Fun fact: Sam was originally supposed to die soon after Lilly left HYDRA for supporting her, but I just brainwashed him instead. Good thing, eh?

~

My long, amber strand begins to obscure my vision again, but I make no move to move it. Not when I have that asshat possessing the audacity to order and push me around. Every time we talk he scowls at me with no small amount of irritation written on his face. The feeling is mutual mate, I can tell you that.

"You know, I've met a great deal of pricks in my lifetime, but he's the fucking cactus," I huff into my phone, reminiscing over Rumlow's degrading, crude speech. "Do this Dr Timp. Do that Dr Timp. He's not a pet Dr Timp, he's a mindless weapon implemented for the utter destruction HYDRA wreaks. Asshole. I am not only doing my job as a fake psychologist, but I am actually treating the poor man with a little dignity! Is that so wrong?"

"You're getting too close to your charge Lilly," Allison Renegade reminds me over the phone, the faint clack of the keys reverberating in the background. "You're only supposed to be keeping an eye on the Winter Soldier and what HYDRA is doing with him, not growing attached. Are you going soft?"

"I'm an assassin Ally," I growl menacingly, too pissed off to offer any palpable sarcasm or wit at the moment. "I don't do soft. I don't grow attached, and I sure as hell don't give a damn about broken, misunderstood men who are supposed to be my charges."

"Uh huh, sure you don't." I know she can feel my simper through the phone at that response.

My glare could melt vibranium. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that they sent him on a suicide mission. Afghanistan, Ally. We're in Afghanistan. And on top of it all, they only sent him and another eight men to retrieve whatever the hell they need off the Taliban. Eight men and an assassin against a damn army. He's going to die, and then there won't be any reason for them to keep me on here. I'm no use with him dead— well, Dr. Timp is no use."

"I really wish you took your fake credentials seriously when you came up with your cover name," Ally more so exasperates to herself. "I don't know how much longer I can deal with 'Dolorous Timp'. Why couldn't you have chosen something more.... not grandma sounding?"

Despite myself, I manage a snicker. "Come on, it's funny. A twenty year old woman with a name like Dolorous Timp. I feel like one of those grannies that feeds the pigeons and ducks in the park—"

"Moving on," Ally presses, clearly unimpressed. "The only suggestion I can offer is to suit up, make sure he doesn't die out there. But I implore you not to give away your identity. Maybe wear a mask?"

"Lillian Nightshade does not wear masks." Even I am unsure as to whether that was scathing or darkly amused. "But I suppose you're right. As always."

"Damn straight I am," the playfulness is back, lifting her tone to the stars. "Now hurry, and be careful. I don't want to have to fly to Afghanistan just so I can kick your ass should you die."

"And if I'm burnt alive and reduced to ashes?" I jokingly inquire.

I can sense the growing smile on her face, even with thousands of miles between us. "Then I'll kick your ashes."

"Lilly."

Shattered. My memory-dream shatters like glass, and at the abruptness of it, I'm all too quick at drawing the carefully placed knife from under my pillow and automatically pinning the culprit with it to the bed. Two blinks is how long it takes for me to register the guilty yet concerned face of Samuel Hemmings, a pinch of amusement interwoven amongst it. "Right. Assassin. Remind me to get Adelaide to wake you up in the future. I'm not too partial to having knives pressed against my throat, but you know, that's just me."

Shakily, I exhale, rolling over onto my back again weakly to rest shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "Don't do that."

Immediately, the concern flushes out the other small emotions that had taken hold of his expression so it is the only remaining sentiment. "Another one of those dreams?"

Meekly, I nod.

His lips thin. "Want to talk about it?"

"Maybe later," I mumble in a 'let's move on' manner. I tilt my head slightly to softly stare at the hulking body of Samuel Hemmings beside me, noticing how much muscle he progressively built up on Asgard. I wonder if he's even used to being in a new body yet. "How you holding up?"

"Better than I've been," he hesitantly admits, emerald orbs glazing over self-consciously. "Could be better, but hey, at least I've got you right?"

In an attempt to lift the mood, I lightly bump his shoulder amicably, barely flinching as the bullet wound screams a reminder that it's there. "Ah, of course. Everyone's life is better when I'm in it. I mean look at this face, it's adorable is it not?"

"A bit hard to see it under that atrocity you call hair at the moment," he plainly comments, evidently entertained yet possessing a sliver of true mortification at the apparent state of my hair. "I mean really Lilly, it's making bird nests look like a prom night updo in comparison."

"That hurts Sam. That's hurtful." My monotone is painfully palpable, but I break into a contagious grin when I'm unable to keep myself entirely serious. Playfully slapping his arm, we share a good chuckle, a warm feeling I commonly experienced around Ally rousing within me like an old memory. "However, is there any particular reason you're in my room? Or were you just popping in to say hello?"

His face lights up, as if feigning realisation in that overly clichéd manner you often see on TV. "Oh that's right, Adelaide sent me in. The SHIELD agents will be here in ten minutes to pick us up."

The freaking Flash couldn't have shot up to get dressed and ready as quickly as I did just then. And I doubt he would've used as many colourful profanities whilst he was doing it as well.

Eight minutes later, I find myself almost drunkenly hobbling into the main room, hopping on one foot as I attempt to tie the knee-high combat boot up. Sam can be seen wolfing down the leaning tower of pancakes, whilst Adelaide patiently waits for me to arrive so I can most likely do the same with the identical stack sat before the spare seat on the kitchen island counter. Not wasting any time striding over, Sam spares me a momentary glance whilst devouring a bite bigger than I thought possible, but inelegantly chokes on it when he takes in my appearance.

I pause, unsurely glancing down at my white tank top and black gym pants. "What?"

"Lillian," he calmly addresses me, yet his tone reminds me of a mother about to rip into her child with the poise of a queen. "What's this whole look of yours about?"

Once again, I double check my appearance to notice nothing out of the ordinary, bar a stain or two. I mean, I guess the top is fairly old and a tad daggy, but it's not that bad. Upon finding nothing else notable, I warily glimpse at him like he's a lunatic babbling about the existence of dragons. "I'm sorry...?"

His face animatedly wrinkles, scandalized. "No, that outfit is sorry. What are you supposed to be? The evil witch that eats kids for a living, or Yubaba from Spirited Away? Or is this some kind of statement?"

My face falls flatter than the pancakes he's eating, continuing my journey to the kitchen counter. "Ha ha, no. I'm not trying for either of those, and I'm certainly not trying to go for some 'statement'."

"Well, it says 'assassin demi-god hobo' to me," Sam disapprovingly offers his opinion, waving his fork about in the general direction of my apparently horrifying clothing.

Adelaide takes a disinterest bite of her apple, face as plain as day. " 'Unwashed demi-god hobo' more specifically."

"Well aren't you two a couple comedians," I dryly respond, stiffly sliding into my seat and swiping up my cutlery.

"Sorry," Sam mockingly apologizes, the loud clatter of his knife and fork meeting the bench resounding around us as he drops them in favour of cupping his ear. "Speak up! I can't hear you over that outfit!"

"Oh for Loki's sake," I exasperate, unceremoniously shovelling my mouth with pancakes.

Knock knock knock.

"That's us!" Sam cheerily shouts out, blonde hair blowing in the wind as he jumps up to retrieve something from his room, I presume. I roll my eyes, despite my lips betraying my evident amusement. Adelaide shares my expression, leisurely straightening and reaching for something under the counter, tossing the black fabric at me gingerly.

