Chapter Twenty-Six
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Who Will Save You Now / Les Friction

We reached Paris by midnight.

I grew up in the City that Never Sleeps, but Paris certainly lived up to its own nickname: The City of Lights. It was pitch black by the time Paris first came into view from the train windows, and I couldn't rip my eyes away. Even the twins were awed, and we crowded against the windows, watching as the city grew closer and closer.

Paris was radiant. Millions of lights, glowing, warm and flashing — people were still up, the city was still awake. There were no massive skyscrapers like there were in New York, but I couldn't think of anything else as majestic as the Eiffel Tower, black metal framework glittering against the sky.

Seeing it, I felt tears spring into my eyes. Mom always wanted to go to Paris. The one time I actually go, and she wasn't here with me.

It didn't even seem completely night once we were in the city itself. Low cloud cover meant a lot of light reflected back down on the city, giving the sky a warm grayish glow.

I felt light-headed, getting off the train. This didn't feel real. Me, in Paris? I'd only dreamed of this before. But now, here I was, in some magical, beautiful city with two fugitives, not necessarily running from the law, but not heading towards it, either.

I was still wrapping my head around the fact that this was somehow my idea. Getting scared of boats because of the attack on the Adelaide, I could understand, even for my altered psyche. But why Paris? Why head further north? Why not west, to the Atlantic?

Whatever the Soldatka had in mind, though, it seemed to be working out so far. I guess of all the places to go, Paris wasn't the worse. At least Other Me didn't try to hurt or lose the twins.

If I woke up without them, I'm not sure what I'd do.

Pietro and Wanda, for the most part, seemed to like the idea as well — once they saw Paris, too. I guess it's just one of those cities you fall in love with at first sight.

Eventually, the train stopped and we deboarded. The train station was aboveground and brightly lit, stainless steel and huge industrial lighting. Too bright, in fact, that I felt exposed, and I could pick out every security camera we passed under. As tempting as it was to look around, maybe visit the shops and cafes inside, I wanted to leave as soon as possible.

I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. It had been there earlier, when we were in the train cabin, but the closed door and muted noise had created a small bubble of safety. But out in the open, suddenly surrounded by strangers, Parisians and tourists alike,

A chilly, howling breeze coursed throughout the station, billowing coats and hats, and we followed to an open walkway outside.

A crowd of tourist passed by. I followed as Pietro led the way, and I glanced over the faces as we weaved through them.

Red hair. Scarred lips. Flashing eyes.

I snapped my head around, heart skipping a beat. What the hell —?

Brandt. Her wicked smile and knowing gaze. But it wasn't possible. I'd seen her crushed beneath the avalanche on the train.

As soon as I saw her, she disappeared. I came to an abrupt stop, scanning the crowd again.

No one with red hair.

A ghost.

"Amelia?" Wanda called after me. Her hand on my arm. I whipped back around, trying to catch my breath. Her face, very real, brought me back to reality. "What's wrong? You look sick."

"It's...it's nothing," I said, pressing a hand to my temple as I continued forward again, my footsteps heavy. It was my paranoia, my exhaustion playing tricks on me. "Just seeing things."

Wanda didn't look entirely convinced, but accepted my answer nonetheless. Still, she remained by my side as we left the train station, making sure not to lose track of me again. Normally I'd be annoyed by the babysitting, but I couldn't blame her, either. After what happened in Nice, I'd keep a closer eye on me, too.

"Where do we go now?" Pietro asked, as we caught up to him on the street. Once more, I remembered Paris was somehow my idea; I stared back at him blankly, no clue what the other half of Other Me's plan was.

"Oh, I know!" Wanda piped up, saving me at the last moment. "We should sleep in the fanciest hotel Paris has!"

"What?" My relief was immediately replaced with bewilderment. "Why?"

"Because I want to," Wanda shrugged. "Because we can. I thought you'd like the idea — a fancy hotel is the last place the Komitet, the soldiers will look for us."

Apparently, I still looked doubtful. Wanda tapped me on the arm, skipping ahead, "Trust me, you will like it! Just follow me."

Ten minutes later, we stood in the lobby of the Hotel Ambassador; three ragged, dirty teenagers in twice-handed-down clothes, who hadn't showered in over a day, standing in front of desk in a room that was bigger than Douglass' gym. A middle-aged couple, waiting in on a nearby couch, glared at us from their mink-lined coats. I met their gazes once before studying the floor, embarrassed by the holes in my jeans, exposing bruised knees.

