.ೃ࿔*:･𝐱𝐱𝐢. you don't get to tell me you feel bad

𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓, and the absence of his presence had gradually morphed from a painful void into something that felt almost surreal. Ingrid's journal entries, which had once been filled with the daily musings and concerns of a teenage girl, were now directed to "Dad." The way she addressed him seemed more akin to speaking to an imaginary friend than to a father who had been a tangible, guiding force in her life.

His absence was keenly felt in the subtle remnants of his life that lingered around her. His old shirts she had stolen a while ago were neatly folded in her drawers. The sight of them brought a strange mixture of comfort and sorrow. His handwriting that filled the edges of her notebooks with reminders of his thoughts and advice. Every doodle or annotation he had left behind felt like a silent conversation frozen in time.

In the nightstand by her bed, Ingrid kept a collection of photographs that seemed to capture moments from another world. Each photograph was a fragment of a reality that felt increasingly distant, as if her father had become a figure from a dream rather than someone who had been an integral part of her daily life.

Without these tangible connections, Ingrid might have convinced herself that Bruce was a figment of her imagination, conjured up from the depths of her longing. But the shirts, the scribbles in her notebooks, and the photos held a truth she could not deny.

Bruce had become an unspoken taboo in Ingrid's world, a subject so fraught with emotional weight that even mentioning his name felt like setting off a bomb. The people around her had learned to navigate this new terrain with caution, their conversations carefully avoiding any reference to him. They treated Ingrid with a delicate reverence, as if the slightest slip might shatter her into pieces, as though she were made of glass.

For a full year, Ingrid's gaze would frequently drift upwards after every training session, scanning the sky for any sign of the Quinjet. It was a hopeless pursuit-if Bruce was in stealth mode, even she wouldn't have been able to catch a glimpse of him. Yet, despite the futility, she continued to watch. It wasn't so much that she was actively searching for him; rather, she was waiting, holding onto the thin thread of hope that he might appear.

Her training sessions with Natasha were a bright spot in her days. They had begun after Ingrid confided in Natasha about the haunting vision she had seen under Wanda's influence. Natasha had offered to teach Ingrid hand-to-hand combat. She wanted Ingrid to be prepared, to have the skills to defend herself against whatever threats might come her way.

After one of their training sessions, Ingrid collapsed onto the cold floor of the training room, her breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. She fumbled with her water bottle, taking long, thirsty gulps.

Natasha approached her with a subtle, approving smile playing on her lips. "You did great today, kid," she said, her tone warm and encouraging.

Ingrid glanced up, her face flushed from exertion. "Thanks," she managed to mutter between deep breaths.

Natasha extended a hand to Ingrid, who took it gratefully. As Natasha helped her up, she continued, her tone light and teasing, "A few more years, and I might even consider letting you hold a gun." She flashed a playful grin, hoping to coax a smile from Ingrid.

Ingrid's lips twitched slightly, but she only responded with a soft hum.

At that moment, Vision entered the room. His usually stoic expression was present, but there was a hint of something-perhaps urgency-beneath the surface. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he began, his voice calm and measured, "but Mr. Stark has requested your presence."

Both Natasha and Ingrid exchanged puzzled glances. Vision's gaze shifted slightly. "He is currently with the Secretary of State," he added, which only deepened their confusion.

.ೃ࿔*:･

Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross stood rigidly at the head of a long conference table, his demeanor radiating authority and barely concealed impatience. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered towards Ingrid. He was thankful looks weren't able to actually kill, considering the way Ingrid was glaring at him in barely concealed disdain.

Ross cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the room, signaling the start of what promised to be a lengthy discourse. "Five years ago, I had a heart attack."

Ingrid sighed softly, her patience wearing thin. She rolled her eyes, not caring if anyone noticed.

"Karma's a bitch," Ingrid muttered under her breath, her voice just loud enough for Natasha, seated beside her, to catch the remark.

Natasha, fighting to maintain her composure, stifled a smile. She shot Ingrid a look that was meant to be stern, though it was softened by the amusement she barely managed to conceal.

Ross continued, his voice steady but imbued with a certain gravity. "I dropped right in the middle of my back-swing. Turned out it was the best round of my life, because after 13 hours of surgery and a triple bypass, I found something 40 years in the Army had never taught me-perspective. The world owes the Avengers an unpayable debt. You have fought for us, protected us, and risked your lives. But while many see you as heroes, there are others who prefer the term 'vigilantes.'"

Natasha interjected, "And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?"

Ross's expression hardened as he responded, "How about 'dangerous'? What would you call a group of U.S.-based, enhanced individuals who routinely ignore sovereign borders and impose their will wherever they choose, and who, frankly, seem unconcerned about the collateral damage they leave behind?"

