Chapter Text
The way you think about it, you see things differently from everyone else.
You don’t mean that in the conventional way; pessimism and theological belief and mortal bureaucracy.
You mean it in the sense that, awful things have happened to you, and they’ve changed absolutely everything.
You’re not upset enough about it to be actively suicidal, but that doesn’t change the reality you’ve been made to accept throughout the years that the very groundwork of who you are has irrevocably changed… that you have irrevocably changed.
With what you can do, with what you are... You wrestle every day against the bone-deep compulsion to flee, to leave and never return to this strange land lest you wish to invite upon yourself an encore of your harrowing trials anew.
You suppose that that’s why, when you hear a whirring vehicle—one that’s clearly far too evolved in the technological sense to belong to a civilian—approach from several cubits out, you do not make to retreat.
In fact, you do not move at all.
A short spell later, you hear the self-assured footsteps of an unmistakable quartet—one pair quite clearly highly-trained, while the other markedly less so—dismounting from an idling vehicle onto solid ground. Simultaneously in the heavens, two projectiles—one industrial, the other not-quite humanoid—swoop down from the heavens without an ounce of stealth.
Both parties are variable yet united, and set unmistakably upon a direct path to unearth you where you linger out in the thick of the forest. Oneida County, if the numerous wooden signs you’ve glimpsed amongst the worn-down paths are to be believed.
Biting back a sigh, you resolve to relocate yourself. You’ve never been one to remain idle for long.
In moments, you’ve taken to the air—winging it just below the treetops, a natural cover. You hum a quiet tune to yourself as the damp breeze ruffles your feathered wings—a most pleasant sensation. You don’t touch down until you reach a pleasant (but somewhat less-travelled) clearing due east off the main path. All the while, the clumsy footsteps of your pursuers fall deafeningly upon your preternaturally-attuned ears.
You retract your wings as something of an afterthought, and resist the instinctive urge to whine as they meld effortlessly through your plainclothes into hairless, scar-ridden skin between your shoulder blades. Your anatomy is, outwardly, much like unto that of a typical human’s—save for the wings, of course. Perfect for blending in when necessary.
Your irises of vibrant magenta remain so, which you know to be a rather unusual pupillary color within the realm of human biology. Still, there’s nothing to be done about it now, and from what you’ve seen, humans have grown quite fond of effecting changes to their physical appearance over the past decade or so. Thus, the conspicuous shade coloring your otherwise prosaic optics could just as easily be yet another fleshly oddity of the human race… a colored contact, they call it, if you’re not mistaken.
Beyond that, you appear to the untrained eye no different from any other human creature. Even your clothes, plain and thoroughly washed (—courtesy of the rather enchanting freshwater creek just a short flight from here—) appear painstakingly ordinary:
A pair of black denim trousers you’d absconded with from a curious emporium called “Levi’s”; a similarly black tunic (the man from the Satanic bazaar called “Hot Topic" had christened it a “T-shirt”) embellished with a strange motif of bloodied blades and skulls beneath the word “Slipknot” in spindled font; and a queer, charcoal-grey doublet of footwear called “high-top Converse” laced up securely on either foot.
It’s almost laughable, how paradoxical it all is—the heavenly angel adorned in ravens’ colors; a paradigm of virtue clad in the raiment of Hades himself.
Your pursuers reveal themselves in such a way you speculate is to render you confounded—quiet steps, elongated breaths, measured movements.
There’s only one who succeeds—a woman, you think, though you’re loath to admit that you can’t quite be sure.
Whoever she is—or, whoever they are, they’re good. Very good.
The first to reveal himself is a tall, muscular human male wearing a ridiculous-looking suit comprising painfully patriotic American blues, whites, and reds.
He bears a matching shield forged into a thin circular disc—proto-adamantium, a near indestructible derivative of vibranium, you deduce—harnessed to his left forearm with visibly weathered russet leather straps. His eyes are cold and blue like pure blue lace agate, and his clean-shaven jawline is angular and defined.
You know him instantly—Steve Rogers. Or, Captain America, depending on your persuasion. (Personally, you think the man’s glorified moniker is rather imbecilic.)
The rest of his team—the self-proclaimed Avengers, you recall—appear quickly directly thereafter, as if each were waiting for Steve Rogers’ cue.