Turned out Wanda had the right idea after all.

The old couple just stared at us, in silent offense, as the desk clerk nodded dreamily to Wanda's request - she, speaking in Sokovian, him in French. I realized I understood him, but I wasn't entirely sure the twins did. Maybe Wanda's telepathy/mind control powers could cross the language barrier. Handy.

The woman let out a harrumph as the desk clerk stood up and handed us a pair of keys — no money had been exchanged, although I doubted the clerk was even aware of that fact.

The man leaned over and whispered in French into his wife's ear, "The sort of rabble they let in these days. People like them shouldn't even be let pass the front door."

And just like that, all self-consciousness was gone in a moment. My head snapped up, and I fixed the couple with a brilliant smile, and asked in perfect French: "This place is so lovely! Do you come here often?"

The couple gawked silently at me, taken aback, faces paling in mortification at being caught. I wondered if it was the fluidity of my French, or maybe the uncanny accent. I had only spent a few days in France, but I'd already been mistaken a few times for being a native.

I would never accept what the Crucible did to me, what they taught me, but I had to admit, it was damn satisfying to knock some snobby rich people back on their heels.

I couldn't help but continue to smile a little as a bellman was called to escort us (and our lack of baggage) to our penthouse suite. I could feel the daggers at our backs as the rich couple watched us go. I wondered if they'd complain about us staying here, how our mere presence offended them.

I had already forgotten about them by the time we left the elevator on the top floor. The bellman ushered us with a sleepy smile and faintly glowing eyes to our room. The last to enter, I was just about to close the door when I thought of something, and turned to the bellman, asking, "Is it possible for you to get me a laptop or computer to use? It's kind of urgent."

"Oui, mademoiselle. We only use the latest technology here at the Ambassador."

"Awesome! Merci," I said with a grin, resisting the urge to fist-pump in front of the bellman. He was already running off to fetch my request when I closed the door.

Turning around, I completely forgot about the laptop as soon as I took in the penthouse suite.

The floor was marble, but practically disappeared under the austere gold-and-mahogany furniture. A glass table was surrounded by overstuffed seats; on the glass was giant platter of fruit, a jar of two dozen white roses, and what looked like a large box of chocolates. Doors on either side led to what looked like separate bedrooms. There was a small bar to my right, small bottles gleaming in a variety of colors.

Directly across from me was a view of Paris to die for. The Eiffel Tower glittered from only half-a-mile away, a golden beacon in the center of the city. Wanda had already made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge, while Pietro had wandered off to explore the rest of the suite.

"This is too much," I said, as I gawked up at the coffered ceilings, the intricate designs, brocade wallpaper, absolutely superfluous gold leaf details.

"I think it's just enough," Wanda said with a smile, looking mighty pleased at my reaction. She held up her hands, said, "Imagine living like this, every day. To have the world at your fingertips. This must be what it's like to be Tony Stark."

"Among other things, I suppose," I said, somewhat reluctantly, trying not to look too deep into the bitterness of her tone. I wasn't quite sure what Wanda wanted to get out of this; a look at how the other half lived? Some better understanding of Tony Stark, who I had no doubt she still despised with every fiber of her being. "Although I think it might be a bit more complicated than a great view and unlimited room service."

"You are defending a man who doesn't deserve the effort," Wanda said after me, as I headed towards the TV. I ignored her as I took the remote and turned it on.

Settling on a nearby ottoman, I flicked to a French twenty-four hours news channel.

The reporter was talking exactly what I expected her to be talking about.

"...far the number of casualties has still remained undeclared, but reports are saying there are numerous deaths and injuries. Rescue efforts are still underway, trying to reach those still trapped in the wreckage of the HMS Adelaide," The woman reported against a black sky. The titular ship was behind her, a hazy orange glow in the background, mingled with red-and-blue flashing lights. The reporter's face matched the grave situation at hand. Someone handed her a card, and she said, "I've just received word; the terrorist known as the Mandarin has taken responsibility for this attack! This would make it the third attack this month by him and his affiliates the Ten Rings, and the twelve just this year, not counting the numerous attacks attributed to him in the past. The Mandarin has made no demands, only states that he is here to teach the world a lesson. Gilles, I fear that the Mandarin is only getting bolder. There seems to be no end to his reign of terror."

