[Frankly, the author has no idea when this takes place in the story, but damn if she isn't going to post it anyway]

The smoke is thick in the air as Michaela blinks back to awareness. She's laid out on her side, one leg hitched up under her arm, the other splayed out at an awkward angle. Dirt and grit bite into the cheek she's got shoved into the asphalt, scraping over the hands she's slowly trying to get under herself. Her ears are ringing, the sounds around her distorted and muffled, although — if she's remembering things right — she can make a pretty well-educated guess as to what she would be hearing if her ears were working at full capacity. As Michaela shakily rolls onto her knees, hands braced against the ground, she has a moment of what the fuck am I doing here that's almost overwhelming.

Manhattan. She's in Manhattan, for some godforsaken reason, so far outside her home turf that she's basically trespassing at this point. And for what? The Avengers have this handled, don't they?

The explosion that rocks the ground beneath her, accompanied by the furious roar of what she presumes to be the large green rage monster employed by the Avengers and the crash shattering glass, does not seem to support that idea.

Groaning, Michaela digs her teeth into the inside of her cheek, suppressing a scream as she leverages herself upright onto her feet. Nothing's broken, she thinks, though every inch of her skin aches with the forewarning of deep-black bruises and when she takes a step forward her ankle threatens to roll and snap like a twig, so. Baby steps. She blinks again, breathing shallowly to avoid sucking down a lungful of smoke. The street's wrecked — chunks gouged out from the road, overturned cars stuck like turtles on the sidewalks, lamp posts ripped out by the roots and carelessly tossed aside. And people, dozens of people running for cover; more precisely, they're running through the aftermath of the latest strike from who-the-fuck-ever the Avengers are fighting, probably hopeful that since this area is already ruined the villain won't be making a repeat appearance.

For their sakes, more than her own, Michaela hopes they're right in that assumption.

But, fuck, Michaela is here for a reason. A flimsy reason, in hindsight, but one she has no desire to abandon now that she's somewhat recovered her wits. The Avengers can't be focused on civilians every second of the battle (something that became startling clear to her the last time she watched news footage of the Avengers in action). It's not their fault, honestly it isn't; they're stretched thin as it is already with the bad guy (or gal, it's not like Michaela got a good look at them earlier), and it's more important that they neutralize the threat altogether, so that the carnage doesn't spread to engulf the entire city.

It didn't take much convincing to get the rest of her merry band of vigilantes to agree with her, and well, here they are.

"Blackout!"

Michaela lurches to the side, backing herself against the rust-pitted door of a half-burnt car so that her wobbly legs won't be as obvious. Spider-Man drops down in front of her, letting go of his web and freeing both hands to hover anxiously over Michaela's — probably everything, if she's taking a shot at honesty today. She knows her mask is partially ripped, feels the warm, oozing blood trickling down from her nose and over her upper lip. The cut in her cheek is gonna need to be flushed out as soon as possible, given the dust and debris it must have collected while she was on the ground. And, oh this is just dandy, one of the lenses of her goggles is cracked. She can still see through it but it's like there's a jagged line ripping through reality. Which. Who the fuck knows, maybe that's exactly what today's villain aims to do. Again, she didn't glean too much from them before she set herself on civilian duty and left the big threat to the Avengers.

"Hey, Spidey," she says weakly, mustering something of a grin despite the pain that lances through her injured cheek at the stretch of her facial muscles. "Aren't you supposed to be like, three streets west of here?"

Clenching his fists for a moment, he finally seems to come to some internal decision, because then he's lightly gripping her shoulders, crouching a little to get a better look at the damage. She'd wave him off, but what's the point? It's nice to take a breather and have a friend fret over her. She should do it more often.

"Jesus, Blackout, did you get thrown by that last explosion?"

She winces through a shrug. "More or less. I think..." The thoughts slide slow and languid across the surface of her mind, forcing her to take her time plucking out each one individually to come close to some kind of coherency. Another blink. "I think it would've been worse, but I sort of" — she flutters her hands a bit, a stand in for the larger gesture she wants to do with her arms but can't because she might bite off her tongue from the pain — "took the edge off the blast with, you know..." A frizzle of demonstrative sparks burst from her outstretched fingers. "Didn't cushion my fall any, but. I lived."

