Twelve years and six months ago, I had packed up my belongings and moved into the cottage. It was nestled into the woods about an hour away from a little town called Tallulah Falls, Georgia-population of a measly two hundred. I could almost still feel the wind at my back, cutting through her coat, chilling me down to the bones. I had carried each single box into the cottage, despite the cold making her fingers numb and stiff. I was just about three months pregnant, and I'd been dizzy, sick, and exhausted-but still stubbornly shoved each box into the entryway before collapsing on the bare mattress for a bed. My grandmother's abandoned summer home, never sold, had become my safe haven from the world.

I had torn out the hideous carpeting in the bathroom, repainted the kitchen, and furnished a makeshift nursery, where my tiny, perfect daughter had wreaked blessed newborn havoc. It might not have been exactly the most comfortable, nor the most attractive home, but it had met our needs just fine. In twelve and a half years, I thought I had dealt with it all: wild hogs, storms, blizzards, the occasional bear or mountain lion-the mood swings of a telekinetic teenager. But never, not in over a decade, had anyone actually come out to the cottage, and especially not anyone in a sleek, black car that looked like it had just driven off of a luxury lot.

"Dr. Cliff, I know you're in there. The lights are on." The voice called out again, sounding vaguely exasperated. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Despite my best efforts, my breath continued to halt every couple moments. Panic had seeped into my blood. I couldn't do this. I was going to die here. That was probably why I couldn't breathe right now–my body was already attempting to perish. But then I thought of Charlie's tiny freckled face, and I forced myself to slowly take another breath. Like hell they'd touch her. Over my dead fucking body.

If I was going to do it, now would be the time. For so many years, I'd outright refused, no matter how much Charlie begged me to show off this particular party trick. For a moment, I was frightened that I no longer remembered how this worked. I shut my eyes tight and slowly, tuned into a frequency I'd tried my damndest to block out for years. I could hear a high pitched humming, buzzing, like a bee whipping around my head. I imagined myself catching it with my first two fingers, like Mr. Miyagi catching a fly with his chopsticks. All of a sudden, a stream of new thoughts flooded my mind. I whimpered, clutching at my head. The sensation of reading minds was not entirely dissimilar to what crabs must feel like as they're having their shell cracked in half before some stupid tourist slurps out their insides. Stubbornly, though, I bit down hard on my bottom lip until I could taste something metallic, attempting to sort through the remarkably cluttered stream of consciousness for anything relating to violence. Horrifically, I breezed past snippets of information I thought I had buried long ago, images of case files and blurry photographs paperclipped into manila folders.

Dr. Anneliese Helene Cliff, born in New Orleans, Louisiana. Graduate of Tulane University and later, Princeton University. Studied music theory with a minor concentration in jazz piano, seemed to be on the up and up for a while. Known participant of a sleep study known to be a subset of Project X, more than likely motivated by cash reward. Much unknown, as the facility burned down and Cliff assumed dead. Spotted recently at a Piggly Wiggly near Tallulah Falls, Georgia, significant gamma radiation spikes. Unique markings: dimple, large facial scar from eyebrow to upper lip, blue butterfly tattoo on left ankle.

Each image I got was worrisome at best, panic-inducing at worst, but I tried to brush past it. I needed more. Anything to do with Charlie, or weapons, or anything else that would put her in danger. But shockingly, I found nothing of the sort. Plenty of random information on myself, yes, but overall, a general annoyed tone in the stranger's thoughts. No malice, no evil. Still. That didn't mean that we were out of the woods yet. Even if this person wished me no harm, they knew far too much. I shoved past the memories of the file with my name on it, delving deeper into their head, searching for a name. But at this point, my own head was screaming in agony, and it vaguely occurred to me that I had a wicked nosebleed, judging by the taste of blood on my lips. Slowly, ever so slowly, I wrenched myself back into my own head and opened my eyes. My steps seemed far too loud as I crept over to the front door and peered through the peephole.

