TW for catcalling, discussions of medical procedures and battle injuries/scars (including scars from a gunshot wound)

Quake had gaped at her when Melinda instructed her to return with her things, clearly not believing her ears.

"What? No. That's insane, I'm not going home with a villain."

"You can't stay here, it's not safe."

"I've lived here for two years. I promise, it's fine. And again, since you keep forgetting, I'm a superhero. I know how to take care of myself."

"Clearly," Melinda sniffed, gesturing to the girl's cast and medley of bruises. Quake frowned.

"That happened off-duty, and it was an accident. It doesn't count."

"You called me to pick you up from a hospital, so I say it does count."

"Why do you even care, anyway?" Quake demanded. "Shouldn't you be, like, giving an evil cackle now that you know your nemesis is broke as shit and lives in a dump?"

"I care because someone as young as you are deserves to have someone looking out for them. An adult." Melinda paused as she realized how soft that made her sound. Quickly she amended her words. "And mostly because I don't want to fight somebody who's weakened by malnourishment and brittle bones. It makes me look bad if the press or my sponsors find out I've been beating on a poor kid with no parents and a broken arm."

"Makes you look worse if you lose to a poor kid with no parents and a broken arm, you mean," Quake smirked.

Melinda was relieved to see that playing up the pride angle seemed to have given her a window of opportunity. "At least let me give you a hot meal and a good night's sleep. I'll even throw in some painkillers for your arm. And if you want to leave after that, I won't stop you."

Quake waffled for a moment, then relented. "Fine. But just for one night."

"Do you need help bringing your stuff down?"

Quake looked like she was about to insist that she didn't need any help, but a second glance at her swollen and casted arm must have given her a reason to reconsider, and she shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

Melinda parked and followed Quake up the busted sidewalk and towards the building. She tried not to gawk at the disarray around her (or wrinkle her nose at the unholy combination of smells that seemed to emanate from every direction), but she could tell Quake noticed her disapproval. The girl quickened her pace and tried to rush them past a bench that had clearly been set on fire in the past and a group of greasy middle-aged men that lounged in front of the complex, playing cards. Melinda could feel their leering eyes lingering on her and Quake as they hurried past, and judging by the way Quake didn't react a bit to the wolf whistle that chased her, or the men's subsequent laughter, this was a regular interaction for all of them.

Quake led her up a rickety metal set of stairs to the second level of apartments and down the open-air walkway until she stopped in front of a unit numbered 26B. The six was missing a screw and was dangling upside down, making the number look more like a crooked 29. She fumbled with her keys for a moment, then jimmied the door open with a kick and beckoned Melinda inside.

The apartment itself was tiny, a single room barely big enough to even call a studio apartment, and the interior was just as run-down and dingy as the exterior. On one side, a sink and a hot plate made up what Melinda guessed counted as the kitchen. A piece of plyboard was balanced on an upended milkcrate, creating a makeshift table, and a single lawn chair sat beside it. On the other side, an air mattress made up with a few thin blankets and a pancake of a pillow took up most of the space. The rest was filled with a large, heavy-looking black footlocker that was sealed with a chunky padlock. A laptop sat atop the footlocker, lid closed but still giving off a faint hum of activity.

Quake began hastily filling her backpack with anything she could get her hands on – spare clothes, the power cord to the laptop, a bobbling statue of a hula dancer. Melinda pretended not to watch as Quake tucked a saggy, well-worn, and clearly well-loved stuffed elephant into a side pocket. One of the elephant's ears had a funny look to it, like it had been chewed on.

"I think that's everything," she said after a few minutes. She gave the room one last look over. "If you could get the trunk… I don't want to leave that here."

Melinda nodded, and hefted the trunk up in one swift, fluid motion, resting it on her shoulder.

Quake looked impressed. "That thing's super heavy."

"Run-of-the-mill super strength, remember?"

Quake smiled sheepishly. "Okay, yeah, I probably shouldn't have made a dig at your powers."

"Do I want to know what's in here?"

