Chapter 10: The Apocalypse (Part 1)

You sat restlessly, drumming your fingers against the tabletop as you waited for the arrival of the psych evaluator. The latest in a series of assessments designed to determine whether you posed a threat.
 
It had been two weeks since your discovery, and the Avengers' reluctance to offer any clear answers had only heightened local law enforcement's impatience. They had insisted on taking a more proactive role, dispatching a team of psychiatrists to conduct their own battery of tests, determined to cut through the mystery you presented.
 
The door swung open, and in strode a middle-aged woman in a crisp pantsuit, a thin folder tucked under one arm.
 
“Y/N,” she smiled, “my name is Dr Glueck. I'll be conducting your psychiatric evaluation today."
 
You watched as Dr Glueck pulled out a series of cards from her folder, laying them on the steel table between you. The familiar black inkblots stared back at you, and something inside you stirred. Muscle memory of having done this before? Perhaps. Though you couldn’t place when or where.
 
"Really?" you scoffed, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "The Rorschach test?”
 
“Sounds like you’re familiar…”
 
“A projective psychological test developed in the ‘20s, designed to analyse personality characteristics and emotional functioning through subjects' perceptions of inkblots." You paused, surprised by your own knowledge. "Except it's about as scientifically valid as reading tea leaves."
 
Dr Glueck's smile faltered slightly. "You seem quite knowledgeable about psychological assessment methods."
 
"Apparently so." You leaned back in your chair, studying her reaction. "What's next? The Thematic Apperception Test? Maybe some word association? I have to wonder how many times I've sat across from someone like you, being evaluated like a specimen under glass."
 
She made a note on her pad. You could practically read the subtext:
 
“Subject displays defensive behaviour, possible anti-authority tendencies.”
 
The thought amused you.
 
"You seem uncomfortable with being assessed," Dr Glueck probed, setting aside the inkblot cards.
 
"What I'm uncomfortable with is the pretence," you replied, gesturing to the cards. "If you want to know if I'm stable enough to be released, or dangerous enough to be contained, just ask. Though I suspect you people will find my answer as reliable as seeing butterflies and blood spatter in random-ass ink patterns."
 
Dr Glueck sat back, studying you with intrigue. "And what do you think the answer is?"
 
The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you were struck by its heft. Are you dangerous? The names tattooed on your back suggested connections to some of the most powerful people on Earth. The ZIP in your system implied someone wanted you to forget… But was it to protect you, or to protect others from you?
 
"I think," you answered carefully, "that if I were truly dangerous, I wouldn't be sitting here taking psych tests. The fact that I am suggests either I've been thoroughly vetted already, or someone very powerful is vouching for my stability… The question isn't whether I'm dangerous, Doctor. It's why someone went to such lengths to make me forget who I am."
 
You noticed the doctor’s hand trembling slightly as she made additional notes. Whatever she expected from this session, this wasn't it. You had managed to turn her evaluation into your own assessment of the situation. And you could see in her eyes that she knew it, too.
 
"Let's try a different approach," she said, closing her folder and setting it aside. "Let's start with something simple… What are some of your immediate needs?"
 
The laugh erupted from your lips, unexpected and raw, building until you were clutching your stomach.
 
"My needs?" You wiped tears from your eyes, but the laughter kept bubbling up, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "My needs… Alright, well, let's see... I'd love a pair of jeans instead of these S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued sweatpants. Maybe some socks without the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo stamped on them?" You lifted your foot onto the table, showcasing the black letters stretched across your ankle.
 
Dr Glueck shifted in her chair, her composure cracking.
 
"Oh, and how about a toothbrush that isn't labelled 'Property of Avengers Medical Wing'?" Your laughter died abruptly, leaving a hollow echo in the room. "Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning in a monitoring cell, Doctor? To stare at the same four walls, counting the ceiling tiles because they won't even give you a book without reviewing its contents first?"
 
You stood, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "I'd love a window. Just one window. Instead of these…" you rapped your knuckles against the tiled walls, "…and maybe a bed. A real bed. One that doesn't feel like it’s meant for the infirmary."
 