A cardinal-red-and-gold battle suit lands just a handful of paces to the left of where you stand with an audible thud, pitching a circular hodgepodge of dampened dirt, lifeless browning leaves, and wiry wooden twigs up into the air around its ironclad shins. You think that the man inside the ostentatious ensemble means to intimidate you.
You make it a point not to give him the satisfaction of flinching: not when he lands, nor when his war suit emits a keening whir that echoes throughout the clearing just moments later.
Another figure appears at the edge of the clearing, at approximately 2 o’clock to Steve Rogers’ 12: a decidedly abecedarian, Slavic-looking young woman dressed all in blood-red leathers from head to toe. Her eyes are wide and lined with kohl, irises flickering a lurid scarlet as you watch. An enchantress—one who possesses a profoundly powerful breed of crimson alchemy, at that: the very same magick-user who reportedly fought alongside Steve Rogers and Tony Stark and all the rest of them in the famed battle for Sokovia.
She’s likely the most dangerous of them all, you posit—both for the sheer magnitude of wizardry she possesses, and the measure of chronic ignorance with which she wields it.
Not a second passes before yet another figure, dressed in patriotic reds and blues to mirror that of Steve Rogers’ garb, lands to the right of where you stand. This one is less mortal, and yet, invariably human just the same. The close proximity chafes.
Still, her arrival is less brazen than the Man of Iron’s, and the soles of her navy-blue boots disrupt only a minimal berth around her.
Consequently, your gaze flickers briefly to her in kind, your interest somewhat piqued.
You know her to be a newer Avenger, with blonde hair and a square-ish jawline and chestnut-brown eyes that flicker with something like a warning as they unabashedly appraise you.
She’s Carol Danvers, formerly known as ‘Vers’ amongst the Kree, now the widely proclaimed “Captain Marvel.” Powerful, emotion-driven, impulsive.
Next comes a sandy-haired man who appears more “sycophantic intelligence agent” than “world-renowned hero” clad in baggy black trousers and a subtly-armored bodice, its chest emblazoned with a purple downwards-facing Chevron.
As you watch, he positions himself just to Steve Rogers’ right side—10 o’clock.
The well-equipped compound bow and the adequately-stocked quiver protruding visibly over one broad shoulder—not even to mention the fine-point steel arrow nocked and aimed directly at your jugular—might as well be a name tag, for all its subtlety. Clint Barton. Archer. Codename: Hawkeye.
Steve Rogers begins to talk, then, all confidence and self-assured integrity. It irks you for a great number of reasons, but your attention is split. Someone is missing from the troop… someone important.
There had been four of them on the ground; you know that to be true, because your senses don't lie. They never have.
Regardless, you do your best to take it in stride as Steve Rogers embarks on what you think is meant to be a short commencement that inspires confidence. “Hello. I’m Steve, and this is my team. We’re not here to hurt you. Do you know who we are?”
You tilt your head, pouting your lips to feign contemplation even as your ears strain to listen for the last member of this motley congregation.
“I do,” you reply. Your earthly accent is near perfect, though tinged with a strange combination of what most humans would consider to sound much like British and Polynesian combined. “You call yourselves 'The Avengers.’ Heroes of the Earth.”
“Then it seems we’re at a disadvantage,” Steve intones, well-trained diplomacy hammered into every facet of his tone. “You know who we are, but we don’t—”
“What Spangles is trying to ask,” comes a muffled voice from the Man of Iron, something that clears as the mask retracts itself with a succinct whir to reveal Tony Stark. Crankiness mars his lined features. “... is who the hell are you?"
You have to resist the urge to smirk as Steve Rogers clenches his jaw, quite evidently peeved at Tony Stark’s interference. Regardless, you turn to give the billionaire a quick once-over before darting your gaze back up to meet his.
A sparse wave of apathy washes over you at the sheer arrogance you see displayed proudly there.
You tell them your name in a measured tone before adding, “though I confess I’m unclear as to how that’s any of your business.”
An inelegant snicker comes from behind you—Carol Danvers, you remember, though you don’t bother turning back to confirm.
“Perhaps we shoulda been more specific,” Hawkeye drawls with a stoic expression, carefully inching forth—all the while keeping his arrow nocked and aimed at your throat. “What are you?”