"Mostly it's all my… work gear," Quake said, settling on a euphemism for what Melinda understood to be all of her heroing equipment. "Not really something I like to leave out in the open, you know? Pretty much anything I earn that doesn't go to rent or food goes to gear, so it's definitely the most valuable stuff in here."

"Heard," Melinda nodded. "Handle with care."

They left the apartment then, Quake taking care to lock back up before they retraced their steps back to the car. The greasy men whistled and laughed again as they passed.

"Where you going with all that stuff, honey?" one of them called. "Taking a little trip? 'Cause I can give you a good ride if you need one."

Melinda was about to whirl around and clock him across the head with Quake's footlocker, but the girl stopped her with a jerky shake of the head and a warning look.

"It's not worth it," she muttered. "That's my landlord. He'll up my rent if you do anything. Just ignore him."

"He's disgusting," Melinda sneered, once they were out of earshot of the men. "I ought to dropkick him into the sun for talking to you like that. Does he know you're underage?"

"It's just talk," Quake assured her. "He never does anything but run his mouth. It's gross, but it's easy to ignore. Besides," she added, a small smile creeping onto her face, "I've got my own ways of getting payback."

She turned slightly, and Melinda copied her, looking back over her shoulder to where the men were still sitting on the other side of the lot, laughing like idiots over the landlord's crude comments. With a subtle flick of her non-broken wrist, Quake sent an almost imperceptible seismic wave across the parking lot. Tiny, so tiny Melinda might not have noticed she'd done it if she hadn't been watching closely, but powerful enough to shake the ground slightly under the men's chairs and send the landlord, who had been leaning back in his own chair gleefully, lording over his antics, toppling backwards. He tumbled out of his chair and crashed onto the pavement below, falling flat on his ass. The other goons howled with laughter at his misfortune, and Melinda caught a mischievous glimmer of pride in Quake's eye before they both turned around again and made their way to the car.

"Not bad," Melinda nodded, once they'd loaded Quake's stuff into the trunk and turned the car back out onto the road. "Your control has gotten a lot more precise, I see."

"I've been working on it a little."

Quake grimaced slightly and tried to massage her wrist, but the cast made it difficult. "Definitely paying the price for my little revenge, though."

"All those bruises on your arms… Not just from your fall this afternoon?"

"Like I said, my powers aren't exactly easy on the bones."

"Doesn't quite seem like it's worth the cost."

Quake didn't say anything to that, and Melinda was fine to let silence overtake the car. She had about a thousand thoughts racing around her head at the moment, but none of them seemed appropriate to voice just then. She could feel the stress and exhaustion starting to overtake the rest of Quake's emotions, wearing down her mask of confidence and nonchalance that she'd tried to keep on all afternoon, and she wasn't interested in pushing the kid past an emotional breaking point just then.

Eventually, they made it to Melinda's apartment building, nestled in one of the city's quieter, more upscale neighborhoods. The contrast between this building and Quake's was stark in nearly every regard, but neither one of them commented on that fact. All of Quake's chatty bravado and clever playfulness from earlier seemed to have disappeared, and she just followed behind Melinda wordlessly as they parked in the leveled garage under the building and rode the elevator up to the 21st floor.

She did finally speak when the elevator doors slid open and revealed that Melinda's apartment was actually the penthouse at the top of the building.

"Holy shit. You live here?"

"My work has been lucrative over the past several years," Melinda said simply. "I prefer to live comfortably."

The main room had floor length windows all along the east wall, giving a spectacular view of the Metro City skyline. It looked especially nice at sunrise, Melinda's favorite time of day, when the first golden rays of light illuminated the peaks and valleys of the skyline from behind.

Quake wandered numbly into the room, dragging a finger across the plump, plush furniture almost without thought, and then drifted over toward the kitchen, which was anchored around a large island counter with a black marble top.

"No kidding," she murmured, drinking in the hardwood floors, the fireplace, the fancy television that Melinda hardly ever watched. "You must be freaking loaded to afford a place like this."

"I've lived in my share of shoeboxes, too," Melinda offered in a half-hearted attempt to spare the kid's feelings. "Back when I was starting out, I lived in a place not much bigger than yours. And my husband and I lived—" She stopped herself short, throat tight at the slip of the tongue.