The camera switched back to the anchorman at his desk. "Thank you, Marie. From what we've learned from the police so far, the HMS Adelaide seems to be a random target, a cargo ship inbound from Australia. There seems to be no political angle in this attack, just another attempt to strike fear into the hearts of the French people and the world beyond. The U.N. is already in talks with the Avengers, who have aided in international affairs before. We will keep you updated as new events arise…"

"I think we should head to London," I called out, my eyes still on the TV screen.

"What?" Pietro popped his head out of the bathroom.

Wanda straightened up from her seat. "Why?"

I turned around in my spot to look at them. "I think we should head to London after this. Find those reporters who were in Sokovia. They were English, right? So, they'll be home now. We can find them, and tell them what really happened in Nice."

"You mean," Pietro frowned, tilted his head. "About Aldrich Killian?"

"He lied about where he was," I gestured to the TV screen. Dr. Killian himself was still speaking from what looked like the porch of a tropical beach house. "Why would he do that? Why are the Komitet targeting him? Why are the Ten Rings claiming responsibility? Something weird is going on, and I think they should know."

I was still reeling from what happened earlier today. The attack, the black out, just trying to figure everything out. Things I didn't have an answer to, things that I might never have an answer to. But that sense of helplessness only increased my desire to do something.

"I'm still going home," I added. "That's not changing. But right now, I'm starting to think France isn't as safe as I thought."

Pietro's eyes went to the TV, squinting a little. "The Ten Rings? They sound familiar."

"They're the ones who kidnapped Tony Stark four years ago," I said.

Wanda snapped her fingers, sneering at Pietro. "Ha! Of course, something like this is Tony Stark's fault."

I frowned at her. "No offense, but I think you're jumping the gun a little. Right now, its possible Killian has more to do with this than Stark."

Wanda just sniffed, shrugging her shoulders. "It just seems oddly coincidental, I think. If he is not at fault, then why isn't he doing anything to help?"

I was about to retort, but a knock on the door interrupted me. Throwing her one last disgruntled look, I stood up and got the door.

The bellman, still under Wanda's thrall, stood on the other side. He presented a silver laptop on a cloth-covered cart. Right before I closed the door, I added to the bellman, "Can I have a map, too, please? Thank you."

As I accepted it, I heard Pietro ask from behind me, "Forget Tony Stark, who are the Avengers?"

"I... I don't know," I said, realizing I had no reference point on that. I realized that this had been the first time I'd heard of them, too. "I've never heard of them before."

I glanced down at the laptop. Well, I actually had a way of finding out now.

Not wasting a second, I took the laptop and settled at the other end of Wanda's couch. Opening the screen, I waited for it to boot up. Wanda scorched in next to me to see what I was doing.

Her fingers skimmed the smooth metal edges of the laptop. "It's so...small."

Pietro leaned in over my shoulder, and I angled my head away as he reached to press his hands against the keyboard, letting out a sniff. "Not Cyrillic. I can't read English words."

"Put that on the list of things I'll have to teach you," I said, as I opened the browser and typed 'Avengers' into the search bar. "Let's see what Google has to say…"

Turned out, Google had a lot to say.

The first thing that popped up was an image — one I instantly recognized from New York. A silver skyscraper that I recognized to be Stark Tower, only it no longer had the logo on the side. Instead, it had been replaced with a giant 'A' symbol, locked in a circle. Beneath it, the tagline read: Avengers Towers was finally christened today, after months of repairing the damage incurred during the Incident…"

Wanda prodded me, and I jolted a little, before remembering to narrate what I read. It was slow going, but they couldn't read it any better than I could. Their expressions were as confused as I felt, and it wasn't getting any better when I clicked on the first link that popped up, from the New York Times.

This time, beside the article, was a picture of Tony Stark and — "Holy shit, that's Captain America!"

"Captain America?" Pietro angled the screen so he could see it better. "What? How is he still alive?"

"I-I don't know, just give me a second," I quickly scanned the article to give me a chance to absorb the information before I painstakingly dictated it to the twins. "The Avengers team was formed by Tony Stark and Captain America during the Battle of New York, locally known as 'the Incident', on May 4th, 2012, when aliens attacked the city. This team of extraordinary individuals, including acclaimed scientist Bruce Banner and the mysterious demigod-like being known only as Thor, gathered together to save the city in its moment of crisis, averting both a terrible invasion and a nuclear disaster. Other members of the team are only known by the code names, and have been avoiding the public light; Hawkeye, a sharp-shooting archer only spotted from a distance, and the Black Widow, a red-haired woman who is personally responsible for closing the portal above the city. Captain America is also going by his old war moniker; the organization SHIELD has kept his true identity private, even after all these years."

