I wanted to thank everyone for getting me to 200 reviews (and counting)! I read every single one of them and I love going back and reading them again ^_^

Since so many of you are asking questions now, I'll add a Q&A at the end of this chapter, make sure I clear some things up lol, since I haven't been able to state them clearly before.

Chapter Thirty-Eight
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Stark Tower.

I stood in front of its entrance, looking up at the silver skyscraper. Although half of it was still under repair, it was a hell of a thing to see up close. It's smooth, futuristic design was carried through from top to bottom. The lobby entrance had an outdoor pavilion filled with water fountains, metal benches, and abstract stone sculptures. Standing pillars of glass displayed holograms advertising different aspects of Stark Industries, as well as an introduction to the Avengers. Apparently, this was going to be their official home, but regular business would still be continued at the Tower.

It was bizarre to think about. On one floor there was an office full of IT tech people, or a bank, or a cafeteria. How could you go work there every day, knowing fifty floors above you there lived half a dozen of the most powerful, most extraordinary people on Earth? That it began its life as the epicenter to the world's first alien invasion?

I shook my head. And now I was having an interview here.

I checked my watch (new Gortex, waterproof) before taking a deep breath, and heading inside. Aunt May had almost convinced me to wear a dress for the interview, but I managed to squeeze by in a pair of blue pants and a matching blazer. They were the only "professional" clothes I owned, but they were brand-spanking-new, and I happened to like the way my shoulders looked in a well-fitted jacket. I couldn't get away from her blow-drying my hair though, so now I looked even older with smooth, shiny hair. I was afraid that someone would think I was lying about being a high school student.

School had gone well, all things considered. By the end of the week, everyone knew who I was, or who I was supposed to be, although I was still getting looks and stares. Peter said it'd go away eventually, but I wasn't so sure.

At least in Stark Tower, I felt safe in my relative anonymity. The Welcome Center atrium had a high-reaching ceiling, with multiple decks and an echoing, raucous acoustics. It was loud, and kind of reminded me of an airport, or a stadium. There were hundreds of people just on this one floor. Tours and walkthroughs, rushing businessmen, lunch kiosks and help-desks and more of those glass hologram things. Everything was cutting edge — everything was metal or transparent, in silvery tones, with flashes of bold colors like red, gold, or blue. I sought directions from one of the desk attendants, then took an elevator to the 54th floor — where the Student Outreach program was housed.

The elevator was much quieter and it wasn't until the doors closed with a slight sucking sound and all noise vanished beneath soft Muzak did I realize how antsy just walking in here made me. The lobby had left me rattled, with my ears ringing and a headache starting to form.

I knew what it was called. Sensory overload. I read about it in Science class in Seventh Grade. Until now, I'd never really experienced it before.

Zipping up to the 54th floor, I stepped out of the elevator thirty seconds later, and found myself in a much more manageable atmosphere.

The ceiling was at a reasonable height, with a smaller lobby and less flashing, moving things for my eyes to take in. There were wide windows on the right side, giving the room a sense of breathing space that allowed me to relax a little bit.

I was nervous. There, I said it. I was nervous about the interview. You'd think, after inadvertently sparking a revolution and fighting on top of trains and bridges, I'd be ready for anything. But nope. I couldn't intimidate my way out of this one. Just the thought of sitting down across from a stranger, letting them squint through my resume and ask me strange, life-probing questions no fifteen-year-old is going to have a wise answer to made my skin itch. I didn't want to sit down and be interrogated. I just wanted to get this over with and receive my assignment.

There was a waiting room right outside the elevator, filled with about a dozen other kids my age, as well as some parents and other adults that looked like teachers or advisors. They were all talking, but at least it was quiet, pleasant. I managed to wait my turn before I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

A mural.

In bright colors with what appeared to be applied with a sponge, it was painted on a wall to the left, near some office doors leading further into the building. I recognized the skyline instantly: New York City. Although the ceiling was only twelve feet high, the mural was large, stretching down the hallway. I turned in my seat to get a better look at it. It wasn't just a mural of New York City.

It was the Incident.

Stark Tower took center stage of the mural. The giant purple hole in the sky, the droves of aliens swarming out. Chitauri. I knew what they were called but it was hard to see them as anything other than a vague, faceless enemy in my mind.

But it wasn't the aliens, or the tiny depictions of the Avengers in battle, but rather the dozens of names that lines the bottom. And the in great, fancy black letters that titled:

To Those We Lost

Billowing smoke, buildings on fire. Seventy-three names. A memorial.

A chill went down my spine, and I quickly turned around in my seat, my eyes focused on the floor. I couldn't look at it anymore. This was not how this day was supposed to go. This wasn't what I needed to be thinking about minutes before a job interview.

So, I kept my eyes averted. I pretended to be interested in the magazines on the coffee table, the TV playing on the wall. But I knew it was still there. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It was like it was watching me. A presence, hanging there, waiting for me to turn around again.

I almost didn't hear it when the secretary called my name — my heart rate had picked up, a new ringing in my ears. It wasn't until she waved at me did I jolt and rise out of my seat on shaky knees.

My breathing was quick, uneven as I approached the desk and the woman pointed down the hall, past the mural, the way to the office, the interview. I didn't turn my head. I couldn't. I didn't want to look at it again.

I didn't want to see my mother's name.

I knew it was there. I knew it was waiting for me.

The worst thing was that I wanted to find her name. I had to see it, just to make sure. Why, I didn't know. I just had to.

But that would only make it worse.

I was already struggling just to breathe. I hadn't moved for a long moment and the secretary was giving me a funny look now. I pulled on an awkward smile before forcing my feet away from her desk and towards the hallway, towards the mural.