"You're married?"

"No," Melinda said with quiet finality. "Not anymore."

Quake must have gotten the message, because she didn't press for follow-up answers about the matter.

"I guess being a villain probably pays better than being a hero," she said, redirecting the conversation and circling back around to the middle of the room, where Melinda was still waiting. It was uncomfortable having someone unfamiliar in your living space, she realized, especially someone like Quake. An enemy, a hero… a kid.

"I think it varies from case to case," shrugged Melinda. "The big names at SHIELD probably earn more when all is said and done, but yes, villainy does come with certain… liberties when it comes to money."

Melinda gave Quake the rest of the tour with little fanfare, pointing out the guest room, the guest bathroom, and the doors that led to Melinda's office and bedroom. "Are you hungry? I normally order Thai on Thursdays, but if there's something you'd like better—"

"No, Thai's good," Quake nodded. "Thanks."

"You can unpack while I place the order," Melinda suggested. "And I can bring you a couple aspirin for your arm in a minute, too."

"Got anything stronger? How 'bout some of that stuff?" Quake cracked, nodding over at the liquor cabinet. When she caught a look at Melinda's unamused expression, she flung her hands up in playful surrender. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I don't drink. Geez, you need to lighten up."

"That whole cabinet's off-limits. Grown-ups only."

"I've got to admit, a firm stance against underage drinking wasn't really something I expected from a villain," ribbed Quake. Against her better judgement, Melinda felt a smile fighting its way out across her own face. It was hard to explain, but something about the kid's constant humor was wearing her down.

"And shaking me down for booze wasn't something I expected from a hero," she ribbed back. "Next thing you're going to tell me is that laptop you brought here is stolen goods."

"Nah," Quake grinned. "I won that in a bet."

Quake disappeared into the guest bedroom not long after that, armed with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water that Melinda had gotten her from the kitchen. It took about half an hour before their food arrived, and when Melinda rapped lightly on the guest room door to inform Quake that dinner was ready, she got no reply.

"Hello?" Melinda called softly. "Everything okay in there?" When there was still no sound from the other side, she cracked the door open a hair and peered in, hoping that Quake wouldn't be upset at the invasion of privacy.

She needn't have worried – the kid was sacked out, completely asleep and dead to the world. She was still fully dressed, and was curled on top of the comforter, like she hadn't even thought about turning the bed down before flopping onto it. The arm that was in the cast dangled somewhat awkwardly off the side, and Melinda found herself moving to tuck the arm back onto the bed before she had fully realized what she was doing.

Melinda retreated to the main room, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and a notepad from the entryway table. Then she returned to the guest room, draping the blanket over the sleeping teenager and scribbling out a note:

Dinner is in the fridge when you're hungry. I'll be in the office until late if you need me.

Melinda hesitated for a moment, debating what to sign the note as, then settled on 'June.' Quake knew that wasn't her real name, but it was a name she knew, and it was a name Melinda was comfortable sharing. And, like the kid had said in the car, it seemed strange to use their codenames now that they were in civilian clothes and sharing a roof. Melinda wondered if she should stop thinking of the kid as 'Quake,' but reasoned that if the kid had wanted to share a different name with her, she would have. It wasn't like the phony name the kid had given the hospital – Daisy, Melinda remembered – was any more real than June was for Melinda.

Melinda ate alone, and after she had cleared her own dishes, went back to check on the kid once more. Still sound asleep. Deciding that Quake was probably in a deep enough slumber that Melinda wouldn't need to worry about her for a while, Melinda slipped into her office, determined to try and pick back up with the project she had been working on when she'd been interrupted by the call from the hospital that afternoon.

She pressed a few buttons on her desk, sending the high-tech tactical and video screens that she used for work back into the wall, hidden behind their secret panels, and sank into the high-backed chair, more tired than she'd realized she was. And her knee was starting to ache again. Maybe she'd just record for an hour or so, then take an early bedtime. She scooped up the tape recorder – hearing about how easily Quake had accessed her digital data made Melinda feel better about her earlier decision to do this project analog – and clicked the device on.

