Tony tells me that writing things down helps sort out our thoughts. I’m not entirely sure if I totally believe him but Steve keeps a journal, I think.
I have always known that Clint and Natasha aren’t my parents, though they act like they are.
My name is Anastasiya Victoriya. I am 17 and nearing my 18th birthday. I have lived all my life in Stark Tower in New York, New York. Well, I guess that is actually a lie. I was abandoned as an infant and sent to an orphanage in Budapest, Hungary. During a mission in the city Natasha found me. I still don’t know what possessed her to do it, but she brought me back here to America. She and Clint have acted like my parents ever since.
I was the first of the “Stolen Children,” but definitely not the oldest. I can only imagine Director Fury’s reaction to all the children suddenly showing up in Stark Tower.
The six of us were known as Tony Stark’s latest philanthropy project. We were each given names and birthdays and sent to school under the pretense of foster care and American immersion and schooling. Without formal adoption it helps prevent enemies from attacking us to get revenge toward our stand in parents.
For the most part we have normal lives. Well, as normal as is possible when we live with the “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.” We all go to school, play sports, dance, take music lessons, and gymnastics, or whatever else normal kids do.
There are six of us, like I said.
Heaven Leigh and Sofia Rae live with Thor and Jane Foster when they are around. When they aren’t they stay with Darcy Lewis.
Xander Ross, Quinten Kale, and Kira Kadence live with Tony and Pepper Stark.
Nash Lamar and I live with Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton.
Peter Parker stops in frequently and stays on whatever couch suits him. He is one of the Heroes but he is closer in age to us, so we are close friends. It has been a year and a half since his girlfriend Gwen died. He hasn’t been the same since. Often times he will train all day, spend all night in the labs, and then repeat until he simply passes out from exhaustion wherever he is. I worry about him.
Oh, who am I kidding. Writing down stuff isn’t helpful at all, I don’t know why I even tried.