She spares me a wink, heading for the front door casually as she informs me "Thought you'd like to look nice for the Captain." One look at the top, and I understood.

It seems my sister has my sense of humour.

***

To say I'm getting a few stares would be an understatement. Whether they're staring at the stark white slogan strewn across my borrowed top, or purely because we're the rumoured new kids of the block is debateable, but hey, so far I'm making a good first impression.

The tank is – as I previously mentioned – tight. Like a second skin. A somewhat modest neckline and could almost be considered a midriff. It gives a nice showcase of my new belly piercing, and the only slightly irritated tattoos. Strappy at the back which is a bit aggravating, but it doesn't bother me all that much, and leaves my bullet wound alone entirely. The slogan is worth the small discomfort it brings.

Adelaide and Sam placidly stand on either side of me, each wearing vastly different expressions. Sam appears rather bored as absentmindedly scratches at his grey shirt, considering we've stood around waiting for Nicky for about ten minutes now, whilst Adelaide appears rather professional, yet her professionalism breaks into a brief snicker every time a SHIELD agent strolls on past and almost trips over their feet upon reading my tank.

To be honest, I don't think the top is that bad. Perhaps they're merely shocked at how improper and unprofessional someone working in an organisation as decorous as SHIELD could be. Eh, they could learn to lighten up. Half of these people are acting like they have sticks shoved way too far up their –

"Interesting shirt, Miss Nightshade."

The sarcasm is clearly palpable; enough so to make the three of us immaturely snicker at Director Fury's words as the man takes his time entering with another two agents, Clint, Nat and Steve.

I shrug, wearing my face carefully enough to not give too much away to the Russian redhead carefully inspecting me as of this moment. "My other shirt had stains. Would've been indecent of me to wear such a thing."

Clint hides his chuckle well, yet remains standoff-ish like the rest of them. " 'I work out because punching people is frowned upon'?"

"It is," I justify, clicking my tongue nonchalantly. "Learned that the hard way."

"This isn't a game Miss Nightshade," Nicky more severely reminds me, muscles frustratedly tense under his black leather ensemble, whilst his single eye attempts to pin me to where I stand. "I should warn you because you're new here, but it's expected that you follow the orders of your superiors around here. You're not on the streets anymore."

My pout is rather childish, and I can feel Adelaide's eyes screaming at me to stop before I regret my words, but being here, seeing people that I thought I would never see or talk to again... it's making me feel more like me. And if that results in dutiful punishment, then so be it. "But it's fun goading you. You get this little knot between your eyebrows... See, there it is! Delightful."

The knot only intensifies, Natasha appearing thoroughly cavillous whilst Clint remains indifferent. Steve, however, seems to not entirely approve of my immaturity, so that is what gives me a firm reality slap to try and behave.

"Continue on this path and we will see if it remains as such," Nicky warns, nodding his head to direct Addie, Sam and I towards the training room we were waiting outside. "Today we'll be focusing on skill tests. Tomorrow will be a continuation of that, along with some physical examinations, and then the last day will focus on the Polygram, the psyche test and a couple others of the like. Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff and I will personally see to most of these tests, and Captain Rogers will be attending when he can."

"Surely important agents of SHIELD such as yourselves have other more pressing matters to resolve than watching over new recruits," Adelaide skeptically points out, her training tank so alarmingly white it rather draws a lot of attention to her.

Nat tips her head to my younger sister in acknowledgement. "Yes, but it isn't every day that we get three enhanced joining SHIELD as a trio – three enhanced which seem to be surprisingly close with Tony Stark as well."

"You're the talk of the place at the moment," Clint chimes in, kindly holding the door open for us as we forward into the room. "People here gossip like teenagers in the school yard."

Contrary to actually having previously been an agent of SHIELD, I've never actually been in one of their training facilities. But as I stand here now, my jaw almost plummets several stories down to the car park at the immenseness of it. It honestly reminds me of something out of the Hunger Games; an all metal room which could near fit a football field in it; various stations of weaponry, firing ranges and combat rings spread accordingly. Agents bustled and practiced like bees working in a hive, and with just as much coordination and synergy as them as well. Sweat permeates the air like perfume, yet the tinge of metallic blood is evident to a trained nose as well. I already knew I was either going to love this place, or hate it.

"The fact your father was previously from Asgard only adds to the rumours," Nicky nearly surprises me from my stupor as he ambles past. Nearly. "He may not have been a commonly known God, but Asgardian nonetheless."

This was the stalemate Tony and I had come to when fabricating my dossier. Adelaide didn't mind what decision we came down to, considering this was her father as well, so long as we specifically didn't give too much away. Eventually, Tony and I had agreed on disclosing that my bar owner father was originally a middle class Asgardian immigrant, wanting to raise his kids in a more 'normal' environment that didn't comprise of power hungry Gods and alien wars. Twisting truths and building relationships on lies seems to be my specialty these days. Wouldn't Oliver Queen be proud.

Yet Nicky's words seem to awaken a 'subtle' curiosity in Nat, leading her to – queue the sarcastic quotation marks again – 'casually' inquire "Loki Laufeyson. One of yours, isn't he?"

She knows he's an Asgardian. Hell, they all do. The fact that she's just trying to incidentally manipulate some more information regarding Asgard out of me irks me in the slightest. But it's Natasha Romanoff, I would expect no less. "One of mine? Like a pet? Like a giant demi-god hamster with aspirations of kingship?" I flamboyantly ridicule, turning my tone chirpily condescending. "Like 'Oh Lillian, why can't you look after your little friends? Loki peed on the carpet again!' In this analogy, the carpet is New York."

Once again, Clint hides a snort; as does one of the other agents trailing us with clipboards, but the others simply convey their outward displeasure with a glance. Steve's eyes hold a small light in them, as if amused by my words yet finding them inappropriate for such a time. Lucky for me, I'm reduced to the second most sarcastic asshole in the room when an apparently unexpected visitor saunters in with a bag of grapes.

"Oh great, party hasn't started without me. Not that it would've, it's rather impossible for a good party to start without yours truly," Tony Stark makes himself widely known, haphazardly dodging agents darting in and out around him as he crosses the small space to catch up with us. "It's like traffic between Madison Square and Broadway in here. Have you considered speed bumps or–?"

"Nice to see you got past security." Ah, there is no sarcasm quite like Nicholas Fury's. Or a stare so deadly. Both frighten and amuse me on equal levels.

"What are you doing here?" Natasha's ever serious expression guards her surprise, her low, inquisitive voice turning into that all too familiar reprimanding tone I recollect her saving only for Tony Stark and I.

"Wanted to see the Shades kick some SHIELD ass—"

"Okay, that's not a thing," I sharply intervene in regards to this 'Shades' nickname, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

Tinman levels his stare with me, mockingly returning the gesture of the pointed finger. "I'm making it a thing—"

"Surely you have other things to attend to Tony," seems to be Nicky's polite way of telling Stark to kindly 'fuck off'.

Said billionaire philanthropist throws his hands up, the epitome of exasperation. "Is everyone going to keep interrupting me? Or is this—?"

"No, we're going to keep doing it," Clint impishly intercedes, muscles turning taught against his leather looking uniform as he firmly clasps his hands behind his back. The cheeky grin is hard to miss; threatening to tear the marksman's cheeks apart it's so wide.

Judging by Tony's look, he's far from impressed at the birdman. "Nice to know I'm welcomed here at all times. Grape?" His mood abruptly swings as he offers Addie, Sam and I a grape, and we all animatedly take him up on the offer.