I wasn't always in the business of villainy. Maelstromeda is a fairly recent invention, only about twelve years old. But people's memories are funny when it comes to heroes and villains. I'm sure there are a few die-hard historians and obsessed fanboys and girls out there who might recall The Cavalry if you asked them, but for most people… heroes fade into obscurity easily, especially the dead ones. And The Cavalry died a long time ago. Melinda May died along with her, but there's even fewer people left who remember her at all.

Everything seemed a lot more black-and-white when I was first starting out. Heroes are good, villains are bad. Heroes save people, villains hurt them. Obviously, as a kid growing up, you don't dream of being a villain. You dream of being an Avenger – a Captain America or a Captain Marvel type. And when I started developing my empath powers as a teenager, it seemed like a dream come true.

Things were different back then; there weren't as many rules and regulations, and applications to the SHIELD Hero Division were open to anyone who could demonstrate Enhanced status. I knew it was a long shot – it's not like sensing people's emotions was a particularly useful power set, at least not compared to flying or energy blasts – but I didn't care. I hoped. I dreamed. I applied. I got in.

I was only 16 – again, different time – so I started out in their junior training program, a rank below rookie and confined to the base, but still a part of the team. Still a part of SHIELD. I trained in combat, in tactics, in espionage, all the usual skills. I mastered my powers, worked to hone them and strengthen them. I thought I stood a good chance at making it onto a black-ops team once I was old enough for field work, something that could use empath powers as a part of undercover work or something like that. It wasn't exactly what I had dreamed of as a kid, but it seemed like the best I was going to do.

Then I got the call up from SciTech. They were starting up a new program, Enhanced Re-Development. EnReD. And I was a prime candidate, they said. I was about 19 or 20 at that point, still young and stupid and hopeful enough that I was willing to jump on any chance to move up. So of course I said yes.

I met more doctors than I could keep track of at first, each one with their own specialized subsection of the program. I know them all now. Their names are seared into my memory. Their names are a mantra in my mind. Streiten, Zola, Schmidt, Killian, Strucker, Whitehall. The list goes on.

Bits and pieces were explained to me then, but much of what I know now is information I learned later on, either as I advanced through EnReD or after everything fell apart and I began my own investigation. In the beginning, though, I knew only what they told me, and what they told me was this: The EnReD program was created with the theory that Enhanced individuals possessed the genetic capability for further enhancement, beyond their natural-born abilities. Because most Enhanced individuals' powers come from their genetic makeup, some kind of mutation or genetic predisposition for subatomic alteration, there were those within SHIELD who believed that those same individuals' DNA could be more receptive to further, artificial enhancement.

SHIELD had gotten lucky during its formative years when it stumbled across Steve Rogers, a human who could successfully withstand the Super Solider Serum treatment. Attempts to recreate the experiment never reached the same level of success with other test subjects. Until two members of the Super Soldier Serum reverse-engineering team – Doctors Schmidt and Zola – proposed using already-Enhanced individuals for the next round of tests. They had synthesized a relatively stable, albeit crude, reproduction of the serum – now a purported wonder drug they dubbed Triple S – and were eager to see its effects in those whose DNA had already proven malleable.

That was Phase One.

They were already in Phase Two by the time I arrived. Triple S had produced promising results, but the serum had numerous side effects – significant changes to the body and, in some cases, to the mind as well. Other teams were working in tandem, refining the drug and pursuing other methods of enhancement. I was placed in the Centipede group, under the study of Dr. Streiten. Centipede Serum, he told me, hoped to recreate the results of Triple S without the side effects. I wouldn't grow a foot taller or put on 50 pounds of muscle, at least, he assured me.

It was stupid of me, but I agreed. For six months I received Centipede injections and careful monitoring. We saw results quickly, but at first they were only temporary – maybe an hour or two of feeling juiced up, but then back to my normal self. They tinkered with the formula, ran more tests, and continued my injections. I tolerated the serum well, unlike some of the other members of my study group. A few were like me, but just as many more found the stuff too potent, too addictive, too destabilizing. Our numbers dwindled.

