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Chapter Text

𝐇𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 :) 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲

Before you read(these are important):

-When: This book takes place after the Leipzig fight and the Siberia fight, basically when Sam, Clint and Wanda are in the raft. But instead of Cap saving them, he doesn't.

-Only parts of Hydra were defeated in catws and shield still exists.

-Ages: I aged peter down a little so he turns 15 in August 2016 and emeline is 14. The others keep their ages. Edit: Natasha and bucky both 28 as well.

-Plot: So, part of the plot differs, especially around the time at the raft, and post civil war. Things are going to be pushed back maybe a year depending on where my writing takes me. when I finish this book entirely, then I'll come update this.

-Movies: Black Widow, Infinity War, Endgame. Like I said before, things are going to be pushed back a bit so dates here may not correlate with the dates in the movies.

-Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the mcu, only my OC(s)

-Warning: The whole book overall contains violence, torture/abuse, mature language, SA, imprisonment, ptsd, anxiety, and depression.

^^𝐒𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞.
𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 :)

Chapter Text

"Am I supposed to be grateful to have survived this?"

Emeline is taken to the raft and meets her inmates, and now she has to find some way to make it through alive. But amidst it all, she has to learn the difference between strength and weakness.

[based after Captain America: Civil War]

Chapter Text

(( April 24th 2016. Queens, NYC ))

IT WAS A UNUSUALLY QUIET LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON, the wind brushed through leaves and came through a half opened window in a small one-room apartment. A girl with deep brown hair hoisted herself up from her stiff bed.

Emeline sighed to herself as she looked out at the loud and busy street from her window. April was cold and rainy this year, and this day was like any other. The gray sky took over and made the city seem darker than it actually was.

It was after her supply run when Emeline walked home that night; she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched. Slipping up her fire escape, she carefully sneaked through the window she had left open that morning.

Jumping back onto the carpet, she heard a shout from a very startled Peter Parker, who was standing in the doorway. The 14-year-old boy was one of her neighbors from the other building. It had been nearly 10 months since she had been living there, and Emeline had no intention of interacting with them.

It had taken a while to get used to the bubbly boy, she had almost trusted him. But she knew not to get attached. In the end, she would only end up hurting people.

"What the- Emme?" He shouted, frozen in place with wide eyes. Emeline let out a small sigh, relieved that it was only him as she removed her hand from the spot at her waist.

"Why are you in here?" she questioned, going to her fridge to get some milk. He laughed, "Aunt May wanted to invite you over for dinner, why were you climbing through the window?" he asked, knowing with his own experience in the matter.

It was moments later that she wished she could have changed everything from this point on. Let herself have her own life, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room. But, as we all know, lies have their way of unraveling sooner or later. It's all just a matter of when.

The door burst open to reveal heavily armored men with rather large guns, all pointed at the two. Men filed in through the door, raising their guns.

Emeline's blood ran cold; at first she had thought this was Hydra, coming to take her back. But this wasn't like them, there was no Hydra emblem, and these soldiers had come in with no plan, she could tell.

Peter's heart raced even more rapidly as a gun was planted against both their heads; Emeline froze.

"Come with us, and we'll let the boy live." A man came forward and requested, well, it wasn't a request as it was an order.

Leave it to the American government to handle things calmly.

She could grab Peter and run, crash through the window, and maneuver down the fire escape. She could grab her gun and shoot them, attack them all before they shot Peter. She could use her strength and fight her way out. She knew Peter was enhanced, it was painfully obvious he was the vigilante Spiderman, but she held the risk of outing his identity to the government, and she couldn't live with that. Why did she care so much about him? She didn't even know him.

Emeline was fast, but—not fast enough.

They would kill Peter.

And for some reason, she couldn't live with that either. She already had too much red on her ledger, and she refused to gain any more. So she allowed her own hands to betray her interest and rise above her head.

"There we go," the man said. "You know, it's really a pleasure to meet you after all this time. I'm Secretary Thaddeus Ross," and he smiled beatifically at Emeline, as if nothing could ever trouble him. "You are under arrest for violation of the Sokovia Accords, principles one, three, four, and nine."

Emeline was lightheaded now, dizzy, operating somewhere outside her body. It was surprisingly easy to be unaware in that sort of state, even if it scared the hell out of her. Nothing was real, and her fake life was over.

Well, at least it was okay while it lasted.

She slightly winced as they locked her wrists into a heavy set of vibranium cuffs and added a small device to her ear but didn't fight back. "Wait," Peter was saying. "You didn't even read her rights! You have to—"

"Fifth Amendment rights apply to civilian humans. You—" Ross smiled at Emeline—"are neither."

Peter was confused and frantic as they took his friend away. He was so freaked out that he abandoned all of his overthinking and pulled out his phone to dial a number.

He felt guilty; he hadn't done anything. He could've swiped the gun the man was holding and taken Emeline to safety. He supposed it was the shock that a friend he had known for almost a year was enhanced. But this was on him.

It was happening all over again, the same thing that happened with Ben. But he tried his hardest to remind himself that this wasn't the same.

But it was. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to Emeline. They were just beginning to become friends, he couldn't lose her just like that.

"Hey, kid, what's up?"

"Um—hey, Mr. Stark, look, I really need your help."

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

"Well, what if we-" MJ was cut off as they walked into the courtroom. Emeline was only taken four days ago, and the trial was already underway. Plus, it had taken a miracle for Tony to get them in.

"Violators of the Accords are locked up in the Raft, period. No apologies, no second chances." Tony went on, putting on his glasses. He was only here because the kid had called him, but the fact that there was a superpowered teenage girl living in Queens couldn't help but leave him curious.

That and the fact that she was just a kid.

"There must be a way to get Emme out of there. With all of your money, all of your power, all of the Avengers-" MJ added on angrily, tired of Tony and dismissing every idea they've had. She only knew the girl from a few previous encounters; she and Ned were over at Peter's apartment those times and invited Emme over to watch movies.

Tony sighed. "The Avengers are extinct." However, Peter protested. "She could escape," he whispered. "She could hide, go underground—"

Tony turned to Peter, trying his best to meet his eyes, "If she did, she wouldn't be able to contact you. She'd be all alone, no team, no backup. When Ross finds her, she'll be dead. Or worse, she'll disappear, and you'll never find her."

There was a lot of head shaking. "She could join up with Captain America," Ned muttered, sneaking a look at the guards. "Don't try to tell me you don't know where he is."

This time, Tony turned over to Ned quickly, raising a brow. "Surprisingly enough, I don't. But at any rate, she wouldn't be trusted."

"What about the others? Black Widow, she was on your side, wasn't she?"

Tony groaned, tired and anxious from all the questions. "She doesn't trust anyone. Ever. But from what you're telling me about your friend, they'd get along just swell." Tony's sarcasm rising up to the surface once more. But since it wasn't usually appreciated under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be now.

He continued, keeping a hushed voice. "Although all Ross would have to do is threaten you, publicly, and the kid could cuff herself and plop herself down on Ross' doorstep."

They were interrupted as the courtroom doors clanked open again. Peter craned his head to see Emme as the guards frogmarched her down the courtroom aisle, between empty columns of pews. He could see that she was still in yesterday's clothes, rumpled and exhausted, eyes bruised dark with lack of sleep.

Emeline's eyes locked onto Peter, MJ, and Ned for a moment, then to Tony Stark himself. Wasn't this day just getting better and better?

The guards shoved her into her seat and locked the cuffs to the back of the chair. She twisted to look back over her shoulder at Peter. He waved, and Ned flashed her two thumbs up, while Tony lifted one hand in a mock salute.

And with that, the judge entered with a flourish of dark robes.

Peter watched Emme's thin shoulders straighten and set. Feet planted firmly on the floor, hands clasped behind her to stop her shaking, one finger compulsively running back and forth over the cuffs.

See, in time, there always was an unexpected end. Much like an unexpected beginning. This was neither.

Chapter Text

(( April 25th, Washington D.C ))

IN THE END, it was very clear. She was in direct violation of the Sokovia Accords. She was an unauthorized superhuman being. An enemy to the nation.

Punishment: Life imprisonment in the Raft.

Emme clenched her hands together, her breathing remained steady. But when you think about it, breathing is such a simple way to keep your life going. At any moment she could just stop, but her body would resist. Even in these moments, she had to stay strong, or they would reach for her weaknesses.

"Guilty," the judge ruled, and nausea washed over Emme in a quick, frightening manner. The guards hauled her up out of her seat and started dragging her towards the door. "Wait." Her voice was quiet and hoarse from having not said a word, but perhaps that was what her voice sounded like.

Emme kept herself rooted to the floor so they couldn't drag her any further. Ross seemed to understand as she kept glancing over at the others.

"Any funny business," Ross said, looming over her, "and your friend gets it. Got that?" She nodded, jaw clenched. "Two minutes," Ross said, and the guards unlocked her cuffs.

Emme turned to Peter. Her hands were shaking, but it was barely noticeable. She wasn't entirely present in her own body at the moment. She had wanted to apologize for not telling him about her true identity, for putting him in danger.

"It's okay." Peter replied, looking into Emeline's somehow greyish-blue eyes for any sort of response, not that he expected one. She froze as she had a burning sensation in her eyes. Tears. She blinked quickly to hide the tears that had built up, avoiding Peter's gaze. It's as if Peter said nothing but everything at the same time. And Peter could say the same about her.

All of a sudden, he hugged her. "You're going to be okay," he rasped. "We'll get you back. I promise."

Emme's stomach lurched again. She straightened out of the hug and stared at Peter, trying to memorize the safety of his face.

From a very young age, she had learned to control her emotions, but for the past year she had allowed herself to become vulnerable. It was now that she realized that she needed more control. Control should be easy for her; why is this having such an effect on her?

She approached Tony, sharing a word with him, "Can you," Emme whispered, "Protect them? They'll be in danger now, and I won't be there to—"

"Already on it. The apartment's been set up with 24-hour security, remote scanners, the works."

Though she had barely known this man, it was odd how she trusted the look in his eyes and saw how he cared for Peter. It was a father-son dynamic; she remembered the times he had ranted about the billionaire, about a week ago after his Germany getaway, even if Peter didn't want to admit it.

Emme immediately stiffened when Ned gathered her in a large hug, not quite moving, different from Peter's. "Try not to get killed in there," he said before MJ interrupted. "It's not like the movies, nerd."

"Have you ever been to prison? I don't think so."

She turned to face them all. "We'll still be here," Ned spoke, in a desperate attempt to rally, Emme was only 15, and that's what scared him the most. Even if Emeline never said much, Ned had that intuition. Plus, he could see the silent gratitude behind the girl's eyes.

Ned was one of the nicest Emme had ever met, which didn't seem like it counted because she had never truly met any nice people before. And Emme would be lying if she said she wouldn't die for him. For MJ. For Peter. She was surprisingly protective over them. Why? She always wondered why.

MJ spoke again. "I've already started a campaign to build sentiment against the Accords and sway public opinion toward banning the imprisonment of minors. Plus, you're staying anonymous. Who would want to lock you up, anyway?" And Emme could've sworn MJ just gave her a compliment.

"You've got all of us on your side," Peter said. She nodded.

And they have an international task force and a high-security floating prison on theirs, she thought.

'I'm not going to see them again.'

She nodded, "Yeah."

"Time's up," Ross said behind Emeline's shoulder.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. And remembered when Peter convinced her to watch Star Wars with him. Well, the closest he got was by turning on the movie while she was in the same room, not fully paying attention. She would stare at him for how adamant he was about watching all the movies she hadn't watched. The Breakfast Club, Jaws, even Jurassic Park.

But Star Wars particularly stuck with her. So she tried to reflect Luke Skywalker, offering her hands to be cuffed, staring down the enemy, keeping a level mind. If Luke could do it, so could she, right?

Oh god. Peter was rubbing off on her.

She stared at her feet, hands in a fist, and jaw clenched. The guards re-secured her wrists in the vibranium cuffs. Emme let them. Then a cool, crushing weight fell against her neck—

Her head jerked up in alarm. The rest stood in a frozen row, staring at Emeline as the guards locked the collar in place. She swallowed hard, feeling the collar's unyielding grip around her throat. They knew.

"Don't bother trying to get that off," Ross drawled. "It's pure vibranium. Just there as a precaution, in case you think about doing anything unwise. All of the guards have a set of controls."

Controls. They were for a shock collar.

Luke. You can be as strong as Luke. You have to be.

The guards dragged Emme back a pace before she managed to grab onto the nearest railing, not quite knowing what to say to them. She was staring at the four of them as though she could burn their image into her mind.

"It's okay." Mj muttered, eyes fixed on Emme. And as she was being dragged away, Emme felt that familiar lurch in her stomach when something was just out of reach.

Peter stared at her, and somehow, he seemed to know what she was thinking. He wasn't an idiot; he knew she had a past. And by how reserved she was, he never bothered prying any further when they both ran into each other in the stairwell and she slammed him against the wall. He never questioned her when she was gone for a few weeks and suddenly came back. He had gotten used to not questioning anything she did or didn't do.

The guards tugged at her, harder this time. She had been through this before. Emme let go of the railing with a shaking hand, feeling like she was letting go of the only thing keeping herself together.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

What was it all for? Escaping Hydra, the years and years of trauma and torture and for what? Just to be back in the grimy claws of a deranged government yet again? Mentally, she wouldn't be able to handle trading one prison for another.

She was sitting in a dark room with her hands cuffed to the vibranium table when the holding cell door slid open, then shut. Emme's head jerked up, as much as the collar would let her, and her eyes met other malicious ones. Her heart dropped.

"You could break regular restraints, couldn't you," Ross said, and she shrugged, there was no point in speaking, he didn't deserve her words. Ross sighed, "I have a proposition for you." He sat in the folding metal chair and hooked one leg over the other, completely at ease. Emme held her gaze silently, waiting for him to go on.

"Your genetics-" Ross said.

Her stomach sank before he even finished the sentence.

"-could be tremendously useful for science," Ross continued. Emeline suddenly felt sick, she had been a test subject for her whole life. This could not be happening again, it couldn't. She wouldn't let it.

"And so could your friends- the Parker boy." She felt nauseous.

No. No, no, no. No. Absolutely not.

Ross didn't want Parker, yes, he had growing suspicions that he was the vigilante known as Spiderman. But this girl was much more important, a deal was a deal.

"You'd be able to call your friends every day. They would be able to visit. You'd still be above the water, in your own country. You'd be contributing to science. You'd have your own suite, a real bed, windows, everything. You'd be able to stretch your legs. How long do you think you'll last in a box like this one?"

Her voice was still raspy, yet she stayed strong. "As long as I need to."

"From the water? We both know that's not possible." Ross held Emme's gaze. "You'll be on the Raft for the rest of your life. Alone. Trapped. You sure you want that?" he raised an eyebrow.

She needed to calm herself down, her leg was shaking and she'd give anything to mark his face, particularly with a punch instead of a knife. It'd hurt more. "How do you sleep at night?" And Ross' smirk twisted downward. "You're pretty sassy for a kid who's about to go to the worst juvie on the planet."

'Because I don't sleep well.' Emme wanted to say as her eyes narrowed. 'It's because I can't stop thinking about people like you, doing this for fun. For those who are innocent.' But she didn't consider herself innocent. Maybe this was how her life would end. She'd learn to accept it.

Emeline's chest felt tight and the collar around her neck made her feel as if she couldn't breathe. As if it were shrinking. But she wouldn't show any weakness, not in front of him. "You don't play chess, do you," Ross asked.

"Because if you did, you'd remember that a pawn can become a queen. The most powerful piece on the board, Miss Belyaeva, remember that? But-" Ross smiled, "Only if it obeys."

Evangeline silently cursed. How naive was she to think they wouldn't find out who she was. The name Emme Lawrence was meaningless when Emeline Belyaeva was just under the surface. Her identity had to be wiped clean all over again.

Ross adjusted his tie, stood, and looked down at Emeline. "I'll ask you again," he said. "Eventually. You may feel differently after you've been living in a six-by-six cube without sunlight or fresh air for a few weeks, perhaps years."

Ross just looked at Evangeline for a moment. "When I visit you," he said at last, "You'll be crawling back." And he clicked the door shut behind him.

She was screwed.

Chapter Text

(( the raft ))

IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, and Emeline had already been taken to the Raft. And guards were dragging her to her cell, permanently. She woke up groggily, unaware of where she was at the moment, the bright lights on the ceiling momentarily blinding her.

For a long, quivering moment, she was terrified.

Four walls, two of them glass, cold floor, bitter smells, harsh lights, tiny cot on the back wall.

Her mind was taking in any and all information that she could gather around her, and as she was becoming more and more overwhelmed with her surroundings, she heard a male voice a few cells down.

"Who's she?" and there was no response from the two guards.

He chuckled, sitting up from the floor, "Nobody important enough to even mention? Wow, that's cool. You know, i've never met somebody who wasn't important before. Well, except for you."

There was an attempt to scare him when one of the guards narrowed his eyes and walked away silently, leaving the prisoners to wallow in the same silence.

The silence, too cold, a flickering light in the corner, small desk, three guards.

"Morning. Or night, whatever it is. Welcome to camp shithole" he continued before another man's voice quietly told him to shut up.

After taking a moment away from the harsh lights she turned towards the voices. She really was not expecting to be imprisoned next to two Avengers. She couldn't help but let her eyebrows raise.

Out of all the people she had to be imprisoned with, it was them. Hawkeye and Falcon.

"Yeah we get that a lot."

After not replying, Emme sat completely still for at least four seconds, then started exploring the corners of her cell with just her eyes. It was nerve-wrackingly tiny, and depressingly boring. Floor. Ceiling. The back wall a cold concrete coffin. Bed. Blanket. Seemed pretty easy to navigate.

She suddenly realized there was a cold weight sitting heavily around her neck while craning her head. The shock collar. She forgot. A fear settled over her as she swallowed, feeling even more trapped than before. Perhaps she hadn't noticed it until now because of adrenaline, or the fact that she had been struggling against these people for days. But she forgot. She didn't forget things. She was surprised they took the straitjacket off, she figured that Ross was afraid, afraid of her strength.

She didn't remember much, but what else was new? She recalled them pumping her full of drugs, which explained why she felt particularly useless, even given the situation.

But she pushed that thought aside and kept surveying her environment. maybe with enough momentum she could crack the glass of the cell door, but how could she build up momentum like that in the tiny cage? And even if she broke the glass, would she be able to fit through the bars of the other doors? She was still pretty small from the lack of care at Hydra. But that wouldn't fool anyone.

Well, at any rate, the guards would probably shock her the moment she tried.

"So whatcha in here for, kid?"

She didn't reply to the man and just looked back to her surroundings. She wasn't supposed to talk unless it was to one of her supervisors, and she was certainly not supposed to talk to a bunch of the Avengers. She couldn't talk much anyways.

She caught herself for a moment, and she had a deathly realization that she was resorting back into her old ways. Not speaking, letting the guilt aside and allowing only one thing in. Emptiness. Something she never wanted to feel again, to feel empty was like being lost in a maze and not caring to find your way out.

Maybe that was better, she was stuck here for what would probably be the remainder of her days. It would be easier if she didn't make any connections, because when she did, they would only get taken away.

"Not a talker, huh? Totally not going to pry" he continued sarcastically and she casually rolled her eyes.

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It had been a few hours- she didn't know, nor would she try to keep count, but she had taken notice of various details around her.

Their cell block was small, secluded, probably one of Ross' mind games. There were a few guards, not as many as one would expect to watch over "threats to society" but they were there and alert for anything.

It was a few minutes earlier when the guards had brought in a woman that she couldn't help but find familiar. She was wearing a similar straitjacket to what Emeline had been wearing before, and it was joined with the same collar around her neck.

Emme had felt inclined to look away from the woman when the other two men began to talk to her. "Maybe don't mouth off at the guards again, Wanda. Solitary is shit."

She froze. There was solitary here? She was all too familiar with solitary confinement, punishments for misbehaving. She hoped she'd never be put in a situation like this again, but here she was, anything could happen.

The woman glanced at her, noticing her flinch. She felt a rush of pity.

The others looked over and fell silent. They didn't know who exactly this girl was, but she couldn't have been older than sixteen, and they had a lot of questions. Why this cell block? Why with them? How did she break the accords? How dangerous could a teenage girl be?

The woman- Wanda -suddenly recognized the girl after studying her for a moment, "You" she said. Emme picked her head up and looked at the woman, Scarlet Witch. That's why she felt so familiar.

She noticed the look in her eye, as if she knew all her secrets and they were out in the open. "You were there, in Sokovia. The program. I saw you there."

She met eyes with her, she slightly remembered the woman's powerful look. Wanda. She could remember the woman's brother, his piercing blue eyes. Emme then realized she was talking about Hydra, around the time she was being transferred from base to base, when they were trying to figure out where she was most needed.

She nodded and Wanda exhaled slightly, "Emeline, right?" the redhead asked in Sokovian and she froze. She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard her first name, especially not in that language. Because being around Peter and his friends, she had grown accustomed to being called Emme.

It wasn't that she didn't care about her name, her supervisors never cared to call her anything but the asset anyway, but it was still her name, the only thing she had left of herself and who she was. Hearing her name was like a breath of fresh are and drowning immediately afterward.

Her name was a part of who she was. But really, who even was she if not a soldier?

The two other men looked confused, neither of them understanding Sokovian. "Hello? Care to enlighten us?" Then Emme tensed as she shot a look at Wanda. If the other two knew about her past in Hydra, then her imprisonment would be even more lonely than it already was.

Wanda realized and gave her a soft smile, giving her a slight nod. "This is Emeline." She knew better than anyone how something like that could ruin your chances at having a friend. Being defined as someone who you used to be and not who you were now. She understood Emeline.

"That bundle of joy over there is Clint" Wanda continued, picking up Emeline's hesitance, Sam had picked it up as well but refrained from saying anything. "Formerly known as Hawkeye" Clint butted in, receiving looks from his two friends. Sam looked at him, "Formerly?"

"After this, I'm retiring," he sighed, leaning back against the wall of his cell, "I could use a hell of a vacation." He was so sure he'd get out of here someday. She'd kill for that kind of hope.

"We all could."

The woman nodded toward the man in the cell next to her. "And the other birdbrain next to you is Sam" The man in question gave her a smile. How could they still be sane in this place, she wondered. She certainly wouldn't be.

"What got you thrown in here with our sorry group?" Clint questioned, Emme glanced away. Sam looked at her, and her reaction confirmed his suspicions of her being some sort of powerful individual, "Did you not sign the accords?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, she knew about the Sokovia Accords, but she didn't exactly know what it entailed. Her trial only described so much, she was an 'unauthorized superhuman being' and violated principals one, three, four, and nine. Whatever those were. What could she have done for the past eleven months that hurt anybody?

A lot. She could've done a lot. More specifically, before those eleven months.

Chapter Text

(( undisclosed facility, August 2015 ))

"Widow."

That broke Emeline out of the thoughts swarming her mind, her head snapping up from the ground as she made eye contact with her superior, his cold eyes and his hands behind his back. They were on the road; her mission was the next morning in. The first mission, meaning a first official kill on the record.

"Go. Get everything you need for your mission," he ordered, about to turn back around to attend to other business.

There was a feeling that rushed through her veins, something she couldn't quite describe. But it made her feel unstoppable.

"No."

And that one word held a thousand other things she could have said. He stopped in his tracks. Even she was surprised with how it was said, with such authority that she never thought possible to have. She didn't even know how she knew the word, or the last time it was said, but she still said it.

However, with every act of defiance, there was fear. "How dare you," he sputtered in Russian. Never had something like this happened before with the asset, but unbeknownst to him, she had slipped a dagger into her sleeve the night before. This was her one, single chance.

"I said no."

So he struck her across the face like she had gotten used to so many times, barely wincing as he got in her face. "You are an ungrateful child. You will do as I tell you!"

Idiot. He was losing his composure so easily. This was her chance; if she didn't act now, even waited one second, she'd miss it. Even saying no would land her in a world of trouble.

She slashed his face and kicked her superior to the ground and from the corner of her eye saw the guards snap into action. She landed a blow on one and slit another's throat with the dagger from her coat pocket.

Another man came forward, his gun raised, but she stepped back, balancing her weight on her left foot, and threw her right fist out in a curved punch at his temple, knocking the man out for good. Bullets were firing all around her, but she craftily dodged them.

She pulled out her gun and shot one in the chest and another in the torso, killing each of them. After hearing a click from behind her and the feeling of cold metal against her skull. She raises her hands and drops the gun and dagger to the ground.

Slowly turning around, she slips out from under his arm and twists it to an uncomfortable position, close to breaking it. This time the gun falls from his hand, and she snags it, pushing him to the ground and pressing her knee on his neck.

She had one chance.

She can see how scared he is; she sees his eyes and makes sure not to meet them as she stands up and begins to walk away before pausing. Emme couldn't leave the man alive.

So she took the gun in her hand once more, stared head-on, and pulled the trigger.

"Kid!"

It was kill. Blink. Repeat. That's how it used to be. But it was who she had to be.

"Kid!"

Emeline woke up in a cold sweat, her chest heaving for any air she could bring into her lungs. She could still picture the man's face in her mind. The image was burned there; there was no escaping the blood dripping down the side of his head, his eyes blankly staring up at her. The guard was one of the men who guaranteed her suffering, but something inside of her hurt. And she didn't know what.

"It's okay..."

She was in this place, how was she okay?

She turned at Sam's voice, the others were asleep, and the lights were dimmed. It somehow calmed her down rather than having to stare up at the harsh lights with her eyes red and her hair matted to a part of her neck. It helped because then the others would have a hard time seeing her weak. Just like she was now.

"Kid, you okay?" Sam thought it was a stupid and pretty useless question, but it never hurt to ask.

She leaned against the wall, catching her breath. "Fine" was all she replied, the images continuing to replay in her head. He looked at her unconvinced, even he wasn't fine. None of them were.

He'd dealt with this sort of thing before, back when he led his support group for veterans. Even he had experience with guilt and the many different ways it can take shape, it didn't take a professional to see something was wrong.

He kept his eyes trained on her, his tone was encouraging but still serious. "We're in this place, it's okay to not be fine."

She continued to stay silent, she found that she found the best comfort in silence, but it didn't hurt to listen sometimes. Listening to the soothing voices of those who spoke calmly distracted her. Like Peter's voice.

"If you think the Avengers don't have nightmares either, you're wrong." Sam had plenty of experience with helping others with their PTSD; he himself had it. But he had grown from that man to the one he was now. Although he barely knew the girl in front of him, he didn't want her to go through the same thing.

She swung her restless gaze, eyes swimming with uncertainty. "Have you ever done something... something that stuck in your head?" She ended in a whisper, not wanting to meet his eyes anymore as she glanced away, but he still caught her hesitance.

"We all have. We all make mistakes, and some things stick with us. But our guilt is what keeps us human," he spoke softly. Emeline looked back at him from the corner of her eye; she could tell by the knowing look in his eyes as he gazed down at the cold floor that Sam had known this from his own experience.

But how was she human? She did monstrous things.

"What if they can't be fixed?" This time she spoke barely above a whisper, but he still heard her.

They weren't even mistakes.

He sighed, but not in contempt, but like he were at the beginning of a really long story. "Nothing's too late to be fixed. You have to forgive yourself first."

There was no forgiving herself anytime soon, she had hurt people, people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, people that she was on a mission for. The list could go on. But, in a small corner of Emeline's mind, maybe being here would mean a new start. Because as far as she knew, this was her life.

No, she couldn't. During those months in Queens she'd felt as if she were starting to consider Peter a friend, but now she couldn't be further from one.

She simply looked down and kept fidgeting with her blanket; a 'thanks' lingered on her lips, but she never actually spoke.

But Sam knew.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

That same day, Peter Parker and Tony Stark were at what was arguably one of the tallest buildings in New York. Stark Tower. Happy had picked Peter up from his apartment a few hours ago, after he had been pacing the ceiling in his suit, trying desperately to figure out how to fix things.

Now, Peter couldn't really remember the last time he had been this frustrated, and with his mentor no less. "There has to be some loophole. Something to get her out. I mean—you're Tony Stark."

Tony, ever the picture of indifference, flipped through all sorts of papers, barely glancing at Peter as he spoke. "I know who I am."

Peter couldn't hold back his frustration. "Well then, you can do something!"

Tony paused for a moment, pulling off his glasses with a flick of his wrist. He looked at Peter with an expression that was a mix of confusion and disbelief. "I'm sorry. How do you know this random girl again?" His voice was biting, particularly when he emphasized 'random.'

Peter's hands clenched at his sides, and his voice broke in spite of himself. "She lives- lived in my building." His words sounded hollow in the sterile silence of the room, but his chest tightened.

Maybe he was being irrational. He barely knew Emeline. Their interactions had been few and far between: quick, awkward conversations in the hallway and a couple of movie nights where they both stayed silent for the most part. But there was something about her, something he couldn't explain, that made him feel the need to protect her. He couldn't shake the sense that he should fight for her. After losing so many people, his parents, Uncle Ben, he couldn't bear the thought of losing someone else.

Tony raised an eyebrow, as if processing this new information with deliberate slowness. "And did you know she had powers?"

Peter shook his head quickly, his voice rising in indignation. "No-"

Tony pointed a finger at him, his tone final. "Exactly. Whatever's going on, it seems like she didn't want to be found." Tony's gaze flicked back to the papers on his desk, his hands moving with precision as he sifted through the documents, looking for something. Peter's mind raced. He could hear the words, but they felt distant, like they were echoing from miles away.

"But she-" Peter tried again, his voice breaking as he reached for something to justify his determination. He knew there was more to it than that. She had to have a reason, a motive, a purpose for all of this. Even though he knew nothing about her, he couldn't imagine what would be bad enough for her to be locked away.

Tony cut him off, his voice colder than Peter had ever heard it. "But nothing, Parker. Not today. I want you out of this. It's too dangerous. You don't even know what you're dealing with."

"Mr. Stark-"

"Nuh-uh." Tony's tone was firm, unyielding. "Let me figure it out. You stay out of it." He didn't look up, didn't even blink.

Peter felt the weight of his words pressing down on him. It wasn't the first time Tony had dismissed his instincts, but this time was different. He could feel his resolve starting to crack, but he couldn't walk away. Not this time. Not when he could still do something.

"Yeah," Peter muttered, his voice low, but his mind already racing with the plan forming in the back of his head. "I'll stay out of it, I guess." He lied.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

A chill crept up Emme's spine as the guards surveyed the area. She sat with her blanket around her shoulders to keep her from becoming colder. She noticed the more she kept playing with it that they hadn't supplied her with the best blanket. It was thin, ratty, and old, but it was better than none. She knew better than to complain.

This was their way of torture: make it too hot and you'd sweat; too cold and you could get sick. Both weren't the best, but you could learn to deal. Same with food, they'd give you enough to keep you going, but you'd never be full. Emeline couldn't remember the last time she was, or if she had ever been.

"So... do you have any family?" Clint asked her as he got back from the showers. His light hair was the same as it had been, pointing up in different directions. She saw him smooth it over multiple times, but it never worked.

"Do you?" she retorted, just glancing at him, void of emotion.

Despite that, Clint could see the defensiveness in her eyes. The same amount of defensiveness Natasha had. His eyes were still trained on her, as if he were trying to pick her apart, something that she didn't appreciate. "Huh, somebody has some trust issues."

She looked down, running her fingers along the blanket, playing at the fraying edges. "Call it healthy skepticism." That was a big word. Skepticism, a noun meaning to doubt as to the truth of something.

Part of Emme was glad to have been given a dictionary at a young age. However, since talking was mostly a restriction growing up, she never got to use them.

But was it healthy? Probably not, but Emme didn't care. She'd already lost her faith in any sort of treatment or cure for what you would call trust issues.

So no, she couldn't trust people.

Chapter Text

(( The raft ))

EMELINE HAD OFFICIALLY been at the raft for what could've been around a week. She never liked keeping track; it felt pointless. There was no real sense of time here. Days blurred into one another in a haze of cold metal walls, harsh lights, and the unyielding sense of confinement. The idea of staying here indefinitely was almost a relief. The thought of freedom felt too far away, a distant memory she could barely cling to.

She started off with an okay day. There wasn't much to expect anymore, but when the guard shift changed, the new ones dragged her to the showers. Seven minutes of feeling something like normal. Seven minutes to wash away a little of the filth.

They unfastened the collar, and for a few seconds, she could breathe. The air no longer felt choked with the pressure of it squeezing her throat.

The water was ice-cold. It stung when it hit her skin. The soap barely worked, and she had to use it for both her body and hair. Her hair now felt dull and matted. The towel they gave her was thin, almost like a large cloth, and only made her skin feel colder as she used it. She didn't care. Comfort was a distant thought, and it had been for a long time.

Her neck was still sore from the collar. It wasn't marked, not yet. But the pressure always left its imprint, a constant reminder of how quickly things could turn ugly. They'd use it, she knew that. It was only a matter of time.

Because her old clothes she wore to the trial were in the trash, they set out her new clothes, long-sleeve grey scrubs. They crinkled loudly, the fabric stiff and unyielding. The slip-on shoes they gave her didn't fit quite right; they flopped against her heels with each step, uncomfortable and useless.

As she was escorted back to her cell, Clint broke the silence. "Well hey. They finally gave you the official gear!"

He had that half-hearted grin of his, the kind that only made things feel slightly less suffocating. Wanda shot him a warning look. "Clint," she said, her tone cautious. But Clint didn't take the hint. He shrugged, letting the conversation end with that.

Emeline didn't respond. There was nothing to say. She just let herself drift back into the routine. It was easier that way, detached, numb, and quiet. The less she felt, the better.

Then, things got worse. Not long after her return, she was greeted with the unwelcome presence of Thaddeus Ross. Even just the thought of his name stirred a deep resentment inside her. His visits were always the same, cold, clinical, like he was inspecting a piece of equipment rather than speaking to a person.

"Miss Belyaeva."

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. There was no point in trying to hide the contempt she felt. She had long since stopped pretending to be anything but what she was, someone trapped but not yet broken.

"I think you know why I'm here."

She did. She hated it, the very thought of it made her stomach twist. The memories of Hydra's experiments still haunted her, nightmares she couldn't escape. She would never be anyone's subject again. She'd rather rot in this place than go through that again.

She gave him a curt nod, her voice soft but unwavering. "You're impatient."

Ross didn't flinch. Instead, he took a step closer, his eyes boring into her. "I've let you have your fun, have your childish defiance run its course. I believe you've reconsidered my offer?"

The mere suggestion of it made her blood boil. She had no intention of ever going back to that life. She was no one's puppet. With a low growl, she spat her response, speaking in Russian so no one else could understand. But the others could hear the bitterness in her voice, the force behind the words.

Sam, in the cell next to her, couldn't resist. "Whatever she said, I agree." His voice full of contempt, no humor within it.

For a fleeting moment, Emeline felt a strange sense of trust with him. It wasn't much, but in a place like this, any shared understanding was enough to remind her that she wasn't completely alone. He backed her up.

Ross's reaction was predictably condescending. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, his arms crossing over his chest. "We need another translator in here," he muttered to one of the guards as he turned to leave, his voice dripping with disdain.

As he walked away, Emeline's fleeting sense of defiance began to sink. The momentary power of her words, however sharp, was overshadowed by the crushing reality that she was still here, still trapped. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much she despised the very air he breathed. But instead, she held her tongue, reminding herself that silence was a weapon too.

"You'll make the right decision. And you should sooner rather than later. It gets a bit... small in here after a while." His voice was still unyielding. The door closed behind him, and she was left with only the cold, unfeeling stare of the guard who lingered behind.

Her stomach twisted when she noticed the guard's eyes. They were cold, calculating. There was no warmth, no empathy. Just the same emotionless gaze that marked anyone who worked here. It was the look of someone who had learned to suppress all compassion, someone who had long since traded humanity for obedience.

Before she could brace herself, the shock hit. It felt like fire tearing through her veins, igniting every nerve in her body with a searing jolt. She tried to hold back a scream, clenching her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. Every muscle in her body contracted violently, and the pain was overwhelming, unbearable.

She couldn't hear the others protesting, her focus was consumed by the pain, every part of her mind screaming at her to make it stop, to escape it. She let out a small yelp, but there was no escape. Not here. Not from the collar.

The pain felt like it lasted forever, but in reality, it was only half a minute, maybe a full one. She couldn't tell. Time had lost all meaning in those moments. When it finally stopped, Emeline's body felt like it was made of lead. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak.

It took a long moment for her to even register that it had stopped. When she did, her body still trembled with the aftershocks of it. She gasped for air, the steady rhythm of her breath a slow recovery.

The guard, unaffected by her suffering, returned to his desk, like he was simply switching channels on a television. The nonchalance of it made her sick. She could feel the others' eyes on her, their silent concern noticeable, but she refused to let them see her broken. Not again. Not in front of them.

She slowly sank back against the wall, pulling her thin blanket tightly around her shoulders, her face pressing against the cold concrete. She closed her eyes, trying to block out everything. Trying to hold on to whatever shred of herself was left.

Her mind wandered to windows; there were no windows here, just walls and a door that never felt like it could be opened, not for someone like her. Every inch of the concrete was a reminder that this was her prison, and it would not set her free.

'Please get me out of this place,' she thought, the words so quiet in her mind that she wasn't sure they even existed. It was a silent plea, one she had given many times before.

One that never found her.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

A ten-year-old Emeline was finished with her training for the day, and she was growing tired of the room. The man nodded at her curtly. "We'll begin again tomorrow." Sweat was sticking to the back of her neck, and her limbs ached painfully.

Her shoulders sagged, and she bit back the frustration that bubbled up inside her. She didn't know how much longer she could keep going like this. She wanted to ask him if there was a chance she could have dinner, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she simply said, "Sir, I'm hungry."

He didn't look at her, didn't care one bit. He turned his back on her with that same cold, dismissive expression he always wore. "You'll wait."

Her stomach groaned loudly in protest, but she forced herself to stay standing, clenching her fists at her sides. She could feel the emptiness in her body, the way her insides ached, but she didn't dare show it. She didn't want to make him angry, even though every inch of her wanted to beg him. Please, she thought, just a little food. Please.

"Please-" Her voice cracked, but he was already moving away from her, his footsteps quick and purposeful.

His silence was more unbearable than his words, and for a moment, Emeline wasn't sure if she should stay or leave, if she should risk angering him further. She felt the weight of his gaze even though he wasn't looking at her. But then, his voice came, sharp and demanding.

"Follow."

The word was an order, and she didn't dare disobey. She walked behind him, her feet dragging as she followed him down the cold, sterile hallway. Even though there were no windows, she knew the outside world was dark. Night had fallen, and the sounds of the facility had quieted. The doctors, the trainers, they were all probably resting for the night. But she was still awake. Still hungry. Still cold.

The hallway felt endless, the walls closing in on her as they passed silent doors. She tried to ignore the constant gnawing feeling in her stomach, the way it twisted tighter with each step, but it was hard. The ache was constant, relentless.

And then it came. First a loud shout from the end of the hall. It echoed through the narrow space, startling her. Then, the unmistakable sound of crashes, metal against metal, something heavy hitting the floor, something breaking. She flinched at the noise, her heart picking up its pace.

"Prep him. Wipe him, and start over."

The voice was familiar, cold, and commanding. It didn't make her feel any better. If anything, it made her stomach tighten even more, fear rising in her chest. She didn't know who it was, but it didn't matter. She had learned long ago that none of it mattered, not the voices, not the people.

Her supervisor didn't flinch at the sound. He kept walking, pushing her forward until they reached the door at the end of the hall. It slid open with a hiss as they stepped inside, and Emeline found herself standing at the threshold of another room filled with harsh lights and sterile surfaces.

Her supervisor, Klein, guided her to the front of the room, his hand on her shoulder, firm and unyielding. He didn't seem to care about the unease in her eyes as she took in the scene.

A man was sitting in a chair at the center of the room, guards surrounding him with very large guns. He looked disoriented, almost out of place. His body was tense, every muscle seeming to strain under some invisible weight. There was something about him, something that made Emeline's heart skip, a feeling she couldn't quite explain. He looked... familiar. But that didn't make sense. She had never seen him before.

"Klein, she shouldn't be in here. He's unstable-"

The voice came from another figure, someone who was standing off to the side, watching the scene with caution. She didn't recognize him either, but the urgency in his tone was enough to make her step back. Her mind raced as she glanced between the man in the chair and the others in the room. She felt a strange pull toward him, something drawing her to him despite the warning in the air.

But her supervisor wasn't listening. He barely even acknowledged the concern. "She stays," Klein said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The man in the chair turned his head slowly, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Emeline felt a jolt in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. His eyes were sharp, focused, yet filled with something she couldn't place, something that reminded her of before, of memories she couldn't quite reach. She wasn't sure if he saw her, not really, but it was enough to make her heart beat faster.

The others in the room were already preparing, working around him with mechanical precision. But Emeline couldn't stop staring at him, the connection between them growing stronger with every passing second. She felt something shift inside her, something deep and unsettling. She didn't know who he was, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this man, this stranger, was someone she knew.

"Klein," the voice from earlier said again, this time with more force, "She can't be here."

But Klein ignored him again, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Emeline. "You'll stay here and watch," he said, his tone cold, a command, it was something she had no choice in.

But as her gaze stayed fixed on the man in the chair, her thoughts twisted and turned, filled with more questions than answers.

He had choppy shoulder-length hair and a bristly beard, and his eyes were bluer than anything she had ever seen before. It was a striking, cold blue—like ice. But it wasn't the color that drew her in. No, it was his left arm. Where a normal, fleshy arm should have been, there was only a cold, lifeless metal one. It gleamed under the harsh lights of the room.

There was something about him, something so familiar that it made her heart twist painfully. She knew this man, or at least, she should have known him. The feeling was too strong to ignore, a gnawing sense of recognition that filled her with a strange mixture of anger and confusion. He was so close, yet so far, and it made her feel like she was being pulled in two directions at once.

"She must learn," her supervisor's voice cut through her thoughts, his tone as cold as ever.

Emeline's attention snapped back from her supervisor to the soldier in front of her. His gaze flicked around the room, almost instinctively scanning his surroundings. He took in the dull, sterile walls, the cold, impersonal equipment, and then his eyes finally met hers.

His eyes widened slightly with confusion, then narrowed as they studied her. She could see it in the way his brow furrowed, the slight tilt of his head as if trying to understand why a child was standing in this place, in this room. It wasn't fear in his eyes, not exactly. But there was something else, a sort of disbelief that made her stomach twist.

He scanned her again, this time with more focus. She was no older than eight, maybe nine, she was stick thin and there were scars on her arms, her legs, her face, like badges of survival. And yet, despite everything, she held herself tall, standing as straight as she could, chin raised in defiance. There was a quiet strength in her posture, something he seemed to recognize. But it wasn't enough.

Her eyes, a hollow blue, met his, and for a fleeting moment, she saw it: a flicker of understanding. Something passed between them, a shared connection that both confused and unsettled her. The far-away look in her eyes must have told him more than she intended. He saw it. He saw that she was more than just a broken child. She was something else.

They moved quickly. The soldiers placed a mouthguard into his mouth, his face contorting in discomfort as they secured it tightly. His eyes never left hers. Even as the device sealed his mouth, his gaze stayed locked on hers. His expression was a mix of confusion and a silent plea. Don't look at me like that, she thought. Don't make me feel something I'm not allowed to feel.

I know you, he thought. Just give me a sign that you're someone I know.

Then she turned away, forced to face the cold reality of her situation. Her supervisor's words broke the silence. "This is what happens if you question your authority."

The words rang in her ears, echoing in her mind as she turned back to the man. Restraints clicked over his arms, locking him to the chair. His body tensed, his breath coming faster as his panic started to rise. Like he knew what was coming.

The machines around him hummed to life, sharp metallic sounds filling the room. She wanted to look away, she had a stomach-lurching feeling about this, but she couldn't. She was forced to watch.

A contraption was placed over his head, wires snaking from it, sparking with electricity. Emeline's heart dropped into her stomach as she realized what was about to happen. She didn't want to see it. But she couldn't turn away. Not now.

The first shock hit, and his body jerked violently in the chair. His eyes widened in agony, and a guttural scream tore from his throat. Emeline's chest tightened as if the pain was hers. The sound echoed in her mind, a constant, unbearable wail. She could feel it reverberating in her bones. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the screams, the pain... It was everywhere.

I can't stand this. I can't take it. I need to look away.

But the words wouldn't come. She couldn't move. She couldn't escape. Her supervisor was still standing by the door, watching, waiting, as if this was all part of some twisted lesson.

"That is who you will become if you are weak."

His voice was harsh, a finality to it, as if there was no room for argument, no room for hope. The shock stopped, but the man's body was still trembling, his breathing ragged, shallow. His chest heaved, and his eyes wide and panicked stared out at nothing, still feeling the aftereffects of the electrical shock. Then, it started again.

Emeline felt sick, the nausea crawling up her throat. She wanted to back away, to run, to do something, but she couldn't. She was frozen in place, her body betraying her as her eyes stayed locked on the man.

The words from her supervisor rang in her mind again. That is who you will become if you are weak.

It didn't make sense, but it did at the same time. This was her future. It wasn't just about surviving. It was about becoming. They wanted to control her, twist her mind into something unrecognizable. They wanted her to become like him, the man in the chair, whether she disobeyed or not.

Finally, the shock stopped. As the man in the chair gasped for breath, his body still shaking from the shock, Emeline's eyes met his again, the look he gave her was vastly different from before. His eyes were emotionless, distant, and something inside her stirred.

This is who she would be eventually, they'd force themselves into her mind and break it.

Chapter Text

(( The Raft ))

MORNING came quickly, the pain in her neck now down to an ache, she tried her best not to move, or it would sting. She knew how to handle a shock. The throbbing was there, relentless, but not unbearable. Emeline kept her eyes closed for a few moments longer, willing herself to push through the discomfort.

The cold, stale air of the cell hit her as she shifted on the hard cot that was her bed. It was uncomfortable, but she was used to it now. The metal walls, flickering lights, and constant sounds of clanging doors had started to blend into the background, a dull hum of monotony. They had all woken up what must've been twenty minutes ago, sitting in stiff silence, meanwhile Wanda had been taken to shower and have a health inspection.

"So, what's your gig? Your thing?" Clint's voice broke that silence, his words casual but with an edge of genuine curiosity. He leaned back against the stone wall of the cell, one leg stretched out in front of him, trying to look comfortable in the cramped space.

Emeline's eyes flickered open, glancing at him before quickly looking away. "You don't wanna know."

Sam, propping his feet up on the wall of his small cell, spoke up this time. His voice was firm, but there was an underlying patience in it, the kind that came with experience. "Look, Kid. We're gonna be in here for a long time, might as well get to know each other."

Clint shrugged at Sam's words, pressing further. "Besides, everyone has a gig nowadays."

Emeline didn't respond right away. She just stared ahead at the peeling paint on the back wall, her mind racing as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. She had to admit, the isolation was starting to wear on her, but she wasn't ready to open up. Not to them. Not to anyone.

After no response, Clint gave a small snort. "You think we're all just gonna sit here in silence? You've been here for days, and we still don't know a thing about you."

"That's the point," she muttered, keeping her voice low as it cracked. "Some things are better left unsaid."

Sam raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening. "No one's asking you to spill everything. Just... a little bit. We're stuck here together, Emeline. Might as well make the time pass easier."

Emeline sighed, her fingers tracing the cold metal of the bench beneath her. It was hard to resist the pull of their curiosity. "You really don't wanna know."

Clint leaned forward slightly, his expression turning more serious. "We've all got our baggage. You don't have to unpack it all, but you've got to give us something."

The words hung in the air, the tension thick. Emeline's fingers dug into the bench, and for a long moment, the room fell silent. She knew they would both look at her differently, and even though Wanda mentioned something about the program in Sokovia when they first met, this was different and she knew it.

Then, slowly, she turned to face them both, her gaze hard yet distant. "Hydra." And with just one word she knew what they were thinking.

Sam leaned forward, intrigued, but Emeline raised a hand to stop him before he could ask. "I shouldn't talk. Maybe someday. Not now."

Clint opened his mouth to argue, but Sam held up a hand to quiet him. He understood. Some things couldn't be rushed, and pushing Emeline further might only close her off more. Clint sighed and became comfortable on the floor, falling back asleep. But before he did, he exchanged a brief glance with Sam, acknowledging that they hadn't gotten far with Emeline, but they'd made a small crack. For now, it was enough.

And they had both took note of Emeline using the word 'shouldn't' instead of 'won't,' as the two words had very different meanings.

After a few moments, Sam made a realization. "Do you know Bucky?"

Emeline's hands brushed the shock collar, her mind racing as she tried to remember that name, or the person in general. She failed, however, she found some familiarity in it.

"I... I don't think so." But it sounded more like a question than an answer, and for a split second, she could feel her heartbeat quicken, an uneasy sensation swirling inside her chest. She searched her memories, feeling as though something about the name tugged at the edges of her mind, just out of reach. But whatever it was, it refused to come forward.

Sam nodded, his expression unreadable, but his eyes narrowed with concern. "It's fine. Don't worry about it. Just..." He hesitated, then shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You remind me of him."

Emeline gave a weak nod, but the uncertainty gnawed at her. Why does his name feel important? It was like trying to recall a dream that slips away the moment you wake up. That sense of something important lost, yet lingering.

Sam continued, his voice steady, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "You should know that you can trust me." His gaze softened.

The words hung in the air between them. For a moment, Emeline felt the weight of her own confusion, the tightness of the collar around her neck, and the reality of her situation. She wanted to believe him, but she couldn't allow herself to do that, otherwise she'd be breaking every rule she stood for.

Taking a slow breath, she finally met his eyes. "I don't know who I can trust."

Sam gave her a reassuring smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll figure it out."

The collar vibrated lightly under her touch, and she flinched, her body tense. Sam noticed, and his voice dropped to a more urgent tone. "And when you do, when we get out, and we'll get that off."

Her hand reflexively gripped the collar, a bitter sense of helplessness crawling up her spine. She didn't know how much more she could take. She almost laughed at how hopeful he sounded, because there was no way they were getting out of here anytime soon. And if they did, why would he bother helping?

Instead, Emeline nodded slowly, the anxiety she'd been suppressing creeping back in. The road ahead seemed uncertain, but there was a faint spark of hope in Sam's words—a fragile lifeline she wasn't sure she could reach for.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the cell, and the moment was broken. Clint sat back up, blinking.

Emeline leaned back against the wall, eyes closing again. The day stretched ahead of them, but the silence in the cell was no longer just an empty void. It was the silence of people sharing a space, bound by the walls around them, yet still holding on to their own private worlds. And though she hadn't given them much, it was a step in the right direction.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The door to their cell creaked open, the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall before Wanda appeared, freshly showered, her hair still damp and wearing the same scrubs as Emeline. She stepped inside, looking at them with an almost effortless smile, as if the situation they were in didn't weigh her down as much as it did the rest of them.

"Well, that was refreshing," she said, tossing the towel aside and looking around her cell. "I almost forgot what it felt like to be clean."

Clint gave a low whistle, looking up from where he sat against the wall. "Living the dream," he muttered. "At least one of us is getting a spa treatment."

"It was an experience," Wanda replied with a grin, sitting down on her cot. She stretched her legs out and leaned back against the stone wall, looking more at ease than most people would in a place like this.

