A/N: So sorry it's taken me soooooo long to update this story! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. And thank you so so much to those who reviewed: Spirit Kiss, 3pointReview, Sam, TheDancingShadow, VanillaMarilla, Danimagus, TARDIS_follower, TheDoctor'sAmazingCompanion (fellow whovians!), Rubi Yuki, camierose. It measns a lot to me. Please review =) and enjoy!

Chapter Three:

The Curious Case of Micah Benitez

Something felt… off.

Myka felt it as soon as she woke up to the sound of unfamiliar voices around her. There were more than two, from what her muddled mind could gather, speaking in rapid, hushed tones.

Who are they?

She tried to listen to their conversation, but could barely make out what they were saying. She did, however, pick up on a few words here and there. Words like: "dangerous", "confidential", "anomaly", and "girl" caught her attention.

Are they talking about me? She wondered, and was then hit with a wave of memories. She'd woken up in a hospital bed, surrounded by unfamiliar faces telling her she'd had an accident. An accident she couldn't remember. All she could see was flashes, images of things that didn't make sense and before she could give it any more thought, she realized that the voices around her had gone quiet.

Then there was movement around her.

Footsteps approached where she lay.

An arm snaked itself underneath her neck and the other went right below her bottom. The arms lifted her from the bed, and she was mildly surprised by that because she knew she wasn't the lightest girl around. Her mother liked to point that out, and it had always made Myka self-conscious whenever someone attempted to pick her up or carry her.

Before Myka could make any noise of protest, the arms gently set her down, on what felt like, a chair, which she quickly sagged against. She didn't have the strength to sit up. Hell, she didn't even have the energy to hold her head up. She'd tried. So she just let her chin fall to her chest, and lull to the side.

Hands grabbed hers, placing something cold around her wrists with a soft click. Another set of footsteps approached her from behind, grabbing on to the chair and began to push.

Am I… sitting in a wheelchair?

She tried to open her eyes every now and then, catching small, blurry glimpses of a long hallway and people moving about, but found it difficult to keep them open for too long. Everything felt like it was moving at a speed different from her own. She felt disoriented, sluggish, and nauseous.

Had she been drugged? Was this what being drugged felt like?

Slam!

The sound of a door closing shut brought her back somewhat. She realized that she was no longer moving, and for a while, Myka felt herself drifting off, and began to dream.

She was falling, spinning, reaching for something to grasp but there was nothing, and she panicked, screaming until her throat felt raw. She could feel herself quickly approaching the ground, but just before she did, her body jolted and she awoke, startled and breathing rapidly as though she'd been running.

"Bad dream?" Someone asked. The husky voice belonged to a woman, who Myka hadn't realized was sitting across from her, on the other side of a table with a laptop open beside her. She wore a white buttoned up shirt with a black blazer, curly red hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked familiar.

Myka shut her eyes tightly, ignoring the question and the thought. When she opened them again, the woman was still staring at her intently.

"Where... am I?" She asked, words coming out of her sluggishly as she raised her hand to run across her sleepy face, but they jerked back into place, her wrist hurting a little. She looked down in confusion.

Handcuffs.

Myka looked back up at the redhead, and she was sure she was accurately showing her confusion. "What is this?" She asked, motioning to her wrists.

The redhead smiled, lazily. "A precaution."

"Why? Am I... am I in trouble?"

"Like I said: just a precaution. My name is Natasha Romanoff. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you, and would like your full cooperation if possible. I think it would be in your best interest to do so."

"I don't ... I don't understand. What did I do?" She asked, her voice sounding small even to her own ears. She was so confused.

The woman ignored her. "Now, 'Ms. Benitez'," she began, stressing her last name, "do you know why you're here?"

Micah shook her head, feeling just slightly panicked. "No... I, um, I don't."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Micah paused to think for a moment. "The hospital. I remember waking up in a hospital. There was a man, and a doctor. I was in an accident..." she trailed off, chest feeling heavy. Five months of her life, gone.

"You told the doctor that you couldn't remember what kind of accident you'd been in."

She nodded. "I just remember bits and pieces. I remember driving home in the rain..." a sickening thought accrued to her at that moment. She stared at the women, mouth hanging open for a moment before she spoke, "Did I... did I hurt someone?" She asked, fearful of the answer. Maybe she had. Maybe that was the reason why she was handcuffed.

The woman shook her head.

"Then why am I handcuffed?" Micah demanded to know.

"That's irrelevant at the moment," was the reply.

"Irrelevant?" She repeated, narrowing her eyes at the redhead in front of her. "You have me handcuffed to a wheelchair, even though I've apparently done nothing wrong. I want to go home," she demanded, pulling at the handcuffs.

