The things she remembered from her early life were few, if anything concrete. Feelings, really. Maybe the feel of cold concrete beneath her feet, icy water dripping on her head, rough blankets wrapped against her skin to keep the chill at bay. Her father's warm hand on her head, his cold one keeping her body close to his to conserve body heat. The sound of boots in the corridor outside the metal door. The sharp pain of needles burning into her skin. The gasping cold air in her lungs as they put her in the tube to sleep.

Familiar feelings.

She shuffled her feet against the barren floor, her back pressed sharply against the wall. Her eyes darted to the door occasionally, listening to the movements behind the metal, no sense of time available. Her days were marked by the meals shoved under the flap, two a day, and the interruption of her thoughts by the retrieval to go train. The thuds of fists on bodies, the taste of blood on the tongue. The flash of pain when a fist hit its mark. The smell of cordite in the air during target practice.

Tilting her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes and counted the meals, using them as a base line for her internal clock. Three days? No, four, since she had had contact with her father. He had been removed from her presence, the two of them separated by their handlers, most likely for a solo mission. They were always woken up together, and put to sleep together, but they were not always sent out together. There was usually a mission for each of them, when they were applied solo. The fact that it had been so many days without her being sent out, was a bit concerning, but perhaps they didn't need her skills for anything.

Shifting on her tailbone, and cracking her knuckles against her jaw, she huffed. That made no sense. They always woke them up, but the two of them to work, then put them back to sleep. It made no sense for her to not have a mission. The shivers of worry ran up her back, not for the first time since waking up, and she suppressed them. Worrying make things worse. Best to wait to see what was going to happen, and deal with that then.

Heavy footsteps stopped outside the door to her cell, and she slowed her breathing to listen. As the locks disengaged, she pushed up to her feet, her back sliding against the wall, eyes on the door, waiting for what was to come next.

The man, Rumlowe as he had been introduced to her, walked in with a smug look on his face, hands on his hips as he strolled in. His eyes moved up and down her body, taking in her guarded stance, before chuckling lowly.

"Pierce wants you up front, now. So, be a good girl, and make it easy on both of us, alright? Unless you want to play....?"

She shook her head, and held her hands out in front of herself, wrists together, as she had been taught from an early age, letting Rumlowe apply the restraints. Her eyes ran over his face, taking in the slight wrinkles and small scars, which denoted his age being further along then most of her handler had been. Rumlowe grabbed her upper arm, digging his fingers into the flesh, and pulled her along, almost pulling her off her feet into the corridor. Through the maze of halls, he led her, until they reached one rooms, up front she supposed, before letting her go.

Pierce, the mission giver, was sitting at a table, his arms folded, leaning in the chair, watching her with a small smile, as Rumlowe pushed her to take a seat across from the older man. Patting her on the shoulder, he backed away, leaving her unattended.

"Your father has done us proud, my dear. It won't be long before everything falls into place, and the world falls into order. The two of you have done so well, over the years." Pierce smiled and gestured to Rumlowe. "I don't thing we need those restraints, do you?"

Rumlowe stepped forward and released the restraints from her wrists, but she refrained from moving until he had retreated again.

"You have done your part, as well, and done it well. A bit longer, my dear, and you can rest. Your father had earned a reward, though, and I though dinner with his darling little girl was in order." Pierce reached out and took her wrists in his hands, rubbing gently on the marks left by the metal restraints. "You will continue to be a good girl, and not get him riled up, yes?"

She swallowed and nodded her head. She knew better then to rile up her father, to get him to try to remember anything but surface recollections, as it made him agitated, and sometimes violent.

Pierce leaned forward, his hands tightening. "I need a verbal response, my dear. Or do I have to inform your father that you took away his reward by being stubborn?"

"No, Sir." She gulped. "I understand. I won't upset my father."

"Good girl." Pierce smiled and let go of her wrists, before reaching up and patting her on the cheek. "I'll have some soap and water sent, as well as some other toiletries. Perhaps you can help him clean up, before you have dinner. And I don't have to remind you, do I, that your interactions will be monitored."

