Thank you very much for the follows and favorites! Here's your first chapter. Enjoy.
I don't own Marvel or Bruce. Too bad, eh?
The last embers of a gorgeous Indian sunset sunk into the horizon, and I was concealed by the long shadows of the ramshackle homes that lined these village streets. The night, while dangerous, was my day. It was when I left the relative safety of the back alley in which I lived and roamed the dirt roads in search of food, clean water, and most importantly, jobs. That night, however, I was unlucky. While normally there were at least a couple of drug smugglers who were looking for someone to take care of unfortunate customers who hadn't paid their dues, or if I'm lucky, someone with a hit list that needed to be covered, this night was different. Once again, I was empty handed.
I ended up wandering along the rickety fence line, where some families kept their hogs and goats and others small herb gardens. I considered stealing out of desperation, but that wouldn't have helped with my plan of keeping out of the public eye. Instead, I found myself at the back door of my only friend, Sybil's, home. It was a tiny thatch-roofed hut where she and her three children lived. It was rare for me to come here in search of help; I preferred to work for myself. However, like I mentioned earlier, I was desperate. The ache in the pit of my stomach and my sore throat and chest was in dire need of at least a cup of water, maybe tea if I was lucky.
I didn't have to wait long. The creaky door swung open, and Sybil's only daughter, Vita, stood before me. I offered a kind smile. "Hello, Vita. Remember me? I'm your mommy's friend, Tate. Is your mommy here tonight?" The little girl smiled as she remembered me and nodded.
"She's here. She's making supper!" Vita said excitedly, and I can't help but grin at the girl's bubbly nature. "Mom! Your friend is here!" She called into the house, and Sybil appeared as her daughter jogged away.
"Tate," Sybil breathed, and she looked shocked. I must have looked worse for wear. The illness had been getting worse lately, the illness that S.H.I.E.L.D. had left me to die with. "Are you alright?"
"It's been proving to be a rough month. I'm sorry, I'm interrupting your dinner, I can come back – " I began, but was cut off by the kind woman in front of me.
"Don't start with that, you get in here right now. I'll make you some lemongrass tea." Sybil's voice was full of anxiety, and I know she was worrying about me. No one should worry about me. I'm far from worth worrying over. Still, I walked inside, closing the door behind me. Sybil tended to dinner and a fresh kettle of tea, her long black braid swishing back and forth as she moved. A strong fragrance of herbs and sharp spices wafted into my palette, and I smiled a bit. It was the smell of home. "I just picked these leaves yesterday, so it should be nice and strong for your throat."
"Thank you, Sybil," I responded gratefully, taking a seat at the table. I unbuckled the belt holster that my Katana, a type of ancient Asian sword, was in. It was my survival, my prime weapon of choice. It had been in my family for several generations, even though I was not of Asian origin myself. I began learning the art of the Katana when I was six and have since mastered the skill. It was the reason S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited me in the first place. I set the sword on the table, trying to push back the painful memories that blossom from thinking about the agency that has caused me so much torture.
"Vita, bring Tate her tea, please," Sybil called over to her daughter, who was busy with a sewn ragdoll. She obeyed, bringing me a worn ceramic mug of honey colored liquid. I took it graciously.
"Thank you, Vita," I said to the girl, who simply smiled in response. I brought the tea to my lips and sipped the sweet beverage. I closed my eyes, relishing the flavor. India has the best tea leaves you could ever dream of. The hot drink warmed my respiratory system, bringing a soothing feeling to the scars left from the poisonous gas S.H.I.E.L.D. used on me over two years ago. "Mmm. You make a mean tea, Sybil. Always have."
"More American slang I do not understand," Sybil laughed, and I joined in.
"Mean can be defined as fantastic or wonderful," I explained. Sybil wasn't raised speaking English, but she was determined to teach her children both Sanskrit and English. I was fond of the loving mother, and though she was only a few years older than me, she was something of a role model. If I ever lived to have a family, I decided, I wanted to be a mother like Sybil was. The Indian woman sat across from me with her own mug of tea.
"How are you feeling, Tate?" She asked quietly, her eyes searching my face desperately. Sybil worried about me too much. I shook my head slightly.
"I'm fine," I assured her. Being the intelligent woman she is, Sybil did not believe me. She stared at me in the eyes, and I couldn't resist lying to my only friend. I sighed. "It's getting progressively worse, just as they told me it would."
"Will you ever tell me who did this to you?" Sybil asked. "And do not tell me 'it was the people I once worked with'. Whoever has done this needs to be held responsible –"
"I've told you, Sybil; there's nothing that can be done about it. I've been to every healer I can afford, and nothing seems to work for long. Your tea is the best remedy," I assured the worrisome woman, who only frowned. She had heard this spiel over and over again and never once believed it. "Syb –" I was immediately cut off when my chest heaved, and I coughed, blood splattering all over the table. There was a stabbing pain in my chest as if I was struck with a poisonous dart, and I collapsed on the floor of Sybil's hut.
The blood roaring in my ears cut off all noises from the outside environment. I gasped for breath, but choked on the blood pooling in my chest and throat. There was too much of it. I was suffocating, and fast. I saw the world from a sideways angle: Sybil desperately trying to help. She turned and yelled something at Vita, who looked horrified by the scene. She ran out the door.
My chest burned, it burned as if it was on fire. Black dots began clouding my vision from lack of oxygen, and I heaved again and again, blood spilling onto the floor and staining the wood, pooling up in knotholes and drenching my and Sybil's clothing. There was so much pain, and no breath to calm my throat. That was when I began drifting.
I couldn't see anything but red. Then there was nothing, just blackness. It felt as if I was floating on the surface of a lake, bobbing up and down with the waves. My head felt light in an almost pleasant way. Am I dead…? Memories flashed before my eyes, of white rooms, straitjackets, and sterilized needles breaking the tender flesh of my skin. I felt nothing. No emotion. No pain.
Suddenly, something pulled my from the water and back to reality with a sharp tug. I was back on the floor of Sybil's home. I could only see blurs, colored shapes that were moving around me. My eyes focused more, and above me, there was a man that struck me as somewhat familiar. He had graying hair, rimless glasses, and the most striking chocolate-brown eyes I ever saw. There was blood all over his mouth, and he was still spitting out the liquid. I tried to ask what happened, but all that came out of my mouth was mush.
"She's alive," The man breathed, covering his mouth with a hand. "What happened to her?" It was then that I passed out once more.