The roar of my motorcycle engines pierces through the bustling Boston streets as I weave in and out of midday traffic. Each carefully executed maneuver through the crowded streets feels like a dance; a choreography of survival instincts through years of evasiveness and navigating a world that once held me hostage. Old habits, woven into the fabric of my being, surface like specters as I navigate the city's labyrinth.

The breeze, crisp and insistent, whips against my face even through the helmet's visor, carrying a tang of salt from the nearby harbor. It's a bittersweet reminder of the freedom I now possess–an escape from the controlled environment that once dictated my every move. As I speed along the streets, the tag of my leather jacket flutters like an annoying companion, tickling the back of my neck. A small, irrelevant irritation that contrasts with the rush of adrenaline that courses through my veins, grounding me in the present moment while my mind races ahead of the task at hand: finding my way into Rawlins' Science and Research Company.

Guided by muscle memory and my clandestine knowledge of the building, I make my way towards the back entrance of the building that sits along the Boston Harbor. Pulling out back, I kill the engine and dismount the motorcycle, pulling off my helmet with a gentle ease. The industrial landscape stretches out before me, and the distant sounds of the harbor merge with the urban symphony of Boston's city life.

Reaching the back door, I take a moment to survey the surrounding areas. The memories of my life as a part of Hydra resurfaces, my old habits instinctively guiding my actions. It seems as though these old habits die hard. But these days, I don't operate under an alias. The name Avalon, once a mere facade, now resonates with a strength that wasn't present before–an identity reclaimed from the clutches of deception.

The Rawlins facility, the empire that my father built from the ground up, awaits my intrusion. The imposing structure seems to exhale the sins concealed within its walls. I've been here once since 1949, but this time, it's different. It's personal. My fingers graze the lock, offering me minimal resistance as I easily break it open. The door yields to my touch, creaking open to reveal the narrow hallway within. The air within carries a heavy weight, the scent of aged paper and the faint mustiness of disuse accompanying my every step. Fleeting moments of my time spent working as a forensic scientist surge through my mind, reminding me of the life I led before my humanity was twisted into something unrecognizable.

Navigating the corridors, I follow the signs that'll take me to someone who knows where these old files will be located. Its a part of the facility that I remember well, hidden away like a chamber of secrets. The rhythmic hum of machinery and distant voices of employees form a discordant melody, serving as a backdrop to my covert mission; it is a reckoning with the ghosts of a life that was stolen from me.

I advance cautiously through the building. The Research Center was the last place I was normal. It is where I was human, but also where my humanity died, and someone else took my place. Although the overhead lights flicker briefly, the space is not unfamiliar. It's a landscape of my past, holding both the echoes of scientific inquiry and the lingering presence of the darkness that followed suit.

I often find myself longing for answers, even if it seems repetitive. I want to know what went wrong and why I deserve the life I have. While some may appreciate an extended life, it's not something I'd wish on anyone. The persistent pursuit of truth gnaws at my core, leaving me unable to find rest. My quest for information has become a source of torment, keeping me awake as I try to unravel the threads of my past. I'm desperate to understand why I was thrown into a life that refuses to let go of my soul.

As I get to the end of the long hallway, I notice a set of stairs leading upwards, hidden in the dimly lit corner. The hum of machinery fades away with every step, replaced by the subtle echoes of my own footsteps on the metal staircase. It's a journey into the archives that mirrors my descent into the depths of a twisted fate. The ascent feels symbolic, a metaphorical climb towards the answers that have been elusive to me for far too long. Each step brings me closer to the realm of suppressed memories and secrets that have been stashed away.

Reaching the final step, I find myself in the quieter section of the facility, away from the daily hustle that consumes this place. A hallway stretches out before me, lined with nondescript doors that may hold the key to unlocking the mysteries I seek to unravel. The glow of the fluorescent lights overhead casts an eerie pallor on the surroundings, accentuating the anticipation that hangs over me.

Walking down the corridor, my senses heighten, attuned to the subtle nuances of my surroundings. The air is tinged with a scent of disinfectant, a fragrance that hurls me back to a time that I felt like I belonged somewhere and was doing something to make a difference in the world. A time before Hydra dictated my future and turned me into someone I didn't ask to be. The quietude of this upper floor contrasts with the controlled chaos that surrounds it, and for a moment, I savor the solitude before delving into the heart of the facility's history.

I proceed to cautiously roam the hallways until I come across an employee, engrossed in sorting through a stack of papers at a nearby desk. Taking a deep breath, I compose myself, aware that this could go south if I'm not smart about it. I proceed forward, the soft taps of my boots against the linoleum floor alerts them to my presence. They look up, giving me a smile and offering a polite nod. Without missing a beat, I decide to seize the opportunity that has presented itself.