With a decisive gesture, Ross activated a screen behind him. As he spoke, the screen flickered to life, showcasing news footage of past events involving the Avengers.

"New York," Ross said, his tone grim as a video began to play. The footage showed a massive Chitauri leviathan wreaking havoc, followed by scenes of terrified citizens fleeing, buildings ablaze with smoke and ash filling the air. The camera captured a soldier firing into the chaos, and then the Hulk smashing into a building, sending a cloud of debris that engulfed the lens.

Rhodey, seated nearby, glanced back at Natasha and Ingrid.

"Washington D.C.," Ross continued, and the screen shifted to footage of three Insight helicarriers engaged in combat, firing at each other amidst a storm of explosions. The ruined Triskelion was visible in the background, and a helicarrier crashing into the Potomac River sent a massive wave surging over the area, swallowing up both citizens and the camera.

"Sokovia," Ross said next. The screen displayed scenes of a city in turmoil-people running in panic, a cityscape rising into the sky, and a building collapsing, sending debris and dust into the streets below.

"Lagos," Ross declared, and the screen showed a burning building. Paramedics were seen moving a body while a lifeless girl was clearly visible among the wreckage.

As the disturbing images continued, Steve, unable to tolerate the display any longer, intervened. "Okay. That's enough."

Ross nodded to an aide, who promptly deactivated the screen, plunging the room into a sudden quiet. The room's atmosphere was heavy with the gravity of the displayed footage.

"For the past four years," Ross began, "you've operated with unlimited power and no oversight. This is an arrangement that the governments of the world can no longer tolerate. But I believe we have a solution." He placed a thick, official-looking document on the table and slid it toward Wanda, who picked it up with a cautious glance.

Wanda examined the document briefly before passing it to Rhodey, who unfolded it to get a better look. "The Sokovia Accords," Ross continued. "Approved by 117 countries. This document stipulates that the Avengers will no longer function as a private organization. Instead, they will operate under the supervision of a United Nations panel. You'll be required to act only when and if that panel deems it necessary."

The document was then passed to Ingrid, who gave it a cursory glance before sliding it to the next person. Her disinterest was palpable, reflecting her frustration with the situation.

Steve, sensing the need to assert the Avengers' past contributions, spoke up. "The Avengers were formed to make the world a safer place. I believe we've achieved that."

Ross's gaze remained unyielding as he turned to Steve. "Tell me, Captain, do you know where Thor and Banner are right now?"

Ingrid straightened in her seat, her attention fully captured by Ross's line of questioning. The mention of her father sparked a surge of emotion within her.

Ross continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "If I misplaced a couple of 30-megaton nukes, you can bet there'd be consequences."

Ingrid's eyes narrowed, a mix of anger and disbelief rising within her. Did Ross really just equate her father to a nuclear weapon? It felt like an offensive and deeply unfair comparison.

"Compromise. Reassurance. That's how the world works," Ross said, his tone firm. "Believe me, this is the middle ground."

Rhodey spoke up calmly. "So, there are contingencies."

Ross nodded once, a sharp, authoritative gesture. "Indeed. Three days from now, the United Nations will meet in Vienna to ratify the Accords. You have time to discuss and deliberate."

Natasha, maintaining a composed demeanor despite the tension, addressed Ross with a pointed question. "And if we come to a decision you don't like?"

Ross met Natasha's gaze, his expression steely and unyielding. "Then you retire," he said simply.

As the meeting drew to a close, Ingrid sprang from her seat, eager to escape the tension and retreat to her room. She was determined to avoid everyone and not come out until tomorrow's training session, when she could channel her frustration into something productive.

Just as she was about to walk out the door, Ross's voice cut through the lingering murmur of conversation. "Miss Banner!"

Ingrid halted and turned around slowly, her expression guarded. Ross approached her with a measured pace, his demeanor somewhat conciliatory. "I wanted to apologize for everything that happened all those years ago. I certainly hope there's no bad blood between us."

Ingrid regarded him with a steely silence, her mind racing with a myriad of responses she could unleash. The urge to use her powers in some dramatic, cathartic way was almost overwhelming, but she restrained herself, focusing instead on keeping her composure.

Ross, seemingly interpreting her silence as an invitation to continue, pressed on. "And don't worry about your father. He'll turn up eventually. He's a tough one."

Ingrid's eyes narrowed as she processed his words, her internal struggle visible on her face. After a moment of deliberation, she let her anger surface. "Go fuck yourself," she said bluntly.

With that, Ingrid turned on her heel and exited the room, leaving Ross standing alone.