hold on to your heart

Pain strokes the inside of my skull.

Nothing more than a tingle at first, gradually evolving into a splintering throb. The agony tugs me towards consciousness, but my mind begs to stay in this darkness.

It’s quiet here. Simple. And despite the persistent ache, I find myself wanting to slip into the shadows forever, where no one can hurt me or find me again.

I long for the ease of sleep, where nothing is real and everything is temporary. I can face anything in a dream. Real life is a little more daunting.

I remember how I got here, though I’m not quite sure where ‘here’ is. I feel cold in a way that seems familiar, like my body has gotten used to the harsh temperature. My toes are numb. My cheeks prickle with the bite of the wind.

You can’t stay here. There’s a voice in my head, and it sounds like my own. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to reach, to warn me. It’s too cold.

I don't feel cold. Though my fingers can't be felt, I feel warm inside. Comfortable. And tired, so tired. 

Something about that seems odd. My symptoms set off warnings in my mind, reminding me of things I learned years ago. Persistent fatigue, loss of sensation in the extremities, false warmth. All of them lead back to a single diagnosis, one that I know well from my years of trying to avoid it on those winter nights on the streets.

Hypothermia. That voice comes again, placing my thoughts together for me. You have to move. 

My eyes fly open. Though the thought of drifting into the darkness is tempting, I don't want to die here. There’s too much I have left to do. So much life to live.

The sky is a blinding white, signifying a chilly winter day. I can see barren trees stretching towards the silver clouds above, like slender fingers clawing into the air. With much effort, I turn my head from side to side. My neck feels stiff, but I can’t stay here. I push through the rigidity in my muscles, forcing myself to sit up.

A groan escapes me. The world around me is white and barren. A thick dusting of snow covers the forest floor, resting on the branches above and making the whole scene more beautiful than it really is. My momentum from rolling down the hill has partially buried me under the snow, which may be both a blessing and a curse. My skin is nearly frozen, but the covering has provided something like insulation around me.

I feel the bump on my head as I stumble to my feet. It’s tender, and I wince at the touch. I can feel dried blood beneath my fingertips, but I try to keep calm. Head wounds bleed more than others. It’s usually superficial.

I push my legs forward, and they nearly buckle beneath me. I’m still only in my pajama shorts and tank top, no shoes or socks to warm my feet. 

I look to the sky above. The sun is peeking above the trees, and it makes my stomach turn. It was just after midnight when I left the compound. At the very least, I’ve been unconcious and practically naked in the snow for six hours. At the most, I could’ve been out for days. I can only hope that my efforts weren’t in vain, and that by foolishly running alone into the forest, I spared the others. 

My hands instinctively wrap around my torso in a feeble attempt to conserve what little body heat I have left. I’m sure if I could look in a mirror, my lips would be blue.

I stagger through the trees, my internal navigation steering me back in the general direction of the compound. My assailants must have lost me in the underbrush, so the danger should have passed by now. I need to go back, even if I’m followed. If I don't warm up soon, I’ll be dead by nightfall.

Or sooner.

I make my way clumsily back up the hill that I fell down, trying not to think about the fact that I can’t feel the places where my fingers touch my ribs. It’s hardly an easy trek, especially in my condition, but I make it to the top on what must be willpower alone. There’s no legitimate medical explanation for how I’m even moving right now. 

Fatigue makes my muscles heavy and my feet drag. I’m not exactly the quietest traveller, but I’m still able to hear voices above my racket.

I duck behind a tree on instinct, lowering down to my knees. Peeking around the trunk, I look in the direction of the sound. A hundred feet away, a pair of armed soldiers meander through the woods. Their guns are drawn, but their stature is relaxed. Stitched to the arm of one’s jacket is a white letter R. The other wears a W. I tune in my hearing, picking up only idle chit chat at first.

Then a scratchy, staticky voice emerges. It murmurs something that I can’t hear, but I notice the soldiers tilting their heads towards the radios clipped to their vests.

One of them nods, the one wearing the R, and presses a button on the radio. “Yes, sir. Romeo and Whiskey inbound to your location,” he speaks into it.

His partner crosses his arms. The W warps with his movement, and its purpose becomes suddenly clear to me. “That’s it? We’ve been searching the forest all night, and we’re just giving up?” 

Romeo shrugs. “I doubt it.” He slings his rifle over his shoulder. “If I know anything about the boss, it’s that he’s always got a backup plan.”

