a/n: Hello all! So I decided to rewrite this story. I really liked the idea I had behind it, but I feel like I rushed it and I kinda botched Gamila's character development. This time, however, I think I've done more research about Yemeni/Islamic culture as well as more research about child soldiers. So I feel better prepared for this. Not saying I'm some sort of expert, but I know more than I did when I first started writing this.

Full Summary: Gamila Al Quarashi was taken from her home by the Houthi when she was only eleven. For the next two years, she experiences the horrors of life as a female child soldier. No one can help but notice, however, that Gamila is not like the other children. Hydra quickly takes notice of this and they turn her into a weapon for themselves. Gamila is quickly caught up in the fight between Ultron and the Avengers. Ultron says the Avengers are evil, but if they're so evil, then why do they all seem to want to help her when no one else does? The Avengers, specifically Clint Barton, decide to take Gamila in. Gamila quickly learns that life with the Avengers is in no way normal. But that's ok, because she's not normal either. And neither is that annoying little Spider that talks too much for her taste.

Main Characters: Gamila Al Qurashi/Wraith, Peter Parker/Spider-Man, Clint Barton/Hawkeye, Tony Stark/Iron Man, Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow, Steve Rogers/Captain America, Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch, Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver, Ultron, Michelle Jones/MJ, Ned Leeds, Heydar Tahan, Kareem Al Qurashi, Amira El Din

Movies: Avengers:AoU, CA:CW, Spider-Man:Homecoming, Avengers:Infinity War and Endgame, Spider-Man: FFH, and onward, possibly

Parings: Gamila Al Qurashi/Peter Parker (kind of a slow burn?)

Warnings!: It'll be a mildly violent story. Blood and death, etc. Mentions of child abuse and sexual abuse. If you're triggered by these things, you shouldn't read this story.

Face Claim for OC: Geraldine Viswanathin

Just a few notes about the story before the story begins:

~ In general, girls aren't used as actual soldiers. If they are taken from their homes, they are usually made to be wives to the men in the camp. I've tried to show that aspect, while also putting my own creative aspect on this.

~ The Houthi is an actual group in Yemen around the time this story would've taken place. They do take children from their homes and use them as soldiers. There wasn't a whole lot of detail in the articles I read on them so I don't know a whole lot about every aspect of what they do, so I'm kinda making it up as I go along. If you have more info about this, I'd love to hear it! More info is always welcome!

~ I'm the first to admit that Yemeni/Islamic culture is about as foreign to me as anything. If I've gotten something wrong, or offended anyone or anything like that, I apologize and please feel free to correct me! Constructive criticism is welcome!

~ Also, I don't speak Arabic, obviously. I used Google translate for this. If you do speak Arabic, please feel free to correct me!

Btw, I took the title of this story, "Hope Still Lingers On" from the song The World I Know by Collective Soul

Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel!

Part One: Part of Me Is Gone

"Roaming through this darkness, I'm alive but I'm alone. Part of me is fighting this, but part of me is gone!"

~ When I'm Gone by Three Doors Down

Chapter One

The first eleven years of Gamila Al Qurashi's life were her favorite. Before her eleventh birthday, everything in her life was much simpler. She had her father, Amir Al Qurashi, who taught at the local boys school. He loved and cherished each of his children very much. Gamila also had a loving mother, Nadia Al Qurashi. Nadia stayed at home with Gamila and taught her everything she knew from cooking and cleaning to what she had been taught about math and science and languages as a girl.

Gamila only went to school for the first ten years of her life, which was her one complaint about her childhood. Once she had reached puberty, she was expected to stay home with her mother, as well as to start wearing a hijab. Her mother tried to get her to wear a niqab, like she did, but Gamila was a free spirit. She only listened to what she wanted to hear, and seemed to ignore the rest.

In addition, she had a twin brother named Kareem who would tease her and play with her almost as much as he played with the boys in the village. The village they grew up in was small. It was called Al Mahwit, and there were only around 15,000 people. Most of the people there were poor farmers, simply trying to get through life without starving to death. It was a quiet life for the Al Qurashi family, and Gamila couldn't have loved it more.