Clint raised an eyebrow and shot her a playful look from where he was sprawled on the cold stone floor. "Yeah, high-security luxury spa. Free shampoo, free water, free emotional breakdowns," he joked, mimicking an over-the-top spa ad.

Wanda chuckled, stepping further into the room. "Honestly, the worst part was the guards. I think one of them was too enthusiastic about making sure I didn't escape mid-shower." She grinned. "Next time, I'm taking a book to keep them entertained while I'm in there."

Emeline understood the sentiment. It felt as if the guards were a little too eager to have her undress and shower. And making sure she had soap. She stayed quiet, her eyes flicking between the others, studying them. Wanda seemed so unaffected, as if she'd had to endure this kind of thing before. Sam, too, looked composed, though the lines around his eyes spoke of a long history of stress and survival.

Clint... Clint was a puzzle. He was already trying to turn everything into a joke. Emeline couldn't decide if that was a defense mechanism or if he really found this situation so absurd. She didn't know him well enough to say, but she wasn't sure she cared to.

Sam, leaning back against the wall, smiled at the banter. "I feel like we could all use a good book right about now. But instead, we're stuck with this," he gestured to the gray, windowless room. "I swear, the walls are getting closer."

Wanda rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama. "Yeah, they're not exactly inviting, are they? I think this place was designed to make sure you're just as uncomfortable mentally as you are physically. It's kind of impressive, really." She waved her hands around.

Clint smirked, propping himself up on his elbows. "I can't decide if it's a prison or a weird art installation. High-security, minimalist, gray-scale chic." He gestured around dramatically. "You think they'll give us a tour later? Might be nice to get the full experience."

Wanda laughed, shaking her head. "You're right. I'm sure we'll get a five-star tour. 'And downstairs, we have the infamous 'solitary chamber,' where you can contemplate all your bad life choices while staring at an empty wall.'"

Sam gave a small chuckle. "I think they've got that part covered. The 'no escape' part is kind of built right in."

Just as Clint was laying back down again, he shot up with a mock gasp. "Wait, I think I just figured it out! The real goal here is to break your spirit with art. They force you to be in a cell long enough to get so bored, you start appreciating modern art. Maybe we're the real exhibit." He threw his hands up. "I can already see the labels: 'The Lonely Souls of Cell Block C. Wistful, trapped, misunderstood.'"

Wanda leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. "Sounds like a masterpiece. Honestly, I think they're just trying to make us grateful for the tiny things we can have. You know, like the—" She made air quotes, "luxurious toilet paper they offer."

Clint raised an eyebrow in mock horror. "Don't even get me started on the food. I had a sandwich earlier that tasted like misery wrapped in paper. If they're trying to break us down through culinary betrayal, they're winning."

Sam leaned forward with a smirk. "I'm not sure 'sandwich' is the right word for what we were served. 'Mystery lump of sustenance' might be closer." The corner of Emeline's mouth twitched with the development of a smile, she forced it back down like she had her food. It was very similar to the meals she had at Hydra.

Wanda chuckled softly. "I mean, if we really want to break out, I think we need to infiltrate their kitchen. Get the real ingredients to make some prison gourmet. I've heard that's a skill you can develop."

Clint looked intrigued. "Ooh, prison cuisine? Maybe that'll be my next book: 'Clint Barton's Guide to Prison Fine Dining.' It'll be a bestseller for sure."

Wanda raised an eyebrow, the smallest grin tugging at her lips. "We'll host a book signing, but I doubt anyone would actually buy it."

Emeline, who had been quietly listening to the back-and-forth, glanced up at that. She hadn't fully engaged in the conversation yet, but her lips twitched slightly, the faintest sign of amusement breaking through her guarded exterior. The group's easy flow made her feel like an outsider, but she couldn't help the small flicker of recognition. They weren't so different from her, after all. Just people, trying to survive. And humor—no matter how crude or ridiculous—was one way to cope. Maybe she did understand Clint.

Clint noticed the small change in her expression and, with a half-smile, leaned back against the wall. He looked at Wanda with mock offence. "So, when we finally make it out of here, I'll be expecting you all to cook me a five-star meal. And sign copies of my book."

Wanda chuckled and shook her head. "Deal, Clint. But only if you promise to never, ever tell that sandwich joke again."

Emeline's shoulders tightened for a moment, but she didn't look away. There was something oddly comforting in the banter, even if she couldn't bring herself to join in. Her gaze flicked from Clint to Sam and Wanda. They weren't just talking about surviving; they were laughing through it. It made the grim reality of their shared situation a little less suffocating.

"Alright," Clint piped up with a grin. "We're making progress. Now, who's up for a game of 'Guess the Horrible Joke'? I've got a million of 'em."

Wanda chuckled softly, but her gaze stayed with Emeline for a moment longer before she glanced away. "That could help," she said with a small grin. "Though, I'm not sure Emeline is ready for Clint's brand of humor."

Although Emeline's lip quirked up slightly, she didn't respond immediately. She stayed silent, her eyes on the floor, though her posture had softened ever so slightly. She wasn't engaged, not fully, but she hadn't turned away entirely either. It was a small thing, but it was a crack, one she didn't immediately try to close. The others might not have noticed, but it was something. For the first time in days, she wasn't holding onto the edges of herself so tightly.

The group lapsed into a more comfortable silence for a moment. The quiet wasn't heavy anymore; it was just the space between them, where words didn't have to be forced. Wanda looked around the room once more, her expression quiet but understanding, before she settled back, a soft sigh escaping her. Emeline couldn't help but notice it. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, it didn't feel like she was so alone. Wanda thought so too.

Chapter Text

(( December 17th, 2010 ))
memories not yet surfaced

THE room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of a solitary bulb hanging from the cracked ceiling. The air was stale, thick with the scent of chemicals and the faint tang of iron. Ten-year-old Emeline sat motionless in the chair, the cold of it seeping through her thin uniform. Her hands, once soft and unmarked, were now calloused from years of holding things she was never meant to hold.

That didn't matter. What mattered was obedience. They'd drilled that into her for as long as she could remember. Forever. At first, it was all a blur—fear, confusion, a haze of memories that didn't make sense. But that was before they started the training. Before they began breaking her down.

A sharp clink echoed through the room as the door creaked open, and Emeline didn't flinch. She didn't need to look to know who it was. The unmistakable sound of heels clicking against the cold floor had become a constant in her life.

"Emeline." The voice was smooth, commanding, but tinged with an icy edge. A woman's voice. Dr. Rausch.

Emeline didn't answer, keeping her gaze fixed forward. She had learned not to show weakness—especially not to the doctors, who regarded her as little more than a test subject. Dr. Rausch had a particular interest in her.

"We have a another exercise for you today," Dr. Rausch continued, her voice laced with quiet satisfaction. "I trust you remember the procedure?"

Emeline's breath hitched imperceptibly. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, her mind flinched back to a darker place. But she didn't let it show. She wasn't going to give them that. But she did have an ounce of trust in what they were doing, maybe it would help.

The procedure. The one that burned the worst. It had become routine, an unwanted ritual. They had drilled it into her so thoroughly, so methodically, that she could no longer distinguish it from the rest of her memories. A machine that numbed her body, twisted her thoughts, and forced her to forget everything she had been before.

Apparently, this had all started a week ago. Someone had been in contact with her, trying to stir confusion and disrupt her sense of reality. That's what Hydra told her, at least. To keep her on track, they decided she needed a fresh start. A clean slate.

Emeline didn't fully understand the details, but she trusted what they said. After all, they were the ones who had always been there for her, guiding her, providing her with purpose. They insisted it was for her own good, that this reset would help her focus, clear the fog that had settled over her thoughts.

It seemed logical, even necessary. She had been through so much recently, and a clean slate might be exactly what she needed. Still, she felt like she had done this before.

She could feel the cold metal on her wrist as they strapped her in, the hum of electricity filling the room, just like all the times before. The sterile, indifferent way they treated her. Her soul had learned to shut down in the face of pain. Her mind had become a fortress. But it still hurt.

"Emeline," Dr. Rausch repeated, her voice now sharper. "You're slipping. You've failed twice in the last week."

A flicker of anger flared inside Emeline, but she stifled it. She couldn't let them see it. Anger was weakness. Weakness meant failure. Failure meant punishment.

"I'm not failing," she said coldly, her voice as emotionless as she could make it. "I never fail."

Dr. Rausch's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course not." The smile dropped as she approached with the needle in hand. "But you're not giving me the results I want. You're not reaching your potential."

Emeline knew what it meant. The needle. The serum. The beginning of the process that wiped away the fog in her mind and ensured she stayed focused. She didn't enjoy it, but she understood why it was necessary. They had explained it to her countless times—it was to help her, to keep her sharp and clear, free from distractions.

"Eclipse. Vein. Eight."

It was painful, yes. Sometimes even unbearable. But it was for the greater good, for her training, for her purpose. She had learned that resistance only made things harder, prolonged the process, and in the end, it was always going to happen. So, she endured it. There was no other option.

"Nightfall. Thorn. Ceiling."

As Dr. Rausch inserted the needle into Emeline's arm, her mind began to cloud over. The familiar, hollow feeling spread through her veins, dulling her senses, warping her thoughts.

"Fog. Crescent. Five."

For a brief moment, she wondered if there was a world where she'd be allowed to fail sometimes. As they placed the mouthguard in her mouth, the thought slipped away, as fleeting as a dream. Hydra has done everything for her. Hydra had made her into what she was now: a weapon.

"Rusted."

And the best version of one.

-----

Months passed. Days blurred together. The pain of training, the isolation, the endless drills. Every inch of Emeline's being had been twisted by Hydra's hands. The pain from the physical and emotional conditioning never really went away, but she had learned to live with it. She had learned to push it to the back of her mind.

One night, in the middle of a routine session, a new face entered the room. A man, dressed in black, with blue eyes and a determined expression. She couldn't remember his name. Emeline had the strangest feeling that she'd seen him before, that she knew him. He had been assigned to oversee her training, to bring her to her final "form." The one that would serve Hydra's interests best.

She was supposed to be sent back in the approaching months, back to the Red Room for her final test. To ensure she was ready, so here she was.

The man she nicknamed 'Blue' never spoke much. He only observed, taking mental notes as Emeline pushed herself harder, further. But there was something different about him. He watched her not like a lab rat, but like someone trying to understand a puzzle. And he didn't look at her with disdain. It was the first time she'd seen that kind of recognition.

One night, after a particularly grueling session, Blue approached her, his voice low but firm. "You're more than this." And he seemed almost remorseful.

Emeline froze, her body aching from the constant drills. She had been trained to ignore these moments, to focus only on survival. She turned her face toward him, her gaze cold, but there was a flicker of curiosity. He had said the words so easily, so quietly, as though they weren't impossible to believe. She had long since stopped thinking of herself as "more."

"You're better than this," he continued. "Hydra is using you. You're better than them."

But Emeline knew the truth. She wasn't better. She had no potential. She was just a tool. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner the pain would stop. The sooner she would be a hero for Hydra to reward,

"You believe that?" she asked, her voice empty. "That I'm something more?"

Blue didn't answer. Instead, he simply looked at her, his gaze intense but unreadable. Like there was something broken.

After that, his visits grew less frequent. There were no promises of freedom or escape. He didn't speak of morality or resistance. But each time he looked at her, he seemed to see something she couldn't anymore: a person beyond the training, beyond the brokenness.

The strange part was, part of her wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that there was something more to her, something they hadn't completely erased.

Soon enough, he stopped arriving all together, forcing her to train with her old trainer, working on her strength. So she stopped before she could begin believing. But Blue would still be in the back of her mind.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

As Emeline sat quietly with the others, a long silence stretched between them, she found herself grappling with her thoughts. The guards had been unusually close during her last evaluation, and there had been a sense that they were watching, probing for any weakness. But she also wasn't sure they cared.

The cell was quieter now, the tension of the other day's conversations lingering in the air. Emeline sat on the edge of her cot, eyes fixed on the floor, her fingers nervously tapping against the edge of her blanket. Sam leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze calm but observant. Clint was stretched out in a corner, arms behind his head, though his eyes darted around, alert. Wanda sat on her cot, her posture relaxed but her attention on Emeline, as if waiting for something. It seemed like they were all on edge, something in the air made it that way.

Clint was the first to break the silence. "So, biggest fears. Who's first?" Part of him knew that by asking that question, he'd get Emeline to open up even a little. And if they all shared their fears, it would make her feel more comfortable in saying hers.

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Uh... Honestly," he said slowly, "being useless. I'm supposed to protect people. I'm supposed to make a difference. And sometimes, it feels like I'm not doing enough."

Emeline nodded slightly, her gaze dropping back to the floor, but it was Wanda's words that caught her attention next. Wanda's voice was quiet, almost fragile. "I'm afraid of hurting people," she admitted, almost reluctantly. "I've done things... terrible things. And no matter how much I try, I'm afraid I'll hurt someone again."

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Emeline stayed quiet, her fingers still tapping nervously against the cot. She understood Wanda and everything she said.

Finally, Sam spoke up again, his voice low but reassuring. "You're not alone in that," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "We're still here, still fighting."

Sam's gaze softened, understanding in his eyes, but Clint chuckled lightly. "Ah, that's rough," he said, his voice light but with a hint of something deeper. He scratched his neck. "I've got one. Mine's... a little less serious."

Emeline glanced up, her curiosity piqued despite herself. Clint was always so nonchalant, always joking. But this time, his eyes were narrowed slightly, his posture more tense than usual.

"I've got a thing about bees," Clint admitted, almost sheepishly. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can't stand them. The buzzing... the stingers. I can't. I've been trapped in a room with one before and had a panic attack. So yeah, I guess I'm afraid of bees."

Wanda snorted softly, but it wasn't mocking. There was an understanding in her expression. "That's more common than you think," she said gently, then her gaze shifted toward Emeline. It suddenly dawned on her that they were waiting on her to answer.

Emeline stiffened, it caught her off guard. She had been trying to keep her thoughts to herself, to remain distant. Talking about fear... it wasn't something she was supposed to share. Not yet. She glanced up briefly at Sam, then Clint, who was watching her with a peculiar expression, his usual casual demeanor gone.

"Come on," Clint added with a half-smirk, trying to make light of it. "We're all a little scared of something. You too, right?"

Emeline shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to shut it down, to say nothing, but something about the way Wanda was looking at her—gently, patiently—made her hesitate. She took a deep breath and finally spoke, her voice small. "I'm afraid of failing," she murmured, almost to herself. "Of not being good enough. Of... not doing what I'm supposed to."

"I think we all are."

Clint gave a small nod, his usual grin returning. "Yeah, and hey, if I can deal with bees, you can handle whatever's scaring you, too."

Emeline felt a flicker of something inside her—something like hope, though she quickly tamped it down. Her fears weren't like theirs. She wasn't sure she could face them the way they did. But for the first time, she didn't feel quite as alone.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally spoke again, almost to herself. "I don't think I'll ever stop being afraid."

Sam's eyes met hers, understanding in his gaze. "We'll we have all the time in the world to help with that."

Emeline didn't respond, but the knot in her chest loosened just a little. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn to fight her fear... just like the others were learning to face theirs.

Chapter Text

THE soft hum of the a/c echoed above, a monotonous drone that filled the emptiness of the long hallway. The glass cells, lined up like quiet sentinels, separated Emeline from the rest of the world. Even thought she was just a few feet away from Sam. And directly across from Wanda, who even asleep, had a constant presence, though Emeline couldn't always bring herself to look her way. Clint was just a few feet away from Sam, his cell casting shadows in the dim light as he leaned against the glass, also fast asleep.

Everything felt too close, too suffocating, and yet they were all so far from one another. The glass was a barrier, something that couldn't be crossed. Emeline's gaze shifted between the cells, the dark lighting made each face blurred through the glass, but each of them there in the same space. The isolation, the silence—Emeline felt it in her bones.

She pressed her palm flat against the cool glass, feeling its smooth surface under her skin, grounding herself, even as the feeling of separation pressed in. The quiet stretched on, thick and heavy. The walls felt too close, too confining. She could hear the faint shift of movement, the sound of Sam breathing softly beside her, Wanda's quiet stirrings across the hall. But there was no escape. It was a constant reminder that they were all trapped, each one held captive in their own mind and body.

Her eyes flicked toward Wanda. Even across the distance of glass, Emeline could feel her there—quiet, steady. There was no judgment, no pity. Just an unspoken understanding that they were all broken, in one way or another. Even asleep.

A sound broke the silence—Sam's voice, steady and low. "Emeline?" Careful not to wake the other two. Part of Emeline found comfort in the fact that they dimmed the lights when it was night, it kept part of them human.

She turned toward him. The glass separating them so thin it almost didn't matter. She could hear the faintest whisper of his voice, a sense of calm that cut through the oppressive stillness. They hadn't talked like this since she had that nightmare.

"I'm here," Emeline replied, though her voice was barely above a whisper as well. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to feel. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that she could handle this, but the words didn't come. She wasn't fine. None of them were.

Sam seemed to sense the hesitation, the heaviness hanging between them. "You don't have to talk if you're not ready," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "But you're not alone."

Her breath hitched. She could feel the weight of his words, the kindness in them, but they felt too foreign, too out of place. She wasn't used to kindness. She wasn't used to being told she wasn't alone.

The pressure in her chest tightened. Her mind began to race—thoughts bouncing off one another, a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and doubt. She had to hold it together. She couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not now.

"Me talking," she muttered, almost to herself. "Isn't the best thing to do. I'm different from you guys."

Sam's response was immediate, steady. "You just have to be yourself. That's enough."

Emeline pressed her palm harder against the glass, as if trying to push away the growing ache in her chest. She had absolutely know clue who she was. Her mind was a mess, but Sam's words seemed to ground her, even if only for a moment. She didn't know how long it would last, but for now, the silence between them felt less suffocating.

Across from her, Wanda shifted in her sleep, and Emeline couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in the air.

"Clint," Sam said softly, nodding toward the cell across. "He's talks arguably too much, but... you can see the fight in him. He's still got some of that fire."

Emeline's eyes flicked toward Clint. He sat quietly in his cell, arms crossed, eyes closed, but even asleep there was a tension in his posture that was impossible to miss. Clint, with all his grit, all his strength, wasn't immune to the same feeling that was creeping up on her—this sense of being lost, of being too broken to fix. She could feel his silence as much as she could feel her own. The quiet was an ocean between them, a thing they both tried to ignore but couldn't escape.

Her thoughts shifted back to Sam. She glanced over at him, his steady gaze fixed on her, waiting. But he wasn't rushing her. He wasn't expecting anything from her. There was no demand to speak, no expectation to open up. He was just there.

"I don't know how to trust anyone," Emeline said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I don't know how to let anyone in. I've always been alone, everyone i've come close to just leaves." Her mind raced as she closed her mouth. She didn't even understand why she said what she said, as far as she remembered, she'd been alone. But her mind had been wiped so many times she couldn't trust herself.

The words felt like a weight lifting off her chest, even if just a little. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding in until now.

Sam didn't look surprised by her words, but nodded. "You don't have to trust everyone all at once. Trust is built. It's okay if you're not ready. But we're not going anywhere"

For the first time since she'd been thrown into this prison, Emeline allowed herself to sink into the comfort of his words. She let herself feel the smallest flicker of hope. They weren't leaving. Not yet.

The silence returned, but it felt less oppressive. Less suffocating. They were all still there. Even Clint, even Wanda. They were all stuck in the same space, but they weren't alone.

And for just a moment, Emeline didn't feel quite so lost.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

a memory - do you remember it or not?

Emeline's fingers pressed against the cold glass of her cell, the surface smooth but strangely comforting in its rigidity. She stared through it, focusing on the small details that filled her space: the faint scratch marks from years of use, the way the light outside shifted with the changing hours, the hum that echoed through the facility. But as her mind wandered, a memory crept back in, uninvited, something new that she'd never thought of before.

It was a long time ago, she was younger—before they had worn her down to a point where her emotions were buried so deep that even her own heart felt distant. She was eleven, and this was the Red Room. She could almost smell the sharp scent of antiseptic, hear the rhythmic clink of boots on cold concrete, and feel the harsh grip of the trainers' hands as they worked to break and rebuild them.

It was there, in that labyrinth of harsh training, where she met Zara.

Zara had arrived—wide-eyed, scared, and out of place. But unlike Emeline, Zara still had hope in her eyes, and that spark was something that Emeline hadn't seen in a long time. For the first time in ages, Emeline felt the faint stirrings of something familiar: a connection.

They trained side by side for a few weeks. Zara was fast, quick to pick up on things, and somehow, despite the darkness around them, she still smiling at times. Emeline couldn't help but be drawn to her. In those rare moments when the trainers weren't watching, they exchanged quiet words, spoken too softly to be heard.

Even though Zara had been out in the world much more than Emeline had, she would ask about the outside world, and Emeline would answer the same way she always did: "It's better to stop thinking about it. We have to survive here. That's the only way."

She already had Hydra's influence built into her.

But Zara wasn't like that. She asked questions that Emeline didn't have the answers to, asked about escape, about freedom, about hope. "What if we could find a way out of here?" she'd whisper, her voice tentative but strong. "What if there's still something waiting for us, something beyond this?"

Emeline hadn't known what to say to that. She didn't believe in escape—not anymore. Every time she had entertained that thought, it had only ended in failure and more pain. So, instead of encouraging Zara's hope, she buried it with practical words: "This place is a prison. We don't leave. We learn to survive, that's it."

But Zara was persistent, determined. The next day, she came to Emeline with a plan. She'd overheard some guards talking, and she was convinced there was a window of opportunity, a gap in their routines they could exploit.

"We can do it," Zara said, her eyes shining with a mix of fear and excitement. "I think I can get us out."

Emeline felt a surge of panic—panic she hadn't expected to feel. "No," she snapped, too harshly. "It's not worth it. We're trapped here. Even if you get out, they'll find you. And then what? It's not worth the risk." She wouldn't risk her life, or Zara's.

Zara had looked at her then, confusion crossing her face. "But we can't just stay here, Emeline. We can't just live like this forever. It can be just us, me and you."

"I don't care," Emeline had muttered, her voice tight. "This is the way things are. This is all we get."

That night, Emeline lay in her cot, the silence of the barracks pressing down on her. She didn't sleep. She couldn't stop thinking about Zara. About her determination, her will to fight for something better. Emeline had shut down, closed her heart to her again, and in doing so, she felt the final ember of her own hope die out. So much so that Emeline didn't realize Zara wasn't in her bed that night.

It wasn't long before the inevitable happened.

Zara had tried to escape. Emeline had heard the whispers, the rumors. Zara had taken a chance, thinking there might be some small way out, a crack in the renovated hall that wasn't as fortified as the others. But she was wrong. She was caught. The attempts of rebellion never worked in the Red Room, and Zara had paid the price.

The next time Emeline saw her name, it was on a list—another failed attempt to escape, erased just like all the others who had dared to dream. Now it was almost funny to think that she was one of the only to ever do so, besides The Black Widow.

Emeline hadn't even been able to mourn her. There was no room for mourning in a place like this. No time for weakness.

Now, sitting in the quiet of her cell, the memories of Zara, of that brief connection, came rushing back. She was breathing heavily, mind racing. She had been so close to letting someone in, so close to believing that maybe—just maybe—there was someone else who understood the pain and the exhaustion of living in the Red Room.

But she couldn't. She couldn't let herself care. The consequences of it were too severe, too irreversible. Now that this memory forced itself to be known, it only proved her point to Sam further.

As Emeline glanced across to Sam, Clint, and Wanda in their respective cells, the feeling of isolation crept in once again. She had learned the hard way that connections only made things more difficult. She had to stay distant. It was safer that way.

But even as she told herself that, a small voice—quiet, tentative—whispered at the back of her mind: What if it didn't have to be that way?

The thought was fleeting, but it lingered, and Emeline couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, the walls she had built around her heart might not hold forever

Chapter Text

(( 9:22 pm - June 14th, 2016 - Queens ))

PETER Parker sat perched on a rooftop in Queens, the evening sky turning from orange to deep purple as the city below continued with its usual chaotic hum. He wasn't exactly sure why he was up here—maybe it was the lingering unease in his chest, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't really stopped moving all day. But here he was, hiding away, the weight of the last few weeks pressing on his shoulders. School was out now, so he was just filling his days with Spiderman duties, which was doing what he normally did, fight crime.

It had been three weeks since Emme was taken. Three weeks. The worst part? Tony had barely even mentioned her after the first few days. That's how things had been with him: quick to move on, always having a bigger mission in mind. But Peter couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong.

He remembered when the first met. She was quiet, distant even, never quite letting anyone in. She didn't speak much, and when she did, it was always in hushed tones, like she was still trying to figure out whether she could trust him or not. Same went for MJ and Ned when they were introduced. Despite the silence, something about her had always made Peter want to protect her. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, the way she seemed so used to being on her own, or maybe it was the fact that she reminded him of how he'd felt when he first started this whole superhero thing: alone, scared, and out of place.

Peter had tried. He'd tried to make her laugh, to get her to talk, to get her to see that she wasn't alone anymore. And over the months, they'd built something small but important. She'd still be reserved, but sometimes, when she wasn't looking, he could catch a glimpse of a small, hesitant smile. They never talked about much—just small things like the weather, or what kind of music she liked. Simple things, but to Peter, it felt like progress. But one time he even felt courageous enough to talk about Uncle Ben.

And then came the day they took her. Then the day of her trial, when he learned things about her that seemed impossible to comprehend, yet somehow, deep down, they made sense

He swung over to the ledge of another building, pulling his mask off and running a hand through his hair. He didn't like feeling helpless. It was the worst feeling in the world—just sitting there, waiting for someone else to figure it out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, hoping for a message from Tony, something. Anything. But no, it was just another text from Aunt May.

"Peter, please come home. It's been hours. You're worrying me."

Peter sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Aunt May didn't know what was really going on. Aunt May had mentioned how much she liked Emme and how she hoped she'd come around more often. She told Peter how worried she was for her, but she believed that spending time with him would make all the difference. She didn't know about the Raft, about who Emme really was. He couldn't tell her. Not yet.

But that didn't change the fact that she was worried sick.

He opened his messages and shot off a text to Tony.

"Hey, Mr. Stark. Any news on Emme?"

He knew Tony would probably be annoyed. They hadn't talked much about Emme lately, and that was beginning to frustrate Peter. Tony was always busy, always on the move, but Peter couldn't help feeling like Tony was brushing it off.

The message sent, and Peter stared at his phone, waiting for the reply. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. And still nothing.

His frustration started to build, and before he could stop himself, he slammed his fist against the rooftop railing.

"What the hell? She's in the Raft, you know that, right? You don't just forget about someone who's in that kind of place," Peter muttered to himself.

The Raft. It was one of the most secure prisons for super-powered individuals, and it had always been the place they sent the worst offenders. Emme wasn't like that—she wasn't a criminal. But Tony... he didn't see it that way. That's why he drilled him on how he knew her. Maybe he thought she was just another case to deal with, another problem to fix when he had time. But Peter didn't see it that way.

"She doesn't deserve this. She deserves to be out here with us. Safe," Peter said, his voice growing tighter with each word.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was from Tony.

"Peter, we're working on it. I'm not forgetting about her. It's just... complicated."

Peter felt his chest tighten. "Complicated?" he muttered under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair again. He didn't care about complicated. He cared about Emme.

"She's in prison! We have to do something!" Peter typed back quickly. His fingers were trembling a little as he hit send.

He knew Tony was probably dealing with a million other things—multiversal crises, alien invasions, the whole usual Stark mess. But it didn't matter. Emme mattered. And no matter how much he tried to calm himself, Peter couldn't shake the feeling that Tony wasn't giving it his all. He wasn't going to let Emme fall through the cracks.

The phone buzzed again. Tony's response was short this time.

"I'll see what I can do. But we have bigger issues right now."

Peter stared at the message for a long time. His heart sank. "Bigger issues? This is the issue. This is my issue," Peter muttered, standing up and pacing along the rooftop.

The city stretched out in front of him, its lights twinkling in the darkening evening, and Peter felt more alone than he ever had before. With a heavy sigh, Peter turned to face the horizon, facing the direction of home.

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Emeline sat on the cold metal bench in her cell, her body aching from the constant tension that had become second nature. The Raft, with its concrete walls and the sterile scent of antiseptic, had swallowed her into a place of quiet misery. And thanks to her heightened senses, it burned even more. Time had blurred here. Had it been weeks? A month? She couldn't tell anymore. The only thing that remained constant was the oppressive silence, broken only by the distant sounds of clanging doors, muffled voices, and the occasional footstep.

She kept her head low, eyes trained on the ground as she tried to push away the thoughts that had been creeping in. The memories of her life before the Raft were like ghosts she couldn't escape. The faces of those she had met, like Peter Parker—kind-hearted, trying too hard to be everything to everyone. His smile had been genuine, his attempts at breaking through her silence both endearing and frustrating. She'd tried to push him away, but he never fully gave up. And, despite herself, Emeline had started to feel something. A sense of... belonging, perhaps?

The thought was foreign, uncomfortable, and yet, in this place, it was something she clung to. The memory of his words, the way he'd said her name like it meant something. He didn't know her as Emeline, but as Emme. One night he introduced her to Star Wars, and even though she didn't really understand it, part of her did.

"Emme, you kinda remind me of Luke."

The words echoed in her mind now, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She could still picture his face, the earnestness in his expression as he looked at her, always trying to get her to talk. She hadn't been able to give him what he wanted. She couldn't. Trust. That was something she'd lost long ago. She'd been taught that everyone had their own agenda, that you couldn't rely on anyone—not really. But Peter... Peter hadn't ever treated her like a project. Like something to fix. He'd just been there. Similar to how Sam was now.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Luke Skywalker had been faced with the impossible decision: to trust in the Force and the people he loved or to give in to the Empire, to do what they demanded. He had chosen the latter, surrendering himself to capture in order to protect his friends, to ensure the rebellion could continue.

Emeline felt that same weight now. Like Luke, she thought, her heart sinking a little. Like Luke, I've been taken, but I'm still fighting. I have to be.

Peter would want her to.

Luke had known that sometimes, you had to sacrifice yourself for a greater purpose, even if you didn't know exactly what that purpose was at the time. Maybe she hadn't fully understood it back then, when she had first connected with Peter over the movies, but now, in the silence of the Raft, she understood it better. Her situation wasn't the same as Luke's, but the feeling was. The sense of losing everything, of being dragged into something bigger than yourself, a cause you couldn't even fully grasp.

But that didn't mean she couldn't still hold onto something—someone.

Peter believed in me, she thought, her fingers tightening against her legs. The faint memory of his smile, the warmth in his voice, and the promise of being not alone—it was enough to keep her tethered. For now, it was enough to remind her that there was something worth fighting for outside these walls.

She didn't know how she would get out of here, or if she ever would. But if there was even a sliver of hope, a faint light through the cracks of her isolation, she wasn't going to let it go. Like Luke, like the rebels, she had a choice: to give in or to keep fighting, even when the path was unclear.

And I'm not giving up, she swore quietly to herself, as if the words themselves could give her strength.

She remembered the last time they had spoken, before everything went wrong, before the Raft, before he found her climbing in through her window. The night before they'd been sitting on the buildings rooftop together, talking about the strangest things. Peter had asked her about her favorite place, and she hadn't answered him—not because she didn't want to, but because the question was so normal. It made her want to let her guard down, and that terrified her.

She didn't want to tell him it was here.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she thought about him. He had never given up on her, even when she had done everything she could to keep him at arm's length.

"Peter..." she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible in the solitude of her cell. The faint memory of Peter's face, his quiet but resolute belief in her, surged inside her once more. It was that promise, that hope, that kept her from surrendering to the crushing darkness of the Raft.

Across the hall, Wanda glanced over, catching her smile. Clint was watching too, his brow furrowed in curiosity. Sam was lying back on his own bench, arms crossed over his chest, not paying attention but still fully aware of everything happening around them.

Emeline quickly wiped her face, her smile vanishing as if it had never been there. She couldn't afford to show weakness, not here, not now. But the fleeting moment of warmth from the memory of Peter lingered, something she hadn't felt in a long time. The simple joy of a connection, of feeling like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't invisible.

She pushed those feelings back down as best as she could. Focus. She had to keep herself together. She had to survive this. She couldn't afford to let herself get distracted by thoughts of the outside world or the people who cared. They would be the reason she broke, the reason she let herself feel.

Still, despite the gnawing doubt and the fear of hope she couldn't afford to embrace, a small part of her began to wonder what it would be like to be out of this place. To be free, with people who didn't want to use her. To be with someone who cared, who saw her as more than just a weapon, more than just a shadow.

A single tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away, quickly, before anyone could see. She wasn't going to let herself break.

But as she sat there, the faint echo of Peter's smile and his words—that held more meaning than it seemed—was enough to keep her from falling into the abyss of the Raft.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

IN the month she had been here, the silence had become Emeline's constant companion.

But it wasn't total silence. There were the occasional footsteps, distant voices, and the faint hum of machines and doors grinding open. Then there was Wanda, Clint, and Sam—who had all been here longer than her. Each had tried, in their own way, to reach her. They hadn't given up on trying to get her to open up, even when she made it clear that she didn't want to talk. But that was just how she functioned. It had always been easier to keep things inside, even when the pressure of it threatened to crack her wide open.

Wanda, especially, was persistent. Wanda had been through her own kind of torment, Emeline could tell. There was something about the way she looked at her that made Emeline feel like Wanda knew what it was like to be controlled, to lose yourself in someone else's plans.

Wanda had once claimed to have seen Emeline at the Hydra base in Sokovia, but the topic hadn't been mentioned since. Emeline couldn't quite understand how Wanda had recognized her. She had only been seven years old at the time, while Wanda had been eighteen—an age gap that seemed too vast for such a memory to stick.

She'd caught Wanda staring at her more than once, her eyes soft, like she was waiting for Emeline to give her an opening. But Emeline kept her gaze low, her lips pressed tight, offering nothing.

Then there was Sam, who, though quiet, always seemed to be watching her with a level of understanding that made Emeline uncomfortable. But something in his steady, composed presence made her feel... less isolated, even if she didn't know how to trust him or anyone else.

Clint, for his part, kept rambling, his humor rarely faltering. Though he did stop making jokes that were at her expense, but his constant readiness—his vigilance—reminded her that they were all, in some way, stuck here in this cage, bound by forces outside their control. Even so, she couldn't help but feel like an outsider in the midst of their shared struggle. They all had their own stories—stories of loss, of battle—and she couldn't help but wonder how much of herself she could give them. It was safer to keep everything locked away, even though she knew it hurt.

It wasn't that she didn't care about them. But the idea of trusting anyone again... it was too much. The trauma of being used, of being manipulated by those she once trusted, was still too fresh. She couldn't risk it.

One afternoon, as she sat on her bench in the cell, Wanda sat up in her bed, as she always did—slow, cautious, like she was walking on eggshells. Emeline didn't acknowledge her at first, eyes fixed on the wall opposite. But Wanda wasn't deterred. She didn't know how the older woman moved around so gracefully with the shock collar and the straightjacket on.

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," Wanda said softly, sitting down on the edge of her own cell, a small but understanding smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You've been here a while now. But it's still like you're somewhere else."

Emeline's shoulders stiffened, her lips parting for the briefest moment as if to say something, anything, to shut Wanda down. But she didn't. She didn't have the words. Not anymore. She'd only think of Peter, he's what got her this far.

"I get it," Wanda added, as if reading Emeline's thoughts. "I thought that no one would understand. I thought silence would protect me. But... silence is a prison too."

The words hit harder than Emeline expected. She closed her eyes tightly, as if to push them away. But Wanda wasn't finished.

"Sometimes, the people who hurt us the most aren't the ones who put us in these places," Wanda said softly, her gaze fixed on Emeline. "Sometimes, it's the people we let ourselves care about. But that doesn't mean we have to shut everyone out."

Emeline could feel the weight of her words, the rawness in her voice. Wanda wasn't just speaking from experience; she was offering something Emeline had long since buried—hope. It was a dangerous thing, hope, and yet, Emeline could feel the faintest flicker of it rise inside her chest. For the length of her stay so far, it came and went as quickly as she blinked.

"I don't know," Emeline whispered after a long silence, her voice barely audible.

Wanda's expression softened even more. "Yeah."

Emeline looked up then, her eyes meeting Wanda's, and for the first time in weeks, she felt a twinge of something that wasn't just fear. Maybe it was a little bit of relief. A small, fragile relief that someone here, anyone, saw her. She didn't have the strength to respond, but her silence felt different now. She was listening. For the first time, she wasn't shutting down. And that, in itself, felt like progress.

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(( June 29th, 2016 - Queens ))

Outside the Raft, Peter Parker sat hunched over his desk, the dim glow of his laptop screen the only light in his small room. His fingers flew over the keys in a desperate, rhythmic pace as he tried to piece together the intricate layers of the Raft's security systems. Every click, every search felt like a thread he was tugging at, hoping to unravel a way to get Emme out. It had been weeks since his conversation with Tony, and the frustration had only grown. The longer Emme stayed in there, the further away she seemed, like the walls of the prison were swallowing her whole, and he was powerless to stop it.

His eyes, bloodshot from late nights and countless hours of research, burned as he scrolled through firewalls, encrypted databases, and surveillance blueprints. The Raft was built like a fortress, its security impenetrable to anyone who wasn't supposed to be inside. But Peter wasn't one to back down from a challenge. He had faced worse odds—much worse. Yet, this felt different. This wasn't a nameless villain he was chasing. This was Emme. Someone he'd spent time with, someone who had trusted him, even if she couldn't trust herself.

The hum of the computer was the only sound in the room, until his phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration startled him, and he quickly pulled it out, hoping for a message from Tony, anything. But it was a text from MJ.

"Peter seriously let us help"

Peter stared at the message, the words burning into his mind. MJ knew him too well. She could read him like an open book. He sighed deeply, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell anyone. Not yet. Not about his plan to break Emme out of the Raft. They would never let him do it. Ned would freak out, MJ would cry, and Aunt May... Aunt May would never forgive him.

But Peter couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling in his chest. The way Emme looked at him, like she wanted to trust him but couldn't. The way she'd been locked away like a forgotten piece of the world. He couldn't just leave her there. Not after everything she'd been through. Not after everything he'd seen in her eyes—the same fear, the same hopelessness that he'd felt when he first put on the Spider-Man suit.

He bit his lip, staring at the message for what felt like an eternity. How could he explain this to them? How could he make them understand without putting them in danger? Peter had always been the one to carry the weight, to handle the impossible on his own. But this? This felt like too much. The Raft wasn't just a prison. It was a cage for the most dangerous people, and Emme wasn't a criminal. He'd hack and search whatever was necessary to get her out.

He typed a quick reply, trying to keep his voice steady, even though the words felt hollow.

"Don't worry just trust me"

Peter hesitated before hitting send. As soon as he did, the knot in his stomach tightened. He knew that deep down, he wasn't being entirely truthful. He was alone in this. No matter how much he wanted to share the burden, no matter how much he wanted to lean on his friends, he couldn't. Not with this. Not with something so dangerous.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, his mind running in circles. How could he get her out? How could he even begin to break into a place like the Raft, where every corner was guarded, every entrance fortified?

Peter rubbed his eyes, exhaustion beginning to settle in. He knew that this wasn't a job for Spider-Man alone. He needed help, but it couldn't be from MJ, or Ned, or anyone who might get caught in the crossfire. Tony wasn't an option either—not after that conversation. Peter had hoped that Tony would be his ally, that the Avengers would have his back, but now it felt like Tony had washed his hands of Emme's fate.

With a heavy sigh, Peter pushed himself away from the desk. The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him. How was he going to do this? How could he risk everything for one person when the consequences could be so much worse than he could imagine?

He couldn't live with himself if he didn't try. Emme needed him. And maybe that was enough. Maybe that would be his reason to keep going.

As he stood up, pacing the room, Peter knew there was no turning back. He had to find a way. He had to make a plan, no matter the cost. The Raft might be secure, but there had to be a way in. And if he had to go alone, he would. Because no one else could make this right.

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The harsh light of the meeting room in the Pentagon hung above Tony Stark, making the tension in the air almost unbearable. Across the polished table sat General Thaddeus Ross, his gray eyes sharp as ever, though there was something about the way his mouth twitched that hinted at an undercurrent of something more—something sinister. Tony had grown used to the general's presence over the years, but today, there was something different. Ross had been acting a bit too calm, too composed, and Tony didn't like it.

"Tony," Ross said, leaning forward, his fingers steepled in front of him. "You know what we're facing here, right? The global instability, the increased number of powered individuals... we can't afford to let people like her—dangerous people walk free."

Tony raised an eyebrow, trying to mask the tension in his own shoulders. He didn't have to ask who Ross meant—her was always the same. Emeline.

"I know," Tony said quietly, though his tone held a firmness that betrayed his thoughts. "That's why I'm trying to get her out. The legal way. There's a lot of things we can't undo, but we can give her a chance."

Ross's lips curled into a thin smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He didn't seem to take Tony's words as seriously as he should have.

"Chance?" Ross repeated, almost mocking. "What chance? Tony, you know we can't let her walk free. That girl... she's dangerous. Powerful. What you're calling a 'chance' could very well be a liability. We can't let her be some wild card roaming around. You have no idea what she could do if we don't contain her properly."

Tony's jaw tightened. He'd heard this before. But this time, Ross's words felt like a trap.

"You think she's some kind of weapon, don't you?" Tony's voice had a hard edge to it, but he tried to remain calm. "She's not. She's a kid, a person. She deserves to be treated like one."

Ross leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied Tony. "The thing about you, Tony, is that you always see the best in people," Ross said, his voice almost gentle. "That's why you let your emotions cloud your judgment. That girl, she's an asset. If you're willing to go through all this trouble to get her out, I wonder—have you thought about what she could be for us? Imagine what we could do with someone like her on our side."

Tony's expression faltered for a moment, and Ross's smile deepened, as if he knew exactly how to needle him.

"Experiment?" Tony said sharply, standing up from his chair, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. "You want me to sell her out for your military experiments? You want to turn her into another one of your projects?" His voice grew louder, a clear sign that his patience was running thin.

Ross raised his hands slightly, a dismissive gesture. "I'm not suggesting we 'sell her out,' Tony. I'm suggesting we utilize her. The government has its way of controlling threats. You've seen it with all the other enhanced individuals out there. And don't act like you're above it. You've worked with the military before. Don't pretend you didn't understand what we could do with someone like her."

Tony could feel his chest tightening with anger, but he fought to keep his cool. He wasn't going to let Ross win this one.

"She's a kid," Tony said, his voice low but filled with a quiet intensity. "She's not a weapon."

Ross sat back in his chair, eyes piercing. "You might think you're in control, Stark, but you're not. You're too close to this. She could be a liability. But if you keep trying to get her out, it won't be long before you'll be labeled as an accomplice. You'll be the one responsible when things go south."

Tony took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He had to keep his emotions in check. For her sake, he couldn't let Ross manipulate him.

"I'll do what I have to," Tony said quietly, his voice hard as steel. "And if you want to try to stop me, I'll make sure you regret it"

The silence that hung between them was thick. For a moment, neither of them spoke, as if both were waiting for the other to make the next move.

Ross finally stood up, his gaze still fixed on Tony. "We'll see how this plays out, Stark. But mark my words—this isn't over. We're not done with her, and we're not done with you, either."

Tony stared at him for a beat longer, his mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. But as the general turned and walked out of the room, Tony's resolve solidified. He wasn't going to let anyone turn Emme into a pawn. Not on his watch.

Chapter Text

(( June 30th, 2016 - New York ))

TONY sat at his desk in the lab, fingers tapping absently against his holographic interface. His mind was a blur of thoughts—Emme, the security at the Raft, Ross's threats—and it all seemed to be closing in on him. The weight of the situation was unbearable. He had a thousand things to focus on, but all he could think about was how much Peter cared for Emme and how she was stuck in that hellhole.

He was already under stress by the government to find Steve and the others who had gone into hiding. To throw them into the same place as Emme. But that wasn't on the top of his list anymore, and he wasn't sure he cared.

"Hey, Tony," Rhodey's voice called from the doorway, more casual than usual, but with a note of concern that Tony couldn't ignore.

Tony didn't look up. His fingers hovered over the interface, adjusting the data, but his mind wasn't really on the numbers. "Hey, Rhodes. What's up?" he muttered, still lost in his thoughts.

Rhodey stepped into the room, crossing his arms. "I'm guessing the meeting didn't go well?" His eyes studied Tony's tense posture.

Tony sighed deeply, rubbing his face. "He's not backing off. Wants Emme under his control. Calls her an asset. Wants to use her for whatever twisted experiment he's cooking up." His words were clipped, his frustration bubbling over.

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, shifting on his feet. "And you're not exactly thrilled about that?" he asked, not quite a question but more of a statement.

Tony finally looked up, his eyes meeting Rhodey's. His voice dropped to a low growl. "Not in the slightest. But I'm trying to get her out of the Raft legally. Ross? He's trying to make that impossible. He's threatening to label me an accomplice, says I'm too close to the situation."

Rhodey shook his head, taking a step closer. "Ross doesn't care about the rules. He cares about control. He's trying to intimidate you. You've gotta know that."

Tony rubbed his temples, a headache forming behind his eyes. "I know. I know I've been through some stuff, but this—this is different." He shook his head. "She's just a kid, man. It's not right."

Rhodey sighed, his expression softening. "She's not your responsibility, Tony. But I get it. Peter's involved. You're trying to help him, trying to help her. But you're not the only one in this, alright? Don't let Ross manipulate you into thinking you are."

Tony exhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to the wall, lost in thought. "I don't know. I keep thinking about how Peter feels—about how he's been since Emme's been locked up. He's worried about her." Tony's voice trailed off, his frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. He couldn't imagine what it would be like in that place. Alone. Locked away.

Rhodey stepped closer, his tone quieter now. "You've got people on your side."

Tony's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "I know. But it feels like if I don't act now, if I don't do everything I can, she's never getting out of there." He shook his head again.

Rhodey placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, his voice firm but calm. "You don't know that yet. You can't give up before the fight even starts."

Tony looked at his friend, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "I know, but the clock's ticking." His gaze shifted to the monitors on his desk, but he wasn't seeing the data, just a girl locked in a cage. He didn't know her, but something told him if Peter was going to fight tooth and nail for her, he should too.

Rhodey met his eyes again. "You're doing everything you can, Tony. Get out of your own head." He gave Tony a wry smile. "You can't outsmart the system if you're too busy trying to break your own neck over it."

Tony exhaled a bitter laugh, a trace of irony in his tone. "Yeah, I get it. But I don't have the luxury of taking a step back. Not with her in there." His mind wandered back to the shock collar they closed around her neck, the immediate fear that crossed her face without hesitation.

Rhodey's gaze softened. "Then make sure you're not doing it alone. You don't have to carry the whole weight, Tony. You know that, right?"

Tony stared at the wall for a long time, absorbing the weight of Rhodey's words. Finally, he nodded, but his mind was still spinning with everything that needed to be done. "Yeah. Just—if something happens to her..."

Rhodey clapped him on the back. "We're gonna make sure that doesn't happen, Tony. We'll find a way."

Tony looked at him, the resolve in his eyes now just a little bit firmer. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The Raft was quieter tonight. The soft hum of the facility's systems was the only sound that filled the space, but it wasn't enough to drown out the tension. In their separate cells, Emeline, Sam, Clint, and Wanda sat, each of them trying to fill the silence in their own way. Sam and Clint were close enough to exchange words but far enough to still feel the oppressive isolation. Wanda sat in her straitjacket, shock collar in place, staring ahead, lost in her thoughts. And Emeline, in her own cell, leaned against the wall, eyes closed, lost in a quiet battle she didn't know how to fight.

Her body still bore the remnants of the shock collar's sting, a constant reminder of how little she was allowed to be. She didn't speak much. She couldn't. Every word felt too heavy, too raw.

Sam leaned against the wall his cell, his eyes fixed on Emeline, though he didn't say anything. He had been patient with her, letting her work through her silence. He knew better than anyone how hard it could be to open up. He knew in times it can be hard, but that didn't mean he could understand everything she had been through. But he wanted to. He wanted her to know that she didn't have to be alone in this.

Clint, in the cell across from Sam, was silent for the most part, arms crossed over his chest, but every once in a while, his eyes would flick to Emeline, a sort of unspoken understanding passing between them. Clint had always been the one to crack a joke, to lighten the mood, but in this place, with the darkness that hung between them all, even his usual humor had no place.

Wanda, sitting in the far corner of her own cell, had never let go of the hope that she could reach Emeline. The connection she felt to the younger woman was undeniable, even though Emeline had hardly spoken to her since their conversation. She had seen pain in Emeline's eyes—the kind of pain that couldn't be ignored, no matter how much the walls of the Raft closed in on them all. She didn't need Emeline to open up. She could wait.

But tonight felt different.

It was Wanda who spoke first this time.

"Sometimes this place makes me think of Hydra." She said softly, leaning against the glass of her cell. Her voice carried a quiet understanding. A start. Emeline didn't respond, her gaze on the ground. She'd heard that word before—too many times. It had been her whole world. It was what had broken her, shaped her, turned her into the person she wasn't sure she was anymore.

Maybe when she had mentioned 'Hydra' those weeks ago, they hadn't truly grasped what she meant. But maybe now, it was finally time to say it.

Clint's voice broke through next, lighter but still with that edge of sincerity. "I've seen what they can do. It's messed up." He didn't press, though. He never did nowadays.

"They break you down," Wanda spoke from the corner, her voice soft but laced with empathy. "That's what they do. They make you forget who you are. They make you believe that you need them."

Emeline squeezed her eyes shut, her fingers curling into the fabric of her pants. She wanted to argue, wanted to say it wasn't all bad—but she knew it was a lie. She had spent so much time convincing herself that it wasn't all bad, that some of it was necessary—for survival. She'd learned to make excuses for Hydra. They were the ones who had made her strong, who had made her survive.

She opened her eyes and glanced across at Sam. He was still looking at her, his eyes full of quiet understanding. He wasn't demanding she talk. He was just there, offering his presence.

Emeline barely moved, but she felt their presence. The weight of their words, the heavy silence that followed. She didn't have to answer. Not right away. But she knew it was time. She could feel it.

After a long moment, she spoke. "I was born into it." Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Now they were all looking at her.

"It's all blurry," Emeline continued, her words coming out in short, jagged bursts. "Just... Hydra. Red Room. I was... I was nothing." Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. This was her opening, her chance.

It was all she said at first, but it was enough. Enough for them to hear the rawness in her voice. Enough for them to know that whatever had happened to her, whatever she had been through, had shaped her completely.

"They... they made me strong," Emeline continued, her voice halting, as though the words were something she wasn't used to saying. She wasn't sure if she should be proud or ashamed. The words tasted strange on her tongue. "And they hurt me. Gave me... things. To make me..." She trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

Sam leaned forward slightly, he was concerned but his voice was still gentle. "Emeline?"

Emeline's gaze flicked toward him for a brief moment before she dropped it again, hands pressed together in her lap. She spoke in short, clipped words, like she was trying to hold back the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. "I've always been strong. But they... made sure."

Clint's jaw tightened slightly, his usual casual demeanor cracking. But he didn't interrupt. He just listened.

Emeline's voice softened, and the words came slower now, as if they were too painful to say aloud. "They made me... kill. Told me to. Made me think it was... right. That's all I knew."

