Clarke Maximoff hammered in dismay on electrified glass. Her fists fizzed and burnt with every punch but she didn't care. Stars danced in her vision, and through them she saw a group of scientists staring at her through the glass. One of them wielding a particularly ridiculous collection of facial hair tapped his thumb onto a red button, and Clarke was suddenly able to hear the insane men's nattering.
A hush suddenly descended over the Merry Maniac Marching Society, and the beardy one started to speak.
'Ms. Clarke Maximoff.'
Ms. Clarke Maximoff growled. She would show him what his windpipe looked like if she ever got out of this cage.
'We have observed that you have the ability to control air molecules, and can use said molecules to move yourself at... Slightly excessive... Velocities.'
Again, Clarke was simply daydreaming about what she would call 'excessive'.
'You also have the ability to deprive nearby life forms of oxygen; creating hallucinatory effects, loss of consciousness, and eventually death.'
Death.
Good idea!
'You are a mutant, Maximoff; Homo Superior. You are a high evolutionary.'
It didn't feel like that... You know, just sometimes.
'You are the future. With this knowledge, me and my colleagues hope that you will except a position in the Machina Project.'
Clarke threw another fist at the glass in front of Beardy's face.
Maddy Rowling was powerless. No sound. No shockwave. She couldn't get out of a tiny glass enclosure - how ironic - when pretty much the main thing that her power was known for was shattering the bloody stuff.
Everywhere hurt. Cisco Ramon gritted his aching teeth. His body, muscles and even bones couldn't take this strain. Endless attempts to weave his way somehow out of the prison had all been whimpering failures. Now - he was a whimpering failure himself. As in: whimpering in the corner of his cage while his bones reformed and blood poured out from his everything.
Cyanide spat a globule of Brock Rumlow's blood onto the concrete wall as she strode out from a minuscule dormitory for a grown man. She twirled two swords, smiling as she almost danced through the Hydra-infested corridors; dealing death at the same rate most folks inhale a lungful of air. Blood spraying onto disco images like strobe lights.
Ryan Wilson's heart throbbed in his throat as he was pushed down a corridor in the base. He was bound down to a metal stretcher; and his throat was bleeding from screaming. Seemingly every alarm in existence screaming to high heaven the news of an intruder's presence. His captors obviously didn't give a damn, or were being paid not to. Most likely the latter.
His vision went dark as his stretcher was left in an enclosed, pitch black space. The lights flicked on and he was now being prepped for surgery.