"No, Sir. I remember." She steeled herself before bringing herself to ask, "how much time will we be given, this time, Sir?"

"A few hours. Like I said, he earned a reward, as long as you cooperate." Pierce stood up and straightened his suit and tie. "Won't be long now, my dear. Perhaps you and your father won't have to sleep anymore. Wont that be nice? To spend time awake. I suggest you keep his mind on that reward, to encourage him to keep up the good work. Better that he does it, then we send you out, am I right?"

"Yes, Sir."

Pierce nodded, and jerked his head at Rumlowe, the two of them leaving her in the room alone. She kept her hands on the table, and tried not to do anything else but breathe, as she waited. It wasn't long, by the count in her head, before nameless people wheeled in a cart with a bowl, soap, towels, a brush, and a metal carafe of hot water. Another cart held trays of food, and cartons of drinks. They were not allowed eating utensils. Nothing sharp, or anything that could be readily used as a weapon. Not that something like that would really stop them should they decide to try to fight their way out. But father and daughter had been beaten into submission years before. The concept of trying to leave without one of their handlers hadn't been viable to them for a long time.

Her eyes watched the people carefully, logging their faces into her memory, never moving from her spot in the chair. One of the younger persons, a red headed male, paused in his work to look at her. She flicked her eyes to his hands, which held the small stack of towels, back to his face. He tilted his head, as if in thought, before the older male nudged him with an elbow. Jolting back to his work, he eyed her again, his face flushing, before turning his back to her.

New, she guessed. Normally they ignored her, unless they were moving her, or training with her. Occasionally someone would try to get a reaction out of her, either though words or touch, sometimes a rough shove, slap, or punch. Rumlowe was one of the worst, this time around. He seemed to take great delight in pinching her or digging his fingers into her flesh whenever he had a chance. Training with him was also difficult. Not because he easily overpowered her, but because he took enjoyment in holding her down underneath him. Using his body to pin her to the ground, while he muttered disgusting suggestions, tone low enough so only she would be able to hear. Grabbing her hair, close to her scalp, making her arch to relieve the pressure, sometimes even pushing his fingers under her clothes to grab at her skin.

Her lip curled slightly, in disgust.

She may not have a complete idea of body autonomy, the concept that she was allowed to do what she wanted with her body slightly foreign to her, but she understood she was not to be sullied by the likes of Rumlowe. She was never to be toyed with, sexually, by her handlers. In fact, she knew that she was to remain untouched until Pierce decided to extend her father's bloodline through her. There was to be no risk of something catching and ruining the prospect of her availability for reproduction later.

The people setting up finished, the red head smiling, and saying "Enjoy your dinner!" before his partner grabbed him by the arm and jerked him out of the room, hissing at him as he did so. She frowned, before letting out a low chuckle. Definitely new.

She rose from her chair, shaking her head, making her way over to the toiletries. She stuck her fingers in the water, testing the temperature, checking the sliver of soap they had given. Not enough to do a full wash up, that would have to wait until they were allowed to shower, but enough for a good face and hand wash. No razors, or way to remove the hair from her father's face. A comb, plastic, which would be helpful in taming their hair, which had grown rather long on both in the past few years. She moved the towels and the bowl to the table, moving one of the chairs to sit beside them, before moving the water and the soap over as well.

First things first, in her mind, was to help her father wash as much as she was able. Comb out his hair, and then let him do the same to her. After that, dinner. The food was never anything fancy, and could be eaten cold as well as hot, if it had even been brought to them as such. Healthy, to be sure, but plain. Depending on how happy their handlers were with them, at any given time, there might be something sweet to accompany the meal, fruit at the very least.

The door opened.

She turned to face it, holding her breath as her father walked in, his blue eyes meeting hers. She looked him up and down, tutting under her breath as she took in his appearance.

Black grease covered both eyes, his hair laying lank and greasy against his head, the scruff on his jaw and cheeks thickening since the last time she saw him. His lips quirked up at her huffing in a small half smile, while he also looked over his daughter. Her dark hair was tangled against her back, her feet and lower legs, exposed by her leggings, slightly dark with dirt.

