In a world where there's a pandemic...

[September 20th, 2021]

[Earth- 1218 Atlanta, Georgia]

The harsh buzz of my alarm slices through the pre-dawn darkness, its red digital numbers glaring 5:30 AM with accusatory brightness. My hand instinctively slaps at the snooze button, but I force myself to resist its siren call. I can't afford the luxury of extra sleep, not when there are bills to pay and a gremlin sister to feed.

For a moment, I lay still, savoring the lingering warmth of my sheets. They carry the faint scent of lavender – a cheap fabric softener, but a small indulgence I allow myself. The soft cotton is a stark contrast to the harshness of the world waiting outside my bedroom door. The morning chill seeps in through my window, a reminder that any semblance of warmth is fading with fall's fleeting but intrusive tide.

"Get up, Kaycee," I mutter to myself, my voice rough with sleep and tinged with resignation. "The world won't wait for your pity party."

With a determined grunt, I kick off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My muscles scream in protest, still aching from yesterday's back-to-back double shifts. The diner's unforgiving tile floors and the warehouse's endless aisles have left their mark. At nineteen, I shouldn't feel this... old. But life has a way of aging you beyond your years.

As I begin my morning stretches, feeling the satisfying pull in my hamstrings, my gaze falls on the dusty cheer trophy perched on my dresser. Its golden figure, frozen mid-leap, seems to mock me with its perpetual enthusiasm. Valedictorian, cheer captain, full ride to my dream school – all of it evaporated in the wake of a global pandemic that no one saw coming.

I can almost hear the roar of the crowd, feel the rush of adrenaline as I nail a perfect routine. The memory is so vivid, I swear I can smell the sweat-soaked polyester of my uniform, taste the metallic tang of nerves on my tongue. For a split second, I'm there again – flying through the air, defying gravity, the world stretching out before me full of possibility.

The fantasy shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving me standing alone in my cramped bedroom, the silence oppressive.

Now, instead of lecture halls and football games, my days are filled with juggling minimum wage jobs and keeping our little fractured family afloat. The safety net I'd so carefully woven has frayed, leaving me constantly teetering on a highwire of adult responsibilities. Piles of unopened bills litter the kitchen island, a constant reminder of the precariousness of our situation. I try to ignore them, but the weight of the envelopes feels like a physical pressure, threatening to crush me beneath their weight.

I pad to the bathroom, the cool tile a shock against my bare feet. Splashing cold water on my face, I force myself to look in the mirror. The girl staring back looks tired, shadows lurking beneath eyes that have seen too much too soon. Fine lines are already forming at the corners – laughter lines, Mom would have called them. But I know better. They're etched by worry, by nights spent poring over bills and job applications, by the constant fear that one misstep will send our house of cards tumbling down.

"You've got this," I whisper to my reflection, not quite believing it. "One day at a time." It's become my mantra, a lifeline when the future seems too daunting to contemplate.

As I apply a light touch of makeup, barely enough to hide the dark circles, my thoughts drift to Ruth. Today is the kid's tenth birthday, and despite our differences, I'm determined to make it special. But the thought of navigating another day of her moods and Marvel obsession makes me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

Ruth lives in a world of superheroes and comic book adventures, a stark contrast to the harsh reality I deal with daily. She devours every scrap of Marvel lore she can get her hands on, much to my frustration. How can she lose herself in fantasies when our real lives are falling apart? But then, isn't that the point? To escape, even for a little while, into a world where the good guys always win and there's always a happy ending?

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen, drawing me in with its siren song of caffeine and productivity. As the machine gurgles and sputters, promising liquid energy, I scribble a quick birthday note for Ruth:

"Happy 10th Birthday, Ruth! Double digits - can you believe it? I know things have been tough lately, but I hope today brings you some joy. Maybe we can watch one of your superhero movies together later (just not that 3-hour one again, please). Love, Kaycee

P.S. Don't forget to unload the dishwasher before logging in for school."

I prop the note against a bowl of Nature's Cereal – her latest obsession. The colorful mix of berries and coconut water looks more like a science experiment than breakfast, but if it keeps her quiet for five minutes, I'm not going to argue. Besides, the kid's got enough sugar in her system from all the junk she consumes. Maybe some actual fruit will balance things out.

Before I leave, I sneak into Ruth's room, careful not to wake her. The space is a shrine to all things Marvel, every surface covered in posters, action figures, and memorabilia. I snap a quick picture with my phone, mentally cataloging what she already has. It's a precaution against getting her something she doesn't need or worse, something "lame" by her exacting standards.

