Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  'No, Mrs. Fleming,' Ned winced. 'Sorry.'

  'Hmph,' Mrs. Fleming gave him one last disapproving look before continuing with her lecture. Ned sat with his hands under his desk, properly shushed, and unwilling to speak again without testing Mrs. Fleming's patience.

  Peter frowned, studying the image again. Maybe Mia hid something in the pixels itself, some hidden message in Kennedy's face or something…

  His thoughts were interrupted when a paper airplane bounced off his temple. Irritated, he whipped around to glare at whoever did that, already guessing it to be Flash ready with some stupid new nickname he just invented —

  But instead, it was Michelle, sitting two seats behind him. She wiggled her fingers at him, leaning forward in her seat. From her vantage point, she would've been able to spy on Peter's computer.

  'What is it?' Peter hissed out of the corner of his mouth, wondering what she could want. He really wasn't in the mood for Michelle's sarcastic commentary on life.

  'The airport.' Michelle said, and when he just gave her a confused look, she raised her eyebrows at him. 'You know, JFK International Airport? That's what you two dorks are talking about, right?'

  Peter blinked, confounded. 'The airport?' He repeated dumbly.

  'Oh, c'mon,' Michelle rolled her eyes, tilting her head in annoyance. 'I don't really have to explain this to another New Yorker. You know what JFK is.'

  'JFK,' Peter said, and before Michelle could think of something else to say, he whipped back around to stare at the Kennedy's portrait. 'Kennedy airport…Oh my god, that's it! That's what's she's trying to tell me!'

  'What?' Ned, Michelle, and Mrs. Fleming asked at the same time.

  Peter had said it loud enough that the whole class had heard, and every head turned when he suddenly leapt out of his seat, hands on his head. A few kids started to whisper, snickering behind their hands.

  'What's wrong?' Ned asked, but there was no time to answer him. Peter had to get out of here now.

  'Peter, sit down!' Mrs. Fleming admonished, but Peter had already slammed his laptop shut and was currently shoving it into his backpack. 'And no shouting in — wait, where do you think you're going?'

  'Sorry, Mrs. Fleming!' Peter called, slinging his backpack over one shoulder before scrambling for the exit. Thanks to his disruption, the class erupted with noise, as he hopped and slid over the corner of a desk. 'It's a family emergency!'

  'Peter, stop! Get back here!' Mrs. Fleming called.

  But Peter was already tearing out the door.

  November 13th

  10:13 AM

  It took Peter over an hour to reach JFK airport. This was mostly due to the fact of awful traffic and weather; normally he'd swing on over, but rain forced him to take the train instead — it was faster than having to go through all the traffic on the roads, although having to stop at Jamaica Station to board another line only made him all the more impatient.

  He spent that time waiting doing calculations. The email had arrived very early that morning, before he had woken up. It was a good seven to eight hours later when he finally read it at school. If Mia had sent that before she boarded her flight, that meant was probably already in America by now. How long did an overseas flight take? Had she taken a nonstop flight, or took one with a layover to throw off anyone that was following her?

  It was impossible to know. Peter kept looking at the email on his StarkPhone just to remind himself that this was real. This was too real. It had to be real.

  'Sir, may I remind you that skipping school like this will likely result in disciplinary punishment?' Karen reminded him through his headphones as he stepped off the train just outside the airport. 'And that an exemplary record is necessary to remain in the employ of Stark Industries?'

  'I don't even get paid,' Peter muttered into his scarf, keeping an eye out for any passerby as he crossed the station. He felt self-conscious talking to his phone, even though most people would probably assume he was making a call. 'And it's not even a real internship. Besides, I think Mr. Stark will understand, you know, once I tell him what happened.'

  'Was it wise to keep him in the dark about your search for your deceased cousin?'

  'She's not deceased!' Peter said, annoyed, especially with the word choice. 'I've got proof she's still alive. And, if what I think is true, then I'll know for sure.'

  'It's an unlikely possibility that John F. Kennedy's portrait would mean the location of Amelia's arrival,' Karen said. 'The odds of Amelia actually being at Kennedy Airport is approximately one-point-two-million to —'

  'Never tell me the odds!' Peter snapped, glaring at his phone as if Karen would have any emotional reaction to it. 'I'm nearly there already, its too late now. The best you could do for me right now is hack into their security feeds and see if you find anyone that looks like Mia.'

  'I'm afraid that illegal access of the Kennedy Airport security system is not included in my protocols, Mr. Parker,' Karen said, and she even sounded apologetic. The wonders of coding.

  Just when Peter was about to express his frustration, Karen added: 'I can tell you, however, that an international flight from London landed five minutes ago at Terminal 3, Gate B1.'

  Peter came to an abrupt stop. 'Are you sure?'

  'Positive. Would you like me to map you a route towards that location?'

  'Yes, do it now!' Peter nearly shouted, breaking out into a sprint as he headed towards the nearest exit. 'I'm already on the move!'

  Karen determined a path almost instantly, and guided him through verbal commands — Peter didn't have the time to keep glancing at his phone. Mia might already be deboarding right now. He had to keep his eyes out in case she was somewhere in the crowd.

