A/N: I have not written in so long so this may or may not be some of my best work.It's also quite short, so my apologies in advance I hate writers block with a burning passion. I will be attempting to write more regularly though this summer if time allows. With that in mind, enjoy...

For much of my fleeting 25 years on this Earth, I've been running. I learned the hard way, the longer you stay in one spot, the easier it is for your past to catch up to you.

My apartment is nearly barren for this reason, most of my material belongings all settled neatly on a teeny desk in the corner of my cramped apartment. All easy to pack up at moments notice, as you might've guessed I'm doing now.

"Damn it," I mutter glancing down at my analog watch and noting the time.

I had hoped to be gone already, but now I'm running behind by an hour as I shove my gear haphazardly into my worn, trusty duffel. My laptop, weapons and ammo, clothes, the works. It all fits into the duffel like a glove.

An evening rain pounds against my window panes, the droplets masked by the various editorials and newsprint taped against the glass to ward off curious eyes.

One last glance at my watch and I'm off, tugging a black rain slicker over my weary frame and hoisting the leaden duffel over my shoulder.

I don't have much time to throw together an acceptable disguise, so a pair of fake frames and a ballcap will need to suffice at the moment. I just need to make my way to the drop point and then I can leave New York in my rearview.

My fingertips skim across the back of my ear absentmindedly, checking to see if my flashdrive is still in place. I note with a smirk of satisfaction it is indeed still in place and unclip it from my skin with a tiny wince.

The disk is small in size, but heavy in burden. Sure, I've handed over classified intel easy, but nothing this personal. It feels almost wrong to divulge such information, when it's such a familiar topic to me.

Of course, if I was to destroy the intel and take off, I could disappear and most likely never be found. Did I want to risk that though, all over one man?

The answer is and will always be no. I have too much at stake now for my feelings to cloud my missions.

With the thought still worming its way through my head, I stroll from my apartment and slam the door before making my way towards the rickety elevator that will take me to the ground floor.

I press the down arrow and stand impatiently, occasionally glancing down at my burner. My contact has yet to call and with a mere two hours till the drop, I'm a bit more than annoyed at the moment.

Click. It's a subtle noise, not nearly loud enough to garner attention from your average New Yorker lost in thought. Of course, in my line of work, it shrieks like a bell. And that bell says drop.

With that, I slam my body against the hardwood as a muffled shot rings out, like a pop more than anything; striking the metal door right where my head had been.

"Great," I groan, glancing around wildly for my attacker.

He's a burly man, decked in tactical gear and armed with nothing more than a Glock 19, outfitted with a silencer to apparently mask the sounds of his kill shot.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, just as he goes to take another shot. I roll into the elevator, frantically pushing close as he bolts towards me.

Here, I have one of two choices. Expose myself as an enhanced in such a public setting and risk S.H.I.E.L.D coming after me or simply taking out the man attacking me the old fashioned way.

I choose the latter. Taking a quick moment to rummage through my bag, I pull out my own weapon as he draws closer, sliding a steady hand between the doors.

"What's the rush, sweetie?" He sneers with a grin, digging the tip of his gun into my scalp.

I remain silent as I inch the weapon towards him, trying my hardest to keep it from his line of sight.

"Cat got your tongue?" He mocks, his finger starting to curl around the trigger.

He still has yet to notice my weapon, in a stroke of dumb luck I'd say and I aim carefully.

He doesn't know what hit him. He slumps to the ground, jerking violently as bolts of electricity course through his massive frame. His hand jerks and the Glock fires wildly, thankfully, not into my noggin. He falls still and I pause for a moment, allowing my eyes to close for a mere moment, to catch my breath.

In...out. Breathe. Think.

My eyes snap open and I stare at his lifeless form before my eyes flicker past him to the laundry chute.

"Nope, really bad idea; stupid, actually..."I whisper under my breath, but in all actuality, it's my best option.

The effects of my modified stun-gun will wear off after about 8 hours, long after I'm gone, and no one checks the laundry chute until morning. And even by then, his memory will be shot.