“The guy is insane,” Whiskey responds.

“Maybe, but he signs our paychecks.” Romeo punches his partner's shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Come on. Let’s move.”

They stalk into the trees. I wait a full minute after they disappear from view before I dare to move. Somehow, my body feels more stiff and achey than before. I shudder with the thought of a dozen soldiers combing the woods for me all night. Maybe I should be grateful that I took a tumble down the hill. I don’t think I ever want to figure out what those men wanted with me.

On the bright side, they seem to be vacating the forest. Now might be my only chance to safely make it back to the compound.

I force myself back into a clumsy stumble through the snow. I couldn't have run for more than a mile before I fell. At my current speed, I should be able to make it back in under an hour.

I sicken at the realization that I might not have an hour left. I gaze at my purple fingertips and toes, and try to ignore that false warmth in my gut. My body has been damaged by the cold, and I don't know how much more it can take.

Don’t think like that. You’re going to make it home.

I almost smile at that voice in my head. I know it's entirely a figment of my imagination, but I let myself pretend that it’s Wanda’s words, subconsciously guiding me as she always does. 

The smile appears when I realize I’d called the compound home.

Maybe it should scare me to feel that way. I’ve never tied myself to anywhere or anyone. And now, whether I meant to or not, I care for the people I’ve met there. Peter and his quirky humour, Steve and his soft determination. Natasha and her fierce loyalty, Wanda and her genuine support. I even miss Stark and his persistent ego. 

The compound is the first place I’ve ever felt like I could belong. I haven't felt as safe as I do inside those walls in years. 

And I’m sure that if I was in my right mind, that thought would terrify me. I would realize how vulnerable I’ve let myself become. I would cringe at the thought of ever needing someone as much as I need them.

But I do need them. And right now, all I want is to go home. I want to train with Bucky and crack jokes with Scott. I want ask Carol how she got so brave and let Clint teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow. I want to hear one of Sam’s stories and listen to Bruce go on a tangent about nuclear physics.

In a perfect world, I would get what I wanted. If luck was on my side, I would make it out of the woods.

But the world isn't perfect, and luck is rarely on anyone’s side, least of all mine.

When the figure steps out from behind the tree, I know I should run. But something stronger than fear keeps me shackled in place. 

Gloved hands pull his helmet away from his face. Strong jawline, cropped hair, and eyes a peculiar shade of gray, like a storm cloud. A smile that makes me shiver. When I see the flicker of teeth and the hungry gleam in his silvery irises, I know I was wrong to ever get up off of the forest floor.

The snow was safer. Hypothermia was the better option.

A branch breaks beside me, and I have just enough time to whirl around and see the back of a rifle being shoved towards my face.

Fresh agony rips across my skull, and I’m blinded by the despair of darkness.

***

Natasha knew they would find her.

Even if every sign pointed in the opposite direction and every clue told them she was lost, there wasn’t a doubt in Nat’s mind that they’d bring Violet home. Although luck had never been on the Russian girl’s side, she was sure of this. Violet would be safe, because she had to be. Natasha couldn't bear to even consider the alternative.

Nat had seen so much of herself in the girl Stark brought into the compound with a bullet wound and a bag full of cash. Violet’s guarded personality seemed to hold a mirror up to Nat’s own.

She had hoped that with the right amount of care, Violet would come to feel safe at the compound. She had always hoped there would be a place for Violet among them, even after all of the training and research was over. She knew the young girl could be a valuable part of the team.

Plus, Nat wanted to steer Violet in a better direction than she was headed. After all, Natasha knew what it was like to go down that road of darkness. Clint had been the only thing to pull her out, but Nat knew that most people who went down that path didn't get rescued by a knight in shining armour. 

When they brought Violet back to the compound, Nat did everything she could to make the girl feel comfortable and safe. And it worked. Nat could see Violet opening up more and more each day. She could see her affections for the team.

And then, Violet was gone. She was alone in the woods with an unknown evil and nothing more than the clothes on her back and the power in he veins. But Natasha knew that she was going to be okay, because she had to be.

The Avengers had geared up when they realized Violet had escaped into the forest. Even with her thermal catsuit and a parka on top, Nat could feel the sting of the cold. She shuddered to think of what Violet must be feeling. The girl had insisted that she only needed one jacket, although Nat had offered to buy her as many as she would’ve liked, and had chosen a black puffer with fur around the hood.