"Excuse me," I begin, adopting an air of nonchalance and innocence. "I'm a student from Boston University. I was wondering where the old files and archives are kept. I'm looking for some documents related to the early project of this facility."

The employee, seemingly unfazed by my request, points down the hallway. They seem accustomed to these kinds of interactions. "Just keep going straight, take a left at the end, and you'll find the archive room. It's not used much these days, so you should be able to find what you're looking for."

I express my gratitude with a nod and a small smile, concealing the urgency and intent behind my unusual search. Following the directions they provided for me, I stroll down the hallways, my steps purposeful and measured. The anticipation that grows with me builds with each passing moment, knowing that the answers I seek and the ones I'm afraid of, may just lie around the corner.

Approaching the door labeled 'Archives', I can feel the gravity of the situation intensify. This is the company's historical repository, which may complete my unsolved puzzle.  My hand hesitates, realizing I am about to uncover things that were never meant to be known. Perhaps I shouldn't have gone this far, but it's too late to turn back now. I refuse to let fear dictate my fate.

The room is a labyrinth of shelves, each stacked with boxes, folders, and dusty files. It's a forgotten realm, untouched by the daily operations of the facility. The quest for answers, though daunting, fuels my resolve to confront the phantoms of my previous life. Rummaging through the meticulously organized shelves, I can't help but marvel at the sheer volume of information contained within this forgotten chamber. Being surrounded by undisclosed documents and files is overwhelming, but my curiosity resonates with the significance of the history they safeguard. Standing here is like a journey through time, and I'm both the archaeologist and the relic, seeking to piece together a story that was scattered across time and space.

Among the forgotten documents, I come across a file with my name on it. Cautiously, I open the folder, revealing my own employee file from a time when I was blissfully unaware of the web of deception that entangled my life. A time where I was focused on science, unsolved mysteries, and the horrors of the war. The revelations written within are staggering, each page unraveling a carefully woven plan of manipulation. Any glimmer of hope I had that this life was a mere accident is slowly falling apart at the seams. Maybe I chose this life for myself, but I have a hard time believing that it was my own curiosity that killed me.

Within the yellowed pages of my files, the sinister plot against me unfolds in a cold, calculator language. Scanning through the pages, my eyes widen at the discovery of a written agreement signed by Dr. Lorenzo Rawlings and Johann Schmidt. The words on the paper make it painfully clear that from a young age, my life was orchestrated to be handed over to a higher power. It is a document that reveals a meticulously planned trajectory that was set into motion before I ever stepped foot into the Rawlins Science and Research Center. An agreement decided even before I knew what I wanted to do with my life. In fact, the essence of my very existence was bound to a dark alliance, a pact made without my consent, condemning a life of violence I never chose.

It becomes evident that my father willingly offered up his only daughter as a pawn in a grander scheme, exchanging her future for the twisted benefits that Hydra promised. It's this moment I realize the magnitude of my father's betrayal and his assent to the sinister ranks of Hydra. This facility, once a symbol of scientific progress and expansion, now harbors the sordid legacy of Hydra's Influence.

For Lorenzo, he made a choice that would make him untouchable. For Hydra, they would finally have a weapon to destroy him.

And I did exactly that. I destroyed him.

The echoes of this unholy alliance reverberates through the cold, silent corridors of the Rawlins facility, bearing witness to the diabolical collaboration that transpired in the shadows. It's a realization that underscores the sinister dance my father engaged in, entangled with an organization whose malevolence knew no bounds.

With these documents, I find photographs captured from my youth, innocuous at first glance, but now tainted by the knowledge that every smile, every accomplishment, was orchestrated by unseen hands. My academic achievements, my foray into forensic science–all stepping stones towards a fate I could never have fathomed. It's like every thought and memory was all planned out with perfect precision–until I woke up seventy years later.

Mission reports detail the detailed observations Hydra had conducted on me, dissecting my every move, habits, and interaction. It's unsettling to see my life laid bare on these pages, It's as if I were an experiment under a microscope, each aspect of my existence analyzed and cataloged. But essentially, I was their science experiment, and they had me exactly where they wanted me to be.

Diving deeper into the file, the cold reality of my captivity becomes apparent. Hydra, an unseen puppeteer, manipulated my life behind the scenes. The details of my forced entry into their cruel world, the indoctrination, and the erasure of memories--all precisely documented, providing a horrifying account of the depths they went to shape me into their perfect weapon. But to my surprise, they knew it wouldn't be an easy feat and I made things difficult for them. In the margins of those clinical reports are notes, frustrations, and evidence of resistance. The young woman they sought to mold into a compliant assassin fought back, an indication to the unyielding spirit that refused to be extinguished even in the face of such animosity. 

