But things were looking up for Sana. Since Ava had started at S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, Sana seemed a little more settled. Ava knew she had moved back in with her taxi-driving father and his new family, and was working most days and fencing or studying most nights, for her GED high-school-equivalency exam. Ava figured that the goal was college, whether Sana would admit it or not.
Good for you, Sana. You should get a regular life. At least one of us should.
Ava stepped up to the counter.
“Can I help you?” Oksana said, smiling in spite of their mutual pledge not to blow each other’s cover—i.e., Sana wasn’t supposed to have friends over during her shift, and Ava wasn’t technically supposed to leave the Academy in her first year. But being the Black Widow’s pet PTSD case had its perks. So did having few friends; there were fewer people to ask questions.
“One rude brew,” Ava said, pretending to study the menu posted on the wall behind Sana. “Make it your rudest.”
“That’s four shots of espresso.” Sana raised an eyebrow. “Sure you can handle that much lip?”
“I’m tougher than I look.” Ava shrugged. “And I’ve had a long few days.”
Sana looked her over, taking in every scratch on Ava’s face, every inch of sunburn on her skin, and of course, the smell. “Yeah, okay. What size? Jittery, Wired, or High-Wired?”
“High-Wired. Like I said, tough week.”
Sana raised an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say.” Her crabby-looking manager, India, who was foaming milk next to her, looked up, annoyed at all the chatter. India didn’t believe they should be hiring girls who had formerly lived in the basements of community centers.
India barked, “Move, Sana. We’ve got a line—” Then she looked at Ava. “You smell.”
Ava hurriedly stuffed a dollar in the tip jar and stepped away. Sana wouldn’t pull the money out until later, when she’d have time to find the message Ava had scribbled on one side, just like always. That had been their code for the past year now.
This time it was a drawing of a fish, underlined with a single line—in their code, a stick—and the number seven. Fish sticks. In other words, a meeting. Tonight. At their old spot at the Stark Community Kitchen, where they’d spent too many nights eating fish sticks and plotting for a future they each doubted would ever really come.
Ava couldn’t wait to catch up. It wasn’t easy to sneak out when Natasha was home, but knowing Romanoff, she’d be at the Triskelion late into the night. Ava would have plenty of time to go home and shower before she came back.
At least, so she hoped.
Ava’s hair was still wet when she walked up to the Stark Community Kitchen wearing borrowed clothes from Natasha’s apartment. She hadn’t had time to do laundry, and her South American clothes were all so filthy now they would probably have to be thrown into a furnace.
Good thing I know a few basements—
The borrowed black leather jacket was some Italian brand called Balenciaga—the dark Japanese denim jeans looked like they were vintage—and the simple fitted white T-shirt was from a French boutique whose name she couldn’t pronounce. If you eliminated Natasha’s work wardrobe—a combination of combat fatigues, body armor, wet suits, and what Ava had come to think of as S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue Widow-wear—there were only a dozen things in Natasha’s closet. Ava was now wearing a good number of the ones that weren’t meant for infiltrating a Monte Carlo casino.
As she stood in front of the Community Kitchen, she thought about how many times she’d walked through those doors in the past. In the snow, in the rain. When she’d had nothing to eat all day. When she’d felt like she was all alone in the world. And then on better days, brighter days, when Sana was at her side.
It had been a long road to now.
You had to hand it to Tony, Ava thought; the place was now nothing like the basic soup kitchen Ava and Oksana had known. It was sleek and modern and new—full of fresh produce and healthy food—even donated pet food, for the nonhuman strays. The place was so popular it now offered meals for purchase as well as for free to those who could not afford them. The Stark CK had become a community hangout in a place that badly needed one, and Ava was grateful that Tony had made good on his promise to mark Alexei’s memory in a way that would be meaningful, if only to her.
Over the doorway, Tony had arranged for a few words to be painted, in Cyrillic. The phonetic translation of the Russian was roughly Ne Teryayetsya, Ne Zabyli—
Not Lost, Not Forgotten.