"Daredevil is gonna be soooo mad at you."

"Like he has a fuckin' leg to stand on. The Punisher almost murdered him, and don't get me started on Kingpin! Plus! Plus! That fucker doesn't have powers, he just has really good hearing or something! He's even more vulnerable than I am!"

Spidey snorts, shaking his head. "He's still got more training than you," he says, low enough that Michaela knows she's not supposed to hear it. Still, she rolls her eyes. Training. Michaela has natural talent — latent talent that took getting exposed to a weird mist to activate, but still natural. Daredevil can kiss her ass.

"Speaking of that reckless idiot," she says, once Spidey has convinced her to take cover under the concrete overhang of an apartment complex. "Have you seen him? Or Jones and Cage?"

"They were pretty close to the fighting last time I checked in on 'em," Spider-Man says absently as he's shooting a line of webbing into his hand, letting it coil by itself. He's still talking but his attention seems to be diverted to — oh, he's making a makeshift bandage for her, for the nasty, nasty gash she's got on her right shoulder. She needs to get this kid a thank-you gift. Comics, maybe. A Harry Potter disc-set. Iron Man gauntlets, those cute toys that make the signature sound of Stark's repulsors (which he astonishingly didn't figure out a way to copyright) and flash blue and white. Michaela realizes she's getting off track and shakes her head, focusing back in on Spidey's voice. "...didn't look like they were too bad off, though. Mr. Cage was shielding civilians and herding them into subway tunnels with Ms. Jones."

"Right," Michaela says, bobbing her head as though she caught more than five seconds of that no doubt informative report. Spidey's like a boy scout that way, she's noticed; always prepared. At least, that's the case when she's asked him to give her status updates. It probably has something to do with his need to please. She'll work on it with him, considering she does the same damn shit for Matt. Ugh. "You should, uh, you should go give them a hand, kid."

Despite the mask he manages to give her quite the deadpan look. "Uh-huh. And what're you gonna do, Blackout?"

She rolls her eyes again, unashamed. He can't see her doing it through the goggles, and she doesn't care if she's giving off bullshit vibes, either. "I'm gonna, ya know, be here, maintaining the perimeter."

There's that judgmental eye-squint. "What perimeter?"

"The one I just mentally decided on. Now shoo! Respect your elder!"

"I don't think that counts when you're only—" Spidey freezes, tying off the web-bandage just a smidge too tight. "Uh, oh, that's— Ha ha" — he actually says ha ha, what an adorable dumbass — "that's funny, Blackout, you're not old, don't put yourself down..."

Michaela smirks, fairly certain he can see it through the rips in her mask. "This secret identity thing does not come easy to you, kid, does it?" Patting him consolingly on the shoulder, she then shoves at him, gently, urging him to get a move on. "You're good, I already know you're a youngin', so don't worry too much. But you gotta follow orders, okay? I'll be fine here, the fighting's moved on. There's people here I can help, Spidey, and you'll be much more useful with the others."

When he hesitates, unconvinced that she'll remain in one piece if he takes off without her, she adds, "You trust me, right?"

That's a low blow and she knows it, but it does the trick — Spidey straightens and nods, looking like he's trying to pull off dutiful soldier and only managing, well, bright-eyed boy scout. She'll take it, though, especially when he says, "Of course I trust you! Trust is like, the number one rule for vigilante buddies!"

She smiles. Now if only she could get Matt to give in that easily.

"Just, uh." Spidey falters for a moment, wringing out his hands a little, glancing away and then back again. "Promise you'll find me when this is all over?"

"Promise," she says, with all the gravitas this declaration deserves. "You can trust that I won't get my ass killed by a falling building. Also I'm gonna need a lift back to Hell's Kitchen, kid, and I'm sure as hell not asking Daredevil for it."