Naturally, everything changed the day a group of Houthi members arrived.

Gamila would always remember that day. The absolute terror that had gripped her that night wasn't something easily forgotten.

Before that night, Gamila was often found outside, talking with her friend from next door, Amira. Amira was a year older than Gamila was, and Gamila admirer her very much. Amira had long since outgrown "childish" games, and Gamila followed suit. Instead, they would sit on the stone wall between their houses and talk about different things: their brothers, what they were doing the next day, whether or not Amira would end up marrying Kareem (Gamila liked to think that if Kareem did marry Amira, then she would finally have a sister). Amira would always blush and quickly change the subject, but not before scolding Gamila for being so bold. Gamila never liked being scolded by Amira, but she never stopped the older girl from doing so.

"Baba sayaftatih madrasatan jadidatan (Baba is going to open a new school)," Gamila told Amira conversationally. "Yaqul 'iinah sayaftatih madrasatan lilbanat aydana. (He says that he is going to open a school for girls, too.)"

Amira almost rolled her eyes at Gamila. "limadha turid aldhahab 'iilaa almudarsa? (Why would you want to go to school?)" she asked. Amira had always struggled with her learning and was grateful when her father pulled her out of school when she was ten.

She shrugged. "'uhibu alriyadiat (I like math)," she replied.

"'ant ghurayb jdaan ya jamila (You are so strange, Gamila)," Amira told her with a shake of her head.

"Gamila!" Gamila turned to see her father calling for her from the front door. He was smiling at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "'iinah waqt aleasha'. (It's time for dinner.)"

"nem ya baba (Yes, Baba)," she called back. Gamila gave Amira a quick smile. "'arak ghadaan ya 'amiaratun. (See you tomorrow, Amira.)"

"laylatan saeidat ya jamila (Good night, Gamila)," Amira replied, smiling as well. The two friends hopped off their stone wall and went their separate ways. Gamila's grin widened as she started to sprint towards her father. He would always open his arms for her and catch her in his arms.

Before the eleven year old girl could reach her father's open arms or hear his joyful laugh, there was a loud blast and a splatter of blood that stained the door of her childhood home. Amir Al Qurashi fell forward, face planting in the dust, his brains staining the dirt on the ground.

Gamila remembered screaming for him. "Baba! Baba!" she cried. Her mother came rushing out, screaming as well. Kareem was not far behind her, crying desperately for his father. They all rushed to his body, shaking him as though he would wake up. Like it was just a nightmare or a joke and any minute, Amir would sit up and laugh at them. But it wasn't a nightmare, and it wasn't a joke. It was the Houthi.

The Houthi was an organization working on dismantling the current Yemeni government. At that point, Gamila knew very little about the politics of her country, so she did not know who the Houthi were.

As the Al Qurashi family mourned the loss of their father and husband, a man approached them from the dust. He was tall and wearing dark clothes. His skin was dark and he had a clean shaven face. "Astayqiz! (Get up!)" he shouted at them, pointing a gun at them. With cries of terror, they all stood up. "La tataharak, 'aw 'ana sawf darbat rasik 'ayda! (Do not move, or I will blow your head off too!)" he told them fiercely as several more men surrounded them, pointing guns at their heads.

The man who had spoken approached them. He looked each family member over, examining each one carefully. He then grabbed Kareem's arm and started to drag him away. "La! La! Mama! (No! No! Mama!)" he screamed, reaching out for his mother. Gamila and Nadia were screaming back, reaching out for him. Nadia even started to run for her son, but she didn't get very far. A man behind them quickly shot her in the head to prevent her from reaching her son. "Mama!" Kareem and Gamila screamed at the same time, their eyes widening with terror as their mother fell to the ground right next to their father.

Adrenaline and anger rushed through Gamila. She had always been a headstrong child. She would break rules and speak openly about things she wasn't supposed to. It ended up being something that always got her in trouble. But Gamila couldn't help herself. She sprinted towards her brother and seized his hand, unwilling to lose her last family member. She wasn't thinking clearly. Deep down, a part of her knew that she could be killed for this, but that small voice seemed insignificant compared to the tremendous pounding of blood in her head.

