Author's Notes: Since you're such an awesome lot and it did take me a while to post another chapter, I'm posting this one as well. :)
spize666: The feels have been delivered? Mission: successful. Just wait 'til things really start rolling.
AsgardianGrizzly: Yea, A Zanny fan! Thanks (a million times over). :)
Windy: It is who you think it is. It's alright to laugh.
Disclaimer: Ultimate Spider-Man is not mine. Nor are any of its characters. That's Marvel's job. Any Original Characters and art you note, however, are all me. No. I'm not making money. Don't rub it in.

Chapter 13 - Hope

Aches. Stings. Burning. Pain, in general—the kind that couldn't be ignored and unfortunately the kind that didn't turn numb. Sam could barely keep his eyes open through it all. Hanging by thick chains from the ceiling inches above the ground was one thing. Trying to escape those confines for days and earning a fractured wrist was one thing. Enduring all that on top of Kevin Weir's interrogative tactics was another thing entirely. Like, Fury's training room set on max level hard.

Kevin had stayed true to his word. By day three, Fury still hadn't responded. Or, if he had, it went unnoticed. So when yesterday came, the teleporter set his sights on Sam. Of course, Sam only responded in snappy remarks. Which, admittedly, resulted in more intense shocks and punches. He couldn't think of any other way to survive them, though. Sarcasm was a shield. If he let go of that…he just might cave.

'I have to be careful,' the Hispanic thought while blinking his one eye that wasn't swollen shut. It stung. 'I know myself. I let things slip. I can't…do that…to my team…'

Yet he must help himself as well. Yes, his team could be trusted to track him down, even with his communicator destroyed. In spite of that, he couldn't sit and wait for a rescue squad; it wasn't in his blood. He needed a plan, a way out. There had to be something he could do.

If only he had his Nova helmet…

Sam's nose scrunched. 'Ugh, what is that stench? It's almost as bad as a dead Ul'lula'n. Wait.' The Hispanic turned towards the left the best he could. With his stretched shoulders dug into the sides of his face, he could hardly see anything not ahead of him. Yet his good eye caught a glimpse of brown and blue as the 'cell' door softly closed. 'Oh, it's her…'

"Hey," Sam said hoarsely. Man, did his throat burn. "What cha got?"

The slender figure halted her travels, clenching a wrapped package towards her small chest. She didn't reply and pulled the large hood of her brown sweater further over her head, as if shading her face was of the upmost importance. Her cloth-covered feet padded against the floor quietly until she stood before Sam. Still silent, she slowly unwrapped the package to reveal a partial loaf of Italian bread.

The Hispanic stared—mainly at the amount of fuzzy mold over the bread's top. "Gee…thanks?"

Silent as a mime, the female awkwardly pulled off the mold with her fully-wrapped hands. Crumbs and fungus mixed with dry and fresh blood splattered around Sam's heavy feet. He couldn't bring himself to watch them for long, so his eye returned to the figure, who offered the bread again.

"Look," started Sam just above a whisper, "I've said it four times before; I'll say it again. I can't eat that."

The figure huffed then pushed the bread closer towards Sam's cracked, bloody lips.

"I'm serious," he added. "How do I know it isn't poisoned? …Outside of its expiration." The figure's hood shook and Sam narrowed his eyes at it. "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be saving your food for your group?"

She sighed, yet again, silent. As the bread lowered, a heat in the Hispanic's blood bubbled.

"Will you ever answer me, dammit?" he cried in a scratchy voice. "You've been sneaking in here ever since I arrived to offer me spoiled food with no reason. Are you supposed to be the 'good cop' to Weir's 'bad cop' or what? Should I just ask him about you instead?"

"Don't do that!" the figured suddenly retorted. Her cloth-hand had stretched out in alarm, so she brought it back, clinging tight to the bread.

Sam sent her a mild smirk, saying, "So you aren't mute. What's your name?"

"M—my name's Thera, Thera Moore," she answered with a defeated slump of her shoulders. Sam admitted her voice sounded kinda cute.

"I take it Weir doesn't know you visit me, Thera."

"He…doesn't."

"So if you're caught…?"

In an instant, Thera lifted her head enough where the Hispanic sensed her offended glare. "He wouldn't hurt me. He would just make sure I don't come back in. That's all."

Sam coolly regarded the pair of orange eyes that stood out amongst the shade, though their resemblance to the Sun intrigued him. "Still," he started, tart, "what's the point? Why risk getting in trouble?"

"Do you really have to ask that?" Thera questioned, the bright light in her gaze dimming to auburn. "You're a super hero. You help people every day."