“A wanderer, nomad… vagabond,” you list off, turning on your heel to look the burly man dead in his narrowed blue-green eyes. “Whatever you choose to title it.”
“That’s not what we’re asking, and you know it,” Steve Rogers accuses tersely, taking a brave step forth.
Your subsequent words filter through gritted teeth as white-hot anger flares low in your gut, fists clenched tightly at your sides: “I owe you nothing, Steve Rogers.”
You don’t miss the way the captain’s left eye twitches beneath his silly mask at your blasé use of his civilian name. Still, he doesn’t back down. “Earth is under our protection,” he tells you, mounting frustration evident in his voice. "We need to know if you threaten that.”
“I have been here a very long time, Captain Rogers,” you counter without a moment’s pause. Your patience for this back-and-forth is rapidly waning. "In that time, I have never isolated myself as a threat to your planet.”
“Yet,” Tony Stark pipes up unhelpfully from beside you. Heaven help you, but you wish for nothing more than to turn around and punch that farcical goatee off his smug face.
“Stark’s right,” Steve Rogers seconds—though he doesn’t look terribly pleased about it.
“Did’ya hear that, Legolas?” Tony calls over to the edge of the clearing, where an unsmiling Clint Barton remains poised to strike. “Steve said I was right.”
“You guys suck at this,” comes a throaty, distinctly feminine, and entirely new voice from directly behind you.
Alarm bells ringing shrilly in your brain, you whirl around. And, if you do so a bit faster than can be considered entirely human to a conscious observer, you’ll blame it on the redheaded woman for catching you unawares in the first place.
Sure enough, there she is: standing proudly at the other end of the clearing wearing nothing more than a piss-poor excuse for a combat suit that clings to her like a second skin and a lethal smirk stretched lazily across comely features.
She’s close—not terribly so, just an arm’s length or two, but the ubiquitous impression of panic waxing in your chest nevertheless remains. How the hell did I not hear her?
“Здравствуйте,” she purrs in a honeyed tone, irises of malachite-green boring keenly into yours.
You’re not sure what compels you to answer back in kind. “Здравствуй…” It’s all you can do not to stumble gracelessly over your ensuing speech: “I know you."
The woman quirks an immaculately-shaped brow, amusement dancing in her gaze. “Oh?”
“Natalia Alianovna Romanova. Former Red Room pupil. Codename: Black Widow."
Her bemused visage does not waver. “Someone did their homework.”
“I find it prudent to be informed.”
Natalia nods slowly alongside your assertion. “And why is that?”
You swallow thickly, mulling over her words. “I do not mean you any harm—I give you my word.”
“What if we aren’t looking for just your word that you won’t cause us harm?” the Widow questions, inching ever closer until you can practically feel the heat from her mortal body against yours, pulsing and warm and real. She stands somewhat higher in stature than you do, you note—though, not by much; perhaps a tomme or two. “What if we want more?”
You’re not quite sure what happens, then. All at once, there is sharp pain in your lower back and the all-too-familiar sensation of cursed, heavily-magicked steel biting into your flesh… and then, nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
— —
You wake slowly—too slowly. A throbbing pain at the base of your spine weighs heavily upon your senses. Luminous smears of blinding effulgence streak dizzyingly across your hazy periphery.
Gradually, you become aware of numerous vaguely-familiar voices quibbling ardently from either side of your prone form.
It only serves to render the pounding affliction in your skull all the more dire.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” one distinctly feminine inflection, heavy with an unmistakably American timbre, demands from somewhere off to your right, her tone sharp with droll indignation. “You could've killed her—"
“Or she could’ve killed us! ” another whiny, vaguely masculine modulation joins in from the left. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have been sure that it belonged to one Tony Stark.
You know better. It can’t be Tony Stark, just as that first voice can’t be Carol Danvers of the infamous Avengers, because—
Wait.
Yes, it can.
You force yourself up into a sitting position, the sudden movement tearing an ear-splitting shriek of agony from your desiccant throat. You grit your teeth and ignore it as you fall onto your feet in a hound-like crouch. Anguish spreads like wildfire from the base of your spine as your wings flare out to bulwark securely around your crouched figure, successfully hiding all extremities from view—save for your head, regrettably.