"So, they're a bunch of warmongers playing at hero," Wanda scoffed derisively as we continued to go through more articles and news sites. She flicked her hair and stood up, apparently annoyed with the matter. "Fantastic. It is good to see that they have kept their focus on America, and not on countries in greater need."

"I'm sure it's not like that," I said, but my voice was weak. I was still trying to digest all of this. The Avengers? The Incident? Aliens?! What the hell happened while I was in the Crucible? "I can't believe so much changed in just two years. Are you guys telling me you've heard none of this?"

"We were locked up, like you," Pietro pointed out. "We knew nothing of our own country, much less the outside world. As if they would ever tell us."

I just pressed a hand to my forehead, scrolling through more and more images of New York City, my home, covered in rubble. Crashed alien ships, dead bodies, ruins, aftermath of the battle. Video clips of the Hulk catching a fallen Iron Man. The launch of the nuclear missile, before being diverted into the massive shimmering purple-black portal that gave me vertigo just from looking at it on a computer screen.

There were other images, too, reports of lesser-known, local heroes also aiding in the Battle. Mostly civilians, firefighters and cops going above and beyond to save people, as well as a strange red-and-blue suited figure swinging through the streets, face covered by a mask. Most of the video was blurry, caught on handhelds and done in the midst of panicking crowds and aliens raining down all around them.

This wall-crawling, web-slinging figure appeared in other articles, with clearer photos and what appeared to be a suit upgrade and, finally, a name. The Spectacular Spider-Man saves the day again! This hero, after making a name for himself at the Battle of New York, now seems to operate on a daily basis in the tri-state area. No word yet on his affiliation with the Avengers…

"So." I said out loud, because nothing else was coming to mind. As if I thought my day could get any weirder. "I guess that happened."

I couldn't really comprehend my city getting attacked. Again. The untold amounts of damage. The fact that, apparently, only seventy-two (!) people died in the Battle. The 'Rise of the Superhero' as one TIME's article put it. The fact that the strange and the unusual were now becoming commonplace in everyone's lives.

The world was not the same as I left it. Would home still be as I remembered it, when I got back? They say that most of the city was repaired following the Battle, but how true could that be?

And, above all, what did these SHIELD guys have to do with it?

All I learned was that they were a secret organization that recently came out to the public, after being partially exposed in the Battle. Apparently, it's kinda hard to explain a giant helicarrier flying off the bay when it's invisible shields go down.

They seemed like the good guys, though. They backed up the Avengers, especially in the aftermath, when they got strafed by both federal and international figures. The Avengers saved New York; And they were here to stay.

Eventually, Pietro lost interest in the matter as well. Like Wanda, he was disillusioned with the idea of heroes, the unity, and the world-protecting the Avengers promoted. But it wasn't their city that just got attacked (well, okay, it happened six months ago, but it still felt like it just happened to me). It wasn't their family they were worried about. Was Mom okay? Was that why the phone wasn't working when I called? What about Peter, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben? I could only pray that they weren't one of the unlucky seventy-two that died.

Thinking of Peter reminded me of my original intention of getting this laptop. Although it was the middle of the night, and both of the twins had gone asleep; at one point I looked up and saw the map I requested lying on the table in front of me. When that had happened? I didn't remember the door knocking.

Either way, I was still wide awake, and my idea gave me a new burst of energy. I hesitated only for a moment before logging into my old email account.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting. I mean, okay, the 567 unread messages weren't a surprise; most of it was subscription emails to things I no longer cared about at this point. I filtered through them, narrowed the field to just school emails, and people I knew.

567 emails dropped down to 4.

Three of them were from September that I remembered and hadn't opened yet. Two from Peter about a homework assignment. One from Michelle about a missing pencil case. And one message from school.

None of them were after September.

The Subject line only read: The Passing of a Student

My mouth went dry. My hand hesitated over the touchpad.

I didn't blink as I clicked on it.

September 27th, 2010

To: The Douglass Community

From: Principal Rooney, Board of Directors

Re: The Passing of a Student

It is with great sadness that I write to inform you the passing of Amelia Fletcher, member of the Class of 2014. She passed away this morning at Metro General hospital, after fighting a hard battle against lung and heart failure, brought on by a terrible case of tuberculosis.