Never.
Ava avoided looking at the words even now, though she found it comforting that they were still there.
It was that feeling that made her look around for Alexei; she’d half expected him to be waiting for her when she’d walked up. There was no knowing why or how he came and went; it could be hours, it could be days. He wasn’t here at the moment, but that didn’t mean anything. He always came back to her.
And I will always be here when you do.
Ava moved inside and took a seat by the window. As she waited for Sana, she pulled out her iPod and scrolled through the last playlist her friend had uploaded for her. Song lyrics were how they most often communicated now, especially since Ava couldn’t really talk to Sana about anything that was actually going on in her life—and they hadn’t seen each other in months.
When Oksana sent her DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince’s “Parents Just Don’t Understand” for example, Ava knew Sana must be fighting with her dad again. When Ava countered with the Kinks’ song “Two Sisters,” she knew Sana would understand that life with Natasha wasn’t all that easy, either. This was the first playlist Ava had gotten since she’d sent off Duran Duran’s “Rio.” But I came back, Sana. To New York and to you, just like I promised.
At least, for now.
Ava scrolled to a song, nodding as she clicked on it. “Run the World (Girls)” by Sana’s idol, Queen Bey. So her friend really was feeling good. Thank God. Sana wouldn’t pull out Beyoncé lightly. Maybe she’d gotten a promotion, or met someone. Ava made a mental note to ask her about it tonight.
“Is this seat taken?” A boy’s voice came from behind her.
Of course. There you are—
“You goof. Just because I said you couldn’t come to coffee”—Ava smiled, picking up her bag and moving it by her feet—“I didn’t mean you had to disappear all afternoon.”
“Wait, what?”
She froze. That’s not Alexei—
Ava whirled around in her seat, surprised. She looked toward the Boy Who Was Not Alexei. “Yes, sorry—I thought you were—my friend is—”
Instead of Alexei, she saw a tan-skinned boy with a tight smile and hair that fell long into his warm brown eyes. He wore a Montclair Fencing Academy hoodie, and balanced a tray of french fries in one hand and his fencing bag over his shoulder.
You.
It’s you.
Ava kept stammering. “I—I mean my French is—”
“Fried?” Dante Cruz asked with a smile. “Do you always talk to yourself?”
Her heart lurched. Dante had been Alexei’s best friend. She knew him but she was surprised to see him.
Not just surprised. Flustered. Freaked out. Superstressed.
Say something—
“Dante Cruz? Is that you? What are you doing here?” Ava asked. She could feel her face turning red, which was even more embarrassing.
“What is he doing here?” Alexei whispered into her ear, suddenly sitting right beside her. “Did you have plans to see him?”
She glanced at Alexei and shook her head. No.
“Hey, am I interrupting something?” Dante shot her a strange look. “Maybe, like, a stroke or a nervous breakdown? Facial twitch?”
Alexei laughed out loud.
Ava blushed more. Get ahold of yourself. “No. I meant—no, you’re not interrupting.”
“This is awkward,” Alexei said.
Ava tried not to look at him. Instead, she tried to smile at Dante—but Alexei
was right; it was always this awkward between them. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to talk to Alexei’s former best friend in person, now that they were face-to-face. And while Ghost Alexei is staring me in the face—
“I’m sorry,” Ava said, “I know I’m being really weird. I was just—I was expecting someone else.”
“Someone dead.” Alexei grinned.
Ava ignored him, focusing on Dante. “And you startled me. I didn’t even know you knew about this place, to be honest.”
“My memorial soup kitchen, and you wouldn’t think my best friend would know about it? That’s kind of cold,” Alexei said.
Dante shrugged, but at least he seemed to buy it. “I got the same letter you did, I guess. That form letter, from Stark Industries, about Alex’s memorial soup kitchen or whatever? As if they even knew him.”
“Cold,” Alexei said again. “Dude, seriously.”