Somewhere, far away, Gamila could hear the sounds of guns being lifted and prepared to shoot when someone spoke up. Not Kareem, but the man taking Kareem away from her. "Antzr! (Wait!)" he commanded the other soldiers. Gamila looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears and anger, before quickly looking away. "Ma aismak ya habibti? (What is your name, sweetheart?)" he asked her, his tone slightly mocking.

"Gamila," she replied, waiting for the gunshot that would take her life as well. They were bound to shoot her, after what she had done.

The man chuckled. "hadha wahid huna , hi muqatila (This one here, she is a fighter)," he said to the other men, who laughed with him. He then looked up at her face, openly leering at her. "jamilata. aism aldhy yaeni jamilun. kam 'ant jamilat ya habibati. (Gamila. A name which means beautiful. How pretty you are, sweetheart.)"

The Arabic girl said nothing. She had never been spoken to like this before. The only thing she knew was that, by some miracle, she was not dead yet. So she let the man do what he wanted. "limadha la najlub jamilatan jamilatan maeana , ya rjal? 'aetaqid 'anana ymkn 'an najid bed almajal laha fi sufufina. (Why don't we bring pretty Gamila with us, men? I think we can find some room for her in our ranks.)" He chuckled darkly and the men followed suit, as though they were clones. "tahmiluha tuslu. sawf 'amsik bialfatat min albab almujawir wasankhrij. (Load them up. I'm going to grab the girl from next door and we will head out.)"

The men followed his orders, grabbing Kareem and Gamila and dragging them towards a large truck. "'atruk 'ukhti wahaday! (Leave my sister alone!)" Kareem shouted at them angrily, struggling against his captors.

"tubqi famak mughlaqaan, fataa! (Keep your mouth shut, boy!)" one man snarled at him, slapping him harshly across the face. "sawf yataealam kl minkuma eaqd alsntk! hal tafahum? (Both of you will learn to hold your tongues! Do you understand?)"

Kareem and Gamila both nodded right away. This seemed to calm the man a little before he tossed them harshly into the truck. Moments later, a sobbing Amira was tossed next to Gamila. The doors were shut and the only life that Gamila had ever known was left in the dust, along with the fresh blood of her parents.

Three Months Later

Amira El Din was only twelve years old. Her older brothers had married wives who were at least fifteen years or older. She had always assumed that when she was married, she would be at least fifteen, just like her sisters-in-law. However, that dream flew out the window when she was taken from her home in Al Mahwit. Not even a week after she was separated from her family, Amira El Din was married to Heydar Tahan, a man nearly twenty years older than her.

Tahan was the man who had taken Gamila, Amira, and Kareem from their home in Al Mahwit. He had killed Amir and Nadia Al Qurashi and taken the three children for very specific reasons. Kareem was a strong young boy, not unlike the other child soldiers the Houthi used. Amira was a pretty girl that would make him a good wife.

Gamila Al Qurashi, however, was something different altogether.

At first, he had planned on making her another wife who would cook and clean for the men. Tahan quickly learned that that would be a waste of talent and time. Gamila was not like most girls. She was stronger than most boys her age, she was stubborn and disobedient, and she was a terrible cook. Gamila was not born to be like most Yemeni girls, she was born to be a fighter. She had a knack for it. She picked fights with the men that were twice her age (even though she always lost), she was smarter than most of the children they had taken, and she openly admitted that she would rather fight with her brother than stay and cook with the other girls.

Tahan looked down at her with faint admiration. This petite girl held more fight in her than many men. So he quickly took her out of the kitchens and onto the battlefield. He started teaching her hand to hand combat, as well as how to use knives. She had done well at this, even if she hadn't quite mastered it yet. Next, he brought out the big guns. Quite literally.

"'iilaa 'ayn nahn dhahibun? (Where are we going?)" Gamila asked Tahan as he guided her out of their camp in the desert towards an unknown terrain.