"So you are trying to be the good cop."

"No. It's just that leaving you here to starve isn't the right thing to do."

"If you really want to do the right thing then you should let me go."

"You know I can't do that."

"So"—Sam's pained lips pursed after his dry cough—"you'll bring me food and water, yet will sit back and let Weir beat me?"

"Well, you still took Zeelan," the hooded-teen countered. Her grip on the bread tightened, squashing it between her trembling hands. "And you are SHIELD."

"What is the big thing you people have against SHIELD? I mean, yeah, they can be a pill. But come on. They were trying to help you after Enderlin."

"After Enderlin? Yo—you think we didn't know of SHIELD until then?"

Sam blinked his good eye for moisture in vain. "Fury didn't tell us otherwise."

"Typical." Thera re-wrapped the bread and placed it back into her hoodie's front pouch before she produced a worn roll of—what looked like—old towels that had been torn into even sections. She kept quiet a moment as she wetted them with water from a bottle. Then, she ventured forward to brush one towel over a few deep cuts on Sam's bicep. "You sound to me like someone who takes things at face value," she continued blandly.

"I know what I see," the Hispanic snapped, hissing at the burn and potent fish scent.

"And in that supposed knowledge, you just took Fury's word without contemplating that we were running from him for a reason?"

"Of course you were; Zeelan killed his agent."

"I mean before that!"

The towel slid harshly, causing Sam to cough in his attempt to contain a scream. He narrowed his eye at Thera, though she countered his hate with a mournful sigh and controlled fear behind her gaze.

"You have no idea what our group has gone through," the mutant started, soft. "Enderlin, SHIELD, The Trackers, our families—all of it and everything in between. You don't even care to understand, do you? You just…follow Fury. You're on his side, so he must be right."

The towel moved again, lying across Sam's second bicep. It didn't burn like the other. In fact, it didn't even tingle or string. The coarse fabric and damp coolness couldn't break past the new numbness that spread through his veins like a surge of adrenaline. Dizziness soon hit the hero, followed by a slack jaw and some stiffness in his joints that hindered him from speaking. His heartbeat quickened in his heavy chest once his visions blurred. So with the last of his strength, he looked for any sign as to what had suddenly befallen him.

In midst of swirling grays and whites, Thera pulled her hood back. Her face was slurred with oranges, browns, and specks of red that made no sense. The fish scent grew stronger and when Thera drew the towel back, her wide, orange eyes met his.

"See what you made me do?"

"A touchdown is worth?"

"Six points."

"What about a field goal?"

"That's three."

"And a safety?"

"Uh…two points?"

"What is a safety, exactly?"

"I thought we were just going over the point system."

"Surprise test. Not everything in battle will go according to your expectations."

"It's, um, when…uh."

"Time is also something you have little of in the field."

"Oh, I know! I know! Ah, got it. It's when the offensive ball carrier is tackled behind his own goal line."

"Very good. Now tell me of a turnover."

"A…pastry?"

"No. I spoke of it between explaining a two-point conversion and safeties—the defensive kind. There are two types."

"Two?"

"Almost out of time."

"I was concentrating on the main things you were saying!"

"A fighter must pay attention to all the details."

"But—!"

"Time's up."

"Ugh!"

Luke chuckled good-naturedly, eyes set on Zeelan as she sunk into the plush leather of an opposing couch. Her sigh went muffled through the Tricarrier's recreational room thanks to the soft chatter of sports playing on a wide-screen television, and the broad-shouldered teen leaned against his knees in a vain attempt to hear her continued mumbling.

"How many rounds does that make now?" she questioned.

"Zero to four, not in your favor," Luke answered, frank, while the mutant's arms crossed. He caught her disgruntled expression with a kind smile then added, "Hey, you got more this round than the last three."

"Uff da"—Z sunk further into her seat—"I don't get why I can't grasp these rules. I grew up on books. I've read everything from world battle compilations to fantasy novels. When I was twelve, I spent days in the law section of the library for fun."

The hero flashed a look. "Uh, I think you needed to get out more as a kid."

"What are you talking about? I got out plenty. Did you know it's illegal to lick toads in California?"

"Your mother really should have pushed you outside."

With a flinch, Zeelan averted her dark eyes, narrowing them at an empty bowel of peanuts on the glass coffee table between the couches. "My mother wasn't the one who cared"—the mutant spoke in a foreign bitterness—"It was my papa who got me into ice skating."