Ava took a breath. You mean the letter that went to you and me only? From Pepper and Tony? Who in fact knew and really liked Alexei?
“Right,” she said. Ava didn’t want to set Dante off; he’d unloaded on her at Alexei’s funeral, and ever since then she knew he’d always blame her for his friend’s death. She blamed herself as well, so she didn’t really see how she was going to be able to change his mind. As a result, she had never tried.
Dante shrugged. “I come down here and just hang out sometimes. I mean, the guy was my best friend.”
“Dude,” Alexei said. “I know. This sucks.”
“Even though he could be a total tool.” Dante smiled.
Alexei coughed.
Ava laughed.
Dante eyed her strangely. “And I kind of like the Russian on the front, even though I don’t understand it. You know why it’s there?” He sat down across from her, sliding his tray onto the table.
Alexei eyed his friend suspiciously.
Yes. Obviously.
“Why do you think?” Ava asked, choosing her words carefully.
“I guess there was this whole Russian family out there that he didn’t even know he had. And, I mean, I never even saw it in him. Did you?” For a minute, Dante looked like he really wanted to know, like he was just relieved to have someone to talk to about it, so she answered him honestly.
“To be fair, I didn’t even know about it,” Alexei said. “Could you tell him that?”
“To be fair,” she said, “he didn’t even know about it, until right before—”
Dante looked away, trying to compose himself. Alexei ran his hand through his hair, looking down at the table. Ava didn’t know what else to say.
Silence is better than a lie.
“Whatever,” Dante said, looking back at her. Then he smiled and picked up a packet of mustard. “Plus, good fries.”
Ava grinned back. “Looks like it.”
Alexei looked at Ava. “Tell him that plain mustard is disgusting, and if I were here I’d have—”
Dante laughed to himself, holding up his mustard packet. “Al would have the barbecue sauce and the ketchup and the ranch dressing and the hot sauce, and all of it would be going on his fries at the same time.” The timing was eerily perfect.
Alexei laughed so hard Ava was almost certain Dante could hear him.
“Disgusting boy,” Ava said.
“Right?” Dante smiled.
“You two were really close, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well. He was my best friend, that moron.” He looked at her. “I guess I’m sorry for both of us.”
Ava nodded.
Alexei banged the table. “Come on. If there’s a sorry contest here, I think the dead guy sort of has that one in the bag.”
Dante opened the packet of mustard and dumped it on his fries. “You never wrote me.”
“You didn’t?” Alexei looked surprised.
“I did. Didn’t I? I mean, I thought I did,” Ava said, lamely.
“No, I would remember. You didn’t,” Dante said again. “I thought it was weird. You wrote me back once, and then you just stopped.”
“The guy has a point,” Alexei said. “Why didn’t you write him? I mean, he was my best friend. You at least had that to talk about.”
“Stop,” Ava said, irritated at both of them. “Just stop already. I don’t want to talk about it, not with you.” Not either of you.
They both shut up.
She knew exactly what she’d written—and what she hadn’t. She just couldn’t explain it, how sharing the pain with someone who knew such a different side of Alexei only seemed to make everything worse for both of them.
In Dante’s letter, all he could talk about was whether or not it was her fault that Alexei was gone. In Ava’s response, all she could talk about was how she’d let Alexei down, and how guilty she felt.
How he would be here if he’d never met me. How I couldn’t protect him. How he sacrificed everything for Natasha and me—
“Fine. If you’re that upset, I don’t know why you wanted to see me.”
“Huh?” Alexei looked at her. “You did?”
“I didn’t,” Ava finally blurted out.
“That’s not what Sana texted me.” Dante sounded defensive.
“She did?” Of course she did.
“Uncool,” Alexei muttered.
“Yeah, a few hours ago. She said you had some kind of break from school and that we should all meet up here and hang out.” Dante shrugged. “Because you wanted to hang.”
“With you?” Alexei raised an eyebrow—and disappeared.
Ava stared at the space where he had been, and then at Dante.
“Great,” she said. I’m going to kill her.