"Just don't intervene Stark," Fury drones out as a warning, clearly already fed up with the ex-playboy. Turning back towards us, he adopts that seemingly permanent knot in his brows whenever he discusses business, announcing "An agility course is a steady way to start off. Warm up the muscles. See the room branching off over there?" He points to a giant metal door between a weapons rack and a whole row of monitors – my best guess would be that they allow you to, as the name suggests, 'monitor' us as we do the course. That, and control all the obstacles that will undoubtedly go peek-a-boo as we run through. "Take your mark in there. When you hear the beep, you start."

Never one to sugar coat things. How I've missed my adoptive pirate father.

Adelaide, Sam and I head over progressively, but I lag a couple steps behind as Tony begins to whine – evidently to me. "Wow, never realised how moody One Eyed Wonder is at work. He's like a Queen on her period. I wouldn't be surprised if he called for my beheading any moment now."

"Surely you can't be one to talk about the moodiness and high-and-mighty behaviour of others. You are the pampered super hero of a billion dollar corporation," I heartily tease, bumping his shoulder with my own like we're frat buddies as we amble on.

He only half succeeds at hiding his grin, yet nonetheless manages his snarky comeback. He always does. "You can't call me 'pampered'. Nobody's peeled a grape for me in weeks." He even emphasizes his point by lifting his bag of grapes dramatically, plucking one out and turning it around for inspection. "See? Skin. Not peeled. It's barbaric."

"Talk to Fury. He can arrange something."

"Nightshade!"

I huff, standing before the imposing iron doors that Sam and Adelaide have already passed through. "Speak of the devil..."

"... and he shall angrily yell your name like it's a curse upon the land," Tony finishes off in that rushed speaking manner of his, sharing a look that is as close as Tony can get to sympathetic in public. "I think I'm a bit too familiar with that feeling. Anyway, go get 'em tiger. I'll even film Tasha's face when she sees your skills. Maybe post it on YouTube."

I accept the brief hug he moves for, eyes flickering to notice the curious glances thrown at us by the others standing by the monitor setup. "I'm taking you up on that," I mumble fondly into his neck, detaching myself reluctantly and passing backwards through the doors. "See you on the other side."

Click.

Dark. That's all I see when the doors lock us in dauntingly. The quiet, levelled breaths of my sister and Sam linger in between my ears, but it can be hardly heard over my thundering heartbeat, like wildebeest have been spooked within and are currently stampeding vigorously. What both surprises and frightens me is how quickly my eyes adjust to the dark, and I'll be damned if my eyes have ever been this astute in the dark before. Sharply, I take in the outlines of my companions' bodies, noting how they're marginally struggling to find the appropriate direction to face. Scouring my eyes over the area, I discern the faint white line on the floor to the left, as well the hazy silhouettes of equipment further in the distance.

"I can't see a damn thing," Adelaide anxiously hisses, only causing me to grasp both hers and Sam's arms, guiding them to the line on either side of me.

"We're on the line, facing the direction of the course," I lowly inform them, trying to rid the continuous thumping in my ears. It's just so loud. Am I nervous? Perhaps, or maybe it is a stampede of wildebeest parading around SHIELD. Wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen to this place.

"How can you tell?" Sam unsurely inquires, prompting a hesitant answer from me.

"I can see it. Don't ask how, just focus on what's ahead."

Just as my eyes begin to adjust even more to the black encompassing us, almost like night vision, a countdown commences.

"Three..."

I brush my hands down their arms, steeling myself.

"Two..."

Their hands find mine on their own accord, both giving me a firm squeeze of reassurance. Whether it's for themselves or me, I'm not sure.

"One."

The blinding light acts like the flash on a camera as it bursts to life, only a thousand times brighter. Whilst I begin a light jog to readjust my eyes to the blare of it, as does Sam, Adelaide seems to have immediately accustomed herself to it, already in a full sprint. I spur myself like a one-man horse and jockey, Sam closing in behind me.

We slip, slide, leap, bound, jump and limbo under one obstacle to another, never a fault in our step. Remaining as a personal trainer during my time off helped me keep in shape, so I have no need to refrain from awakening old muscles and oiling rusty joints. Adelaide isn't too far off me either, and Sam? Sam is as good as I've ever seen him. Even better. His self-training on Asgard worked wonders on the man.

Up ahead lies a flat steel wall, at least eight meters in height. Even with peak physical condition, not one of us by ourselves could scale the damn thing if we tried. Apparently, Sam and Adelaide seem to be sharing a similar thought pattern to me, for Sam obtains a rapid burst of energy and overtakes the two of us, swiftly sliding onto his knees and interlocking his burly fingers. He lowers them close to the floor, allowing room between his palms for a small foot to lodge itself and be lifted up.

Adelaide reaches him first. She practically glides into his hands, her foot resting between his palms in allowance for him to boost her up. He wastes no time in sending her flying up, impressively showcasing how much strength he really did gain over in Asgard. My sister's nimble fingers find no trouble in grasping the ledge, and within moments she has expeditiously swung herself up onto it, perching herself evenly with the poise of jungle cat.

Seconds behind her, I leap to do the same, Sam expertly heaving me up into the air. The ledge is small, narrow, sharp. I merely grasp it with a single hand, afraid that if I do so with my other it will cause my bullet wound to erupt on fire again on the attached arm. I may be strong, but I'm no Hulk or Steve. At first I struggle, like I'm trying to pull up an anvil along with me. It takes me but a few seconds to gather my strength and wits, and before Adelaide can even offer a lending hand, I've singlehandedly uplifted myself onto the sturdy ridge.

Like a well-oiled machine, our teamwork doesn't stop there. The two of us don't even think twice about offering a hand each to Sam, hauling him up the flat as paper wall. All at once, the three of us soar to land on the other side of the wall, not even pausing to catch a breath.

We weave. We duck. We spin. We dance. Because in the end that's what this is, that's what any fight is; a dance. When you start off, you're sloppy, uncoordinated. You step on the toes of your partners and opponents. Yet when you're skilled enough, you're water. You move with the rhythm, with the flow. Blocking, attacking, weaving, dodging. It all becomes ingrained and natural, you don't even need to think twice about it. It's instinct, like a professional dancer practicing a dance they've completed a thousand and one times over. Dancing and fighting are one and the same. They can be beautiful, yet deadly with one misstep.

Sam, Adelaide and I are professional dancers. Just like there are different dances, there are different fighting styles. Break dancing. Jujutsu. Foxtrot. Karate. Flamenco. Boxing. Ballet. Wrestling. All completely different styles, but once you know the rhythm of one; you're capable of adapting to the rhythm of them all.

The three of us are running so hard; we nearly slam into the wall at the end of the course. Our breaths are ragged, but not like we ran a marathon, more along the lines of a couple laps around the school football field. A mild burn is apparent in my legs, but nothing like what I experienced on Asgard, so it doesn't take much to overlook it.

I must admit, I didn't know that SHIELD was still using the old lighting trick at the beginning. Testing how quickly you can act on instinct and identify everything around you once light has been thrown onto you. When being interrogated by the enemy, most let you bathe in the dark for a while, abruptly switching on the light to stump and meddle with your senses when they're ready to talk to you. To be able to act on instinct and be resilient to such an effect is only one of the things SHIELD attempts to teach it's new recruits, and however simple it may appear, it's no small feat to defy simple human nature.

The course was good. Better than good, it was SHIELD material. It's nice to see that no matter what universe I may be in, SHIELD is SHIELD.