"You gonna leave me waiting out here, or what? So much for Southern hospitality." The stranger scoffed. I blinked hard, taken aback at how casually he spoke to me. This was not exactly the welcome I expected from a potential murderer.

"You're not supposed to be here." I blurted out rather suddenly. The figure on the porch step scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, you're supposed to be dead. So I guess we're both breaking the rules today." He replied. I squinted, attempting to force myself to focus, before I finally gave up and flicked the switch next to the door. The porch light flickered to life, somewhat dimly, and illuminated the intruder.

The first thing I noticed was that he was shockingly, roguishly handsome. Perhaps that wasn't important–but sue me, I didn't see a lot of men these days. Deep brown eyes seemed to be attempting to stare through the wooden door with something that I couldn't decide was curiosity or boredom. Despite coming in such a nice car, he wore a t-shirt that I could pretty accurately describe as ratty, bearing the Queen logo. Improbably tight black jeans and shiny sneakers completed the look, though the watch on his wrist was undeniably extravagant. Importantly, I could see no machete or chainsaw in his hands.

"Can I come in? I have had a very long drive." I wondered how many women that pout worked on. Hell, if I wasn't so scared shitless, it might've very well worked on me.

"No." To my delight, I could hear my voice harden into a more steely tone, despite how small and pathetic I felt at the moment.

"Don't you want to know how I found you?" He drawled. I paused. Yes, I did, and my head hurt too much to figure this out for myself. The pain was only getting worse, too, and I was beginning to get worried that I would collapse right here, behind the door. My vision was decidedly blurrier than it ought to have been. The stranger didn't seem to mind that I was too dizzy to answer him.

"Did you know that you still hold the high score for Mortal Kombat 2 at Mystic Krewe Pinball and Arcade?" This didn't seem to be relevant to anything, but for a moment, my mind flashed with loud rings and bells, the glow of neon, and the scent of plasticky nacho cheese. I hadn't thought about that place in years. "You do. Actually, you hold the top four scores. And wouldn't you know it, that ancient dump still has all the tapes from back in the day. Paranoid old geezer runs the joint, convinced he has to keep the tapes forever. Now, funny story, I was actually out celebrating Mardi Gras a couple years back–"

His voice had grown hazy, as if it were far away. With a thud, it briefly occurred to me that I had sank down to the ground, and was now sitting on my ass. The man outside cussed loudly, and the doorknob jiggled rather aggressively.

"Anneliese? Shit, can you hear me?" His voice sounded extremely far away, and as I raised my head, I could see a very terrified pair of blue eyes just down the hall, peeking through the cracked door.

"No!" I rasped, waving wildly with my hand to gesture for her to get the hell back in that room. I told her to wait for the knocks, dammit!

"Well, if you're feeling well enough for sarcasm, I suppose you can't be that bad!" I didn't have to see the man outside to know he was rolling his eyes. The doorknob continued to shake until I heard a firm latching sound. My eyes widened. Slowly the door began to open. The bastard was picking locks now?

"Anneliese?"

"No!" I yelled, and kicked as hard as I could. Just as my foot made contact with the door, another foot was shoved in the gap between the doorframe. There was a horrific crunching noise and a yelp from outdoors.

"Fuck! Okay, okay, look, can we talk outside? Real–shit–nice porch swing out here. Could use that. Please–fuuuuck–decide soon." He yelped. I paused, swallowing hard as I both weighed my options and attempted to force myself to stand. It wasn't working that well.

Dimly, it occurred to me that if he hadn't tried to kill me for injuring, possibly breaking, his foot, then perhaps he needed me for more than he let on.

"No. You stay out there. I stay in here." I insisted stubbornly.

"Jesus, fine, you win. Just–could you–" He was whimpering now. I grunted with effort, but shifted my weight enough to let up a bit of the pressure from my foot on the door. His foot slipped back out, and I straightened my leg, shutting the door once more. It took considerable effort for me to drag myself up enough to lock it again, but I did.

