Okay. If any of this story's followers haven't given up on me, THANK YOU for your patience. I have totally abandoned this story, but I've decided to bring it back! I've now written three other stories on here and I think my writing's improved a lot. If you detect a difference, please tell me—good or bad? THANK YOU for not abandoning this! I am doing my best to keep it alive! Also, I'm changing the tense to present, because I can. So… yeah. Enjoy!

I'm so disappointed with all previous chapters, and I am going to re-write them because I hate them… A lot. So, I'll tell you when I have a new, re-written MUCH BETTER (I hope!) chapter up.

Also… It might get a little more less child-friendly. Or a lot. Just some mild mental instability and whatnot. I changed the rating. :)

Miri's POV

I cough and sit up, unaware of the wires that are tugged out of my arm with this movement. "What's—what's—" My head swims with disassembled thoughts, like trying to grab bubbles through murky water while wearing Google glasses. The last thing I remember is my throat being cut off, the needle entering my arm, then… I don't know. Walking through a fog, I think. A dark dark gray fog, and then… Nothing. I don't know. Voices, whispers, murmurs about me. Running through a dark forest. Chasing a green-eyed snake. What? The murmurs. The voices. The whispers.

Wait.

Not a dream. Or maybe it was.

"...too unruly to be left alone."

"What exactly is she doing now?"

"She's heavily drugged and knocked out by sedatives at the moment."

"Why can't we just send the kid back home? She's made it clear she won't—can't— help."

"I've never been wrong about an aura before. But maybe… Maybe I am confused."

That is a new voice. Deeper, gruffer. That man with the hammer. His name won't come to my mind, and only swirls around like silt in the rain.

"Because of your meeting with Loki."

Unexpected, sharp pain pierces my mind, at the front of my head, and I scream, fall back on the sheets. It is gone as quickly as it had come, but I am left panting and clutching my forehead.

Loki…

Silence outside the door. A couple young men and woman in scrubs rush in and do something with the tubes, but I am staring at the door.

It opens. Nick Fury steps in, and I bite down the rage that boils in my throat. His fault. His fault…

Shut up, I tell the voices sourly, and close my eyes.

"Mirabell."

"Shut up," I mumble.

"You're in shock," someone says gently. I dimly recognize his voice. Steve… Rogers. The one that'd stopped me from getting away.

"I could have done it," I say quietly, ignoring the hands of doctors that pushed and prodded at my eyes. Trying to figure out what was wrong. With me. A mirthless laugh bubbles in my throat, but I don't let it out, let it stay there, like shaking a soda can.

Silence. He is confused. "Done what?"

"Escaped."

"From the Helicarrier. In the middle of the Atlantic. Yeah, right."

I bite back a sharp retort. Maybe one slips through my lips anyway. I'm not sure. "You don't know me."

"You're eleven."

The laugh comes out, but it has been transformed in it's few tense seconds of restraint. It is a scream. I open my eyes, sit up, screech into the air, because I hate them, I hate all of them, I hate…

Wait. No I don't. Don't I? They're trying to force me to do something I can't. I hate them, right?

I hate him. But that's different.

Loki. I hate him. I know that. Why my pain? Why did he do what he did? Why…

Why am I screaming?

I stop abruptly, and stare at him, breathing heavily for a few tense seconds. He meets me steadily with his blue eyes, but after years in the orphanage, being pushed and pulled by potential adopters, I know how to read people. He is afraid. Of me?

For me?

Someone has shoved another needle into my arm, but I stay sitting up, watching him, daring him to look away first. Someone else enters the room, breathing heavily as if they have run all the way here. He has dark brown hair and he is familiar too, but the sedatives are already doing their work and once again, I slip into unconsciousness.

When I wake again, I'm in an actual room, with a nice little military cot and nothing else. I'm not restrained, and there are no other signs of life. But I'm also certain I'm not alone.

"Hello?"

I pull the covers off, and they fall to the floor in a twisted heap, something I'm certainly not unfamiliar with. I don't remember having any other dreams, but my body is accustomed to tossing and turning, anyway.

"Hello?"

This is stupid. I try the door. It is locked. There are vents, but no windows. I'm so sure someone else is here. I can hear their breathing, heavy, magnified. Because… because what? Because of the space they're in?

