TOXIC ~ STEVE ROGERS [1]

Chapter Four

A few hours later, I felt brave enough to turn on my phone. 27 missed calls, most from Bri, a few from Max. 16 text messages, all telling me to reply, or call, or come back to the apartment where they would be waiting.

I sighed, shoving my phone back in my pocket. Almost three hours I had been wandering around the city, debating whether or not to return. It was logical to go back, but something stopped me. What if I hurt them like I smashed that mirror? Something was wrong with me and I didn't want to hurt anyone. That was my biggest fear. I may have been a bitter, sarcastic bitch at times, but I didn't want to intentionally harm anyone, even though I had the skill and the training to do so.

I finished off the hotdog I had dared to buy from a street vendor and threw the rubbish away. It was getting dark, and I recognised the street names. My apartment was only a block or two away from here. I would call my brother when I got back, if I had to. I would pack my things and I would go home, if that's what it took to make this paranoia and this weird buzzing in my veins go away.

A couple of streets away I began to feel like I was being followed. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and these newfound pumped up senses told me there were footsteps headed my way from the alley on my right.

"Hey pretty girl. Where you headed?" A voice rang out from behind. I had been too distracted by the footsteps ahead I hadn't heard the ones behind. I didn't turn, just kept walking. A large hand gripped my arm like a vice. "I said, where you headed?" The mans breath stank of alcohol, some kind of strong liquor.

I spun around, my muscles tense. I could easily take him out, with one elbow to the face, or a hand to the throat. I could see it playing out in my head; how I would do it, where I would hit him, how he would slump against the wall, unconscious.

But my veins buzzed, and my hands trembled and were they glowing, slightly?

I didn't move an inch, didn't make a sound but my mouth, my damn mouth moved of its own accord.

"Home, actually," I spat, twisting out of his grip. The footsteps ahead of me had stopped, and I swore I heard soft breaths, waiting.

"Your boyfriend let you walk home alone with protection?" He breathed on me, keeping in step as I walked hurriedly away.

"You assume I need protection, asshole," I muttered. Suddenly, he shoved me up against the lamppost, my spine stinging.

"What did you call me?" He whispered with rage. I shrugged.

"You gonna beat me for telling the truth?" I snarked. His pupils were diluted, and his eyes bloodshot. Drugs I thought. I'd heard about his type before, but I had never had an encounter with a man like him.

"I'm gonna do more than beat you, bitch," he growled.

I laughed, and then I elbowed him in the nose.

The cartilage crunched under my force, and he cried out, his grip on me no more. He stumbled back, blood gushing through his fingers. I stepped around him, anger bubbling in me. How dare he try and take advantage of me? It wouldn't have been his first time either, and I bet the other girls weren't so skilled as me.

I felt my eyes water and burn. Was there dust in the air? The man looked up at me, eyes flashing in the streetlight.

"You'll pay for that," he growled. I stepped around him, my whole body tingling. Anger burned in me, some kind of unnatural rage I didn't fully understand.

"Somehow, I doubt that," I said, low and dangerous. But before I could do anything more, someone jumped on me from behind, arms wrapped around my neck. I swung backwards and gripped the arms and tried to wrench them off. They were strong, but I was stronger. The man with the broken nose, rushed back into the wall, suddenly afraid. I pulled the man over my head and he slammed onto the pavement. The other man turned and fled, embracing the cover of darkness. In front of me, the attacker jumped up in one fluid motion, hands held out in front of him in defence. I faced him, eyes watery and sore.

"I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you," he said, his brown eyes glinting in the dark. He was handsome, with a chiselled jaw speckled with light stubble and dark brown hair. I glared at him, my fists up.

"Why does everyone want to help me? Why can't you just leave me alone?" I said angrily, circling him.

"My name is Jonathan," he said softly, his voice trying to be soothing. "I'm from SHIELD, the Strategic Homeland Interventi-"

"What does SHIELD want with me?" I said, blood roaring in my ears. This was my fathers doing, I knew it.

"To keep you and others safe. You're a threat to the public-"

"A threat?"

"That, probably wasn't the best way to say it," Jonathan sighed, his eyes flickering to the side. "Just, come with me. We can help you."

"I don't trust strangers. And I sure as hell don't trust SHIELD," I stepped around him.

"Just leave me alone."

"I can't do that," he said, one hand slipping into his pocket. I saw a glimpse of something shiny and silver. I frowned.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked, eyes on his hand.

"No. But I'll hurt you, if I have to," he replied.

"Do you know who I am?" I spat, anger bubbling in me.

"You're Keight Walsh. You study Photography at the New York Academy is Art. You moved to the United States from Zambia, Africa when you were 18 and left the missionary run orphanage you grew up in. Skilled in combat. Status: Dangerous," he rattled off, his calm tone meant to frighten me. But I wasn't scared. I was confused. His lack of information scared me more than what he had said. But I couldn't let him know that.

"You know your stuff, I'll tell you that. But you can stay away from me. I don't want to hurt you," I said, holding out my hands, imitating him. Jonathon stepped forward.

"Then come with me. We can help you," he said softly. Suddenly, a raging headache slaughtered my head, and I cried out, my eyes burning and hands shaking, a white-green glow starting my palms, and spreading out across my hands until the pins and needles raced along every muscle. Jonathon stumbled back, eyes wide. He had not been prepared for this. I saw a glimpse of the needle in his hand, a tranquilizer. I anticipated his movements as he made them.

A step forward, a swerve to the left, his footwork flawless, hand gripping the needle with every intention of stabbing it into my neck, my arm, whatever came first.

I threw my hands out in defence, a standard blocking move, but what happened next will be forever burned in my memory.

I felt a pull, and then a push, like every cell in my body was emitting power and directing it one way. My eyes watered, salty tears down my cheeks as I squeezed them shut, my body rigid and arms outstretched.

A white-green light burned inside my eyelids, and when the push stopped, and the light disappeared, and I heard the thud, I dared to open my eyes.

There was an acrid burning, like overcooked meat, and I saw, to my horror, Jonathon's body slumped against the wall, the tranquilizer needle shattered on the concrete. Blood ran down his neck, neon in the streetlights, and I stared down at my hands, shaking, mind whirring, the remains of my last meal threatening to come up.

Jonathon was dead, but that wasn't the worst part.

It was the absence of his head that scared me the most.