Amelia was a gifted Honors student here at Douglass. She was well known for her helpfulness in the computer lab, and for her love of movies. She was a native New Yorker, and lived in Hell's Kitchen.

During this time of loss, the Frederick Douglass Middle School will provide counseling and grief support services for our students and other members of our community.

Our thoughts and prayers are with the family, fellow students, friends, and teachers of Amelia. We are all saddened by the loss of one of our own. Please support each other during this difficult time.

I kept staring at the final words, long after I finished reading them. The screen grew blurry, and it took me a moment to finally shake my head and wipe at my eyes.

I didn't have more emails because they thought I was dead. They weren't looking for me. They never bothered to try. Never had a reason to.

And Mom? Oh, my god. I couldn't even imagine... I had to tell her. I had to let her know I was still alive.

But even as I opened a new email, I stopped myself before I could type anything. What was I doing? I couldn't contact anyone. The Crucible faked my dead for a reason. Someone had tapped into Peter's phone. Someone was watching us. Someone was probably watching this account right now.

If I wrote an email, then they'd know that I was alive, that I was active. They could probably trace the exact location I sent it, too.

I was practically vibrating in my seat, a combination of frustration and pain. I had to do something. I had to tell someone. But was it worth it? Could I really wait until I actually got home?

Then, in the corner of my inbox, a green dot popped up.

Ned Leeds was active.

Oh shit. I forgot about my status.

The mouse pointer flew across the screen.

I wasn't fast enough.

A chat bubble came up.

NL: Who is this?

NL: How did you get on this account?

I stared at the messages, unable to move. My fingers were splayed, rigid, over the keys. What do I do? What do I say? Ned had already seen I was on. He already knew someone was looking through my emails.

For a long minute, Ned made no further messages. I hoped against hope that he'd just leave it alone. What time was it over there? Had to be nine in the evening. Just go to bed and forget you ever saw this.

But computer beeped with another message.

NL: You know its super bad karma to hack into a dead person's account.

NL: Fine, don't reply to me. I hope Mia comes back to haunt you.

A startled laugh burst from my lips, and I clapped a hand over my mouth before I could accidentally wake up the twins. As much as it hurt not to respond, it felt so good to be talking to Ned again. Even if he didn't know it was me.

I scanned the keys. Maybe I could send a message…

I just had to choose it carefully. Something anyone spying on us wouldn't know the meaning of.

In a moment, I had it.

AEF: Show me the way home, honey.

I got a reply almost instantly.

NL: WTF

NL: wtf holy shit youre real

AEF: Show me the way home, honey.

NL: yoooo wtf? Wait what does that mean?

AEF: Show me the way home, honey.

It was all I was willing to type. Nothing more, nothing less. But repeating it meant Ned would remember. It meant he'd tell someone.

NL: If this is some sort of sick joke, it's not funny

NL: Im sooo doxxing you if i knew how

I had just gotten up from my seat when Ned started a video chat.

The window popped up and the webcam light turned on. My first instinct was to jump out of the way before the camera could catch me.

"Hello?" Came Ned's tinny voice over the speakers as I hit the floor. All his feed got was my empty seat and the wall behind me. "Hey, I know you're there! I can hear you! Who is this? Who the hell are you? What are you doing with Mia's email?"

I army-crawled around the table, reaching up behind the laptop and slamming it shut.

"Don't think I won't find out —" were Ned's last words before the computer shut down.

I heaved a sigh, hanging my head. That was a close one.

~o~

I was a little sad to be leaving Paris so soon.

But my sadness was taking a backseat to my anxiety. It had been twelve hours since my chat with Ned, and I was a wound-up ball of nervous energy. Needless to, I didn't get much sleep.

I managed to catch up on the train to London. I had heard of the Chunnel that went until the English Channel between London and Paris, but seeing it in person was way cooler than I imagined. The train ride itself was only an impressive twenty minutes. I had actually been hoping it'd be longer, so I could get more rest.

So, we left the Ambassador Hotel at 8AM, and arrived in London at 7:30AM…I thought I was going crazy when I read the time on the station's clock, until I remembered London is in a different time-zone than Paris. Unbelievable. To think it had taken half a day just to cross all of France, and in less time than it took for me to get to school in Manhattan, we were already in another country.

"Are you okay?" Wanda asked on the train ride, pressing a hand over my tapping fingers. "You didn't get any sleep, did you?"

