It was three in the afternoon when they arrived at the airport. Declaring the journey too dangerous, Enid and Peter were left with the keys to the car and a plea to "take it slow." While Peter was busy toying with the keys, Erik decided to confront the girl. 

                                A breeze swung its icy mitts at Enid, who was doing a half-assed job of disguising her shivering. Staring out at the open tarmac brought back memories of a time when she imagined herself traveling the world. Paris, maybe? Or to visit grandmother in Germany? Those dreams were squashed early, so all that remained was a whisper of regret. There was no point being angry at things that couldn't be changed.

                               "Enid, right?" Erik appeared by her side, his shadow looming tall over her own. She nodded. "Can we talk?" 

                              "I don't know, can we?" Enid shot him a wry smile. "Alright, hit me."

                              He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Second attempt, he tried, "I saw your arm earlier, in the car."

                               "Yes, sir, I have two of them. Your point?" She knew what the point was. It wasn't like her to dance around subjects like this, but she knew who she was talking to. She'd heard of their "Patient 0", a poor boy stripped of his family and forced into experimental torture. Looking into his eyes, the pain was palpable. 

                            "Don't play dumb," he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder and turning her to face him. "I saw the marks. You're like me."

                            Enid went silent. She couldn't look at him anymore. The pain in his eyes, the marks she knew were there. For her, it wasn't worth opening the old scars again. There wasn't enough time in the world to cover them up, but she would do her damnedest to try. It took all her strength to pull away. "Erik. Please."

                            "Is everything okay over there?" It was Logan, his tinted glasses glinting in the mid-afternoon sun. 

                            "Peachy," Erik said, shooting Enid a look before stalking off toward the plane. Enid watched him go, knowing the conversation wasn't over. There was too much left unsaid. Seeing Peter waving at her like a psychotic monkey, she tried to put those dark thoughts aside in exchange for a promised ping-pong rematch that she was destined to lose. 

                           Before she could go, Logan cleared his throat. "Pete's a good kid. Take care of him, will you?"

                           Enid smiled, genuinely this time. "As best I can," she said, saluting him before taking off toward the car and sliding into the passenger seat. 

                         'Take it slow, my ass,' Enid thought. Slow wasn't something Peter did. Ever. It was mere moments before the car was squealing down the tarmac and onto the road. An audible groan from Charles faded into the horizon as the two teenagers made their way back home. Already the tension lifted. Just being with Peter made everything else seem so far away. His energy was chaotic and contagious in all the best ways.

                           It didn't take long for them to reach the Maximoff residence. Against Enid's better judgement, she decided it would be best to put off going home as long as she could. It was immature, but she didn't want to face the trouble she'd caused. Anyway, she'd already promised Peter a game of ping-pong and winner got a face-full of twinkies. 

                        "Pietro Django Maximoff, where the hell have you been?!"

                        Well, that certainly put a hitch in their plans.

                         "There was a gas leak at the park! And then I didn't hear from you!" Ms. Maximoff ran forward, slapped her son across the face, then engulfed him in a tearful hug. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

                         Enid watched awkwardly from the other side of the car. Ms. Maximoff eventually noticed she was there, too, and gasped. "Honey, your mom's worried sick! She must have called once every hour seeing if you'd shown up here."

                        Guilt seeped into every nook and cranny of her being as she stood there. Her mother, the note, crying at the phone. And Enid just left her there. Alone. To fend off her own demons. "I'll see you later, Peter," she said, running past the white picket fence and the mailboxes and the garden gate. The front door was locked. When she reached her hand up to knock on the door, the scabs on her knuckles popped and welled up with fresh blood. Her mother would be furious. She'd be terrified. Enid knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times. 

                        It wasn't ten seconds before the door swung open. There stood Mama, looking just as she had that night so long ago. Her face was pale and stricken with tears. Hair curled around her face in haphazard rings. For the first time, Anais looked her age. A burned out candle, perfume almost gone, wick too short to bother relighting. 

                      "I thought you were gone," she murmured. "I thought they'd found us again."

                      Enid sucked in a sharp breath. 