Eventually, they cracked the code, and they found a formula that changed me permanently. My empath abilities stayed intact, but I now had the oh-so-coveted super strength and agility that SHIELD longed for its heroes to all possess. I took another year to retrain, to learn how to use my new strength and dexterity. I was promised a hero contract pending the completion of my training, but just a few weeks before my promotion, SHIELD approached me with a different offer.

The sound of a door stopped Melinda short, and she hastily clicked the recorder off and stowed it in one of the secret compartments hidden within her desk. She listened closely, and soon made out the sound of someone shuffling around the apartment on the other side of the closed office door. The kid must have woken up.

Melinda did a quick once-over to make sure everything incriminating was tucked away and out of sight, then rose from her chair to go and check on her young houseguest.

When she emerged into the main room, the first thing she saw was Quake, still in her same clothes from earlier, rummaging around in the kitchen cabinets.

"Looking for something?"

Quake jumped slightly at the sound of Melinda's voice, but almost immediately tried to pass it off as a shiver. She straightened up and turned to look at Melinda. Her expression didn't look particularly guilty or afraid, so Melinda wasn't surprised when her answer turned out to be innocuous.

"Yeah, do you have any plastic bags or something? I want to shower, but I can't get my cast wet."

Melinda nodded, and soon she produced a plastic shopping bag and a few rubber bands, which she used to secure the bag around Quake's arm. She tried hard not to think about how strange the situation was, her and Quake inches from each other, her hands on Quake's arm, but neither one of them trying to knock the other one out.

"There are extra towels in the linen closet if you need them," Melinda said as Quake drifted back toward the bathroom. "I can heat up the leftovers for you while you shower, if you want to eat."

"Thanks," Quake nodded. "That'd be good."

Before long, Quake emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean, and settled herself at the island, where Melinda had left a heaping plate of takeout. She looked even younger, now that all of her dark makeup and heavy eyeliner had been washed away and she was shoveling Pad Thai in her mouth like she hadn't eaten in days. Which, Melinda reasoned, she may not have.

"I should have asked earlier – you don't have any allergies do you? I think there are peanuts in that…"

"No food allergies," Quake said, her mouth full. "Just penicillin." She swallowed and flashed a cheeky grin. "But I think if there's penicillin in your takeout food, we've got bigger problems than my allergic reaction."

Melinda studied the kid as she ate, trying to do so without outright staring at her. She had traded out her beanie and flannel and was now dressed in a tank top and athletic shorts, her hair piled up in a bun on top of her head. Without sleeves, it was very easy to see just how bruised and swollen both of her arms looked, and it was hard to miss the other obvious signs of injury that the girl wore on her skin. A long, thin scar snaking down one shoulder toward her back until it disappeared under the tank top fabric. A large, tender looking bruise on the outside of her left thigh that looked suspiciously like a boot print. Scabbed-over cuts on her hands and knuckles.

None of it surprised Melinda – injuries were just part of the job in their line of work – but it gave her an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach to see the injuries on someone who looked as young and vulnerable as Quake did now, perching here at her kitchen counter and inhaling noodles like they were air.

"Do you always stare at your guests while they eat?"

Melinda blinked and realized she'd been caught. She cleared her throat and looked away. "Sorry, I was just…"

"I know," Quake said. "I know it looks bad. Worse than it feels, honestly. But it comes with the territory, right?" She issued the last part like a challenge, almost daring Melinda to stop pitying her.

"That's true."

"There's one from you still on here," Quake smirked. She tugged at the hem of her shirt and revealed a faint, almost-healed bruise on her hipbone. "From that good hit you landed with the hilt of your sword a couple weeks ago." She didn't mention the large, jarringly obvious pair of scars that looked suspiciously like they'd come from gunshot wounds on her stomach, so Melinda didn't either, despite the sudden and irrepressible urge to rip the head off of the person who had shot a teenager in the gut. Twice.

"Sorry for that," Melinda grimaced. "I forget how heavy the hilt can be."

"Don't be, it was a good move. I left myself open, and it was a clean hit. Besides, I got you good, too, if I remember."

"Quaked me back 20 yards," Melinda chuckled approvingly. "My tailbone was sore for a while after that."

"You got any good ones?" Quake asked, inclining her head Melinda's way.