They both waited, frozen to their current positions as they waited for the door to shut. The heavy clang acted as a spell breaker, allowing them to rush to each other, hands already grabbing onto the other.

"Are you alright, Brooklyn?" Her fathers deep voice was comfort to her ears, and she closed her eyes briefly, before she nodded. Papa was the only one who really used her name.

"I'm fine, Papa." She ran her hand over his cheek and scratched her nails on his scruff. "Let's get you cleaned up, before we eat, okay?"

She tried to pull away, but her father began pulling lightly on her arms, moving them too and fro, looking for marks and wounds. He frowned at the marks on her wrists, but let them go, knowing they were inevitable. His hand grabbed her chin, moving her head to check her face and neck, before turning her around so he could pull up the back of her top, investigating her back and sides for marks. He grunted when he found small bruises on her sides.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Training, that's all." She turned to face him. "Can I clean up your face now?"

He nodded and took the seat she had prepared. "Anything new happen?"

"Nothing new." She reached for the hot water, pouring it into the bowl. "Pierce says you did good."

"Shot a man. That was the mission." He stared at the wall. "Unusual that they didn't send you out with me."

"Pierce has his reasons. You know that." She tilted his head back, as she wet one of the towels. "Close your eyes, and I will get that grease off."

He kicked the side of his mouth up. "it's better than using the goggles at night."

"So dramatic." She scrubbed at the grease surrounding his eyes with the soap and water. It was coming up easily enough, but she was afraid it was going to stain his eye lashes. "As soon as we get this done, I'll comb out your hair. And as soon as you wash your hands, we can sit down and eat. I'm sure they set out something nice for us, tonight."

Her father reached up with one hand, catching her wrist gently. "Brooklyn, what do you know?"

"Nothing, Papa. Just that Peirce said you did a good job, and that maybe we won't have to go to sleep for a very long time." She washed away the soap. "Wouldn't that be nice? Maybe they will let us go outside, too?"

He hummed. "Perhaps. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Spend the day in the sun? When was the last time you spent the day outside, Brooklyn?"

"Oh, yesterday, Papa," She quickly lied. "Rumlowe took me outside yesterday for a few hours."

"I don't like him hanging around you, Brooklyn. I don't like the way he watches you."

She bit her lip, before urging him to put his head back up. She reached for the comb and dipped it in the soapy water in the bowl. "It's fine, Papa. Rumlowe can't do anything to me. Not really. Not without upsetting Pierce."

Keep him calm, she told herself. Don't get him upset. Keep him calm.

That was ultimately her purpose. Keep her father calm, keep him focused. If the missions didn't go forward according to plan, it was her fault, for not keeping him focused. And if missions failed, or he fought their handlers, he was hurt for it. If he fought too hard, they would hurt her as well, as a lesson to him.

She began working the comb through his hair, humming as she did so, a nameless tune. He turned his head into her movements, eyes closed, enjoying the tactile comfort. It wasn't long before the comb moved through his hair easily, and she had to bring the grooming to a halt.

Putting the comb aside, she clapped her hands together. "Right, get the gear off, and give yourself a quick wash. I'll set out the dinner."

He smiled at his daughter, and obeyed, reaching for the buckles of his harness, quickly devesting himself of it and his ballistic jacket, as well as his gloves. Reaching for the soap and towel, he scrubbed his exposed skin, washing off what dirt and debris that was attached to his skin, as he watched his daughter move to the other cart. She efficiently set their meal up, putting the cartons of drinks between the two trays, before sitting herself in the available chair.

"What have they put out for us?" he asked, as he set the towel aside.

"Roast chicken, steamed vegetables, canned peaches, and bread." She reached out and touched the edge of one of the trays. She tried to ignore the angry skin near his prosthetic. "Orange juice, too."

He nodded and brought the chair over to sit across from her. "Been a while since we've had orange juice."

"Mmhmm." Brooklyn pointed to the small, covered plate on the second level of the cart. "I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that is our treat, for after dinner. Want to take bets on what it is?"

"Fruit, most likely." He reached out and grabbed one of the cartons of juice. Shaking it, he tilted his head and grinned at her. "But it would be nice if it were something baked."

