On my way down to the pier, I passed the U.S. Embassy. I was tempted to go inside, to tell them who I was, but I held back, due to fear. If I told them who I was, I was putting myself on the map for some very dangerous people. I already knew someone was watching Peter, bugging his phone. Who knows what else. That's why I held off from further communicating with him. I didn't know how far the Chairman's reach went, but if he was as insidious as I thought, with half of his Komitet agents being American themselves, then he had to have spies in the U.S. government as well. He'd be monitoring for me. If I made myself known, then I'd be bringing the entire force of the Crucible down on our heads.
I couldn't risk that. No. I was only going to contact the authorities when I was safely on American soil, far away from Sokovia and the Crucible. It would be only too easy for him to take me back now, while I was still so close.
To take my mind off my worry, I decided to take some pictures. I didn't really have a lot of talent, and the focusing toggle was a little iffy, but I was sure I got a few good shots somewhere in that mess. I had no idea what it made to take a good picture, what made the artistic stand out from the casual shot.
I just took images of Nice, of the architecture, the scenery, pieces of an idyllic place I could take home with me, and prove to others where I'd been. Remind myself that this was all real. That I was still in control.
Out on the pier, blustery wind picked up my jacket. I left the yellow raincoat at the hotel, for obvious reasons, so wore only the green utility jacket over my shirt. The day was warm enough that I didn't have to wear too many layers...or maybe I was just immune to cold temperatures now. Either way.
I wasn't in the commercial, civilian part of the harbor, which may mean I wasn't supposed to be here, but then again, there wasn't anyone else around to tell me so. The ground beneath me was cement, probably to support all the cargo coming in, and I stood over a large drop off, the waves lapping three hundred feet below. I hunkered down behind some crates, out of the way from prying eyes, and aimed my camera at the Sea.
I was nearly tempted to go swimming, just for the heck of it. I didn't, because 1) probably illegal and/or dangerous, at least with all these ships around and 2) I wasn't a strong swimmer. I'd learned, certainly when I was twelve, at the community pool in Hell's Kitchen. But for the same reason I didn't partake in gym class, I didn't swim much, either. I was just never strong enough to stay in the water for very long. Even worse, I sank like a rock, as little as I had weighed then.
Maybe it would be different now, I had a stronger endurance, but that wouldn't make up for the fact that my swimming experience was almost next to none. I heard of Olympic athletes drowning simply because they swam in deeper or rougher waters than they were used to. I was not about to follow their example.
That's when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Looking over, I spotted movement down on one of the cargo ships in the harbor below. A man was deboarding — tall, dark shades, golden blond hair slicked back, and dressed in an immaculate white suit. In one hand he carried a briefcase, striking in its acid green color. What was that, alligator skin? The guy looked too rich, too important to be coming off a dirty-ass boat full of storage containers. The man would fit better coming off a private yacht.
I frowned, held up the camera to look at him with the zoom mechanic. The man's face appeared in stark clarity. Neat stubble on a strong jawline, a shark-toothed smile as he greeted another man coming up the gangplank.
I paused when I realized I recognized the blond man in the white suit. Not because I knew him, but because I'd seen his face plenty of times on TV.
Holy crap. That was Dr. Aldrich Killian. The creator and head of AIM, and one of the most secretive men in the world.
I only knew of him because as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Dr. Killian almost didn't exist. He was a fascinating subject from a media standpoint; most people in Dr. Killian's position of power could rarely afford the amount of privacy he lived in. A billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Killian seemed to have appeared out of nowhere about five years ago. His company started as an ordinary power supply company, before quickly exploding into an all-out R&D manufacturer that invented new, advanced clean energy solutions and aided developing 3rd world countries all around the globe. How he managed all of this is known to only a few people, and none of them are talking to the media.
According to the official story, Killian started out as a mere grad student with big dreams just ten years ago, a man with no money, no resources, but plenty of world-changing ideas...through a series of wise investments, clever entrepreneurship, a genius mind, and a general charming personality, Aldrich Killian managed to climb the ranks as one of the most influential people in the world.
How he managed to keep such a private life was yet another mystery. He probably had a house in Los Angeles and/or New York, not that anyone knew how to find it. Each of his public appearances were carefully orchestrated - Dr. Killian showed up to special events, always dressed to the nines, before once more disappearing into the night. He was impossible to follow by the wily paparazzi — no, there would be no candid shots of Aldrich Killian jogging in his booty shorts any time soon.
So the fact that I caught him here, in France, was one hell of a thing. I was probably the only person outside of Dr. Killian's own entourage that knew he was here.
'History in the making,' I said to myself, half-joking. God, Peter would die to be in my shoes right now. He'd be taking a million pictures, waste all of his film, just for this one moment. How much would the media pay for a candid of Aldrich Killian?