Laughing, Spider-Man steps back, and Michaela fights not to sag against the car while he's still here to see the moment of weakness. "You said you wouldn't swing with me again!"

"Desperate times, Spidey, desperate times. Now go, go, make sure Daredevil doesn't pick a fight with the Hulk or something."

"Aye, aye, Blackout!"

"That's Captain Blackout to you!" she calls after him once he's airborne and on his way. Then, taking a deep breath that makes her ribs hurt like a bitch, Michaela finally pushes away from the car and starts on civilian damage control.

Most people are more than happy to see a friendly face, even if she's not quite what they'd been hoping for. She's not an Avenger, clearly, and she's not as reassuring a presence as say, Captain America or Iron Man. Or, hell, even Hawkeye would probably inspire more confidence in these people. But Michaela doesn't let it get to her, just gently encourages able-bodied people she finds to seek shelter. She knows there are emergency medical stations popping up all over the area (which she wishes she'd asked Spidey to map out for her, but oh well, hindsight is twenty-twenty and she's an idiot), so she suggests that people make for those, asking those fit enough to do it to carry the wounded she comes across.

This kind of thing — the situation is awful, no two ways about it. There are people dead and dying, and the city is one blast away from resembling the ruins of a long-lost civilization, but still, people surprise her with how quick they are to rally, to offer aid to their fellow members of humanity. Men and women carry other people's children, or create emergency stretchers out of half-broken doors to lift the unconscious to safety.

These villains may be the worst humanity has to offer, but they're ironically good at bringing out the best of it.

Michaela's making a last sweep of the street, searching for stragglers, when she hears it. Crying, the soft, hitched sounds of someone in agony but unwilling to let themselves be loud about it. She's heard it a lot since she started the whole hero thing, people muffling their cries because they're terrified of being found by whoever brought the tears on in the first place. It's a sound that lives in her nightmares, she knows it so well. So she doesn't hesitate to follow it, weaving her way through the rubble of a destroyed storefront. She's going to bite clean through her cheek at this point but that's the least of her concerns as she scrambles over the hood of crashed car, trying to be as quiet as she can so as not to startle whoever she's looking for.

Her breath catches when she finds her.

A kid, a kid kid, younger than Spidey for sure. Michaela thinks she must be ten at the oldest, her little yellow dress torn to ribbons, her stockings shot full of runs. No shoes that Michaela can see. Fuck, she thinks, easing herself down from the car, careful to move slow and telegraph her movements as best she can. The girl has her head tucked into her knees, her black hair draped lifelessly over her arms and legs. She whimpers when Michaela edges closer and Michaela curses to herself, frustrated; she's not great with kids, and she's never had to deal with them in crisis situations before. Just... fuck. I should've had Spidey stay after all.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," she murmurs, soft and sweet, though the thread of pain in her voice makes it something a little less gentle than the coo she'd been going for. "I promise, I'm not... My name is Michaela, okay? Michaela King. I'm here to help."

Is it stupid of her to give out her real name while she's in full costume? Maybe, but Blackout is not the most... She doesn't think it's going to get this kid to feel safe, is all. Captain America, Iron Man, Thor, even, they all have their own sort of name brand guarantees, the kind that even kids can associate with goodness and safety and heroes. She's not well-known even inside her own borough, not really. Daredevil gets more attention (and by that logic also gets more flak, but she digresses), people recognize him to a degree. They can trust him, trust the others, because they feel like they know them, just a little, just enough. Michaela doesn't have that sort of notoriety, and her name, most likely, would just confuse this kid, and at worst scare her off. So stupid? Probably. She just doesn't give a shit right now.

Michaela slowly lowers herself to the ground, checking each and every wince and whimper of her own because that's not what this kid needs to see from her. She raises her hands, palms facing outward. After a momentary internal debate, she decides fuck it and pushes her goggles back onto her forehead, tugs down the sad remains of her mask.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks, still speaking softly, rounding out every sharp edge of pain from her words.

The girl stills, though she's shaking, trembling arms clamped tight around her bony knees. Another hitching breath, then she lifts her head up just enough for Michaela to catch the golden-brown of her eyes.

