Chapter Text
Red. White. Silver. Then Gold.
At this rate, your eyes could implode if they saw anything other than what they were accustomed to. You weren't so sure, though—it's hypothetical—or so you have learned from the words of these strange men wearing their usual pristine white coats. Can a sight so vibrant and kaleidoscopic make an iris burst? Would seeing a rainbow for the first time make you so enamored that it would make you cry?
Hypothesis involved an assumption in the theoretical sense over a subject yet to be explored—but you suspected your questions weren't worth speculating over if they could be answered by a child as soon as they learned how to speak.
It was the same dreadful routine: blood extraction, cold porcelain tiles under your feet, the stainless steel carts ringing in your ear, and a strange tiny emblem winking at you, attached to their clothing close to where you thought their heart was. At least that's the part where you feel yours.
Sometimes, you settle a palm to your chest to feel something—to remind yourself you are alive—that you are breathing and have a heart of your own capable of love and pain.
You couldn't remember anything past the days since you arrived here. Oddly enough, you were aware of your own cognition. More responsive and sentient than the rest of the subjects. You remembered your name and knew you were 5 years old when they found you. You could read and write—and you could handle most of the unsophisticated conversation when they talked to you like a normal human being outside of such circumstances; most about the things you liked, such as books and songs, in which they would frown and glance at their colleagues when you replied forthrightly, mumbling about how their attempt was unsuccessful.
You don't know anything else besides the fact that it was bad that you can recall things—it came naturally as it had always been a part of you.
Anything else besides that is a blank slate. Only, you couldn't retain the memories of where you came from or where you lived; you had no identity. You wake up one day in an enclosed cube-like room surrounded by aluminum glass and computer works outside, and endless tangled wires like uncontrolled creepers. Recently, you have only discovered the existence of families from one of the children's books they provided for you from the corner.
It was simple. A mother, a father, and a child. They come in shapes and sizes. It's messy, complicated, and full of flaws. No family is perfect, it said.
And you wondered about the extent of that imperfection.
"We're family," one of the scientists recited to you every time you fought back and kicked their shins.
If one family has a flaw, then what counts as too many? What were the implications? The signs? The standards? Who were yours? Are these people family? Did you have any at all?
Do they probe you when you don’t tell the truth? Do they give you shots from a syringe when you get too feral, like some kind of lab rat?
A faint memory drifted by of you mutilating one of the staff's faces with your bare hands when he started hitting you on your tiny ribs to provoke your abilities—one that involved a venomous touch.
Did he make it out?
But you knew not to ask too many questions. A tiny voice told you. You hear your thoughts so well, and you know for a fact that it isn't normal to hear oneself so clearly that you sometimes mistake it for another person in the room.
Don't tell them.
Lie to them.
Follow him. Her.
Say yes.
Say no.
Don't answer.
The voice saved you more times than you can count or ever know. And every day, it got louder.
People's thoughts were louder. You hear them at a certain proximity when you choose to do it. You don't know how you do it—it came naturally like breathing air. You stare deep into their soul—their memories, their thoughts, what they ate last night whom they go home to every night.
That only happened twice before they became aware of your mind probing side quest. They stopped entering the room from then on.
The night they drugged you, out cold and a dreamless night—they provided a pitching machine inconspicuously at an angle diagonal to where your single bed was and where you spent most of the time. At the highest setting, the machine launches a ball toward where you sat, wearily winking at a drowsy gaze. The velocity failed to startle you, and you caught it with ease with your less dominant hand.
Your grip had no mercy, and it left molds of your fingertips around the object.
You brought it into your line of sight and tossed it under your bed.
Not only were your reflexes above those of a professional baseball player, but you also possessed indescribable strength no pubescent girl could have.
One hundred kilograms of cement was a lunch bag to your tiny arms when they did Experiment 127, and it only amplified their thirst for knowledge.
You didn't escape because there was simply no reason to. They fed you, bathed you, and provided you with a place to rest. At least that's what you tried to convince yourself to refrain your little fragile heart from breaking, which had its strings attached to these adults who exploited you.