I began snapping a few pictures, capturing Killian's face as he paused to shake the hand of the other man coming aboard. The man had olive skin and dark hair, and there was a noticeable sheen on his forehead. Even from here I could tell the strange man was trembling. He wasn't sweating because it was hot out, that's for sure. In fact, the day had gotten colder since we got here. No, the strange man looked utterly nervous in front of Killian, who gave him a grin, and the man returned it with a half-hearted smile. They were exchanging words, but from this distance I couldn't hear what they said. Their faces were turned at the wrong angle, so even if I could read their lips, I wouldn't be able to. The most I could figure was that Dr. Killian knew the strange man.
Then Killian clapped the strange man on the shoulder and they went on their separate ways. I made sure to get a few shots of the strange man, too, as he started walking again, getting different angles of his face as he glanced over his shoulder, as if he knew he was being watched.
Hmm, now that I thought about it, the strange man did look a little familiar, too. But I couldn't recall where I last saw him. He wasn't famous, at least not Aldrich Killian famous, otherwise I would've known…
As the dark-haired man disappeared inside the ship, I felt something drip on my hand. Looking down, I was started to find blood drops along the back of my thumb. Bringing up my hand, I touched my face.
My nose was bleeding again.
Oh no.
I had just registered the dread when Killian's ship exploded.I felt the flash of heat before the air blast hit me.
I just had the time to cover my face before the explosion bowled me over.
Tossed backwards like a rag doll, I went ass over teakettle before bouncing off some wooden pallets and crashing to the ground on my side. I rolled, coming to a stop on my stomach, winded.
It took me a second to remember how to breathe again. I blinked several times, trying to see though the blinding white afterimage of the explosion on my retina.
My ears were ringing, and I winced as I tried to pick myself up. I could still see that man in my head, right before he entered the ship. Who was he? What the hell happened?
'Amelia!' Came a call, and I looked up to see a silver flash — Pietro spotted me over his shoulder and skidded to a stop, the bottoms of his sneakers smoking. He spun around, grabbed my arm with one hand and helped me to my feet.
My knees were shaking, and I clung to Pietro's arms to steady myself. I felt like I'd just been punched in the chest by the Hulk. I was having trouble focusing my eyes. Everything felt like a blur.
'Are you okay?' Pietro took my face into his hands, turning my head this way and that. My vision finally cleared and the first thing I saw was his worried blue gaze, looking right into mine. 'Your nose is bleeding again. What happened?'
'I'm fine, it's just…' I pulled away, wincing against the headache pulsing in my head. I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to think past it. 'I saw something bad, I don't...I'm not sure what. This man entered the boat and a few minutes later it just…'
I gestured vaguely at the now burning wreckage. The ship was sinking, a hole blasted in its center, sending either end into the water. The prow jutted out sharply from the bay. Through the smoke and falling ash coating its sides, I could just barely read the white-painted words on the side of the ship:
HMS Adelaide
Just then, a loud groan pierced the air. I watched, awed and horrified, as the raised prow started to tilt. Slowly, its shadow loomed over the pier, before it came crashing down.
WHHOOOMMMMMMFFF.
Stone cracked and crumbled, but held as the onlookers still on the pier finally realized the incoming danger. They ran in a panic, from this distance looking like scattering ants at the sight of a massive boot coming to crush them. I couldn't tell if anyone was hurt in the impact, as the smoke thickened. The smell of sulfur and brimstone lay heavy in the air now. With the sea wind blowing inward, the debris would no doubt spread all over the city.
'You actually saw it happen?' Pietro asked, a hand on his head as he watched the destruction in helplessness.
When he looked at me, I could see the fear in his eyes. I already knew what he was thinking. Did they find us already?
'I'm not sure what I saw,' I admitted. 'Aldrich Killian just came off that ship.'
'Who's Aldrich Killian?'
'He's — he's, ah…' I stuttered, paused, pressed a hand to my head. The air was thick, it was hard to breath. The pounding in my head was making me dizzy. I already knew what was going to happen before it did.
'Amelia?' Pietro turned to me, reaching out when I started to sway on my feet. He caught my arm, but I didn't feel it. His voice echoed, distant, like he was shouting from down a long hallway. '...Whoa... easy, are...okay? Amelia!'
I blinked once, then ground rushed to meet my face. The world went dark.
'Get up.'
The floor was cold.
'I said,' a female voice, even colder. 'Get up.'
A steel-toed boot slammed into my ribcage. I gasped uselessly, diaphragm spasming, as my ribs cracked. Bruises on top of bruises. My knuckles were sticky with blood and broken skin.
I didn't want to move. But I didn't have a choice. Want didn't matter here, I already knew that, and I was stupid for resisting.
Get up, I told myself. Get up or they'll kill you.
As I stood, arms weighed down with exhaustion, my lungs burning, my knees shaking, a distant part of me realized this was a memory. That I was reliving this moment from the past - somewhere trapped inside the Crucible.