"Nice warm up," Sam heaves, a bit more out of breath than Adelaide and I. He perches his hands upon his hips, throwing his head back as he heavily huffs. "Cute agility courses SHIELD has set up. Absolutely charming. I can do that all day. Is this sarcasm? No, absolutely not."

The three of us share a laugh, and I feel Adelaide rest her head against the side of my own, attempting to level her breathing. "That was the nicest thing we're going to face today, wasn't it?"

I puff, a short strand of my amber hair dancing in front of my vision. "That was a warm up for the nicest thing we're going to face today."

"Oh brilliant," Sam exasperates, leaning against the wall we almost ran into, beefy arm clutching his ribs loosely. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear right now. Thanks for the mood booster Lillian."

A bright smile slips its way onto my lips, and I lean in more to rest my head on Addie's.

"It's what I'm here for Samuel."

***

3rd Person POV

Their speed. Their strength. Their cooperation. Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers and Nicholas Fury are well aware that people with trio's level of skill aren't uncommon around this agency, which is why they're not really focusing on how well the Nightshade sisters and Hemmings stump the course. No, they have people who have done it even faster, better. It's the teamwork that has their attention.

When training new recruits, it sometimes takes weeks for them to realize the point of the course. New recruits treat it like a competition; something that they must use to prove themselves above the others. Working at SHIELD, is like working in a bee hive. You work together, in unison, as a team. Arrogance cannot stand in the way of cooperation.

Yet these three caught on straight away. They didn't even need to think about it, it was instinct. Director Nicholas Fury begins to second guess Stark's trio of friends, contemplating that maybe there's more to them than meets the eye.

Natasha purses her lips, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the monitors as the trio vault over the wall as swift as the wind. "That has to be more than street fighting. Street fighters have good agility, but this showcases training."

"This showcases instinct," Clint attests, crossing his arms as he mirrors the red head's contemplation. "The streets can be rough, even for Asgardian born kids. By being on them they developed this instinct to work together, but not rely on one another. Outside their little group, despite their immaturity and playfulness, they're untrusting. They only trust each other and Stark."

"And people say that I'm untrustworthy," Tony butts in, tossing another grape into his mouth.

Natasha disregards the playboy's input, rebuking the archer. "They're sharp, not edgy. They're swift, not jagged. They dance, they don't just fight. I know a trained assassin when I see one."

"Whether they're trained or not is irrelevant at the moment," Fury interjects, his acute eye jumping between the two Avengers. "They may show promise yet. Maybe just enough promise."

Romanoff isn't blind; she detects the veiled insinuation behind the Director's last sentence. "You don't want to hire them just as SHIELD agents."

"You want Avengers," Clint catches on, just as quick as the Russian. "The Avengers are scattered. There's no need for them at the moment—"

"But you and I know that there will be a need for them again one day. New York wasn't the end of it, it was the beginning." The manner in which Nicholas Fury talks reminds Tony Stark of a wise, old Jedi – a wise, old, one-eyed Jedi that possesses a secret arsenal of sass poised at the ready whenever the billionaire opens his mouth. "And they'll be spending more time at SHIELD than as an Avenger anyway. I just want to see the full extent of their capabilities."

"Then we haven't got all day," Natasha finalises firmly, uncrossing her arms and striding away like a woman on a mission, towards the exit of the course where the trio should be emerging any time soon.

Steve Rogers continues to remain dead silent whilst the others disperse, motioning to follow the Russian. He stands where he is, back straight like a rod is welded to his spine, with arms securely crossed as a thought conforms on his features.

"Something on your mind Cap?" Stark notices, pausing on his way towards the Black Widow, only to spin on his heel and saunter back on over.

Despite them no longer being on the screen, Captain America's cerulean eyes remain anchored on the monitors, as if they would up and leave if he glanced away for one second. Something is... off, about this Lillian Nightshade. Steve can feel it. She's treated him nice enough, can't fault her there, but her arrogance, immaturity and inability to take anything truly serious may prove to be harmful for SHIELD and the Avengers in the long run. Lillian Nightshade is a lot like Tony Stark in that respect, and yet Tony has shown his worth and dedication towards this team, so Steve may also be judging the woman too quickly. It's just...

It's frustrating the hell out of him.

Someone with his experience, training and intuition can tell when a possible rogue soldier has entered their midst, so what he should be doing is reporting his concerns to Director Fury. And Natasha's words only trouble him more. 'They're sharp, not edgy. They're swift, not jagged. They dance, they don't just fight. I know a trained assassin when I see one.' Regardless of all hard evidence pointing towards 'no' for Nat's theory, some small, deep, tucked away part within the super soldier is screaming 'yes'. It's screaming familiarity. But Steve Rogers has never even seen that woman before yesterday in his entire life. The man, Samuel Hemmings, bodes a forgotten familiarity as well, yet the younger sister is the only member of the trio that feels right. Feels new, unknown.

Steve stands there, unmoving, knowing once again that he should convey these apprehensions to the Director. Should.

But he won't. And he doesn't have the faintest why.

He owes nothing to them. Nothing whatsoever, and if there is a possibility that they may harm someone, then he would be the first one to step in. However, even after only a single afternoon with Lillian Nightshade, Steve can't bring himself to do it. If it comes down to it he would, he hardly knows her, but yesterday... she was so open. She was almost immediately trusting, which is completely out of character for someone with her MO, and it was infectious – she got him talking about the times before the super soldier serum came into his life. Whilst it's not a topic he actively avoids, it's not precisely something he talks about with complete strangers either.

Yet she isn't a stranger, is she?

Realising he has remained silent for far too long after Tony's inquiry, Steve shakes his head of his train of thought and answers "A lot, but nothing I can't handle. Tell me, Tony, how much do you trust these three?"

Stark appears unsurprised by the question, expecting it at one point or another. "Honestly, I'm not really close with Nightshade Junior, she's a rather closed off person, always has been. Sparkler – Hemmings – I'm quite familiar with. He's on the funny side, knows how to have a good time, but is fun to mess with as well. And Lillian? She's..." The pause is quick, very quick, but Steve doesn't miss it. In fact, Tony nearly appears... vulnerable. "She's like a little sister. There aren't many people I would risk everything for Rogers, but she's one of them." The Avenger's face hardens, but it's not wholeheartedly directed at Steve, in spite of his words suggesting otherwise. "So if you don't treat her right Gramps, I'll knock you back to World War II."

Captain America chuckles, uncrossing his arms and sparing Iron man an amused expression. "Didn't know you could sound so serious Stark. It's as if you're giving me a lecture on dating your daughter."

"Okay, once again, I'm not that old you hypocrite," Tony contemptuously pokes an accusatory finger at the super soldier's chest, his original humour slithering its way back into his tone as the two of them progressively making their way over to the others. "And don't think I don't know about your little escapade with her yesterday. Will I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"I hardly know her Tony," Steve reasonably explains, yet his entertained grin fails to hide the laughter bubbling beneath the surface. "And I'm not really in a state for dating right now. Too busy with everything going on. She's a nice girl, I'll give her that. Could lose a couple of your qualities though."

"Was that a joke at the end there Capsicle?" The billionaire nearly gasps in astonishment, feeling a bright swell of pride blooming in his chest. "Didn't know you had a sense of humour buried beneath all those cobwebs and self-righteous standards from World War II. Seems like I owe Barton $50."

"Alright alright, that's enough. Don't want my secret getting out," Steve plays along, pearly white teeth glistening like he's in a Colgate ad.

