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December 19th, 1991

HYDRA Facility, Québec

Maggie was strapped to a metal table in a room she'd never seen before. She hadn't fought the scientists when they tightened thick leather cuffs around her arms and legs – she'd been still and quiet, telling herself you're going to be strong, you're going to be strong, you're going to be strong.

That was the mantra that had got her through the past few days of testing and scans. It felt like a horrible dream, being moved through underground tunnels in the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, being poked and prodded by men and women in lab coats who didn't seem to care that half the time she was crying. The scientists and the soldiers seemed to know each other well, but didn't talk much in front of her. When they did, it was a mix of English and a slightly different French than she was used to.

It was hard to not ask questions, but she'd already learned that she wouldn't be shrugged away or told to "bug off, Maggot," if she asked questions. She would be slapped and kicked, and told "silence!"

They'd been testing her mind and her body, getting her to run on a treadmill, to complete logic puzzles, to put machine parts together. Maggie didn't know what they were testing for, but it had been mostly painless so far. Mostly: they had taken samples of her blood and bone marrow, the latter of which made her scream. She was still injured from the car crash, as well, with huge bruises across her front from the seat belt, a contusion on her forehead, and she'd twisted or fractured something in her left leg. Her lower back ached where the man had kicked her.

The scientists seemed frustrated at these limitations, but the man in the black suit – who seemed to wear nothing else – was patient. He wasn't there for all the testing, but was a consistent presence over the days. The scientists and soldiers only ever seemed to call him "sir" or "Project Leader."

They had dressed Maggie in a grey t-shirt and shorts, and cut her hair so it was a shaggy mop around her ears. She had a room – it was windowless, but didn't have any bars or locks, just a door. It had a thin mattress on a narrow metal frame, a toilet, and a sink with near-freezing water. She was permitted a fair amount of sleep and was able to wash herself in the sink.

She'd caught a glimpse of herself in a lab's glass window a few hours ago. She didn't let herself stare too long, because she knew the soldiers would make her stop, but she'd been startled by what she saw. She looked like a boy with her short hair; a gaunt, bruised boy with dark eyes and paper-thin limbs. She didn't think she could ever be strong.

The day before, her programming skills were tested in the room with the computers and machines. After making notes and muttering to each other, the scientists ushered her out again without telling her what they thought. But not before she'd noticed a desk in the room covered with pictures of her. She recognized newspaper clippings, a photo of her first circuit board and some of her more recent models, her latest test scores from school, and lots of pictures. The photos looked like they'd been taken by someone following her around: she saw herself and her nannies walking to and from the mansion, lunch with her mom, visiting the L.A. headquarters. There were stacks of files on the desk, and though Maggie itched to read them she knew she'd never be allowed. She didn't think the scientists had meant to let her see that desk, or they just didn't care.

She had also heard the scientists talking about the "previous subjects". She didn't know how many there had been, but she gathered that they were also children, and that they'd all died. Maggie wondered if the girl who had taken her place in her family's car was a previous subject.

Mostly she had been shuffled around by the soldiers, in a constant state of shock. She hadn't seen the sun since the soldier with the metal arm brought her into this place, and she was haunted by waking and sleeping nightmares of her parents and Tony consumed by flames.

She didn't bother trying to resist the soldiers and scientists, knowing that she was powerless to prevent them from doing what they liked. She was barely able to summon enough energy to complete their tests. She felt utterly drained.

Besides, the Project Leader had promised she would be stronger than all of them. She could wait until then.

But today, after a final ECG scan, the woman scientist Sanders, who was bald as an egg and had an upturned nose, had called in the Project Leader and reported that: "The subject has tested above expectations. We can proceed."

So now she was strapped to the metal table, watching Sanders and the rest of the scientists bring in the bag of blue fluid. Maggie's heart was pounding. That fluid had been in her dad's briefcase, so it couldn't be too bad, could it?

Her skin was vibrating by the time they had hooked her up to various vital monitors and hung the blue bag on an IV stand. There were only about three scientists working on her, but the rest stood around the room watching. The Project Leader was sat on a stool by the door, his ice-blue eyes assessing the proceedings.

Sanders had the IV line in her gloved hand, and she looked toward the Project Leader. He nodded.