                      And then, from the bowels of the house, came Katarina. Her dyed-red hair flowed wild around her face, making the typically pristine young woman appear bedraggled. It looked like she'd been robbed of ten years' sleep. But that was nothing compared to the rage. It was the loud, smothering kind. The kind that lasted. "You left here here, Enid," Katarina growled. "You should have seen her. You're such a selfish bitch!" 

                     "I'm sorry."

                     "Sorry? Oh look, the fucking princess is sorry. Do you know how hard we fought to get here? All because of you!"

                      Mama placed a hand on her eldest daughter's shoulder. "Please, Katarina. I'm just glad she's home again," she said. But Katarina wasn't finished.

                      "That's just like you to defend her! Never once did you consider how fucking messed up it was for me, the one who could actually understand what was going on. Having to shoot a man at eight years old, that fucks with your head! And here you are, little miss perfect, running around town with her boy toy and leaving my mother--"

                       "Fuck you," Enid said. She didn't scream. She didn't have to. The conviction in those words, the bitterness, that sent her sister reeling. "You have no idea what I went through. I'm not the lucky one."

                         Katarina's eyes grew larger still as an emotional mess of Welsh-German poured out of her like lava. Pulling on the sleeve of her shirt, Enid pushed past her sister and up the stairs to her bedroom. She tried not to concentrate on what was happening downstairs. Instead, she grabbed her Walkman from atop her dresser and slipped in one of her favorite mixtapes. It was from Peter, the first week they'd met. She remembered seeing him with his Pink Floyd shirt and silver hair and knowing he was someone she needed to talk to. It was she who walked up to him and started asking questions about music. A few days later, he slipped her the mixtape. It was, and always would be, her favorite.

                     As soon as the first notes of Rush's "Limelight" started to play, Enid leaned back on her bed and closed her eyes, imagining she was sitting next to Peter. Through the music, she heard arguing and a door slamming so hard she could feel it. Her finger twisted the volume until it was so loud she couldn't hear herself think. That's where she remained for the rest of the day. If Mama knocked on the door, she didn't hear it. Eventually, she fell asleep, praying she wouldn't have to wake up in the morning.

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Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The IV stung when they put it in her arm. They thought she was sleeping, but she wasn't. She couldn't. Too many feelings swept through her at once to allow anything other than stillness. Fear, confusion, tiredness. But above all, she was angry. Angry that they'd chosen her. Angry that her mother didn't do anything to save her. Angry that she was alone and she couldn't do anything about it.

                     We're going to try again, Enid, the Doctor said. I need you to take a deep breath. That's it. Breathe.

                     Enid didn't want to breathe. She didn't want to exist. 

                     Breathe. Enid. Breathe.

                    A solid hand grabbed her by the arm and flung her out on the metal table. It was so cold. Then came the rope. Tight around her little wrists. She bucked her legs up at them as hard as she could but it wasn't long before the rope found them, too. Next came the needle. The worst part. Worse than the IV. It was a long, sharp thing that landed in her chest with searing pain that lasted long after the session ended. Even seeing it made her scream.

                       She writhed in her bonds, screaming until her voice went hoarse. As the Doctor's voice came over the intercom, Enid felt her insides churn with rage. She watched the white-clad men pull out their tools, and it reminded her that no one was going to save her. Something inside her snapped, something that couldn't be put back together. With one final shriek, Enid felt the feeling boil inside of her until it overflowed. Her body started to glow bright red, not unlike a sun blooming into a supernova that swallowed the room whole. 

                    It lasted until her tiny body exhausted itself and the girl passed out on the medical table, the ropes incinerated in the blast. The room was blackened and empty, the only evidence of other inhabitants piles of ash scattered on the singed and still-burning floorboards. The Doctor sent someone into the room with a fire extinguisher. 

                  It worked. She worked. 

                 From behind the wall, Doctor Schmidt and his compatriots shared a bottle of whiskey while watching the little girl sleep.

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                 Enid woke up to the sound of pebbles being thrown at her window. The Walkman, now silent, still covered her ears when she got up to check her bedroom window. Only when she saw who it was did she unlock it. 

             "Peter? What time is it?" She asked, rubbing her forehead.

            He smirked. "It's, like, two in the afternoon, sleepyhead," he replied. "Get your ass down here. We've got some ping-pong to play."