  JFK International Airport was massive, but Peter was a fast runner, and his superhuman endurance meant he wasn't going to tire out anytime soon. He made it to Terminal 3 in just under a minute and a half.

  Only one problem. Bursting through the doors of Terminal 3, Peter charged up the steps, skipping past the escalators entirely, and at a full-tilt sprint, suddenly slammed to a complete halt. Fifty feet in front of him were the security gates and a massive line of people and over two dozen TSA agents. The electronic boards hanging from the ceiling said it would take over 45 minutes to get through screenings.

  There was no way he was getting to Gate B1.

  His eyes scanned desperately for a way around. There had to be a visitor's entrance, right? A place to greet people who just landed here? Peter honestly had no idea. He'd never been in an airport before. He'd never even been in a plane.

  Peter spun in place, trying to figure out what to do. Karen had a rare glitch, telling him to go through TSA even though he had no ticket, no reason to be there. He didn't have the time to correct her. His heart was pounding, his thoughts racing a mile a minute.

  Mia had to be here. Where would she go next? How could he find her?

  That's when he heard shouting.

  It was distant at first, drowned out by the general hubbub and the acoustics of the high ceiling of the main lobby. But then agents from the screening line broke away, several jumping over the velvet rope to go deal with something on the far right, responding to calls on their radios.

  'Oof!' Peter got shoulder-checked by a security guard coming in front behind, racing towards an intersection where the food courts led to the baggage pick-up.

  Stumbling a little to catch himself, Peter tried to peer over the shoulders of other curious onlookers, but he was too short.

  Annoyed that being bitten by a spider didn't make him at least three inches taller, Peter began forcing his way through the crowd, ducking under arms and leaping over carry-ons, following the commotion towards a suspended walkway, glass windows giving view of the airfield beyond.

  Civilians had been pushed to the side by the security force, alarmed by the sudden urgency of the area.

  Running down the walkway, Peter didn't see anything at first, and started t
o wonder if maybe it was a false alarm, or completely unrelated — all US airports would be on high alert after the London attack, maybe the TSA was just being paranoid as usual —

  The walkway split into two directions. The security team charged down one way. Peter skidded to a stop, unable to see what they were going after. The little snatches of radio chatter he caught sounded like they were responding to a call for help at another location, not actually chasing anyone.

  Damn it. Peter huffed, running a hand through his hair as he turned back the way he came. Was it all a mistake? Was he even in the right place? The airport was just so huge. He'd never have enough time to search it all…

  In the background someone yelped, simultaneous to the noise of a heavy suitcase crashing to the tile floor, echoing sharply.

  'Hey, careful!' A woman cried, followed by the sound of a quick apology, the rustle of clothes and panting breath. Peter glanced over his shoulder. Some girl had just ran into a woman, and was already stumbling away, looking haggard and a little manic. Well, someone was in a rush.

  The girl came to a stop at the center of the intersection, staring up the signs one at time, squinting as if she were having trouble reading them. She was tall and gangly, wearing only a thin green canvas jacket, unsuitable for the weather, and carrying only a single small backpack over one shoulder. Bruised knuckles gripped the strap.

  Peter was just about to turn away, uninterested with harried travelers, when his eyes rose to her face. She had a rather unsightly thick bandage taped just above her right eye. But the bandage wasn't what stopped him — no, it was the rest of her.

  The blonde hair was cut too short, uneven and just above her shoulders. The face a little too wide, the cheekbones not as prominent. There were cuts and bruises he'd never seen before. Freckles, too.

  But those gray eyes didn't change.

  Peter's breath hitched in his throat.

  'Mia?'

  The girl snapped her head around, looked at the one who called out. Her gaze found his. Her eyes widened. Too wide.

  There she was standing before him, looking nothing like the Mia he knew. But it was still her face. Peter would know it anywhere.

  For the longest second, they just stood there, staring at each other. Mia's mouth was open — breathing hard, maybe about to say something. He stepped forward, reaching out with a hand. To touch her. To make sure she was real.

  Peter took another step forward, slow, almost too afraid to move. The girl seemed frozen, like a deer in headlights, unable to break away. He felt light-headed, maybe even a little dizzy, like the world was suddenly going to spin away from him at any moment, and he'd wake up in his bed, and realize that this was just some cruel, cruel dream, a last ditch attempt at wish-fulfillment.

  'Mia?' He said again. Somehow she wasn't responding. Like she hadn't heard him. Through his shock, he almost started to smile.

  Her gaze dropped down, following his hand. That's when he noticed the trail of blood slipping down from her nose. He was three feet away. Mia twitched, her stance shifting, now on the balls of her feet.

  Their eyes met again. Something flickered in her eyes. She knew him. She was Mia. She had to be.

  Then Mia turned, and ran.My first instinct was to shoot out of my seat.

  But immediately after I rose, a wave of dizziness washed over me. Before I could overcome it, Brandt grabbed my sleeve and yanked me back down.

  'Where do you think you're going?' Brandt said, and I spotted her smirk as the world spun around me. Was I even sitting anymore? It felt like the jet was spiraling into a nosedive, even though we hadn't even started moving yet. 'The plane's about to take off in ten minutes. You don't want to miss your ride home, do you?'

