Sharon Carter's lucky number is 13 (luckythirteen) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-08-28 13:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, sharon carter |
a sharonarrative
Who: Sharon Carter
What: A little Task
Where: Places Unknown
When: Now
Warnings: More Mind Fuckery
It had been five days since the last procedure. She didn't remember it, didn't remember anything except what they wanted her to, she smiled and laughed with her colleagues and went to her quarters after a day at her console. All told it was a normal day at the facility. Maybe she was in the army, she didn't really know, and she didn't really care that she didn't know. There were exercises in the morning and PT in the afternoon, there were tests in the evening, and meals in between, there were injections and one day she sat in a room with the doctor all day long and just listened to him talk while she talked back. She didn't remember what she told him, but she didn't really know what he'd said either at least not once it was over.
On the fifth day she was sent to archives to put something away, she'd never been sent there before, and she didn't ask or care why she was being sent there now. She was handed an envelope and told to put it in a locker. She made her way there, not curious, not caring, just going about her day. Like she had every day. For how long? Forever?
She checked in with the clerk, showed them her paperwork, retrieved a key and made her way to the designated area and opened the locker. Inside were various bits and sundry, a phone, a book, a watch, folders, a white tac suit, weapons, she felt a pang of something but she didn't know what it was. as she put the envelope inside and closed the door. She looked at the locker for a long moment and opened it again. digging through the contents she didn't know why she was doing it, she'd never done anything in her entire life (that she knew of) without a reason. Or without being told. She looked at it again. And closed the door shaking her head and walking away. She stopped. And walked back.
Opening the locker again. She took out the envelope and looked around before opening it. It wasn't sealed. It couldn't have been that important. There were pictures inside. Just a few.
She was in all of them.
But she wasn't alone in them either....Her heart rate increasing as she looked through them one by one. They had things written on the back of them, and she kept going through them over and over and over and over again "Gwen cheats @ poker," "Bruce on Valentine's day," "Steve @ Chincoteague."
She shook her head. Feeling like she should know.....Something. Every single one of the pictures evoked a feeling in her. A missing feeling that said something to her. Did she have friends? Did she have family? Did she have someone? Did she have a name? Did she need one?
She shoved the pictures back in the envelope and put them into the locker but she didn't close it. Instead she grabbed for the book. And opened it. It wasn't a storybook, or a novel. It was full of her handwriting, and that of others, and she thumbed through.
It was full of her words. She knew her handwriting immediately. That was hers. That was hard to miss. She looked around and opened her mouth to call for the clerk. But didn't. She wasn't following her task. She would be punished if caught. Why would they send her here? Were they testing her? Always. They were always testing her. What were they testing? And why? Would she pass? Did she want to pass?
Sharon. Sharon C. Was that her?
Bruce B. was looking for her. Gwen S. was looking for her. Steve R. was looking for her. Gwen who cheats at poker? Bruce from Valentine's Day? Steve from Chincoteague? Was that right? Why were they looking for her?
Would they find her if she wrote back? Did she need to be found? Did they want to hurt her? She was safe here. They always told her she was safe here.
She slipped the book under her shirt, locked the locker, and slipped out of the archives with a nod to the clerk and back to her quarters citing a headache.
Sitting at her desk she opened the drawer and pulled out a pen.