Sanders didn't give Maggie any warning – she pushed the needle into the vein in the crook of her elbow, holding it steady and securing the line to her arm with medical tape. Maggie clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. She'd never liked needles, and all the jabbing and sample-taking over the past few days hadn't made her any less nervous about this one. In fact, it had probably made the fear worse.

Sanders started the transfusion. Maggie could feel the blue liquid entering her body: it felt cold, travelling up her arm and into her chest, then throughout her body, but it didn't hurt. She couldn't feel the needle anymore, so she relaxed against the table.

Then it started to burn. It started as an itch where the needle pressed into her skin, which suddenly flared into what felt like a line of fire burning up her arm. Maggie's eyes snapped open and she gasped, choking on the pain that blossomed in her chest. Within seconds her body felt like it was on fire, being scorched from the inside out. Maggie screamed, bucking against the restraints, trying to escape from the fluid that was already inside her.

"Take it out!" she screamed, looking wildly around for Sanders – the woman had backed away and was holding a clipboard, staring back at her. "Take it out, please!"

No one moved. Maggie clenched her fists and thrashed her legs, shrieking as pain razed through her body, lighting up every cell. She threw her head back, mouth open in a silent scream because she'd run out of breath. She just had the wherewithal to wonder if this was what death felt like, before the pain surged into her head and she lost all sense.

After what could have been hours or only seconds, Maggie came back to herself. The pain was gone, but the memory of it tingled along her skin and echoed like a ghoul in her mind.

"She doesn't look very different," she heard a voice say.

"The serum's never been tested on children before. It's possible it will interact with the subject's growth. Either way, it's clearly impacted her strength."

Maggie opened her eyes and found herself looking not at the layered granite of the roof, but the dusty concrete of the lab floor. She could see and feel her palms pressed against the floor, holding her up. Her arms were shaking, but she didn't feel like they were about to give out – they felt strong, as if she could support her entire weight with just one arm. She leaned back so she was kneeling on the floor, and looked around. The scientists were staring at her and frantically scribbling notes, whispering to one another. Over her shoulder, she could see the metal bed she'd been strapped to. The leather cuffs were torn, dangling from the edges of the metal frame. The IV bag was empty.

Maggie registered a faint beeping and realised that her heart rate monitor was still attached. With shaking fingers, she peeled it off her chest, focusing on the steady flow of breath in and out of her lungs. What happened?

She turned her head so she could see the Project Leader. He was on his feet, ice-blue eyes just as calm and calculating as ever while he stared at her, but now with a glint of something like excitement. After holding her gaze for a moment, he nodded to Sanders.

"We can run the physical trials later. Get her to the machine."

Hands under her arms pulled Maggie to her feet, and then she was being led out of the lab. Her senses were screaming at her – her footsteps sounded louder in her ears, she was acutely aware of the brush of her sweaty clothes against her skin, and she was picking out details in the concrete floor that she never would have noticed before. There were two soldiers on either side of her, but she could hear more of them marching behind, with the scientists and the Project Leader. As they walked, Maggie realized that she didn't hurt any more. Her left leg didn't twinge at every step, her back didn't ache, she couldn't see any bruises on her arms or knuckles. I'm strong now, she realized, and then simultaneously realized that she didn't know what to do about it. She just needed a minute to sit still, to test her new limits, to consider her plan.

Whatever the blue liquid had done to her, her hearing had clearly improved – she could hear the Project Leader's low voice as he spoke to Sanders behind her. She ducked her head and focused, trying not to show how interested she was.

"I need you to be precise, Sanders. I don't want you to wipe it all – we need core skills and relevant information to remain. The subject's reasoning and cognitive function need to be the same, if not better-"

"I'm aware, sir, and we're fully capable of doing that." Sanders had a clipped French accent. "For years the machine has left the Soldier's strategic and combat skills fully intact, as well as his language recall and operational thinking. The machine targets memory centres and behavioural functions in the temporal and frontal lobes."

"I want her to be able to learn. To think, and reason, and outwit our enemies. This subject cannot become a drooling mess like the others."

"With all due respect, Project Leader, the others didn't have the serum or the… mental fortitude that this subject has tested with. The procedure will successfully remove long term memories."