Wanda shifted in her cell, her gaze softening as she watched Emeline. She said nothing, but the understanding was there, silent but present. She had seen the damage Hydra did to people. To her. To her brother. But it was no where near as severe as this.

Emeline continued, her eyes still on the floor, her words quieter now. "They told me it was... survival. I was... good at it. They wanted me to be the best. A... soldier."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. None of them knew what to say. Sam's heart twisted in his chest, but he stayed silent, letting Emeline continue at her own pace.

Wanda's voice broke the stillness. "What did they take from you?"

Emeline's breath hitched, and for a moment, her fingers clenched tighter in her lap. She shook her head, her voice barely audible. "A choice."

There was a crack in her voice when she said it, a tremble she couldn't hide.

Clint spoke softly now, the joking edge gone from his voice. "Even if it's hard to see it right now, you can be your own person." He said it as if he had experienced it himself, or had seen it unfold right before his eyes.

Emeline didn't respond right away. Her shoulders slumped, and she pressed her forehead against the cold glass of her cell. The collar around her neck buzzed faintly, and she flinched, but she didn't pull away.

"They made me hurt," she said again, almost to herself, the words trailing off in the quiet. "But... I don't-" her voice betrayed her, cracking.

Sam's voice was steady. "You're more than what they made you do. I can tell."

She didn't look up, but her fingers tightened in her lap. She knew Sam meant well, but she couldn't understand it. The person she had been at Hydra felt so close, like she had different lives. But she was the same person.

She couldn't fix it.

"I can heal," she whispered. "Quickly. So they used it."

Emeline didn't know what she wanted to be. She didn't know if she could be anything but a product of Hydra's making. Her body was a constant reminder.

The silence stretched on, but the words they'd said—however quiet and brief—lingered in the air. Emeline stayed there, her shoulders hunched, her body tense, her thoughts spinning. She had tried so hard to bury it all, to forget, but she couldn't anymore.

Wanda's voice was soft now, a little like a whisper in the dark. "Hey. It's okay to not have the answers. It's okay to be lost."

She said nothing in response. Maybe that was the most she could do for now—let them see her, let them hear her, without pretending that everything could be fixed just like that.

The weight of her words hung in the air as she finally leaned back against the wall, the silence creeping back in. But this time, it felt different. Not empty. Not cold. Just... different

Chapter Text

THE others were still in their cells. Sam, Clint, and Wanda. It was as if they were all carving out their own routines in this place, creating little islands of connection despite their confinement. Emeline had been learning to be more... present with them, though it was hard. The weight of her past, the things she'd lived through, still loomed over her, but there were moments, fleeting though they were, when she felt like she wasn't carrying it alone.

The soft murmur of Sam's voice filtered through the walls, and Emeline found herself listening more intently than she'd intended.

"Alright, alright, you don't have to keep going on about it," Clint was saying, his tone teasing.

"I'm just saying," Sam responded with mock seriousness, "that if we were going to stage an escape, I'd want to do it with some style, you know? Can't just rush out of here like amateurs."

Clint chuckled, and Emeline caught herself smiling—something small, but it was there. The way Sam was so serious about style even in this situation, the way Clint's dry humor never seemed to quit, it was a reminder that even in the darkest places, there was room for something light.

"Maybe if we can get past the security, we can grab some snacks on the way out," Clint joked, a mischievous edge to his voice. "You know, just for the road."

Sam scoffed, but Emeline heard the warmth in his response. "Sure, grab a bag of chips while you're at it. You might need it for all the running we're about to do."

Clint let out a snort of laughter. "You've got a lot of faith in our heroic abilities to get out of this place, huh?"

"I've got a lot of faith in us. Just not in the food delivery system," Sam said with a grin that Emeline could hear, even if she couldn't see it.

It was strange, how they could keep going like this—maintaining some semblance of normalcy despite their circumstances. Emeline could feel the tension in her chest easing a bit as she let the conversation wash over her. She didn't join in, not yet, but she felt a flicker of something. It was a spark. Something she hadn't felt in a long time. Not since Peter

And then, Clint, always the one to pull her back into the conversation, turned to Wanda, his voice taking on a playful tone. "Alright, Wanda, what do you think? You think you can break us out of here with your fancy telekinesis or should we just keep plotting with snacks?"

Wanda's chuckle drifted from across the room, soft and quiet, like the sound of something fragile breaking free of the dark. "I'm afraid I've lost my knack for subtlety. Maybe if I throw something at the cameras, we can try distracting them long enough for you to get out?"

Clint laughed, the sound light, but with a hint of exhaustion underneath. "Throw a chair. That'll be the ticket."

The laughter rippled through the cells, a small but important thread of connection in a place that tried to make them forget who they were. Emeline's lips quirked upward, a slight curve, barely noticeable. She didn't laugh fully—couldn't, not yet—but the laughter was still there, somewhere inside of her.

"Yeah, that's probably the best idea I've heard all day," Sam added, clearly still amused. "I've got a better chance of getting out if I'm a distraction."

Clint snorted. "That might actually work. But we'd all probably be caught before you even made it to the exit."

Sam feigned offense. "You really think I'm that bad at distractions?"

Emeline could feel the tension lifting more with each passing moment. There was something in these small exchanges, the ease of their words, that made her feel... less alone. Like maybe, just maybe, she could let go of the sharp, jagged edges of everything she'd been through for a while. Maybe she could be here, just for a second, and not think about the past.

Finally, Clint turned his attention back to her, his tone light but laced with care. "So, Emme, what do you think? Are you in for the breakout plan or are you going to stay out of this one?"

Emeline felt the weight of the question, but it wasn't as heavy as it had been before. It was... different. Not so much about the escape as it was about them. They were all in this together. She wasn't alone.

She didn't answer immediately, but her voice, when it finally came, was quieter than she intended. "What are chips?" she asked, almost sheepishly, as if it were a dumb question.

There was a beat of silence, and then Sam's voice, warmer than usual, responded. "Oh. You don't know what chips are?" He sounded genuinely surprised, but not in a mocking way.

Emeline shook her head, even though no one could see her. "I don't think so," she said simply.

Clint's voice was tinged with amusement, though he kept it light. "You've never had chips, huh? Alright, we've got to fix that when we get out of here."

Sam, ever the storyteller, took the lead. "Okay, so chips, Emme, are... well, it's like... a snack, right? Thin, crispy pieces of potatoes. They're usually salted or flavored. Like little crunches of happiness in a bag—"

Clint interrupted. "Unless you're British."

Emeline blinked, processing the words. "Potatoes?" she repeated softly. It didn't quite make sense, but it was a start. And based off of the description, she swore she had something similar to those when she was with Peter.

"Yeah," Sam continued, his voice relaxed as he tried to explain. "You take the potato, slice it really thin, and then you fry it. The result is these crispy, salty... things you can eat by the handful."

Clint, clearly entertained by the conversation, added, "And you can't just eat one. It's like a whole bag of temptation."

Emeline tilted her head, intrigued. "Like... a snack you can eat... all at once?"

"Exactly!" Sam responded. "They're kind of addictive, actually."

She thought about it for a moment. Chips. A snack. It sounded... simple. But also strange. She'd never had something like that. She had been fed, occasionally, but never anything fun. Just what they needed to keep her alive and working. It was hard to imagine something that wasn't just for survival. Something... for enjoyment. Like the buttery popcorn Peter had given her, she imagined it something like that.

"Sounds... good," Emeline murmured, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She couldn't help but picture it—this small thing that she'd never had. A moment of normality, something the world beyond these walls seemed to have in abundance.

"Yeah, it's the kind of thing you'd want when you're bored," Clint said. "Or stressed. Or just... whenever, really."

Emeline leaned back against the cold metal of her cell, her fingers absently brushing the shock collar around her neck. She could feel the warmth in her chest, the lightness of the conversation, even if she didn't fully understand. It wasn't much—just a conversation about food, a laugh shared between people who had nothing but time—but for the first time in a while, Emeline felt like she was part of something.

Even if she had no idea what chips were, maybe that was okay.

"Maybe we'll get some," Emeline said softly, her voice quieter this time. "When we're out."

Another beat of silence passed. Sam, Clint, and Wanda all exchanged glances, and Emeline could feel the quiet understanding between them. They didn't need to say much more. For her, it wasn't about the chips. It was about the fact that someone, just for a moment, was treating her like she was more than just a prisoner. She was there with them, laughing, learning, and existing in this small, fleeting slice of normalcy.

"Yeah," Sam finally said, his tone sincere. "When we're out."

And Emeline didn't say anything else, but as the conversation shifted again, she felt something stir inside her. A part of her that hadn't had a chance to feel light, to feel normal, in far too long. It was a tiny flicker of hope, one she wasn't sure how to hold onto just yet—but it was there, however fragile.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Emeline expected the silence by now. Each minute stretched into the next, a constant rhythm of stillness punctuated by occasional footsteps.

She sat against the far wall of her cell, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. She could hear the others—Sam, Clint, and Wanda—murmuring softly to one another in their cells. It had become routine. Sam had a way of filling the silence with his stories, his voice strong and steady. Clint, on the other hand, was more direct, his sarcasm often breaking through the tension. Wanda was quieter, though, often lost in thought, her gaze distant but perceptive.

Emeline kept her distance, unsure of how to join them. It wasn't like she didn't want to talk—she did. But it was hard. It was hard to make herself say the words when everything inside her felt too jumbled, too raw. They weren't used to someone like her. She wasn't sure they would understand. They were all Avengers together, they knew each other before this.

The shock collar around her neck felt heavier tonight, the usual buzz underlining her every thought. She rubbed at it absently with one hand, her fingers brushing the cold metal as if she could somehow erase its presence, but it never worked. A constant reminder that she was always being watched, always being controlled.

Sam's voice broke through the quiet, an easy-going tone cutting through the tension. "You know, I used to be a therapist for a while," he said, his voice carrying over the cold, metallic divide between their cells.

Emeline glanced up, a flicker of curiosity sparking in her chest. She didn't respond immediately, unsure of how to even begin to engage with that. A therapist? The words felt so foreign, like something from another world.

Sam must've noticed her lack of response, because he continued, his voice slightly more thoughtful now. "Yeah, I guess I've always had this thing about helping people. Talking through things, you know?" He paused for a moment, as if he was weighing his own words. "Sometimes, people just need someone to listen."

Emeline felt a tightness in her chest at that. Someone to listen. It felt like something she hadn't had in... forever. No one had ever really listened to her—not when she was a child, not when Hydra used her. She had been a weapon, not a person. But Sam's words hung in the air, offering a kind of invitation, though she wasn't sure she was ready to accept it.

"I—" she started, her voice rough, her throat dry. She stopped, unsure if she could say anything. It felt too big. Too vulnerable.

Sam didn't push. He just let the silence settle between them, like he had all the time in the world.

Eventually, Emeline found her voice again. "It's... hard. To talk. I don't know how."

There was a long pause. Sam didn't immediately respond, but she could feel the weight of his attention, of his understanding. He didn't try to fix her or offer some glib solution. He just listened.

"That's okay," Sam said softly. "You don't have to talk. Not if you're not ready."

And then, as though to lighten the mood, he added, "You know, when I first started this therapist gig, I had no idea what I was doing. I'd sit there, nodding and pretending to understand, while inside I was just like, 'Why is everyone so messed up?'"

Emeline couldn't help it. A small smile tugged at her lips, but she didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Sam had done something for her that no one else had. He had made her feel like it was okay to not know the answers, to not have to perform, to just... be.

There was a slight chuckle from Clint's cell, and Emeline turned her head to find him leaning against the glass, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Therapist, huh? Guess you missed your calling, Sam. I mean, look at this place. I think everyone here's got some stuff to work through."

Sam rolled his eyes, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Thanks for the support, Clint."

Clint's gaze shifted to Emeline, his usual teasing tone softening for just a moment. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice low but still playful, "you ever get tired of all the quiet? Want to hear a story? I could tell you about the time I had to face down a bunch of bad guys while trying to keep a bunch of toddlers from setting off fireworks."

Emeline blinked, taken aback by his strange choice of story. But she could feel a chuckle bubbling up inside her, something light and genuine. It was the first time in a long while that she felt like she didn't have to be serious, like she could just be... herself. Even if that self was still struggling to find her way.

"Sounds dangerous," she said, her voice barely audible.

Clint grinned. "Dangerous? You don't even know the half of it. Those kids had no concept of personal space, and don't even get me started on the fireworks. Anyway, that's why you're here now—your own personal guard."

Her lips twitched again, the tiny chuckle escaping before she could stop it. "I don't need a guard."

"No," Clint agreed with a grin, "but it helps to have someone who can tell you when you're about to step on a landmine. Or... you know, a firecracker in this case."

Her smile faded a little, but only for a moment. It felt good to laugh, even if it was just for a second.

She didn't know people could laugh in here. It was the truth. There had been no space for laughter in Hydra, no room for anything other than survival. But here, in this prison, in this small corner of the world, it felt like maybe that could change.

Emeline turned her eyes to the floor, the walls of her cell suddenly feeling less suffocating, if only for a moment. She hadn't expected to find something like this here. Something as simple as laughter. But maybe that was what she needed—a reason to keep going. A reason to stay alive.

And for the first time in a while, she allowed herself to think that maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than the cold, sterile walls that had once defined her existence.

But for now, all Emeline could do was sit in her cell, and listen. Maybe one day, she'd be able to speak without fear. Maybe one day, she'd be able to tell them everything. But for tonight, it was enough to let the silence stretch between them, filled only with the soft rhythm of hearts slowly learning to trust again.

Chapter Text

EMELINE listened to the quiet conversation going on between the others. She had just woken up and felt more rested than before. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lights and looked over at the others. They sat casually, not noticing she was awake yet, speaking in quiet tones she could still hear.

Silence was nice, but she liked it better this way.

But now, there was a change. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, becoming louder until two guards walked up. The door to her cell creaked open with a familiar groan, the sound echoing in the small space. Emeline didn't look up. She didn't need to. She knew what was coming.

"Get up," one of the guards barked, his voice rough and impatient.

Emeline didn't move at first. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the cot. She showered the day before and already had her health check. Her stomach was uneasy as she glanced over to the others, who stopped their conversation at the intrusion, eyes filled with concern and she knew they realized the same thing.

The guard's heavy boots clacked against the floor as he moved closer. His hand shot out, gripping her arm with a firm, unyielding grasp. He didn't speak again; there was no need to. They all knew the drill.

Emeline allowed herself a moment of hesitation, the chill in the air creeping under her skin. Every time she thought she was getting used to the cage they'd put her in, the reality of it hit harder.

Another guard appeared in the doorway. She didn't move, her posture stiff and closed. The guards exchanged a look, then roughly nudged her forward.

They led her down the long corridor of the Raft, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the hard concrete. Emeline's heart was pounding in her chest, but she kept her expression neutral, her eyes fixed straight ahead. She didn't show fear. Not to them.

The door at the end of the hall loomed, the harsh light spilling from within, casting long shadows on the ground as they approached. She could feel the weight of the air change as they reached it. This was the room where deals were made, where things were decided. She had been here before. Each time it felt like a little more of herself was chipped away, but she had survived it before. She'd survive it again.

She had gotten used to the silence. It was strange, but it was hers.

Until the footsteps approached.

The sound echoed louder and louder, each step closer making her heart race, even though she knew it wasn't anyone coming for her with good intentions. The door creaked open, and she looked up, eyes narrowing as Ross stepped inside, his dark suit like a shadow against the sterile walls.

Now she knew why this room was so familiar.

Emeline said nothing. She had learned long ago that words meant little to him. But she felt the shift in the air, the weight of his presence as he approached, standing just a few feet away from the table she was sitting at.

"Well, well," Ross began, his voice low, almost too calm. "Look at you, still here." She didn't answer.

After no response, he crossed his arms. "I had a nice chat with Stark the other day. Seems like he's getting a little too cozy with your friend Parker. Trying to help him break you out, huh?"

Emeline's eyes flicked to his face, her jaw clenching. Stark had talked to Ross? That was... a problem. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her worry. But shit was she worried, here he was talking about Peter... If he did something to him...

Ross smirked as if he could read her thoughts. "Spoiler alert, kid: it's not going to work. He might be Tony Stark, but he's no match for the kind of resources we have at our disposal."

She stayed silent, her hands clenched on the edge of the cot. Her fingers ached, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now was not letting him see her fear, not giving him any more of her than he already had.

Ross paused, watching her, and then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, turning colder. "But you still have an option. If you're smart. Stay here, locked up, and watch your little friend Parker and Stark fail. Or... you can leave this place. I can give you freedom. Real freedom." He stepped closer, a twisted smile spreading across his face. "In exchange for your DNA. Your cooperation. We'll run a few tests. Maybe some experiments. Nothing too extreme—just a little contribution. You're valuable, you know. I'm sure Stark's figured that out."

Emeline felt a sickening cold wash over her, but she didn't flinch. She knew what he was trying to do. He was playing the same game he always played, dangling a carrot she'd never take. He thought she was weak, or that she'd cave under pressure. But she wasn't Hydra's anymore.

"No," Emeline said, her voice low but firm. "I'm not giving you anything."

Ross's expression darkened, the smile fading as if it had never existed. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "You don't seem to understand the position you're in, Miss Belyaeva. You don't have the luxury of making demands. You'll give me what I want, or you'll rot in this place. It's your choice."

"I've made my choice," Emeline retorted. Still sitting, she kept her posture straight, facing him head-on. Her voice was small, but it was steady, unwavering. "I'd rather rot than help you."

Ross's eyes flashed with anger, the veins in his neck taut with the effort to keep his composure. For a moment, it felt like the air itself had thickened, waiting for something to break. And then it did.

"You really think you can hold out?" Ross's voice was ice-cold now, but there was a hint of frustration seeping through. "You're Hydra's."

Emeline didn't flinch. But his statement made her stomach lurch, and the realization that he knew finally settled. Her eyes burned with a fire she couldn't contain anymore. "I'm not theirs."

Ross's lips twisted into a sneer, his patience clearly running out. "You want to play it tough? Fine. But don't expect me to make this easy for you." He stepped back, gesturing to the guards who had been lingering just outside the door. "Take her to solitary."

Two guards stepped forward, their expressions unreadable but stern. They reached for her, but Emeline didn't move. She stood her ground, refusing to show any weakness, even as one of them grabbed her arm to pull her toward the door.

"Solitary will do you some good," Ross called after her as she was escorted down the corridor. "Maybe you'll finally learn how to make the right choice when you're in the dark long enough. It'll be a good reminder of who's in control."

Emeline didn't respond. She didn't need to.

She had spent years locked away, hidden in the shadows of Hydra's experiments. Solitary was just another cage, another small corner where they thought they could break her. But she wasn't breaking.

The door slammed behind Emeline with a deafening clang, the sound reverberating through the cold, empty halls. She didn't move. She didn't even flinch. The guards had shoved her into the small room with all the force they could muster, but she had remained rigid, her body stiff with defiance.

Her breath was shallow, her chest tight with a quiet, simmering rage that she kept bottled up as the guards locked the door behind her. She heard the metallic click of the locks, each one a reminder that she was trapped once again.

In a room devoid of light.

She turned slowly, her fingers brushing the concrete walls, cold and unforgiving, as she walked around. There was no window, no way to gauge time. No way to know when she'd be allowed out.

She had been in solitary before—she knew this routine all too well. The silence was suffocating. The kind that wraps around you like a shroud, choking out everything else until it's just you and the dark. The isolation. It made her mind wander to places she didn't want to go.

She lowered herself down onto the floor, her back against the wall. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs. It was a familiar position, one that made her feel small, like she could disappear into the shadows.

But the shadows weren't enough to escape the memories.

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Hydra.

The word was like a curse that followed her everywhere, even here. Even now.

She was just a child when they first locked her in a room like this. A little girl, no older than three, her heart still soft and fragile. But they didn't care about that. They didn't care that she was still learning how to speak, still learning how to be a person. They just wanted her to be what they needed—what they'd shaped her into. But it was scary how long it had taken her to realize that. Almost thirteen years in captivity. That was nearly a year and a half ago.

The cold of the room in Hydra had been just like this, sterile, lifeless. A place of punishment. A place to break her when she had misbehaved—or when they simply felt like it. They didn't need a reason.

Emeline remembered the first time they'd locked her away. She had been small then, so much smaller than she was now. Her hands were trembling as they'd shut the door behind her, the metallic sound ringing in her ears. She was alone. Always alone.

And the silence had been so loud.

She could still hear the echoes of the cold walls, the hum of fluorescent lights above, the sterile stench of a place built to break people.

"You'll learn to stay quiet," they had told her. "Learn to keep still, or we'll teach you again."

Her body had trembled under their command, and she had obeyed, because that was all she could do. Obey. It was the only way to avoid the pain. The only way to stay alive.

-----

The present bled into the past as she closed her eyes, her hands gripping her knees harder as the memories flooded her mind.

In that first solitary confinement, back in Hydra, she had cried. Not that anyone cared. They just let her. Let her sob into the emptiness, the cold floor beneath her cheek, as if it was a lesson. And she had learned it well. Crying wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't make anyone care.

The guards had left her in that cold, stark room, a small cot in the corner with no blanket, no warmth. She had huddled on the floor, hugging herself to try and stay warm, her tears freezing against her skin. She remembered it like it was yesterday—the harsh clang of the door, the sound of footsteps retreating, and then, silence. Silence like nothing she'd ever known. It echoed in her mind, suffocating her, drowning her in the emptiness.

But what they had done to her wasn't just physical. They had broken her mind. Every time they pushed her to her limits, every time they forced her into those endless training exercises, it had chipped away at her sense of self. You are a weapon. Those words had become her truth. She had believed them for so long.

They had made her kill. Not just once, but over and over again. Young as she was, they'd drilled it into her that it was necessary. That it was her purpose. She was born to follow orders. Born to obey. And when she fought back—when she tried to show any sign of rebellion—they took her to the solitary cells. The dark rooms where nothing but the silence remained.

In those moments, Emeline had learned something cruel: that her emotions didn't matter. The pain, the fear, the loneliness—none of it mattered. Because to them, she wasn't a little girl. She wasn't Emeline. She was a soldier. A tool. A weapon they had created to do their bidding.

-----

The walls of the Raft felt the same as Hydra's confinement cells. The cold stone, the lack of any warmth, the dead air that suffocated her thoughts. She could still hear the voices of her captors in the back of her mind, the commands and orders that had once driven her actions, and sometimes, it felt like she might snap, like she might crumble under the weight of those memories.

She pulled her legs tighter against her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the ghosts of her past.

Back in Hydra, when she had first been locked away in those cells, there had been a moment, just one, where she thought she might never see another human being again. She thought the silence would consume her. But then, the door had opened again. The light from the hallway had sliced through the darkness, and there had been the sound of footsteps.

They had dragged her out of the cell, shoved her back into their brutal training regime, but for a moment—just a moment—she had hoped that maybe someone, anyone, would see her. See her as a person.

But no one ever did.

-----

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway outside her cell. For a moment, her heart stuttered. Was it a guard? Was Ross coming back to speak with her?

But the steps faded, leaving only the silence again.

She exhaled slowly, resting her head against the cold wall, eyes closing again as she tried to find a sense of peace in the chaos of her mind. But it was hard. So hard.

The weight of the memories pressed down on her like a vise, and the walls of the cell seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. She could still feel the sting of her old wounds, the scars they'd left on her soul. She could still feel the loss, the things she could never get back.

And as the minutes stretched into hours, the memories became louder.

-----

"We're ensuring your strength. You'll thank us one day."

"You'll be perfect. Just a little longer."

Emeline's breath hitched as she pulled herself from the spiral of memories. Her chest was tight, her throat raw from the weight of it all. Her shock collar seeming too tight. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, alone in the dark, with nothing but the fragments of her past and the heavy silence to keep her company.

She could still feel the cold concrete beneath her hands, the emptiness pressing in from all sides. She was here again, locked away and forgotten. And the worst part? She had begun to wonder if she'd ever be free.

She thought back to the time in the red room when they'd made her train with the other girls, taught to kill, to be ruthless. She remembered Hydra, the pain of the injections, the way they'd burned inside her veins as they forced her to become better. She had been just a child, and yet they had twisted her into a weapon.

They had made her a soldier.

But at what cost?

Her body had healed fast after the experiments, faster than any normal person, but it didn't heal the scars. The physical and mental. The scars of being raised in a place where love and kindness were foreign concepts. Where emotions were weaknesses to be crushed.

Here, in the Raft, she survived. But it was starting to feel like surviving wasn't enough anymore.

Chapter Text

THE guards marched Emeline back to her cell, their boots clanging against the concrete floor as they opened the door with a harsh creak. She didn't flinch. She hadn't flinched in days. The days spent in solitary had felt like an eternity, but Emeline had learned to weather the storm inside her own mind. Alone.

She could feel their gazes—curious, wary, but there. Sam, Clint, and Wanda. They all saw her, in their own way, and they all knew what she'd been through.

She could feel it in the air.

When the guards finally released her from their hold, she shuffled back into her small cell, and the heavy door slammed shut behind her with a finality that made her chest tighten. The clang of it echoed, leaving her with the same empty silence she had just come from.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the small cot in the corner, feeling the weight of the last two days crushing down on her.

But before she could retreat back into herself, Wanda's voice came from the adjacent cell. It was soft, cautious, but it held a hint of something more—curiosity, concern.

"Emme?" Wanda's voice broke through the silence, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the world had paused. "Are you okay?"

Emeline barely moved, her shoulders stiff. She wasn't sure how to respond. Was she okay? Was she ever okay? She couldn't even be sure of her own thoughts anymore, not after everything. But one thing she was happy about was having the others call her Emme. Not Emeline.

She finally managed to let out a quiet, almost inaudible reply. "I'm fine."

But Wanda's next words made her pause, even though they were softer, almost as if she understood more than she should.

"I know what it's like," Wanda said, her tone quieter but still so steady. "Solitary. It gets inside your head. Makes you forget what it's like to be... human."

Emeline felt her chest tighten at the words. She couldn't deny it. Being alone for so long, in the silence of that small room, had made her feel like a ghost in her own skin. A faded memory. She had lived through so much, but sometimes, she wasn't sure who she was anymore.

Wanda's voice softened, but there was still an undeniable strength in it. "But you're still you. You'll remember. You'll get through it."

Emeline almost wanted to say something in return, but she couldn't. Words never felt like enough, not after everything. Instead, she just sat down on the cot, her fingers brushing the edge of the rough blanket as her mind wandered back to the past. The haunting silence. The emptiness of solitary.

She could feel Clint's eyes on her from his cell. His voice was next, casual but laced with an undertone of understanding.

"Don't let them get to you, kid," Clint said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Solitary's shit, but you've been through worse. Right?"

Emeline didn't immediately respond. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it wouldn't come. Her eyes stayed locked on the ground in front of her, her breath unsteady for a second. She didn't catch the annoyed look Sam shot Clint at the comment.

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice thin. "Worse."

She thought back to Hydra, the constant, cold isolation they had subjected her to. Not just physically, but mentally. The cages they had put her in, not just in the labs, but in her mind. The isolation, the dehumanizing experiments, the fear, and the coldness that had surrounded her from the moment she could remember.

"How long was I there?" she asked, her voice so quiet it barely reached the others.

There was a long silence between the three of them. Wanda let out a breath, unsure how to answer. Clint was the first to speak.

"Too long," Clint said simply, his voice thick with emotion. "But you're here."

Emeline's throat tightened, and her hands trembled as they gripped the edge of her cot. "I remember...being alone," she murmured. "I remember nothing but darkness."

Wanda, still from the other side of the wall, spoke with an intensity that almost felt like it could break through the concrete. "They make you think you're weaker than you actually are."

Emeline's mind went back to the earliest memories she had, fragments of them flashing behind her eyes. Hydra's cold, sterile hallways. The whispers of scientists talking in languages she couldn't understand at first. The endless experimentation, the needles, the tests, the pain. The isolation. Being locked away. She would scream, sometimes. But it was never enough.

There was nothing more soul-crushing than being locked in a room with nothing but your own thoughts, constantly being reminded of everything they'd forced her to do. Everything they'd made her feel.

Clint cleared his throat from the next cell, his voice now quieter, though still firm. "I'm not gonna tell you it gets easier, kid. But you'll figure out a way through. You always do."

Emeline nodded, though she wasn't sure if she believed it. Every day felt like a fight. Every day she had to remind herself that she could make it through, that she wasn't like them. That she wasn't just an experiment. But there were moments—quiet, dark moments—when she wasn't so sure.

Wanda's voice broke through her thoughts again. "You're not theirs anymore."

The words lingered, and for a brief moment, Emeline felt the smallest shift inside her. Maybe it was the way Wanda had said it, or maybe it was just the sheer weight of it all, but Emeline could feel something stirring in her chest. A feeling she hadn't dared to let herself feel in years.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake off the wave of emotions that crashed over her. She had to stay strong. She couldn't break down. Not now. Not again.

But Clint's voice softened, an almost unseen smile in his words. "We're not going anywhere, kid. We've got your back."

Emeline exhaled slowly, her shoulders loosening, if only slightly. She didn't say anything. Instead, she just let the silence hang between them for a moment, the weight of their words sinking into her chest.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Young Emeline's breath came in sharp gasps as she stood in the center of the training room. Sweat soaked her skin, stinging her eyes as it mixed with the dirt and grime that had built up over hours of relentless work. She could feel the heavy weight of her muscles, every fiber protesting against the demands she was forced to place on them. Yet, there was no room for weakness, no room for rest.

Across from her stood a man—the man who had entered her life like a quiet storm. He didn't say much. He didn't need to. His presence was enough to push her harder, to force her to dig deeper than she thought she could. His blue eyes, sharp and focused, always seemed to be watching, observing, as if trying to decipher something she couldn't understand.

Today was no different. She was fighting, pushing herself to the brink, when she noticed him standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching her.

Her body screamed at her to stop. Her lungs burned, her legs wobbled, but she couldn't. She wouldn't. Hydra had taught her this much: you push, or you break. And she wouldn't break. Not yet.

She lunged forward with a feint, but Blue was already there, his hand grabbing her wrist with a precision that made her body falter. She twisted, trying to break free, but his grip was ironclad. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and for the first time, she felt something she couldn't describe—a flicker of familiarity. A strange sensation in her chest that pulled at her, made her want to stop and ask him something. Who was he? Why did she feel like she knew him?

He didn't say a word. His expression was unreadable, though there was a tightness around his eyes. Something that almost seemed... concerned? But it was gone in a flash, replaced with the usual icy detachment she had grown used to. She couldn't tell if he was looking at her as a student, or as a test subject. A tool to be honed and sharpened, like all the others.

She yanked her wrist away from his grip, but Blue was faster, his arm sweeping out to catch her in a swift move. She barely had time to react before he pushed her back, the force sending her stumbling into the wall.

Her body crashed against the metal, and for a brief, painful second, she tasted blood, but she didn't flinch. She pushed herself up, a growl of frustration building in her throat. She wasn't going to let him see weakness. She would stand. She would fight. She had to fight.

"Again," he said, his voice low but firm. The words were not an order, but a quiet challenge. His gaze didn't waver, still observing her, calculating.

Emeline tightened her fists, wiping away the blood on her lip with the back of her hand. She could feel the fire in her chest, the fight returning to her. There was no choice. There was no other option.

She sprang forward, using the momentum to spin and aim a punch at his midsection. Blue reacted with the same swiftness, blocking her punch and shifting her weight with a twist that sent her to the floor once again. She barely had time to catch her breath before he was standing over her, towering like an immovable wall.

"You're slow," he muttered, his eyes never leaving hers.

Emeline's pulse quickened, a mixture of anger and frustration flooding her veins. She shoved herself up, ignoring the sting in her joints, and tried again. This time, she aimed for his legs, trying to take him off balance. But once again, Blue moved too fast, his body a fluid force that was impossible to predict.

"Not fair." Emeline spat, her voice harsh, strained. For a moment, fear gripped her. It had been a long time since she'd broken the rules, especially the one about not talking back.

Blue's expression didn't change, but for the briefest moment, there was something in his eyes—something that felt almost like guilt. As if he didn't want to do this. As if he wished he could stop.

"It's not supposed to be fair," he said quietly, almost too quietly for her to hear. His voice had an edge to it, but there was something softer underneath. "I'm trying to make you see what they've done to you."

Emeline froze mid-movement, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. The words felt too personal, too close. Her hands were shaking, the anger in her chest suddenly dampened by a cold, creeping confusion.

"You're more than this."

He said the same thing a month ago, at the start of her training with him. She stared at him, trying to find any hint of humanity in his gaze. She found it, but even though she had searched for it, she was still surprised.

But she wasn't allowed to entertain those thoughts. Hydra had made her who she was. There was no more. No more potential. No more dreams. Just survival. Because then she remembered. He was just another part of Hydra, another tool in their game. A soldier. Just like her.

The pain in her chest flared, her breath becoming shallow as her body begged her to stop. She couldn't stop. She couldn't.

Blue seemed to notice the shift in her demeanor, his gaze flickering slightly. For a moment, he hesitated. And then, like it always did, the moment passed. He reached down, grabbing her wrist again and flipping her onto her back with a swift movement.

"You need to expect unfairness," he said, voice harder now, as if he'd been forced to steel himself against her. "Not until you're stronger."

Emeline's chest tightened, the weight of his words suffocating her. She couldn't find her voice, couldn't find the strength to say anything back.

All she could do was lie there, staring up at him, the floor cold against her back, feeling more empty than she had ever felt.

And yet, through the haze of exhaustion and despair, she couldn't shake the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach—something familiar, something she shouldn't recognize.

And even as he turned and walked away, leaving her there on the floor, the nagging thought stayed with her.

Why did he feel so familiar?

Why had she seen him before?

Chapter Text

(( August 17th, 2016 - New York ))

IT took an embarrassingly excruciatingly long time for Tony Stark to find Steve Rogers and get him on the phone. And he almost gave up a few dozen times.

It had been three months since Emme had been taken to the Raft, and finally they were getting somewhere. But he still hadn't talked to Peter, who, even on his birthday, wasn't the same.

The lab hummed with a quiet intensity, the dim glow of various monitors casting long shadows on the walls. Tony stood near his workbench, his fingers drumming against the sleek surface, eyes flickering to the burner phone resting on the corner. It's a simple device—nothing flashy—but in his hands, it feels like a lifeline to everything he's trying to avoid.

He knows what he's about to do. He's been avoiding it for days now. But the truth is, he's stuck. There's no other way. He needs help. And the person he has to ask, he hasn't spoken to in months. Since the fallout of the Accords, their paths diverged, and Tony hasn't dared to cross that line. But tonight, the stakes are too high.

Tony exhales sharply, picks up the phone, and dials the number.

RING... RING... RING...

The line clicks, and the gravelly voice that answers is all too familiar.

"Stark."

A flicker of tension rises in Tony's chest. There it is again—the distance, the reluctance, the walls they built between each other after the Accords. The walls built between what could've been family. But there's no time for this now.

"Rogers."

The silence on the other end is heavy. Tony can almost feel the skepticism radiating through the phone. He knows what's coming, knows exactly how Steve feels about him after everything that happened. The fight. The lies. The broken trust. But some of that had been directed at Tony as well, so he had a right to be upset, but now was definitely not the time.

"What do you want?"

Tony's hands tighten around the phone, and for a moment, he's not sure how to start. There's a promise he's made to a kid—Peter Parker's friend. She's in danger, locked up in The Raft, and Tony's the only one who knows enough to get her out. He can't do it alone.

"I need some assistance, in a matter."

The words hang in the air, thick with unsaid things. He felt awkward, and really didn't want to ask him directly. Steve doesn't respond immediately. Tony knows what he's asking. Knows it's a risk, a leap into a place they might never come back from.

"I can't get involved in your mess. You know that."

Tony clenches his jaw. He's used to Steve's bluntness, but tonight, it's worse than usual. It's a reminder of just how deep the divide goes. The Accords had fractured everything between them, and that's not something that heals overnight.

"I'm not asking you to come back. I'm asking for your help. I've got a promise to keep."

Steve's voice doesn't waver, but there's something guarded about it.

"A promise? To who?"

Tony hesitates for a second. He wasn't sure how much to explain. There are things he hasn't told Steve. Things he'd rather keep buried. But Steve needs to know, at least a little.

"A friend of mine. There's girl. She's locked up in The Raft, Steve, and I need to get her out."

There's a beat of silence on the other end. Steve is listening, Tony can tell. But he can feel the hesitation in the air.

"The Raft? Really, Tony? You can't keep getting these kids to fight your battles."

Tony's voice tightens, but he doesn't falter.

"It's not about her, Steve. It's about the fact that I promised I'd do everything I could to get her out. And now she's stuck in there."

A pause. Then Steve's voice comes through, sharp and cautious.

"Why should I trust you?"

Tony grips the phone tightly, his eyes closing briefly. He hasn't explained everything, about what he was willing to do.

Now, Tony can't afford to get bogged down in the details.

"I'm abolishing the accords, so to speak. You'll be able to come back, if you wanted. Right now I just need... help."

Steve's voice is careful, measured.

"It took you needing my help to do that? To admit you were wrong?"

Tony can almost hear the weight of those words. Steve's on the run. He's been running for months, ever since the Accords split them apart. Tony would barely admit it to himself, but yes maybe he was wrong in a few areas and they would need to be worked on. But this isn't about the Accords anymore. It's about doing the right thing, even if it's messy.

"As much as I hate to say it- I need it. This is for her. She doesn't belong in there, Steve. She's a kid."

There's a long pause, and Tony can feel the resistance, the pull of Steve's convictions. But then Steve's voice cuts through the silence, lower now, like he's made a decision.

"I'll help you. But we have to do it my way."

Tony's heart races. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting Steve to agree so quickly.

"We're getting Clint, Sam and Wanda too."

Tony's mind races. Sam. Clint. Wanda. They're all locked up in The Raft too, but if this is the only way, then so be it.

"Done."

There's a brief chuckle in Steve's voice, but it's not the kind of laugh that suggests humor. It's the kind that comes from having no other choice.

"You'd better be ready, Stark. This isn't going to be clean."

Tony exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. For the first time in a long while, he feels like he's not completely on his own.

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

The line goes dead. Tony lowers the phone, his heart still racing. He looks out over the city skyline, the weight of what's coming settling over him. But he's not alone anymore. Steve's in. And they'll do whatever it takes to keep that promise.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The human body cannot be confined, we need light, we need our breath and warmth to get through the night. A window is a small opening to the outside world that allows light, air, sound, and beauty to pass through.

Windows allow you to see a lit-up home and the opening to many lives intertwined. When you look out, you can see the world changing and moving, especially now in time. But Emeline could barely imagine any of that. Gazing around at four walls was something that she knew all too well. There were times when she caught a glimpse of a cool, shiny surface overlooking the lives of others like her, and when she did, it took over her mind. They became her safe haven, a place to look for when things became dark.

Sometimes, though, she would catch a glimpse of something else. A cool, shiny surface—a reflection of the world outside, distorted and unreachable. She would catch her breath, her heart fluttering. It was like staring at the distant promise of freedom, the only thing that offered her a thread of hope. She didn't know why it comforted her—maybe it was the illusion of life outside, or the thought that she wasn't entirely forgotten, that the world still moved beyond her reach. The window was her silent sanctuary, her stolen peace in a world that had left her behind.

But those moments, those fragile glimpses, were rare. Fewer and fewer now. The yearning for escape, for anything that might remind her of a life before, gnawed at her every day. The window was more than just a symbol—it was a need, a desperate craving for something she couldn't have. It had once been a simple, everyday thing—something she hadn't thought about until it was taken away. But now, it was the only thing that made sense.

And yet, the reality of her situation pressed in from all sides. The cold walls of the facility. The nameless, faceless guards who moved like shadows in her peripheral vision. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow hallways, the sound a constant reminder that she was a prisoner, just one more test subject in a never-ending line of broken people. The cold hum of the building, the cold hum of the machines—it all blended together in a sound that kept her tethered to this place, even when she wanted to slip away.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she walked, each step heavy, burdened with the weight of the unknown. The hallway stretched before her, the lights overhead flickering intermittently as though even they were uncertain about what was coming. She had no idea where they were taking her now. But that familiar gnawing fear told her it wouldn't be good.

Guided into the next room, the sterile light casting harsh shadows on the walls, she froze. The chair loomed in the center of the space—unforgiving, mechanical, cold. The same chair where so many had lost themselves, their minds reduced to empty vessels by the very same machine she would soon face. The same chair where she'd seen a man become broken. A man she knew.

Five-year-old Emeline's legs trembled, but she forced herself to take one step, then another, the guards flanking her on either side. She could feel the eyes of the technicians on her—disinterested, clinical. They had seen it all before. She was just another subject in a long line of victims.

Her chest tightened as they pushed her into the chair, the cold metal pressing against her limbs, forcing her into submission. She closed her eyes for a brief second, and in the darkness, she imagined sunlight. She imagined warmth on her skin, the light through the cracks of a window, something to hold onto. A place to escape.

But even that, she knew, was a fantasy. Something beyond her reach.

"I cannot allow this," one of the technicians said, his voice low, hesitant. "Her mind is too fragile. At this age, it could—"

"I don't care," another technician snapped, his voice cold, hard. "She's been compromised. And disobeying orders will not be tolerated."

Before she could even fully comprehend what was happening, they forced the headset over her head, the cold metal digging into her skin. A mouthpiece was shoved into her mouth, and the room spun as the instruments of her torment hummed to life. She tried to turn her head away, but they held her in place with relentless precision. Her breath caught in her throat as the machine's cold tendrils connected to her, its icy presence washing over her mind.

The pain was instant, sharp, as if something was trying to tear her apart from the inside. Her thoughts splintered, fragmented pieces of memories that no longer made sense. The window. Her escape. Her breath was ragged, shallow, as she fought against the tightening grip of the machine. Her memories were slipping. Pieces of herself were being ripped away.

The pain of it? Unbearable.

She tried to hold on—to cling to the thought of the window, the light. But it was slipping, fading, as the cold metal of the machine dug deeper into her mind. She could feel herself losing her grasp on everything that had ever mattered. The light, the warmth, the escape—they all blurred into nothingness, disintegrating like ash in the wind.

Her mind raced, but it was like trying to hold sand in her hands. The more she tried to keep it together, the more it slipped through her fingers. She squirmed as much as she was able, feeling cold tears run down her face. The last thing she could remember—before it all became a fog of nothingness—was the image of the window. The light. The hope. It had been her anchor, her last breath of something real.

And then, the darkness swallowed her whole.

Her body went still. Her mind went quiet. There was nothing left.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Emeline was no longer Emeline. She was a blank slate, a perfect subject. Just another test for Hydra. Another number. Even if she still remembered her name in the back of her mind, the origin of it was lost.

And the window was gone.

Chapter Text

THE small, flickering light in the corner of the cell cast long shadows, and the air in the room felt just a little bit warmer. It was almost as if the silence itself was breathing with them.

Emeline sat against the wall, her arms loosely crossed over her chest, her eyes downcast. Sam, Clint, and Wanda were sitting nearby—giving her space, but not the kind of space that made her feel alone. It was the kind of space that she liked.

"You ever do anything for fun?" Sam asked, his voice light but curious.

Emeline's gaze flickered up, meeting his eyes for a split second, before she looked back down again, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns in the concrete floor.

"Fun?" she repeated softly, the word feeling almost foreign in her mouth.

Clint snorted softly, leaning his head back against the wall. "Yeah. I know it sounds strange, but even us Avengers have hobbies."

Wanda's voice pierced the quiet, unexpected but welcome. "I used to watch so much TV. Sitcoms, mostly. I loved them." Her eyes were soft, as if she was looking back as she spoke.

The last time she'd seen a screen, a real one, it had been with Peter in Queens. She couldn't remember how long ago that was now, but she could still picture his grin as they watched whatever was on. The memory felt faded, like an old photograph left out in the sun.

Clint spoke next, the casual tone in his voice breaking through her thoughts. "I spent most of my time making arrows. Otherwise, I'm out of a job."

Sam shot him a look, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Says who?"

"Me." Clint responded matter-of-factly, as if it was the simplest truth in the world.

The words hung in the air, simple and unassuming, but to Emeline, they felt like a distant memory of something normal—a life she could barely grasp.

"I don't know."

Wanda shifted in her seat, her eyes kind and patient as always. "It's okay if you don't know," she said, her voice gentle. "Not everyone does."

Emeline's breath hitched slightly at the quiet empathy in Wanda's words. Not everyone does. She was used to silence. To emptiness. To never having been given the chance to wonder about things like fun. About hobbies. About the possibility of something other than what Hydra had built her for. The absence of failure.

She didn't speak for a while, her thoughts spinning. Fun? What was fun? What did it mean to be human, to live outside of the cage of pain and survival? For the longest time, her world had been a blank slate, devoid of color. Just tasks. Just orders. There had never been any room for something as fleeting as joy.

Finally, Emeline sighed, her shoulders slumping just a little. "I used to draw," she said quietly, barely above a whisper, as though the words themselves could disappear into the shadows.

Sam raised an eyebrow, but his face genuinely held interest. "Draw? What did you draw?"

"Anything," she replied, her voice quiet but gaining strength as she allowed herself to speak. "Mostly shapes, patterns. Whatever felt... safe, I guess. But when I was younger, I would draw people."

Wanda's gaze softened even further, her voice barely a breath. "People?"

Emeline swallowed hard, the memory tugging at something deep inside her. "I don't remember them all. I... I think I imagined what my parents looked like." Her voice faltered for a moment, the image of faces she couldn't quite picture fading in and out of her mind.

There was a long silence. The others didn't push her, didn't try to fill the air with comforting words or empty platitudes. They simply let her speak, let her process, and for the first time, Emeline felt a little more like herself. A little less like a weapon, a little more like a person.

"That's... really nice," Clint said, breaking the silence, his voice surprisingly soft. "You ever think about doing it again? Drawing, I mean."

Emeline shook her head slowly, almost absently. "I don't know if I remember how. Or if it even matters anymore."

Sam leaned forward, his tone casual, but there was something earnest in his eyes. "Maybe it could. I have a friend who draws like there's no tomorrow."

Emeline's heart ached at the simplicity of the suggestion, but it was the first time anyone had said something like that to her—without judgment, without trying to fix her. It was just an idea. A thought. Maybe the first of many that could finally start to unlock the parts of her that Hydra had buried under layers of control.

Wanda's voice was quiet but filled with understanding. "Sometimes... it can help."

Emeline looked up at them then, her eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. She didn't have the words to explain how much those simple gestures—those small acts of kindness—meant to her. How the idea of doing something just because it felt right was so foreign, so new, that it made her heart ache.

"I'll think about it," she said, her voice barely a whisper, but it felt like a promise.

The conversation drifted then, light and easy, and for the first time in years, Emeline let herself relax. Let herself think about something other than survival, about something other than the things she had lost.

Fun. It was a small word, but it felt like something human. Something that could be hers, something worth fighting for.

Maybe it wasn't too late to feel that.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Eight-year-old Emeline sat cross-legged on the cold concrete floor of her cell, the dim light from the flickering bulb above casting long, pale shadows on the walls. The room was small—nothing but bare metal and concrete, the kind of environment that stripped away everything human, everything that might make her feel like a person. She had long since stopped wondering when it would end or if anyone would ever take her away from this place.

She was only a child, but in Hydra's hands, she had learned to survive without the luxury of hope.

In the quiet, though, with only her paper and pencil for company, Emeline could let her mind wander. She could pretend that there was something beyond these walls, beyond the experiments and the training rooms, beyond the empty faces that passed her by. She could imagine a world where she was more.

Her fingers tightened around the pencil, and she began to sketch—a face, smooth and delicate, with soft curves and sharp eyes. A face she imagined could belong to someone kind, someone who could hold her in their arms and whisper that everything would be okay. It was the face of her mother, or maybe of a woman who could have been her mother—someone with the warmth she had never known. She didn't know what her parents had looked like. She didn't even know if she had parents at all. But in the silence of the small room, she imagined them.

The pencil moved across the page, carefully outlining the face she longed for. Her mother's face, maybe. She pictured the eyes first—wide, round eyes, soft but searching, as if they could see straight through all the darkness. She thought her eyes might be darker than hers, maybe brown or green.

Emeline's own eyes were blue, pale like the color of ice, a reminder of a life she had never known. She didn't know if her parents had had blue eyes, but in her mind, it was hard to imagine a color for them.

Her hand moved slowly, adding the curve of the lips, the small nose, the delicate features she longed to see in someone else. She wondered if her mother would have looked like her—if her dark hair, thick and black like midnight, was something she'd inherited. She could almost picture it, her hair tumbling down in waves, soft and wild. It was the one thing about herself she could hold on to, a connection to something real, even if it was only skin-deep.

Her thoughts drifted to the face of her father. She could imagine him. She could picture him in her mind, standing tall and strong, his features sharp but somehow gentle. . And his hair—would it be the same dark as hers? Would he have been proud of her, even if she was just another creation of Hydra?

Sometimes, when the silence pressed down on her, she let herself imagine that he might look just like her—dark hair, blue eyes. Maybe he'd been like her, stuck in a place like this, unable to escape, just trying to make it through each day. Maybe he'd even been forced to forget, like she had, the life he had before. She wondered if he ever thought about her. Maybe he was looking for her, somewhere, in the back of his mind. Maybe he had a picture of her, like she had a picture of him.

But no matter how much she imagined, no matter how many details she added to their faces, there was always a sense of emptiness that lingered at the edges of her thoughts. The truth was, she had no memory of her parents. She didn't know where she came from or who had brought her into this world. She only knew the life they had forced her into.

The lines of the face on the paper blurred slightly as her vision grew hazy, and she blinked away the sting of tears that threatened to fall. She couldn't let herself feel that—couldn't let herself get lost in the idea of parents who had never been there. She was just another tool, another weapon Hydra had created. There was no room for hope. Not here. Not in this place.

But for just a moment, she let the image of her imagined family linger. She let the face of her mother, her father, fill her thoughts—faces that would never be real, but ones that felt like a part of her, even if they were only a dream. She let herself believe that somewhere, in some other life, she could have had something different.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her flinch, the sharpness of reality returning all too quickly. The door to her cell slid open, and the faint echo of a voice called to her from the threshold. Her heart raced as she quickly grabbed the paper, crumpling it in her hands and stuffing it under her shirt, pressing it against her chest. She couldn't keep the picture, couldn't hold on to the idea of her parents, not now. It wasn't safe. It never was.

But as she stood, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes, she held onto the secret of the drawing. The drawing that held the faces of people she would never know—people she would never meet. She kept it hidden beneath her shirt like a fragile promise, something to remind her. Somewhere inside her, there was a part of her that still believed in the possibility of family, in the warmth she had never known.

Maybe someday, when she was free—if she was ever free—she would find them. Or at least, she would know what they had looked like. Although, she wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to stand the fact that maybe they had given her up. She didn't know.

But for now, the only thing she could hold on to was the image in her mind—the dark hair, the blue eyes, the faces that could have been hers.

Chapter Text

THE faint hum of the fluorescent lights above did nothing to ease the tightness in Emeline's chest. She sat cross-legged in the far corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold, hard wall. It was strange, this new feeling of being aware—of existing in the moment. She had learned to shut everything off, to become a tool, a soldier, a weapon. But now... now she was becoming someone else. Someone who could think, feel, and—sometimes—dream.

