Intertwine

28 - I Wanted Him To Suffer

T.W mentions of torture

ROARA

The construction site made me want to burn the whole structure down. It was an ugly mass of concrete and tarpaulins, like a scab in the middle of the beautiful countryside. It was like I could hear the trees and their roots whispering to me, telling me how they'd been ripped from the earth to make way for this pile of metal and brick.

"Steve, what's the plan?" I heard Falcon in my earpiece.

"What can you see?"

"Half built, we got some people who look like security on the north side. That's about it. Nothing out of the ordinary that I can see. Wait. There's a house here."

"A what?" Wanda asked.

"A house. Like an old manor house. It's not too far from the building site. Lights on. I'm sending down red-wing." We all held out breath a moment. "She's in there."

I felt myself stiffen. "What's she doing?"

"She's in the kitchen, on the phone."

I began to run.

"Roara, get back here!" Cap called into my ear. I ripped out my earpiece and kept running. I had questions and this woman had answers.

I could feel myself speeding up, my legs carrying me with the speed a normal mortal could never dream to achieve. I head feet behind me.

"Roara." Cap was running next to me. "What are you doing?"

I ignored him and kept running, making my way around the building. I saw Sam swoop down, Alina in his arms, dropping her on the ground in front of the security guards.

"Hey boys." She grinned. One roundhouse kick and the first was down. Uppercut, twist, elbow to the back of the head, next one down. She really was good.

I saw the house in front of me, about a mile away. I stopped a yard from the door.

"You can't just walk in there. We work as a team Roara, or we don't work at all." Steve grabbed my arm. "Don't go in there." He ordered.

I shook him off. "Just watch me."

I threw opened the doors and walked in.

It looked like a normal manor house. A table in the entrance way, shoes by the doorway, pictures on the walls. Wait a second... I looked a little closer. The photos. They were me. Photos of me through the centuries. The victorian era, with my hair up in a tight bun, the picture a little blurry from me moving. On the street in the 20s, my flapper dress and small heels. In my cottage garden in the 60s, in the dress I'd kept from my own era, tending to my lavender. My cottage. They'd known where I lived. How long had they been tracking me?

Suddenly all the confidence I'd had was gone, and I felt the cold hand of panic grab me. Slowly I walked down the corridor, past the living room and stairs, and into the kitchen.

"You're not 232." Axel was nowhere to be seen. The man who'd spoken was big, a head of greying hair showing his age. Clean shaven and in a sharp suit, he looked like he was ready to walk into a business meeting. "You're not Loki either." He had a Scottish accent, but that didn't mean he was actually Scottish.

"No. I'm not." I sat down across from him at the table. "And you're not Axel."

"Oh, she's about. Couldn't tell you where, with that invisibility thing of hers." He waved his hand around loftily.

"Gunn." I decided.

"Woodson."

"I came for answers."