NOT UR FREAK (Avengers fan-fiction)

Capitulo Cinco: Freak

I'll never be the old me again.

-Unknown-

Welcome to Hydra.

I shiver in the cold, huddling closer to Javier and pulling my pink skirt farther over my legs.

It was English. I never really paid attention in school, it had always been an escape, rather than a priority. However, language always seemed to stick with me.

Cupping my hands to my mouth, I exhaled into them, attempting to warm the frigid flesh.

He welcomed us. Obviously, an act of mockery, a taunt we wouldn't understand. A jibe towards our, as well as the soldiers, incompetence. But really, an indication to his own. Didn't he know English was a mandatory language in Spain? Taught in almost every school, and considered necessary for the development, and future careers of the pupils?

At least I knew where we were. Hydra. The name touched a memory, a story of some sort, told long ago by a man. His face had long since become blurred in my mind, but I remembered his voice. Gruff, and deep, and loving.

An image comes to my mind. A small girl, curled tightly against the giant of a man beside her. Blue eyes fixed on the book in his hands, with her favorite doll hanging loosely from her hand. What had happened to that doll?

I remember the first Sunday after I came to my Dads house. The entire week I had been expecting him to come, to take me away from that terrible place. He had promised to never let anything bad happen to me, his Princessa. He had promised that he would come get me, wherever I was.

But he didn't. I was so angry; I ran out to the trash-cans and threw the doll in, adding his face to the long list of grown-ups I couldn't trust.

That night, as I lay in that unfamiliar place, listening to the night time noises, I couldn't help but wish for my doll. So, I decided to get her. First thing in the morning, as the night was far too scary to face alone. But when I went out there the next day, the trash had already been taken, and I lost the last piece of home I had.

I shivered again, though not from the cold, glancing around at the dimly-lit concrete room.

Arah jerked to her feet, her eyes falling on the door.

"Their coming."

Sure enough, I hear a faint click as the door is unlocked, and several Doctors file in. They eye us strangely, as if deciding if we will attack or cower.

We cower.

And they each select a child and begin a standard medical examination that I have become intimately familiar with from my many visits to the school nurse.

They look into mouths, check ears, and pat us down for injuries, occasionally asking questions in a garbled Spanish that is only slightly more distinguishable than the sobbed answers the terrified children give. When they are done with the examination, they give the child a small package of food, pulled from the large bags slung over their shoulders and move on to the next child.

Pretty soon there's a line of hungry kids, waiting for their share of food.

When it's my turn, the Doctor, a tall, willowy man that seems to be in his mid-forties, skips the rest of the procedure with one look at me.

Pale, weak, and covered in stiff dried blood, I must look like a real wreck. He walks over to the door, and calls out to someone down the hall. I hear the sound of footsteps faintly, and then the Doctor opens the door, revealing a shorter man with a stocky build, in the same grey uniform I've seen on most of the people here. The Doctor gestures to me several times, giving some order as the soldier nods his head.

The Doctor moves on to Javier, and the soldier drags me out of the room. I don't fight, partly because I know I wouldn't stand a chance, partly because I don't think they'll feed me if I do.

He leads me down several hallways stinking of bleach and antiseptic, the once white paint peeling off in yellowed strips. I have to walk quickly to match his stride, and every step sends a jolt of pain through me.

We turn down another hallway lined with doors and windows, spaced evenly apart and looking into a very sterile room filed with equipment I've never seen before. It's brighter here, and cleaner. The soldier knocks on a door marked D13, and a woman's face appears through the window before she opens the door to scowl at us. She spits something at the man, who answers in a tone just as condescending, shoving me towards her.

She huffs and I can't help but think of her as an angry bull, getting ready to charge. But she's too late, he's already gone, and she is left to stare at me.

She opens the door wider and pulls me in, directing me through two more doors until we reach an even brighter room. It has but one furnishing, and I stop in my tracks when I see it. It's a cushioned medical table, but it has been slightly altered so that there are straps. Head straps, abdominal straps, several arm and leg straps. 

Human straps.

The woman shoves me from behind, but I spread my arms and brace myself against the door-frame, planting my feet and hoping against hope to stay out of that room. Away from that chair.

She pry's my fingers from the door, dragging me as I claw at everything within reach. The door handle, a piece of equipment with a small screen, the woman's face. She slams me against the edge of the chair angrily. I stop fighting for a moment, the pain so shocking I forget to breath.

The woman yells something towards the door, and before long a man walks in. He stares at us quizzically, speaking to the woman in an amused tone. She answers in a loud, annoyed voice, pushing me farther into the chair as if for emphasis. He shakes his head, a small grin on his face, but begins to help her nonetheless.

I bite, and scream, and lash out with both legs, but with their combined forces it is only a matter of minutes until I am pinned. The man holds me down, while the woman fastens the binding much tighter than necessary. She leaves the stomach strap free, and walks over to a tray on wheels. She selects a small needle and several lengths of thread before returning and giving some sort of direction to the man. He starts to pull my shirt upward, and I begin to fight in earnest. The stiff fabric begins to peel away, taking the scabs with it and releasing a new flow of blood.

The woman begins to stitch, quick even lines forming across the jagged ones. A sound wrenches itself from my throat, an animalistic scream echoing in the room as I jerk my body every which way, arching my back and attempting to free my arms. She's reached the final letter before she begins to comprehend that these cuts are intentional. She stares down at them in confusion, but I see the understanding in the man's eyes.

Because he knows. Knows what this word, scrawled out in in ugly, twisting, capital letters means.

FREAK.

Thank you to everyone who read this, it means a lot to me. Please Vote, Comment, and live long enough to read my next chapter.

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