Every day was dedicated to research; every day always revolved around you. The inhumane experiments, the extraction of specimens—is this the extent to which you force your own concept of normalcy?
The screaming? Crying? Bleeding? Bruising? Was that all worth it for one warm meal on the table and a bath? Is that pain all reduced to one datum in hundreds of tables?
You have no concept of relationships. Only the longing for tender love and care.
Every night you wept when they forgot to give you a sleeping pill, and in the deepest pit of your stomach, you yearned for freedom like a bird with no wings, a fish with no gills.
But where would you go? Maybe you are a fish. A fish in a bowl with nowhere to swim besides its pot; you'd only flop around on the dry floor if you jumped out. You don't remember anything, and you don't know anything besides the life that was given to you.
You knew the dates on a calendar and have been secretly counting behind the frame board of your bed in tally marks. You've been here for almost five years.
And the only day you always looked forward to was your birthday. They gave you a cake, but that's about it. Always in a flavor you disliked.
Exactly a week before your 10th birthday, everyone died.
You passed out from the impact.
A constant high-pitched sound rang in your ear as your temples pulsed at a steady pace. You have no idea how long you've been out, but it's possibly daytime with sun rays seeping through the cracks above. You pushed yourself off the ground, glass shards glinting in your peripheral vision, while the heavy steel-armored door stood tall amongst the fragmented curtain wall. The glass was as thick as the width of your thumb and index finger combined.
You had once injured yourself from a wine bottle when they asked you to break it with a closed fist. The faint scar on your palm reminded you of that experience, which healed unusually fast.
The body of a woman whom you assumed was the head of the institution lay before your feet, lifeless and soaked with her own blood, while you barely had a scratch on your cheek. Your feet were bare, and the once clean white dress they gave you was covered with rocky particles of concrete.
You took her platform heels and wore them to protect your soles from the shards. You struggled, but you managed to catch your balance with every uneven step.
You held your head up, omitting every dead body from view, and by then, it was the first time you had ever seen sunlight rays.
When you were in your coop, there was barely any light beyond where you stood. Outside was always dark and feverish, the cold was stroking your cheek when the steel door opened for a researcher.
Screens and monitors lined neatly against a wall adjacent to you, their screens glitching, and some even have pictures of you and the full view of your cube in all angles imaginable. You cringed and hastily shuffled to another zone.
A figure emerged from a broken steel door on the left.
"Jarvis, scan the room." A tinny voice of a man emerged from behind a large boulder that squashed a scientist. A repulsive sight of brain matter slightly peeking out from the back, but you remembered he had an obsession with your organic webs oozing out of your wrist—he'd milk until you were visibly fatigued and ended up fainting.
You hid behind a column and peeked through the small gap of exposed metal rods.
Red. Silver. And Gold. But no white. Finally, no white. Was he human like you? Is he a good guy? With the mechanical paneling surrounding his body and that weird glowing orb carved on his chest, it was impossible to tell what he was exactly.
His eyes were a narrow form of rectangular slits, and they glowed, a faceplate with straight panel lines covered his whole face; the sight was less frightening as he moved like a man inside a robotic suit. He was lifting wreckage and chunks of cement, looking for something—or someone.
You tried entering it's head. Usually it didn't take a second to do so but you can't seem to do it at this very moment.
Did he cause the explosion?
And from his heat vision, a block of red welcomed him; small and barely half his size, standing just a few meters away from him.
Metal clanking and hisses echoed through the wreckage every time he moved. He's laser beams powered up, bracing himself inside in case of a sneak attack.
"I can hear you hyperventilating." He sounded human, at least. His tone was too cheeky to mistake for anything else besides a man who didn't want his time being wasted.
You cover your mouth, and slowly, a small girl, not older than ten, walks timidly to the opposite side of the structure where he stood.
"What the heck." He mumbled.
"What you got there, Tony?" A man from the receiving end answered through the built-in telecommunication inside his helmet.