This knowledge didn't help much, and I was soon sucked back into the consciousness of the moment. The room was made of concrete, hard gray walls and a floor marked with paint. Or blood. It was hard to tell. The lighting was a dim, sickly yellow, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The ceiling was unusually low. I felt like I had to hunch to fit in. Although that may also be the exhaustion.
As my eyes refocused on the red-headed woman in front of me, I was momentarily distracted by the cloud of breath in front of my face. It was always cold down here. Deep in the bottom levels of the Crucible, nothing had ever seen daylight. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen the sun. I'd been so cold for so long, I stopped feeling it long ago.
How long had I been here? Weeks, maybe longer. It all felt like a blur. No one told me the date. Even that would give me too much power, too much knowledge.
In front of me, Brandt readied herself again. We'd been going at this for hours now, but she was hardly slowing down. Her skin radiated heat waves, visible around her silhouette. Her eyes had that faint orange glow. Brand wasn't allowed to use the full force of her powers on me during sparring matches, but she liked to singe a little, just to keep me on my toes.
She struck out, just as I raised my fists to defend myself. I blocked the blow with my forearm. Her knuckles burned my skin. I could hear the sizzle, but only winced, didn't cry out. She'd only hit harder if I made a sound.
Still, the blow and the pain knocked me back, and I stumbled to keep my footing. Despite the cool air, I was sweating, gasping for breath. Deciding not to let the pain slow me down, let Brandt think I was weakening, I retaliated - brought up my leg in a kick, forcing her back, before following it up with a fist.
Brandt had been expecting that. She dodged my kick, and grabbed my arm as I came for her. Before I knew it, her burning grip was around my wrist and she flipped me on my back. My head cracked against the cement floor.
I wanted to pass out, but my body didn't know when to stop. I was stronger now. I could take a beating and still keep going, even when I didn't want to anymore. But I couldn't make myself give out. Something deep within me refused to give up. It didn't matter that that's exactly what they wanted from me. I had to win, somehow.
Still, the takedown left me rattled, and I heard Brandt call out, 'That's it? That's all you got, Forty-Seven?'
Forty-Seven. I didn't have a name here. I wasn't sure if anyone here even knew I had one. That I used to have one.
And I had no idea who the other forty-six were. According to Brandt, they lasted longer than I have, but I wasn't sure if that was true, or she was just trying to break me down further.
No one leaves the Crucible alive.
I remembered those words. One of the first things said to me when I woke up after the Baron brought that staff upon my skull.
'Get up!' Brandt ordered again, delivering another kick to my side. I rolled over, wheezing. 'What, are you just going to lie there and take it? Get up and fight!'
Blood in my mouth. Pain under my eye, in my chest, every muscle in my body. When did it end? When did it stop?
I didn't know. All I knew was to get back up, to keep getting back up...
The room shifted around me. The memory, changing. Now I was walking down a hallway. My footsteps echoed down the cold, slightly damp walls. There was someone behind me. I could hear their footsteps, too. Louder, heavier. Whoever it was, they were bigger than me.
The world swayed around me, a blur. My body functioned on its own, a machine, while my mind detached.
I could run. The hallway was empty before me. Closed doors on either side. Some distant exit ahead. I knew it was there. I'd seen it before. Images of it flashed in my mind. A door swinging open, a white, glowing rectangle, piercing the darkness. If only I could reach it…
No. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, it was crushed in an instant. No, I couldn't leave the Crucible. I didn't want to.
They made me. They turned me into what I was now. How could I leave? How could I betray them?
The Crucible was my home.
A cold hand clamped down on my shoulder. I looked down at the metal fingers gripping my skin. I turned my head to see who it was, my drifting consciousness unable to remember who it was. But before I could see their face, I was pushed into the room on the left.
Whatever you do, don't show them your fear.
The words echoed in my head, the one rebellious thought I had left. The one thing that kept me going. The Crucible wanted me to be afraid. They would never see it.
Then I was surrounded by faces.
Another memory? They were shifting so fast now. I felt dizzy, sick. The faces I recognized. Other soldiers. Brandt. Savin. Not like me. No, they were different. There was a word for
them. It tickled at the edge of my mind.
Extremis.
'She's still standing,' Savin called, smirking as he chewed his gum. I was standing in the middle of a circle - some sort of fighting ring, but larger than the last one. It was brighter in here. I could see cages lining the wall behind their heads. 'Johansson, it's your turn. See if she stays down this time.'
A man stepped forward, dressed in black. He had tanned skin and dark hair, a beard. It's him. A voice whispered in my head. The man on the ship. He's one of them.
Somehow, knowing that didn't make me feel any better. Johansson, Brandt, Savin, everyone was all wearing this armor, tactical, like some sort of special ops team. None of them bore weapons.
I felt myself ready into a defensive stance. I knew what was coming.
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