Upon learning this shocking information, I realize that my fascination for the Winter Soldier program was not natural, but instead, a result of carefully orchestrated responses. I was intrigued by it and wanted to investigate its cause, but it was as if I stumbled upon it too effortlessly. I was marked to become a crucial component for the program, and it wasn't by mere accident; it was a seed planted in the fertile soil of my subconscious. My very thoughts, desires, and ambitions were sculpted by Hydra. And I was led to believe I was doing this research on my own free will.

The weight of this is staggering, and I find myself grappling with the profound implications of a life crafted by others. The echoes of my own agency, already distant whispers, are drowned out by the deafening roar of manipulation. My thoughts spin in my head a mile a minute, trying to grasp onto anything that will keep me grounded. But the only thing I can think of is: who else was involved in this?

As I immerse myself in the chilling findings of my past, tracing the steps of a life I barely recognize, the air in the secluded room shifts. The creaking of the door hinges alerts me to an unexpected intruder, someone unaware of the ghostly figures navigating the labyrinth of forgotten assignments and secrets. Caught in the act, my heart skips a beat as I turn to face the person who disrupted me. A fellow employee, a curious bystander who stumbled upon my secret operations within this forgotten room, stands in the doorway. His eyes meet mine, a mixture of surprise and suspicion evident in their expression.

"What are you doing here?" the man inquires, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space.

I place the file down on the table in front of me, flipping through it like I'm searching for something specific. "Just looking for some old files that I need for a project I'm working on," I reply with practiced nonchalance, adopting the disguise of a student from Boston University.

He raises an eyebrow, not fully convinced of my reasoning. "Oh right, for Dr. Lowell's class?" He questions me, and I know to go with it.

"That's the one"

"Hm. I've been working with students from the university for nearly a decade," he states, clearly hesitant with his words. I look up at him, giving him a slight smile in acknowledgement, before looking back through the file. He speaks up, "There is no Dr. Lowell."

I stop, trying to think of an excuse to come up with before I open my mouth. Quickly, I reply, "Must not be working with them that much. He's an adjunct." I look at him again, and it's clear he isn't buying into my lies. He slowly makes his way further into the room, causing me to take a few steps back. Good thing I came prepared for this.

"You don't work here either, do you?" He questions again, and I have to keep myself composed. I did work here, but it's been a few decades. I eye him closely, not wanting to answer. "What's your name?"

I stifle a laugh, my hand hovering over the knife in my waistband. I knew that if things went south, I had to be prepared for anything. "Let's not complicate things. You didn't see me. I wasn't here. Clear?" I say, my words come off harsh towards the man.

And suddenly, His eyes widen, and the color drains from his face as if he's seen a ghost. "Wait, you're–," he begins to speak, threatening to speak my name.

I cut him off, my voice projecting throughout the room, "If you dare to speak of this encounter, you won't like the consequences. Understood?" I threaten him, making him take a few steps back. I am aware that my Hydra file is publicly available, and he is well aware of my capabilities.

The gravity of my words hang in the air as I issue a warning, making it abundantly clear that my presence here is to remain a secret. The intruder hesitates, torn between his curiosity and the apprehension of potential repercussions. His nod signifies an unspoken agreement, and with a final warning glance, I return to my clandestine exploration of the room's well documented history.

Alone once more, the door settling into its frame, I return to my task at hand. This task is a relentless pursuit of discovering the truth that propels me to delve deeper into the secrets concealed within these neverending documents. My eyes scan the multitude of files that lay before me, hoping to uncover the enigma that is Blake Fitzgerald–the man who was once my fiancé. In a strange twist of fate, or perhaps by design, his presence emerges from the depths of these files.

A new folder catches my attention, its label intriguingly vague yet promising, labeled "Special Projects." I pull it out of the stack, the paper crackling as I open it to reveal a trove of information. There, nestled among covert operations and conceal experiments, is a bombshell that sends shivers down my spines. Blake, it seems, was on my father's payroll, a pawn in this game, but the details remain vague and elusive.

The absence of detail only deepens the mystery surrounding Blake and his possible involvement. Out of all things I've come to remember, Blake is one that I can't seem to bring myself to. However important he may have been, it seems like my mind is protecting me from something. What role did he play in my father's grand scheme? Was he a mere pawn, like me, or a more deliberate player in this malevolent chessboard? My mind races with these questions, but the answers elude me, veiled by the shadows of secrecy woven into the fabric of my father's sinister legacy.