With a sigh, I tug at the man's feet, hoping to get a good grip. He's dead weight, all 200 something pounds of him and it's rough work. I groan and pant quietly, attempting to keep from waking my neighbors. Of course, the sound of a body dragging across the floor isn't exactly discrete.

Across the hall, I can hear the screech of a door flying open and without much cover, I pause awkwardly, hunched comically over the large assassin dude's body.

"Well, that seems like a problem," A voice rings out and when I peer up, my eyes meet those of my elder neighbor, Margaret. Her lips are turned up in a wry smirk, as if she's used to such a sight.

"Uh, hi Margaret!" I chuckle, "My friend here just had a bit too much to drink and I'm trying to get him home. Sorry if I woke you!"

"Might I recommend a sock in his mouth before you send him down the chute, dear? I'd very much like to have some peace and quiet that doesn't involve his screeching waking me." She grins, starting to push her door shut.

"Uh, can do Margaret!" I reply in surprise, sending her a halfhearted salute as she chuckles and retreats back into her apartment.

Shaking off the odd encounter, I finally manage to send the hulking assassin down the chute, stuffing a sock in his mouth beforehand as common courtesy.

With that, I boot it, this time taking the stairs to the ground floor.

The lobby is quiet, with our security guy, Gerald, passed out as usual with an empty bottle of brandy at his side. His snoring masks my footsteps as I make my way to the door.

It's all quiet, aside from the man entering. He keeps his eyes low, though, a navy ballcap shielding his face from an prying eyes.

I can feel him pause behind me, but I'm already halfway down into the Subway, disappearing into the throngs of those who will never garner a second glance.

It's loud, with the trains rumbling the platform and commuters bumbling around in a sleepy haze, foggy on their feet.

I glance around, looking for a nearby bathroom. When I find one, I slink into it quietly and click the lock, hoping to god it will stick long enough for me to make my call.

With shaky fingers, I punch in the number for my contacts and bite away absentmindedly at my already short fingernails.

It rings once, twice...

Johnson residence; who's this?

"Cindy Hartfield; just calling to address the elephant in the room," I breathe into the phone quietly, listening intently on the other end.

Do you have the intel?

"No, you get no intel until we address whatever just happened back at my apartment," I whisper angrily, "Did you send him?"

We did not send anyone. It would make no sense Cipher. For us to kill you without getting our intel first.

"Then who was he?" I grit my teeth, anger flaring deep in my chest.

We will look into it. Now, do you have the intel Cipher?

"Yes, where's the drop?" I sigh, picking at a corner of the peeling paint on the bathroom wall.

Change of plans. We need to you to dispose of a...liability...using the intel before you hand it over to us.

"N-No, you know I don't do that anymore," I reply defensively, pulling myself up quickly into a standing position.

You do now. Get close to Dr. Bruce Banner. Take him out. Instructions will follow.

"No, I can't- I won't!" I exclaim in anger, lowering my voice thoughtfully as I remember the commuters beyond my door.

You have no choice in the matter here Cipher. We know about the child. We have her location. Fail us and you know the consequences.

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" I gasp out.

47 Sugarleaf Drive. Don't fail us.

With that, the line disconnects.

I squeeze my eyes close, allowing my body to fall to the floor, as I clench tufts of my blonde hair with tight fists.

They know. How do they know?

I can't let them. I used to have no problem with these kinds of jobs until Kenzie. There was no way I could continue to do the things I did without putting her life at risk. And now, I was putting her life at risk by not doing the things I did.

A vicious cycle I'll never be able to break.

With a sigh, I search through my ID stash until I can find an acceptable alias.

Alicia White.

She's perfect for this job and I have just the tools to create her. I slip a long, raven wig on top of my blonde locks and pop in a pair of whiskey colored contacts. Next come the sleek, silver frames that sit pertly on the bridge of my nose.

When I look into the mirror, Alicia stares back at me. A young woman straight out of Harvard, with skills in computer programming to rival all others. Stark Industries would have to take her on and then, "Alicia" would be able to inflitrate the life of Dr. Banner.

It left me with only one question at the end of the night as I nestled into my NYC Subway bathroom retreat, using my duffel as a pillow.

I had taken myself out of this line of work voluntarily; so why did I feel so relieved to be reentering this world?