“Jesus!” Tony Stark shrieks when your gaze darts up to burn through his. The self-proclaimed Man of Iron is without his armored suit, now, though you expect it’s a mere murmured voice command or button press away. Instead, he wears sagging denim trousers and a woven sweater, brown eyes wide with something like horror.
“Shut it, Stark,” Carol Danvers hisses from beside you. On instinct, you back yourself towards the corner at your stern, desperate to keep each of the seven—because of course there would be seven of them now, rather than the six you’d started with—blurred figures from flanking you in any capacity. “You’ve done enough.”
“What—What have you done to me?” you manage to snarl weakly out, cold perspiration dotting your forehead, pain pulsing powerfully throughout your hunched form.
The scene before you begins to grow more precise and fathomable by the second—though that feels to you a rather hollow comforts, as comforts go.
You see an abundance of mechanized extravagance littered all around the near-cavernous space: metallic gadgets and industrial wares and complex machinery, most (if not all) comprising both outdated and contemporary widgets alike. You muse to yourself that perhaps this is the infamous Stark Tower—specifically, one of Tony Stark’s numerous private laboratories located on the baser floors beneath ground level.
You note a makeshift procedural chair inclined at a 1/6 radian’s angle relative to the cemented flooring, its steel-plated back wet with crimson blood—your blood.
Someone steps bravely forward, then—Steve Rogers, you observe. His brawny figure seems to glitch periodically in your pain-addled perception. He’s changed as well, now donning a pair of modern-day athlete’s trouser sweats along with a tight grey sporting jersey.
He halts his tentative approach when a warning growl escapes you.
“Hey, take it easy,” he tells you, something likened unto genuine sympathy flaring in his gaze. “You’re injured.”
“Why?” you spit out, clenching your jaw tightly against the pain which threatens to tear your body in two. Fuck, this hurts. “So you can kill me this time?”
Steve Rogers clenches his jaw tightly even as something like genuine apology flits across his proud features.
You refuse to believe it, even if only for a fleeting second. “Where did you even acquire Darksteel?” They can’t possibly have forged it themselves. Even their Scarlet Witch doesn’t possess that level of wizardry.
“I got it for them,” Carol Danvers finally speaks up, formerly confident gaze downcast in contrition.
“Where?” you demand hotly, pain ravaging your frayed nerves.
Carol Danvers shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, hands shoved into either pocket of her worn denim trousers—delaying the inevitable, by all means. Something you really, truly do not have time for right now.
“… Jotunheim,” the blonde captain murmurs out eventually, and you hiss instinctively at even the mere mention of it. Of course it had to be there, as opposed to Naro-Atzia or Berhert or even Xandar. Of course. “I didn’t know—”
“But you do now, do you not?” you interject, eyeing her meaningfully. “You know what I am.”
Her despondent gaze comes up to meet yours, then, a lifetime’s worth of remorse shimmering in youthful brown eyes. “Yes, I— … Yes.”
“Which is what, exactly?” Tony Stark cuts in, arrogance saturating his testy inflection.
Were you not grievously wounded at the current moment, you’re sure nothing would have stopped you from swooping the small whiny man up in your arms and dropping him into the Atlantic. You settle for a baleful glare instead.
Curiously enough, it’s not Captain Danvers who answers him, nor is it you.
Rather, it’s the fiery-haired Widow whose sure-footed countenance appeared to stop time itself when first she appeared unto you. She’s all grace and immeasurable poise as she steps forth, still dressed like a cat burglar in combat.
“Вы — ангел,” she remarks in silver-tongued Russian, her sage-green eyes unwavering upon yours. You shiver despite yourself.
It feels right, somehow. Natalia classifying you, that is—and in her native tongue, no less.
“V… y o-angle?” Tony rashly sounds out. “Huh? What’s that mean?"
“Angel,” Carol Danvers supplies without turning to spare him a glance, her thoughtful gaze heavy upon your crouched, wounded figure. “I thought… I was taught that there weren’t any left.”
Her words are, for once, uncharacteristically careful; measured.
She pities you, you think. You loathe it.
“Well, I suppose it's your lucky day, then, no?” you bite out, your words laced with virulent acrimony. Defeatedly, you retract your wings and wine as you lower yourself to your knees on cool granite. “You have the illustrious honor of executing the last of them.”
— —