bitch" 111 snaps viciously. I look up at her briefly and she quickly sneers "Don't you look at me-I'll tear you apart you little chihuahua"

"Hey, chill" 109 tells the other two "She don't wanna talk, she don't need to talk"

I look around and notice various girls are looking at me, whispering to each other about me. All around they study me with wide cat-like grins and an evil hunger in their eyes. I was fresh meat, something new to play with, something different for them to sink their claws into.

I eye the guards, circling the room from the catwalk above our heads. I meet eyes with one and wonder if he knows. I worry he may know my name isn't Locke, as all my foster papers stated; all the forms here stated. I watch as another guard approaches him and starts up a conversation. Could she know?

Could any of them be a disguised agent like the ones I'd been hiding from all this time? Who of them knew I was not Caroline Locke, but actually Caroline Stark? Surely someone was searching-waiting to gather me up and send me to SHIELD headquarters, and juvenile hall was an obvious place to look for someone trying to hide from the government; for somebody with something to hide.

The guards circle overhead like lions watching over their coalitions. Ever watchful, ever waiting for a sign of misconduct; craving the opportunity to reprimand rule-breakers.

And I was one of the most sought-after rule breakers unbeknownst to the incarcerated teenagers and shiny-badged police officers I now found myself surrounded by.