"Oh, yes," she agreed as she began to tear her chicken into bite sized pieces. "Baked goods would be nice. Cookies, or even brownies. Something chocolate."

"You and your chocolate." He chugged down the juice, before picking up the chicken. "There was that place in Vienna, a while back, that had those chocolate croissants. Every morning, while we where on that mission, you went and got one."

She blinked, chewing slowly. He had pulled up a memory that was ages old. Cold water ran down her spine. A memory too old. She could only hope the handlers watching them let it slide. Swallowing, she nodded. "I bet you just hope it's something with strawberries."

His attention on the food in front of him, he nodded. "Strawberries are good too."

Brooklyn felt the food sit in her stomach with each bite.

Her father looked at her as he chewed. "They have you go out for anything?"

"I have just been training. Learning the new tech available. Some of it is really interesting." She started to pull her bread apart. Frowning, her father reached out a hand, and stopped her.

"What's wrong, Brooklyn?"

"I'm just worried, I guess." His frown didn't change. She sighed before trying to explain. "The new handlers are...different, from the last ones. They don't seem to have the same rules as the ones before."

Looking down at his tray, he nodded. "I understand. Its not just the language, its also their attitude. They aren't afraid of us anymore, I think."

"Is that aa good thing?"

"Well, we got a good dinner tonight. And we get to spend time together. So maybe it is?" his hand rubbed the top of hers. "Eat up, baby girl. You are looking a little thin."

Brooklyn huffed. "I always look thin compared to you."

He chuckled. "That's true. You were always a skinny little thing."

She stuck her tongue out him. They continued to eat in comfortable silence, both making quick work of the food on their trays. After confirming she had finished everything, her father picked up both trays, and returned them to the cart, bending down to retrieve the covered plate on the second shelf.

"Moment of truth." He placed the plate down on the table between them. "Let's see what we got here."

Uncovering the plate revealed two small brown squares. Brooklyn giggled softly. "Brownies!"

Her father rolled his eyes, before pushing the plate towards her. "All yours, Brooklyn."

He stood up from his seat, picked up the comb she had laid aside earlier, and stood behind her. Using his left hand, he gently reached out for her tangled hair. She heard the metal gears move as he brought the hair up to begin combing through it. "Papa, you don't want one?"

"Nah. I know how much you like chocolate. Consider it Papa's special treat to you." He kept his eyes on her hair as he gently worked the comb through it, trying not to pull as he encountered snarls. "Your hair is getting long."

"Don't talk to me about long hair, Papa. You are well overdue for a cut." She picked at the brownies, bringing bites to her mouth. "But I guess that's your look now."

He nodded. "Been a while for both of us. But I don't think we are getting hair cuts anytime soon."

"I agree."

"The man I shot today," he said, as he attended to her hair, "He had someone with him. Another man."

Brooklyn crushed a bite of brownie between her fingers. "Oh?"

"He almost caught me."

"No one can catch you, Papa." She assured her father.

He huffed. "He threw a shield at me. But I caught it and threw it right back at him. Damn near knocked him off his feet."

She felt fingers of cold run down her spine. A shield...? Reassure him... She turned to look at him over her shoulder, giving him a smile. "See, I told you, no one can catch you. My Papa is the strongest!"

Her Father stroked a knuckle down her cheek. "You make me strong, baby girl."

No, I don't. I keep you in line. I help them do what they want to you. I help them make you kill. I'm not strong enough to stop them. I'm not strong enough to help you.

"I'm only strong because you taught me to be so, Papa." She took his warm hand in hers and kissed the back of it.

Forgive me for what I have done to you, what I allowed to be done to you.

The remaining time they had together passed slowly. Not much was talked about, as they didn't have much more to say to each other. They ended up sitting on the floor together, his hand holding hers tightly, her head leaning against his shoulder, his chin resting on the top of her head. He would press his lips to her hair, murmur reassurances, which she would return, both deep in their heads.