"Brrr. Sure is chilly for the middle of June." His voice held the tone of an unmistakable pout. I remained silent, counting each breath, until he seemed to realize that pity wouldn't work. He huffed, and I heard the soft creak of the porch swing. The way it continued to creak let me know that he was swinging, ever so slowly.

"This is the most pitiful raid I think I've ever heard of." I couldn't help but mutter.

"Raid. We wouldn't need a raid, considering the fact that you're about to puke from going beachcombing in my brain cells just now." The stranger scoffed. I could feel my blood run cold.

"What?"

"The old ESP trick. The Shining, the Mentalist act, the mind-reading. That is what you were doing, wasn't it?" His voice didn't sound nearly as sinister as I imagined it ought to.

"Y'know, if you're going to kill or abduct me, you do an awful lot of monologuing beforehand." There was a flash of the smartass that Charlie seemed to have inherited.

"That would be a little counterintuitive, seeing as I need your help."

"My help?"

"That's what I just said."

My head was spinning, though if it was from the vertigo or the idea of not being murdered, I couldn't tell. I felt equally nauseous, though.

"...Talk. Quickly." I breathed. He seemed to take this seriously, as his voice had picked up the pace considerably.

"Here's the deal, Miss Cliff–"

"Doctor!" I blurted out rather irritably.

"Right. Doctor." His tone made it clear that he didn't think much of my doctorate, which resulted in a hot wave of annoyance washing over my body. The rage helped me think a little more clearly. "Okay. Dr. Cliff. Here's the skinny. There's a situation going on right now. A kind of world-threatening, ending-life-as-we-know-it, kind of a situation." He paused, seemingly waiting for some kind of dramatic reaction. When I didn't say anything, he continued on.

"Here's the thing, Tex–"

"Not from Texas."

"-You're the wild card. The draft pick, so to speak." He continued on, breezing past as if he hadn't heard her. "You're the only humanoid we know of, to date, with any kind of affinity for telepathy. And we've…lost…a few of the best. We don't know how, or why, but their minds are being taken. Controlled. And the only person on the planet who might be puzzle out why was supposedly dead, til we got these photos of you at the Piggly Wiggly."

"Wha–I don't…I don't understand. Who are you?" I stuttered. All I could think of was the fact that the Piggly Wiggly had been out of oranges the last time I'd been. I'd completely ruined my entire way of life, the safety of my child, and I hadn't even been able to get my oranges?

There was a distinct huff of frustration outside. "You don't know? God. You really took this whole vanishing act seriously, didn't you?" He paused, as if I was going to blurt out that I'd just been kidding and that I really did know who he was. When no such revelation came, he continued. "Tony Stark."

Now that I did know. I already didn't like where this was going. I may not have been completely caught up on the times, but last I heard, this guy was elbow-deep in some of the most horrifically advanced, destructive munitions you could imagine. Now he was knocking on my door, begging for my help with some…some sort of pseudo-possession?

"Nice to meet you, Tony Stark. Now get off my property." Almost immediately, Stark began protesting. I could hear his petulant, entitled "buh-buh-buh-buh!" from here, and could easily imagine him holding up a single condescending finger in my direction.

"Not so fast, there, Huckleberry Hound. Listen–"

"Huckleberry Hound?!" I was now feeling rather offended, and the headache was slowly clearing up in favor of outrage.

"I thought you'd prefer nods to your accent instead of your abilities. Would you rather Firestarter? Maybe Sixth Sense…or Miss Cleo?"

"I'm done with this conversation. Get off my property or I'll–"

"Or you'll what? Sweetheart, I got an impenetrable suit of armor and there's a dozen snipers trained on this house. I'm getting a little sick of you acting like you have the cards here. Now shut up for a second."

Anger, definitely. Fear, without a shadow of a doubt. Panic, outrage, shock, terror…so many emotions. You'd think that I would be paralyzed in the moment. I had never considered myself a particularly brave person. I hated heights, and the ocean, and needles. I have been petrified of spiders since I was a little girl. I am afraid of losing Charlie, of putting my family in danger, of losing my way of life. So much fear dictates the way that I live my life, has dictated the environment I've lived in for almost thirteen years.