When Natasha had frantically checked Violet’s  room, she had seen the coat hanging on the wall. Her snow boots were placed neatly in the corner, too.

“Tony and Peter.” Steve’s voice sounded strong. Stronger than Natasha felt. “You two will head south.”

Nat didn't adore taking orders from Steve, but he was undoubtedly the best at strategizing. He possessed a military steadiness and a decisiveness that Natasha knew she didn't have right now. Her brain was clouded by thoughts of Violet in the snow without a jacket. 

“Bucky and I will go north. Clint and Wanda will take the west.” Natasha felt numb as Steve looked to her. “You and Sam will go east.”

She watched as the group shuffled around, placing themselves in their respective pairs. She felt Sam beside her, and was grateful for the calmness his presence seemed to bring. She needed it right now.

“Reach out if anything goes wrong.” Steve tapped his ear, and she knew he was referencing their comms system. “Be ready. We don't know what’s out there.” 

There was a tangible nervousness in the air. It was true– the team really didn't know what they were walking into. Every conclusion they had drawn so far was purely based on circumstantial evidence. The only thing that they knew for sure was that Violet was missing. 

“Let’s bring her home.” There was a softness to Steve’s voice, and Natasha nearly smiled at his use of the word home. Looking around at her colleagues, it became clear– Violet was one of them. When they found her, she would have a place at the compound. She would have a place on the team. When Violet came home, she would be an Avenger.

***

I used to dream of being a hero. There’s something so alluring about the idea of being worshiped and loved, your only purpose found in being a savior. Making the type of difference in the world that normal people could only ever dream of. The power that would come with the job would be enticing. The fame and glory would be addicting. 

That’s what I assume, at least, but it’s not as if I would really know. I haven’t made it that far away from being the homeless criminal with an empty gun. I can only imagine what life has been like for Tony and his team of superheroes, but if I had to guess, I’d say that fear and danger would be served in equal parts as honor and respect. Threats would be as common as comforts. They’d be hated just as easily as they’re loved. Maybe even easier.

If I had been given the chance to choose, I might’ve stayed in the shadows. Life was easier with only two options— live or die. Most days, my mind fought for the former while my heart toppled into the hopeless abyss of the latter. Nights were colder before I landed on the other side of the fence, but they were simpler, too. The moment I walked into the compound, I didn’t have a choice anymore. I was a part of something bigger, something that would evolve and grow to consume me. With every passing minute, I felt my walls crumbling. The defenses I had spent a decade fortifying had turned to dust at the prospect of a comfortable life of chaos and friendship. Every weight that Wanda threw at me made me want to be better. Every meal we ate together made me want to deserve that team. Every chapter of Pride and Prejudice made me realize how much happier I could be there. 

I never could’ve known that while I might’ve been happier at the compound, I was in more danger with them than I had ever been on my own. 

And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing. If my safety was the trade off, then it was worth it to me. If a bullet to the brain was the price to pay for finally having a taste of a life worth living, then I’d be happy to pay it.

I let my forehead fall forward, resting it against the barrel of the gun. It’s cold against my skin, but I don’t react to the sensation. My face is relaxed, my muscles at ease. I don’t want to die here— not with so much left to see and do— but I won’t let them see even a flicker of fear.

His gloved hand flinches slightly at my movement. Eyes like midnight, hair like sand. A unique combination that I’m sure I won’t forget. There’s a B stitched onto the arm of his jacket that I know stands for Beta. His face is strained ever so slightly, like the gun in his hand is unwelcome. It’s as if his part in my coming death is not something he’s looking forward to.

They’re going to kill me, of course. I’m not so naive as to hope for a different outcome. I was smart enough to realize that the only reason I’m seeing his face is because they know I’ll never be able to describe it to another living soul. 

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He shakes his head curtly. A warning.

I narrow my eyes. “You look like a Carl.” He grips the gun tighter in irritation. “I’ve never met a decent Carl,” I continue. “It seems fitting.”

“Shut up.” His eyes are blazing with annoyance and something even deeper. Hatred. It confuses me. My words weren’t nearly offensive enough to warrant that type of feeling.

“What did I ever do to you?” I ask, eyes narrowed as I search his own for an answer. He doesn’t respond to me, only huffs in frustration and looks away. His rigidity infuriates me. His misplaced anger makes me want to know where it comes from. “Why am I here?” My voice is stronger than before, even though the pain comes in terrible waves from the spot on my head where the rifle hit. “Tell me.”