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me Spangles," Stark assures, crossing a hand over his heart as if he's taking an oath. "Now, I do believe we have some ass-kicking to witness, and I don't want to miss the look on Tasha's face when it happens."

***

Lillian's POV

Most of the day went by like that, strenuous courses that tested our physical state and to what extent it could reach. Weights, running, agility, swimming, climbing, speed and other skills of the sort. Nothing that could lead towards a good fight yet, but that is what we are apparently to be tested on next.

Hand-to-hand combat.

I've been itching to throw a good punch all day. My tank top does say 'I work out because punching people is frowned upon' for a reason. I can see where Adelaide is coming from with the whole 'adrenaline junkie' theory. I do have a habit of enjoying a good fight and thrill whenever I can, can't really sit in one place for two long.

My laughter dies down from an amusing story that Clint just told me, and I can't help but remember how much I missed the marksman's antics. He always gave me a good laugh when I needed it, and after spending time in Budapest together, I could easily say he is one of the people I hold closest to me, despite not talking to him as often as I should.

"You don't laugh like an Asgardian. Neither does Thor for that matter. Maybe that was just the way Loki laughed," he abruptly notes, staring at me rather peculiarly.

My brows knot together, a silly grin playing at my lips. "How is an Asgardian supposed to laugh exactly?"

"Cruel and stupid, like..." He has to pause for thought, before suddenly bursting into an over the top, cliché evil villain laugh. It ends as quickly as it starts, and the entire time, he somehow manages to maintain a sense of professionalism.

I feign understanding, mockingly and disapprovingly shaking my head. "Oh no, you're not allowed to laugh like that until you get your evil God overlord license, and not cut or wash your hair for a couple centuries."

"So Thor is half way there? But in any case, I knew it! Stark owes me another $50."

"If you two are done giggling like a couple of school girls, then it's about time we started the next test." You know, there are a lot of things I missed about Nicky, but killing the mood wasn't one of them.

We arrive at the fighting ring; a fairly spacious area with a few mats and a clear line drawn around it that indicates where the ring ends. On the other side of the ring, Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers and the other SHIELD agents that have been shadowing us all day stand decisively, Clint waltzing over to join them. On the other hand, Tony stands around rather bored, but I know he's been anticipating seeing us in proper action all day. Now, he gets his wish.

"You will be assessed on how you handle hand-to-hand combat separately, followed by how you handle it as a team. We don't expect you to be perfect little soldiers, but we expect you to show at least some promise," Fury's patronising voice drones out, adopting his signature hands-behind-his-back-and-staring-at-us-like-we're-the-plague stance. "It's your time to shine, initiates. Now, who would like to go first?"

Sam and Adelaide both simultaneously shove me into the ring before Nicky even finishes the last syllable.

I grumble mock-heartedly, turning my withering glance over my shoulder towards them. "So much for loyalty."

"Love you sis," Adelaide offers me a too enthusiastic thumbs up, whilst Sam quietly cheers something along the lines of "Taking one for the team Lilly!"

I dust the imaginary dirt off my pants, adjusting my skin tight tank and warily fixing up the bandage around my bullet wound. "I'm not exactly in best condition today," I let my assessors know, referring to the bullet wound and still fresh tattoos as I remove my belly button piercing to throw to Sam. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you."

Even Nat cracks a ghost of a smile at that, and I have a faint feeling why. She's always had an admiration for people who push themselves and have confidence in what they do; whether it's the wrong thing or the right, if they have confidence and honour, then they have her respect.

At once, three hulking men that could probably swallow at least two of me each enter the ring, and none of them seem like the kind of men who enjoy a playful joke or two. Straightening even further, I lightly jump around on the spot, shaking my hands a little to get the blood pumping to my fingers. "You know, I could go for some atmospheric music."

"Already ahead of you Shady," Tony announces, eyes glued on the phone as he evidently hacks into the sound system overhead, earning a reprimanding glance from Nicky as he does so.

"This is a serious matter Stark. I know you're not really one for professionalism, but this initiation process must be taken with the highest amount of sincerity—"

"Come on One Eyed Wonder, we both know you wouldn't give up these three in a heartbeat," Stark interrupts, tearing his eyes away from his phone momentarily to focus them on the Director of SHIELD. "Three new recruits with powers? You're not letting them out of your grasp that easily."

Fury's eye narrows. "May I remind you who holds the power in this decision—"

"Can I start?" I butt in, one hand on hip with the other hanging limply at my side as I fight the urge to yawn. The other three men in front of me look like they're trying to do the same. "Or can I take a nap whilst you ladies sort this out?"

"You can start Miss Nightshade," the good director strains to answer, and I'm nearly certain a vein is going to pop on his forehead. And just as he promised, the three towering SHIELD men begin to advance on me – and just as Stark promised, an amusingly fitting as well as familiar tune chimes in over head.

We wear red so they don't see us bleed.
Hundred dollar bills under our sleeve.

We intend not to sleep till we're dead.
Drink our problems right out of our heads, singing –

Oh oh oh oh oh, trouble ~ trouble.

Singing oh oh oh oh oh, here comes trouble ~ trouble.

The middle man throws a sturdy punch – fairly fast for a man of his size too. I weave elegantly around it, yet refrain from mockingly dancing or pulling a one liner as I do so. Something tells me that my immaturity may cost me a spot in SHIELD's ranks if I flaunt it about too often.

After weaving under the first punch, another one of them with his arms up and prepping for his own attack lunges forth. Deciding to showcase a little of my gymnastics, I vault swiftly over him and cartwheel a few feet away. The second one that had lunged for me slams into the first one, who in turn slams into the third man who has yet to attack me. They tumble for a bit, the third man – a red head – even falling to the floor clumsily.

And I haven't even thrown a punch yet.

Dangerously having the time of our lives.
These boys are just poisonous thorns in our sides.

Starting fires wherever we go.
Watching 'em gamble everything they own, singing –

Oh oh oh oh oh, hey trouble ~ trouble.

They continue to come at me in quick succession, like tennis balls spurting out of a tennis ball machine. And like a professional tennis player is capable of hitting every tennis ball and returning it into the other court, I find myself capable of dodging, weaving and occasionally hitting the three agents whenever they approach me. I try to make my style appear more edgy to reflect my supposed street training, but it's at the cost of some of my effort and concentration.

I can hear a dramatic groan come from Stark somewhere off to the side, followed by "Stop playing Shady. You're giving the poor guys some hope."

Trouble coming in the dead of night.
Trouble making everything alright.

I cartwheel over another one of them yet again, my hands on either of his shoulders as my legs launch high into the air and I momentarily do a handstand on the agent's shoulders before landing behind him and spinning further away.

It's in your blood, it's in your bones.
You cannot sleep for, you cannot sleep for –

I grin impishly, shrugging. "If you say so Tinhead."

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Tr-tr-trouble ~ trouble.

I turn the next assault to the side, grabbing the second man's arm in a secure arm lock and pulling at it until the resounding crack of dislocation hangs in the air. He only bends over a bit in agony, so I take the time to slide my arms further up and around his neck, hissing at when the bullet wound burns as I heave myself off the ground with the man as my anchor. I use the momentum of turning around behind him to swing with my feet in the air like I'm swinging on a pole, slamming my feet on the chest of the first man who is approaching us yet again and pushing off him with a sure amount of force, sending him flying backwards onto the floor and me swinging backwards to slam my feet into the red head's chest about to attack me from behind.

With one last swing around the man's neck, I use the remaining momentum from both push offs to send him rolling onto the floor, and I stand upright once more, a big beaming grin on my face.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Here comes trouble ~ trouble.