"I see a little girl in a dress wearing high heels."
The man on the other end went silent. He scoffed and shook his head at whatever he was at. "This is serious shit, Tony."
"A child in a place she's not supposed to be is serious shit—except she is wearing heels, and I think that's more concerning and tells a lot about us as a society."
The angry man jabbed every curse word possible—Tony set a mental reminder to use silent mode for his next suit.
Jarvis scanned your diagnostics. Nothing that would concern him, except a runny nose and exposure to debris and small lead particles. No identification—no name besides the folder he found a few doors back.
How did you…? Questions formed in his head faster than he could articulate.
The man in an iron suit slowly approached you, his movements fluid, much like those of a man in normal clothing.
"Hello. Do you have a name?"
You didn't answer and fidgeted.
"It's okay. Do you speak English? Spanish? Mandarin? Do you understand me?"
You nodded.
"Did they keep you here?"
You nodded.
"Can you speak?"
You nodded.
He noticed you weren't reciprocating the eye contact.
"My name is Tony."
Tony. Sounds familiar.
His hands reached out as if to touch you; any normal child would've let him, but you weren't normal—in fact, you weren't sure what you were exactly, and by instinct, you shot his metallic hand entirely, fixing it to the nearest wall behind him after a weird tingling sensation rose at the back of your skull.
You gasped. Your hand stretched in his direction before you could think. Your hand levitated in a way that exposed the small slit in your wrist, where the source of your web was.
"What in the…" he grumbled, pulling his limb out after a momentary struggle. Cobwebs. Powerful enough to hold him down for a vulnerable three seconds—what you might've done in those if you knew how to utilize your powers.
"I'm sorry." You blurt out in a panic, hiding your small hands behind your back.
His mask lifted, camping inside split panels—it was the coolest thing you had ever seen. Eyebrows full and dark and deeply furrowed matched with an expressive gaze that told a thousand stories like it breathed its own life, a trimmed goatee telling you he was well groomed, and a sharp nose—anyone other than his age bracket might have thought he was a handsome man.
"You're—" His stare pinched, "Subject 617." An audible exhale passed his thin lips. He said those words like he knew you. An indescribable dread filled his veins, his skin pale; the sight of you was enough to make his legs fold.
He knelt with one foot down. He looked at you like you were a dead person who had once again breathed life to hunt his past mistakes. Your ears perked, a beating heart and sweat rolling down his forehead—you feel it, you see it, you hear it. The tiny voice wasn't as loud back when you were restrained—there was uncertainty, yes, but also the irresistible urge to trust him.
"I got you, you're safe. C'mere."
This time, you ran to him and held him so tight that he almost choked. You cried hysterically.
His guilt worsened—another time he met you, and he knew you now. He swatted those feelings away like an annoying fly.
You didn't recognize him. In fact, for the first time in your wretched life, you were filled with an overwhelming amount of hope and attention evoked from a person you just met today in the middle of rubble and dirt. The pain, suffering—all endured for this meek moment between a tortured little girl and a superhero.
"Oh, Jesus," his voice strained until he grabbed your back and carried you. "Shhh… It's okay." These words were so awkward on his tongue that they came out like a question.
"Jarvis, send me someone from the FBI and send her footage."
He tilted his head back to get a glimpse of you. There was snot running out of your nose. "Alright, alright, watch the suit." He wiped it with the neckline of your top. "We're gonna get out of here, okay? Contacted law enforcement. We'll find your family."
"What is law enforcement?"
He turned his head the moment your innocent tone spoke, eyebrows raised briefly before answering back.
"A bunch of morons who can't do their job, that's for sure."
The mask shifted back, and with his powered arm, he shot the ceiling at a safe angle and exited from there with you comfortably cradled against him. Cradling his future—his forcefully, legally, no-choice, thought-to-be love child, blind item, possible adoptive daughter—and she grew up as witty and spoiled and pretentious as he was, only she was much smarter—good-looking.