"Ah, habibati, hal turid miniya 'an 'ufsid almufaja'ata? (Ah, sweetheart, do you want me to ruin the surprise?)" he teased her. Tahan was always doing that. Gamila hated the way he spoke to her, as if she were just a stupid child. He never spoke like that to Kareem or Amira. Just her. "sa'uelamuk kayfiat 'iitlaq alnaar. (I'm going to teach you how to shoot.)"

Gamila's eyes widened. "hal hqa? (Really?)" she asked. If she was being honest, she was a little excited, despite everything that had happened. The first few weeks after being taken had been full of sadness: her parents deaths, Amira being forced to marry this man, Kareem being beaten for standing up for his sister, being beaten herself by Tahan, leaving behind Al Mahwit. It became apparent that her childhood years filled with joy were over, so Gamila quickly learned to find joy in the little things. This was one of those little things.

"Nem (Yes)," Tahan replied. "ladayk ruh alqital. sawf tajeal jndyana mmtazana balnsbt lana, habibati. (You have a fighting spirit. You will make an excellent soldier for us, sweetheart.)"

Gamila ignored his little nickname and focused on the idea of shooting. She would need to get this perfect if she wanted to avoid another beating. Tahan had a large gun strapped across his chest. It was probably nearly as tall as Gamila was, who only reached just an inch or two over four feet. Tahan noticed this as he examined the small eleven year old. She weighed maybe seventy-five pounds soaking wet. All around, she was just small. Gamila has dark black hair, matching eyes, skin the color of the dusty roads they traveled on, and a thin nose. She truly lived up to the meaning of her name, which was beautiful. More than once, a man of the Houthi would ask Tahan whether or not she was anyone's bride. Tahan always flatly denied the possibility, saying that he wanted to observe her more before she was married off. He had spent three months doing so, his eyes constantly on her back when she wasn't looking at him. Those three months taught him many things. In the end, he decided to attempt to train her to be a soldier like her brother.

If she did well during this training, he would not marry her off to anyone. Gamila would become a well trained soldier before he let that happen.

Tahan removed the gun from his shoulder. "khad hdha (Take this)," he instructed her, his voice no longer teasing, but commanding. Gamila eagerly took the gun. She was immediately taken aback by the weight of it. It was a lot heavier than she had expected. The Arabic girl nearly dropped it before she caught Tahan's disapproving eye. Gamila straightened up and picked the gun up. She gripped it, trying to put her hands where Tahan put his: her right pointer finger on the trigger, her left hand under the barrel, the butt of the gun on her right shoulder.

Tahan nodded, impressed by how quickly the girl picked things up. He walked behind her and adjusted a few things so that her posture was perfect and her grip on the gun meant that she wouldn't fail. "hsn. alan tahdif 'iilaa 'ayi makan waitilaq alnaar (Good. Now aim anywhere and shoot)," he instructed her.

With a nod, the girl focused on her surroundings. Gamila inhaled deeply, the smell of the hot, dusty earth filling her nose. She squinted and aimed the barrel of the gun at a mound of dirt about fifty feet in front of her. Her finger hovered over the trigger for a moment before she squeezed down on it. Multiple bullets fired towards the pile of dirt. Shell casings clattered on the ground. The dirt exploded and small clouds of dust filled the air. Gamila fell backwards. The kickback from such a big gun was enough to make a grown man sore after a few days of use, and the Arabic girl was so small that it sent her flying backwards.

The Arabic man noted with satisfaction that she clearly hit her target. However, she was so small that she had fallen into the dirt. He looked down at her, a mixture of anger and disappointment in his face. He reached down and pulled her to her feet by the hem of her shirt. "alhusul ealaa ma yasilu, fata (Get up, girl)," he snapped at her. "aistamara fi 'iitlaq alnnar hataa tusbih metadana ealaa alairtidadi. altaeud ealaa hadhih al'aslihati. 'iinahum al'ashkhas aldhyn satastakhdimuhum libaqiat hayatik. (Keep firing until you become used to the kickback. Get a feel for these weapons. They are the ones you will be using for the rest of your life.)"