I threw her a wan smile. "Sorry. Sleeping is kinda...difficult right now."

Pietro looked quizzical. "Nightmares?"

"Memories."

"Oh," The twins nodded in unison. Pietro just shook his head. "I do not think you have much to worry. You would not wake up a different person."

"But how can we be sure?"

He didn't have an answer for that. But I didn't want to upset the about that, so I continued, "It's not just that, really. I, um, I spoke to one of my old friends. From home."

"What?" Wanda stared at me, shocked. "You did? How?"

"It was through the email server. We were both on at the same time. I forgot to turn my status invisible. I just…" I tapped my forehead with my fist, still angry at myself. "I was so stupid. Ned, my friend, he tried to start a video chat. Almost caught my face."

"Does he know it's you?" Pietro asked, brow pulling together nervously.

"No, I don't think so," I said with a shrug. The windows outside the train were dark, interspersed with the occasional flash of light. We were going over a hundred miles an hour inside the Chunnel, but I hardly felt a thing in my seat. "I couldn't, really. I still think my family is being watched at home. And maybe my email, too, I can't be too careful. But I sent Ned a message. He won't understand it, but Peter will."

"Your cousin?" Wanda remembered. "Ah. And what will he do once he knows?"

"Not sure. Tell someone. My mom, hopefully." I winced internally. "They all think I'm dead. The Crucible faked my death, so no one would look for me afterwards."

Pietro only nodded grimly. "They are clever that way. They know how to mask their tracks. And you're a better agent to them if you have no more records, yes? You become a ghost."

That didn't make me feel much better. "Yeah, that too," I agreed, a little disgruntled.

"Think positive," Wanda punched me lightly on the arm. "Your plan is working so far. We are close to Frink and Crain now. We see them, and they help us to America, yes?"

"That's the idea, yeah," I said, smiling a little. "I don't think they're gonna tell us not after everything's that's happened."

"Exactly!"

That thought spurred me onwards, as we eventually departed the train, to London on the other side. It was even colder here than in France, but not quite as bad as Sokovia. I kept a tight hold on my backpack; you could only take in so ugh culture shock in a day, and my eyes were a little out of whack, adjusting to the sudden English words everywhere, after days (months) of seeing and hearing everything but my native language.

I had found Frink's address online, and made a route to it on the map I'd gotten from the hotel. The quickest route to there from the station. No more detours; we'd get food on the way. There was no way we were getting sidetracked, especially since this was my idea, and it would take us that much longer to get home because of it.

We traveled by foot, on the off-chance things went bad and we had to make an escape. It was easier to get away from danger when we didn't have to get out of a car or bus first. Trains were claustrophobic enough as it was.

Still, I didn't mind that my chosen route also took us sightseeing a bit. We had to cross the Thames, and it just so happened that the closest bridge between here and Frink's was Tower Bridge, by far one of London's more iconic landmarks, and another thing I could cross off my bucket list.

I didn't think I'd take my bucket list so seriously. Before, I had made one half-heartedly. I'd knew I'd die eventually, but never with the hopes of ever leaving New York City in my sickly condition. Now, I was still probably going to die, just in more terrible ways; so, the bucket list still had prominence in my mind.

It was midmorning by the time we reached the bridge, after making a pit stop for some bagels and coffee. We (and by we, I mean Pietro) had eaten all the food in our suite before leaving, but nervousness and excitement always whetted the appetite.

We blended easily in the bustling crowds of London, which looked a lot like the bustling crowds of France. We still looked like we were dragged across the entire country of Sokovia, but at least I felt better. As Tower Bridge came into view, I thought about what I would say to Julia Frink; especially after reading that TIME article. I wondered if she was in any danger, too, because of what happened.

The walkway passed through on either side of Tower Bridge, with lanes of traffic in the center. Although a chilly wind coursed through the metal and stone framework, the sun was warm, gleaming down from clear skies.

Despite their earlier hesitation, the twins both seemed to be enjoying day. Pietro had a spring in his step and Wanda's laughter sparkled in the air. I walked a few paces behind them, and seeing them smile made me smile. This was turning out better than I thought. I never imagined to actually be enjoying the moment, while currently being on the run, so far away from home…

I checked the map again, the route I outlined in red sharpie. After crossing Tower Bridge, it should only take us twenty minutes to walk to Frink's apartment.

Cars passed relatively slowly around us. Pietro made some comment about being faster than them, but Wanda pointed out the 32km speed limit, and that he'd probably get ticketed for using his powers on the bridge.

