Hello friends. So my university career is finally over! Until I find a full time job, I have an enormous amount of free time on my hands, and I plan on using it to be creative again because I have missed it so much.

Story specifics: yes, eventually this will involve a romance with Peter; however, that is not what the story is centred around, so don't expect him to come swooping in until nearer chapter ten - I've not got that far yet so I can't give you a specific chapter. This story centres around my character Mikaela and how she navigates life and mutants and Avengers and what-not. I've put the story in the Avengers section because the story follows those plot points more than any other.

Chapter One - Last Resort

They had put a bag over her head when they'd jumped her. It sits heavily against her face now, the frayed material tickling her nostrils whenever she attempts to breathe through whatever tiny holes there might be. It smells funny, and every so often it makes her sneeze.

She shifts uncomfortably on the wooden chair they dumped her on, unable to move her hands or feet. Rope digs into her wrists and ankles and she doesn't need to try to see her limbs to know there are bad rashes already. Her arms are tied behind her - just high enough that she's constantly on the verge of getting cramps - and her shoulders are starting to really ache because of it.

Her eyes are open, but the room is dark and there is nothing to make out through the material of the bag. A drop of sweat trails down her temple to her jawline, and she wrinkles her nose at the sensation. She has been waiting for around two hours, she estimates, but she knows their tactics - they won't work on her. She feels calm, tied there in the darkness awaiting those she betrayed, and she knows what she must do if things go south; she just really doesn't want to do it.

"This is a waste of time," she says, hearing how muffled her voice is in the bag.

"Really? I'm actually having a nice time, here," a voice replies from the darkness.

She rolls her eyes. "It's a waste of my time, and is therefore a waste of your time."

"I've been standing staring at you, all tied up, for one hour, fifty-seven minutes, and thirty-three seconds, and I have enjoyed every goddamn second of it."

"Why don't we just get this over with and-"

"And, what? Untie you? Newsflash, girlie, you-"

"Oh my god, Derek, what in the shit makes you think I'm talking to you?" she snaps, looking to where the voice was emanating from.

"Oh, fuck off, Mikaela," he retorts, pathetically.

The door straight ahead of her swings open, letting in a slight breeze that she only feels on her ankles. Something clicks, the noise deafening in the suddenly tense room, and she can now see a dim light through the bag. Footsteps echo towards her until the bag is quickly ripped off her head, snagging some hair on the way.

"Ow," she frowns. She scrunches her nose in lieu of scratching it when dust from the bag tickles her nostrils again. The light is bright and intense now that she's uninhibited, and she has to squint against it for a moment to adjust.

When her vision settles, she sees her boss, the gang leader, Tommy Diez, straddling a chair not two feet from her. "Alright, tough guy," he mutters, "How about we start with why the fuck-"

She sneezes. It's loud and sore in her chest, and the look on Diez's face makes her want to laugh until her sides split. "Sorry about that," she says, shaking the sneeze off, "Those damn bags are itchy. Please, do carry on."

He smirks bitterly at her. "You know, I used to love that attitude of yours. The whole "I laugh in the face of danger" thing. It was endearing. Until you fucked over the family and stabbed me in the back."

"Don't be so dramatic," she scoffs.

"Dramatic, huh?" he exclaims. "What, exactly, would you call it?"

She shrugs. "Making things more interesting."

He frowns, squinting under bushy eyebrows at her. "Interesting?"

"I'm sorry, are you having trouble hearing?" she quips.

His fists clench as his countenance morphs from confusion into anger. She can see the faint outline of a vein pressing against the skin of his forehead, and wonders how much strain it can take. "Is this just a game to you?" he asks. "I took you in when you were living on the streets when you were nine years old. I fed you, sheltered you, gave you a job, for two fucking years, and this is how you repay me? I gave you a family and a home, Mac, does that mean nothing to you?"

She watches as his angry eyes expose hurt and vulnerability for a fleeting moment, and she almost cringes for him. "I know that family is, like, your thing, and whatever, but," she shakes her head, "it was never mine. You're too soft, Diez, jesus."

He closes himself off again, straightening up on the chair to level her with an impassive glare. "Then why did you stay?" he asks coldly.