The woman didn't look fazed. Instead she asked, "Where is home?"

Micah felt like crying in frustration, but she thought about her tiny apartment, and wished she could be there, sitting on her old couch, watching TV.

"I live right on the border of D.C. and Maryland, by myself in a small apartment," Myka replied, feeling uncomfortable at having to tell this stranger in front of her where she lived. Something didn't feel right. "I'd like to go home," she said, close to tears. She was tired and hurting.

"You're a long way from home," The woman disclosed.

"What do you mean?" Micah asked, confused but the woman didn't answer her, so she asked a different question. "What did I do?"

"You don't know?"

Micah began to feel more irritated, "No. Tell me. Because if I didn't do anything wrong, you can't keep me here. It's a illegal."

"It's not illegal to hold someone against their will if they don't exist," she said, opening her laptop.

Micah face went blank. "What?"

The woman turned the laptop around so she could see the screen. The first thing she saw was bright red letters, all in caps that read: NO RECORD. NO MATCHES.

Micah shook her head. "That... that cant be right. I don't have a record," she tried to explain.

"We took that into account, ran your fingerprints, and DNA through a database. Our... Agency has that type of resources, and according to this: you don't exist, Ms. Benitez."

"This has to be some type of mistake," Micah said, feeling sick. Of course she existed. She was sitting right here! She was alive, and breathing. She paid bills, and a job and was going to school. How could this woman tell her she didn't exist?

"There's no mistake."

And at that, someone walked into the room. Eyes watering, and heart thumping, Micah turned to see the man who had been sitting with her in the hospital. Behind him stood another man, Micah had not seen before, but looked eerily familiar.

Tall, bald, dressed all in black, and even though he was wearing an eye patch, Micah knew exactly who he was. "Samuel L. Jackson," she whispered, a little star struck. One of her favorite movies had been Pulp Fiction. She had seen it countless times and could recite most of the lines by heart. It took her a moment to realize what was happening, and when it dawned on her that this was all a joke she started laughing, loudly in embarrassment.

"Something funny?" the actor asked her.

"You," she said, nodding, crying and laughing at the same time. "All of this. You guys almost had me," she told them, feeling relieved. "I was crying and everything. Who put you up to this – Miguel? He would do something like this."

"And what is 'this'?" He asked, tilting his head a little to the side.

"A joke," she told him. "Is this like Punk, or some kind of prank show?"

"Ms. Benitez," the woman spoke, "this isn't a joke."

Micah shook her head, "I mean, why else would Samuel L. Jackson be here? Or did I stumble across a movie set? You guys thought you'd play a joke on me?"

"I believe Ms Romanoff just told you: this is not a joke." The man, Coulson, said.

"It has to be," Micah insisted, stomach churning. She was no longer laughing. "Right?"

"Does this look like a joke?" the actor look alike asked, walking towards the table, to the laptop. A video popped up. He pressed play.

Images began to play. It was nighttime. Lightening, but no rain. There were a lot of people in suits. An ambulance. Voices, off camera began to speak. Both male.

"Who found her?"

"Coulson."

"Did she say anything?"

"Just her name – Micah."

A figure, lying in hole appeared. Smoke descending from it. The camera zoomed in closer to the face. Micah.

"That's not possible," Micah jerked back, startled and panicked. "That's not me."

"Who are you?" The man Micah had assumed was the famous actor asked, bent over, looking her in the face with his one good eye.

"My name is Micah Benitez."

"That's not what the database says."

"The database is lying," she argued.

"Who are you?" He asked again.

"Micah Ben-"

"Who are you?" He asked, louder this time, cutting her off.

Micah suddenly felt hot, her face flushing with anger, hands tingling. "My name is Micah Benitez!" She shouted, slamming her fists against the arms of the wheelchair. The man moved away, staring at her.

Well, staring at her hands.

Micah looked down, seeing a swirl of blue electricity dancing around her closed hands. She opened them, her eyes wide in fright. "W-what is this?" She asked, looking at them, eyes brimming with tears. "What did you do to me?" She looked back at her hands. The electricity had dimmed a little, and after a while it vanished.

She began to cry. What was happening to her? She couldn't think straight. She just wanted her mom.

After a moment, the man with the eye patch spoke. "What are you?"

Tired and scared, Micah answered, "Human."

The man looked at the redheaded woman, and she nodded as though she agreed. He turned back to Micah.

"My name is Nick Fury. I am the director of S.H.I.E.L.D, an international peace keeping agency."

"Like from terrorists?"

"In a way."

"What do you want from me?" She asked, sniffling.

"At this point, you have two choices, Ms. Benitez. You can be on your way, or you can stay and join our organization."