I would've laughed at this and Pietro's incredulous reaction, had I not noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

A large freighter ship heading towards the bridge.

I glanced by it at first, then did a double take. Not only was the freighter, laden with stacks of large storage containers, awfully close to the bridge — less than a quarter mile out — it was coming in fast. I tried to estimate its speed. The freighter looked like it would pass under the bridge in just under a few minutes.

Only it wouldn't pass under the bridge, because it was too tall.

I frowned, looked around me. The bridge was packed with people and vehicles. We were between the two towers, too far away from either side of the Thames to make it off in time. What was happening? Shouldn't the bridge be clearing for ship passage? Was that even possible now?

I kept watching the freighter for a few more seconds, just waiting for it to slow down.

But it didn't.

"Amelia?" Wanda called — they had stopped twenty feet ahead, realizing I was no longer following them. Wanda cupped her hands over her mouth to be heard over the noise of traffic. "Amelia, what's wrong?"

I pointed to the ship, trotting up to them. "Look! The ship's coming in too fast!"

Pietro and Wanda's heads swiveled towards the south end of the river. Pietro asked, "Uh, is it supposed to be doing that?"

"I don't think so," I said, already scanning the area, trying to think of something to do. It was possibly we could get off the bridge in time, but what about all the civilians?

Other people were noticing as well — but instead of hurrying like they should, they just stopped and stared, pointing at the incoming ship as if it were some strange wonder rather than an immediate threat. The crowd was getting thicker now — traffic was slowing, too. I couldn't tell if it was a jam up ahead, or if the drivers were interested in the ship, too. Either way, it wasn't making the situation any better.

"Should we do something?" Wanda asked as I shifted past her, catching sight of a black-and-white uniform. An officer, maybe police or just bridge security, was standing amongst the crowd, hand on his shoulder radio. I caught the tell end of his call as I got closer.

"...we must clear the bridge. Is there any radio contact with the ship? The bridge is not clear for lift, I repeat the bridge is not clear for lift!" The officer said into the radio, his voice rising to a shout as the ship kept getting closer and closer. He paused, as if caught in a moment of shock, then demanded, "Hello? Hello, can anyone hear me?"

I stopped dead in my tracks. I didn't need to speak to the policeman to know that his radio signal was dead.

Shit. A cold prickle of dread crawled down my spine. This wasn't right. None of this was right.

Wanda and Pietro were directly behind me. I didn't look at them when I suddenly said, "We need to get off. Now."

This time, the twins didn't question me, merely cast worried looks over the bridge as they came up to my side. Pietro said, "I will take Wanda, run to the other side, and then come back for —"

He was cut off by shouting, and we spun around to see another policeman sprinting down the bridge, waving his arms. "Clear the way! Clear the way!"

Beneath me, I felt a tremor. The ship was less than fifty feet away. A rush of people pushed back, catching me off guard. I was nearly thrown off my feet three different people ran into me.

Pietro had already taken Wanda's arm. I stumbled to catch myself, then shouted to the twins, "Go! Go before it —"

WHOOM.

Ahead of us, the bridge exploded.

Fire and smoke erupted from right beneath the tower. A truck rear ended a taxi. Pietro stumbled.

Then another explosion went off behind us.

My head snapped in the other direction, just in time to see a police car tossed into the air. It crashed upside down over the pedestrian lane. Its sirens went off, ringing uselessly.

It joined the screams filling the air.

Cars that hadn't already stopped were now slamming the brakes. They piled on either end of the bascules, unable to pass underneath the towers — now in flames.

The pedestrians turned into a stampede, scattering every which way. At first, I thought the explosions had scared them.

Then the freighter smashed into the bridge.

A massive, unholy screech ripped through the air. The bridge kicked beneath my feet, and I was knocked flat to the ground.

The barge's radio tower hit first - upon collision, it bent back, cutting through the guardrail and tarmac before folding underneath the bridge.

The ship released its horn, as if the bridge could magically move out of the way. But the bridge didn't move. The ship still didn't stop. It had too much momentum.

The containers hit. Metal and stone flew into the air. The containers attached to nothing, snapped back at impact, before behind shoved off. They came crashing down onto the road.

The ship carried straight on through, cars and containers plowed aside. I cried out as giant metal boxes fell around me. One landed behind me only a foot away, sending me into the air upon landing — like some twisted version of a trampoline.

