Disclaimer: Nothing has changed; I still only own my OC Alice Little.

Chapter Seven

Upon returning to the Helicarrier, I'm patted down, taken to medical, then given a change of clothes. Thank God it's not one of those glorified onesies the rest of these guys are wearing. Although, this navy blue SHIELD tracksuit isn't that much nicer. For a secret government subdivision, they sure aren't subtle, what with their giant logo printed onto the back of the sweater.

After a quick, very uncomfortable shower, I decide to visit the canteen. Now that I know I'm not dreaming, the rest of reality has set in and I realize that I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours.

I find a place to sit, away from the SHIELD agents, and pick at…this can hardly be called food, I'm sorry. It's like meal replacement drinks, but in varying consistencies. There's a portion of beige mush, beige brick, and beige protein shake and all of it tastes like…if beige was a flavor, pretty much.

And if that's not enough to put me in a terrible mood, I also have a headache. Not a normal headache either; there's a strange buzzing in my skull again, like my head is full of…bees? For lack of a better comparison?

Anyway, it feels a lot like whatever the hell it was that helped me escape from Loki, only it's internal this time. I also remember having a similar feeling the day I ran into Steve—or rather, when he ran into me.

Well. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Although, I don't think Steve would appreciate that comparison.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, pulling up the chair next to me.

"Let's see; both my arm and my head hurt like hell, and I'm sleep-deprived, yet somehow unable to sleep…so I think the right answer is 'Not too great'," I reply. "And this food is tripping me out. What is it? They turned 'bland' into its own independent substance! But enough of my complaints, what about you? You got dropkicked into a different era of time, my world just seems to have shifted a bit."

"What do you mean by that?" Steve asks.

"You got knocked out in 1945, then woke up in 2012, I think the weight of the situation—" I stop, noticing that Steve is trying to recapture my attention. "Oh, you mean the other thing…"

I'm silent, and Steve takes this opportunity to elaborate. "Here; let's start with what you mean when you say you've been dreaming this entire time."

"Um, i-is this another interrogation? I swear, I know nothing! If anything, you'll end up with more questions after talking to me, and everything I know has been described as complete and utter bull—"

"Hey, hey, take it easy. I'm just trying to see if I can figure some things out myself."

"Are you sure? No one's making you talk to me?" I ask. Steve shakes his head 'no', and I hesitate. "You really wouldn't believe me if I told you what I think is happening—not that what I think is happening is definitely what's happening, but it's something. A theory. Sort of."

Steve shrugs, "Try me."

Poor guy has no idea what kind of bomb I'm about to drop on him. He woke up seventy years after he thought he died, and in those seventy years he hasn't aged at all. That's already a lot to process and now, I'm about to suggest the existence of entire alternate realities, specifically one where he's not even a sentient being.

Still…he asked.

"All right then. Where I'm from, none of you—none of this, any of this, is real. You're all fictional characters part of a fictional world that I've invested way too much time in. Anyway, I'm the only one that seems to know this, so to me and me alone, none of you are—or, I guess now, were—real. Maybe I just didn't want to believe any of this was happening. Besides, the whole situation seems highly improbable—See? You don't believe me. I bet you think I'm psychotic or something."

"Hey, I should be turning ninety-four this year, if not dead already, but I'm still here, and looking like I did seventy years ago. Today, I dueled with a demigod. It seems anything is possible these days," says Steve.

"Well, that makes me feel slightly less insane. Slightly. It'd make me feel a lot better if you had actually said you don't think I'm psychotic…Just kidding. Except not really—anyway, if you haven't already, you should head to the lab. Aside from Stuttgart, everything's gone according to film and I don't want to screw anything up for the Avengers, so you, lab, now."

I place the tray, still full of 'food', on the dirty dishes rack and leave the canteen in search of the sleeping quarters. Along with not eating for over twenty-four hours, it's been about a day and a half since I woke up and got whisked away by SHIELD.

God, I really hope me being here doesn't mess everything up. And if it does mess everything up, I actually hope I don't survive the film. Yes, it's a morbid thought, but as far as I know, it'd be all my fault if everything goes wrong and that means I deserve to die. Unless it means that I should suffer in a world under Loki's rule…

Whatever, now's not the time to get into the whole death vs. extended suffering debate. Debates with myself always go on forever, and I don't think I can survive much longer without sleep.

I finally find the sleeping quarters as well as an empty bed, and I'm able to drift off pretty easily, after being awake longer than any human being should ever have to be. My last thoughts before falling asleep are whether or not I'd be okay with waking up in my world.

oOoOoOo

When I wake from my nap, it's all thanks to the stupid default iPhone alarm. My first thought is that I'm back in my normal, boring old dimension. Then I hear people running, and when I swing my legs off of the bed, my feet hit the cold metal floor, rather than the faux fur rug I have in my bedroom.

As it turns out, the noise I'm hearing is not the default iPhone alarm, but a warning for the SHIELD agents that for reasons unknown STILL EXIST.

I stumbled out into the hallway—well, really, hopped out into the hallway, trying to put my shoes back on as quickly as possible. Okay, from now on, only low-top shoes for me.

I narrowly avoid getting caught in the crossfire as I run almost-aimlessly through the maze that is the Helicarrier. After what felt like hours, but in reality, probably wasn't even a full minute, I manage to run into Thor.

