"Let us evade the grueling imprisonment of our mental cage and invade the explosive power of love. Only by redirecting lost momentum to positive thinking we can restrengthen the mold of our trust."

― Erik Pevernagie

1922

"She's yours." The woman looked up and her pale complexion was startling in the overhead lighting; her green eyes were as large as ping pong balls.

"I don't want her." The brown haired man grimaced, looking at the woman as if she were some homeless woman begging for change, which really wasn't far from the truth. She was naught but a casual fling that should never have resurfaced, and yet here she was, child in hand, a year later. If he had been truthful, he did not even remember her, but it did not matter if the child was his or not. Either way, there was no way to get this woman off of the door step without giving her a large sum of money, killing her, or taking the child. The man did not want to do either of those three options, but there was little else to consider.

"I cannot afford her," she admitted, as if he didn't know. She was but a lowly woman who had thought being with a man of his status would change her luck, but it had clearly made it worse. He had not seen her in a year, and questioned if he even knew her; and yet he had a feeling the child in his arms was his.

"And I cannot afford to waste my time raising a child. Your child." He was cold, just like the winter around them.

"Our child."

"Get out of my sight." He wanted to slam the door; he had company over, and didn't want her to see who it was. He would have to kill her then, but that might make things easier. Still, he would end up stuck with the brat, and he wasn't prepared to kill an infant.

"Please take her..." She trailed off and mumbled something about him being the only one to give her a proper life. She had no idea what she was setting her child up for; if she had known, she may have reconsidered her pleas.

"I have no use of her, nor you, woman."

"I may," Arnim Zola said; the man had not noticed Zola had been listening.

"What use would you have of her?"

"I have always wanted a child." Zola's words were convincing, though it took little to please this woman at their doorstep. It was clear that she wanted a life for her child, but did not - or could not - want to expend the time or effort. The man glanced at Zola, wondering what his plan was.

"Please..." The woman begged, holding out the baby girl who began to stir. The winter winds outside were coming into the house; the woman looked disheveled and about to collapse. Her cheeks were turning an ugly purple in the cold. She would die of frost bite on the walk home, perhaps.

"I will take good care of her." His Swiss accent was thick, and somehow it made him sound more trustworthy. In reality, the woman was happy to hand her away regardless of what status of care she would be given. She had no idea what torture she had guaranteed for the child, what life of pain and agony she had begun. She just thought she was giving her child a life worth living.

"Thank you. Would you please call her Ophelia?" Her final request.

Zola agreed. The woman nodded graciously, kissing her daughter on the forehead and then handing her to Zola.

When she was gone, the man - nothing more than the biological father to the child - turned to Zola. "She may have not seen through your lies, but I have."

"Experiments, sir." Zola smiled, looking at the infant in his arms. "For HYDRA purposes."

The man looked at the baby that was his child. Her big green eyes resembled those of her mothers, her olive skin just like his own. She had brown hair coming in already, and the man wondered how old she was. A few days? Weeks? He had no idea, children were not something he spent any time around and that had not changed today. The baby was Zola's problem now. The woman did not care to share any more information and was glad to get rid of the burden the child would have been. Now that burden was on Zola, but Zola would make good use of her. He was an ideal HYDRA member.

"Very well." The man nodded. "You will raise her as you wish, do with her what you wish. I want no part in her life."

"Yes, sir." Zola nodded obediently.

Fifteen years later

1937

"How is she doing?" Red Skull asked Zola.

"As of late she has been responding differently to the treatments. We have been giving her doses of the Infinity formula, but she seems to be rejecting it. I do believe she is more than we think. Have you heard of such a thing as mutations?"

"Of course," Red Skull said, his tone thick with offense.

"I think all the chemicals we have been giving her are preventing her mutation from coming forth, I suggest we withhold testing for a few months and instead put her under extreme stress; this is what triggers mutation in most cases. If she develops her powers, we will use her as a weapon."

"Good. And if not?"

"She will go back to being our lab rat until she dies."

Six months later

"She is ready." Zola grinned.

They had taken her off of all treatments, discovered her power of path finding. She could track an object or person using her enhanced abilities. Zola, and other HYDRA officials, had trained her to perfect these skills. When she found her object or person, she was given a dose of Rapture, a drug that made her feel wonderful for now, but was fatal in large or extended doses. When she failed, she would be given electric shocks. She was conditioned like Pavlov's dog, but treated far worse. Kept weak and hungry she was nothing than her mutation, a shell of a girl who had so much potential but would not realize it for many years to come.

"Continue the training until I have use of her. The war is developing, I can taste it. I can feel it." Red Skull grinned. It would only be a few years now.