But the steel in my voice had somehow slipped down to course through my veins, and I gritted my teeth. My jaw was no doubt stuck out in a defiant jut, and I hung onto every last word that Stark said.

"These people. They're losing every ounce of free will. They're no better than drones–except they have enough expertise and skill to be a big, big problem down the line. You wouldn't have to fight anyone, you don't have to sign on for a lifetime. But right now, you're the only lead we have. The only chance these people have at regaining their freedom. Even if we track down the freak that's done this to them, we have no idea if they'll ever be the same again."

Memories in the back of my mind were drawing closer to the surface now. It was so long ago, and yet, it felt like only yesterday. The needles, the blood, how sick and frail I'd become…the scent of death, the taste of the medication, the thoughts, always the thoughts, constant and unyielding and burrowing and screaming and screaming and screaming–

"Dr. Cliff? You still with me in there?"

"...I…am listening, yes." My answer was breathy, barely supported by my voice. "You keep saying 'we.' Who's 'we'?"

"Hold on. Let me double check the name." He paused outside, and I took the opportunity to try and steady myself. I pulled up to my feet, noting how my knees shook. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. S.H.I.E.L.D. for short."

"I've never heard of that division." As if I was truly that knowledgeable on government divisions.

"You wouldn't have. Top secret."

"So, how come I get the billionaire trust fund kid and not some guy from S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Cause you don't like government agents." The answer came in a very matter-of-fact tone. It was incredibly annoying that he was entirely correct.

"I don't like you either."

"Mutual. Are you gonna look at these files or not?" I paused, thinking it over. I very much wanted to say hell no, to go away forever…but this was beginning to seem less like a request. What would happen to Charlie if I said no? Did they know about her?

"I will read them. That's all I'll promise." I finally muttered. There was a sigh outside, with the air of someone who'd just gotten back some much-anticipated test results.

"Am I gonna slide these under the door or what? Not much of a gap. Well-insulated place you got here."

Resisting the urge to perhaps attempt to strangle Tony Stark, I steadied myself with one hand on the wall before opening the door. It still somewhat shocked me to see that he had no visible weapon, though that didn't mean much. I lifted my gaze to the trees. I couldn't see a thing–but I had no reason to doubt the idea that there were indeed snipers in there, all with rifles pointed directly at my brain.

"You know you're bleeding?"

"What?" I blinked. I'd almost forgotten. He touched his fingers to his upper lip, and I mirrored the gesture. When I pulled them down again, sure enough, there was a stain on my flesh the color of cherry Kool-Aid. "Oh."

"Yeah, that's not worrisome at all." I flashed Stark my finest Mom-glare, the kind reserved for when Charlie swore or brought up how old I'm getting. It did make me feel a little better to watch one of the most powerful men in the world wither, holding his hands palm-up. "You rock the Pulp Fiction look. Here." Stark reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, small black square. He tapped its center and then right before my eyes, it projected an image into the air. My amazement must have shown on my face, because he was looking incredibly smug. He swiped at the air, and it transitioned into a group of images. They were blurry, but I noticed that the people in each picture had blue eyes. Not blue like Charlie's, but something…otherworldly. A radioactive kind of blue that instantly made me feel nauseous again. It was…uncanny. Not right. Unnatural.

"That's them." I murmured.

"Bingo. All you gotta do is talk to one of them, once we get one wrangled for you. Figure out how to make them better and hopefully, help us get each one back to normal."

I stared at these people for a handful of moments. Multiple angles and photos, but of only two men: one old, and one young. Stark had been right, or at least on one count. The younger one did look like he could be an issue, with the biceps alone. It wasn't that I had no compassion for them, and granted, the world ending didn't sound so great. But really, what did they need with me? I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I never used my…abilities. I barely knew how they worked, and trying only gave me a migraine and a nosebleed for my troubles. And to be gone for so long…what would happen with Charlie?

