Life Notes of the Adopted Daughter of Tony Stark

Chapter One: How The Lost Get Found

Warning:
This story and chapter are long and I will be tweaking it as I go, so if it updates often, sorry to spam you.
Hope you enjoy!
------------------------------

This story, I want to first off say, is absolutely true. Every word that's typed by my hand or someone else's.
'Why should I think that?' you ask? Because, well, the fact that you even clicked on this story is what's convincing me that you are convinced. Or you were bored, right? So, if you're reading my story, then good for you. You believe in all the conspiracy stuff the government tries to hide. Mutants, super soldiers, supernatural beings, secret organizations, alien robots... or you were bored.

Another fun fact about this me and this story (more like what it's about), is that I didn't have my memories until just a few months ago; my innocence is ruined once again because of those memories, but at least I'm not ignorant.

And, as a memento of my struggles, I've decided to write them all down. Why? 'Cause everybody who knows me asks the same question: can you tell us what happened? You, like everyone else, will want to know what happened. And I'll tell you, so don't get over excited; my life is more traumatic then terrific sometimes. Sometimes.

To start off, my name is Joyceann. Joyceann Brokenheart Stark. I'm also known as Halcyon, Thunderstorm, Thunderous Prime, and Joyce Claire Stark by the public eye. Stark isn't my real last name; obvious though right? These names have made my world a constant state of flux in which I never seem to get out of.

Let's get one last thing straight though; I'm weird. Just how weird? Well, I'm friends with weirdos from S.H.I.E.L.D. and NEST. Not by my own will of course; it kind of all just, happened.
For the past two years I've been actually involved with S.H.I.E.L.D.; the streets of New York were my home up until 2012.

Speaking of 2012, let's start with what would've been Earth's Armageddon, Ragnarok, Dooms Day; whatever you want to call it: The Battle of New York. Living through it wasn't really a problem; it was more about surviving it. You can blame Loki for that. The Asgardian confronted me that day in a way I can never forget. Let's just say pain was involved (You can see where this story of mine is going, can't you?). None the less, I endured it; my pride, not so much. Only a few things kept me from dying.

These things, my indisputably strong powers, had kept me on the streets a good, long time, for I feared that no permanent home could ever be found. Oh, you want to know what they are, don't you? Well, there's so much detail that needs to be put in them, so you'll find out everything you'll need to know about them eventually. It's not exactly something I can hide anyway. But to sum things up, I have wings that have three main forms for the wings that change in and out, depending on mood, weather, will, etc. I honestly like to change them out by will because they're just so damn awesome.

I have regular claws on my hands that retract like a cat's, but it's the ones in my hands you shouldn't mess with. They're similar to steak knives; sharp, indestructible, and can slash through anything. Kind of like Wolverine (only I'm cooler :3).

The dodgiest part of me is my electricity. I can manipulate, create, and sabotage, anything electricity related. Even bio-electricity, (that's a living being's electricity). I have complete control; or at least I think I do. It has gotten stronger over the years. So strong, well, I could kill hundreds of people in a single bolt. I'm horrified one day I will.

Moving on, there's also the telekinesis. That's the power to move things with your mind basically. It comes in handy, and so does the mind reading.
And if you must know about my other prime power, read on. I can't really explain it here, it wouldn't belong; it's quite alien.

Well, let me officially start this story. The Battle of New York is where we begin; well, just before it that is.
So, picture this: it started off a normal day for someone like me. I was a street singer. That day I just happened to choose to play right under Stark Tower. My hair was pulled up, streaked black, blue, and purple. My hands strummed along to a song I wrote. A long, black jacket covered my torso and my wings. I had a crowd of 15, but all were into the song. Some danced, some sat and listened, and the ones who had come before sang along. I loved every minute.