Something with wings flew into my mouth and landed in my throat.

"Gak!" I choked, reeling forward and trying to hack up the bug. My eyes were almost fully crusted shut and my limbs were heavy, but I was alert enough to realize I was still floating in the ocean.

"Holy shi-" I yelped, thrashing and swallowing a mouthful of seawater. I kicked my legs frantically, but I didn't need to work too hard. The parachute that was still attached to my back turned out to be a floatation device as well. I guessed I had somehow floated to the surface while upright in the water.

I struggled to release myself from the straps so I could get on top of it, which proved a difficult task to accomplish with my exhausted and soaking wet fingers.

Once I was atop of the device, I rubbed my eyes free of salt. I felt tears stream down my face, but my skin at this point felt like it was ready to be shed. I could almost convince myself that if I scratched hard enough, my muscle tissue would peel right off.

My movements stopped suddenly as my mind drifted to my savior, Agent 13. If I survived, there was a chance she did too … right? There wasn't much I could do other than worry, which made me frustrated.

I hugged the parachute and tried not to be blinded by the sun as I surveyed my surroundings.

There was land jarring close to where I was. If I listened closely, I could even hear the faint coos and calls of people at a beach. I rest my chin against the parachute and contemplated swimming all the way over there. It was really far. A quick glance to the frighteningly deep water I was drifting in made up my mind.

"Yep. Nope," I murmured. Chilling out in a bunch of deep water was not on my to-do list. I shuffled down until my legs were submerged in liquid once more, flinching all the while. My hands gripped whatever they could as I began to kick the water, propelling myself forward. "Here I come, you son of a beach."

I left the parachute behind when I was finally able to touch the sand. The swimmers that saw me stopped splashing to gawk. My face felt hot from a sunburn, and my firetruck red hair was frizzier than normal, the curls solidified by salt.

I refused to make eye contact with anyone on the beach, even when I finally stepped out of the water and stood dripping near the shore. Both of my shoes were missing, and my prison jumpsuit made quite a few families scramble backwards in fear.

I growled to myself, the noise raspy and inhumane. A toddler began to cry as it's mother shushed it. I cracked my neck and narrowed my eyes at a man holding his phone to his ear shakily.

I stumbled forwards, my limbs sagging and numb. What a sight I probably was as I stopped in front of the man with the phone and snatched it from his face. A woman on the other end spoke, loud and clear to silent beach:

"911, what's your emergency?" she inquired politely. I glared at the cowering man in front of me. I clenched my teeth while effortlessly crushing his cellphone in my hand. I dropped the shards of the machine in front of him, and pushed past the group that was in my way.

I limped off the beach and disappeared from sight. It was only after I left that cries of concern and anguish reached my ears. I quickened my pace, not eager to greet more authorities holding guns. I needed to get rid of my clothes as well: sleep could wait.

"Ugh, where am I?" I scoffed at a peeling sign that was no longer legible. I raised my hands, stretching my back while settling my sights on the road in front of me. "Time to go to town on this place." I snickered at myself, the noise not even close to sounding healthy. "For a wet person, I am on fire today."

In the state I was in, I had no pride left to salvage, so I shamelessly sifted through a wishing fountain in search of coins. Some kid got mad at me, but I shook off his angry little fists. Melony Robertson; ruining dreams since 1990. That's me.

After ruining all of those wishes, I found a phone box and called everyone I could think of: My sister, Joseph, even my old pal, Steve Rogers.

After hearing his default voicemail, I had to restrain myself from punching the plastic matchbox I stood in. "That old man probably doesn't even know what a wireless phone is. What year is it? I should send him a tutorial book via the goddamn postal service."

I hung up and inserted another coin, scowling all the while. I didn't want to risk calling Tony or Director Fury, since those posh assholes probably didn't allow 'simple people' to reach them - completely ignoring the fact that I didn't have a penny to my name, and also had no way of reaching anyone.

"Who else?" I muttered, tapping the machine, not a single thought of possible allies or general sanitation coming to mind. Phone boxes always were disgustingly filthy, but that's what made me and them similar. I smelt like dead fish, blood, and anger. My eyebrows shot upwards as I aggressively punched in another number.

I tapped the device impatiently, listening to the phone ring for a long time. I sighed and was about to hang up when the line was picked up. My mouth opened slightly as elation filled my chest. Finally, someone answered …

"Hello?" the man on the other end sounded breathless, but wary as well. He was surprised someone called him, of course.

"Clint?" I said, hoping he hadn't changed his number. The last time he had given it to me was a year ago, but he didn't like to disclose the secret of his family much. Changing his number was not a stretch.

"Yeah," he said. I covered the receiver for a second to allow myself a second to grin. "Who is this?"

I nearly hit myself. "Oh, sorry. It's Melony. Melony Robertson. You do remember me … right?"

"Mels!" Clint crowed, the smile in his voice making a surreal feeling of warmth enter my chest. "I didn't recognize the number. How are you?"

"I'm good," I lied, fiddling with the hem of my prison uniform grimly. "I don't want to keep you too long. It's just that no one else is answering their phones. Did something happen?"

There was a brief pause where Clint thought over my words. When he spoke, his voice was reproachful. "No, I don't know. I haven't talked to any of them in months."