“Wow.” Dante picked up a fry and dropped it. “Don’t sound so excited about it.”
Ava tried again. “I mean, I’m not not excited.”
“No, I get it.” Dante shook his head. “I should go.”
Ava could feel her face turning red.
“What does a girl have to do to get a fish stick around here, Mysh?” Oksana slid into the seat next to Ava.
“There you are!” Ava stood up and pulled her friend into a tight hug, leaving Dante sitting awkwardly at the table.
He cleared his throat. “Look, if I’m crashing, if you two would rather be alone—”
“Well—” Ava said, not letting go of Sana’s arm.
“Of course not,” Sana said, squeezing Ava like a kitten as she sat down. “So. Are you kids having fun? Because I gotta say, it looks like you’re having a blast—”
S.H.I.E.L.D. EYES ONLY
CLEARANCE LEVEL X
SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES & INDIVIDUALS (SCI) INVESTIGATION
AGENT IN COMMAND (AIC): PHILLIP COULSON
RE: AGENT NATASHA ROMANOFF A.K.A. BLACK WIDOW
A.K.A. NATASHA ROMANOVA
AAA HEARING TRANSCRIPT (EXCERPTED LETTER)
CC: DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, SCI INQUIRY
** FILE COPY **
Hi,
I thought I would see if you were okay. I know that’s kind of a stupid thing to say, because of the whole “last time I saw you was at a funeral” thing. But anyways, I hope you are.
I wanted to say that I’m sorry for what I said. How I acted like it was your fault when Al died. I knew it wasn’t true even when I was saying it. I mean, I thought it, of course I thought it, because that’s how it felt. I wanted it to be someone’s fault, and I wanted to punish that person.
I was angry.
But sometimes, when I think about it now, I can’t remember if I was angry at you for taking him away—or if I was just angry at him for leaving. It’s becoming a blur, like a memory, or a ghost.
I know he wouldn’t have left town if he hadn’t met you, but I don’t think you meant for any of it to happen. That’s what I actually believe.
Anyways, it would be great if you could write back. It’s supposed to help my grieving process. Which sounds really creepy, I know, like I work at a funeral parlor or something. But
that’s what this lady I go talk to tells me. I need a “community of loss” or something. My process sucks.
I know you got sent away to military school or something, but please try to write.
Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. EAST RIVER TRISKELION,
TENTH FLOOR
THE GREAT CITY OF NEW YORK
Maria Hill stood up. “We’ll run this through the network, our guys, and then the International Atomic Energy Agency. Find out what is missing, what’s been stolen, and from what NPT signers—” She paused, taking in Tony’s blank look. “Non-Proliferation Treaty.” She shook her head. “We need to see who just can’t admit they’ve misplaced a few city-killers in some old, unnamed storage facility somewhere along the way.”
“Ah yes. The dance of the lying liars that lie,” Tony said. “I know it well.”
Coulson looked unhappy. “We’ll find out what happened. It’s not like five lost socks. But we’ll have to confirm everything with the IAEA inspectors, the DOD, the joint chiefs.”
“I’ll check out the NASA side,” Carol said, standing up. “See if I can find anything more about other abandoned proposals. Those weird-looking fins, for starters. It may not get us the names of the people who bought or sold them, but we could at least find out who worked on them.”
Coulson looked up at the hologram. “Whoever these guys are working for, I’m pretty sure someone lifted a whole lot of this bang from a military base, and not too long ago.”
“How can you tell?” Natasha asked.
“By the shiny,” Coulson said, pointing to the gleaming casing on the hologram of the missile. “It’s in too good of a shape to come from a scavenger who just digs the undetonated duds up out of the desert floor.”
“He’s right,” Carol said. “These aren’t exactly vintage.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t make me feel better. It means our insurgents are all up in there with some unknown government,” Tony said.
Natasha shook her head. “Fine, but why? Who went to the trouble to steal these? Even if it’s the Red Room, why risk it now? For what?”
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