But the shock collar around her neck was a constant reminder of who she had been.

Her fingers gently traced the cold, unyielding surface of the device. She hated it. The collar was an ever-present weight around her throat. It was meant to keep her in line, to prevent her from stepping out of place. And so far, it had worked. But with each passing day, as she spoke more, shared more, and—most notably—laughed more, she couldn't help but wonder: What if?

She fidgeted with the collar, her fingers finding the small seam where the device clicked together. She had never been able to remove it, but that didn't stop her from wondering. What if I could? What if she could break free of its hold on her once and for all?

The temptation was dangerous. She knew that.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Wanda across the room, staring into the distance, lost in thought. Emeline's eyes flicked down to the collar again. It was a thought she had never entertained before, but now... Now, with each passing moment of peace—of conversations with the others—she felt herself questioning the collar's authority over her.

A shift in the air pulled her attention back to the collar. The familiar, buzzing hum that vibrated through her skin sent a chill down her spine. Her hand froze, as if her body had been jolted awake. The collar. It knows.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers grazed over the device again, a slight tug of defiance pulling her into a more reckless state. The soft pressure she applied on the seam triggered the system, and the buzz intensified. A sharp pain shot through her neck, radiating outward like electric tendrils, making her gasp.

Emeline clenched her teeth, her chest tightening as the shock reverberated throughout her body. The pain was instant, familiar, and excruciating. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but she didn't. She couldn't. It wasn't safe.

A faint voice from the cell next to hers broke through the haze of pain. "Emme?" Sam's voice came worried.

She wanted to respond. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't okay, that she hadn't been okay for a long time, but the words wouldn't come. She focused on the pain, forcing herself to breathe, to not let the collar control her more than it already had. A bitter taste clung to her tongue, and she pressed her lips together to keep it from escaping.

The shock seemed to last longer than usual, its buzzing hum pulsing like an electric drumbeat inside her skull. It was almost like the machine had grown more ruthless with each passing day. The first time they used it on her, it had been sharp and fast. Now, it was as if the collar had learned how to make her suffer just a little bit longer.

Finally, the pain started to subside, and the buzzing noise dimmed into silence. Emeline's breath was ragged, her head spinning, but she held on. She didn't want to give in, didn't want to let them see how much it hurt. Not when they were watching.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to block out the lingering sensation of the shock. She had been through something similar at Hydra—a machine designed to burn through her skin, searing her body when she stepped out of line. It had been worse then. She had learned to endure it, to survive it, to hide the damage.

This was different, though. She wasn't sure if it was because she was no longer alone in her cell, or if it was because the shock was becoming a reminder of everything she was still trying to leave behind.

Her hand trembled as it lowered from her collar, the weight of the device sinking back into her skin.

"Emme," Sam said again, his voice closer now, still trying to soothe her from inside his cell. "It's okay. Just breathe. You're okay."

Emeline exhaled, but it was shaky. She still didn't feel okay. The tension in her body hadn't fully left.

Clint's voice broke through the air, light and teasing. "I told you messing with that thing would only get you into trouble." His words were far from judgment, more like an attempt to break the tension. "You know how it goes. Testing the boundaries of something that was never meant to be questioned."

Emeline allowed herself a small, reluctant breath of laughter. It wasn't that she found his joke funny, but his lightness, the way he tried to break the weight of the moment with humor, felt oddly comforting.

"I didn't mean to," Emeline mumbled, her voice still shaky. "I just... wondered if it would be different."

Clint snorted. "Of course, it'd be different. It doesn't change. And you definitely won't be getting it off by accident."

Her lips twitched into the barest semblance of a smile, and it was the first time today that her thoughts didn't feel entirely consumed by the collar's weight.

"I should've known," she muttered, her hand lightly grazing her throat as if to reassure herself the collar hadn't vanished, as much as she wished it would.

Sam's voice softened, trying to keep things steady. "You're okay. It's over now."

Wanda, who had been silent through the whole ordeal, spoke now, her voice quiet but full of understanding. "I know how painful it is."

Emeline glanced up at her, finding something comforting in the simple honesty of Wanda's words. She had always felt the weight of the collar alone—had never realized how heavy it could feel when someone else acknowledged the burden.

Her voice was small as she replied, barely above a whisper. "I didn't want you to see."

"We don't see the pain," Clint added, his tone softer now, a touch of seriousness in his words. "We just see you. You don't have to worry about that,"

Wanda gave a small, understanding nod.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself. She hadn't realized how much she needed to hear those words—how much she needed to be seen. The collar was still there, pressing on her, reminding her, but with Sam, Clint, and Wanda, the weight felt just a little bit lighter. It wasn't much, but it was enough for now.

"I'll be okay," she said, more to herself than anyone else. She wasn't sure if she believed it yet, but the words were a step. And sometimes, that was all she could manage.

They didn't try to tell her to get over it. They just listened, and that was enough.

-----

The quiet settled back into the cell like a heavy fog, muffling everything but the sound of their own breaths. Emeline's fingers still hovered over the collar, the faint vibrations of the device a constant reminder of how she could be shocked at any moment—and something she was trying to leave behind. But now, with Sam, Wanda, and Clint close by, she didn't feel so... alone. She didn't feel like she had to hide her thoughts or the weight of the collar anymore.

Sam's voice broke the stillness once more, gentle but persistent. "Hey, Emme... you doing better?"

She didn't answer right away. Part of her wanted to say something to make it all seem like it was okay, like she was okay. But the words felt like they would fall apart before they even left her lips.

Instead, she nodded, just barely, though the movement was enough to catch the attention of the others.

Clint, ever the optimist, took it as a cue to lighten the mood. "So, are we gonna keep playing 'who can mess with their collar the longest' or are we done testing it out for now?"

Emeline saw him smirking in his cell, but she didn't have the energy to throw back a snarky reply. Instead, she let her eyes wander over to Wanda, whose gaze was thoughtful. Wanda's collar was still on her too—Emeline had seen it, had felt the echo of its presence when Wanda had spoken earlier. She hadn't gotten the shock, but Emeline wondered if Wanda was secretly relieved it wasn't her turn to get jolted.

The thought made her pause. Wanda understood.

"I'm not... I don't think I'll try that again," Emeline finally murmured, her voice soft and raw, as if the act of speaking had drained her more than the shock had.

Sam didn't press her. He just let the silence linger, as if giving her space to process. The air was thick, but comfortable in its stillness. The unspoken bond between them was a palpable thing now, stronger than before.

"Yeah, probably a good call," Clint chimed in after a moment, this time with no joking in his voice. "Can't say I blame you. No need to make it worse than it already is."

Emeline looked over at Clint, and for the first time, she felt like she wasn't just a soldier in the shadows of their banter. She was part of this. Part of the ragtag group that had somehow found a way to endure this hellish place.

Her hand slipped from her collar, down to her lap. It still felt strange, this freedom to speak, to act without the constant pressure of unseen authority hanging over her. It was... disorienting, but in the best way possible.

Wanda, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, met her eyes across the room. The faintest trace of a smile curved her lips, a smile that spoke volumes despite how little she'd said.

Sam's voice broke through her thoughts again. "You know, if you ever get tired of being all moody and intense, we could probably find you a few jokes to crack. Clint could help with that." There was a playful note in his voice, but it was clear he was trying to keep things light.

Emeline finally managed a faint smile, her lips tugging upward. It wasn't much, but it was enough. She didn't feel completely okay, not yet. But the moments were getting longer where she didn't have to pretend to be.

Wanda groaned, her eyes rolling. "His jokes suck."

Clint made a sound of mock offense. "Hey, I'll have you know my jokes are legendary. But fine, you keep the brooding down to a minimum, I'll handle the jokes." He was quiet for a beat, then added, "And don't go triggering the collar again. I like you in one piece."

It should have been a joke. It was, in a way. But for Emeline, hearing them all talk like this, like she was part of their group, part of their family even...

"Alright," she said quietly, her voice a little stronger now. "I'll... try not to."

The others laughed lightly, the sound easy and familiar, but the laughter didn't mask the underlying understanding that they were all walking a fine line together. They didn't need to speak the words, not yet.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

They had just gotten dinner, this time a pack of weird mush that was just a flavorless paste. They had it often, but Emeline was beginning to miss the dense bread and carrots. Sam's voice cut through the stillness. "Man, I really miss a good meal," he said, leaning back against the wall. "Not that we don't get food, but you know... real food. Like a home-cooked meal."

Clint snorted, the sound playful. "I really want a sandwich."

"Not just any sandwich," Sam replied, "A roast chicken sandwich with all the fixings. Some mashed potatoes on the side. Now, that's comfort food."

Clint laughed. "Yeah, right. Comfort food. I'm good with a good slice of pizza. You throw some pepperoni on it, peppers, maybe a little extra cheese—that's my kind of comfort."

Wanda, sitting across the room with her eyes half-closed, smirked. "You two and your food. It's always about the food."

"I don't know," Sam mused. "You ever think about it? Like, just sitting down and eating a meal that doesn't feel like it was made by a machine?"

"I do," Clint said easily. "That's why I'm already planning my first meal when we get out of here. It's gonna be a big one. Pizza, tacos, and a burger."

"Quite the variety," Wanda teased, still looking out into the hallway.

"It's the important stuff," Clint grinned. "Food that actually tastes like something. No offense to the ration packs, but they're missing something. Flavor, maybe?"

Emeline listened quietly, half-smiling as their words floated around her. It was strange, how light they sounded. Something so simple, yet so... real. She'd never had the luxury of home-cooked meals, or even the taste of anything that could be called comfort food. In Hydra, food was fuel—nothing more. Nothing to savor.

But as the conversation continued, Emeline found herself slipping into it, her voice soft at first. "I think I'd take a sandwich," she said quietly, and immediately felt a tiny bit surprised by her own words. "Maybe with butter." Even during her time with Peter, she didn't eat much. But when she did, she usually had soup, cheese and bread. That was enough for her.

Clint's eyes lit up. "See? That's what I'm talking about. Well... Maybe not butter. You know what's good on a sandwich-"

"I could go for a sandwich too," Wanda added, her tone light. "You can keep it simple, or get creative with it. It's perfect"

Emeline hesitated, but something about the conversation felt easy. She shifted, slightly uncomfortable, but it wasn't the collar she was thinking about. "I guess... I've never really had a sandwich like that," she murmured. "Just... food for a reason. You know?"

"Yeah, I get that," Sam said gently. "Food was just... for hunger, right? Not about the enjoyment?"

She looked at him, eyes turning away from their usual spot on the ground. "Yeah, something like that."

Clint agreed with a grin. "But when you get the good stuff? When you can enjoy a meal, that's when it's different. You know, like, a good burger. That's its own kind of magic."

Emeline thought for a moment, the idea of food, simple and good, rolling around in her mind. A sandwich, a burger, something that wasn't just about filling her stomach but actually enjoying the taste. The thought lingered there, unfamiliar but warm.

For a moment, it was quiet again, as they all let the simple topic settle in the air.

"That's it," Clint shook his head in disbelief. "First no potato chips, now not even a decent sandwich? When we're out, I'm making you a sandwich. I'll make sure to add some extra mayo for you," Clint added with a wink.

Emeline chuckled softly, her first real laugh in a while. It wasn't forced. It didn't feel like she was hiding anything or trying to be something else. It just... came.

"I'll take that deal," she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

It was just a sandwich, but it felt like a moment she wanted to hold on to. Something simple, something normal.

Chapter Text

(( September 29th, 2016 - Queens ))

THE faint hum of Peter's laptop was the only sound in his room, aside from the occasional creak of his bed or the soft tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. His mind, however, was a constant buzz of thoughts.

It had been five months since Emme was taken. Peter hadn't stopped thinking about her—not for a single day. It felt like a constant ache in his chest. Even after everything that had happened—the fight with Vulture, the decision to give up the suit, his near-miss with Liz Allan—Peter couldn't stop thinking about how Emme was locked up on the Raft, a high-security prison in the middle of the ocean. It didn't matter what else was going on in his life. She was all he could focus on.

Peter had tried to move on. He had to, right? He was just a kid, after all. And Tony had promised him—promised both of them—that he'd find a way to get her out. But it had been weeks since their last conversation about her, and all Peter had received were vague messages. Tony had told him to stay out of it, that it was too dangerous, that he didn't need a teenager trying to play hero. So, Peter did what he could to distract himself. School. Web-slinging. Trying (and failing) to date Liz.

But still, the nagging thought wouldn't leave him. Emme was there. Trapped. And Peter couldn't stand it anymore.

Peter was sitting at his desk, textbooks and notebooks spread out, but his attention was nowhere near them. His mind wandered, as it often did, to her. He had tried to focus on schoolwork, but he couldn't concentrate. Every time he thought about the Raft, his stomach twisted. How many times had he told himself to just wait? That Tony would take care of it? But now, after months of nothing, it didn't feel like enough.

The sound of his phone vibrating on his desk snapped him from his thoughts. He grabbed it, half-hoping it was a text from Tony with some kind of update.

Mr. Stark: I called Steve. Plan's starting to take shape. But you know the deal, stay out of it.

Peter read the text twice, his heartbeat picking up. Mr. Stark had called Steve. After months of silence, it seemed like things were finally moving. He ignored the fact that he actually called THE Captain America who was currently on the run and in violation of the accords (which Peter didn't fully research before their fight in Berlin, he'd have a talk with Tony about that after).

But then, the last line. Stay out of it.

Peter gripped the phone tighter, his mind racing. He couldn't sit on the sidelines any longer. He couldn't just wait for someone else to fix it. He had to help. He had to.

Without thinking it through, Peter jumped up from his desk and grabbed his jacket, slipping out of his apartment and heading straight to Stark Tower.

Peter's mind raced as he made his way through the busy streets of New York, his feet hitting the pavement with urgency. It was the middle of a Saturday, he couldn't casually swing there. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing on him, but it wasn't a choice anymore. This was something he had to do. Emme didn't deserve to be left there, forgotten and alone. He couldn't let Tony do it without him.

Peter stepped into the elevator at Stark Tower, his fingers drumming nervously on the metal railing. The trip up felt like it took forever. He couldn't just send a message. He couldn't just sit and wait. He needed to talk to Tony face-to-face.

The elevator chimed when it reached the top floor, and Peter stepped out into the familiar, sleek lobby of Stark Tower. He could hear the hum of machinery and voices in the distance, but he didn't stop. He knew exactly where Tony would be. He marched straight to Tony's office.

He knocked on the door, but when there was no answer, he knocked again—louder this time.

"Yeah, yeah, come in. What is it, kid?" Tony's voice called from inside.

Peter pushed the door open, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, Mr. Stark. Got a sec?"

Tony was standing near the windows, scanning over a tablet, his back turned to Peter as he swiped through pages of data. He didn't even look up. "Always got a sec for you, kid. What's up?"

Peter stepped into the room, trying to calm his nerves, but his heart was pounding in his chest. "I saw your message. You said you called Steve. You really have a plan?"

Tony sighed, placing the tablet down on the desk. He finally turned around, eyeing Peter with a look that could have been frustration or concern—it was hard to tell. "Yeah, I called Steve. Plan's coming together. We're getting Emme out, kid. But we've got it under control."

Peter's jaw clenched. "Control? Mr. Stark, this is about Emme. She is trapped on the Raft. You can't just—you can't just do this without me. You promised. You told me that you'd figure out a way to get her out. You told me I couldn't help before, but now? Now you're telling me it's all going down, and I'm supposed to just sit here and do nothing?"

Tony raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing. "You really want to do this, kid? You've been through enough with that Vulture guy. You really think you're ready to take on something like this?"

Peter clenched his fists. "I have to do this. I can't just sit here anymore and let you do all the work. You promised her. You promised me."

Tony ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply, looking out the window for a moment as if weighing Peter's words. "And I promised her I'd take care of you."

Peter stopped and thought for a few seconds before responding. "I don't care."

Tony finally turned back to face him, his expression a mix of annoyance and something that almost resembled understanding. "Look, I get it. You care about her. I know you do. But this isn't some easy mission, Pete. The Raft is one of the most secure prisons in the world. We're talking high-risk intel, security breaches, and a lot of people who won't hesitate to stop us. I'm not just going to throw you into that without thinking. Not anymore."

Peter stepped forward, urgency and determination in his voice. "Then don't throw me in. Let me help. I'm not asking to take over. I just—I need to do something. You can't keep me out of it. Please, Mr. Stark. Let me be there." Their conversation felt eerily similar to the one they'd had when Mr. Stark had taken Peter's suit away, but this time, he was determined to see it through.

Tony stood in silence for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. Peter could see the wheels turning behind Tony's eyes, the skepticism, the worry, the lingering doubt. But Peter wasn't going to back down.

Finally, Tony sighed again and reached for his tablet. "Alright, kid. I'll give you a chance. You can come along, but you have to listen to me. You stay out of the way, you follow the plan. You get one shot at this, Pete. If you mess it up, I'm pulling you out."

Peter's heart soared, relief flooding through him. "You won't regret this, Tony. I promise."

Tony glanced at him, his face softening just slightly. "I'm already regretting it, kid. But fine. You're in. I'll send you the details. Just don't get in my way. You hear me?"

Peter grinned. "Loud and clear."

Tony leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Alright. You better be ready. It's not going to be easy. And this isn't some school field trip, kid. We're doing this my way."

Peter's grin didn't fade. This was it. He wasn't just waiting anymore. He was finally doing something. He was going to get Emme back, and nothing was going to stop him now.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Emeline woke to the familiar, sterile, and oppressive environment of her cell, but something was off. For the first time in weeks, she felt... awake. Fully, completely awake. There was no haze clouding her thoughts, no sense of exhaustion clinging to her every movement. She could feel the weight of her limbs again, her muscles twitching with strength she hadn't felt in a long time.

She sat up slowly, scanning the cold, empty cell. The metal walls were the same, the faint hum of the Raft's mechanical systems the only sound she could hear, but she felt different. It wasn't just her mind that was clearer; her body responded to her thoughts, quicker and more easily than it had in days. Her fingers twitched as she stretched her arms, testing their limits.

That's when she realized—they forgot the dose.

Her eyes widened.

The drowsiness-inducing drug they usually slipped into her food every morning had been absent. Without it, she was no longer in the fog that dulled her strength and perception. She was almost back to her usual self. The sense of empowerment coursed through her veins like a drug of its own—only now, it was a curse.

She had spent the last few months fighting to remain as composed as possible, but this? This felt like the first time in forever where she could feel her own power without the dulling effects of their manipulations. It felt like a rush, a sharp contrast to the stagnant isolation she'd become accustomed to.

But it was a double-edged sword. She wasn't entirely free. She wasn't out—she was still trapped here. And with that thought, the sharp clarity of her situation hit her.

They wouldn't take long to realize what had happened. Once they figured out she wasn't sluggish or vulnerable anymore, they'd dose her again and that would be it. But for now, for this one precious moment, she had an edge.

Her thoughts flashed to the others. Sam. Clint. Wanda still asleep. She couldn't tell them just yet—she needed to hold onto this feeling a little longer, savor it before they came for her.

Her mind drifted to the possibilities. Maybe she could surprise the guards when they came to get her. Maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

The sound of boots echoed through the hallway, breaking her thoughts and sending a spike of adrenaline through her veins. It was time. The guards were coming for her, and she needed to be ready. They hadn't made their move yet, and she could still make this work.

The door to her cell slid open with a mechanical groan, and two guards stepped inside. One was older, with a weary expression, clearly used to the repetitive task of taking prisoners from one part of the Raft to another. The younger guard seemed a little less experienced but just as dangerous. Both of them wore the standard grey uniforms that marked them as just another cog in this prison's cold machinery.

"Get up," the older one said, his voice emotionless. She was still playing it cool—just a little longer.

But as she rose to her feet, the full extent of her regained strength became apparent. She moved faster than she should have. The guard barely had time to react before she shoved him back, a powerful, forceful movement that sent him stumbling against the cell wall.

The others woke and were immediately alert, but there was nothing they could do about the situation in front of them.

Before the second guard could pull out his weapon, Emeline's arm slammed into his chest. She wasn't even sure where the energy came from—perhaps it was desperation, or maybe the sudden flood of regained strength—but she didn't have time to think.

Then, everything went wrong.

The older guard recovered from his stumble and reached toward his pocket. She didn't see it coming.

Her entire body went rigid, convulsing as the electric shock coursed through her system, and she hit the ground with a sickening thud. The world around her spun, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. Her vision blurred, everything felt like it was underwater.

Shit. The collar. She had forgotten. The collar didn't care that she was stronger now. It would always be there, a constant reminder of her captivity, a tool to strip her of her abilities with one press of a button.

She gasped for air as the shock subsided, trying to get up, but her limbs wouldn't respond. She barely managed to rise to one knee before the older guard grabbed her by the arm, dragging her out of the cell. She felt like a ragdoll in his grip. Her head spun, but her body, still heavy with the effects of the shock, couldn't break free.

As they dragged her down the hallway, the walls pressing in, her body sluggish and disoriented, she realized something. The world around her was closing in again—she was retreating into that familiar shell, closing herself off from everything to protect her sanity. They can't keep doing this to me, she thought, but the realization only made her more resigned. She was trapped, and there was no escape.

They shoved her into solitary confinement, the familiar cold walls and the silent isolation swallowing her whole. The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed in the hollow of her chest.

Emeline slumped against the cold concrete wall, the dull thud of her head against the surface offering no comfort. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the tightening in her chest as panic began to creep in.

She had days of nothing but time to think, to analyze, to feel the weight of her helplessness and the gnawing ache of being forgotten.

Her thoughts became more distant, more fragmented. It was easier to close herself off, to go numb and drift in and out of consciousness, as if pretending that the world outside of this room didn't exist could make it less real.

She wasn't sure how long it had been, but she knew one thing: they were going to break her eventually. She could feel it.

-----

The door to her solitary confinement room opened again after what must've been a few days, and she was dragged out, almost lifeless, her limbs barely responding to the movement. She was numb—mentally, physically, emotionally.

This time, the guards didn't just drag her back to her cell. She was fed, and felt the taste of the familiar dose in her food. But worst of all, they forced her into a straitjacket. The tight fabric wrapping around her arms and torso, pulling them back into a restrictive embrace. She winced at the sensation of it, the pressure on her chest making it hard to breathe. But it wasn't the straitjacket alone that made her feel suffocated—it was the combination of that and the collar. Together, they made her feel small, contained, powerless. She was nothing but a caged animal now, stripped of everything that made her her.

They finally shoved her back into her cell, the cold steel door clanging shut behind her. The sensation of being trapped, bound by both the straitjacket and the collar, was too much. She sank to the floor, her face pressed against her knees as she tried to regain some semblance of composure.

Sam, Clint and Wanda immediately turned their attention to her. Wanda's eyes widened when she saw the straitjacket, a silent gasp escaping her lips. Emeline turned away from them.

The weight of the straitjacket felt like a hundred tons pressing down on her chest, its rough fabric pulling her arms unnaturally behind her back. It restricted her every movement, each shift of her body a reminder of how small and helpless she was. She could hardly breathe.

Her pulse raced, and her mind started to spin as panic crept in. The feeling was suffocating, and for a fleeting moment, she felt like she was back at Hydra. Back in those cold, metallic rooms, restrained in ways that made her feel like an object—something to be controlled, to be used. The memories flooded in with terrifying clarity: the dark, sterile cells where she spent days without human contact, the endless injections that drained her, the constant surveillance that kept her from ever having a single moment of privacy. The way she couldn't move freely. Couldn't even speak without permission.

The straitjacket wasn't just a physical constraint—it was a mental one. It was as if the Raft's prison had reached into her mind and wrapped its cold fingers around her thoughts. Her body was no longer her own; she couldn't control it. She couldn't do anything. The collar around her neck buzzed gently, almost like it was laughing at her attempt to fight back. She could feel the shock building, the electricity itching to pulse through her system and render her completely incapacitated.

Her breathing became shallow. Her chest tightened. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to focus on something—anything other than the overwhelming sensation of being trapped. But all she could think about was the complete absence of freedom. She wasn't allowed to fight back anymore. She wasn't allowed to be anything anymore. She was just another cog in the machine.

No, she thought, a voice breaking through the panic. You can't think like that.

But it didn't stop the flood of dread that surged through her veins. It didn't stop the tightening of her throat or the cold sweat that began to bead on her skin. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the jacket off, run out, escape—do anything to break the suffocating grip of the collar and the restraints. But she couldn't. She was still here. Still trapped.

Her eyes squeezed shut again, and she tried to steady her mind, to quiet the panicked thoughts. She needed to think clearly. She needed to remember that she wasn't alone, that she had them.

The others were there, watching her from their own cells, but they didn't speak. Sam, Clint, and Wanda were all silent, their faces worn with worry. Emeline wanted to speak to them, wanted to tell them she was okay—but the words didn't come. Instead, she closed herself off, retreating once again.

-----

"Emeline..." Sam's voice softened with concern as he moved closer to their shared wall a few minutes later, allowing her to have a moment. "What happened?"

But before she could answer, Clint, ever the joker, broke the silence with a chuckle.

"Well, look," he said, his voice light and teasing. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to escape in style." He shot her a grin through the glass. "Nice try, though. You almost had me fooled."

Sam shot Clint a look, his brow furrowing in disapproval. "Clint, this isn't funny."

Wanda added, her tone more serious, "Why didn't you tell us you were trying something like that?"

Emeline, still reeling from the shock of her treatment, wasn't sure if she had the energy to explain. Her throat felt tight, her mind still spinning from the fear of being helpless. She avoided their gazes, slumping against the cold concrete wall. She felt the weight of the straitjacket press harder on her, the familiar sting of isolation creeping in. Solitary was just lovely.

Clint's grin faded when he saw her response, and he moved closer, his tone softening. "Hey, Emme, I'm not making light of it," he said, his voice quieter now. "But you know... if you're trying to break out of here, I'll back you up."

There was a pause, and for a moment, the air in the cell felt thick with unspoken words. Wanda's face softened as she caught Clint's tone, and Sam nodded, his expression still serious but filled with concern.

"We just... don't want you to keep things from us," Sam said quietly. "We know what this place does. We know how hard it is. But we have to be a team."

Wanda's voice was gentle, but the sincerity in it was clear. "Please, Emme."

For a long moment, Emeline just sat there, her back against the cold wall, her eyes closed as she absorbed their words. They were offering her something she wasn't sure she could accept. They were offering her their support, their solidarity—but she wasn't sure if she deserved it. She wasn't sure if she deserved to be apart of a team.

She had failed before. She was still failing now. And that wasn't an option.

But their presence, their concern—it made her feel less... alone. She let out a slow breath, trying to steady herself. The panic in her chest started to recede, though the tightness around her limbs from the jacket didn't ease.

"Sorry," she whispered, her voice small, barely audible. "They forgot my dose and I finally felt strong so... I just... I didn't want to drag you all into it."

Sam's expression softened, and he leaned against the bars, his tone calm and reassuring. "You're not dragging anyone into anything. We're all in this already."

Wanda nodded, the warmth in her eyes unwavering. "You're here with us. And that's what matters."

Emeline let out a shaky breath, her mind still rattled by the feeling of being bound, but something in her began to shift. Maybe, just maybe, she could still fight. Maybe there was still a chance.

Chapter Text

EMELINE sat on the edge of her cot, her arms wrapped tightly in the restrictive fabric of the straitjacket, the cold metal shock collar resting against her skin. It was like a constant, invisible weight pressing down on her, both the collar and the jacket. The feeling of confinement, of being trapped in her own body, made her movements feel stiff and unnatural. She hadn't spoken much in the past few days, and when she did, it was brief, usually a few words, but more often than not, it was only a response to others.

It was easier that way, she thought. If she didn't speak too much, she didn't risk feeling too much. It had become a kind of self-protection, and lately, even Clint's jokes and Sam's hopeful glances couldn't crack it.

Clint's voice cut through her foggy thoughts. "So, who do you think is going to get us out of this mess? We've been here for what, months now? Anyone coming to save us?"

Wanda shifted, Emeline forgot that she was also sporting the same jacket/collar combo she was. "We have to believe someone will," she said, her voice steady but strained. "I mean... We have people who care, right?"

Emeline didn't respond. What was there to say? She had long since given up on the idea of someone coming to save them, she didn't have people who cared. Hope felt like a weight she couldn't lift anymore, and every day that passed only sank her deeper. But she wasn't blind—she knew they were all hanging on to some thread of it, even if it was threadbare and fraying at the edges.

Sam, who had been laying on the floor, eyes scanning the hallway as if it might reveal someone fighting their way through the guards, glanced back at them. "There's Steve. If there's any way to get us out of here, he's probably already on it."

Emeline didn't know who Steve was. She'd heard the name before, but she never asked. It wasn't that she didn't care; it was just that asking felt like a piece of the puzzle that she'd long since stopped trying to put together. Steve was some kind of figure, someone with power, but she wasn't sure if even someone like that could save them now. It was times like this that she felt like an outsider.

Clint snorted softly. "Steve, huh? Maybe."

Sam shot him a half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We've been through worse. I trust him."

"Yeah, well, you can trust all you want, but that doesn't mean they'll get you out of a straightjacket and a collar that can fry your brain," Clint said, pointing at the metal shock collar on both girls necks for emphasis. "No offense, but it doesn't seem like anyone's coming for us."

Wanda gave Clint a sidelong look, but she didn't argue. She wasn't sure anymore if Sam's optimism was enough to balance out the despair that seemed to settle deeper in each of them every day. She shifted, crossing her legs under her and pulling her knees up to her chest.

"Emme," Sam said gently, glancing at her. "Thoughts?"

Emeline didn't answer right away. The straitjacket pulled at her arms when she moved them to adjust her position, the fabric tightening over her skin like a constant reminder of her inability to escape. The collar pressed into her throat whenever she moved too quickly. It was hard to think clearly with that constant pressure, that weight, that sting. But she couldn't let herself dwell on it too long. She couldn't.

"I don't think anyone is coming," she said softly, her voice hoarse, almost foreign to her own ears after days of silence. She wanted to believe Peter, hell, even Tony would come. But it had already been this long with no luck, and she wasn't sure if she was someone they'd fight for.

There was a pause. Wanda's face fell slightly, and Clint's playful grin faded, though he tried to recover it. Sam's eyes lingered on her, the smallest furrow between his brows. He didn't respond right away, as if he was processing her words, as if he wanted to say something that could fill the space that had suddenly turned quiet.

"What if they are?" Sam asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "What if we just have to hold on a little longer?"

She wasn't sure if Sam was trying to convince himself or them. It wasn't the first time he'd said something like that. But Emeline couldn't bring herself to feel the same optimism. Every day that passed, she felt the flicker inside her—her small hope—getting weaker. It felt like it was burning out, fading to a quiet, flickering glow that barely gave off any warmth. She didn't have the strength to keep pretending like it mattered.

"Hope is..." she began, pausing as she wrestled with the words, "it's just so... far away."

Wanda's eyes softened. "We have to try."

Clint leaned back, hands behind his head, trying to shift the mood. "Yeah, maybe. But let's be real here, Wanda. We've been stuck out here for so long that we're starting to look like we've been through a few too many... battles. And not ones we win."

Wanda shot Clint a reproachful look, but the corners of her mouth twitched, like she was trying not to smile. Sam sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "Look, I get it. It's hard to stay positive when you can't even scratch your nose or feel like you're about to get fried. But I think... I think Steve won't let us be alone. Not if he can help it."

Emeline swallowed hard, the collar digging into her skin as she turned her head slightly to the side. She still didn't ask who Steve was. She didn't need to. There was a flicker of hope in Sam's eyes—just a flicker, barely a glimmer—but that was enough to make her want to believe him. Even if she didn't believe in it herself.

"I guess I'm just tired of waiting," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to know what happens next, even if it's bad. I don't want to... I don't want to just be here, stuck in this. Not forever."

Clint chuckled softly, as though trying to lighten the mood. "You're asking for a lot there. But we're alive, right? That has to count for something."

"We're are," Wanda agreed, her voice steady, a subtle warmth creeping in.

Emeline nodded slightly, but her thoughts were distant. The pressure of the straitjacket, the collar, the constant weight of it all, made it hard to focus. But something in her flickered—a brief, fleeting thought. Maybe there was a chance, just a chance, that Sam was right. Maybe this Steve was coming for them. Maybe this wouldn't be their forever.

It was a tiny, fragile thought, barely a whisper in her mind. But it was enough.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Emeline, Sam, Clint and Wanda were each a silent observer of the others' existence. But even in silence, their minds worked, and the moments between shocks and fear were filled with thoughts of what they might do if they were ever free again.

Emeline sat in her corner, her back pressed against the cold stone, arms bound tightly in a straitjacket. The shock collar around her neck pulsed like a reminder that nothing was ever truly free. She had no idea how long she'd been here, or even if time existed the same way anymore. But there were moments when she allowed herself to think about life beyond this place, even if those moments made her feel more trapped than ever.

Clint, from his cell across the way, shifted slightly. "If I get out of here," he began, his voice loud enough to break the silence, "the first thing I'd do? I'd think about retirement. Just leave it all behind."

Sam, leaning against the wall of his own cell, let out a low chuckle. "That's the plan? What's the point of that, Clint? You're not one for running away from a fight."

Emeline also caught a look that made it seem as if he were hiding something, but she dismissed it. Clint laughed softly, but there was a weariness in it that didn't match his usual cocky attitude. "Maybe it's not about running from a fight. Maybe it's about getting some peace for once, you know? A place where I don't have to worry about who's going to shoot me in the back next, or what disaster is coming down the pipeline."

Wanda, who had been quiet until then, let out a dry laugh. "Well, for me I'd probably sleep for days." She paused, looking away briefly. "Just a little bit of my own peace for a while."

"I'd drink to that," Clint said with a half-hearted smile.

Sam sighed and shifted on his bunk. "I don't know about that... But if I get out, I'd spend some time with my family. Just us. No interruptions."

Wanda smiled faintly. "That sounds... nice."

Emeline hadn't said a word, hadn't even shifted from her corner, but her mind was racing. She'd been born into Hydra, raised in a cage, and had only tasted freedom for a brief time—a few months with Peter. She wasn't sure what it meant to truly be free, or even what she'd do with it if she had it.

The question lingered in her mind, the kind of question that could bring both hope and pain in equal measure. What would she do if she were out? If they were all out, free from this prison?

She didn't know.

At first, the thought of leaving seemed like an abstract fantasy—like one of those things you daydream about when you don't have anything else to hold on to. She had spent her whole life in cages, whether in the cold cells of Hydra or the cramped quarters here.

But then, something inside her shifted, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to picture it. Freedom. Real freedom.

She could almost feel the sun on her face. She could almost hear the sound of the world around her, full of life, not muffled by concrete and steel.

But the more she thought about it, the more one image kept creeping into her mind: Peter. The brief few months they had spent together after she escaped Hydra, before everything fell apart. Those days weren't perfect—there had been fears, and doubts, and moments of uncertainty—but there had been something she'd never known before.

Peace. And among other things. Something she hadn't thought possible.

"I don't know," Emeline finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper, though it carried in the still air of their shared space. It was the first time she had spoken in a long while, and the others were momentarily quiet, waiting for her to continue.

She let out a breath, glancing over at Sam and the others. The words came slowly, like the first step toward something she wasn't sure she could articulate.

"Y'know I've never really had... choices," she said, pausing as she let the weight of her words settle. "I only had a few months, really, when things weren't... like this." She tugged slightly at the straitjacket, as though the very fabric of it made her words more real. "I don't know what it means to have freedom. To choose."

Clint, who had been leaning against his cell wall, stopped talking. His expression softened. "Yeah, I get it. You didn't have the luxury of deciding where to go, what to do."

Emeline nodded, then hesitated again. She wasn't sure why she was talking about this now, of all times, but it felt important. Maybe this conversation would help her understand the answers she'd been avoiding.

"If I got out of here... I think I would go find him," she said softly, her voice barely audible but steady. The others had grown used to her silences, so when she spoke, it always carried weight.

"Find who?" Wanda asked, her voice curious but not probing, her tone soft.

"Peter." Emeline's gaze drifted to the cold bars of her cell as she spoke his name. The memories of those months with him, fleeting as they were, flooded her thoughts. The way he had made her happy, how he had helped her forget, even just for a little while, that she had never known a world outside of Hydra's control.

"I'd find Peter," she repeated, almost to herself. "He showed me what it was like to have... more. I want that. I need to know if it's real."

Wanda was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. They remembered the quiet whisper of his name, and not much more. But Clint snorted, breaking the tension with his usual bravado. "Well, I guess if you're going after someone, you might as well go for someone you can trust. Not bad, Em. Not bad."

Sam, however, was more serious. "You know, Emme, when you get out, when we get out, you'll have more than just Peter. You'll have us. You won't be alone."

She met his gaze, and for a moment, it felt like something had shifted between them. The words hung in the air, and though they didn't fix everything, they made it feel like there was something else beyond the prison walls. Would they bring her back with them? Live among the other Avengers? The idea seemed so absurd and impossible she pushed them to the back of her mind.

"I don't know what that even looks like," Emeline admitted, her voice soft. "But... maybe I could find out."

The conversation slowed after that, each person lost in their own thoughts. The air, while heavy with the reality of their situation, had shifted. It wasn't hope exactly. But it was a glimpse of something—a crack in the walls of their isolation.

Chapter Text

The sterile, white walls of the Red Room seemed to stretch on forever. Emeline's boots made a soft click with each step as she walked down the hallway, the only sound in the otherwise lifeless corridor. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, and the bright, unforgiving lights above felt like they were focused on her every move. She was used to it by now—the constant surveillance, the unyielding pressure, the feeling of being trapped within a place that was meant to break her down and rebuild her in Hydra's image.

Today was like any other. She had her training sessions, her assignments, her endless cycles of obedience. But there was something different in the air today, something unsettling. Emeline couldn't place it, but she knew better than to ignore her instincts. There was always something waiting around the corner here. And now that Zara was gone, things seemed even more unbearable.

Right now she was supposed to get ready for more training, ballet specifically. A time for her to improve her gracefulness and turn it into the movements of a killer. The only time of day her mind could be fully silent.

A door ahead slid open, and a woman stepped out into the hall. The woman was tall, her sharp features shadowed by the harsh lights of the Red Room, and she wore a black tactical outfit that screamed authority. Emeline had never seen her before, but there was an air of power about her—someone in charge, someone who was used to having things go their way.

"Emeline," the woman said, her voice smooth and clipped, as if every word had been meticulously chosen.

Emeline froze for a moment, her posture straightening instinctively. She wasn't afraid—she never showed fear here. But this woman... something about her made Emeline uneasy in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Yes?" Emeline responded, keeping her voice even.

"You've been selected for a new assignment," the woman continued, her eyes scanning Emeline carefully, as if evaluating her worth. "A mission outside your usual scope. One that requires your... particular set of skills."

Emeline's pulse quickened. The missions were always like this—cold, calculated, and dehumanizing. But they were always the same. A target, a kill, and then back to the grind. This new mission? She wasn't so sure. Something about the woman's tone, the way she phrased her words—it felt off.

"I'm ready," Emeline said, forcing the words out before her thoughts could linger too long. She had learned long ago to suppress her doubts, to silence the parts of herself that still fought for freedom. She was a weapon, nothing more, nothing less. And Hydra didn't train her to question.

The woman nodded slowly, a hint of approval in her expression. "We need you to eliminate someone. He's a high-ranking official in an organization we've been targeting. He's a threat to our operations. Our livelihood." Her eyes narrowed. "He's a liability, and we cannot afford liabilities."

Emeline's breath caught in her throat for a moment, but she quickly steadied herself. This was just another job. Another order to carry out. She had killed before, many times. The faces of her past targets were long gone from her memory. She had done things far worse than this. She had been trained to do them.

Still, the thought of this new mission—eliminating someone she didn't know, someone who might not even deserve to die—felt... different. But she couldn't afford to think about it. Not here. Not now.

This was her mission, a chance to prove herself. When she did this, she'd be protecting those who made her who she is. It was her form of a thank you.

"Understood," Emeline said, her voice unwavering. "When do I begin?"

The woman's eyes flicked over her once more, assessing her resolve. Then she turned and motioned for Emeline to follow her down the hallway.

"Now," the woman said simply. "Your target is being held in a secure facility. You'll be briefed further once we arrive. Just remember... hesitation will cost you. And it will cost our alliance with Hydra."

They walked in silence, the sounds of their footsteps echoing through the cold, metal halls. Emeline's mind raced as she followed the woman. What was it about this mission that had the woman so tense? She had given no details, no background. Just a target, and a command.

They stopped in front of a reinforced door, and the woman gestured for Emeline to enter.

"This is where you'll find your target," she said, her voice carrying a hard edge now. "Do what's necessary. Your mission is clear. No one can afford to know you hesitated."

Emeline's heart beat louder in her chest. She glanced at the door, knowing that behind it lay her assignment. The walls of the Red Room had always felt like they were closing in on her, but today, they felt tighter than ever. She had a role to play, a job to do. And she would do it, just like she had done everything else they had asked of her.

She turned to face the woman one last time. Her jaw tightened, her hands clenching at her sides.

"Understood," Emeline repeated, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—a brief, fleeting hesitation that she immediately buried. Hydra needed her, the Red Room needed her. She couldn't fail them.

For now, all she could do was follow orders.

The woman's gaze softened slightly, but she said nothing more. She stepped aside, and Emeline entered the room, ready to face whatever came next.

A target. A new mission. A first kill.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Emeline sat in the center of her cell, her back pressed against the cold concrete wall, knees drawn up to her chest. The dim light from the overhead bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows across the small room, but she barely noticed. She hadn't noticed much of anything lately. Her jacket was still secured tightly, and her collar sent off the occasional buzz that would make her flinch, waiting for a shock that never came.

Sleep was a distant memory. There had been a time when she had tried to hold on to it, to find some way to escape the darkness of this place, even for a few hours. But it was useless now. Her thoughts kept running, looping around and around in a never-ending cycle of frustration and bitterness. Her body had grown accustomed to the emptiness of the cell, the isolation, the feeling of being forgotten. But it was the loss of hope that weighed the heaviest on her heart.

She had tried to convince herself otherwise, tried to hold on to the belief that someone would come for them. That they wouldn't be abandoned to rot in this place. But she couldn't do it anymore. Hope was a luxury that felt so far out of reach. The conversations they had shared earlier echoed in her mind, each one more painful than the last.

"Anyone heard anything from the guards? From the outside?" Wanda had asked, her voice barely above a whisper, like the question was something too fragile to speak aloud.

Clint's voice had come next, rough with exhaustion. "Nope. Not a word. Just like the last hundred times."

And Sam, ever the steady anchor, had tried to sound hopeful, but even his voice had faltered: "We wait. That's all we can do."

But even Sam knew that the waiting was becoming unbearable.

Wanda's voice had cracked slightly, tinged with resignation, and had broken the silence that followed: "How much longer, Sam? How much longer can we keep waiting?"

The question had lingered in the air for far too long, an unanswered truth they all knew but were too afraid to say aloud: there was nothing left to wait for. They had been forgotten. No one was coming.

Emeline played with the hem of her shirt under the jacket, her fingers curling tightly around the crinkly material as if the contact could ground her, could tether her to something real. She closed her eyes, letting out a deep breath.

She thought of what Sam had said: "As long as it takes."

It wasn't enough.

The cold reality of their situation felt suffocating, more so than the thick concrete walls that surrounded them. The Raft was a prison, but it wasn't just physical. It was mental, emotional. And it was winning.

Losing hope... there was no going back once that happened. It was like a door closing behind you, and the sound of it slamming shut echoed in your mind every time you tried to move forward. Hope wasn't just something you could turn on and off like a switch. It was a lifeline, a thread that kept you going when the darkness of the world around you seemed overwhelming. Once you lost it, there was nothing to hold on to anymore. It was just a slow, silent decay from there.

The cell door rattled slightly as the guards did their rounds, and Emeline lifted her head, startled for a moment. She'd grown accustomed to the silence, to the weight of the stillness, and the sound of their footsteps always seemed to pierce it. She didn't move. There was no reason to. This was just another round of checks—nothing new.

Her mind drifted back to the conversation, to the hollow words of resignation shared by the others. Clint's dry humor, Sam's ever-present strength, Wanda's quiet sorrow—it all mixed into a cocktail of helplessness that she didn't want to face. But there was no denying it: they were stuck. They were waiting for something that would never come.

The weight of it settled in her chest, crushing her. She rested her forehead against the cold glass wall of her cell, closing her eyes again. I'm not like them, she thought. I can't be.

Her hand slid along the smooth glass, fingers tracing the few scrapes as if they were some kind of map, some path that might lead her to an escape. But she knew better. The Raft wasn't meant for escape.

A sigh escaped her lips, low and bitter, as she pulled her knees tighter to her chest. Emeline had been trained for this. To endure. To survive. To fight. But there was only so much you could take before even the toughest soldier started to break.

She thought about Wanda's question again: How much longer?

She didn't have an answer for that. No one did. They could keep waiting, keep hoping. Or they could stop. But the reality was, either option led to the same thing: they were stuck here, in the dark, with nothing but the walls closing in.

She blinked, focusing her attention on Sam, who spoke next, quiet but steady. "We're still here," he said simply. "We're still breathing. That's something."

But even his words couldn't banish the cold despair that hung thick in the air. Sam always tried to keep them grounded, but even he was starting to sound less certain. The cracks were showing. They were all starting to realize the same thing. Hope was a flame that needed fuel, and there was nothing left to burn.

Emeline exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against the metal door, feeling the coolness seep into her skin. It was a constant reminder of her entrapment. Her gaze wandered back to the narrow slit of a window high on the wall, where the faintest glimmer of moonlight shone through, but it didn't offer any comfort. She knew better than to believe in illusions.

"How much longer, Sam?" she whispered to herself, echoing Wanda's words. She didn't have an answer.

But as the seconds stretched into minutes, something inside her stirred. Don't let it break you, she thought. Don't let them win.

She was tired—exhausted beyond anything she had ever felt—but in this moment, she refused to let herself be swallowed by the darkness. If they had lost hope, that was their decision. She she didn't know if she'd let it be hers.

Chapter Text

THE stillness of the Raft's interior was deafening, a constant buzz of quiet tension that filled every crevice. Emeline sat with her back pressed against the cold concrete wall of her cell, knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her straightjacket, snug and uncomfortable, kept her arms bound at her sides. The shock collar hummed softly against her neck, a cruel undercurrent to the stillness that surrounded her.

She was used to the silence, to the slow passing of days where she barely spoke. The others in the cells next to hers — Sam, Clint, Wanda — didn't expect much from her. She didn't mind. It was easier this way. Silence was her armor. But Emeline was never truly alone. Her heightened senses kept her acutely aware of everything happening around her, even if she didn't want to hear it.

The hum of the air conditioning, the shuffle of guards' footsteps, the faint murmur of conversations from distant cells—she was always aware of the world beyond her cell. But today, something was different. There was a subtle shift in the air, a tension she could feel even before the sounds outside the prison grew louder.

Emeline's brow furrowed, her head tilting slightly to the side as she listened intently. At first, it was faint—a soft murmur of voices, faint shouting, distant movement. But as the minutes passed, the sounds grew clearer, sharper. Her ears twitched. Her senses dialed in on the disturbance outside, and it didn't take long for her to realize that something was wrong.

There was an urgency to the noise. A sense of purpose. More voices now—not the usual rotation of guards or prisoners, but something... different. Emeline leaned forward, her face barely visible through the narrow slit in the bars of her cell. Her heart rate quickened as the noise outside grew louder, echoing off the walls, a cacophony of footsteps, clattering metal, and muffled shouts.

She wasn't sure what was happening, but her gut told her this wasn't a routine check. There was something about the way the noise swirled—chaotic, frantic, and just outside her reach. The footfalls quickened, then faltered, like they were moving with purpose but were also being met with resistance.

Her fingers twitched involuntarily, a nervous habit she hadn't been able to control, even in the quiet of her cell. The sound was growing nearer, almost as if the disturbance was headed straight for them. She wasn't sure who it was, but whoever it was was coming.

Her pulse quickened. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. She didn't know why, but something in her instincts told her to prepare. Something big was about to happen.

She couldn't catch any words clearly, just fragments of voices too far away. But what she did know was that there was something different in the air now. Her gaze flicked toward Sam, who had been silently observing her. His eyes locked with hers, noticing the subtle shift in her demeanor.

Clint's movements stilled. Wanda's eyes, too, snapped over to Emeline, sensing the change. The tension in the room was palpable now, each of them waiting for her to say something, anything.

Emeline didn't speak much, but she didn't need to in moments like these. She trusted them. They trusted her.

She managed to push herself off the floor slowly, her eyes never leaving the direction of the sound. Her pulse quickened, a strange mix of fear and hope blooming in her chest. Without a word, she nodded toward the door, her expression calm but intense.

"Outside," she murmured quietly, her voice soft but urgent.

Sam's face tightened. "You hear something?" His voice was low, filled with a cautious hope.

Emeline nodded again, her gaze focused. There was no question in her mind now. Something was happening out there.

Clint stood up, his attention was fully on her now. "What's going on, Emme? Who is it?"

Emeline pressed her ear closer to the glass, straining to pick up more details. Her heart was racing, the pulse in her throat thrumming with a mix of fear and a strange sense of hope. She could hear shouts now, louder, more urgent. There were more footsteps, not just the few guards she was used to hearing. This was different. Whoever was out there was moving fast.

"Can't... Can't make it out," she muttered, a nervous edge creeping into her voice as she listened. "But it's... it's big."

"Who is it?" Clint's voice broke through from the neighboring cell. "Do you think it's a break-out attempt? A rescue?"

Wanda, from the cell beside Clint, was quiet for a moment, but Emeline could hear her breathe in sharply, her voice soft but tinged with something unspoken. "Could it be... Steve?"

Emeline's heart skipped a beat. She didn't know if it was him, if it was even possible. But whoever was out there was coming with force, determination, and precision. It could be anyone. But Steve?

Her fingers twitched again, the nervous energy pulsing through her body. She didn't know if she could trust her senses completely — the Raft was full of tricks and traps. But whatever was happening outside now felt... real.

"Maybe," Emeline whispered, barely a breath, but enough for Wanda to catch.

Sam's voice cut through the rising tension. "It could be him. We can't know for sure. Don't get your hopes up."

Clint's tone was hard, but there was a glint of cautious optimism in his voice. "If it's Steve, he's not alone."

The sound outside grew more frantic now — metal scraping, the loud clang of a heavy door being forced open, the unmistakable sound of barriers being breached. Emeline's breath caught in her throat. She had no idea who was coming, but she could feel it now. Whoever was on the other side of that door wasn't stopping. They were coming in, and they were coming in fast.

She could hear their footsteps now —not in the distant, vague way she had before, but near. Too near. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead gently against the glass, feeling the tension rising in her chest like a tide.

"What's happening?" Sam asked, his voice a low growl of impatience, but there was an edge of hope in his tone now.

"I don't know," Emeline whispered, the words raw, her voice trembling slightly with the uncertainty of the moment. "But they're coming. They're close."

Wanda's breath hitched, and Emeline could almost hear her heart racing. "Is it Steve?" she asked, but her voice was quieter now, almost as if she were afraid to ask, to hope.

Emeline shook her head slightly, even though Wanda couldn't see her. "I don't know." She paused for a moment, the words she wanted to say hanging in the air, unspoken. She hoped it was.

