Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or this universe, and I am making no money off of this. I am just a fan, that is all. All belongs to the magical world of Marvel. (…except my OC…)

This is my first ever fan fiction, hope you all enjoy.

(also, this chapter is setting up a main character, so bare that in mind)

Chapter One

Everything was dark and cold. The walls were blank, and there was a single stream of white, harsh light coming into the square room from a glass door. Gently, she placed her hand on the floor in front of her face to feel the cold cement under her palm. It felt nice, and the contrast between the floor and her skin made her realize she felt feverish. She turned slightly from how she was lying on her side to press her forehead onto the ground and sighed.

Her head felt like mush, slowly clearing on the chilled floor. She couldn't remember how she had gotten here.

She . . . she couldn't remember anything.

Her heart started to beat faster, pounding into the floor uncomfortably. She sat up to rest the back of her head on the wall behind her. There was nothing. No memory of anything other than right now.

She didn't understand how that was possible. She looked around the room, making sure she could describe every detail to herself. Her mind itself was working fine. Knowledge floated in different pieces as she glanced around the empty room. Facts and images of the world, mathematic equations, the only thing missing was anything personal. There were no memories.

Already her head felt better, and her skin had started to cool. Placing one hand on the wall, she stood. Her heart was still beating fast. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Tracing the wall with her fingertips, she started over to the glass door. It was the only thing in the small square room. There was a metal bar that ran horizontally through the middle of the door, and a handle. She stepped towards it, bare feet quiet. The handle was locked.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

There was a faint reflection in the glass, and she caught a look at the outline of her soft curving face. Subconsciously she ran a hand through her ponytail, and wondered if that was an old habit as she saw the tips of her snow white hair out of the corner of her eye.

The handle felt cold, and she shook it over and over again, placing all of her weight into the door. It stood solid and unaffected. On the other side of the door was another wall, similar to the ones inside of the room, but it ran out of view in both directions, giving the impression that outside was a hallway. Her hand on the door knob started to tense, and the other formed into a fist. She swung and hit the glass.

"Oh!" She staggered back, holding her hand. The knuckles were now turning red and starting to swell, and she rubbed them carefully.

The light coming from behind the door darkened. There was a man on the other side, half-light from behind. She took a step back.

"Did you hurt your hand?" He asked. His voice was soft, and a shiver ran up her neck. In this light, he looked sharp and unnatural, holding a large clipboard in his hand.

When it appeared as if he was going to wait for her to respond, she nodded once.

"Shame, but it will feel fine in a moment, I'm sure," he said, bringing the clipboard up to look at. "And your head? Do you still feel hot?"

Her heart was still beating wildly in her rib cage, but her hand no longer hurt, so she let it go. Without really thinking she brought it up to feel her forehead. It felt normal. Dropping her hand, she shook her head. The man nodded and wrote something down on his clipboard.

"Tell me, do you remember anything?" the man said. "My name? Your name?"

There was nothing. No names. She was nameless. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

"I want out of here."

She couldn't remember hearing herself speak until now. Her voice didn't sound like she thought it would. It was young and quiet.

The man ignored her, writing something else down. She stepped towards him.

"I want out of here." She said again, sounding better. Louder, at least.

The man looked almost sad. "My name is Dr. Cullen. I am here to –"

"Let me out!" Now she sounded older.

"- help you, but first you have to listen."

He stared at her, as if waiting to see if she would speak over him again.

"Good," he said. "You are currently underground, so sorry about the poor lighting, we didn't mean to scare you when you woke up. We – of course – being the few people who know you are here. Our group is in charge of inventing helpful tools to later by used by The Avengers. Equipment, usually. But you are our latest idea."

He sounded bored, as if he had been repeating this for days. She tried to put some of the words to pictures in her head. The Avengers. She had heard of that before . . . hadn't she?

"You, as you might have guessed, are one of those tools."

"I'm a person," she said.

He gave her another sad smile. "Well, yes."

She took another step towards him, trying to make out the features of his face in the dim light. There was something about his curving forehead and nose that made Dr. Cullen look like an old bird.

"You might not remember, but you have a gift, and that is why you are here," Dr. Cullen said.

"I don't remember anything," she answered. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

"That would be a side effect," said Dr. Cullen. "See, you are a healer. That's why your hand no longer hurts and why you no longer are running a fever. Whenever you touch someone, you heal them. If I were to have a bruise on my eye right now, and you touched my arm in passing, the bruise on my eye would go away and appear on your own, and then it would heal and you would feel fine."

She stared at him, studying how his lips moved but not his face. Her knuckles were no longer red or swelling. "Why can't I remember?"

The sad smile on Dr. Cullen's face now seemed stuck here. "We thought, we thought that you could heal anything. Everything. But there appears to be . . . limitations. You were healing a very old man who was having memory problems. He walked away remembering everything, and you . . ."

"Forgot everything."

"Yes," Dr. Cullen said. "Apparently your body does not react the same to mental injures as it does to physical ones."

She crossed her arms over her center and noted the feel of cotton. The hairs on her arms were rising in the cold, as she was only dressed in soft black pajama shorts and a plain white t-shirt. Her bare toes on her left foot were silently tapping to her heartbeat.