“No.”

I push harder against the gun in defiance. “If you’re going to kill me, then why does it matter what you tell me?” A lump of emotion forms in my throat as I realize that my next words are nothing but the horrible truth. “I don’t want to die without a reason.”

He takes a step back, pulling the barrel away from my reach. He won’t meet my gaze, and my chin dips slightly in defeat. Please, I silently beg. Just tell me that I robbed your house or hurt someone you loved before I can remember. 

If I’m going to die here, it should be for retribution. I know I hurt a lot of people in my time on the streets. If this man tells me that I hurt him badly enough to deserve this fate, then maybe it’ll sting less. Maybe I'll even agree with him.

I always dreamed of being a hero. But deep down, I knew I’d never even come close. I don’t possess that goodness in my heart that comes so easily to the others. In my times of hardship, I became bitter and cruel. I used people and did terrible things just to keep my life. Maybe it should be taken from me.

“It’s not mine to tell.”

His words are soft, almost washing away into the silence that hangs in this small, dark room. The flickering lightbulb that dangles from the ceiling gives light to his odd features, and if I wasn’t suffering from a head injury, I’d think that it’s a streak of regret I see in the glint of his eyes.

He’s given me an answer, and even though it may not have been the one I hoped for, it’s more than nothing. Someone else wants me here. The ropes that bind my hands and feet to this rickety chair were ordered by another. Maybe the gray-eyed man from the forest, or maybe an unknown evil I have yet to face.

“Thank you,” I breathe. 

Beta’s face turns towards me, his gaze cast on the floor. The gun in his hand quivers, unsure. His mouth pinches in a way that seems as though he’s trying to hold something back. “Just do what he says,” he blurts, his voice low but urgent. “If you do what he says, you might live.”

I nod, desperately relieved by the possibility of survival. “What does he want from me?” I try, even though I’m sure I haven’t earned that much honesty.

Beta shakes his head, meeting my eyes. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t try to run. If he tells you to—”

His words cut off. We hear it at the same time; footsteps approaching the door behind him. He straightens, keeping the gun pointed at me. Every trace of what might’ve been humanity has been wiped from his features. I flinch at the sound of three knocks at the door, but Beta stays steely calm. He reaches behind him, turning the handle while his eyes linger on me.

Three bodies step into the room. A woman and a man that I don’t recognize, and another that sends a brutal shiver down my spine. Silvery eyes and cropped hair. A cruel smirk and a mottled scar on his chin that I hadn’t noticed before. His helmet is gone, his hands still covered by leather gloves. His smile widens when he sees me.

“Violet.”

The sudden urge to throw up overcomes me. My name sounds awful on his tongue, but that isn’t the nauseating part. When he speaks, his voice reminds me of metal scraping against metal. Like swords clashing or a bullet ricocheting off of a car. It’s deep and chilling, demanding respect and warranting every bit of fear I can feel swirling in my belly.

I notice the letters that cross his chest for the first time. Five characters stitched into the fabric of his vest that form the conclusion that I already know.

Alpha. 

The voice I heard outside my bedroom door, muttering orders and unleashing a death sentence on all of my friends. The smile I swore I could see, even through his mask, as he turned his men on me like a pack of wolves.

At some point during my spiral, a chair was placed behind him. He sits slowly, and something about his poise reeks of power. Like I can feel it humming on his skin, rippling out from him in waves. 

A cold smile tugs at his lips. “Every moment of our meeting has been planned and rehearsed in my head for longer than you could imagine.” That screeching quality of his voice makes me want to tug at my restraints, even though I know it’s futile. “But I must admit, now that you’re here, I’m feeling quite starstruck.”

It takes me a moment to process what he’s said, and when I finally do, my brow knits with confusion. “Why?”

He leans back, hands folded in his lap, looking every bit as much like a viper as he does a man. “I’ve waited a very long time to meet you.”

“How long?”

His lip quirks. “Twenty years, give or take.”

In nineteen days, I’ll be twenty. It’s not a coincidence that he’s been waiting to meet me since I was born. He must know something about what happened on December 17th 2003 at that Hydra lab in Texas. My mother, Damian Cole, the cloaked figure who swept my newborn self away into the shadows…

I may not know exactly why I’m here, but I know that the answer lies somewhere in the events of that day. And if I had to bet money on what brought us face to face, I’d go all in on the purple power under my skin.

