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

14 ~ MUTANT ~ 14

It's strange to be sixteen. I spent two birthdays somewhere in Russia, fighting and getting experimented on. And, I did look different, changed. I had scars and crazy eyes with bags under them and I couldn't smile as I used too, and a gazillion little details, all remnants of Hydra.

But, is some ways I looked the same. I had only grown half an inch in two years, I looked the same- besides the obvious changes -and I couldn't see any real differences between pictures of me before. Maybe I had actual boobs now, and I was half a size bigger in shoes, but I felt like my outsides didn't match the gravitational changes of my insides.

I liked to look in the mirror somedays- and just stare. Now, I don't consider myself especially vain, maybe a tad narcissistic when I was younger, and I definitely don't have some supermodel look about me. But, since I got back, I can't help but try and familiarize myself again with everything I've forgotten, including my own reflection. Every once in a while, I'll even pull up an old photo of myself from the digital file they have on me; which is a painstakingly slow process considering the shakiness of my hands and the slight tendency I have to accidentally fry everything I touch. And, I'll compare us- the girl and me.

Yet, other days, I can't stand to look at myself. I might even cover the mirror with a towel, or just slam my fist into it. I usually feel bad about the second, only because it means Coulson or one of the shrinks will want to 'talk about my recent outburst' or some bull. I'd rather just bottle up my emotions and avoid my problems- like a normal teenager.

Most mornings, I don't even want to think about what trouble waits for me on the other side of the door. Heavy-duty training, shrink talk, doctors prodding me, and Harry trying to prevent me from my mission.

Yes, the mission. The one where I team up with a popsicle, one of my personal hero's who turns into a rage monster, that crazy redhead lady who used to work for my father, my favorite Shield agent, and my father. To fight an evil god.

At least, if Fury can recruit them all in time. In any case, I have a week until the action. Coulson left yesterday for some secret Op nobody gets to know about. All I've managed to find out is that he took one of Harry's buddies- Grant or Gabe, something like that -with him, and he won't return for a while. The doctors and Shield scientists have been scrambling to finish whatever testing they want, and I've been training harder than ever before. I couldn't allow any slip-ups on mission, and with my father involved, that would be tricky, to say the least. It hasn't even begun, and my powers are going haywire, the side effects hitting in full force.

We had discovered soon after I arrived at Shield that sometimes my abilities (or whatever you want to call the Neo-Nazi Freakiness that I had been stuck with) kinda killed everything, biodegradable or not. Plants, technology, anything wooden- they would all just sag together before they somehow became dust. And it wasn't just that, my clothes would seem to grow patches and lose their stretch, and sometimes even my skin would have patches that were cold and bruised-looking, spots where I couldn't feel anything as it touched my skin. Most of them healed within a few days, a couple of weeks at most. But, it made it even harder to control myself.

Luckily, one of the Shield Scientists managed to make some weird fabric that was at least somewhat resistant to my abilities, if not completely immune. I tried to read the notes on how it was made, but none of it made sense to me, the words seemed to smush together and anything I could make out was nonsense. Sometimes, I felt a tug at the back of my brain, like a memory of a memory, when I saw a certain word, but it never amounted to anything helpful. With time, as the Shield brainiacs would say. Bullshit.

What I wore now at least helped with the physical side effects, what were called Suppressors covered the most common spots for me to make Dead Patches, as Coulson had once called them. Long sleeves covered down my arms and to my knuckles, my pants sliding over the heavy boots I wore- the first invention by Shield to help with my power control- aka, me frying everything and almost killing people on accident that one time I was barefoot. Besides that, it was really nothing special, just the usual tac gear; pants, belt, etc., all holding the Shield insignia, some with the name of the inventor. Most of it was by someone named DR. E. WILSON, who I hadn't managed to meet once, but was actually thankful towards. I couldn't remember the last non-singer I was thankful for besides Coulson when I beat him at BS last week.