Turning back to her, you spread your arms wide. "But hey, at least I have this lovely outfit. Grey really brings out the institutional feel, don't you think? Makes me wonder what my favourite colour was. Blue? Red? Do I look good in black, or did I prefer pastels?" Your voice cracked on the last word, unable to keep your emotions at bay.
 
Dr Glueck stopped writing, her pen frozen mid-stroke.
 
"So yes, Doctor, let's talk about my immediate needs." You sank back into your chair, suddenly fed up with the session. "I need my life back. I need to know why these… these interrogation rooms feel strangely familiar. I need to understand why I feel more comfortable around the likes of Vision than actual people."
 
You leaned forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. "But mostly, I need someone to look me in the eye and tell me the effing truth. Because right now, all I own in this world is a set of borrowed clothes and three names carved into my skin. How's that for immediate needs?"
 
The silence that followed was deafening. Dr Glueck's gel pen left a dark blot on her paper, spreading like one of her discarded inkblot tests.
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
You hung back for a few moments after Glueck had left. She didn’t need to say anything; you knew her assessment had painted you as unstable, a liability, perhaps even a threat. Your inexplicable knowledge of psychiatric assessments, your aggressive outbursts, your maniacal laughter… At best, you could hope for ‘high-functioning psychopath’. Thank God you hadn’t attacked her. They’d have strapped you in a straitjacket faster than you can say Ted Bundy!
 
With a sigh, you rose from your chair, the legs scraping against the tiled floor. The sound echoed through the empty halls as you stepped out… Too empty… Had the team left? Collectively decided to make themselves scarce after your outburst?
 
“Stop it, you’re an amnesiac, not a narcissist,” you muttered to yourself.

Your steps carried you past the darkened training room windows and the vacant common area until you found yourself drawn to a warm glow spilling from beneath a heavy oak door. The library maybe? Your hand settled on the brass handle and turned, slowly easing the door open until your eyes landed on a pair of feet kicked up from behind a desk.
 
There, relaxed in a vast leather armchair, sat Natasha. Her crimson hair spilled over her shoulder, creating a curtain between you. She didn't look up, didn't acknowledge your presence, but her exasperated sigh told you she knew exactly who had entered.
 
The silence stretched on, the only sound being the whisper of her turning the page and your own heartbeat. Like everything else about her, Nat’s indifference felt calculated. But that wasn’t much of a surprise. You found yourself cataloguing details: the well-worn leather jacket draped over the coat rack, a vintage Russian nesting doll on one of the bookcases, the combat boots juxtaposed to the pink ballet slippers haphazardly tossed in the corner… The space looked lived in. Uniquely hers.
 
Finally, she spoke, still not looking up from her book.
 
"I heard you gave the psych lady quite a show." Her voice carried a hint of amusement, though her expression remained neutral. "Something about S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued socks pissing you off?"
 
You leaned back against a nearby bookshelf, crossing your arms over your chest. "Word travels fast around here."
 
"When you've lived here long enough, it kinda has a way of finding you." She turned a page, her eyes never leaving the text. "Though I have to say, the part about the inkblots? That was my favourite. Really showed off your... colourful personality."
 
"Colourful?” you snorted. “That's one way to put it."
 
Shifting your weight, you glanced around the library, taking in the towering shelves and cozy nooks. "I'm surprised you're the one left to babysit me. Shouldn't you be off, I don't know, avenging someone?"
 
When Nat finally looked up, you were struck by the sharpness in her gaze.
 
"Trust me, this isn't babysitting." She closed the book with a decisive snap and turned in her seat, angling her body toward you. "The others are dealing with something bigger… I drew the shortest straw."
 
You ventured forward, gesticulating to the armchair opposite her. "Mind if I join you?"
 
"It's a free country; not like I can stop you."
 
You settled into the chair, the scent of old books enveloping you.
 
"So the psych evaluation..." Nat started again, voice still carefully monotoned. "They say you can leave yet?"
 