The sheer volume of Ruth's collection is overwhelming and, if I'm honest, a little irritating. All this money spent on plastic toys and overpriced merchandise when we can barely make rent. But it's not Ruth's fault. She's just a kid, oblivious to the real-world struggles happening around her. Sometimes I envy that innocence, even as it frustrates me.

I blame her. Every piece was carefully curated by Ruth and... Ear- uh, our mom. They share a discerning eye for Marvel memorabilia, and Mom never hesitated to sink money from the beauty supply store into feeding that obsession. It's hard not to resent the piles of expensive toys and merchandise, most of which will end up in a landfill. It feels like she's contributing to the destruction of the planet, one overpriced action figure at a time. And yet, she never once slid me a cent for cheerleading, no matter how much I worked for it.

I push the familiar anger down, burying it deep where it can't touch today. Now's not the time for old grievances. Today is about Ruth, about making her feel special, even if it means gritting my teeth through another marathon of men in tights punching CGI monsters.

I've exhausted every obvious gift option over the years, and the pressure to find something special for her first double-digit birthday is immense. With a sigh, I head out for some last-minute shopping, dreading the inevitable tantrum if I don't get it right.

The cool morning air nips at my skin as I step outside. The streets of Atlanta are eerily empty, masks obscuring the few faces I do see. Even a year and a half into this new reality, it still feels surreal, like we're all extras in some post-apocalyptic movie.

I pull into the Lenox Square Mall parking lot, steeling myself for the day ahead. The mall is a ghost of its former self, half the stores shuttered, their windows papered over like blind eyes. The few that remain open seem to be clinging to life by their fingernails, desperate for any scrap of business.

I make my way to Hot Topic, hoping against hope that they'll have something - anything - that might bring a smile to Ruth's face and maybe, just maybe, bridge the growing gap between us.

Stores like Hot Topic aren't usually my go-to these days. The loud music, the edgy aesthetics, the overpriced band merch - it all feels a bit much for someone who spends most of her time juggling minimum wage jobs and adult responsibilities. But for Ruth? I'd brave just about anything. Even this den of teenage rebellion.

"Can I help you find anything?" a perky voice chirps. I turn to see a girl about my age, her name tag reading "Destiny" in glittery letters. Her hair is dyed a vibrant purple, and she's got more piercings than I can count. Two years ago, I might have found her intimidating. Now, after everything I've been through, she just looks... young.

"Yeah, actually," I sigh, swallowing my pride. "I need something Marvel-related for my sister's birthday. Preferably something that won't break the bank."

Destiny's eyes light up like I've just offered her free tickets to Comic-Con. "Oh my god, you've come to the right place! What's your sister into? Iron Man? Captain America? Ooh, or is she more of a Guardians girl?"

I blink, feeling like she's speaking another language. "Uh... all of it? I think? Look, I'm gonna be honest - I don't know jack about this stuff. The movies just annoy me."

Destiny gasps like I've personally insulted her entire family. "How can you not love Marvel? It's, like, the greatest franchise ever!"

"Yeah, well, tell that to my last brain cell after sitting through 'Endgame,'" I mutter. "Just... show me what's popular, okay?"

She leads me to a display crammed with figurines, t-shirts, and various knick-knacks. My eyes glaze over at the sheer amount of overpriced plastic. All I can think about is how many hours I'll have to work to pay for whatever I end up buying. Each item represents a shift at the diner, a day at the warehouse, another piece of my youth sacrificed on the altar of responsibility.

"Ooh, what about this?" Destiny holds up a small box. "It's a limited edition Infinity Gauntlet replica. Only 1000 made worldwide!"

I'm about to respond when a snot-nosed kid, maybe Ruth's age, shoves past me and snatches the box from Destiny's hand. The force of his movement catches me off guard, and I stumble, my hip colliding painfully with the edge of a display case.

"Holy crap, is this the last one?" he squeals, clutching it to his chest like it's made of solid gold.

"Hey!" I snap, rubbing my sore hip. "We were looking at that!"

The kid sneers at me, his face a mask of entitlement that makes my blood boil. "Yeah? Well, I got it first. Snooze you lose, grandma."

Grandma? Oh hell no. I'm about to teach this brat some manners when Destiny steps in, her customer service smile strained but still in place.