The two I had simply kicked are quick to get up again, but the one with the dislocated shoulder stays down for a little while longer, allowing me a chance to breathe. We continue our dance, and once again, I wrap my arms around one of their necks and my legs around the other's as they stand side by side, spinning and sending them both flying to the floor again simultaneously.

There are dogs on the loose, there are snakes in the desert.
I'm that knife in your boot, girl I gotcha.

I'm your number two man in a fight.
We are revolutionaries tonight, singing –

Oh oh oh oh oh, hey trouble ~ trouble.

The one with the dislocated shoulder – now relocated – unexpectedly strikes from behind like a lightning bolt, his beefy arms caging my own in behind me and inflicting a searing pain like fire from my bullet wound as he mercilessly pulls on it. I hiss like a viper – hey there Jade – and let out a very brief cry of anguish. "That is still healing you bastard," I growl.

Trouble coming in the dead of night.
Trouble making everything alright.

It's in your blood, it's in your bones.
You cannot sleep for, you cannot sleep for –

I jump up and against him, bringing my feet down with a strong smack against the floor that bestows me with the force to send the man holding me captive over my back and barrelling into the one about to throw a punch at my gut. I stumble back a couple feet, venomously glaring at them for almost reopening my bullet wound.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Tr-tr-trouble ~ trouble.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Here comes trouble ~ trouble.

The red head reappears again, clearly going in for a strike whilst he thinks I'm distracted. I swivel from his grasp, flipping backwards before using the momentum to once again cartwheel forwards onto his shoulders, resting the back of his head between my thighs as I clench them.

He struggles for breath at the other two stagger to a stand, and the very first drop of sweat begins to form on my brow.

Trouble coming in the dead of night.
Trouble making everything alright.

He begins to crumble to his knees, yet I won't stop until he falls unconscious. His fingers pry and fiddle with my legs in desperation to get them off, but I only clench at his neck harder.

It's in your blood, it's in your bones.
You cannot sleep for, you cannot sleep for –

He finally falls, and just in the nick of time. The other two waste no energy in attempting at throwing more of their training at me, yet they have yet to realise their disadvantage. They may be trained by SHIELD, but I am trained by SHIELD, HYDRA, the Hand, Charles Xavier and Asgardians.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Tr-tr-trouble ~ trouble.

My feet shuffle and slide around the floor in anticipation, like I'm ice skating around the ring.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Here comes trouble –

I smile, and for the first time this fight, I make the move to attack them first.

Trouble.

Quick jabs in succession hit and strike the men in the weak spots of the human anatomy, my legs coming up in a right and left hook to kick them over their own punches and kicks thrown my way.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Tr-tr-trouble ~ trouble.

My arms come up to block their attacks in a move called windmill guard, where I also subsequently step to the side and severely kick them in the gut. My punches launch – jab, cross, upper cut, upper cut, hook, cross. Noses bleed, bruises begin to form, shallow cuts from my nails skim across their flesh, but nothing breaks. That's not what Nicky is looking for. He wants to see what I can do without my powers, and without having to resort to extreme measures such as broken bones in order to take an enemy down.

In a moment when their heads are somewhat close to one another, I grab fistfuls of their hair each, and end the fight by promptly smacking their foreheads into one another.

Whoa oh oh, whoa oh oh
Here comes trouble ~ trouble.

The crumple to the floor like ragdolls as the song and fight come to a close – I always was one for dramatics. I couldn't pass up the opportunity for timing like that.

I glance up warily to see equal measure of curiosity on the others' faces, but to impress Nicholas J. Fury is a near impossible task indeed, so that is really all that it is – curiosity. Clint is about the only one that appears half impressed, but even Steve seems absent-minded, like a thousand and one thoughts are plaguing him in that very instant. It's not like him to be so scattered in thought, he usually lights up on topics and occasions like this. Seeing such a distracted expression on his face is rather out of character. Is he alright?

"Not bad Miss Nightshade," Fury breaks the silence, moving his arms around from behind his back to cross the before him. "I must admit, I didn't expect that much of a fight from you –"

"Ouch, my pride," I mutter, clenching my heart with my hand yet hissing palpably when my bullet injury flares again.

Fury is not amused. "—but that's not bad for a beginner. Adelaide Nightshade, I believe it's your turn."

For Nicholas J. Fury to admit that to someone completely new to him is no small feat, and I know, that with those words, he truly does believe I show promise.

And I'll be damned if I don't live up to it.

***

I slide the loose, off-the shoulder black long sleeve jumper over my head slowly, straining and biting my lip at how tender my wound and tattoos still are. Even my belly piercing is still marginally inflamed, but due to such a high pain tolerance built up over the years, it's hardly noticeable in comparison to my proper injury and tattoos.

Sam, Adelaide and I had brought some spare clothes along just in case we were required to change at the SHIELD facility. Apparently, this New York facility pales in comparison to the one in Washington DC, yet I personally find it impressing nonetheless. The locker room here is not too shabby, and it doesn't stink like a high school change room – which, despite never having been in one, I have general idea about because I live with Samuel Hemmings – so that's a plus I guess.

I pull the hem of the comfortable jumper down, yet glance at where my bandages are underneath the piece of clothing and ponder over taking it back off to replace them. Adelaide and Sam are undergoing a few physical examinations at the moment, the kind that examine their blood and state of their body. As far as I know, they don't have any diseases, allergies, physical problems or anything of the like, but you never know. Having completed my own minutes before, I decided to change into some more comfortable wear, but the lols of my workout tank were completely worth the minor discomfort.

Sitting on the steel bench, I allow myself a moment to roll my shoulders and loosen the tension that has been twisting and building within my muscles all day. This is mainly why I've never 'officially' been a member of SHIELD. They expect good little soldiers and agents that blindly follow orders and strict guidelines for missions and assignments that they don't even know the full details of. I've never been one for rules or not being told what I'm heading into – I guess that's why I didn't last long with HYDRA either. The dickbags never told me any reasoning behind what I had to do.

I can follow orders – I'm not some uncontrollable rogue for Christ's sake. But I don't like it when I'm not told everything. I don't like it when the rules are too constricting. And I don't like it when I'm being forced to be a part of a team or group that doesn't entirely trust me, or I them. Being a part of a group means we've got each other's backs in a fight, and in my brief experience of fighting alongside the Avengers and Fantastic Four, I had that.

But here? Here at SHIELD? You get left behind if you fall behind. The old Lillian Nightshade would've done that gladly, but me now? I like to think I have at least some moral integrity and ethical standards, but if I'm to be a part of a team that keeps secrets (hypocritical of me, I know) and doesn't trust what Addie, Sam and I do, then bugger it all. I need to know they'll have my back, so I can return the favour.

It kinda comes down to trust issues, doesn't it? I've never really been one to trust, it takes time for me to warm up to people. It's why I've never been a part of an official, long-standing team. It's why my partnership with HYDRA was so short. I've never been a team person, so accepting that being on a team here in SHIELD is gonna take some time, which is most likely why I'm internally spouting excuses for not wanting to be on a team to you, dear readers.

Yeah, I broke the fourth wall again. What you gonna do about it? Call Trump to build you a new one? I'd like to see you try; he wouldn't last five minutes in a book with me.

The light patter of boots against the concrete flooring grasps my attention as I tuck my jeans into my black boots. I straighten my back and crane my neck to identify the source of the intrusion, discovering quite the perplexed yet concerned Captain America standing a few feet away behind me.