Gamila nodded, taking Tahan's advice seriously. As much as she detested the man for killing her parents, she was also absolutely, positively terrified of him. The first night she had spent away from home, she had spent sobbing for her baba and mama. Tahan had no sympathy for her. Instead, he had beaten her until she learned to stop crying. "la yumkinuk albaka' baed alan , habibti (You cannot cry anymore, sweetheart)," he had told her. "aleawatif hi nuqtat duefa. yjb 'an takun qawiun min alan fsaedana. 'iidha bakiat marat 'ukhraa , sa'uhazimuk maratan 'ukhraa. yjb 'an tataealam alsaytarat ealaa nafsik. (Emotions are a weakness. You have to be strong from now on. If you cry again, I will beat you again. You must learn to control yourself.)" Gamila was smart enough to know that this meant that she couldn't get overly excited, angry, happy, stubborn, or sad anymore. She had to learn how to put up an emotionless mask, to appear calm though she felt both angry at, and scared of Tahan.

Tahan was well aware of Gamila's feelings towards him. He wasn't stupid. Of course the girl would hate him. He killed her parents and took her from her home. It was only natural. For now, her fear would be to his advantage. If she was scared, she wouldn't disobey him. Fear was a necessary tactic, for now. When she was older, she would hopefully turn into a powerful soldier who could look death in the eyes and feel no fear.

It would take some time, but Tahan was patient. Soon enough, Gamila would become the Houthi's greatest asset.

Gamila returned to their camp with Tahan several hours later. The sun was setting over their small base. There were several tents set up for everyone to sleep in. Most of the tents were filled with either a man and his wife or boy soldiers. Because some considered it improper for her to sleep in the same tent as any of the other boys, she had a tent all to herself, a special privilege given to only a few.

Gamila stopped by Tahan's tent to see Amira. Amira was nearing thirteen now, but she looked much older. Her eyes were constantly filled with sadness, her shoulders were hunched over, and her eyes were often red from crying. When she saw Gamila, she brightened just a little. "mrhbaan, 'amiratan (Hello, Amira)," Gamila said, trying to cheer her up. Of course, it didn't work. Gamila didn't expect it to. She only wished there was something she could do to help Amira.

Amira looked over both her shoulders to see if Tahan was anywhere nearby before she spoke. "yjb 'alla takun huna ya jamaylatan. haydar ln yakun saeidana. (You shouldn't be here, Gamila. Heydar will not be happy.)" The name Heydar sounded so unfamiliar to Gamila. She never even thought of Tahan having a first name. To her, he was always just Tahan. Tahan, the man who killed her parents. Tahan, the man who beat her until she stopped crying. Tahan, the man who married her friend who was much too young to be married in the first place. Tahan, the man she was more terrified of than anything else.

Gamila shrugged. "mataa yakun seydana? (When is he ever happy?)" she asked with a ghost of a smile. Amira forced a small smile onto her face before turning back to her cooking. Gamila knew it was pointless to keep trying. Her childhood friend was gone. Amira was just a shell of who she used to be. That's what happened to most of the children who were taken. They lost their childlike spirit and it was replaced by a somber sadness that seemed to settle over the whole camp. Gamila knew she wasn't who she used to be anymore. But she held on to what was left like a vice. Some things never change, and Gamila was determined that her fighting spirit would never disappear. One day, when she was bigger and better trained, she would take everything that Tahan was going to teach her and use it against him.

Someday, she was going to kill Tahan.

The Arabic girl walked over to the small tent where she was staying. It wasn't much, but she got it all to herself. Special privileges, since she was the only girl who was unmarried in the group. It was the smallest and dirtiest tent, and it was covered in holes, but Gamila learned to appreciate what she got. Some people didn't have any tents, so she was lucky to get any sort of coverage.

She crawled inside the small tent. Inside was a simple, dirty blanket for her to lay on and a smaller cloth to cover her while she slept. Gamila collapsed on the blanket and turned onto her back. Through a hole in the tent, she could see the night sky, which was full of stars. It was really the only beautiful thing the girl had in her life. So she stared up at the sky until exhaustion finally pulled her under.