Yet, my intuition tingles at the edge of my consciousness, hinting that Blake's presence in my life wasn't incidental. He was a person intricately placed into my orchestrated life. Whether that is true or not, I don't know how to react. As I try to piece together my life story, Blake remains a puzzle piece that does not fit into the larger picture. His involvement doesn't make sense, but at the same time, it does. And I have my father to thank for that.

And I have to remind myself that it's okay to be angry. It's towards my father and the lengths he went to destroy me. It's the life he forced me to leave behind. But this is not about revenge; it's about dismantling the legacy of pain and control he left behind in my wake.

***

          The rain is falling, creating a melancholic symphony that echoes my solitude and my search for answers. As I get back on my bike, the reflection of the city dances in the puddles under my boots. The distant sound of sirens and the rhythmic tapping of raindrops on my helmet become the only witnesses to my nocturnal escape.

Before starting my motorcycle, a shiver runs down my spine, a subtle yet unmistakable feeling of being watched. It's as if a pair of unseen eyes bore into the back of my skull. The raindrops seem to whisper secrets, and the shadows talk, conspiring in a silent symphony. By instinct, I glance over my shoulder, surveying my surroundings out of pure instinct. The feeling of being watched, an indescribable feeling in the air, amplifies the nocturnal tensions.

Ignoring the unease, I rev the engine, its low growl echoing through the quiet alley. With my helmet secured, I navigate the slick streets, acutely aware that the unseen observer might be a harbinger of impending danger. The dim lights flicker over the wet asphalt as I speed away, the city's secrets unraveling in the rain-soaked night. I blend into the night, a lone silhouette navigating these dark street, haunted by my past and the relentless pursuit of discovering the truth.

The roar of my motorcycle engine resonates through the alley as I weave through the dampened streets. Raindrops cling to my leather jacket, glistening like liquid diamonds under the glow of streetlights. Despite the rhythmic pattering, the unease nags at the periphery of my senses. I've become adept at reading the signs–the lingering feeling of being followed, the faint echo of footsteps trailing my every move.

As I drive through alley by alley, the ominous feeling intensifies. I can almost hear the whispers of shadows conspiring against me. In a calculated decision, basing off my natural instinct, I veer off my path, opting for unpredictability to outrun those who tread behind. But the shadows are relentless, and the pursuers anticipate my every move. The thrill of the chase amplifies, a game where the stakes are of life and death. The cityscape morphs into an eerie picture, the beat of the rain now a percussive backdrop to my quick, evasive maneuvers.

Knowing I can't keep running forever, I come to a sudden halt, the engine's growl extinguishing into silence. Removing my helmet, I step off the bike, the asphalt slick beneath my boots. The alley, veiled in darkness, conceals their presence, yet their silent menace is palpable. Their breaths, a disorderly symphony, reverberates through the obscurity. Today, however, fortune isn't in their favor, for they've chosen a woman with a very particular set of skills. A woman made for war.

A knowing smirk dances on my lips as I turn to face the ominous figures emerging from the darkness. Their silhouettes, rendered indistinct by the shifting shadows, seems almost ethereal against the glow of distant streetlights. The tensions rise between the men and I, a charged energy that transcends the mundane reality of the alley. I can already sense their motives, waiting for their opportune moment to strike. I expected this day, but I won't surrender easily. As the raindrops continue their gentle descent, I square my shoulder, my gaze unwavering, and the smirk morphs into a silent declaration. This dark alley transforms into a battleground where predators and prey clash under the night sky.

My laughter echoes off the walls, a chilling prelude to the inevitable confrontation."You picked the wrong day to play the hunter," I taunt, smirk still adorning my lips as the emerging figures come to a halt in front of me.

One of the men, who seems to be the leader, speaks up. "You cannot escape this fate, Red Ghost. We've been waiting for this moment," his response is laced with malice.

It doesn't matter how many warnings they make, nor more than how much determination they have to kill me, I remain unmoved. "I am not just the Red Ghost," I declare, the words cutting through the ominous atmosphere, "My name is Avalon." The smirk becomes more than just a mere expression; it evolves into a declaration of resistance, a symbol of my resolve not to be eclipsed by my own reputation.

I can't help but laugh, a mirthless melody that hangs in the air like a bad omen. The Inevitability of this confrontation, a macabre dance of predator and prey, paints the scene with an almost surreal inexorability. The tension in the alley thickens as they make their move, brandishing their guns with a misguided sense of confidence.