“I can see the gears turning in your head.” He smiles sickly, gazing at me with superiority and amusement. “Is it all coming together? Are you slowly making sense of who I am?”

He knows what I can do; of that I am sure. But everything else is hidden behind a foggy pane of glass. I can see vague shapes and movements, and I can try to find the truth, but in the end, everything I know about my birth came from grainy camera footage. The details are lost to me. 

He doesn’t look familiar. His eyes aren’t green like the cloaked figure, and everyone else supposedly perished in that building.

“Have you got it yet?” he hums with humor, entertained by the way I mentally grasp at straws.

“What do you want?” I snap, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing I couldn’t be further from the truth.

His metallic irises glint hungrily. He watches me, drinking in my features and absorbing my expression as if it’s the first thing he’s ever seen. “You’re right,” he mutters, but the whimsy in his tone has been replaced with animosity. His smirk has faded, like I’ve tested him with my outburst. “Enough chit chat. Let’s get down to business.” He looks past me, giving a faint nod.

I try to twist around, but my movement stops when agony tears out from my side. Crackles of pain streak across my skin, digging deep into my ribs. White light flashes at the place where the horror peaks. I don’t have the time or restraint to hold back the ragged scream that rips past my lips. 

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. Sharp and chaotic. Unpredictable, with seemingly endless ways of inciting suffering.

The light dies out in a moment of reprieve. I exhale, my body sagging back into the chair with fatigue. My chest shakes, heaving with unsteady breaths that I can do little to calm. My muscles, which had gone rigid like wood while the light flickered, spasm and quiver in its absence. I can feel the beginnings of sweat beading on my forehead and blood rising to my cheeks. The pain hasn’t vanished, but with the worst of it at bay, I realize that only a couple of seconds have passed.

I fight to steady my breaths while I search for the source of that terror. A woman in tactical gear stands to my right, gripping a black baton. The end of the weapon is marked with double prongs that still spark with tiny strands of lightning.

A cattle prod.

And its purpose becomes suddenly clear to me as I watch how she holds it without any emotion— she’s searching for a particular reaction. She’s hoping my body will defend itself to this new brand of torment.

He wants to see my power.

“Again.” The word is barked like an order, and she complies like a perfect soldier.

A guttural cry works its way from my soul and into the room around me. It tears at my throat, but its effect is lost to the absolute misery that consumes me. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I feel my heartbeat in my temple, pounding at speeds that could never be maintained. Electricity zips across my skin, carving me up and shredding my mind into nothingness.

Until it subsides again, and my body is allowed to return to its quivering state. This time, my chin dips towards my chest with exhaustion. My eyes wash lazily over my pajama shorts: stained with dirt and damp from snow. Blood splatters across the previously gray fabric, tiny droplets dripping from the fresh wound on my head.

How did I get here? What went so wrong in the cosmos that led me to this moment? 

I can’t remember the first half of my life. I don’t know what kind of person I was or who I surrounded myself with. And still I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I don’t deserve this. Even after everything I’ve stolen and everyone I’ve stepped on to get where I needed to be. 

“I admire your strength.” I don’t have to look up to know who’s talking. “I wouldn’t have expected such grit from such a young girl, but perhaps I should’ve. After all, you are your mother’s daughter.”

I face him slowly, sure that my expression does an avid job of displaying my hatred. His smile returns, as if my emotion is entertaining. “There she is.”

I never deserved this life. My mother deserved better.

“You’ve got heart. I can tell,” he remarks. “But even the strongest warriors lose their composure when the right buttons are pushed. You may still have strength left in your bones, but I have more. I will show you types of pain that you never knew existed. You will give me what I want.”

Maybe it would be easier to give in. I should let my power run wild, streaking through the air and destroying everyone in this room.

But if this is the last choice that I get in this life, then I’ll choose to deny him what he wants. If this is the last piece of my dignity that I can salvage, then I’ll die to keep it. 

He chuckles as he watches my unwavering expression. “Give it an hour. You’ll be begging for death by then.”

Something in his words triggers a memory. The picture he’s painted reminds me of one I’ve seen before.

I don’t have time to think more about it before the cattle prod is forced into my side, and the deadly current is cutting through me once again.