She snorts. "I mean, where else was I gonna go?" One place pops into her head, but it gives her the heebie-jeebies and she quickly pushes it out.

Diez brings his hands to his face and rubs at it tiredly. "So, you're an ungrateful brat. Okay. But why did you tip off Damon and his guys?"

She smiles sheepishly, watching the rage igniting in his eyes. "It had been going so smoothly. I was bored. Thought I'd spice things up a bit."

His eye twitches. The vein is pushing harder now against the skin of his forehead. His fingers are clutching the wood of his chair so hard his knuckles are white. "What had been going smoothly?" he hisses.

She frowns. "What do you mean? The bank job, obviously."

He stands so quickly she nearly misses it, throwing his chair across the room to splinter against the wall. In one step he's reached an adequate distance from which to kick her chair over onto its back. She falls, bracing herself and struggling to position her hands in a way that her fingers won't break when she lands. Her head hits the concrete floor so hard she wouldn't have been able to feel any pain anyway. It all blossoms like a thorn bush on the back of her head and her vision wobbles momentarily.

"You little piece of shit," he spits, his head swinging into view above her. Vaguely, she notices how red his face has gotten and how she can practically see his anger vein ready to burst in his forehead. When she feels cool, sharp steel against her neck, she wonders if it's perhaps time to abandon pride and utilise her last resort.

She closes her eyes, pretending to be gathering herself in light of the new, very cold, very sharp, threat. She senses his phone in his back pocket and reaches out with her mind, sending the message she hoped she'd never have to send. When she opens her eyes again, she immediately regrets her actions, reading the discomfort and conflict clear on Diez's face.

He moves the blade away from her neck, but leaves it sitting flat on her collarbone as he regards her. "For fuck sake, Mikaela," he mumbles, frowning so hard it must hurt, "You're just a kid. You're eleven years old."

She breathes evenly, considering the fact that he might be incapable of killing her. At this point, she kind of wishes he would. "I'm aware," she replies.

He lifts the blade away from her body completely. She frowns and almost questions him.

"I'd be a monster if I killed you," he says. Sighing, he pulls her chair back into an upright position, and her head spins slightly. "Maybe I'm already a monster for making you a part of all this." He turns away from her, rubbing his face again.

She rolls her eyes. "Christ, calm it down, Broadway."

He looks at her over his shoulder. "For once in your life, Mac, shut the fuck up." She can hear his frustration, but there's also some kind of fondness there, and it's really starting to get on her nerves.

"Look, are you going to kill me or not? The way I see it, I betrayed the 'family', and the punishment for that is death. So, y'know, dish it out, dude."

"I gotta say, boss, I'm with Mikaela on this one," Derek pipes up.

"Shut up, Derek," Diez sighs dismissively. "It's not that simple, I can't just kill a kid."

"Sure you can," she chirps. "Everyone knows I don't really seem like my age anyway."

"Believe me, I know," he snaps. "It's been freaking me out since day one. You always talked and acted so adult.. it's like you're ten years older than you should be."

She can feel the mass of machinery approaching the building before she can hear it, and she sighs regretfully, knowing now that she reacted too quickly and just made this situation that much worse for herself.

"Boss," someone's voice comes in over the radio. "Boss, there's a big fucking jet outside and two funky looking assholes got off and are fucking our shit up. They're looking for her."

She locks eyes with Diez and watches the pieces come together in his mind.

Then the radio guy seals the deal. "Jesus, Diez, I think they're mutants! What do we do?"

She has never seen such disgust and repulse on another person's face before, and she instantly feels defensive.

"I always wondered about you," he whispers, so quiet and cold it makes her hair stand on end. "You were the best hacker I'd ever met at nine years old. I never asked how. You were the weirdest little fucking kid I'd ever met," he spits out, getting more and more enraged as the seconds tick by. "I never asked why. I just thought you were real smart; I thought you'd had to grow up too soon because you were living on the streets." He turns to face her fully, the metal of his knife glinting in the light. "You disgusting piece of shit. I can't believe I brought you into my home, into my family!"

She feels her own rage burning deep in her chest, and she smirks bitterly up at him. "Congratulations," she hisses, "You adopted a fucking mutant."

An ear-shattering roll of thunder sounds mere metres away, making Derek and Diez flinch. "Fuck, boss, we gotta get outta here, now! They'll tear us apart!" Derek shouts over the noise.

