Ascendancy

Chapter 1

          Hello peoples of the Marvel fandom! Let me just start by saying: you are going to love this. Thank you so much for reading, and I LOVE feedback, and typically answer comments! If you comment or VOTE at all, it will probably make my day. Well, naps make my day, but your comment will come a close second.

(Post Civil War)

///

Breath... I need air... Can't breathe... Basically my thoughts every time I go for a run. I am no born runner. You know how some people go long distances and maybe even- Odin forbid- like it? Those people are absolute lunatics.

And proof that I am a terrible runner is the fact that this bright morning in Sudan, I can not breathe, like at all. Well, I should say I am huffing and puffing, grasping for just a bit of air to stay inside and rejuvenate me. But it just doesn't happen.

Slowing down, I bring my once dry shirt up to wipe my horrifyingly sweaty face. But to no avail, for my shirt is not dry anywhere. I guess that is to be expected when you go running in the desert.

Sudan isn't that bad though. I mean, it is hot, when it rains, it rains, and there is so small amount of food it's insane. But the people, when they aren't worried about the rebels or military plagiarizing them after the civil war, are nice.

I think I'll just walk back to camp. Having decided, I walk the half mile toward my home sweet home- a UN refugee camp. It should be called a small city because of it's size. Looking at it from a distance makes it seem even bigger, for some strange reason.

Kids call at me, yelling "Sweaty Ella!" in English, as I walk down the dry road through the camp to my shelter (most speak a mixture of English and Nuer, and sweaty has become a common word around here ever since I arrived). Even though I could take offense at this, it is so rare to see the children laughing, that I can't help but join in; the laughing phenomenon.

On either side of the skinny path is tents and huts made of all kinds of materials: From tarps to sticks, whatever can be used, will be. Women sit in the openings, talking in their garbled speech, while some are watching their kids, getting water, making food, and ect. Typical day in a refugee camp.

I finally arrive at my tent- a nice canvas one, with an opening flap. When I came to this camp from my home (Greentown, SC), I was told to bring a tent, as the materials to make me one would be near impossible to find. So mine ended up being one of the nicest in the entire city-camp. It sort of has to be, considering I have other people come meet me in here for their sessions.

When I enter my beautiful tent, I walk to the mat on the ground, aka my bed, where my chest of clothes is by. I slip off my wet shirt for a dry, dark purple one, then rest on my mat for a minute. Jerking awake from the sound of someone entering, I cheer, "Mumbada! How are you today?", when a dark young boy enters.

And then the session begins. We talk quietly about his days as a child soldier. There is no pressing, for it is a horrible matter, but as a psychologist, it's a part of my job; hearing and helping to heal the horrible.

I was brought here to help the people, especially the few child soldiers that got transferred back to their families who are living here at the camp. A non-profit charity helps fund my mission work here in Sudan; sometimes I have direct sponsors.

It has certainly been an adventure. Straight out of college (NYU) I had worked at a high-end psychiatric place, but the most difficult thing to deal with there was normally depression, which though not a good thing and extremely difficult, it is nowhere near as terrible as the horrors of being a child soldier. PTSD has now become my specialty.