"Really?" I asked, alarmed. "Why not?"

"I retired, Mels," Clint said, laughing a bit. I pursed my lips together in a forced smile.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know," I admitted, wanting to break something. Clint was probably spending time with his family and here I was, bothering him.

"Yeah, well, I guess we've both been benched for too long."

My blood ran cold, and I curled my free hand into a fist. They told them that I retired. Is that why no one came after me? They thought I was drinking tequilas in Zanzibar, how nice. "Yeah."

There was another pause, and I debated hanging up. I placed my fist on the glass to help brace myself. Clint's voice made me jump out of my reverie.

"So, none of them are answering your calls? What are you calling from?"

"No. No, they're not," I said, squeezing my eyes shut as my own thoughts tormented me. "And a payphone, if you need that information for your census."

"A payphone?! Christ, your quality of living just dropped. What were you calling for, again?" he asked, noticing my distracted tone.

"Uh, nothing," I said, pursing my lips together while cursing myself. I felt stupid for calling and bothering him. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Where are you?" Clint demanded. I omitted a humourless snort. He probably thought I was doing something heroic.

"Yachats, Oregon, outside a community centre," I told him, thinking of the building I saw while coming to the payphone. "I think."

"You think?" Clint said, exasperated. I rubbed my eyes. "How'd you get there?"

"It's a long story. I-" I started, before grunting and smacking myself in the head with the phone. Damnit, now he was all worried about me.

"Save it," Clint said sharply. "Stay put, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"No!" I exclaimed. "No, don't you dare."

"Save it," he ordered. I bit my tongue as he used his Commanding Officer voice. "These phones are tapped. You can't tell me anything over this thing."

He hung up before I could describe how much I hated his idea. I slammed the phone onto the receiver, and dented it while doing so. I stormed out of the small cubicle and sneered at a group of guys that gave me disgusted looks. One reached for their phone to take a picture of me, so I turned around to make sure they didn't get a good look at my face. Authorities were already looking for me after I made an entrance at the beach.

I slipped into an alley, figuring I would fit right in with the bums that squatted there. Sitting down against a wall, I chose to shield myself behind a large dumpster. Resting my head against the bricks, my eyes closed involuntarily.

Sleeping was for the weak anyway, at least that's what I told myself after a fitful night. I was throwing a stick into the air and catching it, twirling the twig around my fingers like it was a baton. I remembered Clint made me do exercises similar because my hand to eye coordination was terrible, and I mean terrible. I used to trip over flat concrete and drop things that were handed to me.

I smiled weakly at the memory of trying to throw a fake grenade, and missing the target by a landslide. It was a miracle Clint didn't quit on me, especially since I had a bad habit of being a pain in the ass. I snickered. Yeah, who would have thought I was the biggest bitch on the block?

Clint faced the brunt of it, since he met me when I was sixteen, A.K.A. prime time for my hormones to go off the rails. What a disappointment I turned out to be; Agent Barton admitted to my face he had expected a bit more from the daughter of esteemed Special Agent Maverick Robertson.

"You got his nose, you know that?" Clint had said in an awful attempt to talk to me. At sixteen, my hair was buzzed short, and the scratches on my arms and legs turned quite a few heads. I remembered I was resting my elbows on my knees, wanting to be anywhere else in the world than in a tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. training centre with a man who was supposed to get me ready to work for said organization.

After my lack of response, Clint sat down across from me on a parallel bench. He bent his neck to make sure I could see him.

"Sorry. Your file doesn't say much about any of your interests," Clint had explained. I rubbed my hands together and kept my eyes on the floor. "It's a sore subject, probably."

"It's not," I had snapped. He drew back in surprise at the vehemence in my voice. My eyes were narrowed and my teeth were clenched. "He left us. He's dead to me. End of fucking story."

"I heard," Clint had said. I offered a sardonic smile.

"Good for you."

"Okay," Clint's voice was dwindling as he realized I was never going to want to talk to him like a friend. Ever. So he stood up, and fixed me with a stern glare. "Let's get training. I won't waste any more of your time."

Looking back now, my fondness for him started when he uttered those words. Him simply implying that I had something to lose was oddly satisfying.

So there I was, sitting behind a garbage bin, fixated on the wall across from me as I thought of Clint and the kindness he extended to me even after I was released from his care.

I swallowed a lump in my throat and threw the stick up in the air. I was about to catch it when electricity sparked in my fingertips and the twig broke in half.

"Shit," I muttered, looking at the tiny pieces of wood and scowling. This whole magic thing that erratically popped up had to be dealt with. There was a time when I had a fairly good handle on my powers, but those days were replaced with hours of isolation, where I would be punished if I tried to use my magic. "Eat me, prisoner dudes."

I glanced around the alley, and other than a few disinterested and twitching druggies, I was alone. Settling on my hands and knees, I positioned my hands over the twigs and took a deep breath. I had time to practice. I could do this.

I shakily lifted my left hand, hoping the stick would follow the movement. I had done this ventriloquist type spell hundreds of time, but the stick simply wobbled slightly, then stilled.

I closed my eyes to try and regain patience. This was going to be a long day.