The noise outside intensified, the sound of multiple voices now clear, shouting orders, breaking through doors. Emeline could hear the crackle of electricity as the prison's security systems tried to resist, but the intruders were making it through. It was no longer just a faint disturbance. It was happening. Someone was coming.

"Stay quiet," Sam urged, his voice urgent now, but Emeline could hear the same flicker of hope in him that had started to build in her chest. "Stay ready."

Clint grunted. "If it's Steve, he'll need us ready. We don't know how this is going to go down."

Emeline didn't respond, but her fingers were trembling now. She kept her focus on the sounds outside, the rhythmic pounding of boots, the chaos escalating as whoever was coming drew closer. She needed them to get to her. She needed to get out of here — out of this cage. She didn't know who it was, but she hoped.

And as the sound of boots grew louder, closer, the tension reached its peak, Emeline allowed herself to let go of her usual guard, just for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, this time they'd make it out. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be left behind.

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a memory - a reminder

The hallway was shrouded in chaos. The sound of distant explosions and shouts echoed through the walls, and the air smelled of smoke and sweat. Nine-year-old Emeline's heart raced as she crouched in the shadow of a steel door, her body pressed against the cold metal, listening to the sounds of approaching footsteps. Her fists clenched involuntarily, and a rush of heat surged through her veins.

Hydra had trained her for this. They had made her into a weapon, a tool to wield against the world. Fear was not an option. But as she waited in the tense silence, her mind raced with uncertainty.

Don't fail. The thought circled like a mantra in her head.

She was young—barely out of training—but Hydra had no patience for weakness. She couldn't show hesitation. The enemy was closing in, and she had to be ready. She needed to protect.

The first guard appeared, his face distorted with anger and fear, a rifle raised in his hands. Emeline's instincts kicked in before her mind could even process the movement. She darted forward, her feet barely touching the ground as she moved with the speed of a predator.

She ducked low, avoiding the rifle's barrel as it flashed in the dim light. Her elbow connected with the man's stomach, driving the air out of him in an explosive rush. He doubled over, but before he could react, she spun and delivered a vicious kick to the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the floor.

Pain shot up her leg as she shifted her weight, but she ignored it, focusing only on the task at hand. Another soldier was already rushing toward her, his weapon raised. Emeline had no time to think; her body moved without hesitation.

She slid underneath his outstretched arm, narrowly missing the swing of his blade. Her fingers grabbed his wrist with unrelenting force, twisting it violently. He screamed as the knife dropped from his grasp, but she didn't give him a chance to recover. With a swift motion, she drove her knee into his abdomen, knocking him back a few paces.

Her breath came in short gasps, and sweat beaded on her forehead, but she couldn't afford to stop. Not now. Not when Hydra's expectations were at stake.

As she regained her stance, a third guard appeared, faster than the others, charging at her with a battle cry. This one wasn't like the rest. He was trained, his movements calculated, his eyes locked on hers. He didn't waste any time. His fist swung in a deadly arc, aimed for her face.

Emeline ducked, feeling the rush of air as his blow missed. She didn't wait to counterattack. Her left leg shot out, sweeping his feet from under him. But instead of falling, he twisted mid-air and landed with a roll, coming back up to face her.

His eyes burned with fury.

She had no time to waste. She lunged, grabbing him by the collar and using his momentum to slam him into the nearby wall. His head bounced off the concrete with a sickening thud, but before he could recover, she twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to his knees. She held him there, her breath ragged, as she pressed her weight down on him.

Her side burned with sharp, agonizing pain—her leg felt as though it was about to break. But there was no time for that. She couldn't show weakness. Not in front of Hydra.

Emeline pushed through the pain, her body screaming for respite. She could feel the heat in her muscles, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs, but still, she held her ground. Hydra had taught her to fight through it, to push herself beyond the limits.

With a grunt, she wrenched the soldier's arm higher, listening to the crack of his joints as he gasped for air. It wasn't enough to finish him off, but it was enough to disarm him. He slumped in her grip, defeated. She didn't have her gun, so she knew there was no time to linger.

She glanced around quickly, scanning the area, ready for the next attacker. Her body trembled with the aftershocks of the fight. She felt the weight of her exhaustion, but her focus remained sharp. She was still in control. She had to be.

As the sounds of approaching footsteps grew louder, she straightened, preparing for whatever came next. She was Hydra's weapon, and she would finish this.

Chapter Text

THEY were all still, waiting, listening, much like her. But then the sound grew closer, and it became clear—someone was coming, and they weren't playing by the rules.

Emeline shifted in her seat, her fingers twitching slightly, betraying the nervous energy that was building within her. She couldn't help but feel a strange mix of hope and wariness. She didn't know who was on the other side of the door, but she could feel their presence. And they were coming for them.

The sound of the doors opening echoed down the hall, louder now. A crash. Metal scraping. Then, voices. The others were strange, but there was one voice she could pick apart easily.

"Move!" Tony Stark's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the tension in the air. Emeline's heart stuttered in her chest at the sound. Tony Stark? The familiar sarcasm in his tone had her breath catching. What was he doing here?

Her eyes widened as she saw him — a blur of motion in the hallway, the unmistakable figure of Tony Stark in his suit, moving with purpose. Behind him were Steve Rogers, tall and imposing, and another man, his face unreadable. They were real. They were really here. For them.

Tony reached the cells first, his hands quickly working at the door of Clint's cell, unlocking it.

"Clint, you're up," Tony said, his voice laced with urgency but tinged with a hint of relief as Clint's cell door swung open.

Clint stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing as he processed the sight of Tony and the others. "Tony? What the hell—?" he started, but Tony was already moving, unlocking Sam's cell next to Emeline's.

"Time for the reunion later, Legolas. We have to get out of here," Tony interrupted.

Sam stood, his face lighting up with cautious disbelief. "Wait, are you serious? Is this really happening?"

Before Tony could respond, Steve Rogers entered the fray, calm but firm, his eyes scanning the hallway, always on alert. "No time to talk. We have to hurry."

Emeline could barely breathe. She wasn't used to this—this chaos, this hope that felt so foreign. But Tony, Captain America and the other man—they were here. She wasn't sure why, but it felt real. A rush of adrenaline hit her all at once, and she forced herself to stand, her hands instinctively trying to move the straightjacket that still restricted her.

"Emme," Tony said, turning to her. His voice softened a little as he stepped toward her, unlocking the door to her cell. "It's good to see you kid." His face held so much relief, a look that was odd too see. The others picked it up, but chose not to question it in the moment.

The words struck her harder than she expected, a weird mix of comfort and disbelief. She hadn't thought about anyone coming for her. She hadn't thought that anyone would care. She was just a ghost to them, someone left behind. Now, someone was glad to see her.

But now, here they were. Tony Stark, Steve Rogers. She had to remind herself this wasn't a dream.

"Peter?" Emeline's voice cracked, the word tumbling out before she could stop it. The name had slipped past her lips, but it had been on her mind since she'd first heard Tony's voice. She had to be sure he was okay.

Tony paused, his expression shifting slightly. "Peter's in the Quinjet, kid. He's safe."

Her heart fluttered at the mention of his name. She hadn't seen Peter in so long. And he was actually here, waiting for her to walk onto the Quinjet. The thought of him being safe, was a relief she couldn't quite put into words. But even with that relief, there was a gnawing sensation deep in her gut. She felt like something was missing, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. Not now.

Tony quickly got to work on unlocking the restraints. With a practiced motion, he removed the straightjacket from her shoulders, and Emeline took a deep breath, feeling the slight relief of her arms being free again. But the shock collar was still there, still humming against her skin, reminding her that she wasn't entirely free. Yet.

As he stepped back, he nodded to Steve, who was already working on the others. Wanda's cell opened, and Tony moved to help her with her straightjacket as well. The sense of urgency was palpable. The sounds of chaos outside the cell block only increased.

Her eyes darted back to tony, who got back into his suit which was floating nearby. "The remotes?" Wanda questioned, pointing to her and Emeline's collars.

He nodded. "Already taken care of." And at that, Emeline shared a relieved look with Wanda, who seemed more alive than ever.

"Alright, everyone, out," Steve barked. "We have to move. The guards will be here any second."

They moved quickly, instinctively, like a well-oiled machine. Emeline was still processing, still in a daze, but she followed as best she could. Her eyes darted between the group, scanning for any signs of danger, but they were all focused on the task at hand.

And then, her eyes landed on the dark-haired man.

It wasn't intentional. She had been so focused on getting out, on the others around her, that when her gaze finally locked onto him, something stopped her cold. The familiarity was immediate, something deep inside her that she couldn't place. It wasn't just his face — though there was something undeniably familiar about him, the set of his jaw, the way he moved, the quiet intensity in his eyes. There was something more. A pull. A strange, unshakable sensation that tugged at her mind.

She blinked, and the feeling was gone, but it lingered at the edges of her thoughts. Her heart skipped a beat. She wanted to say something — ask, demand — but the words stuck in her throat. What was it about him?

His eyes met hers for just a moment. There was no recognition in his gaze, just a calm focus, but something in the back of her mind twisted, pulling at her. She quickly looked away, pushing the strange thoughts aside. It didn't make sense, and there was no time to figure it out now.

"We need to go," Steve said, his tone clipped, snapping Emeline back to reality. "This place is about to turn into a war zone."

As they rushed through the hallways, the alarms blared in the distance. The Raft was on lockdown, but Tony, Steve, and the man weren't stopping. They were moving with purpose, guiding the group through corridors and stairwells that Emeline had come to know all too well over the last few months.

They sprinted down a narrow corridor, the sound of pounding footsteps echoed behind them—guards closing in. Emeline's heart pounded, but she pushed the fear aside, focusing on what needed to be done. They wouldn't make it without a fight.

But they were all already turning toward the oncoming guards.

Emeline didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, her body moving with a fluid grace she hadn't felt in months. Selfishly, it felt good.

The first guard swung at her, but she was already stepping aside, grabbing his arm and using his momentum to throw him into the wall. The second guard lunged at her with a baton. She caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting it until he dropped the weapon with a grunt of pain. A swift kick sent him to the ground, leaving him unconscious before he hit the floor.

The third guard came at her with a punch. This one landed. A sharp blow to her side that left her winded, her breath catching in her chest. She gritted her teeth against the pain, refusing to let it slow her down. She wasn't about to let anything stop her now. She ducked under his next swing, using his own momentum to throw him over her shoulder, landing him with a heavy thud.

She winced, clenching her teeth, but that was the extent of it before the others wrapped up their own fights.

When they reached the exit, the blast of fresh air hit them, it almost made her dizzy as she inhaled. They sprinted the last stretch toward the Quinjet waiting nearby, its engines already whirring to life.

The feeling of freedom was almost too much for Emeline to process. But it wasn't until she saw him that her entire world seemed to shift.

"Peter!" Emeline's voice came out before she could stop it. The relief, raw and overwhelming, broke through her usual restraint. Without thinking, she moved toward him, her feet moving faster than her brain could keep up. The others fell behind her as she sprinted. With her strength, she crossed the distance in a few quick strides, her hands trembling slightly as she reached him, pulling him into an embrace that felt like the world coming back into focus. She wasn't sure why she did it, but she was glad she did. This was her first time hugging him, and despite her body wanting to pull away, she didn't.

Peter froze for a second, caught off guard, his mask still on, but the slight hitch in his breath gave it away. "Emme?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and disbelief.

She didn't answer with words, just squeezed him tighter, like she was afraid if she let go, he might disappear. She could feel his hands instinctively wrapping around her, one around her shoulders, the other gently at her back. The sensation was so unfamiliar—warmth, affection, something soft—that it almost sent her heart into overdrive. She didn't know how to process it. She wasn't used to this, never had been.

After a moment, Peter slowly pulled back, though he didn't go far, still looking at her like he was trying to figure out if this was really happening. His mask, a barrier between them, now made her feel strangely exposed.

"I... I knew we'd get you out of here," Peter stammered, his voice trembling with a quiet excitement.

Emeline didn't respond with words, not yet. She just let out a soft breath, a weight lifting off her chest that she didn't know she was carrying. Her mind was still processing what had just happened, but her body was already reacting to the comfort of being close to him. Peter. The name that felt like a lifeline.

She glanced at his eyes, even though his mask still covered his face. It wasn't his face that mattered right now. She knew who he was. She'd known for months, even if he never told her. It wasn't just the little things, the quiet ways he'd watched out for her. It was the way he made her feel like she mattered when everything else in her life had told her otherwise. He was the one constant she hadn't known she needed.

Peter seemed momentarily stunned by the fact that she knew as she pulled at the hem of his mask. There was a flicker of surprise behind his eyes, something like realization, before he forced a smile. "You knew?"

Emeline nodded slightly, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder, almost as if to reassure herself. This was real.

Before Peter could say anything else, the others started to gather around, momentarily confused by what they'd just witnessed. Sam raised an eyebrow, giving Peter a curious look, while Clint narrowed his eyes, trying to piece together the scene. Wanda looked between them, her brow furrowed.

So this was the Peter they heard about. Emme's Peter. Peter who was Spiderman? The same Spiderman they'd fought in Berlin? Too much was going on at the moment for them to finish breaking that down.

Tony, always the first to break the tension, smirked and crossed his arms as he approached. "I knew something was going on between you two, but I didn't know it was this serious," he quipped, his voice teasing but with an underlying warmth. She froze, her head ducking down as she all but flinched away from him, making it seem like a simple step. Shit.

Peter blushed a little, his nerves still raw. "Uh, it's not—we're not—" He shook his head.

"Doesn't matter right now," Tony interrupted, already walking toward a seat in the jet. "We've got bigger problems, like getting the hell out of here before we all end up back in cells. Let's go."

Steve gave a small nod, his serious expression returning. "Tony's right. Let's move."

The group quickly filed into the Quinjet, the urgency of the situation pushing them all forward. Emeline hesitated for a split second before moving to sit beside Peter, her body still unfamiliar with the sensation of safety that had slowly started to settle in her chest. Peter didn't say anything more but sat beside her, and she could feel his warmth next to her, something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time.

As the Quinjet took off, leaving the Raft and the nightmare of captivity behind, Emeline looked out of the window. The world below them seemed so far away, and yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel so alone.

Her gaze, almost instinctively, drifted back to Bucky Barnes. Something about him, the way he moved, the way he carried himself — there was an unspoken familiarity there, a pull she couldn't understand. But it wasn't something she could focus on now. She turned away, choosing not to dwell on the strange sensation that gnawed at her gut. It wasn't the right time.

Peter glanced over at her, noticing her quiet stare, but didn't press. For once, he was content to just be there, to let the moment speak for itself. The adrenaline was still coursing through both of them, but the weight of escape was beginning to settle in.

"I'm glad you're alright," Peter said softly, his voice quiet but sincere.

Emeline nodded, her gaze flickering toward the rest of the team. She wasn't used to people being concerned about her. She hadn't ever allowed herself to get too close, but there was something different about Peter.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The Quinjet's hum filled the quiet space, the sound of safety surrounding them. They were escaping. They were free. And even though the relief was overwhelming, something still nagged at her—a question, a memory, something too faint to grasp.

But for now, she let it go. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to simply breathe. Even though her side flared with pain it was enough, she was free.

The Quinjet soared through the sky, and as the distance between them and the Raft grew, Emeline felt herself starting to relax, just a little. They were out.

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The Quinjet cut through the air with a low, steady hum as it made its way away from the Raft, the clamor of the prison fading into the distance. The group of Avengers sat in their seats, still processing what had just happened. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, but the relief hadn't quite settled in yet. They were free, but they weren't out of the woods just yet.

Emeline caught Black Widow, who she knew, sittings in the cockpit, hands steady on the controls. While Clint kept watch with a sharp eye, sitting next to her. In the cabin, the others were scattered around. Wanda, Sam, and Emeline were all trying to settle in for the ride, though it was hard to ignore the weight of everything that had just happened.

Emeline sat beside Peter, her eyes staring blankly out of the window. She was lost in thought, her face calm, but there was something about her movements that caught Peter's attention. Her posture was stiff, and she kept adjusting her seat, clearly uncomfortable. He was used to seeing her more composed, but something was off this time.

Peter didn't speak, but he made eye contact with Sam across the aisle, a silent communication passing between them. Sam raised an eyebrow, noticing Emeline's subtle winces, the way she shifted in her seat, trying to hide it. His eyes flicked to Clint, who was still standing near the cockpit. The sharp-eyed archer immediately got the unspoken message.

Sam moved toward Emeline, his steps quiet. "You okay?" he asked softly, leaning down to her level.

Emeline quickly turned her head, her eyes flickering to him, but she didn't answer right away. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and her jaw tightened.

"I'm fine," she said, but there was a slight tremor in her voice.

Sam's gaze softened, but he wasn't going to let it go. He knew better than anyone how people who had been through what Emeline had been through often tried to hide their pain. "You sure?" he asked, kneeling down in front of her.

Emeline's eyes darted to her hands, then back to Sam. She didn't want to admit it. She never had. Weakness wasn't something she could afford. Not after everything.

Sam, however, had seen this kind of thing before. He wasn't about to press her too hard, but he wasn't going to back off either.

"Sam," she said, her tone firm but quiet, "I'm fine."

But Sam wasn't fooled. He caught Peter's eye again, the concern in his gaze clear. Peter didn't say a word, but his silence was enough. Sam sighed and spoke just above a whisper, enough for Emeline to hear.

"We aren't Hydra," Sam murmured, his voice calm but firm, a reminder that she was no longer trapped in that system.

The words sent a small ripple through the air. For a brief moment, Emeline's composure cracked. She hadn't realized how much she had clung to that sense of survival, how much she'd been conditioned to believe that showing weakness would mean losing everything. But hearing those words... it was almost like permission to acknowledge the pain.

She didn't respond, but her breath hitched slightly. Sam, noticing her hesitation, gave her a moment, not pushing her any further.

But there was no hiding it anymore. Bucky, sitting across the aisle, had heard everything due to his advanced hearing. The whisper of Sam's words, the slight tension in the air—it was enough to catch his attention. His eyes flicked toward Emeline, studying her closely. There was something about her that was starting to gnaw at the back of his mind.

The way she moved. The way she carried herself. There was a certain... familiarity. But it wasn't just that. It was the way she reacted, how she tried to mask the pain, how she instinctively pulled away when anyone showed concern. It was like she had been trained to be something else, something... more.

Bucky exchanged a glance with Steve, whose brow furrowed in silent contemplation.

Tony leaned over from his seat, giving a small grin despite the situation. "Tony Stark, always at your service," he said with a wink, a stark contrast to the somber mood.

Sam gave Tony a pointed look. "Not the time, Tony."

Tony just shrugged, but his eyes lingered on Emme for a second longer than he'd intended. There was a lot hidden beneath the surface, and Tony knew better than most that was the thing to be worried about. A lot could happen to a person, there were certain signs that nobody would be able to see.

Clint came over with the med kit. He knelt beside Emme, his movements efficient, no-nonsense. He'd seen this before—people who had been through far worse than they let on.

"Let's take a look," Clint said, his voice calm but firm.

Emeline didn't flinch as Clint gently pressed his fingers against her side. She was good at hiding pain. Too good.

Clint worked efficiently, but it wasn't lost on him that Emeline had barely flinched when he gently probed her side, a clear sign that she'd been through worse before. The fact that she was still trying to downplay it... well, that spoke volumes.

She shifted slightly in her seat, trying to act as though nothing was wrong. But Clint knew better.

"You sure you're alright?" Clint asked, his tone still professional, but there was an undercurrent of concern.

"I'm fine," Emeline said again, but this time, her voice wasn't as firm. She was tired. She hadn't moved that much in months, most of her muscles ached. Especially her arms, which were taking a minute to relax having been in that straitjacket for so long. And there was the fact that her shock collar was still on. So maybe she wasn't fine.

Clint looked at Sam, then back at her. "How about you let me check those ribs, just in case?"

Emeline hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "I think I might have a couple broken," she said, her voice low, her eyes avoiding his.

"Alright, let's get you patched up," Clint replied with a nod. He went to work, carefully applying pressure, making sure nothing was too serious. Clint must've forgotten, but Emeline was already beginning to regain her healing factor, so it would heal, but she'd been in situations where a bone had healed wrong. So she guessed there was no harm in checking.

Through it all, Bucky's eyes remained on Emeline. There was something about her, something that triggered a deep, familiar feeling in the back of his mind. Something he couldn't place, but it was growing stronger with every passing second. It wasn't just the way she looked—though there was something in her eyes that made him uneasy—it was the way she moved, the way she held herself. It felt like... he should know her.

But how? And why?

Steve watched Bucky carefully, his own suspicions rising, but he said nothing.

Tony, noticing the subtle tension, leaned back in his seat. "Alright, lets get our girl fixed up."

Emeline, despite the pain, couldn't help but glance back toward Peter. He hadn't said anything but he was still there, his gaze steady on her. She wasn't sure why, but in that moment, she didn't feel alone anymore. Not fully, at least.

The Quinjet rumbled as it flew through the air, leaving the Raft and its confines behind. The escape was successful, but Emeline couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was still so much more to discover. So much more to face.

And maybe, just maybe, with these people, she would finally get the answers she'd been searching for.

As they were leaving the past behind, Emeline couldn't help but wonder if the people around her could ever truly understand who she was. But that was a problem for when they got back, and her problem alone.

Chapter Text

"Hold on, hold on to yourself, 'cause this is gonna hurt like hell."

Emme and the others had been rescued from the Raft, but not all of them were in one piece. Now, all she had to do was recover—physically and mentally. But it's not just the trauma from their time on the Raft she needs to heal from. She's also faced with a dozen new realizations and unfamiliar feelings that threaten to overwhelm her.

[based after act one]

Chapter Text

(( October 13th, 2016 - New York ))

THE past two days had been nothing but insanity.

Once they made it back to Avengers Tower, Emeline was rushed into surgery to treat her ribs after one of them punctured a lung. Naturally, she resisted, and Steve had to hold her down, which only brough back painful memories. The only silver lining was Dr. Cho, who seemed kind and genuinely caring, not like the cold, indifferent doctors from her past. After the surgery, Steve apologized profusely, but the whole experience was still terrifying, and the fear lingered long after the surgery was over.

Being put under sedation only brought back a wave of unwanted memories she'd tried so hard to forget. At first, they hadn't given her enough drugs to knock her out, and then her body had burned through the numbing agents far too quickly. Now, here she was in post-op, struggling to push past the searing pain in her side, the remnants of those memories clawing at her even as she tried to focus on getting through it.

Now she lay in the med-bay, staring at the ceiling, her mind miles away. Her side still ached, the sting from her injury a constant reminder that her healing factor had yet to fully kick in. It was a slow process, but one she was familiar with. After all, she'd spent years in pain, only to be pushed through it again and again. This time, though, she wasn't fighting for survival. She was just... here. Safe.

But safe wasn't as easy to embrace as she thought it would be. It felt foreign, like a dream that she wasn't sure she deserved. The fact that she was free was almost too much to process. Everything felt overwhelming. The quiet. The stillness. The lack of orders. It made her want to crawl out of her own skin. She wasn't used to not being controlled. She wasn't used to peace.

She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the dull ache from her side made it difficult. The IV in her arm was annoying, but necessary. Sam's was next to hers. He was seated in the chair beside her bed, a book in his hands, his eyes scanning the pages with a focused but relaxed expression. He looked comfortable, even though they both knew neither of them were exactly feeling their best.

She could hear him shift as he set the book aside, then felt the quiet tension in the room. They hadn't spoken much since she woke up. Not that she wanted to talk. The words didn't seem to matter right now, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to voice the things swirling in her head. The whole situation felt too big for her. Too impossible.

The soft rustle of Sam's chair scraping the floor was the only noise that broke the silence. He'd probably noticed the way her breath had deepened, the way her body tensed slightly even as she tried to keep her thoughts to herself.

"You alright?" His voice, calm and concerned, pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts.

She froze for a moment, before turning her gaze to him. He was looking at her with that steady, patient expression. The same one he'd worn when they were stuck on the Raft. His gaze wasn't judgmental, wasn't filled with pity—just understanding. But understanding didn't make her feel better. It just made her feel seen. And she wasn't sure if she wanted to be seen right now.

"Hmm?" she hummed, not bothering to keep eye contact. Her fingers twitched slightly, but she didn't move. Not yet.

"Are you alright?" Sam repeated, his voice gentler this time, picking up on the subtle tension that still clung to her. He leaned forward slightly, his IV bag hanging loosely in his arm, his posture the same—always steady, always trying to help, even if it didn't always feel like it mattered.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat, distant. She didn't want to explain herself. She didn't even know how to. The words felt too heavy.

Sam didn't buy it, though. He knew better. He'd been in this position before, with people who had their own walls up, their own armor. His eyes softened with understanding, but there was a seriousness behind them. A kindness that didn't force her to open up, but made it clear that he wouldn't leave her alone in her silence.

"Kid," he said quietly. "You can talk to me anytime. Whatever you say to me in confidence, it stays between us. You know that, right?"

She bit her lip and looked away, staring at the floor. She didn't want to burden him with her mess, with the stuff she couldn't process. She didn't want anyone to know how deep it went, how much it hurt, how terrified she was that she'd never fit in here, that she'd never be able to truly leave the Raft, Hydra, and the Red Room behind. How could she? It was everything she knew. It was part of her. The weight of all the things she had to untangle in her mind made her want to curl into herself and pretend she was still back in that cage. At least there, things made sense.

"I don't have anything to say," she muttered, her voice shaking ever so slightly. She hated how weak it sounded, but she couldn't stop it. The surgery was another fear she could add to the long list. Something that made her weak.

Sam didn't respond immediately, but Emeline could feel the change in his posture. He wasn't pulling back. He wasn't forcing her, either. He just sat there, his presence steady and unwavering.

The silence stretched, filling the room. He knew better than anyone that sometimes, words weren't enough. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

She could feel her shoulders sag slightly as the minutes passed, her mind still swirling. She'd never been able to escape the feeling of being trapped, being watched, being controlled. Even now, after everything, that feeling lingered, like a shadow she couldn't shake.

Sam, though, didn't move, didn't try to fill the space with empty words. He let the silence speak for both of them. She wasn't ready to talk. But that didn't mean she wasn't listening.

Emeline sighed softly, her eyes drifting back to him. She finally looked at him, not because she was ready to speak, but because she was starting to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, someone cared. Someone who wasn't trying to use her. Who wasn't trying to make her into something she wasn't.

"I—I don't know how to be here," she admitted quietly, her voice small, almost lost.

Sam's expression softened further. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady but compassionate. "That's okay. You're not alone here. This place is safe."

Safe. 'This place is safe' was a phrase she never thought she'd hear before. But nonetheless, it was said.

She nodded, not fully believing him, but knowing that there was some truth to it. Sam had his own demons, his own things to work through. He had every reason to be as broken as she was, but he wasn't. He had found a way to keep moving forward. And maybe that was the hardest part.

"I just want to... not think for a while," she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment.

"That's fine," Sam said softly. "But when you're ready... I'm here."

She didn't answer him, but she didn't need to. The way he said it, so quietly, so calmly, made something inside her shift. She wasn't ready to talk yet. She wasn't ready to share the pieces of herself she had hidden away. But she knew, deep down, that she didn't have to figure it all out alone. Not anymore. And for the first time in a long time, that didn't scare her.

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Bucky stood quietly at the doorway to Emme's room, his eyes fixed on her. She was unconscious, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound in the sterile room. The bandages wrapped around her side were a reminder of the fight she'd been through. Her breathing was slow, shallow, but steady. The doctor had assured everyone that she'd be okay, that the healing factor Sam mentioned would kick in soon enough, but there was something about the way she carried herself—something that stayed with her even as she slept.

He'd seen it when they'd stormed the Raft to get them out. She had been fighting—practically instinctual—taking down guards without hesitation, without the fear that should have been there. She moved with a precision that was both impressive and... familiar. It reminded him of himself back in the days when he was the Winter Soldier, moving like a weapon. Like the Winter Soldier he still was. Her body was trained for combat, but it wasn't just the moves. It was the way she held herself, the way she'd positioned herself, like she knew the battlefield without even thinking about it.

But now, she was here. Lying in a hospital bed. The broken ribs. The bruises. He couldn't shake the image of her in that fight, shoulders hunched like she was bracing for more than just the hits she was taking. Like she was protecting herself, not just physically but mentally. The guards had been brutal, and she hadn't flinched, but her body had paid the price.

He glanced at her bandaged side again. His mind kept circling back to the way she'd fought to stay standing, even when it was clear she was hurt. Like she didn't want anyone to see the weakness, like it would be worse to admit she needed help. It was the same thing he used to do—push through the pain and pretend like nothing was wrong, even when everything was falling apart. She reminded him too much of himself.

"Bucky?"

Steve's voice broke through his thoughts, and Bucky turned to see his old friend standing down the hall. His expression was cautious, but Bucky knew that look. He wasn't here to press, just to check in. It was clear he had noticed Bucky's silence, the way he hadn't moved from the doorway since he'd gotten there.

"Just... making sure the kid's okay." Bucky muttered, his voice low.

Steve nodded, stepping into the room. He didn't push the issue, but Bucky could see the concern in his eyes. They both knew what it was like to be in this kind of position—vulnerable, hurting, and unwilling to let anyone see how much it really hurt.

Steve looked at Emme, his expression softening slightly. "She seems tough. She'll make it."

"I know," Bucky muttered, his eyes back on her. "She reminds me of someone."

Steve raised an eyebrow, but Bucky didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. Steve probably knew who Bucky was talking about, even if neither of them had all the pieces. Emme was a mirror of Hydra's influence in too many ways. The way she acted like nothing phased her, the way she never showed weakness, even when she was clearly hurt. It was all too familiar. But there was also a resemblance to Steve, how she stood her ground and didn't back down.

"I've seen that look before," Bucky added, almost to himself. "Like... she doesn't trust anyone enough to let them help."

Steve didn't reply right away. He just glanced at Emme, then back at Bucky, clearly understanding what he meant. They both knew what it was like to hold everything inside, to refuse help, to act like the weight of the world didn't matter.

"She's going to need someone to talk to," Steve said after a long pause. He thought back to when they heard the word 'hydra' come out of Sam's mouth on the quinjet. "And... you should be there when she does."

Bucky didn't respond. He just nodded, his eyes still on Emme. It wasn't a heartfelt promise, and it didn't need to be. He didn't need to say it out loud—he would be there for her. She wasn't alone. Neither of them were.

"I know," Bucky said quietly. "But I don't think she knows that yet." I certainly didn't.

Steve didn't say anything else. He gave Bucky a few moments to himself before walking out of the room, leaving him alone with Emme again.

But one thing was clear: she wasn't alone anymore. And he wouldn't let her be.

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A few hours later Emeline's side was still sore but the pain at least manageable now. The steady beeping of the monitor beside her was oddly comforting in its predictability. It was quiet, and for a moment, she could almost convince herself she was safe. Almost.

The soft creak of the door broke her brief respite, and she looked up to see Peter Parker stepping inside, holding a water bottle in one hand. He looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes scanning the room as though unsure of how to approach her.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping in further. "I, uh, brought you some water." He set the bottle on the nightstand but didn't sit down. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to her bandaged side before meeting her eyes.

Emeline gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Thanks." Her voice was quieter than she intended, but she didn't have the energy to pretend to be anything more than what she was right now. Tired. Worn out. Scared. Waiting.

Peter lingered for a moment, clearly trying to find the right words. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, less the usual rapid-fire chatter she was used to from him. As if he were walking on eggshells around her, exactly what she didn't want. "Can I ask you something?"

She raised an eyebrow but didn't answer. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

"Back when they took you... I don't understand. Why didn't you fight back? You could've done something. You could've taken them down." His words were hesitant, but the question had been on his mind since that day, ever since it happened. "You didn't... You didn't even try."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Emeline couldn't bring herself to speak. The memories rushed back—Ross and those agents, their guns aimed at her and Peter, the fear that had twisted through her gut when she realized the situation was beyond her control. And the one thing that kept running through her mind, the only thing that mattered in that moment, was him.

"I didn't want them to hurt you," she finally said, her voice quiet and fragile, like it might break apart if she spoke any louder. She kept her eyes focused on her hands, not daring to look up at Peter's face. "They would've hurt you if I fought."

Peter's breath caught, and he took a hesitant step forward, his expression softening. "You—" he stopped himself, his words caught in his throat. "I'm sorry."

She finally met his eyes, and there was a depth of sadness in her gaze that he hadn't expected. Her eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to reflect everything she'd been through—the loss, the fear, the isolation. She didn't have to explain it all. He could see it in her.

"I couldn't let them hurt you," she repeated, as if the words were all she had left to explain herself. "I don't matter. You do."

Peter stood there, speechless for a moment. He wanted to say something, anything, to make her feel better, but the truth was, he didn't know how. He knew what it was like to feel like you didn't matter, to put everyone else first and ignore your own pain. But he didn't know how to make her see that she did matter. That she wasn't broken, no matter how much it seemed like she was.

"I'm still sorry," Peter repeated, his voice low. "I should've done something."

Emeline didn't answer right away. Instead, she just closed her eyes for a moment, trying to block out the memories that kept replaying in her head. The feeling of helplessness. The sound of Peter's voice when he tried to reach her. And the way she had to walk away from him, knowing it would be the last time she'd see him... or so she thought.

"You couldn't have," she said softly, even if he was spiderman, she wasn't able to take that risk. She looked back up at him, her expression still distant but with a trace of something—something she didn't know how to name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her she didn't need to carry that burden on her own, that he was here for her, but he didn't know how. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his face soft with understanding.

"I get it," he said quietly. "I really do."

There was a long silence between them, neither one knowing quite what to say. But in that silence, Emeline felt a small sense of comfort. Even if she couldn't say the words out loud, even if she couldn't fully explain the weight of her choices, Peter understood. And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel like she was alone in carrying that weight.

"You should get some sleep," Peter said finally, breaking the silence. He didn't want to push her too hard. "But I'll be here."

Emeline nodded, her gaze flicking back to the ceiling as she tried to steady her breathing. She didn't need to say much more, and Peter knew.

He hesitated for a moment, then placed a hand on the back of the chair he'd been sitting in, giving her a final, gentle smile. "I'm really glad you're here, Emme," he said, his voice quiet but sincere. "We're all glad you're here."

And with that, he left the room, giving her the space she needed, but leaving behind a reminder that she wasn't truly alone anymore.

Chapter Text

(( October 14th, 2016 - New York ))

EMELINE woke slowly, the world around her felt like it was still trying to catch up. She blinked at the sterile white ceiling, the soft hum of the heart monitor a constant reminder that she wasn't alone in the room, even if she felt miles away from everything. Her side throbbed, the dull ache almost comforting compared to the chaos of the last few days. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it was clear she wasn't on the Raft anymore. The quiet was different.

Her eyes drifted to the small window on the far side of the room, the light spilling through it hazy and soft. The door creaked open behind her, and she shifted slightly, watching as Sam and Clint walked in, carrying a tray of food between them. Clint's grin was wide as usual, but there was something a little softer about it today. Sam's expression was more focused—he always did look after people, didn't he?

"Hey, Emme. How're you feeling?" Sam asked, his tone low, like he was trying not to disturb her too much.

"Fine," she muttered, her voice hoarse. It was true, in a way. She wasn't in pain so much as a dull throb now, but everything else felt off. She didn't feel quite right, like there was a foreignness to the world she was trying to adjust to.

Clint, as always, was the first to speak. "Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living." He stepped forward, holding a large plate of food in his hands, the smell of it wafting toward her. "I figured I'd introduce you to the wonders of civilization."

He plopped the plate down on the side table with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. "Here you go," he said, settling into the chair next to her bed. "We got you the good stuff. A sandwich, chips. The real deal. No bread-and-butter nonsense this time."

She blinked at the plate, taking in the variety of chips, the sandwich stacked high with meats and cheese. It looked so normal, so simple, and yet...

"We got all different kinds," Sam said, his voice warm and a little amused. "Not your usual survival food."

Emeline nodded quietly, her stomach growling at the sight, though she wasn't sure if she was ready for it. There was a part of her that wasn't sure how to approach the food in front of her, unsure if it was okay to just enjoy it. Everything in Hydra was about efficiency, calories to survive and train, nothing more. But here? Here, it looked like people actually cared about what went into their bodies.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the sandwich, hesitating for a moment. It felt foreign. She took a small bite. It was rich, filling, and strange, like something she could enjoy, but still, it felt almost... overwhelming. She chewed slowly, trying to force herself to relax and swallow, but the sensation of something so indulgent was so foreign.

Clint noticed her hesitation and leaned forward, giving her a knowing look. "Yeah, it's a lot, huh? Don't worry. We'll work you up to a second helping of chips." He flashed her a grin, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

Emeline nodded, her throat tight as she swallowed the bite of sandwich. She grabbed a few chips next, trying to distract herself. The flavors were interesting—she liked the barbecue ones the best.

She let herself eat a little more, taking another bite, chewing more comfortably. The action felt so natural, but the feeling was foreign. Every bite, every chip, reminded her of how different things were now—how different she was, or was trying to be. A small part of her felt unworthy of it, but she kept eating.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You like it?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, his grin not quite hiding the pride behind it.

Emeline nodded slightly, the tiniest bit of surprise in her expression. "Yeah," she muttered, her voice quieter than usual.

As she ate, Sam and Clint carried on their conversation, but she didn't pay much attention. It was more like background noise. She was focused on the sandwich, the chips, the way the food felt in her mouth. It was so... normal. So different from everything she'd known.

She reached for more chips, but her fingers froze halfway through when the door swung open again. Dr. Cho entered the room with a gentle smile, her eyes scanning Emeline quickly.

"Ah, I finally catch you awake," Dr. Cho said, her voice calm and friendly. "I'm glad to see you're doing better. Though, I must admit, you really shouldn't be eating just yet."

Emeline froze, the chip halfway to her mouth. She felt her chest tighten slightly, as if she were being caught doing something wrong. She quickly nudged the plate away from her, a reflexive move born from years of being told what was or wasn't allowed.

Dr. Cho's smile didn't falter. "But since you're out of the woods," she said, her voice light, "I'll allow it. You're healing well enough that I think you can manage a little food. Just don't overdo it."

Emeline glanced at the plate again, then back at Dr. Cho, who was watching her with an understanding gaze. It was strange, feeling like she wasn't being told what to do, but instead, given permission. A choice.

Sam caught her eye, his face soft but still steady. "Don't worry, Emme," he said, his tone light, as if he were giving her the space to decide what came next.

Emeline swallowed, her fingers curling back around the sandwich. She was still hesitant, but she took another bite, slower this time. It wasn't about the food—it was about something else. Something deeper.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it was a quiet understanding between them all. No one was forcing anything. No one was expecting anything. They were just... here.

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She sat quietly in her hospital bed, staring out the window at the city skyline beyond. She hadn't yet figured out how to process all of it—the kindness, the normalcy, the fact that she wasn't running for her life every minute. She still felt out of place, like a stranger in a world she didn't understand.

The door creaked open, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned to see Tony Stark standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with his trademark smirk in place.

"Hey, kid," Tony said, his tone light but carrying that familiar sense of cocky confidence that she'd grown used to hearing. "How's the enhanced recovery going? You feel normal again?"

Emeline gave him a small, tight-lipped smile but didn't respond right away. She wasn't sure what to say. The truth was, she was still far from feeling "normal." But it was easier to just nod and let him think she was fine.

"I'm okay," she murmured, turning her gaze back to the window.

Tony didn't press her. He simply took a few steps into the room, his eyes glancing briefly at her neck—where the collar still sat, hidden beneath her shirt. He looked at her for a moment longer before speaking again. "So, I've been working on getting that collar off you," he said, his voice suddenly a little more serious. "Shouldn't be too much longer. Just have to tweak a few things."

Emeline froze, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She hadn't thought about the collar in a while—she'd almost forgotten it was still there, still a part of her. But hearing Tony say that, so casually, brought everything rushing back. The memory of the shock, the pain, the way it made her feel like nothing more than a machine to be controlled.

She swallowed hard, feeling her stomach tighten.

"You're really going to take it off?" Her voice was quieter than usual, tinged with uncertainty. She didn't know how to feel about it. On one hand, she was relieved—someone was willing to help her. But on the other, the collar had been there for so long, it almost felt like a part of her now. The idea of being free of it was terrifying in its own way.

Tony's gaze softened just a little, his playful demeanor still hanging on but with a flicker of something more sincere behind it. "Yeah, really. I'm not in the habit of leaving people with that kind of thing around their necks." He shrugged, his grin returning as he took a step closer. "You shouldn't have to live with it. I'll take care of it, kid. I promise."

Emeline didn't respond right away, still processing his words. It was a huge offer, one she hadn't expected. Tony Stark, the billionaire genius, was offering to help her out. It felt almost... too easy, too good to be true. She wasn't used to that. Not after everything she'd been through.

She stayed silent for a few moments, her fingers absently tracing the fabric of her blanket. She wasn't sure how to say it, but she had to admit, there was still a part of her that wasn't sure if she could trust him—could trust anyone, really.

Tony, seeming to sense her hesitation, spoke again, this time with a little more ease. "I get it. No one trusts me right off the bat either. But I'm not gonna let you walk around in that thing forever, alright?"

Emeline glanced up at him, her eyes wary but also searching. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The silence between them felt like an unspoken agreement—she didn't trust him completely yet, and he didn't expect her to.

Instead, Tony switched gears, his voice lightening again as he looked around her room. "I've been talking to Sam," he said casually, "and they mentioned you might need a place to stay." He paused, then gestured toward the hall with a wave of his hand. "So, how about it? You want a room here?"

Emeline blinked, caught off guard. A room? In the Tower? She hadn't expected that—any of it, really. The idea of living here, staying somewhere safe, was a foreign concept to her. It felt like a dream she didn't want to wake up from.

Tony, sensing her uncertainty, shrugged nonchalantly. "I've got extra space, I'm not saying you have to make it your forever home, but it's there if you need it."

She still didn't know how to respond, her thoughts a mess of uncertainty and confusion. She wasn't used to this kind of generosity. People didn't just offer you a place without expecting something in return, did they?

Tony smirked, clearly sensing the confusion written on her face. "And just so you know, Peter would've made you say yes," he added, a playful gleam in his eye. "Trust me on that one. He's got this... thing where he doesn't take 'no' for an answer when it comes to helping people."

Emeline's breath hitched at the mention of Peter. Even though she saw him yesterday, just thinking of him brought a wave of warmth, of something familiar. Peter had always made her feel like she mattered. And if he trusted Tony, maybe—just maybe—that meant she could too.

Tony grinned at her again. "So, what do you think? You in for the room?"

Emeline hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing on her, but something in her—something she couldn't quite name—urged her to take a chance. Maybe she could trust him, or at least trust that he was trying.

"Okay," she said softly, her voice small but steady. "I'll take the room."

Tony's grin widened. "Smart choice, kid. And don't worry, that collar's coming off soon. No more shock therapy."

Emeline offered a faint smile in return.

As if on cue, the door to the room opened again, and Dr. Cho walked in, carrying a few medical supplies. She smiled when she saw Tony standing there, and then her eyes flicked to Emeline.

"Ready to get out of that bed, Miss Emeline?" Dr. Cho asked in her usual calm tone, setting the supplies down on the table next to Emeline.

Emeline's chest tightened at the thought, but she knew it was time. She had to try. She had to start somewhere.

"I think so," she said, her voice small.

Dr. Cho looked at her with a knowing expression, then turned to Tony. "She's doing well. I'll help her with the mobility exercises."

Chapter Text

(( September 15th, 2016 - New York ))

EMELINE stood by the window in her new room, staring out at the city below. The lights of New York twinkled, too bright to be peaceful, but she supposed it tried to be. Looking in the reflection of her own face seemed almost like a stranger's, the pale skin, choppy dark hair, the sharp features, the eyes that had seen too much. She barely recognized herself anymore. Not that she ever did.

She'd fought so hard to get here, to leave the Raft, to leave Hydra, but some parts of her were still tethered—tethered to the past. The walls kept her contained in a way she didn't know how to escape.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the dresser, the wood polished to a gleam, the feeling grounding her in the quiet of the space. It wasn't much, just a room and a bathroom. But it was different. No bars, no walls, no cold concrete. Something that was hers. She'd force herself to be grateful for this place she didn't deserve.

She didn't even know how to sleep in a bed like this. It felt too soft. Too... peaceful.

She thought she might get used to the loudness here, but she hadn't. Meanwhile silence, for her, was a necessity. It echoed in her chest, around her thoughts, and all the way down to her bones.

It was then that she heard the footsteps—quiet but purposeful—coming closer. Emeline didn't have to look to know who it was. She'd known the presence for too long. A soft exhale followed, and she knew who was standing in the doorway.

"Emeline," Natasha said softly. It wasn't a question. Just her name, simple and familiar.

Emeline didn't turn around. Instead, her eyes stayed fixed on the city skyline. She couldn't look at Natasha. Not yet.

"You gonna talk to me?" Natasha's voice was calm, but there was a note of something in it, something unfamiliar. "Or keep acting like I don't exist?"

The words sat heavy in the room, and Emeline finally let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She knew Natasha was giving her space. She always did. But there was only so much space one could take before it started to feel suffocating.

But she stiffened, trying to keep her focus on the room, on the stillness around her. But the pressure was too much. Natasha had always known how to read her, how to see beneath the walls Emeline built around herself.

"I'm sorry," Emeline whispered. Her voice felt too small, too fragile to fill the space between them.

The woman who had always been a whisper in her life, who had protected her, even when Emeline couldn't protect herself. The woman who had taught her what a sliver of kindness could feel like amidst all the hate, even when Emeline had been nothing more than a tool, a weapon, a puppet on strings.

There was silence on the other end, a pause that stretched long enough for Emeline to almost think Natasha would leave her to stew in it. But Natasha was too patient for that.

"It's not your fault," Natasha replied, her tone quiet but resolute. "I wasn't sure you remembered me anyway."

Emeline swallowed hard at those words. The thought of Natasha thinking she might have forgotten her was almost unbearable. There was a time when Natasha had been the only constant, the only person who'd shown her something that resembled care. A time when she felt comfortable enough to call her mama.

"I do, красный," Emeline said, the words coming easier now, though still tinged with uncertainty. "I remember."

The nickname slipped out, and Natasha's face softened ever so slightly at hearing it. Red, like her hair. It had been so long since Emeline had said it, so long since they'd been in the same place, at the same time. She was still the girl Natasha had known in the Red Room, or at least a version of her. But Emeline wasn't sure who she was anymore.

The silence between them thickened, but this time, it didn't feel as heavy.

Finally, Natasha spoke, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I tried, you know. Tried to get you out of there."

Emeline's chest tightened at the words, but she said nothing, letting Natasha continue.

"I thought about that night a thousand times," Natasha continued, her gaze distant as though seeing the events unfold in her mind's eye. "I knew they'd come for me. I knew I had to leave, but I couldn't—couldn't get you out in time."

Emeline's fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, her knuckles white. She didn't look at Natasha, but she felt her eyes on her, felt the weight of the guilt that Natasha wore so openly.

Emeline remembered. She found out on the raft during one of Clint's many stories, how he met Natasha, making sure not to give away all the details. It was around the time she left the red room, a little after, and Natasha tried to come back for her.

"I was so close," Natasha murmured, her voice lowering. "You were right there. I was ready to take you, but... but I couldn't. I had to leave,."

There was an undercurrent of guilt in Natasha's words, something raw. She had always been the soldier, always the one who did the right thing even when it was hard. But this... this was different. She hadn't been able to protect Emeline then. She hadn't been able to save her from Hydra or the Red Room. And even now, years later, it still haunted her.

Emeline felt the knot in her chest tighten, but she didn't speak. She didn't need to. Natasha didn't expect forgiveness. Natasha didn't expect her to say that it was okay, that she understood.

Emeline hadn't blamed her. Not then, not now. There was no part of her that held that against Natasha. She knew the Red Room, knew the ways it twisted people, used them until they were nothing but broken pieces. Natasha had been one of those pieces, just like her.

But Emeline didn't know how to say that to her. So, she stayed quiet.

Finally, Natasha spoke again, her voice softer but firm. "I just want you to know that I did everything I could. I never wanted to leave you there."

Emeline inhaled deeply, feeling the pressure in her chest loosen just a little. She knew Natasha meant it. She didn't need the words. Not really. But she was still scared—scared of trusting again, scared of what would happen if she let herself believe it was true.

She let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of everything they hadn't said, everything that still hung in the air. And then, without looking at Natasha, she said something small, something barely above a whisper: "I never blamed you."

Natasha's eyes softened, but she said nothing. She understood. There was nothing more to be said.

But there was something else in the air now—something Emeline hadn't quite been able to place. She could feel it, the hesitation in Natasha's gaze. A flicker of something, something unspoken that was heavier than all the guilt Natasha had shared with her. It wasn't quite fear, but it was close. A vulnerability Emeline didn't often see in the woman who had always been so confident, so composed.

For a moment, their eyes met, and Emeline could see it clearly in Natasha's expression—an unspoken thought, a hesitation that lingered. She wondered if Natasha had been about to say something else, something deeper, but had stopped herself. Maybe she was holding back for Emeline's sake.

Emeline didn't ask. It wasn't the time.

She looked away, back at the view outside the window, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her. She could feel Natasha still standing there, still watching her, but she wasn't crowding her. She wasn't pushing.

"Emeline," Natasha said again, this time with a touch of finality. "When you're ready... I'll be here."

Emeline nodded, her throat tight but unspoken. The words were enough.

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The memories always came back in flashes—bright, jagged pieces of a past that Natasha Romanoff had spent years trying to bury. Some moments were clearer than others, but they all had one thing in common: they were impossible to forget. Especially the night she tried—and failed—to rescue Emeline from the Red Room.

It had been nine years ago, 2007. Natasha was still firmly entrenched in the grip of the Red Room, though her thoughts were beginning to shift, slowly but surely.

But it was that night—the night of the mission—that had set everything in motion.

Clint Barton had found her, in the middle of a mission to eliminate a target for S.H.I.E.L.D., and in one simple moment, he made a call that changed everything. He made her question who she was, what side she was on, and whether she could truly walk away from the Red Room. He had talked her into leaving. He had made her see that there was a choice beyond this life—one where she could start over, where she could be something other than a weapon.

But she didn't forget about Emeline.

Nick Fury was the only one who knew about Emeline—the little girl who had been twisted and trained to be a soldier in Hydra's and the Red Room's cruel games. Natasha hadn't spoken to anyone else about her. Not Clint, not anyone. Fury had understood. He knew that Natasha had been trying to protect Emeline, trying to get her out for years. She'd been working for S.H.I.E.L.D. under Nick Fury's watchful eye, but the weight of her past was always there, heavy, reminding her of the broken pieces inside her.

One night, Natasha was close. She was so close to breaking Emeline out of that hellhole, but the mission took a turn she hadn't anticipated. She was supposed to be in and out—quick, clean, and quiet. But the moment she stepped into that familiar, sterile, cold corridor, everything started to go wrong.

-----

The cold metal walls of the Red Room facility pressed in on Natasha as she moved like a shadow through the halls. She had trained in this place. She had lived in this place. She knew its every creak and groan, its every hallway and locked door. But tonight felt different. It wasn't just about getting herself out anymore. It was about getting Emeline.

Her heart raced in her chest, and every step felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were trying to crush her with their silent weight. She knew time was running out. They would be onto her soon. She had to move fast.

