Madrid, Spain, 1916
Indiana Jones looked up as Matt Hanger came back with the whiskey. The Canadian handed one glass to Indy and sat down opposite him. For a while, neither of them said anything.
'I've made a few observations about you, Indy.'
Indy looked up at him. 'Such as?'
'You seem to shy away from long-term contact,' Matt remarked. 'Care to explain?'
'I don't need anyone,' Indy said. 'Isn't your job just to train me and then just have done with it?'
'Well, yeah.' Matt shrugged. 'If you wanna go by the book, I'm just supposed to train you for the battlefield. The thing is: by-the-book is boring. And predictable. But you actually believe that you don't need anyone?'
He'd said it like it was the most stupid thing he'd ever heard. Indy cocked his head, challenging the guy before him. 'What's so stupid about that?'
'Humans.' Matt held up his index finger, wordlessly telling the American kid to let him say this. 'Our greatest dependency is contact. Familiar and constant contact. That's why we have all those holidays. Christmas, Thanksgiving, etcetera, etcetera.'
Bantu Wind, North Atlantic Ocean, 1936
The bullet had gone into his heart. And it was only now, lying in the Captain's cabin, aboard the Bantu Wind, with the crew trying to save his life, and his head resting on Marion Ravenwood's lap, did Matt Hanger's words make sense to him. Yes, he needed contact because he was human.
It was just a shame that it took him this long to work it out.
He gently stroked her leg. She looked down at him. He smiled and mouthed the words "I love you".
It was the first time he'd ever even came close to saying it. Her eyes filled with tears and she leaned in and kissed his temple.
'I love you, too,' she whispered.
He didn't know what came next but he closed his eyes, content in that knowledge, and his world faded away.
London, England
Harold Oxley had been eating at a café by the port when someone had come in. It was a young man with light brown hair and eyes. He spotted Oxley and flicked his fingers, silently calling him over. Harold stood up, stopping by the counter to pay the bill, before moving over to the young man.
'Who are you?' Harold asked as the young man started leading him to the port where a ship called Bantu Wind was sitting.
'Nick Balinger,' the boy said. 'I'm an old friend of Indiana Jones. Or I should say…' They stooped by a covered body and Nick pulled the sheet back to reveal the face. '…was.'
Henry Jones Junior was laying there. Harold leaned over and felt his throat, looking for a pulse. Henry's skin was cold and he had no pulse. He was dead. Harold felt terrible grief. Henry had, essentially, been a good man that made most of his mistakes due to never being taught how to deal with life.
'What happened?' Harold asked.
'Shot in the heart,' Nick answered. 'He had to tangle with Nazis and one of them must've gotten lucky.'
'What were they after?' Harold asked.
'The Ark.' Nick looked towards the Bantu Wind.
Some of the crew were carrying the crated Ark off the ship. Another crewman was leading one Marion Ravenwood from the ship. For a moment, Harold didn't recognise her. She was wearing Henry's jacket and his hat was on her head. She clutched, to her chest, Henry's carry-on possessions. She was hunched over and looking very small, as opposed to the cool, strong and proud person she'd been the last time Oxley had seen her.
When she came over, she seemed to collapse to her knees beside Henry's body. Harold had seen her eyes. They were tired and lifeless. What had once been light blue was now mucky grey. A glassy overlay seemed to cover her eyes.
She was broken. She'd been broken by Henry's death.