"Uh, no... I don't think I gave them anything to work with. I'm still just..."
 
"A threat? Red herring?" Her lips curled into a sardonic smile.
 
"I was going to say 'specimen'. Quite frankly, I'm starting to feel like that's all there is to me."
 
Nat's eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "At least it’s something. Most people would kill to be the centre of attention like this."
 
The flippant remark stung. You felt your composure start to fray. "That's the problem. I don't want to be a spectacle. I don't want to be the mystery that everyone is dying to solve. I just want to feel... normal. Whole. Like I have a place in this world that isn't defined by what's been done to me."
 
"Normal?" Nat let out a humourless chuckle. "Take a look around. There's no such thing as normal around here. We have two super soldiers from the early 1900s, a brainy billionaire too ambitious for his own good, a god from another world, a man whose temper tantrum turns him into a big, green… Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough, I guess…"
 
Shifting in her chair, she fixed you with a steady gaze. "Look, I get it, okay? Waking up with a blank slate, feeling like you're just a means to an end for someone else’s plan…" Her lips thinned into a tight line. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not the only one with that sob story."
 
You stared at her, stunned. "You mean, you–?"
 
Nat held up a hand, cutting you off. "I'm not here to compare trauma. We’re not trauma-bonding right now. We all have our scars. Let’s leave it at that."
 
You flinched at the bite in her voice, averting your gaze at the sheer awkwardness of the moment. But her disposition softened, albeit fractionally.
 
"Fine! Fine. If you’re real. If all this isn’t one big elaborate scheme… One day, there's going to be a chance for you to do something with your life. A chance to find something greater... be something greater than what's been taken away. What you do with that opportunity is up to you."
 
The conviction in her words struck a chord deep within you, igniting a spark that had lain dormant for… God knows how long. Possibility unfurled in your mind like a lotus blossom. If Nat could see beyond the spectre of your past, then perhaps there was more to you than the hopeless specimen you'd come to accept.
 
A surge of hunger—no, of power—coursed through your veins, heady and intoxicating. Suddenly, the world felt pliable, a canvas upon which you could paint your own destiny. So what if you couldn't control the circumstances that had led you here? You could still seize the reins of your future. If you wished to hold the universe in the palm of your hand, then bloody hell, that’s exactly what you would do.
 
In that moment of bewildering inspiration, you yearned to burst forth, to shed the shackles of your amnesiac state and emerge reborn. No more would you be a number, a nameless statistic. A mere pawn in someone else's game. You would carve out a place for yourself, cement a legacy that would echo through the ages. Nay, through the galaxies!
 
Nat watched you, almost warily, as the transformation played out across your features. The once-lost, uncertain girl she had encountered mere moments ago had been replaced by a woman brimming with a sense of purpose and a hunger for power that bordered on the edge of madness.
 
But her expression suddenly shifted, her disposition relaxing into a tranquil mask. Her eyes, however, were wide, glassy, as if she was seeing something far beyond the confines of the library.
 
Before her eyes, a vision unfolded. A glimpse into a future of chaos and destruction. She saw the Avengers, adrift in a spacecraft, hurtling toward a fiery black hole at the centre of the galaxy. And there, amid the cosmic mayhem, was you—or someone who shared your likeness—absorbing the flames that threatened to consume everything in their path.
 
Nat watched, hypnotised, as your DNA underwent a transformation, shifting and mutating before her very eyes. And on Earth, the apocalypse had begun. Cities burning… people engulfed in an all-consuming fire… Thor, on his knees, crying out in exertion, while Nat herself fought alongside Wanda against a shadowy figure whose face she couldn’t make out.
 
The vision culminated in a jarring close-up, a face that was both familiar and utterly alien. Was it you? Nat couldn't be sure, but the implications were clear: this being would be the cause of the world's undoing.
 
A shudder ran through Nat's body as the vision faded, leaving her disoriented and shaken. Her eyes snapped to yours, the fear in them undisguised. "Y/N… What in the hell was that?"
 

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