LET'S BE HONEST, right off the bat. I'm nothing special.

I'm just a girl with above average hair, below average height, and a penchant for healing. My mom wanted me to be a surgeon, said I had a gift, but I was never a big fan of the whole "blood and guts" thing. Sure, I love making people feel better. I might even be really good at it. Unfortunately, I'm squeamish as all get out, and I don't really see that changing in the near future.

We should probably backtrack for a moment.

My name is Chloe. Chloe Tuominen. It's a mouthful, I know, so you're allowed to forget it. My mom's from Wakanda (surprisingly enough, her last name was Smith), and my dad's family emigrated to the US from Finland two generations ago. That's right. I'm Finnish-African-American. I was born and raised in Bethesda, Maryland - a suburb of Washington, D.C. - where my father was a teacher and my mother is a doctor. Catch the was? Dad died when I was 10, and Mom never moved on. Instead, she threw herself into her work, conveniently forgetting that she had two daughters relying on her sorry ass.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

My sister's name is Artemis, named after the Greek goddess of the hunt. (She hates going outside, just to be clear. Ari's hobbies include shopping, boys, and male models. Two of those things are the same, yes, but she likes to "diversify".) Our parents were obsessed with Greek mythology, which is why I was named after one of the many epithets for Demeter, goddess of the harvest, presider over sacred law and the cycle of life and death. Cheery, right?

Ari and I moved into DC proper when I was 18. Mom sprung for an apartment (because if she isn't able to provide for us with motherly care, at least her physician's salary is good for something, right?) in a nice part of town, decent building, while I went to college nearby. Ari, who was 13 at the time, was promptly enrolled into Maret School, a private co-ed school northeast of downtown DC. (Notable alumni include Rosalind Wiseman, aka author of "Queen Bees and Wannabees," the book that the movie Mean Girls was based upon. Ari was thrilled to be in attendance, while I was less-than-excited.)

That was seven years ago. Now, Ari is a sophomore at George Washington University, studying Italian Language and Literature ("because Italy is a hub of fashion, duh" is what she told me), and I'm a physical therapist at a nearby nursing home. Gift of healing, remember? I might not be able to stand gore, but somehow wrinkly old bodies don't bother me at all.

Let's get back to the present, the reason for this story. This is the day my life changed forever.

Cue dramatic music.

I just finished a shift at the nursing home, where my last session of the day was with Paul, a friendly man who had recently undergone a hip replacement. Paul was a favorite patient of mine, as he absolutely adored me. Some people might not like it when an 82-year-old man hits on them, but I happen to think it's cute. He loves my long, purple streaked black hair (my employer doesn't agree, but they were desperate for a PT, so ha), and he's always trying to convince me to join him for the weekly bingo night on Tuesdays.

Personally, I think the only reason Paul likes me is because I take his mind off his hip. I'm pretty good at my job, and I usually leave my patients feeling abnormally refreshed and relieved. Paul tells me that he's never felt pain relief like he has from my hands. Like I said, he's a flirt.

Walking home, I tuck my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, zipping it up to my neck to protect me from the heavy winds whipping through the city. It's only 6:30PM, but the sky is dark with incoming thunderheads and the tall buildings next to me only thrust me further into the shadows.

I cross the street, checking both ways for oncoming cars, before jogging to the other side. My apartment is four blocks ahead, and I'm currently debating between another night of Indian takeout or something a little more 'health-conscious'. I'm sure you can already guess, but the call of garlic naan is winning.

One second, I'm salivating over the thought of the warm flatbread in my hands, savoring the idea of carbs hitting my tastebuds, and the next I'm pulled into the dark alley by two strangers. A hand is clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams of terror, and the other spins me around to shove me against the brick wall.

My back lands with a dense thud, pain shooting up my spine, as I look at my attackers in the face. A knife is pressed against my throat, held by the man with his hand covering my mouth, and his friend holds a small pistol trained on my forehead. Both are wearing black ski masks, their eyes dark in the shadows. Tears begin to escape the prison of my eyes as I silently pray for my life.

"Make a sound, and you die," the man with the knife instructs, waiting for me to respond.

I nod my head vigorously like a bobblehead, stopping when I feel the sting of the cold metal of the knife press into the skin of my throat and a trickle of something wet rolls down my neck. His friend grabs my handbag, yanking it over my head and off my shoulder, before zipping it open and pulling out my wallet. He retrieves my credit cards and cash, slipping my iPhone into his pocket, before tossing the bag to the ground. Terrified, I watch as he pockets my belongings before nodding to his friend.

"Now, sweetheart, hold still," says the man holding my mouth.

He sticks his knife in his back pocket, then begins to pat down my pockets. Grinning, he squeezes my ass before pulling the rings off my fingers. I can feel my heartbeat pounding heavily against my chest, shaking at the touch of his rough hands on my skin. This can't be happening. I scream against his palm as he lifts his hand to my neck, jerking away from his touch as he smiles gruffly. His fingers run along the chain around my neck, a family heirloom with more sentimental than financial value, and I jerk away from his touch.

No, no, no, no...

My eyes grow unbelievably wide with horror, fighting against the man with all of my strength, while his friend watches in amusement. I bite at his palm, desperate to make an escape and no longer worried about my survival.

"Bitch!" He cries, backhanding me with his now-bloodied palm.

I try to run, but he shoves his knee into my groin and captures my neck with his hand. I can't breathe or scream as I gasp for air, while black spots begin to dot my vision. His hand is back at the drawstring of my pants, fumbling with the double knot that I am now supremely glad I always tie, and the only thing I can think of is how much I would like to see this man die.

In an instant, his body jerks as if pain is shooting through him. Recoiling from me, I watch in a daze as his dark eyes roll into the back of his head and he staggers a few steps before collapsing to the ground. Sucking in heavy breaths, his friend watches in horror as the man writhes in the dirt foaming at the mouth, before settling into the blank stare of death.

What the hell? I look at my hands, which are burning along with the rest of my skin, before turning back to the man with the gun. He holds the pistol up to me, his hands shaking, and I lunge for him. My hands touch the sides of his face and his eyes instantly roll back in his head, the gun clattering to the ground, before he falls to the same deadly state as his friend.

Shoulders heaving from fear and effort, I stare at the two men for a few moments before the sounds of the city pull me from my stupor. Rain begins to fall from the sky, drenching my clothes, and I am unable to move. My whole body is shaking, my muscles weak with fear and the adrenaline expenditure.

Come on, Chloe, I scold myself. Move, you idiot!

I kneel by each of the men, checking their pulses, and confirm that they are both exactly as I fear - dead.

Oh shit.

A loud crack of lightning illuminates the alley, and I force myself to move. Reaching into the pocket of the man who took my wallet, I clumsily retrieve my credit cards, money, and phone before grabbing my now-soaked purse from the mud and shoving my belongings in it.

Without looking behind me, I take off in a dead sprint for home, my skin still burning with rage.

Dead. They're dead. I...I think I killed them.

*****
AUTHOR'S NOTE

What did you think of that chapter? Let me know in the comments! I hope you loved it. I'm thrilled to be diving into the world of Bucky Barnes and the post-Civil War Marvel universe, and I'm so glad you're here to join me.

A few things worth noting:

1) EXPECT UPDATES. Other than this coming week, I update very regularly. For my last fanfiction, I updated every 3 days - if not more often. There were times when I updated daily (for weeks at a time), and I have been known to produce a random triple update. Seriously.

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