"Nope. Uh-uh, no way, not—No." I say, ready to march off in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for me, heading in the opposite direction meant stepping in the middle of intersecting hallways, through which, rogue agents were firing at…um…non-rogue agents, and were being fired at. Thor saves me, however, and thank goodness, but still, he does so by pulling me along with him. Right into the holding room.

"No!" Thor shouts, as 'Loki' is released from his cell.

"Thor, that's not—" I shout, but to no avail.

"Are you ever not going to fall for that?" Loki asks. His gaze darts over to where I'm standing. I throw my hands up in surrender and begin to back away slowly, before breaking off into a sprint down the hall.

Suddenly, I'm struck with an excruciatingly painful burning on the side of my ribcage. My hand jumps to the affected area to see what the hell is going on there, and I notice there's a hole in my sweater. I think I just got grazed by a bullet.

As much as I want to just slump against the wall and cry, I force myself to keep going, away from the now-retreating rogue agents, and I reach the bridge just as this chaotic episode comes to a close. Agent Hill, right away, is hounding me when I get there.

"And where have you been?" she asks sternly.

"Um, how about trying not to die?!" I shout. "Are you—are you trying to insinuate that I had something to do with all of this? I, a freaking teenager who has been under your surveillance this entire time?! You threw my goddamn phone into the ocean as a safety measure! Christ—you people are so freaking paranoid—"

I spin around to face Fury, who has just entered the bridge with Steve and Tony following close behind him. It hurts like hell to move even an inch, and I regret the action immediately.

"She's injured," says Agent Hill. "Grazed by a bullet, it looks like—she needs to be taken to medical. Again."

"I've got her," says Natasha, who's entered through one of the lower sections of the bridge. An injured Hawkeye is by her side, arm draped around her shoulder for support. He's barely conscious.

"You can walk on your own fine?" Natasha asks me, and I nod. I'm told to follow her.

We don't end up in medical, despite what Agent Hill had ordered. We're in one of the bunks. Natasha straps Hawkeye down to the cot before examining my wound.

"The wound's been cauterized by the bullet, but it'd still be wise to clean it," she says. She searches through the drawer by the cot, then hands me the necessary materials to clean it, as well as a roll of bandages and a white t-shirt to replace this hoodie with a hole burned into it. "When you're done, wrap it up, just in case. Not too tight."

I nod and as she begins tending to Hawkeye and his injuries, and I proceed to clean my own bullet wound, something I never thought I'd be doing in a million years. Three days in a fictional universe, and I'm already going to have two scars to show for it. Three days in a fictional universe and I've cleaned and dressed a bullet wound. My bullet wound. I was almost-shot! Now all those stupid fangirl fantasies of mine seem ridiculously naïve.

Knowing what's coming, I move to the bunk next door. Hawkeye had begun to stir, and as much as I would like to eavesdrop, Clintasha needs to have their private moment together. I try to find a comfortable position to sit, or lay down, or even just slightly lean, but everything hurts. My head hurts, my legs hurt from all the running, my throat is all bruised up from being strangled, and my arms hurt from the cut and the scrapes, my side hurts from the bullet graze, and I am just so tired. And, again, it's been three days.

Jesus Christ, I am actually starting to wish this was all a dream.

oOoOoOo

I've long since started to drift off when someone lightly shakes me awake. It's Steve, and he's all cleaned up from the last attack, ready for the next.

"What now?" I sight, sitting up and struggling to stay alert.

"You're going home," he responds.

That definitely wakes me up. I all but leap to my feet, "Seriously?"

He gestures for me to follow him over to where Clint and Natasha are. Or, where Natasha is. I don't know where Hawkeye went.

"Time to go," he says.

Natasha turns slightly to look at Steve, asking, "Go where?"

"I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?"

"I can," Clint interrupts, having returned from…washing his hands?

Steve looks at Natasha and she nods to confirm that Clint is theirs again. That's enough for Steve, and he looks back at Clint, "You got a suit?"

"Yeah," says Clint.

"Then suit up."

Clint nods, but he's briefly distracted, I suppose by me. He takes one look at me, turns to Natasha, and asks, "Who the hell is that?"

"Alice," I say, before anyone else can. "Would-be ally, current inconvenience."

He seems confused, but shrugs and accepts my answer before leaving to get ready for battle.

I follow Steve and Natasha to the armory while Clint changes into his preferred combat attire. It's funny how him and Natasha just happen to have special uniforms, different colors and styles from the other agents', and they're the ones that are destined to be superheroes. Like no one ever questioned why they and they alone happen to have specially made uniforms.

Anyway, while Natasha is selecting her guns and stocking up on ammo, I allow curiosity to get the better of me.

"You still don't trust me," I say.

"And?" she replied.

"And I'm heading to Manhattan with you, your best friend, and the legend of a superhero your people recently thawed out," I add. "And…you're okay with this?"

"Whether or not I'm comfortable is irrelevant. In this business, you don't get to decide whether or not you're okay with how things play out," she says, as she checks and loads each of her guns.

Clint pokes his head into the weaponry, ending our awkward conversation, and says, "Stark already took off, we gotta head to the flight deck now."

All of my fear and anxiousness starts to set in as we walk over to the Quinjet. My heart is racing. I really do not want to be here; I want nothing to do with any of this. Shit, should I tell these guys that once they get to Stark Tower, Loki's going to fry their asses out of the air? I mean, they survive without such a warning in the film, maybe I don't need need to. I might end up jinxing it. Then again—you know what? No. I'll just roll with it. If I stand quietly in the background, nothing will change, the Avengers will win, and I will not die.

Hopefully.

oOo