I hit the ground again; taking the brunt of it on my chest, I was winded instantly. Then I saw the shadow, and rolled out of the way just before another container could fall and crush me underneath.

I covered my head as the bridge's suspension rolled and jumped. I tried calling out for Wanda and Pietro — I'd lost sight of them only a second ago, but the entire geography of the bridge had changed in that short amount of time.

They couldn't hear me, anyways. The air was a cacophony of more explosions, grinding metal and more people screaming.

I squeezed my eyes shut, too terrified to see what was happening. I just curled up into a ball and prayed that the twins got out of here in time.

Tower Bridge shuddered and groaned as the freighter tore right through it, then onto the other side.

Things stopped falling. I felt the ground tilt beneath me. Cars and containers creaked and groaned, sliding a few feet — but they didn't fall into the river beneath. The sound dipped a few decibels; a small moment of peace after a disaster.

I risked a glance up. At first, I couldn't see anything. There was too much smoke, turning a once sunny, cool day into something dark and acrid. Rubble fell off my shoulders as I picked myself up. Rubble and glass fell from above - the overhead walkways had bent under the crash, but hadn't fallen yet.

I turned to face the way I came. What was once a serene, flat roadway was now a gaping hole ten meters across, jagged edges dipping down to the black river below. Pieces of tarmac and concrete swung from torn rebar and steel.

People were crying out. I couldn't see them in the wreckage. The fallen containers stood twenty feet over me, like the walls of a maze. Underneath them, cars and trucks had been crushed into lumps of metal.

In the distance, sirens shrieked.

For a moment, all was still. The bridge was holding. Just barely.

"Amelia!" Wanda's voice echoed off the metal, and I spun around, nearly falling, caught in a daze.

Wanda appeared around a container, her pale, stricken face covered in soot. There was a new gash across her arm, her knees were bloodied, but otherwise she looked perfectly fine.

Behind her was Pietro, wiping at his face. "We saw the boxes fall - we thought you were crushed!"

"I-I'm fine," I stuttered, my hand shaking as I wiped at my mouth. My palm came away bloody, and a new burning appeared on my cheek. Something must've hit me and I hadn't noticed. "J-just a little shaken. I-I thought I told you guys to get out of here —"

A bullet ripped by my face.

Pietro knocked me down just in time.

My head cracked against the concrete. By the time my vision cleared, the helicopter had risen from beneath the bridge. It now hovered over us, at the other end of the bridge — the only way off.

Three ropes whipped beneath its hull. I hadn't seen anyone get out.

Pietro dragged me against the wall of one container, pressing our backs to it. He said something, but I didn't catch it. My ears were still ringing.

Wanda was on the other side. Her eyes were wide, brilliant red, pupils' tiny pinpricks. Her expression was one of utter terror.

"Not just the Komitet!" She said, apparently responding to Pietro's earlier comment, as another bullet ricocheted off of a car a few feet away. I didn't see any civilians around. It was just us, and whoever dropped out of the helicopter.

"It's him!" Wanda cried, as Pietro peered over the corner. "Pietro, they sent him!"

Pietro ducked back, just before a spray of bullets glanced off the side of our cover. His only reply was a string of Sokovian curses.

"Who?" I asked, but Wanda was utterly petrified; I was too curious not to look. I leaned over Pietro, stuck my head out from behind the container.

The way ahead was covered in smoke and flames. We were too low to the ground; at first, all I saw was more debris, the dark outlines of cars and trucks, left abandoned in the chaos. The looming black cloud from the explosion rose higher and higher into the air, obscuring the bridge tower from view.

Then, I saw something flicker in the haze. Silhouettes. Heavy shapes. Men. Guns.

They took cover behind cars. A strategic move. We were effectively cornered.

And then, someone stepped out.

He hadn't been hiding to begin with. There was something sinister, in the almost casual way the man appeared from the smoke, materializing like some sort of ghost.

He was dressed entirely in black. Tactical gear, leather and buckles. Footsteps even, heavy with purpose. Long hair hung over a shadowed face. In both hands, he carried what looked like a sniper rifle, its long barrel pointed towards the ground. I realized, one of his arms was strangely bare, uncovered.

Then he stepped out into the sun, and the light glared off metal, blinding and bright.

My heart skipped a beat when I finally understood what I saw. He had a metal arm. One single red star painted on his shoulder.

I couldn't breathe.

Wanda finally gasped: "It's the Winter Soldier!"