The S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation room smelled like industrial cleaner and stale coffee.
I sat beside Laura at the metal table, my posture relaxed despite the handcuffs they'd offered—and I'd declined. Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer who'd arrived at Rogers' request, sat on Laura's other side. His sightless eyes didn't hinder the tracking of movement with unnatural precision. Enhanced senses, probably.
Captain America stood across from us, arms crossed. Professional. Controlled. But I could see the threads radiating from him—brilliant blue strands of conviction, duty, and something softer. Compassion, maybe. Doubt.
"Let's start from the beginning," Rogers said. His voice carried authority without cruelty. "Greg Johnson. March fifteenth. What happened?"
Laura's jaw tightened. I felt her heartbeat spike—eighteen feet of shared silence made you attuned to another person's tells. She opened her mouth. Closed it.
"They programmed me," she finally said. The words came out flat. Clinical. "Trigger scent. Airborne compound. Once exposed, I... comply."
"Comply how?"
"I kill the target." Her fingers flexed against the table. Claws stayed sheathed. Barely. "No choice. No control. Just... programming."
Rogers leaned forward. "Who gave the order?"
"The Facility." Laura's voice cracked slightly. I shifted an inch closer—not touching, just... present. Her breathing steadied. "Handlers. Scientists. They'd expose me to the scent, provide a target. I'd execute. Then they'd... reset me."
"How many times?" Murdock asked quietly.
Laura didn't answer.
I watched the causal strings connecting her to the question, to the memories. Dozens of threads. Maybe hundreds. All stained dark red.
"Enough," I said.
Rogers' eyes shifted to me. Assessing. The threads around him pulsed—he was weighing her words against his sense of justice. Looking for deception. Finding only trauma.
"You were fifteen years old," he said finally. Not a question.
"Yes."
The sessions continued for hours. They asked about handlers, procedures, other targets. Laura answered mechanically, each admission visibly costing her. Murdock occasionally interjected with legal clarifications—coercion, lack of agency, duress. Building a case not for innocence, but for victimhood.
Rogers never raised his voice. Never accused. But his questions were thorough, precise, relentless. A man who believed in justice but understood the world wasn't black and white.
Voices carried through the thin walls of the holding area. Laura and I sat on opposite sides of a metal bench, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. Close enough to hear everything.
"—should have left her with Logan." Murdock's voice was tight with controlled anger. "That letter from Dr. Kinney? It's a deathbed confession. A mother absolving her daughter. You drag her into custody, and you're doing exactly what the Facility did—treating her like property instead of a person."
"She killed a presidential candidate, Matt." Rogers' voice remained steady. Principled. "There has to be accountability."
"Accountability?" Murdock's cane tapped sharply against the floor. "She was conditioned. Chemically programmed. You want to hold a sixteen-year-old accountable for what grown men forced her to do? The second she enters the system, some three-letter agency will classify her, study her, and turn her into exactly what she's trying to escape."
Silence.
Laura's hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs—I could see the pulse jumping in her throat. I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just listened.
"Justice isn't always clean," Rogers said quietly. "But it matters."
"So does mercy." Murdock's tone softened slightly. "Steve, I've read Sarah Kinney's letter three times. She didn't just explain what happened—she took responsibility. She created Laura. Trained her. And in the end, she tried to give her daughter the one thing the Facility never would: a choice. Laura didn't choose to kill her mother. She didn't choose any of this."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"The X-Men can give her what the system can't," Murdock continued. "A chance at something resembling a normal life. Stability. People who understand what she's been through. You hand her over to S.H.I.E.L.D., and she becomes a file. A weapon in storage."
"She needs help, not a cage," Murdock finished.
The threads connecting Rogers shifted—blue strands of duty tangling with gold ones of compassion. He was wavering.
Laura's breathing had gone shallow. I glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, jaw set. Bracing for the verdict.
I looked back at the wall, tracking the conversation through the threads.
"What about him?" Rogers asked. "The boy."
"Says his name is Adrian." Murdock's voice carried a note of... interest? Respect? "Smart move, positioning himself as her advocate. There's no records of him probably a similar case as the girl"
"He's what, sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Does it matter?" Murdock replied. "He's been trained the same way she has. Probably worse, given the lack of records. But he's not the one who pulled the trigger on Johnson."
"No," Rogers agreed slowly. "But he's not innocent either."
I felt Laura stiffen beside me.
"None of us are," Murdock said quietly. "But some of us deserve a second chance anyway."
Two hours later, we were in the back of an unmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. transport heading toward Washington D.C.
Rogers sat across from us, still in uniform. Silent. The threads around him were calmer now—decision made, even if he wasn't at peace with it.
Laura stared at her hands. I watched the city lights blur past through the small reinforced window.
The van slowed. Stopped.
Rogers stood, opened the rear door. Cold air rushed in.
We weren't at a substation. I guess he changed his mind on the way.
I recognized the logo on the building across the street: Greyhound. A bus terminal.
Rogers stepped out, then turned back to us. His expression was unreadable.
"Get out."
Laura and I exchanged a glance. She moved first, climbing down. I followed.
We stood on a sidewalk in downtown D.C., the bus station humming with late-night travelers. Rogers reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Cash. Enough for tickets, food, a few nights in cheap motels.
Then he handed Laura a folded letter. The edges were worn, like it had been read many times.
"Your mother's letter," he said simply.
Laura took it with trembling fingers.
Rogers looked at me. Really looked—blue eyes sharp, assessing. The threads between us pulsed once, twice.
"You were right," he said. "About the system. About what would happen to her."
I didn't respond. Didn't need to.
"Find the X-Men," Rogers told Laura. "Find Logan. And..." He hesitated. "Try to be more than what they made you."
He stepped back into the van.
The door closed.
The vehicle pulled away, taillights disappearing into D.C. traffic.