Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter fifteen | turns out michaela knocked-off more than one person's powers

A week later and Michaela, without exaggeration, wants to throw herself out the nearest window.

The problem with that (aside from the obvious), is that half the time she's twenty-thousand feet in the air, aboard the Bus, Coulson's charmingly named heavy-duty aircraft in which all of his best-loved agents are housed. Or something along those lines. Skye gave her the run-down at some point, but frankly, Michaela tuned out around minute three, just a little bit consumed with all the other shit on her mind.

Lincoln, though. Lincoln's been a godsend.

Michaela would never say she's happy to see anyone from SHIELD (Skye's great, she is, but Michaela's not a fan of her affiliations even now) – but technically Lincoln's not a part of SHIELD. Or he's only a part-timer? Maybe it's a case-by-case basis, or. Ugh. Whichever it is, she's able to separate him from SHIELD's sorta-sinister vibes and she's grateful for that, seeing as she's had to see him for about twelve hours a day for the last seven days.

Case in point:

"Better, that's better," Lincoln says, grinning at her from across the training room, his hands alight with familiar blue sparks. The slow-claps he's giving her shed those sparks onto the floor, where they dissipate harmlessly against the specially-designed mat they're practicing on.

Better, sure. He's placating her, but sure. Heaving a sigh, Michaela flips onto her back where she's lying on the mat and throws her arms out, letting them smack satisfyingly into the cushy material. She's bruised and battered, and little bit burnt, and Lincoln doesn't have a scratch on him. Typical. Yeah, the man's got years of experience on her and a masterful control of his powers, but. She thought she was... less shitty than this, and it's kind of mortifying to be shown so explicitly that she's nothing more than a novice when it comes to her abilities.

She doesn't even deserve to be called Knock-Off Thor at this point – her name doesn't belong in the same sentence as Thor's, let alone when it's being used as an epitaph. Knock-Off Thor, fuck, she might as well go by Off-Brand Toaster Oven for the rest of her superhero career.

Her eyes rove mindlessly across the ceiling as she considers whether or not she's ready to publicly announce a name change. Every breath aches in her chest, pressing sharply into her ribs on every ragged exhale. She's exhausted, strung out from throwing around so much of her energy daily. Her stamina's been a weakness of her since the early days of her vigilantism, and it's almost gotten her killed fairly recently, so she knows this is training she can't skip out on. But goddamn it might actually kill her at this rate.

A hand appears above her, sans the fireworks. Michaela groans, biting off the end of it because Lincoln doesn't need to hear her complaining, then claps her hand to his and lets him haul her to her feet. He grins, boyish, and Michaela does not deserve this bullshit. Why has every superpowered guy she's met in the last six months been so attractive? Lincoln's no Star-Spangled Man, but he's tall and blond and sweet, and he's so damn smiley while they're attempting to kick each other's asses. Michaela can't not like him, and it'd be more frustrating if he weren't the only thing on this plane-slash-rocket-fuckery that doesn't drive her up the fucking wall.

"I'm still... fizzling out," she says, fluttering her hands to demonstrate. She very much wishes she had literally any other words to describe the fact that every time she tries to maintain a constant, steady stream of electricity like Lincoln manages to do, it's like, like she's got two dying sparklers in her hands. Which is about as lame as she's making it sound. "It's controlled bursts or bust, and that is, uh, not the kinda progress I thought I'd be making by this point."