She says... something. Mumbled as it is, Michaela has to lean forward to catch it, and even then she only gets the last syllable. Lee? Ly?

"Sorry, what was that?" Her mouth quirks into a self-deprecating smile. "I'm kinda old, I don't hear as well as you do."

The girl buries her head again, and Michaela think she's somehow screwed this up even beyond her wildest imaginings, but then the girl shudders out another breath and fully lifts her head, her black hair spilling back onto her shoulders.

"Emily," she whispers. "M-My name is Emily Na-Nakamura."

It takes every ounce of strength Michaela has left in her not to just... turn to the side and vomit. Because today she has seen a great many terrible things, death chief among them, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Emily Nakamura, dress ripped and face tear-streaked, sitting there with an arm across her knees and one of the bones in her forearm jutting out gruesomely from her pale, pale skin.

Michaela doesn't think she breathes for a full minute, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes. Emily doesn't need that from her. She needs her clear-headed and under control, calm and collected and willing to act accordingly, no matter what that means.

Smiling is not the most natural thing in the world right this second, but Michaela forces her mouth into a nonthreatening shape, softens the look she's giving Emily. "Alright, Emily, it's nice to meet you. Your mom or dad around? I know I'm a stranger, and you've probably been taught not to talk to those, but um." Fuck, where is she going with this? I'm a nice stranger, don't worry. That what's pedophiles probably say. "I'm... like the Avengers. Uh. You know Captain America?"

Emily nods slightly, careful not to move her arm. "My daddies say he's pretty."

Well, damn, her dads have good taste. "Right, yeah. Very pretty. I'm like him. I help people, like you. I can... I can bring you somewhere where some nice doctors will fix your arm, if that's alright you? And then we can find your daddies. Would you wanna come with me?"

If Emily says no... Michaela pats her jacket's pocket, reassuring herself that her phone is both present and intact. If Emily says no, that's fine, Michaela can text one of the others her location and have them bring the medical team to them. Maybe one of them can look for Emily's dads, too.

"Oh," Emily says, sniffling. She looks down at her arm, like she's seeing it for the first time. Fresh tears gather on her lashes, but before Michaela can make a move to comfort her (what move? She'd like to know the answer to that one herself, honestly), Emily lifts her other hand and it... starts glowing? A bright green cloud of light enshrouds her hand, and she wraps it around the opposite wrist, which makes her let out another cry of pain. But, even though she's openly crying again and Michaela is two seconds away from screaming, Emily draws the hand up the length of her broken arm, spreads the swirling green light. And everywhere it touches...

Fuck, Michaela doesn't know how to describe this. She's looking straight at Emily, she's not high or drunk or... this just doesn't make sense. Because when the light dissipates, Emily's arm is whole again. No break, no bruises, no scrapes. Smooth skin only. There isn't even a smudge of dirt on her. Well, not on her right arm anyway — the rest of her remains unchanged, cuts and tears and all. But the right arm... it's like it was never broken to begin with. The blood's gone, the bone is back where it belongs.

Michaela's fucking speechless.

Emily, fortunately, doesn't have that problem.

She wobbles to her feet, arms spread for balance, and she walks closer to Michaela, timid but not fearful.

"Can we find my daddies now?" she asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks with both hands, because she can do that now, apparently.

On auto-pilot, Michaela opens her arms, and Emily latches onto her, wrapping her legs around Michaela's waist and her arms around her neck. Michaela manages to get to her feet without blacking out, and she turns stiffly towards a gap in the debris, not trusting herself to be able to take the route she used to get here without dropping Emily.

She blinks once, twice. Breathes deep for a moment, recalling the familiar pattern of inhales and exhales, and when she feels like she's now going to collapse in on herself like a dying star, she strikes out, heading back to where she was ushering survivors what feels like a hundred years ago.

"Yeah, Emily," she says, though she's only half aware of her mouth moving. "We're gonna find your daddies, no problem."