Diez gestures his head, and Derek bolts out the door. Her old boss levels an enraged glare at her and points his knife in her direction. "You filthy abomination," he spits, "You will never, ever, be safe. I will fucking end you, I promise." And with that, he turns and escapes too.

Mikaela lets out a breath and closes her eyes, dreading what comes next. She halfheartedly attempts to wriggle out of her binds, knowing full well it will do her more harm than good. "Shit," she mutters, slouching against the chair in defeat.

Her last resort strides elegantly through the door and stares at her. "Mikaela?" the white-haired woman asks. Mikaela nods. "We got your message. My name is Storm." Mikaela just watches the woman, having already known her name. "Logan! In here!" Storm calls through the door.

A moment later, a gruff man swags in with a hairdo more ridiculous than the state of their costumes combined. He stops and gawks at her. "This is the girl?" he grunts.

"Logan, this is Mikaela," Storm says.

"How old are you, kid?" he frowns.

"Old enough to know you shouldn't give personal information to strangers," she retorts. "Can you do me a favour and cut me out of these goddamn ropes now?"

"Language," he warns, but walks over to her chair nonetheless.

There is a noise like knives sliding against skin before the ropes give way around her wrists, and then her ankles, and she pushes herself out of the chair. She refuses to rub at her sore limbs in front of the adults, choosing instead to focus on the three metal knives extending from each of Logan's hands. "Okay, so, uh, thanks for the rescue, I guess," she shrugs. "I promise it won't be a regular inconvenience." She turns towards the door and starts to walk out, but a strong hand catches her around her upper arm.

"Think again, kid," Logan frowns. "The Professor wants to see you, after that stunt you pulled."

"What stunt?" she scowls.

"He means your mutation," Storm provides. "The Professor would love to meet you and learn more."

Mikaela scoffs. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have absolutely no intention of going to your little school in the middle of nowhere. I appreciate your help, but I'll find my own way from here."

Logan's grip tightens on her when she tries to move again. "Like hell you will. What are you, eight?" he provokes.

She knows fine well he's provoking her, and she hates that it works. "I'm eleven, asshole," she snaps bitterly.

"Oh, eleven," he replies sarcastically, "Yeah, you're fine. We'll just leave you to the mercy of this gang who, by the way, kidnapped you and tied you up."

"Logan, you're not helping," Storm sighs.

"Yeah, and what are you doing?" Logan retorts.

Mikaela groans, rolling her eyes, and decides she's had enough. She closes her eyes and feels for the earpieces they're both wearing. When Logan tears his hand away to attack the deafening screech in his ear, she makes a break for it out the door.

Her bare feet pound against the cold floor of the corridor as she plans her escape route in her head. Heavy footsteps echo behind her, getting closer with each step, so she bursts the lights on the ceiling above her pursuer as he passes under each one, hoping to slow him down.

She's almost there when she hears a growl behind her and her feet are pulled out from underneath her. She falls fast, barely managing to brace herself with her hands before she smacks against the floor.

She rolls onto her back, glaring up at the smirking, bearded face leaning over her. "That fucking hurt," she whines.

"What did I say about language?" he asks rhetorically, leaning down to scoop her up and deposit her over his shoulder.

She blinks hard at the way her vision wobbles and blotches, ensuring she gives nothing away. "Not much," she replies, watching the back of his legs as he walks. She feels lightheaded, and suddenly a little bored of trying to run away.

Logan kicks a door open and fresh air rushes around her and into her lungs. She breathes gratefully, feeling their approach to the mutants' jet. When the ramp begins to lower, Mikaela makes one last half hearted attempt at resistance, and stops it in its tracks. She makes it close up again, and suddenly she has no idea what way up is or where she is in relation to it, despite feeling her feet make contact with the ground. Her vision swims with black dots and she feels herself swaying on the spot.

Logan holds her at arm's length, grimacing, as if she's shit herself. "What's this, kid? What are you doing?"

Storm rushes to her side. "Mikaela, are you okay?"

Mikaela can feel her consciousness slipping, and she doesn't like it. "Will you feed my brain?" she mutters, barely comprehensible, before falling forward into Logan.