This was typical for the pair. Through all their years together, they had found that they didn't need to speak, their communication more emotional. She was able to read more from his face and eyes and body language then he could give to her in words, and he could tell what she meant based on how tightly she held herself and through her eyes. A useful skill for them, as they never knew how often they were watched, and what information they could pass to the other without their handler's knowledge.

That is, unless they had activated her father.

After activation was the worst. He would be deep in his head, a ghost. No emotions, no connection to her. She remembered, once years ago, while under activation, he had been ordered to punish her for failing to reach the objective of a mission. She had failed to lure an ambassador to a private room, to be removed. When her father had come to collect her, she was with someone else, not the ambassador she had been sent after. Their handlers at the time had decided to use her father as punishment, rather then any other form they had had on hand at the time.

When he had come around enough to realize what he had been made to do, he had cried. Cried, and begged her forgiveness, all while tending her wounds, and telling her how much he loved her.

The heavy door opened, and the red head from earlier stepped in. "Hi! Sorry about this, but your time is up, and I've been asked to escort Brooklyn to her new cell."

Her father's forehead wrinkled as he frowned. He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head slowly.

He nodded and stood up, holding out a hand to help her up off the floor. As she stood in front of him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight, resting her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Her father placed one hand on her shoulder and rubbed the other up and down her back. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Love you, baby girl."

"Love you, Papa. Come home to me?"

"Always."

She nodded and stepped away. Turning to the red-haired man, she sighed and held out her hands, wrists together. Waiting for her restraints.

The red head frowned. "I don't think we need those, do you?"

She was confused by this. It was standard procedure to restrain her, when moving her. The fact that this man did not do so was odd. She chalked it up to his being new. But she allowed him to take her forearm, turning to meet her fathers blue gaze as she was escorted from the room.

He led her though the halls in silence before heaving a heavy sigh. "Well, this is awkward. My name is Marcus. I understand yours is Brooklyn?"

Brooklyn looked at him in shock. Did he expect her to talk to him?

"I mean, I know what your program name is. But your father named you Brooklyn, right? Is it okay if I call you that?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to my handlers." She whispered.

"I get that! I get it, I do, but I don't think that is any reason for us to not be friendly, right?" he smiled at her, and turned a corner.

"Handlers don't usually want to be friendly."

"I understand why they wouldn't. not to be rude, but you and your father have a scary reputation. I was just thinking that maybe you would like to have a friend." He turned around and faced her, walking backward. "Having a friend is a good thing."

She raised an eyebrow. "Friends don't usually stick around in places like this."

"See! This is good! You are interacting back! First step of friendship." He smiled.

"What do you get out of this friendship?"

"Well, I heard you've seen some things, in your time here. I'm a bit of a history buff. I figure hearing it from someone who was actually there would be better then reading about it in a book." He pointed down the hall. "Few more doors down. Then you will be on the left."

"Why the move?" She ventured to ask.

"From what I've been told, you are across the hall from your dad." Marcus shrugged. "But you are being put in the bigger room."

She looked at him. "Why the larger room?"

Marcus slowed to a stop in front of a door with a large, reinforced window in it. "The Doctors will explain." He smiled at Brooklyn. "Don't worry, its nothing bad."

He opened the door and gestured for her to go ahead of him. She eyed him warily before entering the room. It was colorful. There were letters and numbers painted on the walls, the floor covered in a carpet, a bed tucked into one corner, the toilet hidden behind a screen in another. There was a low table, with a small chair, and sitting in the chair was a small child. Kneeling behind the child, one of the doctors that were always ghosting around the halls in the facility, was speaking softly.

Brooklyn inhaled sharply. What was going on?

"Ah, Queen. I see our new recruit has been helpful." The doctor stood up and approached Brooklyn. "We thought it time for you to oversee your sister's development and training. At least until she is old enough for your father to help out."

Sister? Brooklyn looked at the small child. She had the same shade of hair as Brooklyn and her father. she was too young to see if the cheek bones, jaw or nose were shared by the other two.

"How old is she?" she could barely believe the question had left her mouth.

"Four. She was the product of one of your father's rewards the last time he was awake. Her mother did not, unfortunately survive. You know how these things go, don't you, Queen?"