Their first lunges are calculated, aimed at vulnerabilities they assume will bring me down. However, guns never scared me. In a swift motion, I disarm them with a practiced efficiency that leaves them momentarily bewildered. They don't know about my training, who I am, or what I've accomplished. It doesn't look good for them, and I plan on making it out alive.

Unfazed by their failed attempt, they switch tactics, pulling gleaming knives from the folds of their jackets. The blades glint menacingly in the ambient glow, and I grab the knife from my waistband as they advance. I feel the cold metal against my fingertips, a familiar extension of my unyielding spirit. In a symphony of motion, I dance between their strikes, evading with an otherworldly agility.

In their frustration, they come at me again. This time, one of their knives lands with precision, leaving a stinging cut on my cheek, a crimson tribute to their undying aggression. As the quarrel intensifies, another blade finds its mark, slicing into my arm. The pain is bearable, a reminder that I am not invincible to the brutality of their assault. I understand the price I have to pay for this life. Yet, experience has sharpened my reflexes, and I retaliate with a lethal grace, disarming one of them and turning his own weapon against him.

In a fluid choreography, I draw my knives, each blade an extension of my own anguish. The alley becomes an arena where shadows dance to the rhythmic percussion of raindrops, and the gleam of steel intertwines with the murkiness of the nights. With a dancer's grace, I turn the tide, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The wet asphalt becomes my stage, each move a calculated step in the dance of death. Each move is deliberate, each counterattack a resounding echo of survival.

As the struggle unfolds, the knowing smirk transforms into a mask of stoic purpose. Each blow lands, flipping the knife from hand to hand, each parry executed with perfect precision. This turn of events reinforces the unspoken truth–I am a force to be reckoned with. This place becomes a canvas for this gruesome struggle, painted with the brushstrokes of violence and defiance against those that seek to destroy me, once and for all.

Their misguided persistence falters as my blades make their mark. In the throes of the rain-soaked alley, surrounded by the remnants of their ill-fated assault, I stand over the lifeless forms of the assailants. The alleyway transforms into a tableau of chaos, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the petrichor of the rain-soaked concrete. This fight concludes with an unsettling, piercing silence. The once-imperil figures now lay lifeless in a pool of their blood.

But my mind and body aren't working together. A tempest of rage pulses through my veins, transcending the boundaries of reason. The assailants, already lifeless, become victims of my own anguish. My knives move with a primal ferocity, a hurricane of lethal strikes driven by an unquenchable fury. Every motion, every strike, honed through the years of survival, carries an almost cathartic release.

Their throats bear the brunt of my wrath. The rain, falling like tears from the heavens, amplifies the macabre spectacle, turning this place into a sight of retribution. With each cut, a torrent of emotions unleash–the pain, betrayal, the echoes of my stolen life, and the relentless pursuit that follows my every step. The line between hunter and hunted blurs, and I become a manifestation of the assassin I've tried to erase.

In this moment, I am both the killer and the victim, dancing on the edges of a darkness that threatens to take over. The alley bears witness to the unrestrained force that is me, an entity reborn from my own torment. And as the rain washes away the remnants of their malevolence, I stand in the stillness, a storm subsiding, reclaiming the identity they sought to destroy.

The knives, once wielded as instruments of defense, find their way back into their sheaths. My composure returns like a cool breeze, and with a shaky breath, I step away from the lifeless figures that cover the ground beneath me. The world around me seems to exhale, as if to acknowledge the endless struggles that define my existence. 

Getting onto my bike, the familiar growl of the engine becomes a comforting anthem, drowning out the horrors of my recent encounter. Before I take off, I glance back at the desolate alley, where lifeless bodies remain. I don't feel any remorse for what I've done to them. I will never escape the horrors I've done, but at least I can protect myself from those who want to destroy me. At this point, I've accepted my own fate, but I will be the one to dictate it.

With a surge of power, the motorcycle propels me forward, taking me out of the alley and onto the main road. The rhythmic hum of the engine becomes my heartbeat, synchronizing with the pulse of the citylife. Ahead lies the uncertain expanse of the city, a canvas painted with the hues of both my past and future. With every mile, I reclaim parts of my identity, defying those who sought to erase me.

As the night journey, driven by my quest for answers, comes to an end, I head back to the sanctuary of my home where the Red Ghost and Avalon can coexist peacefully. The door creaks open, welcoming me back into the haven that I have created amidst the chaos of my life. As I enter, the door swings shut behind me, releasing the grip of the night and enveloping me in the comforting stillness of home.

What have I done?

a/n : this chapter took me a little while, but here she is!! avalon continues to discover the truth behind her life, but that doesn't make it easier to digest ): i really enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! let me know your thoughts :) - k