That concern... it isn't directed at me, I can tell, but it's caused by me. Well, he's probably about to share his wittle fweelings, so I won't have to wait long to hear what's up. He's had that face on practically all day, so I'm glad he's finally taken the time to come ask me whatever he wants to.

"Ah, America's Golden Boy. Can I help you, my dear Captain?" I inquire aloofly, swinging my legs over the bench and on the other side so I can properly face him.

His frown intensifies, arms delightfully crossed over one another and allowing his muscles to bulge. "I want you to know, that just because we spent some time together getting to know one another yesterday, doesn't mean my suspicions of you have lessened. You may be a friend of Tony's, but I don't even think he's telling us the entire truth." He takes one long step forward, only another step away from me now. "You don't like having someone in charge of you, or taking much seriously. You're going to have to do that constantly here though, and that's what concerns me."

"You think I'm a loose cannon?" I voice his unease in a manner that is more blunt than he would've expressed, resting one hand on my knee, the other on the bench. "You think that if it comes down to it, I'll disobey orders. Go rogue. Is that it, Steve?"

His sigh is rather tired for someone who can run thirteen miles in thirty minutes and still not break a freaking sweat. "I'm not accusing you of anything –"

"You're right."

The super soldier's face drops, a vulnerable moment of perplexity and stun clouding over it. I shrug helplessly at it, moving my hands into my lap as I firmly explain "I have a strong set of values Steve, none as pure and ethical as yours. I understand what is required of me here more than you think, but if I'm asked to do something that goes against everything that's right by the people and what they need, then yeah, I may disobey. But when I make a deal with someone, I always stick to that deal." I rise slowly from my seat, meeting the cerulean ocean that is his eyes. He isn't aware that I'm referring to assassination contracts and deals I've made in the past, but the same applies to here after all. I'll have to prove that one way or another. "And taking on a position here in SHIELD? That's like making deal, a deal I will never break unless it completely compromises what I stand for and what I fight for."

"And what do you fight for?" He manages to challenge in that innocently pure manner that is Steven Grant Rogers.

"I used to fight for myself... but a lot has changed since then. I guess I fight for people now... and myself, still, just a little."

His arms uncross and find their way to rest against his hips, his questioning stare unwavering as it bears down on me. "Which people?"

"Full of questions aren't we?" I lightly joke, yet turn solemn again when he makes no move to smile along with me. "Look, point is, I don't fight to prove that I'm tough, I know I'm tough. I fight because it's inside of me, it's who I am. But what I fight for? I fight for all the people who have done some bad in their life and think they're capable of nothing more. The people that think that just because they're a bad guy, a criminal or a villain, that there's nothing more they can accomplish in life. That all they know is bad. Everyone has a chance to be good, it's always there. I fight to prove that, and to show my enemies that it's who I am. A fighter, even against the labels that society throws my way." I scratch my neck sheepishly, hazel eyes suddenly finding the floor ever so interesting when I can't meet his gaze. "Whoa, didn't expect to give a heart to heart just then. Sorry about dropping that preaching bomb on you there."

His breathy chuckle surprises me, enough so that my gaze swivels back to meet his as my hand drops. "Well I did ask, so you're not at fault, and you gave me an honest answer, which is all I can ask for. You worry me, I'm not going to lie, but Tony has faith in you, and just because I think you're hiding something, doesn't mean you're lying. You've been honest with me since the moment we've met, so I apologize if I've insulted you by questioning your loyalty."

I snort, playfully punching his arm and impishly smirking. "Naw Cap, no need for such proper formalities. You can be as blunt as a bowling ball around me, I couldn't care. It's easier than sugar coating crap."

I flinch involuntarily when I aggravate the wound yet again, realising that I seriously need to take a chill pill and stop straining it so much. Unfortunately for me, good ole' Captain Kill Joy notices my discomfort, and immediately elects to address it. "Your bullet injury, is it okay? You strained it a lot today. I tried to get Fury to do the less physical examinations today because of it, but he didn't seem that sympathetic to the cause."

"And he shouldn't be. Just because I got injured on my own accord, doesn't mean I deserve special treatment, but thanks Cap. You know how to make a girl feel special nonetheless," I light-heartedly joke, stopping myself from punching his shoulder like an old pal again.

He stares at the arm of my jumper intensely, yet his baby blues find their way to me once again. "I can re-dress it if you want. It's easier having someone else do it."

A sly smirk slips onto my lips, the playful minx in me rousing at the chance to poke at Steve virginity-ness. "Are you asking me to undress, Steve?"

His face reddens, but he smiles amusedly nonetheless. Adorable. "Just your jumper, I'm sure you have something on underneath."

"Oh my Asgardian father on a Bifrost, is that blush on your face Mr America?" My teasing tone does not go unnoticed, garnering another laugh from the first super hero standing before me. I love hearing his laugh. I even poke his cheek gently with my uninjured arm when I speak, and he makes no move to avoid it. "Naw, I made Steve Rogers blush. I'm honoured, really."

"Alright alright, very funny. This is what I get for offering to help," he cheekily replies, hands up in a mock surrender.

Laughing, I grasp the hem of the jumper once again and utter a "Thank you, I would actually appreciate it if you did though Cap," before I begin to pull it over my head, gritting my teeth and hissing when I aggravate it too much again.

"Here, let me help." His words are muffled by the fabric barrier around my ears at the current time, but when I feel his callous yet gentle hands grip the item of clothing around my own, I finally register his words. Steve pulls the jumper up and over my head for me, and when I am free of the fabric entrapment and left in my white singlet, do I realise just how damn close the man actually is.

This time, I can feel my own blush dusting my cheeks, and I feel like some prissy, hormonal school girl as various scenarios of him relieving me of my clothing under different circumstances flood through my head. Unluckily for me, he detects the change in colour of my cheeks, even with my olive skin to partially guise it. "Naw, I made Lillian Nightshade blush. I'm honoured, really."

"Captain America uses sass?!" I exclaim, beyond the point of astonishment. "Watch out Rogers, your secret's out. I can blackmail you for more ice cream now."

"Oh the horror," he responds with a smile, white teeth blinding me. He sits me down again and reaches into one of the lockers nearby, drawing out a first aid kit that seems to have conveniently been in there and resting down next to me on the side I have my injury.

My short, amber strands dance before my eyes as I tilt my head to stare at him, keeping the conversation afloat. "You should be worried. I take my food very seriously Steve Rogers. I would take Beyoncé's advice very seriously as well, and would put a ring on it if I could buy enough rings to put on every item of food in the world. But alas, one does not have the time, money or effort to do such a thing."

"I don't even think the world has enough rings for you," he jests, hands gingerly unwinding and inspecting my arm with a surprising display of tenderness. In spite of his hands exhibiting all the rough around the edges signs of combat experience, his fingers are deft and barely skim across my skin, and when they do, it's gentle and leaves that lasting, tingling effect on my arm.

"But," he continues, acting as if there was no short pause. "In the end, there's only really one ring that matters, isn't there?"

If I was drinking water just now, I would've done a spit-take so large it would outdo a llama at their own game any day.

"Ah yes, yes I suppose y-you're right," I mumble in reply, avoiding all kinds of eye contact with the super soldier beside me. I mean marriage? Really? From your perspective, we just met Capsicle!

I can feel him glancing at me through the corners of his eyes. He evidently realises how that may sound, for he begins to stutter an amendment moments later. "That came out wrong—"

"Don't worry Steve, I understood what you meant. Just took a moment to register is all," I break into his correction, waving him off with my free hand. "Also I've never gave it much thought, you know? No one ever gave me any cause to give it much thought. But by the sounds of it, you seem to like the idea. Any little dame caught your eye there Cap?"