She did know. Her own mother had not survived her birth. Complicated, no doubt by the tests done in utero. "Does she have a name?"

The doctor patted Brooklyn on the shoulder. She looked from the small girl to the doctor. "No. We've just been calling her Asset Five. I know how much you and your father prefer names, to titles. Whatever you decide to call her will be fine. "

Nodding, she swallowed. "Is this why I am not being placed back with my father?"

"Yes." He walked over to the door. "No doubt, as soon as Asset Five is ready for more combative training, the three of you will be placed back together."

"Unless Pierce says otherwise." She sneered.

The doctor stopped sharply at the door. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

Brooklyn felt the blood drain from her face. What made her open her mouth? "I was simply saying it will be as the Director decides."

"Of course." The doctor pointed at Marcus. "Mr. Manero will be your personal handler, from here on out. He will escort you to training, make sure your meals are brought to you, and assist in anything we feel you might need in the care of Asset Five."

She nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Marcus grinned at her as the doctor left, shutting the door behind. "So, it's you and me, huh?"

Blinking, she opened her mouth, then shut it. Opened it again, before biting her lip.

"Just say it, Brooklyn." Marcus continued to grin.

"Why are you here? How did you even get in. You are coming off as too...nice...?"

"About six months ago, I decided to hack into SHIELD. Set off some alarms. Apparently, though, I didn't hack Shield. I hacked HYDRA. They came, picked me up, and gave me a choice. Work for them, or a bullet in the brain. Seemed and easy choice at the time." Marcus looked at the little girl who was watching both of them. "This typical for you? Random sibling?"

Brooklyn tilted her head. "Not the first time it's happened."

She crouched down in front of the little girl, who was looking at her, a finger in her mouth. "What do they call you?"

"Bwat." The little girls' blue eyes were fearful.

"Bwat?" Brooklyn frowned. "Do you mean 'Brat'?"

"Bwat." The little girl reached up and tugged her hair. "Bad Bwat"

Brooklyn took her hand away from her head. "No, no. We don't do that. No one does that, anymore."

The little girl gazed at her. Then looked at Brooklyn's hand. "No hurt?"

"I'm not going to hurt you, little one." Brooklyn "I'm going to take care of you. I'm' Brooklyn, your sister. Do you know what that is?"

The girl shook her head.

"It means that we share the same Papa."

Small face scrunched in confusion. "What's a papa?"

"A Papa is someone who loves you unconditionally. We have the same Papa, and he loves us both." Brooklyn held the little girl's hand and smiled. "He is going to be so happy to meet you."

Marcus leaned over and looked the little girl in the eyes. "Your papa is the strongest Papa in the world. He has always been the strongest. He does everything to protect his little girls. Just ask your sister! He's been protecting her, her whole life."

Brooklyn looked at Marcus in confusion. Again, with the niceness. This was a handler that was not going to last long, around here.

Marcus smiled at her. "I'm going to go get you both some fresh clothes, and maybe a book or two. I'll be right back."

She nodded, and returned her attention to the little girl, who was inspecting her hand. "Thank you, Marcus."

He left, and she waited till she heard the locks engage behind him.

"Okay. So, I'm your sister. My name is Brooklyn. Can you say Brooklyn?"

The little girl scrunched up her face. "Wooklin."

Brooklyn laughed. "Let's go with just 'Lyn', alright?"

"Lyn." The little girl looked up at her. "Lyn."

"That's right. Lyn." She sat down on the floor. "Can you show me your fingers? Like this?" Brooklyn spread her hands out, fingers spread.

The little girl copied her, and Brooklyn checked her over. It looked like she may have had a broken finger or two, one of which didn't seem to heal straight. But other than that, her hands were sound. Brooklyn ran her hands up the girl's arms, feeling the soundness of her bones. Her left arm had had been broken, and the small incision scar at the top of her right shoulder indicated where her tracking chip was. Continuing her inspection, Brooklyn checked her little sister's spine, ribs and hips. It felt like there may have been a fractured if not broken rib, but her hips and spine felt sound.