"I'm sorry, but she was going to purchase that," she says, her voice syrupy sweet but with an edge of steel beneath it.

"Don't care," the kid replies, his grip on the box tightening. "I want it, I'm buying it."

I clench my fists, counting to ten in my head. I do not need an assault charge over a stupid toy. I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to throw it all away because some snot-nosed brat doesn't know how to share.

"Listen, you little sh- uh, buddy," I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. "It's for my sister's birthday. Can you just... I don't know, pick something else?"

The kid looks me dead in the eye, his gaze challenging. "Nope," he says, popping the 'p' for extra obnoxiousness.

That's it. I'm done playing nice. A lifetime of being the responsible one, of swallowing my anger and putting others first, comes bubbling to the surface. In that moment, I channel every ounce of big sister energy I possess.

"Okay, how about this?" I say, leaning in close. "You give me the toy, or I'll tell your mom about the Playboys hidden under your mattress."

His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. "H-how did you-"

"I didn't," I smirk, feeling a surge of vindictive pleasure. "But thanks for confirming it, champ."

The kid's face turns an impressive shade of red. He shoves the box at me with such force that I nearly drop it, then storms off, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "bitch" under his breath.

"Wow," Destiny says, looking at me with a mixture of awe and fear. "That was… intense."

I shrug, suddenly feeling drained. The adrenaline rush fades, leaving me feeling hollow. "Yeah, well, when you're responsible for keeping a roof over your head and your half-sister fed at 19, you learn to fight dirty sometimes."

Destiny's expression softens, the punk rock facade cracking to reveal genuine empathy. "That sounds rough. Hey, uh… I'm not supposed to do this, but…" She glances around furtively before whispering, "I can give you my employee discount. It's not much, but…"

For the first time today, I feel a genuine smile tugging at my lips. It's a small gesture, but in that moment, it means the world. "Thanks," I say, my voice thick with emotion I hadn't realized I was holding back. "That... that actually means a lot."

 I clutch the stupid gauntlet thing as we head to the register, hoping it's worth all this hassle. The things I do for Ruth, I swear. But hey, at least I got a small victory over a snot-nosed brat. Some days, you take what you can get.

As Destiny rings up the purchase, I find myself staring at the gauntlet. It's gaudy and ridiculous, all shiny gold plastic and fake gems. But I can see why it appeals to Ruth. In a world that often feels cruel and unpredictable, who wouldn't want to believe in the power to change reality with a snap of your fingers?

"You know," Destiny says, breaking into my thoughts, "in the movies, Thanos uses the gauntlet to try and solve all the world's problems. But in the end, it's the everyday heroes who really save the day."

I look at her, surprised by the unexpected depth of her observation. "Yeah?"

She nods, her eyes serious despite her whimsical appearance. "The Avengers win because they work together, because they're willing to sacrifice for each other. Sounds to me like you're doing the same thing for your sister."

I feel a lump form in my throat, unexpected emotion threatening to overwhelm me. "I'm no superhero," I mutter, embarrassed by her praise.

Destiny shrugs, handing me the bag with Ruth's gift. "Maybe not the kind with a cape. But the real kind? The ones who show up every day and do what needs to be done, even when it's hard? Sounds pretty heroic to me."

⌁₊˚⊹  ⊹˚₊⌁

The drive to Publix blurs together, a smear of asphalt and billboard clutter. My thoughts whirlpool around Ruth, the future, and the precarious tightrope walk that's become my life. But then, the familiar green Publix logo rises like an oasis and I feel a small surge of relief. This, at least, is familiar territory.

I spot a cart, and digging through my purse, I find the trusty antibacterial wipes. The communal ones they offer? No thank you. I methodically decontaminate the handle, the spots where my skin will touch. Only then do I seize the cart, the metal cold against my gloved palms. Finally, it's safe. I step inside.

A blast of air-conditioned chill envelops me, a shocking contrast to the balmy Georgia air I left behind. Overhead, the fluorescents hum and buzz, their antiseptic glare bleaching the aisles. I tread these aisles like a minefield, my mind ticking through the well-rehearsed checklist. No crowds, no chance of skin meeting skin, no touchless payment options to fall back on... My pulse throbs against my ribcage, a staccato beat counterpoint to the store's steady drone of beeps and hushed conversations.

This isn't just a grocery run. This is for Ruth's birthday dinner – a sacred tradition Mom always made a big deal about. Before the beauty supply store in Atlanta, Mom had culinary dreams. Armed with her fancy degree and a trove of high-end recipes, she fancied herself a gourmet in the making.