Yes, please tell me. Her name, address, age, social security number – what? Would I pay her a visit and have a little chat? Of course not, he's a grown ass man who can make his own decisions... I would merely invite her over for dinner and then have a chat with her in the kitchen because that's the room that holds all the knives.

Kidding, kidding.

I would take her to the basement.

Seriously though, I can't disrupt what he may have with another woman. That would be selfish of me, and quite frankly, he deserves someone a bit more inclined to follow the law –

"No, not yet," he answers truthfully, hearty laugh barely audible it's so quiet. His warm breath fans against my bare arm as he talks, instigating a small twitch in my toes from time to time. "Don't think I'm really ready for that, got enough going on here. Not to mention it's been a while. One day would be nice though, but if I have to leave all this behind to do so... that may be harder than I know. Wouldn't be fair on her either if I was here all the time."

"If she loves you, she'll love all of you; even the piece of you that's here standing in-between all the bad in the world and all the good in the world. You're a good man Captain, and she would be more than lucky to have you," I respond with my heart perhaps too prominently on my sleeve. By now I've met his gaze, and he in turn has met mine as he ties the new bandage around my arm, movements slowing more and more the longer we hold one another's stare.

An amused scoff-like chuckle sounds from the back of his throat, inquisitive orbs unwaveringly nailed on me. "Something about you is so familiar Lillian. I just... can't quite figure out what."

"I guess I have one of those faces," I dust off, attempting to weasel out of the serious mood.

His brows furrow, expression turning solemnly curious. "No, it's something more. You're sure we haven't met befo—?"

He sneezes mid sentence.

Nope nope nope nope nope, nopity nope nope – don't do it. Come on, self-restraint Lillian Veronica Nightshade. Conceal don't feel. Hoe don't do it –

"God bless America."

Oh my God.

Perhaps 'God Bless America' can be our always?

He seems to take a moment to register my words, before he eventually breaks out into a contagious grin and takes his sweet time laughing out his entertainment. Unable to stop myself from doing so, I join in along with him, and for a short while, the two of us just enjoy a laugh together.

A few minutes later, after we've died down a bit, he breathes a tad labouredly as his smile threatens to tear his cheeks in half. "Where on earth did you come up with that?"

"I used to say it to someone who meant a lot to me. He was rather patriotic himself, always jumping into the firing line for others, no matter what it cost him. Pissed me off sometimes, the man refused to be even a little selfish, even when his life depended on it, but he cared for the people around him, as well as the innocents that didn't deserve any trouble that came their way. He was too good for this world, this world didn't deserve him," I explain, the ghosting remnants of my smile still playing at my lips.

Steve's head tilts inquisitively, asking "Sounds like selfless, good man. What happened to him?"

"I lost him," I answer, searching his eyes hopefully with all the faith in the world. "But I think he'll find his way back to me. If there's anything he's ever taught me, it's to never give up, even when the entire universe is against you."

***

It's been a few days since SHIELD started testing us, and Fury is finally calling us in to announce his conclusion at the results of our examinations. Adelaide was adamant that I dressed nice and official for this, and I swear she almost threw my flannel and old jeans outside my thirteenth story window into the streets below when I said I was going to wear that.

As Adelaide rummages through my closet like a mother hen – reminder here that she is my younger sister by six years – for suitable clothes, Sam loiters annoyingly in the doorway in a grey dress shirt that has the first couple buttons undone and black slacks, fiddling with his cuff as he looks at me pointedly.

"Is there something bothering you Samuel Hemmings?" I inquire, dodging a leather jacket that is tossed blindly over Addie's shoulder as her rummaging continues.

His lips purse, eyes skimming over me speculatively. "Hmm? Oh, no, I'm just imagining what you would look like... in a dress."

I snort, finding the topic highly amusing. "Keep wondering. If Ally couldn't put me in one, neither can you."

"Aha!"

Sparing Adelaide a glance, she returns from my closet with spotless black, designer skinny jeans; a long sleeve, white classy button up blouse; and slightly more stylish than usual black heeled ankle boots. "I know you don't like dressing up too fancy, so I wasn't going to force you into a pencil skirt, or as Sam was imagining, a dress. So hopefully this will do it – should make your butt look nice too, once you tuck the blouse in."

"Got to have a nice ass for your dear Captain," Sam clicks his tongue in agreement, causing me to roll my eyes at the two of them.

"Alright you two, now out. I gotta get changed," I chuckle, shoving the two of them out of my room, but Sam – deciding to be the drama queen that he is – begins to fall back against my pushing. "Can't you go any faster?"

"Oh no! Gravity is increasing on me," Sam gasps and starts collapsing against my protests, making me growl "No it's not!"

"Is too, Lilly, the same thing happened yesterday."

"Don't you dare pull a Lilo and Stitch on me Hemmings!"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to Lilly."

"I will punch you so hard your ancestors will be dizzy."

"Oh would you look at the time? Adelaide requires my assistance picking out her own clothes. Ta ta!"

I only just catch myself from falling face first onto the floor when he skedaddles away, and I menacingly scowl at his retreating form. "Go step on a Lego you asshat!"

"Been there, done that! HYDRA has brutal teaching methods!"

Despite myself I laugh, closing the door softly and regarding the clothes on my bed lazily. "My butt better look nice in this shit."

A few profanities, some breakfast, a forty minute cab ride and one quickly tucked in blouse later, Adelaide, Sam and I stand before Nicholas J. Fury in his super stylish office that overlooks the main island of Manhattan. It's just the four of us in the room, no signs of Natasha, Clint of Steve to be seen – not even Tony, shockingly.

Nicky is sat quite comfortably at his desk just staring at us, three files lay out in front of him each possessing one of our names. "Lillian Nightshade, Adelaide Nightshade, and Samuel Hemmings," he starts, wisely mulling over his words in that dramatic fashion that is Nick Fury. "It's not often we have three enhanced people with your capabilities join our cause. Not often at all. I don't know whether I believe the story you three and Stark have spun, but for the time being, your past is your past. As long as it doesn't catch up to you here, I won't poke the bear with the stick."

He leans forward, hands clasping around one another. "In spite of the immaturity displayed by... some of you, Stark was right when he said that I'm not going to turn away services such as yours just because of some bad behaviour. Your behaviour will improve while you're here, operating under brand new team that so far consists purely of you three called STRIKE: Enhanced."

The Director stands leisurely, his single eye jumping from one of us to the other. "STRIKE: Delta is the only other division of STRIKE we've had in this corporation, and that only consisted of Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff. Due to your unforeseeable behaviour, clouded past and lack of having proven yourselves worthy of proper trust yet, you will operate under the command of the head STRIKE team we have at SHIELD. So, new agents of SHIELD, I would like to introduce you to your new boss."

A single man enters through the doors to the right of us, and the pure sight of him makes me want to launch across the room and rip his goddamn throat out.

"Commander Brock Rumlow, head of STRIKE."

*hears angry fangirls mob in the distance* Ah well, my life was sweet while it lasted. I'll say hi to Satan in hell for you all.

Long chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it! I went back and re-wrote it a couple times, and I still don't know if a few lines sit well. Let me know what you thought of it in the comments below!

Also, if you're not and would like to, feel free to look me up on Facebook :) I only got it last week (I'm late, I knowwww, I was just never really interested before). I would love to be friends with you guys on there :) https://www.facebook.com/tara.lyall.5

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L