The locks on the door clicked, before Marcus came in, a stack of clothes in his hand, a small stack of books in the other.

"How's she doing?"

"Pretty sound." Brooklyn gave her sister a small smile. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

The little girl nodded and reached for Brooklyn's hand. "We be good."

"Awesome!" He held out the items. "So, some clean clothes for the both of you, and some books. I asked, and she has already had dinner, and the both of you will get breakfast together in the morning."

Brooklyn reached out, taking the items. She went to make a comment, when she heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Through the window in the door, she saw her father being moved to his cell, across from this new one. Marcus followed her gaze.

"So, that's the Soldier."

She didn't respond. Watching as her father was escorted into his new cell, she quickly scanned his blank features. It didn't look like they had shocked him. There was no reason to assume they had. He had completed the objective of his last mission. They had rewarded him, after all. Most likely what had taken so long was the report. Her father disappeared into the cell, and the door closed behind him.

Marcus nodded. "Well, I guess that's the excitement for the night. I'll be back in the morning to escort you to training. The two of you have a good night, okay?"

Brooklyn nodded; her hands still full of the items he had brought. "In the morning."

She waited until he was gone, before walking over to the bed, and going through the items. Tossing the books aside for the moment, she changed her clothes, before turning to her sister. "Come here, little one. Let's get you changed."

Her sister came to her, and with Brooklyn's help, she was changed.

"let's see if we can get Papa's attention. I'm sure it would make his night, if his daughters would give him a smile. Do you think you can give Papa a smile?"

The little girl stuck her finger in her mouth and gave a small nod.

Brooklyn gave her a smile and petted her hair. "Okay, let's do this."

Leading her sister over to the door, she pressed her face up against the glass, trying to see as far down the corridor as possible, trying to see if there were any people who might witness the exchange. Seeing none, she rested her knuckles against the glass and began tapping out a rhythm. She waited, and then repeated the rhythm again.

Her father came to the window and began tapping back.

All good?

She nodded. All good. You?

Yes. Just mission report.

He raised an eyebrow. Meet?

Brooklyn looked down and smiled at her sister. "Ready to meet Papa?"

Her little sister nodded.

Picking the little girl up, and placing her on her hip, she pointed out the glass to across the hall.

Papa frowned. A child? Yours?

Brooklyn scoffed and gave him a look. NO. Yours.

What's her name?

No name.

"Wave to Papa, little one." Brooklyn murmured, waving herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as her sister took her finger out of her mouth and gave a tiny wave.

Papa smiled, and waved back, his eyes focused on the little girl. He resumed his tapping. She's as pretty as a jewel.

Brooklyn looked down at the little girl. She was a pretty one. As Papa had stated, pretty as a jewel. Tapping on the glass, something like jewel, then? Juliana?

Juliana. Yes, that's a good name. We will call her Juliana.

"Hello, Juliana," Brooklyn murmured, pressing her lips to her sister's head. "Welcome to the family. We will try out best to keep you safe."

Movement down the hall had the adults pulling away from the glass. One of the guards walked down, and peered in one room, then the other. "Nighttime, Freaks. No more talking. Lights out in fifteen."

Brooklyn looked over the guard's shoulder at her father and gave a small smile. She jiggled Juliana on her hip, and had the small girl give a wave. Then she retreated deeper into the room, towards the bed.

Putting Juliana on the floor, she reached out and pulled down the blanket on the bed. Slapping the bed, she helped the girl get up, and lay down. Crawling in, next to her, she pulled the blanket over the two of them, and encouraged her sister to cuddle close. "Should we try to read one of the books Marcus brought us?"

Juliana nodded against Brooklyn's shoulder, so the older sister reached out and picked up one of the books still on the bed. Bringing it up so they could both look at the cover, she read out loud, "Heidi."
Juliana reached out and touched the picture on the front of the small girl playing with lambs, set in a green field, surrounded by mountains.

Brooklyn opened the book, turning the pages until she reached the first chapter. Clearing her throat, she began.

"The pretty little Swiss town of Mayenfield lies at the foot of a mountain range, whose grim rigged peaks tower high above the valley below."