I can almost hear Mom's voice as I reach for ingredients. "Kaycee, baby, presentation is key. We eat with our eyes first!" She'd arrange herbs just so on a plate. Before COVID, birthdays meant a three-course spread, provided she wasn't swamped with the store.

Now, that tradition weighs on me. No culinary degree, but I've watched her enough to fake it convincingly. Normally, I'd order groceries online, meticulously wipe everything down, and enlist a cranky Ruth to put it all away alphabetically. Easier than Mom's color-coding, and it keeps our bubble of home pristine. But for Ruth's birthday, for Mom's recipes, I need the freshest ingredients. And that means braving the grocery store, a gauntlet of germs and unpredictability that sets my teeth on edge.

I gingerly pick up a plump chicken – Ruth's favorite for Mom's famous rosemary and lemon roast. My gloved hands feel every bump and ridge of the skin. Fresh rosemary, lemons, garlic... I breathe through my mouth, the scents threatening to overwhelm me. Potatoes for mashing. Green beans, because I have to attempt some semblance of nutrition...

A smile tugs at my lips as I hit the baking aisle. Dessert's always been Ruth's highlight. Mom's triple chocolate cake is legendary. I grab cocoa powder, chocolate chips, coffee and heavy cream. It won't be Mom's, but I'm hell-bent on getting close.

My cart overflows as I make for checkout. The wheels squeak under the weight, earning me curious glances. I keep my gaze down, my mind fixed on escape. Just a few more minutes, and I'll be free of this germ-infested labyrinth. Back home, I'll reclaim my sense of control, meticulously wiping down each item, enlisting Ruth to put everything in its alphabetical place. But for now, I'll endure this, for Ruth, for Mom's tradition.

Suddenly, as if the universe decided I hadn't faced enough challenges today, the cocoa powder tumbles from its precarious perch atop the pile in my cart. Horror washes over me as I watch it roll across the polished floor, finally coming to a stop at a stranger's feet yards away. My heart pounds in time with the panicked voice shrieking 'contamination!' in my mind.

The once welcoming baking aisle now feels miles away. A gauntlet of unwashed hands, coughing strangers, and who-knows-what-else lies between me and my abandoned goods. A shudder runs down my spine at the thought of navigating this crowded store again. The six-foot rule is my mantra, my invisible forcefield. The pandemic has honed my meticulous nature into a sharp survival instinct.

But I need that cocoa powder. Ruth's cake won't be the same without it, and with the way people have been acting - hoarding like the apocalypse is nigh - I can't risk leaving it. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and start towards the fallen item. The scent of stale bread and disinfectant clings to me like a shroud, making my stomach churn.

Just as I approach, a masked stranger swoops in, bending to retrieve the cocoa powder. Relief washes over me - maybe I can salvage this situation without having to touch anything. I'll just accept the kindness of this stranger, maintain my distance, and hope for the best.

"Thank you so much," I start to say, motioning for the stranger to drop the cocoa powder into my cart. No need to risk contact or contamination. My gaze flicks to his bare hands – no gloves? Seriously? – just as he straightens, his posture setting off alarm bells.

No. It can't be.

But it is. As he turns, I see those eyes, the ones I used to know better than my own. The ones I thought were lost to me forever.

Mick.

Of all the grocery stores in all of Atlanta, he had to walk into mine. The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

We stare, the cocoa powder hanging awkwardly between us like a bizarre peace offering. I'm acutely aware of how I must look – exhausted, frazzled, probably with some mysterious stains from my earlier shift at the diner. A thousand questions race through my mind. What is he doing here? Does he know about Mom? About everything? Does he even care?

Before I can react, before I can decide whether to flee or face this ghost from my past, his voice cuts through the silence. Muffled by the mask, it still carries that familiar lilt, a mix of surprise and something I can't quite place.

"Kaycee?"

And just like that, my carefully constructed world – the one where I'm strong enough to handle everything life throws at me – trembles on its axis. Because in that one word, in the way he says my name, I hear echoes of the past and whispers of what might have been.

⌁₊˚⊹  ⊹˚₊⌁

Note: Here it is, the prologue to Power. I'm really excited to write this book. I have so many ideas guys and I plan on delivering. So thank you for giving this fanfic a chance. I don't own the MCU or the plots or its characters btw, I only own Kaycee, Ruth, and all my Ocs.