A/N; So... um... Hi there :) Anyway, I know you wanted me to continue with this, but for that to happen, I kind of had to rewrite, since my memory pen broke and it had the other one on it. Anyway, here's the new prologue! Chapter one will be up soon; as always, R&R!

-Caitlin x

DISCLAIMER; I do not own I am Number Four or the Avengers! Just the character I created and the plot, so enjoy!

In her dream, Isabella Coulson is back on Lorien. This isn't the first time she's been home in her head, but she almost feels like something's changed.

"Something has changed, dear." Her grandfather says, sounding disappointed. Even though it's just a dream, a vision, it feels so weird that she shivers. She cannot see him- she is surrounded by the carnage that destroyed her planet. She spins, instinctively ducks beneath the bright white light of a Mogadorian cannon blast, even though it cannot hurt her here. Old habits die hard. "You've done so well, but the worst is yet to come for you."

She can't help herself- she snorts.

"The worst?" She questions the invisible figure, wincing as a Mogadorian Soldier skewers a kid, a Garde, probably no older than fourteen, through the heart with a spear. "Has the worst not already happened?"

Through the darkness, he chuckles. She scowls, folds her arms like an irritated child.

"I understand why you would think that, dear, but you'd be running. What is coming will be much worse that what has happened. The Nine now require your assistance."

"My assistance?" She frowns, "Aren't they supposed to be the be all and end all?" He pauses, uncomfortable. She wanders through the chaos, literally going through some people, and finds a bench. His voice comes from behind her when he speaks again.

"Can you blame Elder Loridas for making a mistake?" He asks, "It was a tense time, they panicked-"

"And you didn't help matters any, Grandfather!" She snaps. A light breeze stirs her hair and a second later he is beside her, or rather, a mirror of him is beside her, seated on the blood stained marble. He looks uncomfortable, younger than ever before. He might have actually been ten thousand, but today he had chosen to look twenty four or five.

"My exodus had been planned millennia ahead, Isabella." He gulps, "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." She doesn't reply, gripping the corners of the bench tightly.

"It was you who told me that the future had to be changed for the better." She clears her throat. "Is it one set of rules for you and one for the rest of us?"

"I understand your frustration." He says calmly. "I do not have long, so I'll be brief; you must find the Five. If they must exact their revenge on Five to stop him, then let it be so."

"Revenge on Five?" She questions, raising an eyebrow. "Why would they like to exact revenge on Five?" He smiles cryptically.

"Goodbye and good luck, Granddaughter."

"No- Grandfather-"

"Isabella!" Somebody calls her, though it sounds like it's from a great distance. The dream fades from around her, leaving her in her dorm room again. "Isabella Maria Coulson!" She groans and rolls over, face smothered in her pillow, warm as toast under the duvet. In Ireland, March is probably just as cold as in October.

"Izzy." The voice says, closer now, shaking her shoulder. "Iz, for the love of God, would you get up!"

"What?" She groans, rolling onto her back, glaring up at the ceiling. The face of her best friend looms over her. Her eyes are red, her hair is a mess, and she speaks through a yawn, grinning.

"Get up. You're wanted."

"Wanted?" She asks, rubbing her eyes and sitting up, hands going straight for the radiator to heat them up. They're in such an old building for most of the time, it's easy to be freezing. "It's effing three a.m. Who wants me at 3 a.m.?"

"Who do you think?" A familiar voice asks, and even without seeing him she can tell he is grinning.

"Daddy?" She gasps, heaving herself to her feet. Her body is heavy with sleep, and she struggles to shake it off. He pops his head around the door frame and smiles at her sheepishly.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"What are you doing here?" She asks, hugging him tightly, pushing her dream to the very furthest corners of her mind for the time being. He kisses the top of her head. It's been months since she's seen him, since she healed him during the Battle of New York. He went to Tahiti, then, and she had been used in his place as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent until he'd returned. She'd been qualified for years anyway, and SHIELD wasn't quite the same without a Coulson working there. After that, when he was better, she'd had to go back to school. Things had gone back to normal.

"Listen, Izzy, I need you to do something." He said, taking her aside. She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek anxiously. "Do you remember, back before your mother went home…" He trails off, clears his throat and glancing up and down the deserted corridor.

"Nobody's listening." She confirmed.

"And she told you there'd be a time where you'd have to overcome your hatred?"

"Yes?" She asks the question almost hesitantly, nervous to see where he's going.

"Sweetheart, I need you to find the nine for me. I need you to bring them in." He scans her for a reaction. She purses her lips.

She has nestled a hatred in her heart since she was a child; a resentment.

It was her deepest secret, or, at least, that was what she thought. She hated that part of herself; she hated the fact that she hated the Nine. It was like she didn't matter, sometimes, like everything she'd been doing to protect them went unnoticed. Many SHIELD agents praised Four for his courage when he'd let go of his Cêpan and everything he'd built in Paradise and moved on, despite being prosecuted as a terrorist. And there she was, standing in the background, pretending not to notice. Pretending that she didn't get up and move on when the Mogs had killed her protector eight years earlier. Because nobody at SHIELD know what she is, who she is. Very few even know that she is Phil Coulson's daughter. It is terrible of her, of course, she knows that without having to be told. But she had fought for her survival, too, and had to continue doing it. Sometimes she just wishes for someone (other than her father, because that is part of the job description) to recognise that.

But it isn't her father's fault.

Shaking her head, Isabella forces a smile. Reaching down inside her for some better part of her personality, she takes a moment before speaking.

A good soldier does as is asked of her, she reminds herself, and you are a good soldier.

"Of course." She replies, "When do I start?"