She reached the cell block. The cells were cold and lifeless, and yet, she felt the weight of each one—the children who had been left behind, the ones whose minds were still being twisted and broken, molded into weapons.

And there, in the far corner, was Emeline. A child, barely seven years old, with eyes far too old for someone so young. Eyes that had already seen too much.

Natasha's breath hitched in her throat. She had been to that cell before, had seen Emeline a hundred times, but it was always from a distance, always when she had to look away. This time was different. This time, she wasn't leaving without her.

She crept to the cell door and peered inside. Emeline was sitting on the cold floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her face hidden in the shadow of her disheveled hair. She looked small, fragile in a way that Natasha couldn't quite reconcile with the hardened, trained soldier that she knew Emeline would eventually become if she stayed.

She had to get her out.

Natasha pulled out a small, sleek device from her pocket—an EMP, enough to disable the facility's security systems for a few minutes. Just long enough to get Emeline and get out. But as she prepared to activate it, a loud alarm echoed through the hall. Someone had noticed. The countdown was on.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she didn't hesitate. She hit the button, and the lights flickered. The humming sound of the facility's systems sputtered and died. For a moment, everything was silent. Natasha rushed to Emeline's cell, and when she touched the door, it slid open with a soft hiss.

"Emeline," Natasha whispered urgently, her voice a low command that Emeline should have understood. "Come on. We need to go."

Emeline woke up, her big eyes wide with confusion, with fear. She didn't understand. She couldn't.

"Come with me," Natasha said again, her voice a little softer this time, but still edged with panic. "I'm here to take you away from this place."

But Emeline didn't move. She stayed frozen, her small body trembling, eyes darting around the hall as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening. Her lips parted, and for a moment, Natasha thought she was going to say something.

"What?" Emeline's voice was so small as she stared at her, those innocent eyes filled with confusion and fear. Her mind had been twisted, too thoroughly trained to not understand that someone wanted to help her. She couldn't process what Natasha was offering. As far as she knew, leaving would mean getting punished.

"моя звезда, I can't leave you here," Natasha said, her voice breaking for the first time since she'd walked through the door. Almost pleading.

But she knew. She knew what had to happen. The footsteps were getting closer, the sounds of guards moving through the halls growing louder. If she stayed any longer, she would be captured. If they got her, Emeline would be left alone again, and the two of them would never be together.

She made the hardest decision of her life in that moment.

"I'll come back for you, I swear it," Natasha whispered, and in the blink of an eye, she turned and ran, slipping back into the shadows, leaving Emeline behind once more.

She could hear Emeline's voice, small and quiet, calling her name from the distance.

"Мамочка." Emeline's voice was barely a breath, but Natasha heard it. She heard it all the same.

She paused for a fraction of a second, but she kept moving. She had to.

-----

Natasha stood in the darkened quiet of the Avengers Tower, her mind reeling. The weight of that night still clung to her, still pressed on her chest every time she thought about it. It was a weight she would never shed.

She had made the only choice she could have made. If she had been captured, both she and Emeline would have been lost, punished. But she had promised herself, and Emeline, that she would come back for her. But she hadn't.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

A flash of doubt crossed her face as she stared out the window, the city lights twinkling below.

What had that little girl seen in her eyes when she'd left? Fear? Confusion? Had she blamed her? Did she still? Even though Emeline had answered her earlier, she would never be sure.

Yet, she still couldn't shake the memory of Emeline's face, frozen in that moment, unable to understand why Natasha was leaving her behind. It was a scar on her soul that she wasn't sure would ever heal.

The difference between the Emeline Natasha had left in Russia nine years ago and the one standing before her now was so profound, it was almost impossible to grasp.

Back then, Emeline barely spoke, offering only a handful of words each day, often just a single one unless danger triggered her survival instincts. During those rare moments when Natasha managed to create a sense of safety, Emeline would speak like a child, full of hope.

Now, nearly a decade later, in the presence of trusted people and security, Natasha could see that Emeline was starting to let her guard down. But not enough—not yet.

Fury was the only one who understood. The only one who knew the truth about her and Emeline—about the bond they shared. The bond that was forged in the fire of the Red Room. But even he didn't know how much it hurt.

Chapter Text

(( September 16th, 2016 - New York ))

EMELINE woke up on the cold, polished floor of her room, a soft layer of morning light spilling in through the window. She hadn't been able to sleep in the bed; it was too soft, too foreign. The floor was harder, but at least it felt familiar. It didn't help the nightmares though. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. The previous night's conversation still echoed in her head—the quiet guilt in Natasha's voice, the hesitation in Emeline's own. There were a lot of things left unsaid, but she didn't know how to fill the silence without making it worse.

She shifted, suddenly she brushed her hand against the shock collar. There it was. Now she was starting to forget it was there, and that's what was even more scary.

Sitting up, she stretched, then glanced over at the bed again, thinking for a brief moment she might give it another try. But no. The bed was too... cozy, too much like something she wasn't sure she deserved. With a small grunt, she pushed herself to her feet and made her way out into the hallway, instinctively heading for the kitchen.

As she walked, she took a moment to enjoy the softness of the clothes she had been wearing, sweatpants and simple t-shirt. Wanda had dropped off a box of extra clothes earlier the other day that she and Natasha had gathered for her to wear, even though Tony insisted he buy new things. Emeline didn't want to be another burden.

As she rounded the corner, she froze, nearly colliding with Sam, who was pouring coffee into a mug. He turned, raising an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see her up and moving so early. "Hey, didn't expect to see you up this early," he said, a small but genuine smile on his face.

Sam's smile was easy, a little teasing but with a softness that Emeline didn't entirely know how to handle. She had spent a lot of time with him on the Raft—he'd been there, helping in small ways, always checking in. He wasn't as intense as Natasha, but he was persistent in a way that felt almost soothing. Unlike most people, Sam didn't push her to talk, but he always made it clear he was ready to listen if she did. That was probably why she felt more comfortable with him than anyone else, even if the idea of letting someone see her fully unsettled her.

"I didn't plan on it," she said in a low voice, her eyes flicking to the coffee he was holding. She'd never really gotten used to drinking it, but it felt like something she was supposed to know about.

Sam chuckled lightly, handing her the mug. "You look like you need it. Trust me, you don't want to go through the day without it."

She hesitated, but the warmth of the cup in her hands was comforting in its own way, so she accepted it. He didn't say anything more, letting the silence settle between them like an old acquaintance.

"I was about to head out for a run," Sam said after a moment. "You should join. Steve and Bucky are already up, and," He smiled again, a knowing look crossing his face. "You might actually enjoy it. It helps."

Emeline considered it for a second. Running wasn't exactly something she did for fun, but she'd run a lot in her life. Usually from things, or at them. And yet, there was something almost relaxing about the thought of it—about moving her body, not being still for once. She had a fleeting thought that maybe it was worth a try.

"Yeah, why not," she said, voice flat but willing.

Sam nodded, like he'd expected that response. "I'll warn you, though," he said, his grin widening. "Steve's gonna give you the whole 'on your left' thing. Watch out."

Emeline didn't answer at first, just took a sip of the coffee, the bitterness coating her tongue. She wasn't much of a runner, but she could keep up. If not, she'd just slow down and slip back into the silence she was most comfortable with. A win-win.

They made their way out of the kitchen, and as they hit the elevator, Sam added, "It's nice, y'know. Running with those guys. A little break from everything."

Bucky wasn't far behind them, entering the elevator without a word. He didn't need to say much. There were some things you just didn't have to explain to people who got it. And Bucky? He got it. Sam and Steve both did, but Bucky carried his pain in a way that felt heavy, just like hers. There was a shared understanding between them, even if neither of them had ever said it outright.

When the elevator doors opened, Steve was already standing there, stretching, looking like he was ready to break into a sprint the second they stepped outside.

"Ready to eat my dust?" Steve said, shooting a quick glance at Emeline. She raised an eyebrow, still uncertain. He was fit, but her legs were made for this. She was a soldier too.

"Not gonna happen," Emeline muttered. She could already feel the tension leave her body, the nervousness replaced by something resembling focus.

Sam shot Steve a look as they all filed out, ready to make their way down to the park nearby. "We'll see," he said, making eye contact with Steve as if they were sharing a secret. "Don't get too cocky, Rogers."

Steve smiled back at Sam, the kind of smile that meant they'd said this a thousand times before, and Emeline knew exactly what Sam meant. They had this weird inside joke. When they ran together, Sam had always been the one to fall behind, and Steve always threw that "on your left" line when he passed Sam in the first minute. It was some weird version of friendly competition, but it worked for them. And Steve was right—Sam wasn't a super soldier. He was strong, he could hold his own, but he couldn't match them.

Once they reached the park, they got started. Sam immediately fell behind, as expected, but Bucky and Steve surged ahead. Emeline didn't hesitate to follow.

The weather in September in New York was something else entirely—a crispness in the air that seemed to slice through everything, like it had a purpose. It wasn't quite cold yet, but there was a certain bite to it, the kind that made her pull the sleeves of her shirt down instinctively, even if she didn't really need to. The breeze carried the smell of damp leaves and something faintly metallic, like the city itself was trying to shake off the remnants of summer.

Walking down the street, the wind tugged at her hair, making the loose strands stick to her face. The trees lining the avenues had begun their transformation, their leaves a mess of fiery reds and golden yellows, scattered across the sidewalk like confetti—bright against the gray of the city's steel skeleton. It was the kind of weather that made her want to stay outside, despite the chill in her bones, just to feel the bite of the air and watch the world change around her.

The days were still warm enough that the sun felt like a gift, but the nights came in fast and cold, the kind of cold that made everything feel a little more fragile. People wore scarves and jackets, their footsteps quickening as the daylight started to fade. The city buzzed with the rhythm of September: the leaves, the wind, the early dusk that crept in like a shadow over everything.

For her, the weather was a reminder of everything she couldn't quite shake—like the fleeting warmth of summer before the weight of winter hit. But it was also something quieter, a moment of transition, like the season itself was caught between letting go and holding on. It was raw. Real. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to make you feel everything at once.

The initial shock of the cold air on her skin was a reminder that this was no ordinary jog. It felt different, faster, like the air was being pulled through her lungs by something more than just muscle and willpower.

They ran for a few miles, and as they reached a stretch along a quiet path, Emeline's breathing remained steady. She wasn't winded like Sam, and she didn't slow down. In fact, she passed Steve just as he gave his usual "on your left" line, that familiar taunt, but this time it was Emeline's voice saying it. She pushed herself ahead.

Sam called out from behind, huffing but still smiling, "Nice try. Don't get cocky now."

Emeline didn't answer. She wasn't cocky, just focused. Running wasn't about beating them—it was about proving she could keep up. And in that moment, it was enough.

By the time they wrapped up the run, with Steve and Bucky both visibly winded but not complaining, Sam was the last to finish, jogging in slowly.

"Next time," Sam said between breaths, throwing her a quick wink, "you gotta make sure I don't get left behind."

Emeline didn't say anything, just nodded, feeling the sweat dry on her back as she stood there. Running with them had been... almost enjoyable. Not something she would have expected, but something she could get used to.

And just like that, the tension in her chest, the constant weight she carried, felt just a little bit lighter.

For a moment, it was almost like the run had made her forget the shadows in her mind.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Emeline sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at her reflection in the large tv she still hadn't turned on. Her room was quiet, a little too quiet, and the feeling pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn't shake. She had gotten used to the constant noise of the Raft, the alarms, the voices of the guards, the distant echo of other prisoners. But this—this stillness—was suffocating in a different way.

She was just about to stand up and pace around the room when the voice of Friday, Tony's AI, echoed in the air. She was still getting used to it.

"Miss Emeline, Mr. Stark would like to see you in his lab."

She didn't respond right away. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him, but something about the suddenness of the request always made her wary. Still, she couldn't stay locked in this room forever. Despite the fact that when she went running this morning, she almost felt free. Emeline stood, brushing off the restlessness, and made her way out into the hallway.

Walking through the halls of the Avengers Tower felt like wandering through a strange, unfamiliar world. The echoes of her footsteps seemed too loud in the vast space, but she was getting used to it. The walls, the floors, the rooms—everything was so different from what she'd known for so long. She felt small here, even though she wasn't.

When she finally reached Tony's lab, the door slid open with a soft hiss, and she stepped inside. He was there, hunched over a table, hands moving deftly over some mechanical device. He didn't look up right away, too absorbed in whatever project he was working on. She shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, unsure if she should interrupt or just wait for him to notice her.

He finally looked up, a knowing smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, well," he said, setting down his tools with exaggerated slowness. "Glad you could make it."

Emeline's stomach tightened at the mention of the collar. The cold metal band had been around her neck ever since she was brought to the Raft. Every time she tried to remove it, or pissed off the guards, it shocked her, sending waves of excruciating pain through her body. The memory of the burns, the pulse of electricity that made her muscles seize up, still haunted her. Reminded her.

"Take a seat," Tony said, gesturing to the chair beside the table. "This should only take a second."

Emeline hesitated. But there was something in Tony's voice—something genuine—that made her step forward and lower herself into the chair. Her hand instinctively went to the collar, fingers brushing the cold metal as if it was a part of her now. She didn't know if she wanted to rip it off or leave it in place forever. But the thought of the shock—that brutal, agonizing shock—kept her from doing anything impulsive.

Tony pulled up a chair next to her, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His eyes were focused now, scanning the collar with the same intensity he gave to anything that involved technology, no matter how personal. If he cared about the weight of the moment, he didn't show it. Perhaps to him, it was just another broken gadget.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, fiddling with a small panel near the base of the collar. "This should be it. No more shocks for you. You've been through enough."

Emeline's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn't sure if she was nervous about the collar coming off or about the possibility that it wouldn't. Tony ignored the way her body had gone rigid, the tension building in her shoulders. He focused on the task at hand, his hands quick and precise as he worked.

Then, with a small click, the collar's hum died down.

"Done," Tony said, his voice casual. He leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, and gave her a look that seemed almost amused. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

Emeline didn't say anything at first, she was too focused on the collar. Now there was no hum. She moved her hands up to it, to see if the slight vibrations had died down as well.

But then, as she pulled her fingers away, a small shock surged through the collar, just enough to jolt her body, not nearly as bad as before but enough to make her flinch. Her muscles tensed involuntarily, the sensation sharp enough to send a shock of panic through her chest.

She gasped, her breath hitching as the fear set in.

Tony's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing in immediate concern. He finally slid the device off her neck.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said quickly, his hands held up as if he could somehow comfort her with gestures alone. "It's just a safety trigger. The collar wasn't completely deactivated until I did a manual override. But it's off now. It won't shock you again."

Emeline's heart hammered in her chest, but she didn't say anything. Her fingers dug into the armrest of the chair, trying to ground herself. She didn't care that Tony was there, that he was watching her with those worried eyes. She let her face fall, her breath coming out in short, shallow gasps. She didn't care. She was just so relieved. It felt like she could finally breathe.

The weight was gone. For the first time in months, there was nothing pressing against her skin, nothing to remind her of her imprisonment. She reached up instinctively, her fingers trembling as she touched the spot where the collar had been. It felt... freeing.

Tony watched her for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as if unsure of what to say. His usual confident, snarky demeanor was absent, replaced with something a little more subdued.

After a beat, he cleared his throat.

"Alright, I'll take that as a 'thank you,'" he said, his voice dry but not unkind. "I'll work on making sure that doesn't happen again."

Emeline let out a long, shaky breath. The emotional weight was finally hitting her, but she didn't know how to deal with it. She wasn't used to this, to feeling something other than cold detachment or pain. She couldn't bring herself to look at Tony. She wasn't sure if she wanted to let him see how much the relief was starting to break through her walls.

But she couldn't help it. The tears came anyway, hot and uninvited, welling up in her eyes before she could blink them away. Her throat tightened, and her chest ached with something unfamiliar. It was just so much.

She didn't care about the emotions. She didn't care about the vulnerability that Tony was witnessing. In this moment, it didn't matter.

"Thank you."

Tony sat there quietly, not moving. She could feel his gaze on her, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

"You're welcome," he said after a moment, his voice quiet, softer than usual.

Emeline wiped at her eyes, trying to pull herself together, but the tears kept coming. She didn't have to hide it anymore. At least, not right now.

Tony didn't say anything more. He just let her be.

For a few moments, the room was filled only with the quiet hum of the lab's machines and the sound of her shaky breaths.

Finally, Emeline exhaled, feeling the tension loosen in her shoulders for the first time in ages.

Tony stood up, moving back to his workbench. "You're free to go. I'll let you know if I find anything else you need to know about this thing."

She nodded, though she didn't trust her voice to say anything. As she walked out of the lab, the door sliding shut softly behind her, Emeline help but feel embarrased, but she brushed it off as quickly as she walked.

But what she didn't know was, for the first time, Tony had voluntarily destroyed a gadget.

Chapter Text

(( September 16th - New York ))

SHE wasn't sure why she ended up in front of Wanda's door. Her hand was hovering over the panel before she finally knocked. The air in the hallway felt thick with her hesitation, but something pulled her to this moment. She didn't really know why. Everyone seemed to be gone for the day. Maybe it was the silence of the past few hours after she'd gotten the collar off, the weird, unsettling stillness in her chest. Or maybe it was just that, even with the time she'd spent on the Raft, she'd never really had the chance to talk to Wanda much. However, they shared something. A kind of understanding, maybe. But that didn't mean Emeline knew what to say.

The door opened a moment later, and Wanda stood there, her expression unreadable at first. She glanced at Emeline for a second, then raised an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?" Wanda asked, her voice softer than Emeline expected. She was wearing a large sweater and loose sweatpants, so she couldn't see if she still had her collar or not.

Emeline hesitated, then asked, "Did you... get your collar off?"

Wanda's expression shifted. She stepped aside without a word and waved Emeline in. "Yeah, I did," Wanda said, and Emeline could hear the quiet relief in her tone. "Come in."

Emeline blinked, surprised, but took a step inside. Wanda's room was simple—nothing too extravagant. A small bed, some scattered books, and a few items that made it clear this was a place someone liked to spend a lot of time in.

Wanda gestured to the couch. "Sit," she said, not waiting for an answer before plopping down on one end herself. "I can tell it's bothering you. The collar gone, I mean." Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact. No probing, no questions—just acknowledging it like it was something that could be said without making it weird.

Emeline hesitated for a moment before sitting across from her. Her hands were tight in her lap, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants. "It's different," she muttered, her voice low, like she was still trying to figure out the words.

Along with managing her thoughts, being at the tower was most she'd probably ever spoken English. Of course she learned it among the dozens of others that were required, but speaking Russian came so naturally to her. Upon her rescue, she gained a bit of embarassment at her slight accent, but being around Wanda didn't make it that way.

Wanda nodded slowly, her eyes softening slightly as she glanced at Emeline's neck. "I get it. It's like... you've been carrying something heavy for so long that when it's gone, you don't even know what to do with yourself. You think it would be a relief, but instead, it's just strange."

Emeline didn't say anything in response, but she felt a little less on edge. She nodded slowly, processing the words. Wanda wasn't pushing her. She wasn't asking her to share everything, but she was offering, not needing to be wrapped up in words or hugs.

The silence between them stretched on for a moment. Emeline wasn't sure what she expected—she didn't think she had any replies for herself yet. But Wanda didn't seem to mind the quiet.

"I didn't get to say before," Emeline said, her voice almost a whisper now. "But thank you for not telling them. About Sokovia."

Wanda looked at her then, a faint smile playing on her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Don't worry, I know."

It wasn't exactly a heartfelt declaration, but it was something. Something Emeline couldn't ignore. She looked at Wanda, trying to figure out how to take the words, how to process them, but it was hard to put anything into context when her mind was still trying to catch up to the sudden loss of the collar.

Wanda stood up then, her voice light but still grounded. "I'm not going to make you to talk about it," she said as she turned toward the door. "But you know where to find me."

Emeline glanced at Wanda, then at the space around them. She wasn't sure what she needed, but it was strangely calming to know she didn't have to know right now.

Before Emeline could respond, there was a sudden, almost imperceptible noise, like a shifting in the air. Emeline's eyes snapped to the corner of the room, just in time to see a figure phase through the wall.

Wanda sighed, her expression betraying just a touch of exasperation. "What did I tell you?" she muttered, and Emeline, startled, stared at the new arrival—a man with red and purple armor that looked sleek but almost alien. His face was all sharp angles, and his eyes were a bright shade of yellow.

"Vision," Wanda said, her tone resigned. "Can't you knock like a normal person?"

Vision glanced at Emeline, offering a polite but somewhat stiff nod. "Apologies," he said in a smooth voice. "I thought you might need my assistance."

Emeline just stared at him, blinking, but kept her surprise partly hidden. This was the first time she'd met him, and frankly, she didn't know how to process this new figure in the room—someone who could phase through walls as if it was nothing.

Wanda shot him an unimpressed look. "Maybe you should try the door next time, huh?"

Vision only nodded, unfazed. "Noted."

Emeline shook her head a little, her brain still trying to catch up with the situation. It wasn't like she had a lot of room for surprise. She was still trying to deal with everything that had just happened. She didn't know what she expected, but it wasn't this.

"Sorry," Wanda said, turning back to Emeline, as if trying to ignore the interruption. "Where were we?"

Emeline just looked at the two of them, unsure whether she was supposed to feel comfortable in this new situation. For a moment, she thought about leaving—walking back to her room and locking the door behind her. But something about Wanda, something in the way she let people exist around her without demanding too much, made it feel easier to just... stay.

"Can't remember," Emeline finally said, her voice soft as she smiled, though her words were a little more final than she'd intended.

Wanda gave a knowing look before turning back to Vision. "Well, since you're here now, maybe you could help with the thing I asked you to do earlier?"

Vision nodded, floating back through the wall, as easily as if it had never happened.

As the wall closed behind him, Wanda turned back to Emeline. "See?" she said, her tone almost light. "Nobody here knows how to knock."

Emeline gave her a small laugh before the young woman stood up and moved about her room before picking something up.

"TV?" Wanda shrugged, smirking at the younger girl who nodded.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

They had been sitting on the bed, Wanda's eyes flicking back and forth between the TV screen and Emeline, who had been quietly sitting beside her. The hum of the television was the only sound filling the room.

It was peaceful—calm, even—but Wanda could feel the weight of the silence, the uncertainty hanging in the air. She didn't mind it, though. Emeline wasn't someone who needed to be constantly prodded to speak. She was content in her own space, letting things unfold in their own time. And Wanda... well, Wanda wasn't in a rush to push either.

There was a soft knock on the door. Wanda raised an eyebrow, already sensing who it was. She was tired of the constant interruptions.

Without even moving from her spot on the couch, Wanda waved a hand. The door slid open with a faint whoosh of air, revealing Steve Rogers standing in the hallway. He was dressed in his usual, calm manner—suit jacket, pants, looking every bit the man trying to hold it all together. Emeline spotted Natasha behind him, jeans and a long sleeve shirt, something so casual it caught her slightly off guard. Natasha met her eyes, the weight of their conversation still hanging in the air.

Steve's eyes immediately went to Emeline, who was sitting quietly, her gaze on the TV, not particularly acknowledging him just yet. He didn't say anything at first, just standing in the doorway, as if waiting for the right moment.

"Wanda," Steve said, his voice smooth but serious. "I need to talk to you. It's about the Accords." He gestured vaguely, clearly trying to frame the conversation without diving straight into the mess.

Wanda gave him a look, her eyes narrowing slightly as she weighed his words. She wasn't in the mood for more talk about the Accords, and even less in the mood to go over all the nuances of what had happened. She knew Tony was trying to get rid of the set of rules, but even she knew they wouldn't go away that easily.

"Jeeze," Wanda said, her voice calm but firm. She glanced over at Emeline, who had briefly turned her head to meet Steve's eyes but didn't seem to care much about the conversation.

"You can't have alone time around here," Wanda's words weren't harsh, but there was a certain finality to them, a decision made without any room for argument.

Emeline glanced between them, "Yeah, jeeze," She said with almost the same tone.

Steve looked at them for a moment, his brow furrowing, but he clearly understood. He nodded, though he didn't hide the slight disappointment that tugged at the corners of his expression. It wasn't about the Accords anymore; it was more about the personal toll the whole situation had taken on everyone. Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Emeline.

"I get it," Steve said, his voice softer now. He shifted his weight, looking between Wanda and Emeline. "It's not easy, but we should talk about it sooner rather than later."

Wanda's lips curled into a small, almost sarcastic smile. "Things are never easy. Especially not now. Later," she reiterated, clearly done with the topic for the time being.

Steve didn't push it any further. He gave one last glance at Emeline—who had returned her focus to the TV, looking distant, her gaze far away, almost as if she wasn't really present in the conversation. He gave a small sigh, almost as if regretting coming at all. Natasha was still silent behind him.

"Alright," he said, his shoulders relaxing as he turned to leave. "Later then."

The door clicked softly shut behind him. Wanda looked at the closed door for a moment before she let out a quiet exhale, a little exasperated by the whole situation. She flopped back onto the couch, arms sprawled out as she kicked her feet up on the coffee table.

"Ugh, always so serious," she muttered, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the air. She turned her head toward Emeline, catching her eye for a moment. "You're lucky. At least you didn't have to deal with all this crap before."

Emeline's lips twitched slightly—she wasn't quite smiling, but there was a faint understanding in her eyes. She'd barely been given a chance to breathe before all of this—the Accords, the Raft, everything—and it felt like the world had just kept moving on, no matter how much she wanted to stay out of it.

Wanda picked up the remote and switched the TV channel, her expression softening a bit. "What do you wanna watch now? No complaining, we're having a girls night."

Emeline didn't respond right away, her eyes still glued to the screen. She wasn't sure what she was in the mood for—honestly, she didn't care much about the TV, but it was something to fill the quiet.

Wanda, always the more talkative one, continued. "I love a good comedy."

Emeline nodded slightly, still unsure what to say. She wasn't big on the whole "talking about feelings" thing, and frankly, she didn't know what she was supposed to feel half the time. She'd spent so much of her life locked up in one cage or another, first with Hydra, then the Red Room, and finally the Raft, that she wasn't sure where she even belonged in all of this. There were no clear answers to any of it.

Wanda was staring at her now, almost as if she knew what was going through Emeline's mind, though she didn't push her to respond. She understood the space that Emeline needed.

"Alright, I'll pick something," Wanda said with a small smirk. She flipped the TV to a random sitcom, one of the old-school ones with loud laughing and ridiculous jokes every ten seconds. "This is perfect."

Emeline found herself letting out a small breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. She wasn't sure if it was the TV or Wanda's company, but for the first time in a long while, she felt... just a little bit of peace.

As the opening credits rolled, Wanda leaned back into the couch, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed Emeline. She could tell Emeline was in her own world, trying to navigate everything that had happened to her—and everything she was still trying to make sense of.

The two of them settled into the couch, the movie blaring in the background, but neither really paying attention.

They spent the night talking, more Wanda than Emeline. The world outside might have been in chaos, but for now, this small moment of quiet was all they needed.

"Can I ask you a question?" The words were soft, tentative, as if unsure of the space they were entering. Wanda's gaze never quite met Emme's; her eyes remained fixed on some distant point on the TV, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

Emme raised an eyebrow, turning her head slightly to look at the witch. "Sure."

Wanda shifted in her seat, the question lingering on the edge of her lips. "Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?" Her tone, light and truly curious.

Emme's gaze flickered toward the ceiling for a moment, as though the answer might float down from the air. She didn't need long to think; the answer was familiar, simple. "Queens."

Wanda's lips quirked up slightly. "But you've already been there."

"Yeah." Emme's voice softened at the thought of it. Because Peter was there.

Wanda didn't press further. It was a simple, quiet answer, but it spoke volumes. A few months ago, Emme wouldn't have thought she could feel like that about anyone. But here she was, surrounded by people who had fought for her, who cared for her, and who made her feel like she wasn't alone. Queens, to her, felt like a piece of something she couldn't quite explain.

Wanda paused, her fingers still fidgeting. "Don't you wanna know where I'd go if I could go anywhere?" She asked while smirking at the younger girl.

Emme blinked, the question catching her off guard. She tilted her head slightly, wondering if Wanda's answer would be as simple as hers had been.

"...Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?" She asked after a beat, her voice softer than she intended. Emme was curious, despite herself. She had come to learn that when Wanda spoke, it was usually something worth listening to.

Wanda took a slow breath, as if gathering herself. Then she looked at Emme for the first time in what felt like ages—truly looked at her. There was something in her gaze that was both distant and yet full of longing.

"I'd go to a place where no one has ever been before," Wanda said quietly, her voice laced with something unspoken. "Untouched."

Emme didn't immediately respond. She felt a shift in the air, a weight to Wanda's words. There was a sadness there, a yearning for something beyond the chaos of their lives, beyond all the damage they carried.

Wanda's gaze softened, and she offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, one that was as fragile as a thread. "You could come, if you want?"

Emme looked at her for a long moment, her heart thumping in her chest. The idea of running away, of finding something untouched, was tempting. But the notion of doing so with Wanda—of walking alongside someone who had been through so much, and yet still had that quiet resilience—was even more appealing.

Emme didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. Instead, she simply nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Yeah," Emme said softly.

Wanda's smile grew just a little, and the weight of the silence between them felt lighter, as if they had somehow carved out a tiny space where they both belonged.

Chapter Text

THE cold, sterile air of the facility bit into her skin. The kind of cold that gets under your bones, makes you feel like you're never really warm again. It wasn't the first time Emeline had been around this kind of environment. The shadows of her past were as cold as the walls, the halls that echoed with the sound of hard boots and the hum of machinery. She was far too familiar with the feeling of being watched, of being studied, of being treated as less than human.

Emeline had been no older than six. Her small frame was scarred from the years spent in Hydra's hands. Her cheeks were hollow, the darkness under her blue eyes evidence of sleepless nights, fear, and the weight of too many horrors for someone so young to carry. Yet, somehow, she managed to stand tall—her back straight, her chin lifted just a little higher than perhaps the situation should have allowed. The air in the room was heavy, but she didn't flinch, didn't shrink away. This was her reality, and she'd learned long ago to face it head-on.

Start operation in three, two, one.

A sharp mechanical sound echoed through the chamber as a guard, expression unreadable, reached for a lever and pulled it down. A man was frozen, unlike anything she had seen before. His figure was tall and imposing, shoulders broad with the unmistakable tension of someone always on alert. He had choppy shoulder-length hair and a rough bristly beard, his expression set into a stoic mask that didn't give much away. She felt out of place amidst the stark surroundings of the facility, but still she tried her best not to look away.

Emeline's gaze immediately locked onto his. She wasn't startled, not even a little. She'd seen too many faces, too many strangers, but this one... something about him felt different. He wasn't just another soldier. Her instincts told her that.

"Hello, soldier," the voice of Pierce broke through the tension, greeting the man in a cool, almost rehearsed manner. He spoke in English, but there was something about his tone that made the words sound like a command, more of a threat than a greeting. It sent a shiver down her spine, but she refused to show it. She wasn't afraid of him, not in the way he likely expected.

The soldier didn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes moved across the room, scanning everything in its place. It wasn't his first time being part of something like this. His gaze settled on her, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze.

He didn't understand why she was there—this girl, so small and fragile-looking, yet standing so defiantly. She didn't belong here. Her thin, scarred body, the bruises scattered across her skin like a map of her torment, painted a story of pain. But there was no fear in her eyes. Just... blankness. It was the look of someone who had been broken, pieced back together, and made to survive in this nightmare. His eyes narrowed as they met hers, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of the connection between them, even if she didn't acknowledge it.

The soldier's mind wandered for a moment, taking in the way her posture mirrored his own—straight-backed, stiff, no hint of weakness. But then his focus was snapped back to the mission, to his orders.

"Солдат," Pierce's voice echoed, the translator at his side repeating the words in a mechanical monotone. "Mission Report, December 21, 2007. Infiltrate. Kill. Destination St. Chagrin."

The soldier, still standing there, didn't respond. He wasn't paying attention to the mission or the report. His eyes were fixed on the girl, whose own gaze never wavered. Her stare was unwavering, no sign of fear, just... blankness. It was unsettling in its own way.

"Солдат," Pierce repeated, his voice growing more insistent.

It was then that the soldier finally broke his gaze, returning to the task at hand. His voice, though, was more of a question than an order.

"Who is she?" he asked, his words in Russian, his eyes flicking back to hers. Something didn't add up.

Pierce, his brow furrowing slightly, leaned forward. His voice was louder this time, but the underlying irritation in it was hard to miss. "What did he say?" he demanded, snapping at the guard.

The soldier remained silent, but the guard quickly relayed the question. Emeline's attention never faltered, her body still like a statue in the corner. Her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts buried beneath layers of training, conditioning, and survival instincts.

"This is our special asset," Pierce replied, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "It's about time you've reintroduced yourselves."

The words hit the air with the force of a bomb, but the soldier's expression didn't change. He just stared at her again, his gaze intense, a silent recognition passing between them.

Emeline didn't flinch. She didn't move. She just held his gaze, her face expressionless. It was a look that could freeze anyone, even someone like him. And he understood. She wasn't a child anymore, not in the way anyone might expect. She was a weapon, just like him.

Her posture was still, almost robotic, but her defiance was clear. This was how she survived. She didn't need anyone to protect her; she had learned long ago that no one would.

The soldier's eyes flicked to Pierce, then back to her. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passed through his expression, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He didn't say anything else. His orders were clear, and he wasn't about to question them.

Emeline wasn't sure what came next, but for the first time in a long while, she felt something stir within her. It was a small thing, a fleeting thought, but it was there: He sees me.

But that was the last thing she was allowed to feel. She wasn't allowed to feel anything at all. There was no room for emotions, no time for doubts. She was a tool, a soldier in a war that had already been decided for her.

-----

(( The present - September 17th, 2016 - New York ))

The memory faded slowly, like the last light of a sunset disappearing beyond the horizon, its remnants lingering in her mind like a stain she couldn't scrub away. Emeline shot up from the ground with a gasp, the cold, sterile air of the Hydra facility still hanging in the back of her throat, the metallic taste of it biting into her as though it had never truly left. The harsh reality of the present slammed into her senses, pushing back against the ghosts of her past with an unforgiving force. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her body frozen for a moment as she struggled to shake off the lingering shadows of the dream.

The room around her was still—too still. The familiar, dim lighting of her bedroom offered no comfort, only an empty echo that rang louder than the dissonance in her mind. Her hands were pressed against the cold floor, fingers splayed wide as if trying to hold herself together. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm erratic and frenzied, a sharp contrast to the silent, oppressive air that filled the room. She was here, but part of her was still there, still trapped in that sterile, suffocating place, locked in that moment from her past that had refused to let go.

Her chest ached, a deep, almost primal pain that came from more than just the physical remnants of the collar that once choked her neck. It was the weight of everything she had been. The confusion, the fear, the silence that had swallowed her whole. It all came rushing back with a force that left her breathless, left her wondering how she had survived it all. She had been so young, so fragile in the eyes of the world, but the harshness of her reality had forced her to grow up far too quickly. It had forced her to learn how to stand tall, how to look danger in the eye and not flinch, even when every instinct in her screamed for her to run, to hide, to scream out for someone—anyone—to save her.

But there had been no one. She had learned that lesson early. No one came. No one ever did.

Her hand, almost without thinking, moved to the scar on her neck, the lingering phantom of the collar. It wasn't there anymore, but the memory of it was seared into her skin, a permanent reminder of what she had been. What she still was. Something to control, because she was no better than an animal.

But that wasn't her main focus. Not now.

Her thoughts were still reeling from the dream, from the man she had seen—the soldier, the one who had looked at her with something in his eyes. Something... familiar. The way his gaze had lingered on her, not with pity or fear, but with something else, something she couldn't quite place. His face... she just couldn't match it. Which unsettled her, and yet, for a brief moment, she had felt a flicker of recognition, something stirring deep within her.

Who was he?

Her mind pushed through the fog, replaying the dream over and over again. He wasn't like the others—he wasn't just another faceless Hydra operative. There had been something in the way he looked at her, like he saw her, really saw her, even though she knew that couldn't be true. No one had ever really seen her. Not for what she was. Not until now.

A strange thought crossed her mind, and she shook her head, trying to dismiss it. Could it have been a sign of something else? She couldn't remember the soldier's face clearly, but there was a flicker in her mind, something she couldn't fully grasp, like the last piece of a puzzle that wouldn't fit no matter how hard she tried.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her eyes, trying to clear the tension from her muscles. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to feel this... unsettled. Her entire life had been one mission after another, one task to complete, one fight to survive. She had become an expert at compartmentalizing, at pushing everything down, burying the emotions and the memories under layers of steel and stone. But now, in the wake of the dream, everything was unspooling, like a thread unraveling from her tightly wound existence.

Who was he? The soldier. That man.

He hadn't been scared of her. No, it was something deeper than that. She had sensed it. He had seen her as something more. But what did that mean? Why did it matter now, after all this time? She didn't know him, didn't even know his name. As far as she was concerned, he was just another face in her past—another Hydra pawn who had come and gone.

Yet, there was something about him, something that gnawed at her from the inside.

She stood abruptly, her legs unsteady beneath her, and made her way toward the small window across the room. The city outside was still, the night offering no answers, only shadows. She pressed her palm against the cool glass, her reflection distorted in the pane as she stared into the distance. She noticed that while at the raft, her unkept, dark hair had grown longer, now reaching past her shoulders.

There was no room for doubt. No room for weakness. She had to focus. She had to move forward. The past was the past, and whatever that dream had meant, whatever fleeting connection she had felt to that soldier—it didn't matter. It couldn't. Not now. Not when she still had work to do.

Yet, despite herself, Emeline felt an odd stirring deep inside her—a sense of recognition, something she couldn't name. It was as if a part of her had always known him. Her mind resisted the thought, but her gut told her something different. Something whispered in the dark corners of her mind. He sees me.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss it. It wasn't possible. She didn't know him. She had never met him. But then... why did she feel like she had?

And then, it hit her.

The broad shoulders. The rough beard. The eyes that had looked at her not with pity, but with a kind of understanding she couldn't place. The silence that had passed between them, as though they both understood something the rest of the world didn't. The way his presence in her memory had felt—distant yet strangely familiar.

The Winter Soldier.

The name came unbidden to her mind, though she had never spoken it aloud before. It didn't make sense. How could it be him? Bucky Barnes? No. She couldn't have—there was no reason for him to be in her head. Despite the fact that he was in the tower, and had helped them break out of the raft, she'd never spoken to him. She knew him only from fragmented stories, whispers about a man who was a great asset, a tool of their machine. She had never had any personal interaction with him, let alone any reason to dream of him.

But there was something about the connection between them that felt real, felt undeniable, like an invisible thread pulling at her from the past. Her pulse quickened. Had she seen him in her dreams before? Were there more memories that were still hiding?

The more she tried to reason it out, the more confused she became. It was almost like the dream had been planted there—like her subconscious had dredged him up for some reason she couldn't fathom.

Bucky Barnes. Why was his image in her mind? Coming out of cryo... Pierce's words... His questions...

She couldn't make sense of it. Maybe she never would. But for now, it didn't matter. There was no room for this confusion. There was no time for this distraction. She couldn't focus on whatever linked her to the Winter Solider, she needed to remember why she was here, and thinking about how she would move on. How she would survive.

And yet, as she turned away from the window and walked back into the dim light of her room, a strange feeling lingered—an unsettling mix of recognition and something deeper, something more personal. It gnawed at her, leaving her unsettled.

And that, more than anything, left her feeling more lost than ever.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Bucky's mind was clouded, drifting between the haze of sleep and the sharpness of waking. In the blackness of his mind, there were fragments of memories—disjointed images that flickered and danced just beyond his reach. The familiar, suffocating weight of Hydra clung to him, but this time, something was different.

He was back in Hydra.

The cold wrapping around his chest like an iron vice. He knew this place, had spent far too many years trapped in its cold embrace. The walls, the lights, the shadows—they were all the same. But something about it felt... off.

He wasn't sure what it was, but his gut told him this wasn't just another nightmare.

As he walked down the corridor, the familiar dread began to twist in his stomach. He had been through these halls so many times before, with missions—targets, orders, death. He had been both the predator and the weapon. But then he heard it. A sound that didn't belong in this place.

A soft voice.

Bucky's heart skipped. He froze, the sound pulling him in like a magnetic force. It was a child's voice.

He didn't know why he was so drawn to it, he just knew that it was important. Without thinking, he followed the sound, his feet moving quickly down the hallway, instinct overtaking reason. The voice echoed again, barely a whisper, but clear enough to guide him.

He turned a corner, and that's when he saw her. A girl.

She stood in front of a holding cell, her small form a stark contrast to the cold, mechanical environment surrounding her. Her clothes were ragged, stained with dirt and old blood, her hair tangled and unkempt. She stood rigidly still, her posture stiff and unnatural for someone so young. There was something about her that made the air feel colder, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Bucky's breath caught. She didn't belong here.

But her eyes—her eyes locked onto his with a gaze that felt too knowing, too old for someone so young. Deep blue eyes, clear but empty, like she had seen too much of the world's darkness. She didn't blink. Didn't move. It was like she was waiting for him.

A strange feeling tugged at him, something unsettlingly familiar, but he couldn't place it. It was like he should know her, like there was a piece of him that recognized her, but couldn't quite remember where. He reached out instinctively, drawn to her presence. She was a child, and yet, something about her made him feel... Like he should be doing something. But she didn't flinch. She didn't even react.

"Who are you?" His voice was a whisper, hoarse, like something inside of him was forcing the words out. He didn't know why the question felt so urgent, why his heart was pounding in his chest.

But she didn't answer. Her eyes—those eyes—said everything. There was something too old in them, something that didn't belong in a child. Something that knew.

Before he could take another step toward her, a voice interrupted. Low. Cold. The voice of someone he knew far too well.

"Soldier."

Bucky's body stiffened at the sound of Pierce's voice. He didn't need to turn to know the man was there, his cold smile already embedded in Bucky's memory.

"She's not your concern," Pierce continued, his tone dismissive.

Bucky's muscles tensed. The words made his blood run cold, but something inside him snapped. Not her. She was his concern. He had to know who she was. She was different—something about her didn't fit in this place.

He didn't say anything at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the girl, still standing there, frozen in place. Her eyes hadn't moved from his. And for a moment, Bucky thought—no, felt—something deep inside him stir.

But Pierce's voice broke the moment, dragging him back.

"She's a soldier," Pierce said flatly. "Just like you."

The words hit Bucky like a fist to the chest. A soldier? A child? She was a soldier? He couldn't wrap his mind around it. The girl didn't seem like the others—didn't seem like anything he had ever seen before. Something about the words felt wrong. He couldn't accept it. She was too... fragile. Too human.

"Who is she?" Bucky asked, his voice hoarse, almost desperate.

Pierce's lips curled into that cold, lifeless smile. "She's special."

The words hung in the air, a heavy weight. Special. The term carried a certain finality to it, the same way Pierce used it for so many others in this hellhole. But hearing it about her? The girl who didn't flinch at the terror surrounding her? Bucky's chest tightened. He couldn't quite explain why, but he felt a flash of something—protectiveness, maybe? Or just an overwhelming need to understand.

Before he could push further, Pierce had already turned, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the labyrinth of the facility. The girl was left standing alone, her gaze never leaving Bucky's.

And yet, something in her eyes—something in the way she held herself—told him she didn't need him. She had already survived this place long before he had walked into her world. She didn't need his help.

Bucky took another step forward, but just before he reached her, she spoke.

"Don't leave. Why are you leaving?"

Her voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear, but it stopped him in his tracks. It struck him like an unexpected blow. The way she asked it—like it was something personal, something urgent. Like it had been a question burning inside of her, and he was the one who could answer it.

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what it meant, didn't understand the depth of it, but he could feel it—deep inside him, there was a tug, a pull, like he had been here before, like he had failed her in some way.

"I'm not," he whispered, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. "I wouldn't."

But the moment passed. The girl's form began to fade, dissolving into the shadows. Her eyes were the last thing he saw, fading like the rest of her, until she was gone entirely. The hall grew darker, the silence unbearable.

Bucky's eyes shot open, his breath ragged in his chest. He sat up in an instant, his body still tense as his heart raced. His surroundings were familiar, the quiet hum of his apartment replacing the haunting sounds of the facility. His hands gripped the sheets, the fabric twisted in his fingers as he tried to steady himself. The nightmare lingered, the images of the girl—her eyes, her question—still pressing into his mind, too real, too vivid.

He swallowed hard, but the tightness in his chest refused to ease. His body was awake while his mind was caught in the disorienting fog of the dream. He could still feel the weight of her gaze, could still hear her voice, soft and insistent.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his breath still shallow. His pulse thudded in his ears, the weight of the dream pressing down on him. He tried to focus, tried to remove the remnants of sleep and fear, but it clung to him. His mind replayed the scene over and over—the hallway, her eyes, the words Pierce had said. She's a soldier. Just like he was. Is.

No. That didn't make sense, she was a child. Children didn't belong there.

But that pull, that strange recognition—it wouldn't let go. He couldn't understand it, couldn't explain it, but deep down he knew something about her was tied to his past. He didn't know how, didn't know why, but he felt it. It was like there was a thread running through his life, one that connected them in some unspoken way, and it had snapped loose in that dream.

Bucky pushed himself to the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the edge as he tried to steady himself. His breathing slowed, but his mind was still tangled in the memories. The girl was gone. She had been part of his past, but who was she? Why did he feel like he had failed her somehow?

He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant to understand.

Chapter Text

(( early morning of September 18th, 2016 - New York ))

EMELINE sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the walls of her room in the Tower. It was still dark, the city lights casting a faint glow through the window. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the spot where her necklace used to sit, the one Peter had given her for Christmas. She didn't have it now—she hadn't even realized it was missing until after the rescue, and she hadn't had the heart to ask for it back. It had always felt like a small piece of normalcy in her otherwise fractured life. Peter had given it to her, a simple gesture, but one that had meant more than she had let on. She wondered, if she had the necklace now, if it would remind her of him as strongly as it had before.

But she didn't. And that wasn't something she could control. Because lately, her dreams felt like memories that betrayed her.

The absence of the necklace felt like a hole, like something important was missing, and it was just another thing she had to learn to live without. But even without the necklace, it was strange how Peter could make her forget everything, without even trying. He had a way of showing up, saying just enough to make her feel seen. No pressure, no pity. Just understanding. And sometimes, that was enough. More than enough.

The last time she'd seen him was a few days ago, when he'd come to check in on her. It wasn't anything major—just a conversation, really. But the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd made sure she was okay, it made her feel guilty. She hadn't expected to miss him this much. She hadn't expected to crave that quiet comfort he brought. But the way he looked at her was so much different than he had looked at her months ago. But was she really surprised?

But here she was, in the middle of the night, missing him and not sure how to deal with it. It wasn't like she could just go to him and say she was ready to talk, ready to let him in. She wasn't even sure she was ready for that.

After everything—after Hydra, after the Red Room, after everything that had gone wrong in her life—Emeline didn't know how to trust people. She didn't know how to allow herself to be vulnerable. It wasn't weakness to be independent, to keep people at arm's length. Vulnerable was the one thing she refused to be. Failure was the thing she hated most. She didn't even know why she was feeling this way. Why she wanted to see Peter again. It was so... human. And that was the last thing she felt sometimes.

Yet, with Peter, things were different. She didn't feel like he was trying to fix her, or like he was pitying her. He never made her feel small. He made her feel like she didn't have to explain herself, talk about how she's broken beyond repair. Even with all of her secrets, all the things she kept locked up deep inside, he had a way of making her feel like she was enough.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shake off the weight of the thoughts swirling in her head. It was late, and she should be resting, but sleep didn't come easily these days—not after everything. Not with the nightmares that came without warning.

But even when she wasn't sleeping, there was a quiet comfort in the thought of Peter. He had a way of making the world seem like a less dangerous place, even in its darkest moments. The way he smiled when he talked about his day, the way he didn't try to fix her, the way he understood without asking for too much. It was something she didn't realize she'd been missing until he had shown up in her life.

It wasn't just the necklace. It was everything. And that was the problem.

She missed the way he could make her laugh, how he'd always say the exact right thing to pull her out of her head, even if he didn't realize it. It was strange how comfortable she felt with him—how comfortable she wanted to feel. She wasn't supposed to let herself feel this way. It wasn't safe. It wasn't smart. But despite everything, despite the walls she kept up around herself, Peter had found a way through. He'd been the first person to make her feel like maybe there was some good left in the world. He'd seen the side of her that she wasn't ready to share with anyone else—and he hadn't run away.

He'd never pressed her for details. Not about Hydra. Not about her past. He'd never made her feel like she had to explain herself, and that... that was something she wasn't used to. Everyone always wanted answers from her. Everyone wanted her to talk, to open up. But Peter didn't. And that was why she'd started trusting him, little by little, despite how much she hated feeling vulnerable.

But now, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she couldn't ignore the truth. She missed him. She missed the quiet companionship he offered. She missed the way he understood the parts of her no one else ever could. And maybe that was enough for now—just knowing that. Just knowing that when she was with Peter, the world didn't feel as heavy.

But she still has that hint of sadness, wondering why he hadn't come by lately. It was selfish of her to want his presence, he had better things to do than to sit here in silence.

Even if she wasn't ready to let him in completely, even if she didn't know what that would mean for them, just knowing he was there for her was more than she had ever expected.

For a moment, she let herself smile, just the faintest tug of her lips. Maybe, just maybe, things didn't have to be so complicated. Maybe Peter was right—sometimes, it was okay to just exist in the moment.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

(( September 18th, 2016 - Midtown high ))

Peter sat through the rest of chemistry, but his mind kept wandering. He half-listened to Mr. Kravitz's lecture on chemical reactions, his mind drifting back to Emme. It had been a week since she returned, and Peter hadn't gone to see her yet. Part of him felt like he was giving her space, but another part of him just didn't know what to do. What was the right thing to do when someone like her—someone who had been through so much—came back to New York after everything?

As he stared at the periodic table on the wall, he felt someone nudge him. He glanced over and saw MJ, leaning across the desk, her eyes searching his face.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked, her voice low and casual, but Peter could tell there was concern there. She'd been there when Emme was taken away, sitting with Peter through the trial. They hadn't gotten many details, just enough to know how much trouble Emme had been in—and Peter had been a wreck. MJ and Ned cared, even though they hadn't known Emme as well as Peter had. They had seen her at her lowest, just like he had.

Peter hesitated, glancing around the classroom. He knew he couldn't talk freely in here, not with Mr. Kravitz looming over them. He tried to keep his voice even. "Yeah, she's back. Got back about a week ago."

Ned, sitting across the table, leaned forward eagerly, his eyes wide. "Wait, really? She's back? Like, back here in New York?" His voice was barely a whisper, but there was clear excitement in his tone.

Peter gave a small nod, then quickly glanced at MJ. He didn't want anyone overhearing, especially not with the Sokovia Accords and the fact that Emme's whole story was confidential. "She's staying at the Tower, yeah. After everything that happened, they've got her there for now. But..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I haven't gone to see her yet."

MJ raised an eyebrow, giving him a long, skeptical look. "You haven't gone to see her? Peter, she's been through so much. After everything that happened—"

"I know," Peter cut in quickly, ignoring her glare. "I know. But I just... I don't want to overwhelm her, you know? She's been through a lot, and I'm not sure she's ready to see anyone yet."