There was a long pause. Maggie parsed the conversation and began to panic. She didn't know how what they said was going to happen would happen, but it sounded like all her reasons for getting strong were about to be taken away from her. She wouldn't remember her family, or her hatred for the men around her, or her mission. She clutched the hem of her t-shirt. Her mind raced, trying to figure out how to get out of this.

Finally, as they turned down another corridor with a curved, rocky roof, the Project Leader spoke again. "I need her to be better than the Soldier, Sanders. Smarter, faster, stronger."

"Those will come down to training, sir, and the other enhancements. The machine won't impact those. Her intellect will remain intact."

"It better. We've never had a subject like her. If Karpov had only had the insight in the seventies to get a hold of the other mind like hers… well. Your men have already prepped the machine?"

"Yes, sir, they're waiting for us."

They came to another door, and the soldier to Maggie's left put in the code. It was the room she'd been taken to on the first day, and Maggie could see that the space had been cleared around one of the machines she didn't recognise: a chair with two blocky metal arms rising above it, surrounded by wiring and computers.

The soldiers flanking Maggie walked into the room, but she stopped in the doorway. She sensed the soldiers behind her shuffle their weapons, and felt the Project Leader's gaze on the back of her neck.

"In," said a man's voice behind her, and she felt the muzzle of a gun prod at her back. It didn't make her stumble.

Maggie's mind was racing, trying to figure out her next move. She'd done everything she'd been told to do for the past two and a half days. Did she have another option now?

A hand on her shoulder made her turn, and she found herself looking into the ice-blue eyes of the Project Leader.

"Sir," she croaked out, her eyes darting. "You don't need to do this."

He cocked his head. "Oh?"

"The machine, sir. I don't need it. I already said yes."

"Ah." The Project Leader looked over his shoulder and shared a glance with Sanders. The woman's gaze was hard. "The machine isn't to punish you, child," he went on. "It's to make you stronger. You told me you wanted that."

Maggie hesitated. "I… am already getting stronger."

"Yes, but your strength will not be only in your flesh. It will be in your mind. I need you to be ruthless, calculating. Without sentiment or attachment, except for loyalty to the project. This machine will strip away your weakness."

At that, the hand on Maggie's shoulder turned her around and propelled her into the room. Her mind was reeling – was this what she'd said yes to? Was it her memories of her family and her life before that made her weak?

As she was directed to sit in the chair, she thought about whatever strength the blue liquid had given her. What was it for, if she couldn't remember what she needed to use it for? What was the point of being strong, with no mission?

She thought about the soldier with the metal arm and his mission. He had been in this machine, she'd heard Sanders talk about him. The machine must have taken away his memories, taken away his missions. So why had he come for her?

Restraints on the chair clamped around her arms and legs.

"No," Maggie mumbled, dragged out of her thoughts. Feeling raw and numb, she pulled against the restraints, wanting them to break like the leather cuffs. But they held, holding her against the cold metal of the chair. "No, don't…"

One of the scientists held a rubber bit to her mouth. Maggie shook her head, eyes wild. The scientist shrugged then jabbed his fingers into the muscles of her jaw, forcing her mouth open, and shoved the rubber in. It tasted like metal.

They hooked her up to various monitors again, while the Project Leader watched.

Maggie's chest was heaving, and she realised that tears were streaming from the corners of her eyes.

Please, she wanted to say. Please, this isn't what I wanted.

Her genius brain had caught up with the program now, but too late for her to use her new strength to do something about it. She was furious with herself for not realizing sooner – what was the point of being a genius if she could be fooled in such a way?

Because she knew now: the Project Leader was going to make her strong, but the strength wasn't for her at all. It was for them, for their missions. Any mission Maggie wanted to carry out, anything that was her, was about to be washed away.

"Commencing initial procedure of the subject," Sanders said from somewhere behind her, her voice clinical. The metal arms whirred into life and began to descend toward Maggie's face. She could see two plates sparking with electricity.

Biting into the rubber in her mouth, Maggie screamed. She pulled at the restraints, yanking and shoving, but was rewarded only with a slight groan of the metal. The anger that had burned uselessly in her chest for the past days flared, fueling her limbs.

Then the plates connected with her face, and all thoughts were gone.