"Ah, right." A slight slap against his thick neck reminded Luke to be more careful with his words. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up. I know she's—"

"In the past," finished Z with a forced smile. "Let's get back to sports."

"Is that really what you want to talk about?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you asked me about Football. But I feel it's something more than that."

"Oh, well…"

"Zeelan?"

Zeelan sighed. "Please, just call me Z; my full name makes me feel like I'm in trouble."

Luke sent her a nod. "Got it. So…?"

"I did ask because I was curious," the mutant stared as she played with the riveted cuffs of the unzipped black jacket that swallowed her figure. "I like to familiarize myself with all kinds of tactics. Yesterday I had a good talk about them with White Tiger. Today I got you, and you seem to have a great passion for the sport. I thought it was something I could compare with what you guys do every day. You know? Fight criminals?"

"Is that why you suggested I treat the test like you were battling a team?" questioned Luke, one brow raised.

"Oh, it sounds silly, I know. But it's just something that I—yeah."

"I wouldn't say it's silly, per say. But it's definitely…unique."

"Well, that's what mutants are—unique." Chuckling weakly, the young woman ran a hand through her wild locks of white hair, down her lavender t-shirt, to the hem of her jean shorts.

As her fingers began twirling the shorts' fringe, the hero shook his buzzcut head. "There ain't nothing wrong with that, Z. No matter what people like your mother say."

"I have to admit, it doesn't feel like that. My family was torn. My town was torn. I landed in SHIELD's hands because"—she cringed—"of my powers. None of that gives me hope of mutation ever being a good thing."

"Times change," Luke remarked casually. "I mean, did you have hope you would ever get out of solitary?"

"Honestly? Not at all."

"And now you're on house arrest because Fury's been looking into the report."

"Yet he still won't let me meet with my brother. Or be alone."

"That's a trust thing, not a hope thing."

"'A hope thing'?" The semi-tan mutant scrunched her face, drawing the dense coat of freckles closer across her prominent cheekbones. "You're starting to sound like Danny and his insistent belief."

"The guy does know what he's talking about."

"Yet I can't understand it. Neither is beneficial."

"I know from experience that ain't true. There have been plenty of times in my life that I couldn't have gotten through without a little of both. They really do make you stronger."

"And you really are Danny's best friend."

"Been so for a while. So I can say for sure, you should listen to him. Sometimes, his suggestions are little…out there. But that makes Danny, well, Danny."

Sighing, Z locked eyes with Luke. "I know he means well. Still…"

"Well"—Luke's felt his gaze soften at the mutant's distant black eyes—"Let's put it this way. You've rejected hope until now. What's come about?"

"What's happened to me and hope share no connection."

"True. Even so, hope eases the pain of trials."

"Because it's a 'sweet illusion', as Danny would say. I'd rather have the truth."

The hero frowned. "Hope doesn't warrant ignorance of truth. In fact, it's wiser to know the full extent of your troubles. Hope is just a tool that can help you through them."

"More like a hindrance." Zeelan's counter left her lips in bitter bites. For one moment, Luke swore a large force-field bubbled around the mutant, but after a blink it disappeared. "My brother had hoped once," she added lowly. "He hoped that our mother would still accept him as a mutant. And he almost died because of it. I won't be caught off guard like him."

There was no convincing the North Dakotan otherwise. Luke could tell. So, he managed a smile in response to her mild glare and leaned back into his couch, propping one foot on one knee.

"That's a fair enough reason to be scared of hope," he noted easily.

"I'm not scared!" Zeelan retorted with raised brows and accent.

"Right. It's supposedly pointless. Either way, you want nothing to do with it. And I can't help feeling that's going to change."

"How do you figure?"

"Call it a hunch. Life has a way of turning these things against you…"

"Luke!"

Spider-Man's voice rung loud after the room's sliding door hissed open. The lithe leader stumbled over the threshold on rushed feet, panting as he fumbled for support along a foosball table. He inhaled sharply, holding his side then drew his head up. Luke could tell from experience that the action required a great amount of strength, so he wasted no time aiding his friend.

"No—I—I'm not the one who needs attention," said Spider-Man through labored breaths. They sounded pained and he flinched every time he drew in air. "It's Danny."

"What about Danny?" Zeelan questioned before Luke got the chance.

The leader watched as she drew closer, saying, "He—he's hurt. There was The Trackers and Wednesday Adams and a weird weapon and—and—"

"Spidey"—Luke snapped as his stomach dropped—"what happened?"

Spider-Man paled as they connected eyes. "Danny's in the ER."

Author's Notes: Yup. Because they both just have that luck. Review please! :)