Melinda couldn't quite explain it, why she was letting her guard down like this, but soon she was showing off her own battle scars, chatting with Quake as if it were twenty years ago and she was sitting at the bar at the Krazy Kanoe with Hill and Romanoff and Rambeau, comparing injuries and swapping war stories.

"Oh, this is a good one," Melinda said, rolling up the leg of her pants. "Piece of rebar went straight through me while I was dealing with a Vrellnexian invasion. Job wasn't finished, so I just had to pull the damn thing out and keep going. Actually took a Vrellnexian clean out with it not long after."

"Okay, yeah, that's badass," grinned Quake. "And also super old. Wasn't the last Vrellnexian invasion, like, 25 years ago?"

"22, if you must know."

"Like I said, super old," teased Quake. "I remember learning about it in SHIELD training." A curious look crossed her face. "Why were you fighting Vrellnexians back then? Wasn't that a SHIELD mission?"

Melinda paused for a moment, then gave an evasive answer she hoped wouldn't rouse much suspicion. "A threat like Vrellnexians tends to be an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation."

"I guess that makes sense," Quake nodded. "No point in being a villain if the whole world gets ravaged by hostile space roaches. So, what else you got?"

"Let's see," Melinda said, happy for the change of subject, "Scar here on my middle from taking a sword to the gut. My sword, as a matter of fact. That's how I got it. I was fighting the Shrike Queen, Izel, and her right-hand man, Sarge. Got stabbed by one of them. Managed to stay on my feet long enough to use the sword to take them both down, and kept the sword for myself afterwards."

Quake looked impressed. "No way."

"These," Melinda tugged at the collar of her shirt to show off twin scars on either side of her collar bone, "are from electrical wires. I was fighting Face-Off – she's inactive now, but back then she was a first-rate pain in my ass, could polymorph her face to imitate people – and she had me pinned at a hotel bar. Ripped the wires out of the overhead light and zapped me. I got the flip on her eventually and put the wires in her face, instead."

"Shit," Quake laughed. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"The rest aren't nearly as interesting," Melinda said with a wave of her hand. "Knife scar on the shoulder, bum knee from too many hard falls, that sort of thing. Make sure your super suit has reinforced joints on it, by the way. Nobody ever warned me when I was starting out, but joint damage can be a killer in our line of work if you don't protect your knees and shoulders properly from the get-go."

"I'll keep that in mind, grandma," smirked Quake.

"You wish you had a grandma as cool as me," Melinda ribbed back without thinking.

Quake's smile dimmed slightly, and she shifted in her seat. She gave a weak chuckle. "Yeah. Although I guess you're probably not really old enough to be my grandma, technically."

"Not impossible," Melinda conceded, "but in most cases, no."

"How old are you, exactly?"

"I'll be fifty later this year," Melinda told her. She made a small face in Quake's direction, a peace offering. "Not that it's any of your business, whippersnapper."

"I guess it's a good thing we live in a concrete jungle like Metro City, otherwise you'd be yelling at me to get off your lawn," Quake said, her playful smile returning. "Next thing I know, you'll start telling me about how kids like me have it too easy these days and how you had to fight heroes uphill both ways in three feet of snow way back when."

"Obviously you've never heard of Donnie Gill. Called himself Blizzard, had cryokinetic powers, wanted to freeze the world… very annoying to fight if your super suit didn't have temperature controls."

"And the hill?"

"Metro City's always had pretty flat terrain," Melinda said. "Even before someone like you came along with the power to level it."

"You know," Quake said, stifling a yawn, "all these people you talk about fighting in your stories… they don't really sound like the kind of enemies a villain would have. I mean, Vrellnexians, the Shrike Queen, some whack-o trying to freeze the planet… those sound more like threats SHIELD would take on."

"It's late," Melinda said, after a beat too long. She gestured at the second yawn Quake was trying to fight off as a means of proving her point. "We both could use some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Oh… yeah," Quake agreed. She sounded confused by Melinda's sudden shutting down of the conversation, and the emotion that rippled away from her confirmed it. "Yeah, you're right. Um, goodnight, I guess."

"Goodnight."