"Look. I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't help you." I finally shook my head. Stark's face hardened, and I saw a flash of red-hot temper behind those brown eyes.

"Now what the hell is so important in buttfuck, Georgia, that you can't help? You just up to your eyeballs in work around here? I am telling you, people are gonna die. A lot of them. You could prevent a lot of destruction if you would grow a pair and come with us." He snapped.

"Fuck off my property, Stark. Forget me. I can't help you, I mean it." I hissed in return. But Stark wasn't looking at me. His eyes had snapped to something above me.

"Oh." He murmured. I whirled around, just in time to see a curly head disappearing behind the curtains. Oh, no.

"I'll kill you." The words were out of my mouth before I'd even really thought about saying them. If it was me saying them. I'd never heard this voice before, with its icy tone and dead certainty. But my mouth was moving, and Stark was staring at me again. "You and me both, right now. I will scoop every last fucking thought out of your brain like a melon baller, and I don't really care if it kills me, too. You forget about me, and you forget about what you just saw, and you get the hell off my property. Now." For a moment, I thought I could see a tiny glimmer of fear in his eyes before he spoke again.

"...She's like you, isn't she?" My face must have revealed far too much, especially as I suddenly remembered the snipers. God, I was finished. They all must know now. What could I do? How could I possibly get her out of there? "For the first time, Red, you're starting to make some sense."

"Call off your thugs and leave. Or I'll have you drooling in a rubber room for the rest of your pathetic life."

"There's nobody here."

"Excuse me?"

"Just me and you. Actually, S.H.I.E.L.D. has no idea I'm even down here right now. This is a personal project of mine. They didn't think they could find or convince you, if you were alive. I'm shocked you couldn't already poke through my head and figure all that out for yourself." Stark shook his head.

I'd already expended so much energy the first time I'd peeked into his consciousness, but I reached out again. To my utter shock, he was telling the whole truth. There were no snipers. Just him and his ridiculous car. I gaped. If I had squinted and turned my head a bit to the left, I could've almost called the expression on his face sympathetic.

"If I can find you, they can find you. And when they decide to come knocking, because they will, they won't be taking no for an answer. And once they find out you've got a kid just like you? She's gonna be roped into it. Forever. Listen to me." Tears were beginning to slip down both of my cheeks, but Stark grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me to look into his eyes. I recognized his cologne. An oldie, but a goodie–Dior Fahrenheit. How retro.

"You do S.H.I.E.L.D. a solid now by helping out, and you'll hold more bargaining chips. You can arrange for her safety. But in order to do that, you'll need to scratch their back first. I swear to God, I won't say a thing. But right now, we need you." Despite my best efforts, more tears were falling.

"God. Goddammit." I whimpered. This seemed as good an answer as any to him, because he nodded in response. Awkwardly, Stark patted my arm and stepped back.

"Look. Take an hour or so, pack. Say goodbye. If you've got someone to watch the kid, I'll even make sure she gets there. I'll be out here when you're ready to go." This small kindness I wasn't expecting. It seemed Stark had surprised himself a bit, because he soon added, "Try to put a little pep in your step. Maniacal dictators don't wait around that much."

I don't recall stepping back into the house. It was as if one moment, I was outside, the crickets chirping in my ears, and the next moment, I was in the hallway. My fingers trailed along the wall as I went, eagerly pressing into each crevice and imperfection I could find in an attempt to commit each detail to memory. I opened Charlie's door, and crossed to her closet to knock three times. It burst open, and almost immediately, I smothered Charlie with a gigantic hug. Her arms wrapped around my waist, and I cradled her head against my chest.

After a moment, she pulled away. Mom, what's happening? Just that one question had snapped the last tiny threads holding my heart together. My eyes welled up with tears, which began to spill over at the terrified, confused expression on my little girl's face.

