Phoenixfire

Making a start

"And that's when I came into your tender care", Phoenix ends, her mind still on the memories, trying hard to find her calm and distance as she had been indoctrinated to all those years ago. Emotions punishable by beatings. "Can I have some Alcohol now, please" she proceeds to say with her head slumped back to wall. Her Phoenix inside is trying to sing soothing notes, but at that moment they fall on deaf ears.

Natasha, who had quietly sat through all the tale, is the first to speak. "I'll get you some. Come on Wanda, lets leave her to it. Anything in particular?" "Strong," Phoenix says "and a lot." "My kind. Good." With that, she gets up and pulls Wanda with her. At the door, Wanda hesitates. "Will you be okay?" Phoenix looks up to her tiredly. "Always."

When they are gone Phoenix stays in the same position. Afraid that movement will cut through the hard fought for control. When Natasha comes back and hands her a bottle of Vodka, she thanks the woman politely and ignoring the offered glass chucks down the liquid trying to get blissfully drunk to forget. "Have to be fast or my Phoenix will burn out the alcohol before I can get drunk" Phoenix admits. Natasha smiles and leaves a second bottle of vodka, a bottle of water and a few aspirin. Well in the second bottle, Phoenix finally curls up on the ground, her back to the windows for the illusion of privacy and cries until the alcohol takes effect and sends her into drunken oblivion; she successfully thwarted her Phoenix's healing by the fast intake of the beverage.

A few hours later upstairs Wanda glares at Tony, Steve and Bruce as they are caught in a discussion whether or not Phoenix can be trusted enough to get free of the cell. Every now and then her attention swivels to the screen showing Phoenix's cell. She had fallen asleep a while ago, her hand still on the bottle of vodka. It was good to see her somewhat relaxed, even though only through self-medication. Wanda was sure in her assessment. This was no threat but could become an asset. Suddenly the figure started to move restlessly and sound cuts in "Não quero isto, me sollte, súplica! Sói, me sollte!" Friday translates simultaneously "I don't want this, let me go, please. It hurts, let me go!" The discussion in the room stops as quiet whimpers fill the speakers. "That's it", Wanda says, slapping her hands to the countertop she's leaning to. "She's coming out there now. I will take her to the spare room between mine and Natasha's." She gets up and leaves, before any of them can argue any more. Rushing down the stairs she reaches the cell in record time. The cell door opens with its signature hiss, then she is inside slowly moving toward Phoenix, who looks up to her through a curtain of tears with bleary eyes. "I've nothing more to tell" she whispers hoarsely. "I know" Wanda replies. "I am getting you out here. Come on, up with you. A real bed awaits." Phoenix stops moving. "Why?" Wanda gives her a quick once over and holds her a bit tighter when she wobbles on her feet. "Because I trust you. And you do not deserve this."

Two weeks later Phoenix still is not sure of her place. The guys do not trust her, and though she was asked to stay, she is not too sure she should. Wanda is doing her best to make her feel welcome. Natasha is somewhere in between. She spends most of her days out of sight on the roof – it being the only place she can safely let go of her Phoenix without causing alarm in the computerized system. There she would train on her own with a training sword she was grudgingly granted hour by hour by hour. She suspected her own sword had not made the way back from the Hydra complex and she missed the light blade but made do. She wondered about her contacts she had sent out getting new intel on Hydra. She had no way of communicating with them now. What would they think? They probably thought her dead. Her tiny flat would already have a new tenant and her stuff dumped or reused by them. Not that she had had much. The only thing that really mattered was the tiny obsidian ring she is now again wearing on her left pinkie. Tony had returned that hesitantly, deeming it not a threat.

The memories they had called up when they needed to know about her past are still too close to the surface for comfort. It is the wee hours of the morning now, and Phoenix knows, she should go to bed sometime. She sighs. She hasn't really slept in all these two weeks. Drifting off is no problem, staying asleep.... More of a challenge. She was running low and on fumes. Even though her Phoenix and its healing provides her with a lot of buffer between needing an uninterrupted night of sleep, two weeks is stretching it. At least she feels tired. Maybe she should try it? She leaves the roof after a last look to the stars, so much farther away than they had been up in the mountains of the Andes, and finally returns to her room. Changing into comfy sleepwear she lies down and drifts off. When she wakes, sweaty, with racing heart and tears burning in the eyes it is just turning light out. "Three hours, new record", she mumbles to herself after checking the alarm clock, turns to her on suite bathroom and steps into the shower. This time she had been back within the compound underneath the ice and she was fifteen. She had been instructed to learn a new weapon – a sword. She loved it. But every time the blade dropped or she mis-stepped the blade was used as cane on her. So, by the end of each training day she was covered in her own blood. She had learned and fast. When she was sixteen, she was pitted against other recruits or volunteers from the holding cells. It was to kill or be killed. She still loved her sword, but this night she had woken to the screams of all the kids she had killed with it. She stands underneath the spray, twirling the ring of her mother, and finally hits the wall with her fist. "Ashes and dust" she curses, steps out of the shower and dresses in another set of training garb that hat miraculously popped up in the wardrobe of the room she had been given. At least whoever had shopped had gotten her colours right. Black, dark burgundy, oh and black. The quality was better then anything she had worn in her life, with stand of the art fighting mittens and all. This morning she needs an opponent. Nothing alive, but more than air. She silently leaves her room and makes her way to the training area. Stretching her muscles slightly she walks about the perimeter to see what's available. She settles on a wooden dummy for hand to hand combat. Carefully she tests the wood and after a few moments falls into her rhythm of punches, chops, kicks, and twirls. She feels the stings whenever she breaks skin, but her flame heals the lacerations as soon as they happen, so she is not worried about them. Her mind goes blank – it feels awesome.