Ned nodded, his expression turning more serious. "Yeah, that makes sense. I get it. I mean, she was taken away—we all saw how it went down in court. It's crazy, man." He looked at MJ for a second. "I still don't really understand what happened. Like, how she got mixed up in all this."

Peter bit his lip, trying not to let the frustration creep into his tone. He knew they didn't understand. He didn't expect them to. He didn't even know the full story, not really. But he had an idea. Emme was more than just some fugitive of the Accords. She wasn't a villain. She wasn't a monster. She was just... her. Someone with more to her than one would believe. And that's why he had never asked her to explain everything. He didn't need all the details. He just needed to know that she was still Emme, the girl he'd met months ago. The girl that his spidey sense never spiked up around.

He looked up at MJ. "I know you guys care, but it's... complicated. She's been through enough. I don't want to rush things. She's not ready, and neither am I."

MJ and Ned exchanged a quick look, but they both nodded. "Alright," MJ said, her voice softer. "We get it, Pete. But you're not alone in this, okay? We're here if you need anything."

"Yeah, just let us know if you want us to go with you or something," Ned added.

Peter gave them a small smile, feeling a lump form in his throat. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, but Peter didn't feel like rushing out the door. Instead, he let the other students filter out of the room, lost in thought. He wanted to be there for Emme. He needed to be there for her. But there was still that little nagging doubt at the back of his mind. What if he wasn't enough? What if she didn't want him around, or maybe she just didn't need him?

-----

(( A few days after the trial, May, 2016 ))

Peter stood in Emme's apartment, sorting through the few belongings she had left behind. It wasn't much—just a few clothes, an empty backpack and some boxes. It was strange, standing there. The apartment felt so bare, so empty, like there wasn't a person who lived there at all. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to her before he'd met her. What had driven her to live like this—isolated, hidden away from everyone? Why there was no bed, only a blanket and pillow on the floor in the corner.

It wasn't that he judged her, but he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of sadness. She had been through something—something bad enough to make her retreat into a life like this, in a tiny apartment, just trying to survive. He wondered if she even knew how to live any other way.

As he picked up a box that was tucked away by the window, he saw it was filled with a few clothes, some crayons, a couple sheets of paper, and the camera Aunt May had gotten her. Nothing too personal, but there was a journal—a small, leather-bound book—resting on top of the pile. His fingers brushed the edge of it, and for a moment, he considered looking through it. But he didn't. He couldn't. It wasn't his business.

What surprised him the most wasn't the journal, though. It was the necklace she left on the counter, the one with her initial. E. The one he'd given to her for Christmas to let her know that at least one person cared enough to know her name. The fact that she still had it, after all this time.

Now he was left with the emptiness of the place. She hadn't decorated it, hadn't tried to make it feel like home. She was used to being alone, to hiding away from the world. And Peter could relate to that more than he wanted to admit. But as much as he understood her need for solitude, it didn't make it any easier to see.

Peter gently set the journal back down, pushing the box aside. It wasn't his job to dig into her past. He just wanted to be there for her, whenever she was ready to talk, to share.

The thing was, Peter wasn't even sure when it had happened—the moment he stopped seeing Emme as just some girl he was looking out for. Somewhere along the way, he had started to see her as someone he could really talk to. She didn't pity him, even when he felt like a mess. She just... understood. She never asked him to explain himself, never made him feel like he was broken or different. She didn't force him to tell her things about his life, but she was always there to listen when he did open up.

That night in January—when Peter had finally talked about Uncle Ben—had been the turning point. He hadn't meant to talk about it at all. But there had been something about being with her, about the quiet understanding in her eyes, that made him trust her. She hadn't even asked how he'd lost his uncle—she had just listened. And when he finished talking, she didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

What Emme didn't know was that Peter had started thinking of her differently. He didn't know when exactly it had happened, but he couldn't ignore it anymore. There was a part of him—one he didn't know how to name yet—that wanted to protect her the same way she had protected him. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how ridiculous it sounded. With his life, his responsibilities, his guilt—how could he think he'd succeed?

-----

Peter shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing he'd been standing still for too long. He needed to get moving. He had to take Emme's things back to her, talk to her, let her know he was still there whether she wanted to or not. It wasn't much, just a small box of belongings, but he knew it would mean something to her. It was the least he could do.

As he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, he felt a little more sure of himself. He wasn't sure how things would go when he saw Emeline again, but for once, he didn't feel as lost.

With that thought, Peter walked out of the classroom, a sense of determination building inside him. Because despite the fact that they were a city's length apart, she was still close.

Chapter Text

(( September 18th, 2016 - New York ))

PETER stood in front of the elevator doors in Avengers Tower, box in hand, fidgeting nervously with the edge of the cardboard. He had been up and down the floor a dozen times already, trying to find the courage to actually knock on her door. The weight of her belongings in his hands felt heavier than it should have, each item he'd picked up from her old apartment now a piece of her life that he didn't quite understand, but still felt connected to.

It was almost surreal—Emme was back, back from the Raft. He could still remember the chaos of the mission to get her out, the tension and relief, and that moment when he saw her running out of the door. He hadn't known what to do then, stunned by her reaction, but now, standing in front of her room in the Tower, he realized just how much he'd missed her, how much he'd spent worrying about her. That feeling when she had embraced him—the rawness, the trust in that simple act—had stayed with him since.

He used his Stark internship card to get into the building, bypassing all the security with ease. But now, in the quiet hallways of the shared floor where most of the Avengers stayed, it felt different. This wasn't the chaos of a mission. This wasn't the adrenaline of being Spider-Man. This was Emme, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be anymore.

He closed his eyes, letting his senses guide him. His advanced hearing kicked in, pinpointing the faintest sounds of movement behind one of the doors—an old movie playing, soft music from another. Maybe just down the hall.

Finally, he found it. Her door. It wasn't much—plain, like everything about Emme. She kept to herself. But Peter knew better than anyone how people with the most unassuming exteriors often hid the most complicated interiors. He raised his fist to knock but hesitated. What was he even supposed to say? He wasn't sure if she wanted to see him or if she'd had enough of the whole "rescue" thing.

But now, standing outside her door with her belongings in a box—items from her old apartment, including the necklace he had given her at Christmas—he felt the weight of all the unspoken things between them.

He took a deep breath and knocked, his heart pounding in his chest.

A moment passed before the door creaked open. There she was. Emme. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and there was something almost fragile about the way she stood, but it was that same quiet strength he remembered. She wasn't smiling, but there was something in the way her expression softened when she saw him.

He could see the uncertainty in her posture, the way her shoulders were slightly hunched, like she was bracing herself for something. She looked the same—distant, guarded, but there was something else in her eyes. Something different from the last time he saw her.

"Peter," she said, her voice soft but steady. He noticed the faintest hint of an accent, the way her words rolled just a little differently, something that had always been there, but only really came out when she was surprised or hadn't spoken in a while.

"Hey," he replied, a small smile pulling at his lips. His nerves still hadn't settled, but just seeing her again, knowing she was here, gave him some sense of calm. "I, uh, brought your stuff. From the apartment. Some of the things you left behind."

Emme glanced down at the box in his hands, her gaze lingering for a moment. She didn't take it right away, but Peter could see the quiet acknowledgment in her eyes.

"You, uh... you doing okay?" Peter asked, trying to sound casual, though his voice betrayed his nerves. He wasn't sure what to say to her—what could he even offer after everything she had been through?

Emme hesitated before nodding. "Better now," she said, her voice low, her eyes darting to the box in his hands. She wasn't ready to open up, and that was okay. Peter didn't expect her to, not right now.

"I, uh," he began, holding the box out toward her, "here."

He watched her expression soften, her eyes lingering on the box. Her fingers twitched, like she wanted to take it, but there was hesitation in her movement. She had learned the hard way to keep her distance from everyone. Peter knew that. Still, he couldn't ignore the way her gaze softened when she looked at him. She was glad to see him—she just wasn't sure how to show it.

"Thank you," she said, her words still careful. Then, after a pause, she stepped back, pushing the door open wider. "You... you want to come in?" Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but there was an invitation there. Peter couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth at the gesture.

"Yeah, sure." He stepped inside, his heart thumping a little harder than before. It was strange, being here in her space, but also comforting in a way. Her room wasn't much—neat, but simple. Nothing extravagant, just... her.

Peter stood near the door for a moment, trying to figure out what to do next. The silence between them was comfortable, but it was still heavy with everything unspoken. He looked over at her, and before he could say anything, Emme spoke again, her voice almost shy.

"Do you... do you want to watch something?" she asked, and Peter blinked, surprised at the question.

She glanced over at the TV, her eyes flickering with a hint of uncertainty. "The Star Wars?" Her voice made the words sound even more endearing—The Star Wars—a slight emphasis on the words as if it was an actual title. It made Peter smile. Star Wars was something he never expected to share with anyone besides Ned and May. The fact that she had asked to watch it with him, like they were slipping into their old dynamic from months ago, felt like an unspoken bond they were picking up again.

His heart gave a little skip at the thought. Not only did he love Star Wars, but he had been the one to introduce her to it. And somewhere along the way, he had told her that she reminded him of Luke Skywalker—the quiet, thoughtful hero who carried a lot of weight on his shoulders but still had so much possibility to him. He didn't think she'd remember that, but here she was, inviting him to share a movie night.

"I'd love to," Peter said, grinning now, all the nervousness evaporating. "I think I've seen it, like, a hundred times, but I'm down for round a hundred and one." His smile widened as he added, "And, you know, maybe this time you'll understand why I said you remind me of Luke." He was teasing her now, a playful lilt to his voice, and he saw the briefest flicker of a smile tug at her lips in return.

"Maybe," she said softly, looking away for a moment, though Peter noticed the faint blush creeping up her neck. She moved to sit on her bed, and he followed her, sitting down beside her. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It was just... comfortable. Just the way it had been months ago when they'd spent time together without the weight of all the things that had happened after.

As the opening credits of A New Hope rolled, Peter felt like the world outside this small room didn't exist for a while. It was just him and Emme, in this space, with nothing else but the quiet hum of the TV and the familiar sounds of the movie. She didn't speak much, but he didn't need her to. Being here, in this moment, felt like they were finding each other again in a way that wasn't rushed. It was gentle, like a conversation they didn't have to have, but one that said everything.

And for the first time in a long while, Peter didn't feel like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. There were no trials, no secrets—just him and Emme, watching a movie together.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

A few hours later, Peter was still with Emme. Only this time, he was sprawled across her bed while she sat in the exact same position against a pillow, posture stiff.

They had started The Empire Strikes Back—the second movie, but also the fifth? The way Peter had tried to explain it made her head spin, but he’d been so excited about it that she hadn’t interrupted.

Still, he wasn’t paying attention. He kept shifting, fingers curling into the fabric of her blanket, gaze flicking toward her every few seconds. She pretended not to notice, but it was painfully obvious. Maybe she just needed to get it over with, no matter how much it hurt.

"You have questions. About me," she said finally, tilting her head slightly as she looked at him.

Her voice was quiet but certain, cutting through the hum of the movie. Peter’s eyes widened slightly, like he’d been caught. "No—no!" he blurted, too quickly.

She fought hard to stop a smile from tugging at her lips, instead settling for a deep sigh. "I can tell. It’s okay."

His jaw clenched, and he hesitated. "It’s just that so much of it doesn’t make sense… Forget it! You really don’t have to—"

"I will," she said before she could rethink it. The basics, nothing more. The parts that mattered, but not the ones that hurt.

Peter nodded, shifting to sit up properly.

So, she told him.

Not everything. Never everything. But enough. She kept her voice measured, like she was talking about someone else. She told him she was in Hydra for as long as she could remember, that she was raised to be a soldier, and that she escaped only a few months before they met. Almost like her life's milestones. Things no one really wanted to hear.

But Peter did.

He listened. Not just heard her, but actually listened. His expression never changed, barely twisted into pity or horror, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles faintly white. He didn’t interrupt, but she could feel the energy rolling off of him, barely contained. Like he had a thousand things to say but somehow knew this wasn’t the moment for any of them.

She expected shouts, a scared look to cross his face. How did you escape? What did they make you do? Did you kill anyone? The uncomfortable, prodding kind.

And when she finally stopped talking, he exhaled slowly. His words, when they came, surprised her.

"It's not fair."

Her fingers, still twisting together in her lap, stilled slightly. She couldn't look him in the eyes, but he wasn't looking at her anyway.

He was staring down at his hands, eyebrows furrowed in a way that meant his brain was working overtime. "I mean, they—they decided all of that for you. Every part of it. And that’s—that’s not fair. It’s not—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.

She just watched him. People always wanted to ask questions. How did you escape? What did they make you do? The uncomfortable, prodding kind. But Peter… he wasn’t asking anything. He was just thinking, trying to fit the pieces together in his own head.

"That’s why you’re so—" He hesitated, struggling for the right word. "I dunno. Careful. With everything."

She blinked. That... wasn’t wrong.

Peter let out a breath and finally looked at her. His brown eyes were serious, his usual bubbly, easy-going expression replaced with something heavier. "But, like. You get that it wasn’t you, right?"

Emeline tilted her head slightly. "What?"

"You didn’t choose to be there. You didn’t choose to do any of the things they made you do." He frowned, shifting his weight on the bed, like he was working through something in real time. "That—you're not them, Emme. You were just a kid."

She stiffened slightly.

His words landed harder than she expected.

Peter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he was smart enough not to call attention to it. He just kept going, voice even but firm. "You got out. That’s—it takes a lot to do that. And you don’t just, like, walk away from something like that, right? But you did. That has to count for something."

Her stomach twisted. Not in a bad way, exactly, but not in a good one either.

Peter ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath, glancing back toward the movie, where Luke was freezing in the snow. "I dunno. I just think you’re—" He stopped himself, shook his head. "I just think you’re strong. And you should know that."

She stared at him. She was freezing in her own snow, just like Luke—only now, maybe Peter was the dead tauntaun keeping her warm. The thought flickered through her mind, and she had to fight back a cringe. Now wasn’t the time.

Peter, as usual, was oblivious to the way his words settled like a weight in her chest. He just kept watching the movie, like he hadn’t just said something that would stick with her.

Suddenly he exhaled, slow and even. "Did they hurt you?"

She flinched. It was barely noticeable, just the smallest stiffening of her shoulders. But Peter noticed. She was afraid of what he thought. Afraid that she’d shatter if he pushed too hard.

Emeline stayed quiet, staring at the screen. Don't talk about it. Don’t think about it. She willed herself to keep her face blank, to act like the question hadn’t hit her like a bullet to the ribs.

Peter swallowed hard, shifting on the bed. She could feel the weight of his gaze, feel the questions he was trying to hold back. His hands curled into fists on his lap before he forced them open again.

"You don’t have to tell me," he said eventually. His voice was low, but she could hear the strain behind it, the effort it took to give her that space. "I just—Emme, that’s not something you should just—just live with like it’s nothing."

Her fingers tightened around the blanket. "I do live with it," she muttered.

Peter inhaled sharply, and for a second, she thought he was going to argue. But then he exhaled, long and slow, dropping his gaze.

She wasn’t sure why, but that almost felt worse.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The glow of the movie flickered across the walls, reflecting in Peter’s eyes as he stared blankly at the screen. His thoughts were loud, even in silence.

Then, quietly, he said, "I complain about so much stupid stuff."

That made her look at him. He was frowning, his head bowed slightly, hands clasped in front of him like he was holding himself together.

"I—I whine about school, about my stupid curfew, about—about whether or not I should tell MJ about the Spider-Man thing—" He let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "And then there’s you. Who’s been through... that. And I just—God, I feel like such an idiot."

Emeline tilted her head slightly, studying him. She hadn’t expected that reaction. She thought about telling him he wasn’t an idiot. That what happened to her didn’t make his problems any less real. That his worries, however small, were still his. But the words stuck in her throat. Saying the wrong thing was always too easy.

So instead, she just reached out and nudged his arm, just barely. A small gesture. Barely anything. But Peter looked up at her, startled, and she saw something ease in his expression, just a little.

She turned back to the screen. "Watch the movie."

He blinked, then huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, well. This is my hundred-and-first watch."

A beat of silence. Then—

"You should tell MJ."

Peter looked at her, then smiled—small, but real. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe I will."

And just like that, they let the conversation drift away. Not gone, not forgotten, but set aside for now. The movie played on, the sound of lightsabers filling the room. Neither of them really watched it. But somehow, that didn’t matter.

Chapter Text

(( January 12th, 2012 ))

The memory surged back with a force she couldn't ignore. Emeline shut her eyes for a moment, trying to push it away, but it was always there, lingering beneath the surface. She was ten again, her small body drenched in sweat, trembling from exertion.

The room around her was cold—too cold—and smelled sterile, like chemicals and the harsh scent of metal. The floor was smooth and unforgiving beneath her bare feet. The mirrors on the walls reflected her pale, exhausted face, and the stark fluorescent lights above burned her eyes, making everything feel too bright, too harsh. It was a place where pain didn't matter, where exhaustion was irrelevant. All that mattered was pushing through, pushing harder, always harder. To pose.

"Again," came the cold, clipped voice of Madam, the instructor who had been in charge of her training for about a year. Madam's sharp gaze was focused on Emeline, her arms crossed as she watched her with calculating eyes, as if looking for any weakness to exploit.

Emeline's body ached, but she didn't dare stop. She couldn't. Her muscles burned, but she forced them to move. She was stronger than the other girls, that was clear—much stronger, even at ten—but that didn't matter. It never mattered. The other girls faltered, struggled, but they didn't seem to have the same expectations. They weren't treated the same way.

She didn't know why, but she was used to it. She'd learned early that nothing came easy. Her mind blanked out the question—Why me?—because she knew there was no answer that would make sense. They didn't give answers. They gave orders. And orders were meant to be followed.

With every command, Emeline's muscles screamed, her breath ragged as she forced herself to perform the moves perfectly. Her arms trembled, but she didn't drop them. Her legs shook, but she refused to collapse. Not yet. Not while Madam was watching.

"Again," Madam barked, moving around the room, eyes tracking every movement Emeline made. "Your form is sloppy. Get it right."

Emeline could feel her body pushing past its limits, but she had learned not to care about the limits. The limits didn't matter. Nothing mattered but perfection. She held her arms higher, keeping them steady, even as her muscles quivered in protest.

There were moments—brief flashes—when she thought about why she was here. Why she was pushed this hard. The other girls didn't have to do this. They didn't have to keep going when their bodies couldn't take any more. But Emeline? She had to keep moving. There were no breaks, no pauses. She was built differently, and she was treated like it. She could feel the difference. Her strength made her stand out. It made her more than the others, but it didn't matter. She didn't get special treatment. She didn't get less training. If anything it was ten times harder.

Her super soldier conditioning was already starting to show, even at her young age. She was faster, stronger, and her body recovered quicker than the others. But she wasn't allowed to show it, not really. She was just another asset, another tool in the system. Another soldier in the making.

Emeline's thoughts were always interrupted by Madam's voice, cutting through the fog of exhaustion. "If you want to be better than them, you need to do more. Always more."

The words rang in her ears, cold and unfeeling. Better. Always better. But what did better mean? She had no idea. She didn't know what it was she was supposed to be. All she knew was that no matter how hard she tried, how much she bled or how much she broke, it was never enough. It was never good enough.

There were times when the endless demands, the constant barrage of drills, made her feel like she was nothing more than a machine—a tool that could be broken down and rebuilt, just to perform another task. There was no room for error. No room for feeling. Every moment she faltered, every time she slipped, Madam was there to push her harder, make her stronger, drive her to the edge and beyond.

Emeline couldn't even remember the last time she had felt the relief of stopping—of simply being unmoving. There was no room for it in this place. She couldn't let her guard down. Not here.

"Focus. Move," Madam commanded. "You want to be perfect? This is what it takes. This is the price of power."

Emeline's legs were shaking now, and she felt her breath coming faster, more ragged. But she didn't stop. She wouldn't stop. Not until Madam was satisfied. Not until she'd proven she could handle whatever was thrown at her.

She didn't know it then, but there was something deeper in the instructor's words. Something that Emeline couldn't see, couldn't understand. Madam wasn't just training her. She was shaping her, molding her into something. But Emeline didn't care about that. She only cared about the next movement, the next drill, the next step she had to take to be perfect, to be strong—and to be what Madam wanted her to be.

The world outside the walls of the Red Room didn't matter. There was no room for weakness here. There was no room for anything but what she was being trained to become.

And as the hours dragged on, as the endless repetition of dance and combat drills filled the sterile space, Emeline's small body kept moving, because there was no other choice. She was built to survive. She had been made to endure, even when she wasn't sure how much more she could take.

At the time, she didn't know why she was different. She didn't know what Madam saw in her, why she was treated with this kind of ruthless intensity. She didn't understand what made her so special, so important. But she knew one thing: she couldn't stop. She had to keep going.

It wasn't until much later, much much later, when she finally learned that some answers were better left unasked.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

She blinked, slowly and unfocused. She was in the kitchen. The place didn't terrify her anymore, but the thing that did was the fact that she had sleepwalked. Something she hadn't done in years.

The air in the room was thick with tension, suffocating in its silence, as Emeline stood frozen, her breathing shallow and erratic. Her eyes were wide, the space around her growing smaller with every breath. She felt it—them, cold, unyielding hands on her mind, dragging her back into that place, to those old memories. The walls were closing in, her thoughts spinning into chaos. The same cycle, the same voices—Training. Kill. No room for weakness.

She was back there again.

Her chest tightened, every inch of her feeling bound by invisible ropes, pulled tight, until it was hard to move, hard to breathe. Her skin burned as though the scars of the past had never faded, and she could almost feel the cold steel of cages around her, the harsh, clinical space of their training rooms, echoing with orders, with commands.

Suddenly, she was aware of someone near her. A shift in the air.

On her right was Natasha approaching her slowly. The redhead had always been in the periphery of her life, always there, patient. But now, in this moment, Natasha didn't just stay on the outskirts. She didn't stay distant.

Natasha stood quietly, her stance solid but unhurried, as though she knew better than to rush in.

Emeline's whole body stiffened, her mind still racing as if she were back under the Red Room's influence, her body trembling with invisible shockwaves. She couldn't move, couldn't make herself look up, her eyes still unfocused, staring ahead but seeing nothing.

"Emeline," Natasha's voice was quiet, yet strong, like the calm after a storm. "Look at me."

Emeline didn't respond immediately, her breathing becoming more erratic. The panic was swelling inside her, the sense of helplessness threatening to consume her.

"I know," Natasha said softly, stepping closer, but not too close. She didn't crowd Emeline, didn't force her into anything. Her words weren't demands; they were a promise. A quiet understanding. "You're not there anymore. You're safe now."

Emeline's chest hitched with the effort of trying to breathe through the tears. But she couldn't stop the rush of memories that flooded in—training. Testing. Obey. Kill.

For a moment, it felt like the walls of the compound were closing in on her again, suffocating her. The quiet of the room felt miles away, like a cruel reminder that nothing could ever be normal. Her hands were shaking, her whole body trembling as if a flood of cold memories were cascading over her, dragging her back into that old fear.

And then Natasha stepped forward—slowly, carefully—almost as though she were walking through a minefield.

"Emeline," Natasha's voice was low, full of something that Emeline couldn't quite place. She hesitated, before taking a step closer, her hand reaching out gently, just resting on Emeline's arm, not demanding, not rushing, just offering a steady presence. "I know what it's like, to feel like you're trapped in your own mind... like nothing can ever change." To be unmade.

At first, Emeline flinched, but Natasha didn't back away. She stayed, waiting for the girl to process, to decide if she was ready for this small, comforting touch. Emeline felt her muscles tense, the instinct to pull away nearly overwhelming. But then, something softened inside her. Maybe it was the way Natasha wasn't forcing her, or maybe it was something deeper—a shared understanding between them. Emeline hadn't realized how much she needed someone who knew, someone who had walked through the same hell.

Slowly, her eyes flickered toward Natasha's face, and there was an unspoken connection. A recognition.

Natasha's voice was gentle when she spoke again. "You know me. They trained me the same way. They made me believe that I was nothing but a weapon. That I had to do what they told me, hurt whoever they wanted. It's hard to remember a time when that wasn't all you were." She paused for a moment, her eyes softening as she looked at Emeline. "But that's not you anymore. Not now. You're free from them."

Emeline swallowed hard, trying to push away the rising knot in her throat. She couldn't stop the shudder that ran through her body, couldn't stop the tears that now threatened to spill over. It wasn't that she wanted to break down. She never wanted to be that weak. But in this moment, she could feel the weight of everything she had been carrying all this time, everything Hydra had done to her. And just for a moment, she didn't have to hide it anymore.

Natasha, who had seen this before—who had felt this before—stepped closer, closing the gap between them. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around Emeline, a steady, comforting embrace. It wasn't forceful, it wasn't rushed—it was exactly what Emeline needed in that moment.

Emeline froze for a second, her whole body tensing, unsure of what to do, how to react. She hadn't been hugged since she was a little girl, but even then they had been from Natasha. The only resembelance she had to a mother, or what she thought one would be like. Slowly, she leaned into the embrace, allowing herself the smallest bit of relief. She felt Natasha's warmth and strength, the steadiness of someone who knew. Someone whose truthful words overpowered any over her worries.

And for the first time in a long time, Emeline felt something like a small release, a part of herself that she had tried so desperately to bury beginning to unfurl, just a little.

"Shh..." Natasha murmured, rubbing her back gently, soothing her as if Emeline was a child. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? Not again."

Emeline didn't speak. She couldn't. Instead, she clung to Natasha for just a moment longer, letting the quiet strength of the woman who had been through her own pain, her own trauma, wash over her. Her shoulders trembled with the weight of everything she had kept hidden for so long, the sobs coming in quiet waves that Natasha let her have. She wouldn't tell Emeline to stop. She wouldn't make her feel like she needed to control it. Natasha knew better.

"When I was still there. I wish I had someone who could hold me like this," Natasha whispered softly. "To remind me I wasn't broken."

Emeline felt the warmth in Natasha's voice, the sincerity of the words. She understood, more than she ever thought possible, what it meant to be seen, to be held in a way that wasn't transactional. She wasn't a weapon in Natasha's arms. She wasn't some tool of Hydra. She was a person, she was Emeline. The same went for the redhead. They were not weapons.

The quiet continued between them, the only sounds the soft tremor of Emeline's breath and the steady rhythm of Natasha's hand running through her hair, just like a mother comforting a child. It wasn't an instant fix, and it wasn't something that would erase the years of pain. But in that moment, Natasha offered something far more important than comfort. She offered understanding. The idea that she was able to heal.

"Because you're not broken," Natasha murmured, her voice a soft promise.

Emeline swallowed hard, the words settling in. Slowly, she nodded, her tears quieting as the pain, the echoes of the Red Room, faded just enough for her to breathe a little easier.

Natasha pulled back, just far enough to look Emeline in the eyes. "I'll always be here."

Emeline nodded again, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke for the first time since the panic had overtaken her. "Thank you."

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, Emeline didn't feel like a soldier. She didn't feel like a tool. She didn't feel like the broken thing Hydra had tried to make her into. She felt like someone, someone worth caring for.

For Natasha, she was seeing the same little girl, yearning for a gentle touch and kind words. Acknowledgement beyond orders. And as she embraced the girl, she held back a tremor in her own breathing.

Because Natasha was showing her, in the gentlest way, that she was worthy of that care. They both were.

Chapter Text

(( September 30th, 2016 - New York ))

FOR Emeline right now, living is like learning to walk on a path that's never been paved.

At first, every step feels like stumbling, uncertain and jagged. The ground is unfamiliar—rough, uneven, full of sharp rocks and thorns that leave invisible marks. She doesn't know where the path leads, or if it's even the right one. Her feet are heavy with doubt, and the idea of walking it seems like an impossible challenge. The world around her feels foreign, the very idea of trust and love something she doesn't quite understand, like a language she's never learned.

But slowly, with each hesitant step, she begins to feel the weight of the ground beneath her—some steps are harder than others, but they're still forward. She doesn't know if the path will ever be smooth, or if she'll ever find her footing completely, but for the first time, she doesn't feel completely lost. She's not running away. She's walking, even if it's unsteady. And maybe that's enough—for now.

Surprisingly, Emeline began to feel a strange sense of "home" in the Tower. She couldn't exactly define what home was—after all, it was a concept that had always felt elusive, like something she only heard others talk about but never quite understood. Still, something in the quiet moments of her days made the Tower feel like more than just a place to sleep.

The afternoons slipped by faster than she expected, with time spent watching Peter study or handle his internship duties with Tony. She often found herself observing him from a distance, her curiosity barely hidden. Tony didn't seem to mind; in fact, he was always too absorbed in his own work to notice.

Then there were the late nights, when Peter was out on patrol—something Emeline had learned not to think too much about. The dread of what could happen to him lingered at the edges of her thoughts, but she shoved it aside. Instead, she’d sit with Wanda, the two of them drifting through the quiet hours, talking about nothing and everything at once. It was strange, but therapeutic, hearing someone else speak about their past without judgment or pity, just as Emeline was starting to do herself.

Saturdays were always marked by Aunt May’s visits. Emeline couldn’t help but smile every time she saw the woman, the joy in Aunt May’s face like an anchor to something good. The day Emeline walked through the door, Aunt May had greeted her with open arms and immediately started making her famous mashed potatoes, a comfort she never knew she needed.

Clint’s absence hung like a shadow in the background. She’d learned a few days ago that he had a family—something he’d kept hidden, even from her. But it didn’t bother her, not really. She wasn’t surprised; Clint was a man of secrets. Still, deep down, there was a quiet part of her that missed his presence. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, not even to herself.

Every now and then, Sam and Steve would stop by, casually asking if she wanted to go for a run. But each time, she said no, not knowing exactly why. Maybe it was the rhythm of the Tower that kept her rooted in place, the feeling of being part of something, even if she couldn’t quite accept it.

Bucky, when he was around, kept to himself. He was always watching, always observing in the way only someone who had been trained to stay alert could. If she weren’t so much the same way, she might’ve thought it was strange. But it wasn’t. Not with the things she was starting to remember, the fragments of a past she’d rather forget. She pushed it down, dismissed it, chalking it up to the shared history of Hydra. It was easier that way.

And though she would never say it—especially not to herself—there were moments when she could almost imagine staying at the Tower. The thought was fleeting, but it lingered, a whisper of possibility that Emeline wasn’t ready to face just yet.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Ever since her nightmare, when she would have another, she'd go see Natasha.

The soft hum of the night wrapped around the two of them as Natasha sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through a stack of papers. The room was bathed in the dim light from the hallway, the tall windows of her suite framing the city beyond. Emeline stepped in quietly, hesitating for just a moment before Natasha's voice cut through the silence.

"Emeline."

Her tone was relaxed, the way she always spoke when she knew Emeline was near but needed a little space to settle in. There was no rush, no pressure. Just her, a quiet invitation. The automatic knowledge of Emeline's nightmares.

Emeline shifted, toe to heel, her eyes still glued to the floor, avoiding Natasha's gaze for now. She wasn't sure how to start. Her thoughts had been a swirl of fragments ever since the nightmare. She hadn't meant to end up here, but it was always the same—when the dreams crept in, when the echoes of the Red Room clawed at her mind, Natasha's room was the only place where she felt... something close to safe.

"I can't stop thinking about it," Emeline said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just want it to stop."

Natasha's eyes softened, but she didn't jump in with a fix. She didn't try to console her with empty promises. Instead, she exhaled and leaned back, her hands resting on the mattress behind her as she tilted her head to the side. "What happened?"

The words felt heavy on Emeline's tongue, but she was tired of holding them in. So, she spoke, her voice trembling slightly as the memories of the nightmare resurfaced. "It was like... like I was back there... and they were—" She paused, her eyes flickering to Natasha before dropping again to the floor. "I couldn't breathe."

Natasha didn't look at her with pity, but with understanding—quiet, steady, the kind that didn't need to fill the air with words to make its presence known. She knew exactly what that felt like.

"Yeah," Natasha said softly, "I remember."

There was something about the simplicity of her words, the weight of shared experience that seemed to ground Emeline, if only for a second. She looked up at Natasha, her lips parted as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Will it stop?" Emeline asked, her voice softer now, a little hesitant.

Natasha glanced over, her fingers absently tapping her thigh as she gave the question a thoughtful pause. The tone in Emme's voice was pained, almost childlike. Which made sense because Emme was only a kid, but never acted like one, never given the choice to. It was those moments where she wanted to take Emeline away from all the horrors of the world and have their own small slice of peace.

"No," she said, after a moment. "And I don't think about that anymore."

Emeline blinked, confused. She carefully moved to sit at the end of the bed, finally looking her in the eye.

Natasha half-smiled, a faint curve of her lips that didn't feel forced. "I stopped thinking about it stopping. Because it doesn't. At least not in the way you expect."

It was a blunt answer, the kind that Natasha always gave—practical, no-nonsense, but somehow it wasn't as cold as it sounded. Emeline could almost see the weight of years behind it. Years of learning how to breathe despite the pain. How to keep moving even when it felt like the past would crush her.

"You make peace with it," Natasha added, almost like an afterthought. "Or you don't. But either way, you're still here."

Emeline took a breath, the words sinking in deeper than she expected. Still here. Still moving. She wasn't sure she was anywhere near that yet, but hearing it from Natasha... it felt real. Like maybe it wasn't impossible.

"How do you do it?" Emeline asked, her voice quieter now, tinged with something that wasn't quite hope, but maybe... curiosity.

Natasha's answer was not one that she expected.

"Come here."

The words were simple, but they hit her harder than she anticipated. Emeline’s gaze shifted to Natasha’s face, studying her closely. There was no hurry, no edge in Natasha's voice, just an invitation—soft and steady. But it felt like more. Emeline’s heart stuttered, a strange mix of confusion and something she couldn't name. She hadn’t expected this. Not from her. Not from anyone.

She blinked, the tears still clinging to her lashes, and something shifted inside her. Natasha patted the bed beside her, her arms open, welcoming. The gesture wasn’t foreign, not really. But it was in a way. If Emeline counted the times she’d been hugged, she wouldn't be able to get past a handful of moments, all from Natasha. The only person who ever bothered. The only one who ever let her see what affection could feel like without the weight of it being tied to anything else.

Emeline hesitated, her chest tight. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, not the way she had been the last time Natasha had held her. That girl had been fragile—lost and scared. Emeline was different now. Stronger, more guarded. More used to standing on her own.

But she also knew the world she’d carved out for herself—distant, detached—had never really worked. It had only kept her isolated, trapped in a cage of her own making. And now, Natasha was offering her something else. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to want. Something she didn’t know if she could accept.

Her mind raced, a swirl of thoughts she could barely pin down. Would this make her weak? Could she afford to need someone, even for a moment? She had survived without this kind of connection for so long. Why would she change now?

But Natasha’s eyes... they were steady, certain. The same eyes that had never wavered, even when Emeline was just a child, trembling and unsure in the Red Room. Natasha had always been a constant, an anchor in the chaos.

Emeline's breath caught as her gaze flicked from Natasha’s arms back to her face. She was waiting, patient, understanding. No pressure. No expectation. Just there. It was that soft confidence that spoke to Emeline in ways words never could. It felt real, not forced, not an obligation.

You don’t have to do this. But maybe it’s okay if you do.

The thought settled in her chest like a heavy stone, but it didn’t feel bad. It didn’t feel like something she had to fight. Natasha wasn’t asking for anything. She wasn’t making it hard. She was just giving her the space to be.

In the next heartbeat, Emeline moved—slow at first, testing the waters, unsure of herself. Every instinct told her to pull back, to close off, but something about the warmth of Natasha’s arms felt... safe. Emeline sat beside her, the air between them electric with everything unspoken. It was too much. Too fast. Too easy.

Before she could second-guess herself, her body moved on its own. Natasha’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her in gently, the touch soft but unwavering. Emeline stiffened for a split second. Her chest tightened, her mind still spinning in circles. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—comfort, confusion, a mix of both—but then Natasha cradled her, and something inside Emeline loosened.

This is safe. This is not a trap.

Her thoughts flashed by in rapid succession, a swirl of memories—childhood whispers of warmth and fleeting moments of tenderness in a world that didn’t allow it. Natasha had always been there in the background, even when Emeline didn’t know she needed her.

But this time, it was different. Emeline wasn’t being held in the same way as before. It wasn’t the same protective embrace that had shielded her from the worst of what she had endured. This... this felt like a real connection. Like Natasha wasn’t just holding her because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Emeline’s breathing evened out as the silence stretched on, her face pressed into the familiar fabric of Natasha’s jacket. She was still afraid to admit how much she needed this—how much she longed for the comfort, for the connection. She had spent so many years convinced that needing anyone was a weakness, a liability. But here, in Natasha's arms, she didn’t have to hide. She didn’t have to pretend she was fine when she was far from it.

It’s okay. Just this once. You don’t have to be strong for a second. Just be.

The thought felt alien, but also like something she had been craving in secret, buried deep inside her. She let out a quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing, her body slowly melting into Natasha’s embrace. The words never came, but her body said everything she couldn’t.

Underneath the soft, lingering noises of the city, Natasha's words cut through the quiet. She looked at Emeline then, her gaze steady yet gentle, a quiet strength in her eyes. "Someone told me I was more than this."

Emeline absorbed the words, turning them over in her mind. Natasha had been broken before, like her—shaped and reshaped by a past that demanded so much. But Natasha had found a way to rebuild herself, piece by piece. Emeline wasn't sure how, but there was something in Natasha's voice, in the softness and steadiness, that made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the cage she'd built for herself too.

That she was more than this.

A strange flicker passed through her, some unknown emotion.

"He said that to me," Emeline said, her voice small and unsure, though the words were pulled from somewhere deep within her. She was no longer looking at Natasha, but looking at the door, as if the person she was referring to was about to walk in.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, brow furrowing as she processed the statement. She had heard so many people speak to Emeline—many in harsh tones, some in pity—but this... this was different. There was a weight to the phrase, a significance. Something familiar.

"Who said that?" Natasha asked, her voice still calm but with the edge of curiosity.

Emeline's thoughts shifted, the memory surfacing, though blurry, like a half-remembered dream. She couldn't quite place his face, couldn't connect all the pieces. But she knew one thing for sure: his eyes—those deep blue eyes.

"A man," Emeline answered, her voice almost lost in the silence between them. She didn't know why she said it like that. A man. Blue. It was like a name she couldn't quite remember.

Natasha let the silence hang there, but there was no judgment in her eyes, just a quiet understanding that came with years of dealing with ghosts of their own. Ghosts of her own that were beginning to resurface at the phrase.

There was a quiet beat before Natasha spoke again, as if the moment had shifted, something new forming between them. Her voice was casual, almost playful, as though the weight of their conversation didn't need to hang in the air for too long.

“You know,” Natasha started, “you’ve got that same look I used to get when someone made me feel things I didn’t ask to feel.”

Emeline raised a brow, only half-smiling. “What look?”

“That one.” Natasha nodded toward her, a teasing glint in her eye. “Like you’re trying really hard not to admit something matters to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emeline mumbled, crossing her arms. It wasn’t defensive, not really. Just... a reflex. A subtle shield.

“Mhm,” Natasha hummed, unconvinced. She stretched out her legs and leaned back on her elbows. “You don’t have to know. But it’s there. And it’s okay.”

For a moment, Emeline didn’t respond. She stared at the floor, then her hands, then back at Natasha. “Does it ever go away? That need to keep everything inside?”

Natasha thought about it. “Not completely. But it gets easier. Especially when you stop believing that being vulnerable makes you weak.”

Emeline fell silent again, but this time, the weight of the moment felt different—more reflective than heavy.

Then, with a small smile, Natasha shifted gears. She reached for a nearby drawer, pulled it open, and rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for.

“Alright,” she said, holding up a small, beat-up deck of cards. “We’re changing gears.” Making Emeline blink in surprise.

“You ever play Bullshit?” Natasha asked, already shuffling.

Emeline furrowed her brows. “A game?”

“No, the lifestyle,” Natasha said dryly, then smirked. “Yes, a game.”

“No,” Emeline admitted, watching the shuffling like it was some foreign ritual.

“Then you’re in for a treat.” Natasha patted the bed in front of her. “C’mere. Let’s see if you can lie better than I can.”

There was a flicker of hesitation in Emeline’s eyes, but eventually, she moved closer, curling her legs beneath her as she sat across from Natasha. She reached for the cards Natasha dealt her, handling them like she didn’t quite trust them yet.

“I don’t like lying,” Emeline said, not meeting her gaze.

Natasha raised a brow. “You lie every time you say you’re fine.”

Emeline didn’t argue. But there was a flicker in her lips—something like a ghost of a smile.

They played a few rounds, Natasha guiding her through the rules, throwing in sarcastic comments here and there to keep things light. Emeline was surprisingly good at reading people, which didn’t surprise Natasha in the slightest. But what did surprise her was how Emeline leaned into the game—how she smiled, just once, when Natasha made an overly dramatic accusation.

“You’re a horrible liar,” Emeline said at one point, smirking faintly.

“And yet,” Natasha said, holding up the winning pile, “I still win.”

They kept playing until the silence no longer felt heavy—until it was just... quiet. Comfortable. And when the cards were finally pushed aside, Natasha leaned back, watching Emeline in the dim glow of the room. The child in her shining like it used to.

"You’ve got a good read on people,” she said. “Always did.”

Emeline didn’t look over, but her fingers stilled for a second on the seam of her pants.

Natasha leaned back against the wall, her gaze drifting out the window. “You used to sit in the corner of the training room—legs crossed, face like stone—watching everyone. Didn’t say a word.”

A long pause. Then, quietly, Emeline murmured, “I remember.” Her voice had that faraway edge, like the words came from behind something. Still, Natasha didn’t turn the moment into something bigger than it was.

“You used to draw on the back of old note cards,” Natasha added after a beat. “Little shapes. Spirals. Cats too, I think.”

Emeline’s brow furrowed slightly. “Cats?”

Natasha allowed a small smirk. “Terrible ones. Looked like lumpy triangles with legs.” That earned the faintest huff—almost a laugh—from Emeline. Not much, but it was something.

“I kept one,” Natasha said. “Folded it up in the lining of my boot. Don’t know why.”

Emeline didn’t answer, but her posture changed—just a bit. Shoulders not quite as tight. Her hands stopped fidgeting. “I liked when you were there,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Natasha looked over at her, but didn’t press. Just nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. Me too.” The quiet returned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

There was weight between them still, sure—but it was familiar now, not suffocating. Emeline sat a little closer than before, and Natasha didn’t move.

They just sat there, two shadows against the wall, listening to the hum of the city outside the window. And for once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

Chapter Text

(( February 2008 - Siberia ))

"I knew from the very start we couldn't keep them here together! This could ruin everything we've built."

The General's voice cracked with fury, his usually calm demeanor shattered. His fingers drummed against the cold metal table, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet room. He stood rigid, his eyes narrowed in barely contained frustration. He didn't like this. Not one bit.

Dr. Rausch, standing on the opposite side of the sterile, dimly lit room, didn't flinch. Her expression remained unreadable, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She was the picture of calm, even as the General's anger radiated toward her.

"Don't be upset, General," she said in a tone that bordered on patronizing, her voice smooth and practiced. "You knew from the beginning that this was a delicate operation. Memories... they tend to resurface when you least want them to. It's only natural."

The General shot her a venomous look, his lips curling in disgust. "Natural? You think this is natural? This... this bond between them—it's beyond dangerous. We cannot afford any risk. Not now. Not after everything we've done to get to this point."

Dr. Rausch's lip twitched in something that could almost have been a smirk, but it was gone too quickly to confirm. She didn't share his panic. Not when she was in control of the situation. Not when she knew exactly how to fix it.

She took a deliberate step forward, her eyes never leaving the General's as she spoke. "Please, General. Save the dramatics. We both know this is nothing we can't handle. We wipe them both, separate them. He's done his part for now. The problem is already solved."

The man beside her—a younger doctor with a face that still carried the naïveté of someone who hadn't quite grasped the full weight of their operations—shifted uneasily. He was more sensitive to these things. More concerned about the ethical implications. "But, Doctor," he interjected, his voice wavering slightly, "she is too young. That type of memory wipe would be—"

"—detrimental on numerous levels, yes, yes, we know." Dr. Rausch's eyes flicked dismissively toward the younger doctor, who immediately fell silent under her gaze. "But if we don't do this—if we don't wipe her—then what? We let him remember? We allow her to keep the truth?"

She stepped toward the table, her heels clicking with precision against the floor. The room felt colder with every step she took. "Now that would be detrimental on us all."

The younger doctor swallowed hard, his throat dry as he glanced nervously between Dr. Rausch and the General. "But—"

"We need her here. The General's eyes narrowed, his posture stiff. He wasn't so easily swayed by her cold logic. "You and I both know she's special. She can be useful—more than useful." His gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But you want to send her away. To Russia."

Dr. Rausch's eyes flashed with something—an unreadable mix of annoyance and certainty. "Russia can offer what we cannot. The resources, the support, the kind of care she needs—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Even if our current facilities are designed for someone like her, she needs to be pushed the extra mile."

"She's fine," the General snapped, his words sharp as knives. "We've controlled her every move since the moment she was born. Hydra is where she belongs. I won't let her slip through our fingers."

Dr. Rausch's lips curled in a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hydra's resources are limited, General. Despite everything you've put into her, she's too important to risk now. Russia has the means to finish what we started. They can take care of her."

The General's hand clenched tighter, his knuckles white. "And what if she fights it?" His voice was low, almost pleading for a solution he feared wouldn't work. "What if this—this bond between them is too strong? It's already affecting her behavior. If we wipe her, and she resists—"

"Then she resists," Dr. Rausch interrupted smoothly, a cold finality in her tone. "But she will bend, General. She has no choice. We've conditioned her from the start. She will do as she's told." Her gaze turned piercing, like a knife, as she leaned in just a fraction closer to the General. "You know as well as I do, if there's anything left of her—anything beyond the soldier we've made—Russia will handle it. They will wipe her clean. And when she returns, she'll be the my asset again. No past. No hesitation."

The younger doctor shifted uncomfortably again, but didn't interrupt this time. His gaze flickered between the two, clearly torn.

"Our asset," The General's voice was strained as he tried to maintain control over his emotions. "I still don't like it. You think we can trust them to handle her properly? KGB... they've always had their own agenda. What if they fail her? What if she becomes a liability?"

Dr. Rausch's smile deepened. "You want to keep her here because you're afraid of losing control. But you've seen the reports. She's becoming too unpredictable, out of control. That connection she has with him—it's not just a weakness, it's a danger." She stepped closer, her words deliberate and slow. "She needs to be reset, before it's too late. Before she knows"

The General looked away, as if the words stung. But after a long moment, he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he realized the truth of it. "And if she resists, and doesn't bend the way you think she will?"

Dr. Rausch's gaze hardened, her voice like ice. "Then we have no choice but to let Russia handle it. They have the means to ensure that she follows the orders. If she doesn't... they will ensure that she forgets."

The General was silent, lost in thought. His eyes darkened with the weight of the decision. "And if she won't forget? If she starts remembering—truly remembering—who she is, who he is—"

"Then we control that too," Dr. Rausch said with unshaken confidence, her smile returning. "She's a tool, General. And like any tool, she can be made to forget. She will forget. It's only a matter of how and when."

The younger doctor swallowed hard, still uneasy, but silent. The air between them was thick with tension.

After a long, heavy silence, the General gave a small nod, his resistance giving way to the hard facts of their situation. "Fine. You handle the transfer. But I want a full report on her progress. She's ours—and I don't intend to lose her."

Dr. Rausch didn't even flinch at the underlying threat. "Of course, General. I'll make sure everything is in order."

And with that, the decision was made.

The General stood still, staring out of the window, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. In the distance, he could almost hear the sound of footsteps—footsteps he knew too well. The girl's. The soldier's.

But in the end, she would be reset. She would forget the soldier. Forget him. Forget everything. And when she came back, she would be a soldier again.

Her memories would be wiped clean, and nothing would stand in their way

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The human body cannot be confined, we need light, we need our breath and warmth to get through the night. A window is a small opening to the outside world that allows light, air, sound, and beauty to pass through.

Windows allow you to see a lit-up home and the opening to many lives intertwined. When you look out, you can see the world changing and moving, especially now in time. But Emeline could barely imagine any of that. Gazing around at four walls was something that she knew all too well. There were times when she caught a glimpse of a cool, shiny surface overlooking the lives of others like her, and when she did, it took over her mind. They became her safe haven, a place to look for when things became dark.

Sometimes, though, she would catch a glimpse of something else. A cool, shiny surface—a reflection of the world outside, distorted and unreachable. She would catch her breath, her heart fluttering. It was like staring at the distant promise of freedom, the only thing that offered her a thread of hope. She didn't know why it comforted her—maybe it was the illusion of life outside, or the thought that she wasn't entirely forgotten, that the world still moved beyond her reach. The window was her silent sanctuary, her stolen peace in a world that had left her behind.

But those moments, those fragile glimpses, were rare. Fewer and fewer now. The yearning for escape, for anything that might remind her of a life before, gnawed at her every day. The window was more than just a symbol—it was a need, a desperate craving for something she couldn't have. It had once been a simple, everyday thing—something she hadn't thought about until it was taken away. But now, it was the only thing that made sense.

And yet, the reality of her situation pressed in from all sides. The cold walls of the facility. The nameless, faceless guards who moved like shadows in her peripheral vision. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow hallways, the sound a constant reminder that she was a prisoner, just one more test subject in a never-ending line of broken people. The cold hum of the building, the cold hum of the machines—it all blended together in a sound that kept her tethered to this place, even when she wanted to slip away.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she walked, each step heavy, burdened with the weight of the unknown. The hallway stretched before her, the lights overhead flickering intermittently as though even they were uncertain about what was coming. She had no idea where they were taking her now. But that familiar gnawing fear told her it wouldn't be good.

Guided into the next room, the sterile light casting harsh shadows on the walls, she froze. The chair loomed in the center of the space—unforgiving, mechanical, cold. The same chair where so many had lost themselves, their minds reduced to empty vessels by the very same machine she would soon face. The same chair where she'd seen a man become broken. A man she knew.

Five-year-old Emeline's legs trembled, but she forced herself to take one step, then another, the guards flanking her on either side. She could feel the eyes of the technicians on her—disinterested, clinical. They had seen it all before. She was just another subject in a long line of victims.

Her chest tightened as they pushed her into the chair, the cold metal pressing against her limbs, forcing her into submission. She closed her eyes for a brief second, and in the darkness, she imagined sunlight. She imagined warmth on her skin, the light through the cracks of a window, something to hold onto. A place to escape.

But even that, she knew, was a fantasy. Something beyond her reach.

"I still cannot allow this," one of the technicians said, his voice low, hesitant. "Her mind is too fragile. At this age—"

"I don't care," Dr. Rausch snapped, her voice cold, hard. "She's been compromised."

Before she could even fully comprehend what was happening, they forced the headset over her head, the cold metal digging into her skin. A mouthpiece was shoved into her mouth, and the room spun as the instruments of her torment hummed to life. She tried to turn her head away, but they held her in place with relentless precision. Her breath caught in her throat as the machine's cold tendrils connected to her, its icy presence washing over her mind.

The pain was instant, sharp, as if something was trying to tear her apart from the inside. Her thoughts splintered, fragmented pieces of memories that no longer made sense. The window. Her escape. Her breath was ragged, shallow, as she fought against the tightening grip of the machine. Her memories were slipping. Pieces of herself were being ripped away.