Michaela might have no clue how she's going to accomplish that, but hell if she's gonna make that in any way known to Emily. Emily, who's tucked her face into Michaela's neck and is humming what sounds like some kid's show theme song to herself.

Kids are fucking resilient as hell.

About a block away from where she's hoping the survivors have congregated, Michaela shifts Emily's weight to one arm, swears a blue streak in her head when she realizes that's probably the arm she landed on earlier, then, after fixing her mask and goggles, she grabs her phone from her pocket and calls Spider-Man, because texting is not happening right now.

"Blackout? Is something wrong? 'Cause I can be back there—"

"Nah, Spidey, it's fine. I'm calling 'cause I think I've got the last of the civilians from this area, so I'm getting out of the danger zone. And also... tell me if you or the others run into anyone named Nakamura, okay?"

"Nakamura? I can do that, but why?"

"I've got their kid with me, and I'd really like to deliver her back to them. Just let me know?"

"Yeah, yes, I can do that! We're almost done over here. The Hulk finally took down the big robot thing that the woman was like, riding around in, so the Avengers are dealing with that and us vigilantes are rounding up civilians still. Daredevil says hi, by the way!"

Michaela snorts. "He does not, you brat." She darts a look at the street she's on then rattles off her location to Spidey. "Meet me here as soon as you can. You can prove to yourself that I didn't die or anything, 'kay?"

"See you soon, Blackout!"

"See ya, Spidey."

"How come he calls you Blackout?" Emily asks before Michaela's even deposited the phone back in her pocket. She startles a little, unsure how to answer. Then she pastes on another half-smile and readjusts her grip on Emily.

"I told you I'm like Captain America, right?" Emily nods against her shoulder. "Well, Captain America's real name is Steve Rogers, but when he's out being a hero, people call him Captain America. My hero friends call me Blackout, because that's my hero name."

"But..."

"Michaela is my real name," Michaela says, "but not everyone knows that. Steve Rogers is really, really famous, so everyone knows who he is. But I'm... not like that. So. I usually go by Blackout, but I thought you'd like to know who I really am. You gotta keep it a secret, though, alright? It's real important that you're the only one who knows my name. Think you can do that for me?"

Emily thinks on that for a few seconds, during which Michaela wonders absently if her career as a vigilante is going to be ended by a talkative ten-year-old, but then she nods again, squeezing her arms around Michaela's neck.

"You're nice," she mumbles into Michaela's skin. "I won't tell anyone ever."

"Thanks, Emily. You're nice, too."

"Do you have powers, Michaela?"

"Oh, yeah! Shoot, I've been saying I'm like Cap this whole time, I shoulda been comparing myself to Thor. 'Cause that's what I'm good at — lightning." More or less the truth, though she's reluctant to even jokingly connect herself to Thor. It feels like an insult to the guy. Plus, there's the whole conspiracy theory thing that she would very much like to not acknowledge in the slightest. "Cool, huh?"

Emily doesn't answer at first, and Michaela's starting to think that it's not all that cool, when she realizes that Emily's dropped off to sleep on her shoulder. That's... unexpected. But it shouldn't be, she figures; kid's been through a helluva day, and the thing with her arm... Must've taken a lot out of her. Hopefully by the time she wakes up, Michaela will have located her parents.

A real smile finds it way to lips when she's reached the grouping of survivors, many of whom are filming the carnage, and subsequently Michaela's entrance, on their phones. A few people let out cheers at her arrival, a few more call out their thanks to her. She's said it before, she's not in it for the thanks, but this... she's not gonna deny it's a nice feeling. She couldn't save everyone, will never be able to save everyone, but she made a difference for these people, at least a little.

She's never going to be an Avenger, but doesn't mean she can't be a hero.

The validation is nice, is all.

What's also nice is knowing that Michaela might've found herself another Inhuman – one she can trust to Skye and Lincoln, hopefully. Emily Nakamura is going to live a long, wizard-less life if Michaela has anything to say about it, and she's got a veritable dictionary of shit to say on the topic, so. SHIELD better be willing to protect this girl, because otherwise Michaela is going to have words with Coulson.