When the screaming echoed away and the chair powered down, the Project Leader stood in front of his subject, jaw clenched and his foot tapping in an uncharacteristic display of nerves.

When the subject's eyes opened and focused blearily on him, he spoke.

"Identify yourself."

"I… I am…" the subject's young, high voice was tremulous, and her dark eyes were wet with tears. The Project Leader clenched a fist behind his back: clearly in addition to programming the subject with the obedience trigger words, behavioral training would have to be a focus.

"I don't know," the subject finished, eyes darting back and forth in confusion.

"What is four hundred and fifty six multiplied by three hundred and twenty five?"

"One hundred and forty eight thousand, two hundred."

"We will comprehensively test the subject's cognitive and physical functions momentarily," Sanders told the Project Leader with a bite of annoyance in her voice.

"Excellent," the Project Leader said. "We'll proceed as planned with the testing and move straight onto cognitive reconditioning to ensure obedience." He stepped toward the subject. She was still showing symptoms of fear – she was trembling, and her vitals showed an elevated heartrate. Once the trigger words came into effect, he would be able to control the subject immediately after the wipe. For now, he would have to deal with the fear and confusion. He made sure she was watching him, then began to speak.

"You are the Wyvern," he told the subject, and watched her eyes as she took in the information. "You are an asset of HYDRA. We are going to shape you into the perfect weapon."

He turned from the subject to Sanders. "Next time, I'll need her to retain that information, as well as any training in combat, obedience and espionage we give her.

"It will remain intact," Sanders said, not looking up from her notes.

"Excellent." He turned back, taking in the skinny limbs and wild hair of the subject. His lip curled. The subject had a lot of growing to do, but the serum would help with that. "Now, identify yourself."

"Wyvern," the subject croaked out, and settled back in the chair. Her eyes were blank.

December 22nd, 1991

Woodlawn Cemetery, New York

James Rhodes had been to a few funerals in his twenty-three years, but he'd never been to one with as many guests as Howard, Maria and Maggie's funeral. People kept calling it the Stark Funeral, as if Tony wasn't standing right there at the head of the procession, watching his family's coffins sink into the ground.

Rhodes sat beside his friend through the ceremony, not sure whether to touch him or even look at him. Tony didn't move a muscle. Rhodes wasn't even sure if he heard anything the funeral celebrant was saying. He didn't react to the various family friends and co-workers that gave short eulogies about Maria and Howard. He didn't even blink when the butler, who looked ashen and shattered, got up to speak. The butler cried as he told the mourners what an honour it had been to work with Mr Stark. Rhodes barely heard what he said about Maggie, it was so choked with tears. The butler was guided away by his equally shattered wife, both looking frail and weary as they returned to their seats.

Tony just sat with his hands in his pockets, face gaunt, staring at the graves.

The gravestones were simple, which surprised Rhodes for some reason. The funeral arrangements had been handled by the Stark lawyers and the nosy butler, and he supposed they didn't want to make a pageant out of it. Maggie's grave was smaller than her parents', and the inscription simply read:

Margaret Abigail Stark

June 2nd 1986 – December 16th 1991.

Rhodes knew that Tony had somehow got a hold of the morgue reports. He'd found the file on the workshop bench when he came to pull Tony out of his drunken stupor two days ago. Rhodes had tried not to look, but it was lying open on a page with details about how the metal of the car had melted and fused to Maggie's bones. After heaving Tony into his bed, Rhodes had left the room and thrown up in a garbage can.

Suddenly the celebrant said, in his appropriately low, soothing voice: "And that brings an end to the proceedings. If you would like to stand by the graves and lay flowers and other gifts, or if you would like to say a word or two, please do so now."

Tony must have been listening, because at that he shot to his feet and strode back down the rows of seats, hands still in his pockets. Startled, Rhodes jumped up to follow him, but was stopped by an elderly hand on the sleeve of his uniform. He turned to see the weathered face of Peggy Carter, who he vaguely recognized from her occasional visits with Tony. Rhodes was struck by the pain in her eyes.

"We need to look out for him," she said, her accented voice choked with tears. She searched his face. "He'll make it difficult for us, but we must do it anyway."

Rhodes had barely met the woman, but he had never wanted to carry out another person's orders more than he did in that moment.

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded to her, and then turned to catch up with his friend.

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