Charlotte. Pay attention to me, very carefully. I have to go away. I don't know for how long. But I will be back. Charlie attempted to start signing, but I grabbed her hands tightly to stop her. I shook my head, once, before letting go. No. Pay attention. This is important. I am going to be back for you. While I'm gone, I need you to be careful. If you meet anyone weird, if someone tries anything funny or scary, I want you to throw every rule I ever made about your powers out the window. Fight for your life. I need you to do that for me. Nod if you understand me.

Charlie nodded, still obviously very confused. Good girl. While I'm gone, you're going to go stay with your grandmother.

I have a grandmother?

I nodded, wishing I had more time to explain. Yes. She lives a few hours from here. There's a man outside waiting with a car. We're gonna pack, and I'm gonna call her on the way. Then you'll stay with her, and I'll go on ahead. She has my number, so you can call anytime you like and she can help tell you what I say.

Mom, what happened out there? I shook my head again, signaling that I couldn't explain. Instead, I continued to sign rapidly.

Charlie, I love you. More than anything in the whole wide world, you understand me? And I am never, ever going to let anything happen to you. You're going to be okay. I had advanced into full sobs now, whimpering and blubbering. Tears streamed down, Charlie's face, too, and I did her best to wipe them away with my thumb. I opened my arms again, and Charlie buried her face in my chest, her shoulders shaking with the force of her weeping.

We stood there for what felt like hours. I stroked each perfect curl on her head, gasping for breath as I tried to memorize her scent again. Charlie smelled like dew, and sunshine, and coconut cake. I imagined this was payback, in some stupid karmic way, for never having to be without my baby before. It was like dropping her off at kindergarten times a thousand, so intense and suffocating that I was sure I was going to drown here, on dry land. But I finally pulled away.

We need to pack. We need to go as soon as we can. I'm so sorry, baby. Charlie wailed, but nodded her head.

I held open my hand, and felt a whoosh of breath leave my lungs when Charlie took it. It reminded me of earlier days-when Charlie's hand was still sticky and squishy, and she had clung to my fingers while I coaxed her across the floor. How she'd wrapped those tiny fingers around my index finger, purple-faced and howling, and I had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

Packing was agony. We were both silent, save for the sounds of our shared grief. I helped Charlie fold her clothes so they'd fit into her suitcase, and had triple checked the bathroom to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. We tucked my favorite Tulane t-shirt into her suitcase as well, and I liberally spritzed my perfume onto it for her. Charlie even packed her Beanie Baby. She hadn't slept with that little grey striped cat for years, but she was so sure of herself when she tucked it into the case.

For me, it didn't take as long. I threw in whatever clothes I could find, not particularly caring what went in the bag. Charlie just stood in the corner and watched, tears streaming down her cheeks, like a schoolgirl in time-out. When I finally zipped my bag up, I lifted my hands to my neck and unclasped my necklace. It was small, nothing very opulent, but when I clasped it around Charlie's neck, she looked as if I had entrusted her with the Hope Diamond. I flashed her a small, very watery smile.

My father gave that to me when I was a little girl. He helped me cut out pictures of the people I loved most and put them in there, so they'd always be close to my heart.

Charlie fiddled with the heart-shaped locket for a moment before managing to open it. On the left, I had a picture of myself, my brother, and my parents. On the right, a much newer and clearer photo, was Charlie herself. Her fingers pressed against the sides of the locket, staring down at the tiny people inside.

One more thing, sweetheart, I signed. Your birthday present. I walked over to my bed and reached under the mattress to pull out a small box. Charlie opened it, pulling out a somewhat battered camera. It was a true testament to the 90s–bulky, bulbous, and weighty; though, thankfully, digital. I would never have been able to get film for an older camera.

That was mine, too, though from when I was a little bit older than you. Take lots of pictures for me while you visit your grandmother.

I love it. I love you. Charlie pulled me in for yet another hug, and I drank up every last millisecond. I tried not to think about the possibility that this would be one of the last times that Charlie and I would be together in this house. But as much as I could hug and kiss my daughter and tell her that everything was going to be okay, I wasn't quite as good at lying to myself.