Disoriented » Captain America

chapter sixteen

16 x once upon a time, there was a girl

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My powers developed when I was eight.

It was the best of times, and the worst of times . . . literally.

I thought it was the coolest thing. I was eight years old, after all, and I'd always dreamed of traveling. My parents were very strict, though; Dad was a CEO of a big-name company, and Mom was a certifiable scientific genius, enraptured in her world of discoveries and prestige. They were both more dedicated to their jobs than me. I'd grown accustomed to the idea of that from the beginning, given I saw more of the nanny than my parents.

I just never realized to what extent, until my powers kicked in.

They were terrified. To them, I may as well have been a monster. They panicked, freaked out, but not because of the implications for me, but because of what it would mean for them. This development could put their reputations on the line; they couldn't be tied by blood to someone so abnormal.

So they kept me hidden away. At least, as much as they could. I remember them getting me a cabin in the woods near a lake, and enlisting a handful of people to keep watch of me. Because they really couldn't bear to be in my presence.

It didn't quite work out how they'd intended, though, given I could teleport and control all of time and space. I pretended to be there, sometimes. Other times the people intended to check up on me would lie to my parents about my welfare, and move on. They'd learned to leave well enough alone with me . . . in fact, I'm certain that they pitied me.

Then my tenth birthday rolled around (in real time; in actuality I was around thirty at that point, though I hadn't quite realized it). It was the week after, and they were supposed to drive up to see me. I'd offered to just teleport down to retrieve them, but they had refused.

They died before they could get there.

It was on that day that I learned the phrase 'it is what it is,' and also the heavy meaning behind it. I had immense power, and I'd even learned what 'fixed points in time' were at that point.

I mourned for days once I realized that's what my parents' deaths were. I hid myself away on a desolate planet with a galactic view, sobbing my heart out and sleeping between the tears. They may not have been good parents, but they were the only parents I had -- and would ever have.

--

Various scenes flashed through my mind a million miles a minute. Versions of my parents dressed in lab coats or formal wear, usually wrapped arm-in-arm, and always watching me with a look I never could identify.

Flashes of planets spinning, spinning, spinning -- dark and bright, glowing and gloomy, some huge, some small, some thriving with life while others were war-torn and hellish. Some planets were made of water, great beasts living in their depths, while others were fire and molten rock, with prehistoric giants.

Stars shone constantly in my dreams, in the distance, my periphery; flickering and flashing with varying kinds of brilliance. Shades of blue and red, blinding whites, colorful mixes that formed rainbows, clouds of stars that were so thick they looked like spilt milk.

Beauty in it's whole constantly wrapped itself around my head, the scenes precisely what ought to be shown by NASA. Rainbows of color that looked like the shimmer on gasoline slick, ever present, my thoughts swimming in the variety.

The vastness of space never failed to be overwhelming, even in my dreams, and perhaps that was because of how in tune to it all I was.

It wasn't space that gave me nightmares, though.

No, time is the true disaster creator, the thing that haunts me waking and sleeping. Time contains the war, the death, the life, the rise of nations, the fall of empires, the creation of heroes and destruction of the same. Time is the true terror to my mind; time is horrendous for dreams. It was part of why I stayed awake so long, so when sleep did come, I could do so dreamlessly . . .

Not so in such a state of unconsciousness.

Faces of those whose lives I watched pass flashed through my mind, death barreling through the depths of my soul, wars fighting themselves all at once across the expanse of my being. World Wars, family wars, civil wars-- I saw everything.

Attuned to time and space.

Because when that happens, I'm not just a witness, I don't just see. I feel. I feel it all. I feel the deaths caused by the countless fires and explosions, the last moment of so many lives passed; I feel the pain of heartbreak from those left behind; the trauma from those who have experienced countless unspeakable terrors. The overwhelming love felt everywhere was present, too; the joy of reunions, of births, of marriage -- though when you are hit all at once with every feeling to ever exist across the universe, said sensations become impossible to differentiate.

Being hit by unspeakable pain and boundless love at once feels very much like being tossed into a ginormous blender, having the puree button punched, and then just going on . . . and on . . . and on. There is no good or bad -- all is bad, all is staggering, all is soul-shattering and knocks the breath clear out of you.

I woke up disoriented, my mind scattered across time and space, eyes flying open, hands scrabbling for the first thing I felt. Warm hands grasped my own immediately, and somewhere in the distance I could hear a soothing, gentle voice trying to draw me back to the surface. My eyes focused in on the deep blue ones of Steven Grant Rogers, and I gasped for breath at the exact same time as I realized I had stopped breathing.

"Jo, you're okay, it's all right, you're fine, Jo," Steve was murmuring, repeating the same words over and over again as my hands tightened in his own. I let his murmurs become one smooth mantra, and focused on the low hum of his voice, allowing it to pull me back to reality.

"Need--" I tried to say, but I couldn't get any more words out, the crushing pressure of everything bearing down on me yet again. I let out a loud gasp before squeezing my eyes shut, again devoting my attention to focusing on one thing.

The only thing that made sense was Steve. He was closest, he was physically there, he had always been there. Prying myself out of the time-space continuum was a painful effort, but Steve remained, and his voice was steady and calm. Soon enough I could actually recognize his presence over mine, holding me to his chest.

I could hear and feel his heart beating then, steadier than mine, calmer than mine, and I allowed myself to relax against him as I pried my eyes open again to focus in on him.

"You're okay," he finished his assurances with that, searching my eyes rapidly, seeming to recognize I'd made the full descent to reality.

"I'm okay," I repeated in a shaky voice, before pressing my head into his chest.

Steve shifted us both then, pulling me onto his lap and winding his arms protectively around my waist. We both remained silent for a long moment, my brain sapped of any sassy or sarcastic remarks. I would need a bit to recuperate, and there was no safer place than with Steve. That was reassuring enough, to say in the least.

Eventually, he spoke. "You had passed out from the tech . . . even Tony wasn't as badly affected. He said it was probably because you were the nearest thought process, or something . . . you just woke up screaming," he breathed into my hair, rocking us back and forth gently.

I felt weighted down still, despite myself. And he was very warm, and honestly, sleep didn't sound like so bad of a thing . . . "Space-time continuum," was all I managed to mumbled.

There was a heavy sigh from him then, his chin resting on my head. "Sleep," he encouraged. "We can talk when you wake up."

I hesitated, fighting the sleep for a moment, "Don't leave," I pleaded quietly.

His grip around me tightened even further. "Wouldn't dream of it."