"I want out of here."

Dr. Cullen still wore that sad smile. "I am afraid I can't let you out."

She wanted to ask why not, but she didn't. Her arms tighten around herself. "If my body heals itself, will I eventually get my memories back?"

"I don't think so." He said. "You've asked me that question for days. I think the best we can hope for is that you remember us talking tomorrow."

For days. She stepped back until she felt a wall and slid to the floor.

"Do I have a name?" She asked.

There was a long, ringing silence. Then he cleared his throat. It was a wet sound. He muttered something she couldn't hear, and left.

She let her head fall into her hands. Dr. Cullen was either trying to keep her nameless, or he didn't know. Maybe she had never told him. Them. Whichever it really was. If she had refused to tell him something as simple as a name, she couldn't have been doing any of this voluntary. They had taken her. Stole her. To carve her into a tool.

Eventually, she fell asleep, and woke up wondering if it had been minutes or days. Time seemed to be just another random fact or skill she could actually remember. Dr. Cullen seemed so relieved that she remembered him when he returned, that for a moment she wanted to smile. It had, then, been at least been a day. We're friends, she thought, and then remembered that she was in a box, cold, and nameless. She turned away and refused to talk to him until he left.

She thinks that she used to be the kind of girl who liked having friends.

They don't take things slow here. She had felt sick the day she had woken up. A cause, she suspected, from healing someone. Which meant that Dr. Cullen had made her heal someone else even though she was rattled by the loss of her own memories the day before she started remembering.

In passing, before he became bored with her ignoring him, Dr. Cullen mentioned how she used to like being here. She doesn't for a second believe him. Had she been here by choice, she wouldn't be in this empty room.

She had a feeling that who she was, and who she is, are about to be two very different people.

Time passed and she stared through the glass door to the empty wall behind it. She fell asleep, woke up, and fell asleep again. At one point she traced her hands over every inch of the square room, but everything is smooth. Not even any cameras. She hasn't needed to eat or ask for a restroom, and wonders if they drugged her somehow.

Dr. Cullen returns with a woman, tall and dark skinned, and introduces her as Fiona. Fiona asks her if she would like to heal someone. She doesn't, but she wants out of this room, so she nods her head. Dr. Cullen and Fiona open the glass door with a key, and although they are trying to hide it, she can tell they are waiting for her to make a break for it, which meant that she has before.

She thinks she was the kind of girl who liked to run.

Instead, she followed them calmly down the hallway, bare feet quiet on the hard floor compared to Fiona's high heels. There are other glass doors in the hall, but as they pass there are no other people inside. She is alone down here. The rooms are full of lab equipment. Tools.

She followed Fiona – whose name, she realizes, is likely not Fiona – up a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway and into the first room on the right. Before the door opens she can feel a pull towards the room. Inside it is a doctor's room, with a chair and a sink and a blank calendar. It reads April 2017, but she isn't sure that she can trust that information. On the table in the center of the room there is another woman with long dark hair braided over a shoulder, and she is crying and clutching at her side.

"This is Jaime," Fiona said. "And she was stabbed today . . . would you mind . . ."

The woman, Jaime, glances up at her. There are tears in her eyes. She could physically feel Jaime's distress from across the room, as if something tight was pressing into her skin. She didn't even consider saying no. She thinks she used to like helping people.

Stepping forward, she placed a hand on Jaime's free arm. "What can I do to –"

Then it hits. She crumples to the floor, clutching at a low rib on her side. It is wet, and she pulled her hand back to see blood. Her own blood. The white cotton t-shirt is slowly soaking and turning red. Her ears start to ring, and she can feel blood building in her mouth. As if far away, she can hear Dr. Cullen and Fiona talking to the dark haired women, telling Jaime that she is free to leave. She squeezes her eyes shut, listening to her own heartbeat in her ears and to Jaime hopping down off the table and out of the room.

The pain starts to fade into a dull ache. Carefully, she stands and lifts her now bloody shirt. The skin is rapidly changing, as it scabs, peals, scabs, turns into an angry red patch, and then back to its normal pale white shade. Gently she touches the area, and it feels tender, but only for a moment.

Dr. Cullen and Fiona smile and nod at each other when they think she isn't looking.

They lead her back down towards her square room, and she glares at the only camera she finds, which is stuffed in a corner on the staircase. In the small room, a new white t-shirt is on the floor. She can't remember ever feeling this tired. Healing takes energy.

She uses the blood on her current t-shirt to write on the wall that has the glass door, so that it can't be seen looking into the room.

Friends

Running

Helping

Curling into a ball, one hand clutching the spot that had been bleeding earlier, as if waiting for it to reopen, she let exhaustion pull her under.

When she wakes up, she is laying on the ground, facing away from the door, and she can see the shadow of a man. She refuses to acknowledge Dr. Cullen.

He clears his throat. It's a sharp sort of sound. She blinks, then whips around.

This man is wearing red from head to toe. His face is covered, and there are two patches of black fabric over his eyes on his red mask. The sides of his suite are black, and there are two sword handles visible around his back. One of his hands holds a gun, the other, a key.

"Wake up Honeybuns," The Masked Man said. "We don't got all fucking day."