The pain of it? Unbearable.

She tried to hold on—to cling to the thought of the window, the light. But it was slipping, fading, as the cold metal of the machine dug deeper into her mind. She could feel herself losing her grasp on everything that had ever mattered. The light, the warmth, the escape—they all blurred into nothingness, disintegrating like ash in the wind.

Her mind raced, but it was like trying to hold sand in her hands. The more she tried to keep it together, the more it slipped through her fingers. She squirmed as much as she was able, feeling cold tears run down her face. The last thing she could remember—before it all became a fog of nothingness—was the image of the window. The light. The hope. It had been her anchor, her last breath of something real.

And then, the darkness swallowed her whole.

Her body went still. Her mind went quiet. There was nothing left.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Emeline was no longer Emeline. She was a blank slate, a perfect subject. Just another test for Hydra. Another number. Even if she still remembered her name in the back of her mind, the origin of it was lost.

And the window was gone.

Chapter Text

(( 2:04am - October 4th, 2016 - New York ))

The nightmare had been too vivid, too real. Emeline's mind was a battlefield, her body trapped between the remnants of Hydra's twisted influence and the desire for freedom. She could hear their voices, familiar, cold, demanding. The words, eclipse... vein, repeated in her head like a sick lullaby, drowning out everything else.

The memories came crashing back, as they always did, the darkness flooding her senses. She was a weapon. She was an asset. And in the cruelest twist, her own mind was the thing she couldn't escape.

She was going back to the person that lay on the other side of her concious.

She could feel the cold, the sharp metal of the chair digging into her skin, the wires that seemed to go on forever, restraining her, controlling her. Her heart raced, her breath shallow and erratic, but it wasn't enough. The walls closed in. Her breath caught in her chest, her limbs twitching as if they too wanted to break free of the nightmare's grip. She hadn't felt like this in a long time.

No. Not again. Not now.

She woke with a start, gasping for air, her body drenched in sweat, her hands shaking. Her heart pounded in her ears, her pulse rapid and unsteady. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her like an unwanted second skin, suffocating her, pulling her back into the past. Her surroundings, her room, her new life at the tower... It felt like a cruel joke. She wasn't safe. Not from herself. Not from what Hydra had made her. They were always going to be watching.

The bed beneath her was too soft. It felt like it was swallowing her whole, like she couldn't breathe. It was supposed to comfort her, but it felt wrong, too comfortable, too soft, too much like the kind of luxury Hydra would never have allowed. She needed the floor. But she was here, on the bed, her chest tight and her mind fractured.

Her fingers curled into the blanket beneath her, pulling it tight as though it could shield her from the storm raging inside her.

The voice of Friday, calm and detached, broke through the haze of her panic.

"Emeline, your heart rate is elevated. I've detected tachycardia. Please remain still while I contact help."

No. No. She didn't need help, she just needed to breathe. She was fine. She had to be fine.

But her body betrayed her. Her chest tightened with every breath, her heartbeat still too fast, and the words, Eclipse... vein..., refused to leave her mind. They were like the final command that had never been removed, carved deep into her psyche by Hydra's hands. Her eyes darted around the room, but she couldn't escape the grip of the past. Not now.

And then the door creaked open, just a little. Soft steps entered the room, their weight barely perceptible against the silence.

"Emeline?" Natasha's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it was enough to draw her attention.

Emeline's breath caught again. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. The vulnerability, the weakness, it wasn't something she could handle. Not here, not with them. She couldn't let them see how easily the cracks formed, how quickly she fell apart when she was alone. She didn't know why she had come here, why she had stayed in the tower when the truth of her past still loomed over her like a shadow, waiting to pounce.

She was going to hurt someone sooner or later.

Her voice barely reached Natasha. "Don't... I don't wanna-" I don't want to hurt you. Emeline had no idea if she had control over where her mind was going. Her arm twitched, like contained energy just waiting to escape.

"You won't," Natasha said softly, taking a small step forward, but not too close. Natasha knew what Emeline was saying. She knew how to give space, how to hold herself back when someone was struggling. She remembered Emeline from the Red Room. The girl had been a ghost, a shadow of someone who had never truly had a chance.

"I'm right here," Natasha continued, her voice steady, like a tether. "You're safe."

Safe. Emeline barely registered the word. She didn't believe in safety anymore. She didn't know how to believe in it. Hydra had built her life on lies, on control. And this... this wasn't safety. Not yet. Not when the nightmares kept coming. Not when her heart raced at the mere thought of trusting anyone.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the blanket, any harder and she would've ripped it. She could feel the panic swelling inside her again, hot and sharp, and her mind raced in a thousand directions at once. The bed beneath her felt too soft, like the room itself was caving in, like the comfort was somehow suffocating her.

"I-I can't," Emeline gasped, her voice trembling.

Natasha remained calm. She didn't rush forward. She didn't push her. Instead, she let her voice become a quiet, constant rhythm, a reminder of stability in a storm. "Just breathe with me, Emeline. In, out. You've got this."

Emeline couldn't meet her eyes. She was too afraid to see the pity in them. Too afraid to face what this would mean, what it would mean to truly be free. She felt the walls closing in on her again. The pressure was suffocating. She needed to escape, needed to disappear.

But Natasha was still there. Her voice remained a steady presence, and slowly, slowly, Emeline's breathing began to slow. The panic began to fade, just a little. She wasn't safe yet. But she was beginning to feel like she could breathe again.

Steve was standing at the door, watching as Emeline had a flighty look in her eyes. A look that resembled Bucky's almost identically.

But soon enough, once he realized Emme needed her space, he retreated into the main room. He knew Natasha would come with answers to the questions swimming through his mind.

Emeline was still trembling, but Natasha didn't leave. She sat on the edge of the bed, just close enough to offer her presence, but far enough not to crowd her. Her voice was quiet but unwavering as she continued guiding Emeline through the breathing exercises.

Slowly, bit by bit, Emeline's breath began to steady. The panic didn't vanish, but it became more manageable. The storm inside her hadn't completely calmed, but she could at least see the sky beyond the clouds.

She felt the weight of the room, the weight of her past, bearing down on her. The fear of being weak. Of being seen. The fear that she might never be able to trust anyone again, that she might never truly be free of Hydra's control.

But for now, in this moment, Natasha's steady voice was enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Emeline closed her eyes, her breathing still slow and shaky. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. But maybe, just maybe, there was a part of her that could finally begin to believe that she might one day be able to let them in.

For now, though, she was trapped in the storm of her own mind, the memories of those words still echoing in the darkness. And though Natasha was here, Emeline couldn't escape the truth.

She was still running.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━⧗━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Natasha was glad she'd asked FRIDAY to inform her if there was anything even remotely alarming happening to Emeline. To wake her up at any moment, without hesitation. Tonight had proven why.

Her heart ached at the way Emeline had clung to her after Steve left. Part of Natasha saw that little girl again, the one with wide, haunted eyes and calloused hands far too small to hold that kind of pain. She had seen that broken look before, years ago. That desperation to escape. Only now, Emeline was trying to outrun dreams of a place she had already left behind. And sometimes, those were harder to face.

The door to Emeline's room clicked shut quietly behind Natasha, leaving a soft echo in the hallway. She lingered for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, centering herself before making her way down the long, cool corridor. She didn't need to turn the corner to know Steve was waiting in the common area. There was always a shift in the air when he was nearby, a presence she could feel before she saw him. And lately, that tension always seemed to spike when Emeline was involved. It was like a quiet ticking clock, counting down to something none of them were prepared to face.

As Natasha entered the room, her eyes immediately landed on him.

Steve stood near the window, staring out at the New York skyline, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His shoulders were stiff, jaw clenched, but the way his eyes softened when he glanced over his shoulder told her more than he probably meant to show.

"I know that look, Nat," he said before she could speak.

His voice wasn't sharp, but low and heavy with something she couldn't quite name. Concern, maybe, regret. Or both.

She blinked, a little surprised. She'd expected him to press her for answers, maybe even lash out in that quiet, Captain America way of his. Instead, he just turned back to the city, like he needed to watch it breathe for a moment before he could handle the truth.

"That look... no kid should have that," he added, quieter this time.

Natasha didn't respond at first. Instead, she sat down, her posture relaxed but her thoughts anything but. She had said what she needed to say to Emeline, but now she had to say something to Steve. He deserved honesty, maybe not the whole truth, but enough to understand what they were dealing with. As far as the rest of them knew, Emeline was just a superpowered girl they rescued from the raft that was offered a place to stay.

"I met Emme when she was still a kid. In the Red Room," she began. Her voice was calm, but her words cut deep. "Hydra had already gotten to her by then. She was being trained."

Steve turned fully toward her then, eyes narrowing. "So... she's one of them?" he asked. The words weren't cruel, but cautious. Like he was bracing himself for the worst answer. An answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

Natasha didn't flinch. "She's got the serum. Same as you." Same as Bucky.

The silence that followed felt like a crack spreading through glass.

It was one thing to suspect something like that. But to hear it, confirmed so plainly, knocked the air out of the room. Steve let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed it.

"The serum," he echoed, his voice distant. "That's... a lot."

His mind spiraled, picking up scattered pieces of conversations, memories, looks across the room, trying to line them up in a way that made sense. He hadn't talked to Emeline much. She kept to herself, and honestly, Steve hadn't tried as hard as he could've. But now he realized he'd noticed more than he thought.

The way her eyes never quite rested in one place for too long. The way she flinched when a door slammed too fast. How she would freeze, just for a second, if someone came up behind her. He'd seen it all before in Bucky. In other soldiers too far gone to remember their own names.

But Emeline wasn't a soldier.

She was a kid.

And that was what hit him the hardest.

"I didn't expect her to..." He trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Be like me? Be dangerous? Be hurt?

"She's not like them," Natasha said, reading his thoughts. "She didn't choose it."

Steve swallowed hard. He thought of how small she looked sometimes, curled up on the couch with a blanket she refused to admit she liked as Wanda flipped through channels. How young her voice sounded when she wasn't biting it back into silence. How her hands trembled on bad days, and how she always tried to hide it.

"I didn't think she was dangerous," he said finally. "Not really. I just..." It wasn't just pain, it was guilt. A guilt no child should carry.

"She reminds me of Bucky," he added softly.

Natasha kept standing, just drawing blood as she bit the inside of her cheek.

"She watches everyone like she's trying to memorize exit points," he clarified. He rubbed his hands together slowly, like he was grounding himself in the motion. "But she's so young. She's just a kid."

His voice caught a little, but he didn't stop.

"We were soldiers. We knew what we were getting into, even when we didn't. But her?" Steve's voice dropped, low and pained as he trailed off. "And we didn't even know." I didn't even know.

There it was, the guilt. Steve Rogers had always carried the weight of the world, even when it wasn't his to carry. But this? This felt personal. Because he should have seen it. He should have recognized the signs. He knew what Hydra's victims looked like. He'd spent the last few years trying to find Bucky and undo the damage they caused. And yet, here was Emeline, right under their roof and none of them had noticed. She was a victim and he didn't see it.

"What do we do?" he asked, finally meeting Natasha's gaze.

"Remember that she's just a kid who's trying," Natasha said gently.

He was quiet for a long time, his thoughts circling everything she'd said. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I hate that."

Natasha's expression softened. "So do I." There was another silence, but this one wasn't heavy. It was just reflective. Thoughtful.

"So what now?" Steve asked, more to himself than to her.

Natasha stood, her gaze steady. "Now? She just needs to feel safe."

Steve looked at her, and this time, there was no conflict in his eyes. Just quiet determination. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

It wasn't a grand declaration. It wasn't a battle plan. But it was something.

As Natasha turned back toward the hallway, she paused, glancing at Steve one last time. But before she could say anything he nodded slowly, watching her leave.

And when the door shut behind her, he stayed there for a while watching the city lights flicker beyond the glass. Thinking about a girl with haunted eyes and a quiet strength he hadn't understood until now.

He didn't know if he could make up for everything she'd lost. But he could start by making sure she didn't lose anything else. Not while he was still standing.

Chapter Text

(( 6:57am - October 3rd, 2016 - New York ))

BUCKY sat in the dim light of his apartment, his breathing slow but uneven, the weight of his nightmare pressing against him like a phantom hand around his throat. The room was quiet, too quiet. It left too much space for his thoughts to creep in, for the ghosts of his past to take shape in the shadows.

He ran a hand down his face, his metal fingers cool against his clammy skin. The dream had been more vivid than usual, more than just the blurred, broken images he had gotten used to over the years. It wasn't just a memory resurfacing, it was something real. Something he had seen.

The HYDRA base in Siberia.

It had been years since he was last there. Since that final battle with Steve and Stark, since Zemo had played them all like a damn symphony, leaving nothing but broken bones and friendships in his wake. But before all that, before he had even known Steve was looking for him, that base had been his prison. The place where HYDRA had kept him in cryo, waking him only when they needed their weapon.

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat dry.

He had been there for so long, trapped in that frozen nightmare, torn out of the ice whenever they had a job that required something more than a bullet. Put him on ice, those were the words they had used, like he was just another tool to be stored away. He had never known how long he'd been asleep between missions. Weeks, months, years, it all blurred together. His existence had been nothing but cold steel restraints, the whirring of machines, and the voice of his handlers giving orders he had no choice but to obey.

Soldat. Do you comply?

He shuddered, shaking the words from his mind.

But this nightmare hadn't just been about HYDRA's control. It had been about something else, something buried deep within his past at that facility.

A girl.

She had been there, somewhere in the shadows of that memory, her presence fleeting but distinct. Bucky couldn't place her, couldn't even remember if she had spoken, but he knew she had been there. Watching him.

And that was what unsettled him the most.

Because she wasn't supposed to be there.

A child had no place in a facility like that. He knew what HYDRA did to people. He had seen the experiments, the way they took men and women apart just to see what they could put back together. He had seen children, but never for long. Never as anything more than another project, another number on a clipboard. Most didn't survive. Those who did became something else entirely.

And yet, this girl... she wasn't just another victim in the background of his past. There was something different about her.

The memory was fractured, but he could still see glimpses. The pale glow of fluorescent lights overhead. The walls, coated in frost, ice creeping along the edges of steel doors. His breath misting in the air as he walked through the facility, his handlers just behind him.

And then her.

She had been standing there, half-hidden in the shadows, small but still. Too still. The way she had watched him, unmoving, unreadable, it wasn't the way people usually looked at him. Most saw him as the Soldier, HYDRA's weapon. Others barely looked at him at all, knowing what he was capable of. But she... she had met his gaze.

Bucky tried to focus, tried to push through the fog of his memories, but there was nothing else. Just that one fleeting moment, a glimpse of something that had no reason to exist.

Who the hell was she?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

HYDRA didn't keep people around unless they served a purpose. Which meant she had been there for a reason. Had she been an experiment? A prisoner? Another assassin in training, like so many others?

Bucky ground his teeth, his jaw tightening. He knew what HYDRA did to people like that. He had been one of them. Taken, broken, reshaped into something useful. And if she had been there, if she had been part of their program...

His fingers twitched.

Steve had spent so much time trying to convince him that he wasn't just the Winter Soldier. That HYDRA hadn't taken everything from him. And for the most part, Bucky wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that there was something left of James Buchanan Barnes in him.

But HYDRA had done more than just strip away his memories. They had rewritten them. Altered them. Buried them under layers of conditioning and electric shocks until they had created something new, something loyal only to them.

If there had been a girl at that facility, if he had seen her, then why the hell couldn't he remember anything else about her?

Was that by design?

Bucky's throat tightened. What if he had known her? What if they had taken something else from him, another piece of his past, another truth they had buried deep?

His mind flashed to Tony Stark's face, to the look in his eyes when he had seen the footage of his parents' murder. The horror. The rage. The realization that something had been stolen from him, ripped away without his knowledge or consent.

Had HYDRA done the same thing to this girl? Had they done the same thing to him?

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but it didn't work. This wasn't just some passing nightmare.

The past wasn't finished with him yet.

-----

The hum of the Tower was a constant presence, always in the background, a low, steady noise that Bucky had grown used to over time. But today, it seemed too loud. The walls felt too close, the space too open, as though everything was pressing in on him. The weight of his thoughts, the aftermath of the nightmare, the quiet tension that had settled in his chest, everything felt heavy.

Bucky sat across from Steve in the common area, his back against the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out at nothing. Steve was talking, his voice warm and familiar, recounting a recent mission or some new development with the team. It wasn't important, at least not right now. Steve's voice, despite its steady comfort, barely registered to Bucky anymore.

Instead, his mind was locked on the image that had haunted him all morning, the girl in his dream. The one from Siberia.

It wasn't a new image. It wasn't a new memory. But today, it had come to the forefront, more vivid than ever.

Bucky's fingers absently traced the edge of his mug, his eyes unfocused. He could almost feel the cold air of that HYDRA base again, the metallic taste of fear in the back of his throat, the constant hum of machines, the clatter of boots on concrete floors.

And the girl.

He could still see her clearly in his mind, her small frame, her face partially obscured by shadows, her eyes watching him with an intensity that had always unsettled him. She had been so still, so quiet, standing apart from the rest of the chaos that had filled the facility. And yet, she had never left his mind. Who are you who are you who are you?

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. It was just a dream. Nothing more.

But something about the memory, something about her, kept him from fully shaking it. There was a connection he couldn't explain, a link he couldn't break.

And then, the door to the common area opened with a soft creak.

Bucky didn't look up at first. It was a habit, one he had long since perfected, to remain still, to remain unseen.

The air shifted. A presence, quiet and subtle, but undeniable.

Bucky's entire body went stiff, his pulse quickening as the realization dropped like a stone into his gut. The world seemed to slow for a second.

The girl who had been living in the Tower for weeks now, the one who hardly spoke, who kept to herself. He had seen her a few times since the raft, had brushed past her in hallways, but he hadn't thought twice about it. She was just another survivor of HYDRA, another casualty of the mess they had both been dragged into.

But now, as she entered the room, it all clicked into place. It was her, the same girl.

His eyes locked onto her without even realizing it. She moved through the room with that same careful grace, almost ghost-like, just like she had moved in his memory, always in the background, never quite part of the world around her. But there was something more now. Something that hit him harder than any punch he'd ever taken.

The sharpness of her features. The angle of her jaw. The way her hair fell around her face, slightly messy but still controlled. The tension in her shoulders, the way her posture was always just on the edge of alertness, as though she were waiting for something.

The face that had once been a blur in his nightmares, now crystal clear in front of him.

She glanced up for a split second, her eyes meeting his briefly, and then, just as quickly, she looked down again, her expression unreadable. The moment was over in an instant, but it had been enough.

Bucky could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, the world narrowing to just her. Emme.

It was like his memories of Siberia had collided with the present, dragging the truth into sharp focus. She had been there, just a child, in the shadows of that facility. He had seen her before, but he hadn't known who she was. He hadn't recognized her.

The girl he had thought was just another ghost in his past, just another face lost to the cold steel of HYDRA's walls, was standing right in front of him.

The connection was instant, undeniable. His throat went dry.

Steve was still talking, unaware of the shift that had just happened, oblivious to the fact that Bucky had just stumbled upon a truth that had been hiding in plain sight. Steve was recounting some mission details, probably, but Bucky wasn't listening to him. He couldn't. He couldn't focus on anything else but the girl standing in front of him.

Emme.

His mind raced. How could he not have seen it before? How could he have brushed her off, accepted her presence without realizing who she was? He had spent months under HYDRA's control, had seen things that no person should ever have to see.

But this... This was different.

The girl in Siberia hadn't been a figment of his imagination. She hadn't been a shadow. She had been real. She was a part of his past, buried deep in his memories, and now she was here. In the Tower, living among them.

Bucky swallowed, trying to steady himself. He couldn't explain what he was feeling, couldn't articulate the storm that was brewing inside of him. But the one thing that was clear, as clear as the air in the room around him, was that she had been a part of it all along.

And he hadn't known.

Emme, standing there, wasn't just a face in the crowd anymore. She was a key. A missing piece.

His heart raced, but the quiet of the room, Steve's voice still flowing on in the background, seemed to amplify the realization. It felt like the air itself had thickened.

She had been part of his past all along. He just hadn't known it.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Cold rain misted the morning, turning the air to silver and setting a thin gloss on the cracked sidewalks. Maple leaves, already bronzed and curled at the edges, chased one another in tight spirals across the pavement before finding rest against damp curbs. Emeline kept her hands in the kangaroo pocket of her borrowed sweatshirt as she walked beside Wanda, the gray hood shadowing her eyes. Her breath showed in faint white plumes. Even with the chill, a prickle of sweat ran down her spine, the old, wired vigilance that Hydra training never let her forget.

They were four blocks from the Tower when Wanda slowed her pace. "It will not be crowded this early," she said, voice low but easy. "And most people prefer umbrellas to staring at strangers."

Emeline gave a small nod. She trusted Wanda more than anyone besides maybe Peter, Sam or Natasha, but trust did not shut off the reflex to scan rooftops or track passing cars. She matched Wanda's stride anyway, boots clicking through shallow puddles that reflected the dull pewter sky.

The shop appeared almost by accident, its awning striped burgundy and cream, its broad window fogged at the corners. A single Edison bulb glowed behind a row of knit beanies. From outside it looked like any hole-in-the-wall boutique on Atlantic Avenue, a place that survived on locals and curiosity. Wanda pressed a gloved hand to the door, and a brass bell chimed as they stepped inside.

Warmth met them first, then the smell: cedar shelves, citrus candles, wool, and something faintly sweet, maybe vanilla from the café next door. Soft music drifted from hidden speakers, low piano notes that did not try to command attention. The lighting glowed amber, a steady antidote to the gray morning.

Emeline paused on the rug just beyond the threshold. Her training clothes had always been functional, synthetic blends that wicked sweat and never snagged, lightweight so nothing resisted a kick or a sprint. Those fabrics were cool to the touch and strangely glossy, almost slippery. Inside this shop everything looked matte and weighty, designed for comfort rather than speed. That made her nervous in a way she could not name.

Wanda shed her own hood, letting dark hair fall around her shoulders. She moved toward a rack of cotton jumpers, fingers brushing cuffs, gauging softness. "Let's start simple," she said. "Long sleeves, nothing too bright. Sound fair?"

"Bright is fine," Emeline answered, though the lie tasted odd. She honestly did not know if bright would be fine. Colors beyond tactical gray had always belonged to someone else.

Wanda heard the incongruity but did not call it out. Instead she plucked a faded maroon hoodie from the rack, the inside lined with fleece so thick it looked like winter clouds caught in cloth. "Try this."

Emeline weighed the garment in both hands. It felt heavier than her entire drawer of gear combined. The fleece brushed her knuckles like the inside of mittens she once saw a mother give her child in a checkpoint queue. She remembered envying that child for the mittens more than for freedom.

A row of reclaimed-wood shelves held stacks of T-shirts rolled tight as pastries. Emeline drifted toward them, letting her fingertips gauge the cotton. Soft, softer, softer still. She lingered on a deep navy shirt patterned with tiny constellations, almost black until the light caught the star shapes in silver thread.

"You like that one," Wanda said, not a question.

Emeline shrugged. "It feels light," she said, which for her meant it would not slow a side kick or catch on a wire fence. Instinct still framed every choice.

"You do not have to fight in it," Wanda reminded her gently. She looked past Emeline, eyes following a mother and toddler who entered at the far end, then relaxed her shoulders again. Old reflexes died hard for both of them.

Emeline gathered the hoodie, the constellation tee, and a pair of dark jeans Wanda produced like a magician from a lower rack. She headed toward the fitting room, a curtained alcove at the back beside a stand of trailing pothos plants. The curtain rings rasped as she pulled it shut.

Inside, she stripped her sweatshirt and slid the hoodie overhead. The fleece caught on the ridges of old scars along her ribs, but it was a soft catch, not a snag. She flexed her elbows, expecting resistance. None came. The jeans hugged her hips without pinching, the denim thick yet forgiving. It was all... quiet. Hydra clothes always whispered readiness in the back of her mind. This set murmured nothing. The silence felt louder than New York traffic.

She studied her reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back wore burgundy rather than black. Red once signified alarms flashing in underground corridors. Now it looked like falling leaves.

Emeline opened the curtain halfway. Wanda waited a polite distance away, arms folded, leaning against a display of scarves the color of honey. She straightened when she spotted Emeline. "How is the size?"

"It fits," Emeline said, voice too flat to betray the whirlpool behind her ribs. She tugged the hem. The fabric skimmed her skin like water warmer than body temperature, strange and pleasant.

"Good," Wanda said. She approached but stopped just out of arm's reach. "What do you think about color?"

Emeline glanced at the hoodie. "Its fine."

"Fine is not the same as like." Wanda's lips curved in a half smile. "We can keep searching."

Emeline hesitated. The thought of choosing something purely because she liked it, not because it blended in shadow, not because it allowed maximal range of motion. It felt indulgent, even dangerous. She lifted her gaze to Wanda. "I don't know what I like."

"That is why we are here." Wanda gestured back toward the floor racks. "Colors, fabrics, anything that makes you stop for a heartbeat. We can start there."

They spent the next quarter hour in a slow drift. Bronze hangers whispered when Emeline parted them. She touched ribbed henleys the color of melted chocolate, brushed cable-knit cardigans that felt like braided rope dipped in velvet. Every texture carried strange messages to her nerves. Some fabrics prickled memories of gauze and bandages. Others felt like a lullaby.

At a stand of crew-neck sweaters, Wanda held out a forest-green one. "This reminds me of the mountains outside Novi Grad before winter," she said.

Emeline turned the knit between her fingers. The weave looked intricate, almost like overlapping vines. She pictured dark spruce needles dusted in first snow, though she had never truly seen it. "It is pretty," she murmured, hoping the admission did not sound foolish.

Wanda's eyes softened. "Okay."

Emeline tucked the sweater under her arm. Other finds joined it: a lightweight charcoal jacket, socks with tiny lunar phases, a muted saffron scarf so soft it might evaporate if squeezed. She worried the pile grew too large, but Wanda paid each new piece with crisp bills and a calm nod.

Rain thickened while the clerk folded their purchase into a recycled paper bag. Through the window, traffic lights glowed like lanterns in mist, and taxi roofs glistened. Wanda shouldered the bag and held the door. The bell chimed again, dimmed by the hush of rain outside.

They turned toward the Tower, shoes scuffing fallen leaves now plastered to the asphalt. Steam rose from subway grates in pale ribbons. Wanda adjusted her own coat collar.

Emeline slid both hands deep into the hoodie pocket, feeling the fuzzy lining gather around her knuckles. After half a block she spoke, voice nearly lost to passing tires. "What is your favorite color?"

Wanda glanced over, surprised but pleased. "Scarlet, I think," she said. "Because it is bold. But in autumn I like burnt orange."

Emeline considered that. "Blue's nice. Green too."

"They are," Wanda said, giving her a gentle smile. "I still like red more." She smirked as she nudged Emme's shoulder.

They walked on, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a street cart ahead. Emeline inhaled and discovered the smell made her hungry rather than wary. Another surprise.

She looked down at the burgundy sleeve, rainwater beading and rolling off in silvery tracks. The fabric held the droplets for an instant before drinking them in. Comfortable. She tested the word silently, tasted its unfamiliar edges. Maybe she could learn to like it.

Beside her, Wanda kept a companionable silence. The city murmured around them: the hush of tires through rainwater, a horn somewhere distant, the faint thrum of elevated tracks. Nothing chased them, yet everything moved.

Emeline drew the hood tighter against the drizzle. It fit. It warmed her ears. It also reminded her that today she had chosen something, and nothing bad had happened.

That thought followed her all the way back to the Tower, soft as fleece against old scars.

Chapter Text

(( 12:16am - October 8th, 2016 - Queens ))

IT wasn't a surprise that Emeline hated being the center of attention.

Her whole life had depended on being invisible. In HYDRA, attention meant failure. It meant weakness. Eyes on you meant something had slipped, your silence, your posture, your control. So she had learned to move like a shadow, to listen without breathing too loudly, to disappear before anyone noticed she had ever been there at all.

But what bothered her more, what clawed at her insides with a sharp, burning edge, was how much attention he got.

Not Peter. Spider-Man.

The city couldn't seem to get enough of him. Half the time they were singing his praises, the other half they were screaming for his blood. And yet there he was, every night, pulling strangers out of burning buildings, stopping bike thieves, chasing down the consequences no one else wanted to face.

She saw J. Jonah Jameson's latest news reel earlier that day. The screen had flickered in the Tower's common room, the volume just high enough to catch every venom-laced word.

"Menace! He's endangering civilians, again. When is someone going to step up and unmask this masked liability?"

Emeline hadn't spoken. She didn't need to. The tension in her jaw had said enough.

Now, several hours later, she sat beside Peter Parker on the familiar, slightly uneven couch in his apartment in Queens. It was past midnight, and the city below was softening beneath the rain, just misting now, a whisper against the glass. The radiator clanked somewhere near the hallway, fighting valiantly against the October chill that crept through the windows.

It smelled like laundry detergent and something faintly sweet. Probably whatever pie Aunt May had made last.

May's pie was the best.

Peter dropped onto the couch beside her with a small sigh and handed her the mug of tea she hadn't asked for.

"You still like honey in it, right?" he asked, half a grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

She gave a single nod, wrapping her hands around the mug. It was warm, comforting in a way she hadn't expected.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"No problem."

The TV was off. The lights were low. There was only the soft hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of the old building settling into itself.

Peter sat with one leg pulled up on the cushion, his elbow draped over the backrest behind her. Not close enough to touch, but near enough that she could feel his presence like heat. There was something about the way he existed in a room that made it easier to breathe.

She took a sip of the tea, letting the heat anchor her to the present. It was soothing in a way that made her chest ache.

"I saw the news," Emme said eventually, her voice low. Calm, but not untouched.

The words landed between them like a pebble dropped into still water. Peter didn't look at her. His eyes tracked the rain outside the window, watching it thread slow silver lines down the glass. It was quieter here, somehow. The apartment. The rain. The thoughts she couldn't stop carrying.

He'd been more absent lately, and she knew something was up, but it was something he most likely needed to figure out for himself. The only thing that worried her was how stressed out Tony had seemed when it concerned Peter. But she figured she'd leave it alone, besides, he had some school dancing party thing that was coming up, she didn't want to bother him.

"He's wrong," she said, finally. Her voice came out even, steady. Not cold. "You're not what he says you are."

Peter gave a small laugh. "Tell that to half the city." Not sharp, not bitter. Just tired. An tone that was unfamiliar to Emme, especially coming from Peter

"I would," she said. "If they'd listen."

What Peter didn't know, and what would take Emme a long time to admit, was that he has been saving people months before he became Spiderman. He saved her.

He turned toward her, brows lifting slightly in surprise. "You don't really talk to people."

"They're not you."

The words escaped before she could catch them. She meant them as a statement, just truth. But the moment they left her mouth, they felt heavier, like something fragile and real had been said out loud for the first time.

Peter didn't joke, didn't tease. But still, he smiled like he just won the lottery. After a moment, his smile faded and he looked at her, really looked, and nodded slow.

"Well... thanks," he said. "It means a lot, coming from you."

Silence settled back over the room, soft this time. Gentle. Like a blanket rather than a wall.

She glanced at him. He wasn't in the suit tonight. No web shooters. No mask. Just Peter wrapped in a faded Midtown Science Club hoodie and pajama pants printed with tiny iron mans. His hair was damp from the rain, curling slightly at the edges. Without the weight of the city on his shoulders, he looked younger. Quieter. Like someone who hadn't yet learned to carry loss the way he did.

More human.

"I like the, uh, new hoodie," he said suddenly, nudging her with his elbow, light enough to make her glance over. "Wanda pick it out?"

"She did."

"I- It looks good," he said. "Um, I mean... it looks like you. If that makes sense."

"I don't know what I look like."

He blinked, brows pulling together. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged, fingers brushing down her sleeve. Peter's expression shifted. Not pity. Never pity. Just understanding, quiet and unflinching. She wasn't used to that.

"It just feels different," she murmured.

"It suits you," he said again, his voice firmer this time. "You're allowed to take up space."

"I guess so."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. The hoodie was warm, too warm, maybe, in the heater-hugged apartment, but she didn't want to take it off. The lining was soft. Familiar. It felt like something solid. Something hers.

Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely. The light from the kitchen cast shadows across his face, softening the edges. The storm outside tapped gently at the windows, as if listening in. Her favorite.

"You know," he said slowly, "when I first got my powers, I thought they were a curse."

She looked at him, watching his profile as he spoke. His cheeks were pink, and was almost leaning inward on himself, like he wanted to hide.

"I mean... it was cool at first. Climbing walls, swinging around like some kind of budget Tarzan... but then people started needing things. Expecting things."

He didn't raise his voice, didn't get dramatic. But the weight in his words was real, years old, but still alive behind his eyes.

"Sometimes its my fault. If I could just be better, stronger, smarter, maybe..."

Emeline's stare didn't waver. Her expression didn't shift. But her eyes... they softened. "Ben."

He looked at her, as if looking into the past. Back to when they were sitting on the roof of the apartment building after dusk and he taked to her for the first time about Ben, except then it wasn't the full truth, now it was. "Yeah."

"I know what that's like," she said, voice quiet.

"I know," he replied, meeting her gaze. No judgment. Just gentleness.

The silence that followed wasn't hollow. It was full. Of all the things they didn't have to say out loud. The mistakes. The scars. The grief that never quite stopped bleeding.

Emme turned toward him slightly, voice somehow even softer now.

"You're allowed to be more than a hero."

He exhaled slowly, then smiled. Not the bright, goofy kind. Not the one he gave strangers or cameras. Just a small one, quiet, real. Like something thawing inside.

He looked back toward the window, where the storm was beginning to slow.

"Y'know what I like to think sometimes?" he asked.

"What?"

"W- We just have to be... us. Whoever that turns out to be."

She didn't answer right away. She just let herself breathe in the moment, the smell of rain-soaked streets, the distant hum of traffic below, the warmth of tea and soft fabric and someone seeing her for who she was, not who she'd been made to be.

Then, quietly, she nodded.

It still sounded impossible. She had so many questions to ask him, but she had comfort. And safety. So sitting in a cluttered apartment in Queens, next to a boy who looked at her like she was human, was enough for her.

The radiator hissed.

The city outside whispered.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The lights in the training room flickered faintly above, buzzing in a way most people wouldn't notice. Emme noticed. The sound crawled in her ears, too sharp, too present. She tugged her sleeves down as she stepped through the doorway, not really making a sound. Steve was already there, hands wrapped, working the punching bag with rhythmic focus. She didn't want to interrupt, didn't even know if she was supposed to be there, but she walked in anyway.

She didn't speak, just crossed the room and began wrapping her own hands, every tug of the fabric a little tighter than it needed to be. Steve glanced at her. His expression didn't shift much, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He stepped away from the bag, nodding slightly.

"Need some practice?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "Sure."

His brows twitched, but he didn't question it. He gave her the space she wanted, stepped onto the mat, and waited.

She didn't want to hit him. Not really. That wasn't why she was there. She just needed to do something. Something physical. Something that didn't involve thinking or talking or trying to act normal when nothing about her felt normal. She was fraying at the seams, but slowly, quietly, the way people only noticed if they were really paying attention.

The first few minutes were just movement. Strikes, blocks, corrections. Her form was tight, practiced, but something about it was off. Her muscles were coiled too tight, her jaw locked, shoulders stiff. Her hands were quick, but she kept pulling them at the last second, like her body was fighting itself. Like she was afraid of connecting.

Steve moved with calm efficiency, not matching her aggression, just grounding it. But he noticed the hesitation. The flicker of fear that crossed her face when she almost made contact. Not fear of him. Fear of hurting him. Fear of losing control.

"You're not going to hurt me," he said gently, after her knuckles brushed his ribs and she recoiled like she'd been burned.

She didn't answer. Her breathing was already starting to change, shallow and fast, and her fists clenched tighter, as if she could press the chaos back down.

Steve stepped back, hands lowered. "Emme."

"I'm fine."

He let the silence stretch.

"I used to do the same thing," he said eventually, voice low. "I'd train until something gave. Usually me."

She looked at him then, just for a second, eyes glassy but hard.

Her pulse was pounding in her ears. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too close. She couldn't explain it. Couldn't say why something so small had set her off. Maybe it wasn't small. Maybe it was everything, the quiet judgment in every hallway, the way people looked at her like they wanted to ask questions but were too polite to try, the memories she couldn't get rid of, the ones that slipped in when she closed her eyes.

She mumbled something about needing air and turned away before he could answer. Her hands were still shaking.

The hallway was dim and empty, her steps too loud. Her breath felt thin, like it got stuck halfway down. By the time she reached Natasha's door, she wasn't thinking anymore. Her legs just took her there.

She slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her, not turning on the light. The room was still, painted in soft shadows and warm tones. The comfort of it hit her like a wave. She crossed the space and sat on the floor beside the bed, pulled her knees tight to her chest. It wasn't her room, but it was the only place that felt safe. Natasha had a way of making spaces feel like that.

She pressed her palms against her forehead, trying to stop the trembling, but her skin felt wrong, too hot, too cold, buzzing like static under her fingertips. Her chest was tight, like someone was standing on it. Her hands wouldn't unclench. Her throat ached from holding it all in. She tried to focus on her breathing, count something, anything, but her brain refused to cooperate.

Panic bloomed sharp and quiet, not loud or dramatic, but consuming. Her vision blurred at the edges. She couldn't move. Couldn't cry. Couldn't think straight. All she could do was hold her knees tighter, trying to fold herself small enough that maybe it would pass.

The door clicked open minutes later.

Natasha froze in the doorway, her silhouette a shadow in the soft light. She hadn't expected anyone. She was just coming back for something, but when she saw Emme curled up beside the bed, hands wrapped and body trembling, she didn't speak.

She stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind her.

Natasha didn't rush over. She didn't flood the room with concern or questions. She had been there before. She recognized the signs, the stiff shoulders, the too-quiet gasps for breath, the tension in Emme's body like it was bracing for impact. She crouched down a short distance away, just near enough that Emme would know she wasn't alone.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Natasha let the silence settle like a blanket. She didn't try to fix it. Didn't offer shallow reassurance or tell Emme it was okay. Instead, she reached out slowly and placed her hand, light and careful, on the floor near Emme's. Not touching. Just there. Close enough to be felt, not forced.

Emme's fingers twitched. She didn't take the hand, but she didn't move away either. That was enough.

Her shoulders shook, and for a second, Natasha thought she might finally cry, let her emotions out. But she didn't, she just pressed her forehead to her knees and whispered, almost inaudibly, "I didn't know where else to go."

Natasha's voice broke the silence, soft and even. "You came here. That means you know you're safe."

Emme's breath hitched.

"I used to get like this too," Natasha said, not looking at her directly, but her hand brushed Emeline's arm in an attempt to ground her. "Sometimes I still do. It doesn't mean you're weak."

Emme didn't speak. She wasn't ready. But she shifted, just slightly, so her head rested against Natasha's shoulder. Not clinging. Just anchored. Natasha stayed still, warm and steady, letting her know she wasn't alone.

They stayed like that for a long time. And Emme, for the first time in a while, believed she might actually be safe enough to stay.

Chapter Text

(( 3:21pm - October 9th, 2016 - Queens ))

The last threads of daylight stretched across the sky, pulling soft oranges and bruised purples over the city. From up here, the world felt quieter. The sounds of Queens, honking horns, barking dogs, the rattle of the subway softened into a distant hum beneath the breeze that tugged at Emeline's hair.

She sat on the ledge, arms around her knees, small as she could make herself. The rooftop of Peters apartment was warm from the sun's lingering heat, but the air was starting to cool.

She'd come up here to be alone. Peter had gone to go get Ned and MJ, so she decided to be elsewhere so they could get their own bonding time or whatever it is they liked to call their hangouts. She certainly didn't need to be there and dampen their mood. 

Then, the sudden sound of the door opening and shoes scuffing on concrete invaded her ears. Peter's voice drifted first, low and easy. 

"I'm telling you, Ned, she's probably up here."

"Well, yeah, but what if she's not? What if she's, like, on a secret spy mission or something?" Ned replied, louder and always a step behind.

The door groaned open fully, and then they were there, Peter, Ned, and MJ, spilling onto the rooftop like they belonged there, like they always did. 

Peter spotted her first, of course. His face lit up with that quick, soft grin that always hit her in a place she didn't know how to protect.

"Hey."

He walked over, careful not to get too close, like he always gave her the choice. He dropped his backpack on the ground with a thump and sat down beside her, leaving space but close enough that she could feel his warmth.

Ned flopped down, out of breath though they'd only climbed a few flights. His bag of chips crinkled as he tore it open.

"I swear," he panted, already grabbing a handful. "My mom's trying to kill me. She got me this suit for Homecoming, it's so bright it should come with a warning label."

Emeline didn't say anything, just glanced at him, then back out at the skyline. The word floated between them, Homecoming, unfamiliar but weighted.

"I'm sure it's not that bad." Peter laughed, leaning back on his hands.

"No, dude, it's bad," Ned said through a mouthful of chips. "Like... highlighter bad. And it's not even worth it. I don't even want to go to this thing."

"Yes, you do." MJ had settled down on the other side of Emeline, long legs stretched out, boots scuffed from who knew what. She didn't say anything at first, just watched the city like it might offer something interesting if she stared long enough.

Ned kept going. "At least Peter's got Liz," he said, grinning. "I mean, come on. You've basically won Homecoming already."

"Ned..." Peter's ears turned pink. He tried to laugh it off, but his smile faltered at the edges.

"What? It's true. Liz Allen? Way out of your league, man."

Emeline didn't know who Liz was. The name meant nothing.

But something about the way Ned said it, the way Peter ducked his head, embarrassed and maybe pleased, made her stomach knot sudden and tight.

It didn't make sense. She didn't know this girl. She didn't even really understand what a Homecoming was.

But there it was. That sharp, unfamiliar ache that made her chest feel too small. Like she'd been left out of a conversation she didn't know she was part of. She kept her face still, eyes on the city, and tried to push it down.

MJ finally spoke, voice dry, amused. "Homecoming's going to suck," she said, like it was fact. "Same as every other school dance. Bad music. Awkward slow songs. People pretending they're not miserable."

"I mean, yeah, but still. Liz Allen." Ned shrugged.

Peter gave him a look that said please stop without saying it out loud. As if on instinct, he avoided Emme's glance, however he wasn't sure why he did.

Emeline stayed quiet. MJ tilted her head, studying the girl like she was figuring out a puzzle. Then she smirked, sudden and sharp.

"You should come," she said.

Emeline blinked, caught off guard.

"With me. As a date." MJ's smirk deepened.

Ned choked on a chip. Peter's head snapped up, eyes wide, mouth half open like he didn't know what to say. Emeline stared at MJ, trying to understand.

"Why not? Screw the whole 'bring a boy' thing. Let's show up together. Freak everybody out. It'd be fun. I hate everyone there anyway." MJ just shrugged, leaning back on her elbows.

The knot in Emeline's chest twisted tighter. Peter was looking at her now, weirdly too, as if she had done or said something wrong. Had she? Knowing how she fucked things up time and time again, she probably did. His expression was hard to read, surprised, maybe a little nervous, but there was something else there too.

She didn't know what to do with that look. Didn't know what to do with any of this.

But MJ's offer, the way she said it like it was no big deal, like they could walk in and own the place, like it wasn't about boys or rules or anything except flipping people off without saying a word, that made something settle.

Emeline wasn't sure if she wanted to go. The thought of being surrounded by strangers, lights, noise, it made her heart beat too fast. But MJ had asked. And Peter was watching her, waiting. For once his gaze leaned her over the line towards uncomfort, and that was something that threw her off guard completely.

She felt the weight of it all, the confusion, the strange jealousy she didn't want to admit was there, the warmth of being included, all tangled up inside. And because she didn't know what else to do, she nodded. Just once.

"Okay."

"Damn right okay." MJ grinned like she'd just won a bet. 

"Best idea ever." Ned pumped his fist in the air, victorious. "Now you can come see the school and all the jerks we talk about." He continued.

Peter didn't say anything right away. He just smiled, small and real, and Emeline felt that smile settle into her ribs like it belonged there.

They sat in the growing dark, the city lighting up around them, the breeze cool against their faces. And for a little while, Emeline let herself feel like maybe this was what it was like. 

To have people, even if it was messy. Even if it hurt in ways she didn't understand yet.

Even if she couldn't shake the image of a girl named Liz, a girl she'd never met and shouldn't dislike, smiling at Peter in a way she wished she could.

That sucked.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The glow of the city spilled through the half-open window, painting the walls in shades of dull gold and smoky blue. The fading amber light from the streetlamps cast a soft glow through the wide window, outlining the furniture in a gentle haze. The distant hum of cars and occasional murmur of late-afternoon voices drifted in.

Emme stood just inside the doorway of the boutique, her fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to the bright, polished floor. The place smelled like pressed fabric and lavender, the air soft and weightless except for the gentle piano music floating overhead. It made everything feel smaller, almost private, even though there were other voices drifting in from the racks of dresses that ran along every wall.

Natasha was already moving down one of the aisles, her fingertips brushing the edges of silky sleeves and beaded hems. She wore her old black sweater, soft at the cuffs, and her hair was down, a little frizzy from the misty air outside. She looked back at Emme through the mirror across from the fitting rooms, her mouth tilting into a crooked smile. They were each wearing matching hats that covered most of their faces from strangers, like their own little secret.

"It won't kill you, you know," Natasha said. She didn't say it too loud, but loud enough for Emme to hear over the piano keys and the rustle of other girls laughing near the back.

Emme kept her bag strap clenched in her hand. She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Natasha read the empty space in her silence the way other people read open books.

"It's just a dress," Natasha said, her voice warm, slipping under the noise. "One night, and one night only."

Emme's eyes flicked up, then away. MJ's voice replayed itself in her head- Let's show up together. Freak everybody out. I hate everyone there anyway. MJ had grinned when she'd said it, like she'd dared the world to say no. Emme hadn't said anything back. Just that small nod and an okay that seemed to satisfy MJ more than any yes.

Natasha stepped closer and brushed a stray strand of hair behind Emme's ear, like she'd done it a thousand times before without asking permission. With her, the question of permission never really hung in the air. It was just given.

"You don't have to like it," Natasha said, drifting back toward the rack. "But you shouldn't hate it. It's yours for a night."

Emme's eyes moved across the room. Sequins. Satin. Glitter that caught the overhead lights and threw them onto the floor in tiny stars. Some part of her thought about Peter's face when he'd said he was going with Liz, someone Emme had never met, whose name tasted wrong in her head. She didn't know why it bothered her. It shouldn't have. It didn't matter. MJ had asked her first, in that half-dare, half-command way that MJ used for everything that made her feel small.

Natasha caught her hand. Didn't tug. Just held it. Warm. Steady. "Come on. MJ will want a picture. If you show up in your hoodie, she'll strangle me first."

"I don't think she'd mind, actually." A small corner of Emme's mouth lifted up, but her shoulders dropped just a little, which Natasha seemed to take as permission enough. They moved deeper into the rows of fabric. The store owner drifted by, offered help, then wisely left them alone when Natasha had to shake her head more than once.

They combed through rack after rack. Natasha murmured commentary under her breath, rejecting frills, scoffing at too much glitter. Once she pressed a pale gray slip to Emme's shoulder and paused, eyes narrowing.

"No," Natasha said, half to herself. "Too ghostly. You're not going to disappear on me."

Emme's fingers brushed a line of beads on a pale pink dress and let go just as quickly. She didn't understand Homecoming. Not really. It didn't scare her, it just felt too big to see all at once. But MJ had asked her to stand in that too-big room and spit on the rules. That made it feel smaller.

Natasha's hand landed on her shoulder. "Help me out here."

Emme's eyes drifted over the rows. She didn't point to anything. Didn't move. But Natasha read her anyway, tilting a few hangers aside until she paused on one, a deep forest green that reminded Emme of pine needles after rain. Simple. Thin straps. Soft skirt that flared at the hip but wouldn't weigh her down.

"This," Natasha said, handing it over. "If you hate it, we'll blame Stark for setting off the sprinklers."

Emme hooked it over her arm, feeling the soft weight against her fingers. She didn't smile. Natasha did, just the corner of her mouth curling up, eyes softer than anyone else's ever were.

In the small dressing room, the mirror didn't feel as cruel as she'd expected. She stripped off her hoodie, her jeans, her soft black t-shirt. She moved carefully, not wanting to look until the green settled on her shoulders. When it did, she stood for a long moment, studying the reflection like it belonged to someone else. It didn't cling wrong. It didn't look like someone else's costume. She could breathe in it. But it looked weird all the same, foreign.

She stepped out barefoot. Natasha straightened from where she'd been sitting cross-legged near the fitting room entrance, phone in her hand like she'd been timing the moment.

"That's the one," Natasha said, instantly. She crossed over, smoothing the hem with her thumb, tugging gently at the waist until it sat just right.

Emme shifted her feet against the cold tile. The skirt brushed her shins like a secret. She looked at Natasha in the mirror. Watched Natasha look back, steady as a heartbeat.

"You do not owe this dance anything," Natasha said. The words settled heavy and warm between them, clear enough that they stuck. "Not your smile, not your effort, not your time. You can choose to be there, or you can choose not to be. It is yours."

Emme didn't answer. She didn't have to. The words slipped under her ribs and stayed there. MJ's grin flickered in her mind, that half-dare, middle-finger grin. Peter's voice replayed too, soft when he said Liz's name. Emme didn't know Liz. She didn't know why she cared. She didn't know why something about it sat sideways in her chest. But it didn't matter. MJ had asked her. The night was hers, not theirs.

Natasha stepped back to see the whole picture. "Flats," she decided. "You'll dance easier. Or run for the exits if you want."

Emme's shoulders lifted, half a shrug. Maybe she'd dance. Maybe she'd just stand there while MJ rolled her eyes at everyone. Either way, she didn't mind the picture so much anymore.

At the register, the woman behind the counter folded the dress carefully, wrapping it in plastic like it was a promise. Natasha paid without a word, one hand light on Emme's back the whole time, steering her when her focus drifted to the window, to the drizzle smudging the view of the street outside.

The air outside was cooler, the rain thickening into a mist that clung to her hairline and made the streetlights blur. Natasha didn't hurry her to the car. She stood close under the small awning, just brushing her shoulder against Emme's.

"You good?" Natasha asked, eyes forward.

Emme tilted her head, half a nod. She didn't know if good was the word. It was easier to stand there with Natasha than to think about gym lights and loud music and Liz's name sitting wrong in her mouth. Easier when the world shrank to the weight of Natasha's hand on her shoulder.

When they reached the car, Natasha opened the door, waited for Emme to fold herself inside, the dress bag tucked on her lap like a secret only the two of them would keep for now.

At a red light, Natasha drummed her fingers on the wheel. "Pizza?"

Emme's shoulders lifted, dropped. Sure. Natasha read it like she always did.

"Pizza," Natasha said. "And you get to pick the movie. You can even pick something that makes Wilson cry."

Emme let the city drift past her window, wet and soft and silvered by the rain. She didn't understand Homecoming. She didn't know Liz. She didn't know what Peter saw in her. She didn't know what she'd do when the music started or the lights went low. But MJ had asked. MJ would stand beside her, and Natasha's words would echo under her ribs.