Supernova (avengers x-reader)

Captured

   They intrigued you. Families, that is, seeing as you had never had one. You ponder them as you walk down the street, picking a pocket here, avoiding someone else's gaze there.  Seeing someone dump a half-eaten hotdog in a trash can, you quickly fish it out. Stopping inside a doorway to eat your prize, you savor the feeling of food in your stomach. It isn't exactly hard to find food in New York, but it's often moldy or bug infested, making it inedible. This hotdog is even still a bit warm, making it extra-special.

   Staring out of your alcove, you watch two little girls skip past with their parents following close behind. You smile at them, a bit sad as you wonder what it might be like to have a mother and father. Your mother, a woman named Clara, had dropped you off at the orphanage when you were barely two months old, unable to care for you. The only thing that she left you was a photo of her and some deep-seated abandonment issues. You were the product of a one-night-stand, so you don't know the name of your father.

   You might have had the chance to get a new mother and father, but no one had ever wanted to adopt you and as your grew older and older, potential parents looked at you less and less. Maybe it was because of the bruises, or maybe the scar that stretched from your ear to the corner of your mouth. No one wants an imperfect child.

   You had always been a bright and inquisitive child. fascinated by the workings of the world. You often studied how light and sound waves worked, or how plants grew or people digested their food. You always had your nose in a book or your head in the clouds and the other girls loved to make fun of you for it. A bathroom beating was not uncommon and your bullies loved to attack you just before people came to meet you. Again, no one wants an imperfect child, especially one that seems to like to fight and cause trouble.

   One day a girl named Sydney took it to far and attacked you with a small pocket knife, leaving a serious cut on your face. You were able to fight her off eventually and knock her out by slamming her into the wall repeatedly. When the headmistress found out, she was furious. Bruises, she would tolerate, but that knife could have killed you and she wasn't willing to deal with the legal issues or the bad press that comes with them. Sydney was sent to a special facility for "troubled youths" and never came back.

   At first you were relieved that at least one of your enemies was gone, but you soon realized that it didn't matter. You still had as many tormentors as ever and they blamed you for what happened to Sydney. It wasn't long after that day that you found that you couldn't take the bullying anymore. You were tired of being scared all the time, so you decided to escape. One night, you snuck out of you dormitory's window with only the clothes on your back. Luckily, your dorm was on the first floor, so your didn't have far to drop. You ran into the city, taking refuge in a back alley until morning. You were 16 then. Now, two years later, you're still living a dangerous, but free, life on the streets.

   Car horns blare as a taxi runs a red light, snapping you out of your reverie. Glancing at a passing man's watch, you realize it's getting late and you should probably start heading back to the alley that you call home. You spend your nights there on a pile of clothes that had been thrown away be a nearby thrift store. During the day, you venture out, scrounge for food, and basically just explore and watch the world around you. Sometimes, you even catch a rare glimpse of one of the avengers moving toward the sounds of police sirens.

   On your way back o your alley, you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched. You keep getting a prickly feeling on the back of your neck, but every time you whip around to look behind you, you can't spot anything suspicious.

   "You're being paranoid, _____," you mutter to yourself.

   After an hour of walking, glancing about, and basically just looking like a lunatic, you finally duck into your alley. You curl up on your pile of fabric and pull out your mother's photo. You had memorized her smiling face over the years, but even so, you could not stop studying the photo. She was lying on a hospital bed with a swaddled, screaming baby version of you. Looking into her eyes, you try for the millionth time to figure out what kind of person she would be. You had already decided that she was probably a very happy person, judging by her smile, but there was so much more that you would never be able to figure out. Did she prefer action movies or rom-coms? Was she smart? Athletic? Shy? Boisterous? Funny? Why did she have to leave you? Was it because she couldn't support and care for you or because she didn't love you? No, it had to be he first reason, otherwise she wouldn't be smiling in the picture. She must have not realized that fact before they took it.

   This is why you hated your father sometimes. He left your mother pregnant and alone. If he had only taken care of her, if he had treated her as more than a one-night-stand, you might have had a family, might have not been so alone. He was the reason that she had to give you up.

   You sigh, realizing that these thoughts would only serve to torment and anger your weary mind. Tucking the photo into your pocket, you pull a blanket over yourself and, after taking one last cautious look around, fall into an uneasy sleep.

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   A few hours later, you're suddenly awake. You lie still, listening for what could have woken you up so suddenly. Hearing nothing but the normal street noises of a sleeping New York City, you settle back down into your nest.

   Then, all of a sudden, several pairs of hands are roughly dragging you from your bed. You kick and scream, calling for help that you know will never arrive in time. One of your attackers finally manages to stick you with a needle. You stiffen up for a second, then fall limp, unable to move. You slip into unconsciousness as they drag you into their van, but not before you spot the logo on one of their chests. You know that symbol. You've seen it on countless flyers and news shows, warning you of how dangerous they were and what they were capable of. You can only imagine what they will do to you, what kind of experiments and tests they'll run. Before you succumb to darkness, one word flashes through you panic-filled mind.

   Hydra.