Avenger Assembled Posted December 9, 2009 Posted December 9, 2009 Late September ================================================================================ Sanctum Sanctorum. Home. All around her, Nadia's barren windowless apartment echoed with the ghosts of jobs past. The only decorations were a weapon here, or a scrap of uniform there. This was not a place of creature comforts, there was no area to relax, kick back and enjoy. It was a safe haven, and designed to give its occupant an edge, and a place to sleep without worrying about those ghosts which had so unwillingly gave up the tokens on the walls. Standing in the stainless steel bathroom, she let the warm shower water run down her face. Yet, the reflection that looked back at her in the polished walls was not truly hers. With a frown, the face shifted again to someone else from some other time; one of the many ghosts that seemed to demand more and more of her attention. As the steam danced across the surface of the polished walls, so too did the myriad of faces that looked back at her. Who was she? It was a question that oft been on her mind lately as a strange and budding sense of morality was conflicting what was a very ordered and simple life. The face looking back at her in the reflection shifted again, showing some past victim, or mark. Did it really matter? What was a face anyway? It was something to fool the millions of sheep who bleated their way through life every day. So why couldn't she remember her own? Wrinkles appeared on her brow as she concentrated, willing the flesh to mold into a more familiar visage. While she could recall people from years past, associates, enemies, a scant few friends; none of those faces was her own. Would it matter if she could never find it again? As she struggled with the reflection, a small led flashed red. There was someone in her apartment. Instantly, the struggle with her looks fell to the wayside. Porting directly out of the shower into her family room she saw the man with his back turned, looking at her sparse decor. Whirling like a dervish, her Caproia powered kick streaked out towards his unprotected head. Yet her predator was no helpless burglar. Somehow he had sensed her and his fist, a grip of iron, wrapped around her ankle, tossing her to the ground. With catlike grace, she rolled and was springing to her feet when a familiar voice spoke out. "Nadia? Is being some kind of joke, no?" came her father's heavily Russian accented voice. "Father!" she stammered, "I'm sorry¦ I forget you were coming¦" "Is fine, always is to be expecting trouble. Happy only to seeing daughter,' he replied with the faintest hint of a smile. "Even if being wet like fish." It was then that her recalcitrant face snapped back into place; its true form. To her father, no disguise would matter. He saw only his little girl, now and forever. With that revelation, the mask disappeared and the daughter emerged, beaming and happy.
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