HADES // T. STARK DAUGHTER // MARVEL I.I

12 ~ VACANT ~ 12

I was stuck inside that Hydra base for fifteen months and 17 days. 474 days. I spent 474 days getting tortured, killing, and watching people die. Needless to say, I wasn't about to go running back to the burning spotlight and get bombarded with questions from everyone who got the chance. After a few days, Fury agreed to let me become an Agent, though the title was really just for show. I just spent my days training and training and training. Not top secret missions or access to any of the databases. Just a room and a logo on my sleeve.

We had discovered soon after I arrived that whatever happened in the cell wasn't some one-time fluke. Whenever I let my guard down, it was there to take control.

I stopped seeing Harry- fake Harry, at least, seeing as real Harry was nearly always there, watching creepily from the shadows, knowing not to approach the crazy kid with superpowers. But now, there was just me. That version of me from the day I left Hydra. The version that I didn't recognize, that was burned into my memories.

~~

Once we landed, I was given a room on the giant plane-base thing we had entered. I felt dirty and unworthy of the plush-looking bed (compared to the cot I had been sleeping on for the past year) and the soft carpet that sunk into my bare, grime-covered feet.

I flicked on the light to the spotless bathroom, stepping inside hesitantly, the tile cool and soothing. I pulled up the handle to the shower and turned around, unintentionally catching myself in the mirror. I froze, staring at the reflection looking back at me.

The girl in the mirror was covered in tear tracks and a dirty substance. I knew was from the disgusting cell I had been inside. Her clothes- a pair of grey sweatpants and a matching undershirt -where splattered, no, covered in dark red blood, already dried. On the sleeve, a black logo shined, marking her as the property of Hydra. Her hair was starting to grow, scattered on her head in dark patches of fuzz. And her eyes, God, her eyes. They seemed to been shattered like glass, an inhumanly green with dark bags underneath them.

I stared for a few minutes longer, simply shocked, before I managed to pull myself into the shower, where I scrubbed away that girl. That thing, that victim.

After the shower, I felt even more alien. My skin was clean, nothing but whitening scars and dark bruises left to tarnish it. I was in real clothes, with socks, something I hadn't worn is what felt like years. I laid on the plush bed and worried this feeling would never leave me.

~~ Put Your Head On My Shoulder; Paul Anka

I still felt out of place, even in my own body. Without the grime and musk, I felt naked, exposed. Though at least I had a full head of hair now, well, it was more of a poorly-done buzz cut than anything else, but still. I was trying out this whole 'positive outlook thing'. That's what Coulson suggested.

A few days after I had arrived on what I now knew was the Hellicarrier, Agent Coulson was brought out to 'help' me, since I flat out refused to speak with Harry. He was a pretty nice guy, but I always felt like I was stealing his time away or something whenever we were together.

*

I made my way down to one of the private Office's, a bottle of water in one hand and my container of food in the other; the fancy Shield doctors had stuck me on a special diet a while ago, once we discovered certain foods that I once loved now made me sick to my stomach. Which sucked. I really miss ice cream.

Knocking on the door, I entered the office without waiting for a reply, waiting for Coulson's usual 'There's no point if knocking if you're just going to barge in any way' even though we both knew he would be waiting with the deck of cards. But, this time, Coulson had a grim look on his face and his nose was buried in some file.

"Coulson?"

The older agent jerked up, sighing in relief as he saw me. "Wilx, is it noon already?"

The name still felt funny against my ears; Wilx. It meant sometimes, I was just another name in the crowd, and it felt good. I wasn't a Stark or a project anymore. I was just . . . one in a crowd. Even if I was going by my mother's name, Harry's name, it felt more fitting than Stark, especially when I no longer had the brains that came with the name.

"Jeez, man, I didn't think you'd need the old folks home for another couple of years at least."

As I pulled a chair up to his desk, he retrieved the cards, sliding the file into a drawer. I began eating as he dealt, even the bland protein slop (meant to boost my health, apparently) that was still better than the crap at- that place.

I blinked at the sudden dryness in my eyes, taking a small breath. Don't think about it. You shouldn't have thought about it. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. After a moment, I calmed myself taking a sip of water and picking up my hand of cards.

I had decent control of my . . . ability as long as I kept my guard up. All the time. Everyday. No matter what. I kept myself closed off when I could, quiet, alone. It was better this way, I had discovered. If I didn't bond with anyone, I couldn't relax around them, and then that power wouldn't take control.

Harry tried. Every day he tried so hard. But whenever I looked at him, I saw the boy who had abandoned me, and worse- the boy who had been the devil on my shoulder for months, feeding into my worst idea's.

Coulson tried too. But in reality, I was just on autopilot most of the time. Every day I trained, showered, had lunch with Coulson, trained again, and then slept. It was simple, easy. I used to try reading, but the words got jumbled up and my head started to spin. It sucked. The doctors and tutors said I was getting better, but it didn't feel like it. Going from sounding like a first grader to a third grader wasn't something I was proud of.

"Wilx?" I looked up, blinking a few times.

"Sorry, uh, just thinking about, er, everything."

"Well, I put down a four, you're up."

The game was light-hearted at the core, but lying straight to a Shield Agent's face and getting away with it was always a challenge. "Seven," I lied, looking at the rest of the cards in my hand.

"Ten," Coulson replied, flipping his card down, "You know, the doctor's all say you'll regain at least eighty-percent function."

"Jack." Nine.

"You just need to be patient, Wilx. The doctors said you could regain near one-hundred-percent in a year or-"

I looked up from my cards, Coulson staring into my soul. Anytime somebody dared talk to me, it was usually about my once high I.Q. and that awful eighty-percent. "Eighty. Percent." I scoffed, holding up eight of my fingers, "I had an I.Q. of one-seventy. At fifteen. I was a certified genius. Only nine points below my father. Eighty percent, how much is that out of one-seventy? I wouldn't know, because I can't do the math."

I clenched my hands, discarding my food and pushing up my sleeves, trying to force myself to calm down. Lately, it seemed I was always about to snap. And I hated talking about my brain. It seemed like all I had ever talked about, all I had ever been needed for, was my brain. Lab partners, friends, family, reporters, and now Shield. It was all about my brain, something that was clearly damaged beyond repair. But instead, they tell me I'll recover, I'll get better. Because they're scared of pissing off Hydra's latest toy.

So, for now, at least, I'll just train and train and train, knowing I'll never get back who I once was.