  'What...did you do...to me?' My words fell like wet, heavy bricks out of my mouth. Sounds warped, turning the stewardess going over safety procedures into a off-tune foghorn.

  'It's called ketamine,' Brandt's voice echoed somewhere from the ether. I could feel the drowsiness pulling me away from reality, into the false comfort of sleep. 'A concentrated version of it, at least, more effective on folks like you and me. Typically used as an anesthetic or sedative in most medical procedures. Side effects include double vision, nausea, hallucinations, irregular heartbeat...some things you're probably experiencing right now, I imagine.'

  Well, she wasn't wrong. The jet shifted into a backwards motion and my stomach did flips. I almost wanted to vomit, but my body had gone completely limp — I couldn't operate my gag reflex even if I wanted to. Closing my eyes didn't help much, but at least the world stopped rocking like a carnival ride. It didn't get rid of the sensation that I was sitting in one of Disneyland's spinning teacups ride.

  In the distance, I heard an unfamiliar voice speak. A shadow at the corner of my vision when I dared peek out from beneath my eyelids. I saw the white shirt and blue skirt of the stewardess, asking Brandt a question. I couldn't make it out, only Brandt's answer.

  '...oh, my niece, she'll be fine...not feeling well, gets airsick….'

  I closed my eyes, pressed my lips together. Frustration. I was trapped on a plane with an Extremis soldier. No one suspected a thing.

  And so soon after escaping the Crucible. I was still getting over the flashbacks of my first escape. How Brandt, Savin, the other Extremis agents tried to stop me. I sort of understood why she might hate me so much now.

  During debrief, I never told Coulson my full experience when I helped rescue his team. Not that they were idiots, they probably knew I was going through something at the time, but I didn't tell any of them how easily suppressed memories could be triggered. That I was brainwashed, that I had a trigger phrase. Simmons' name Rebel Columbia still gave me shivers when I thought about it. Not that they could ever know. Give all of SHIELD the idea that I could be controlled against my will? I don't think so.

  'Thought you were...dead…' I muttered, and I kind of liked how I sounded more annoyed than scared. An unintentional effect of the ketamine, perhaps.

  'Hmm, you'd think so, right?' Brandt seemed mildly amused by the question. 'But no, no, you're gonna have to try a lot harder than an avalanche if you want to kill me. Speaking of death —' I felt a hand slide behind my head, before it fisted into my hair, jerked my head back. The pain was sharp, clear, bright against the dullness of the sedative. I winced, opening my eyes, and met Brandt eye-to-eye. '— It seems the KGB wasn't so lucky. Tell me, Amelia, how is it that almost everyone who knew your trigger is dead now? I mean, besides a select few individuals, I don't think anyone's left. The rest have bullets in their head, or got crushed under the Crucible. And I'm sure as hell you're not smart enough to pull that off on your own.'

  I blinked, frowning in confusion. It took a second for me to catch up with all of those words. Agents...dead? Oh, right. The Winter Soldier. They still had no idea that he fired on his own guys.

  I was only vaguely aware of the jet taking off — my only clue was the popping in my ears and the shift backwards in my seat from the g-force.

  'I don't know,' I said, my lips dry. I licked them, focusing hard on what I wanted to say so I didn't forget in the soft fogginess of my mind. 'Why don't you ask your boss, the Chairman?'

  'He isn't my boss,' Brandt said, settling into her seat as the jet rose to cruising level. She was completely relaxed, in control of the situation. 'But the man I work for was specific about this. Doesn't want any more casualties than necessary. I don't know how you got rid of all those KGB agents, but let me be clear — Unless you want 9/11 Part Two, refrain from pulling any stunts while on board.'

  I glared at her as Brandt smiled, delighted in her own threat. I suspected she had no problem blowing up this plane. She'd probably survive that, too.

  'Who...else...knows?' I asked. My mind slipped away from me for a moment. Sunlight flickered in the window to my right. The vast blue Atlantic hung below the jet's wing.

  Thankfully, Brandt didn't need clarification. 'Me, Savin — the only o
nes the Chairman trusted to keep you in line. The Chairman has the Glass Presence. Fancy codename for the book with all the secrets to your head. Only one exists, had it made when you were finished programming.'

  'And you're just…telling me this…?'

  'Sure, why not. Ketamine also induces amnesia when it wears off. And I don't plan on keeping you sober for long. It's either drugs or protocol for you.'

  'Why don't you use it now?' I asked, a whisper. I didn't know how many people were on board, how many were close enough to hear. I was still trying to parse through an escape plan, but I kept coming to dead ends.

  'Well, it'd be pointless and all. You being all doped up like a street whore,' Brandt replied, shrugging casually. 'Not much use to me or my boss that way. Besides, you act a lot more suspicious when you're, you know, under protocol. We'd never make it past US security. Keeping you sedated is more convenient. And I've got enough doses for the next twelve hours,' Brandt patted my arm in what might been a reassuring manner, but was, in fact, completely unnerving. 'So you've got nothing to worry about. It's a long flight, maybe you should get some shut-eye.'