The vents.

I might be able to knock them off quickly. I did my fair share of sneaking around in the orphanage, but I'm not exactly what they would call agile. Good with my hands, maybe.

If I can do it fast enough…

I sit down casually on a chair and glance around as if uncertain, conveniently positioned, then, like I do when I'm nervous, move so that I am squatting on the chair. Perfect. I glance around a couple of times for effect, then as fast as I can, jump.

I miscalculated it and nearly slam my head on the ceiling, but reach out with my hands, twisting my fingers into where I think they need to be.

I fall to the floor with a clang!

Wait. No. I don't clang, the vent does.

I look up slowly, and the grate is gone. No one is there, either, but I hear clanging down the side of it, and with a determined grunt, I hoist myself up. My legs swing wildly below me, as I have no balance whatsoever, and using all the training I ever had in gym class, tug myself up and clamber towards the noise.

Whoever it is must be either panicked or not very stealthy, as they are making a great deal of noise. They are fast in their haste, though, and I only barely catch the tip of a boot-leather-before it rounds a corner.

I push myself forward but I am simply not as agile or active as this person.

Maybe I can be smarter, though.

The sound stops abruptly though, and I round a corner, panting, my palms and knees stinging and sore.

No one is there. The space of venting before me is long, much too long for even this person to travel in the distance between us before I turned the corner. There is no noise except my harsh breathing and the faint whir of the ventilation system. I hadn't even thought about that. I hope they don't do anything weird with the AC or heating.

The person must have gone somewhere. I'm convinced they aren't ahead of me, though half of me encourages me to keep going, keep chasing them, the other half is extremely reluctant to be that stupid.

Where could they have gone…

There. Duh. Light streams from it, it should be obvious, I don't know how I missed it. There is a grate a couple feet in front of me, that must bring fresh air to another room. There is a shadow below it, blocking some of the light. Furniture… Or my stalker.

I crawl over as soundlessly as I can, but the metal creaks and groans against my will and, grimacing, I dig my fingers under the grate and pull it off, dropping into the room below.

Somehow, miraculously, I land on my feet, in a squat. I put out one hand to steady myself, allowing my fingers to brush against the ground lightly as I survey my surroundings.

A very surprised looking man is squatting on the table, staring at me. I meet his gaze, partly out of defiance and partly out of shock, because honestly, I didn't expect anyone to be in here.

Upon further examination, I recognize him, though he looks strange now, suited up and his buff arms showing, though the gun in the holster is the same as on deck. His hair, close-cropped and brown, kind of stands up on it's end and makes me think of a frightened cat, I crack a smile, and stand up.

"Clint Barton."

I didn't expect the name to come out of my mouth; I didn't even know it, but it's there and it feels right. It forms the right shape in my mouth and creates the right image, and he narrows his eyes.

"You're fast," he says. I smile again, with my own eyes narrowed.

"What now? You take me back to my prison cell?"

"Quite the contrary."

He is smiling too, easily, cheerfully, friendly. Something about his face as a whole is very welcoming-his eyes are a bit sunken and his smile is wide and cocky, and I decide immediately that I like him.

"What's the contrary?"

"I want you to come with me."

"Of course."

"Training."

This baffles me. I frown, scrunch my eyebrows. "What?"

Barton cocks his head, a satisfied, quirky smile on his thin lips. "If you're going to stay here-"

"Wasn't planning to."

"-Then you're going to need to be able to protect yourself."

"I can protect myself just fine, thank you very much."

"That's kind of laughable."

Furious, my eyes scrunch up and I can feel my ears warming, until I notice the amused look on his face and the intent curiosity of his eyes.

"Are you trying to make me angry?"

He spreads his hands earnestly, an honest, open gesture. "I have to admit, I'm curious. Thor knows his stuff, you know."

"I don't," I huff. But I look away, wipe the side of my lip with the flat of my fingertips, and scratch my neck. When he doesn't respond, I say quietly, "Are we doing this training or not?"

He smiles at me, and hops off the table. "Let's re-introduce you to Tasha."

So, that was just a little filler to let you know I'M BACK!
You know, if you haven't all abandoned me.

SO! Review, please, I want to know what you think of my writing now.