I did everything I could not to look. I turned my gaze to the floor, to the ceiling, unfocused my eyes so everything was a blur.

But I was still drawn to the list of names on the bottom of the mural. I passed one after another as I headed down the hallway. Each step was matched to a beat of my frantic heart. What was wrong with me? Why did it feel like I was suddenly running a marathon?

The thoughts rushed in from nowhere. Hell's Kitchen. Rubble. Mom. Her grave. Seeing her laugh and smile over dinner, sitting next to my bed while I was sick, crying over me as I bled out in the ambulance. That was the last thing I remembered of her. Watching her as I died.

The blazer clung to the back of my neck and arms. I'd broken out in a cold sweat, but I couldn't take it off now — not unless I wanted the interviewer to see my tattoo and ruin my professional look.

I wasn't really concerned with looking "professional" right now, however. I was already feeling dizzy, sick. I didn't want to be here anymore.

My hands gripped the armrests. I could barely remember to restrain myself before I accidentally broke something.

I remembered this feeling. Like a rug was being yanked out from underneath me, and I fell back into a terrifying abyss.

The worst part was, I still hadn't figured out how to get out of it.

Guilt. Strong, unrelenting guilt clutched at my chest. About the Incident. I didn't know why. But I'd heard the stories, I'd seen the footage. They still talked about it on the news. Kids at school all had their own versions, of where they were when it happened. Most of them lived outside of Manhattan, so they really only watched. Very few were in the actual thick of it. They were the heroes of Midtown.

Meanwhile, I had been the only one without a story to tell. I hadn't been in the country. I couldn't even remember the day. I was trapped in the Crucible, drifting in a toxic blur. It probably happened on a day when I'd forgotten I had a family.

But I couldn't tell people that. Whenever someone had asked me where I was, I could only shrug. I'd gotten dirty looks for telling them I didn't remember.

It was like I couldn't get away, I couldn't forget, not even for a moment. Now I could visualize the Incident it clearly in my head. The torn-up streets, the screeching monsters and plummeting behemoths, people trapped and terrified as the entire island was cut off from the rest of the world.

What was it like for Mom? What had she seen before it was over? Had she been stuck at home like everyone else? Had she decided to hide, thinking it was the best thing to do? Hell's Kitchen got hit the worst in the attack. She shouldn't have stayed. I should've done something, anything —

What? What could I have done? There was nothing rational about this. I wasn't even there —

I couldn't breathe.

I stumbled, caught myself against the wall with one hand, the other at my throat. I opened my mouth but I couldn't breathe. What the hell was happening? I just — I couldn't breathe. Was I choking?

The only answer I could come up with was: asthma attack.

It was irrational; I didn't have asthma any more. I couldn't. Something else was at play here, but my mind was scattering, too busy panicking to find a sane conclusion.

The walls were too close. I could feel it pushing against me, trying to trap me and I pulled away with a sudden jerk. Still gasping for breath, still wondering why it felt like I was drowning.

The halls were narrowing the longer I just stood there. I had to get out of here.

I needed air.

The balcony. The hallway tilted beneath me, but the doors were right there. I went straight for them. I couldn't remember which office I was supposed to go into. I didn't care anymore. I just needed to get out of here.

I slammed into the double doors with the full force of my body, before catching myself on a guardrail to the steps below. The world continued to spin, and I nearly spilled right over the top level of the balcony to the deck below. I gasped, clenching the metal rail in my fists, trying to ground myself as I was suddenly overwhelmed by vertigo and had to close my eyes.

Wind blew in my face. So bitter, so fresh. It hit me like a brick wall. I didn't have my winter coat on. I'd left inside the waiting room. But it was okay. The chill against my skin was a relief to the suffocating warmth inside.

There was no one out here. I was glad. Finally, the cold was good for something.

"Hey, miss, are you all right?"

Or so I thought.

I didn't see who spoke, and I could only shake my head silently, crumpling against the railing as my knees gave out beneath me. The outdoor air was welcoming but my heart was still racing. I couldn't calm down. My instincts were telling me to run run run but from what? There was nothing here. There was nothing here and even if there was I couldn't see them I couldn't see anything I couldn't do anything I couldn't get home I couldn't get to Mom I wasn't fast enough I didn't know I didn'tknowIdidn'tknow —

"Whoa, hey, it's okay, it's okay!" the voice said, drawing closer, like some invisible ghost swooping in on a cloud of warmth. I felt the presence of a hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me to the floor. "Just sit down, okay?"

I wanted to laugh but my chest was so locked up I could only take quick, shuddering breaths.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" he asked. Male voice, I finally managed to parse. Older, soft, soothing. Like someone who's done this before. When I couldn't answer his question, he continued, "Miss, you're hyperventilating. You need to slow down or you're going to pass out. Just take it slow. One breath at a time. In and out. In, out."

I could already feel it coming. The light-headedness, the tingle in my hands and feet, my loosening grip on the railing. The way the world just wanted to slip out from beneath me like a treadmill going too fast.

But I could still feel his touch, and I leaned into it, even as I hung my head, squeezed my eyes tighter, swallowed against the lump in my throat. Took a deep, shaky breath, released it slow. The voice said, "Good, good. Keep doing that, you're doing great."

It went on like that for a little bit. The world stopped swaying after a while, and I could finally let go of the railing, my hand cramped from the taut muscles. I didn't even realize my eyes were open, that I was seeing, until I touched my face and found myself back on the balcony, with a man sitting next to me, watching me with a concerned but encouraging smile.

"You're okay," he said, patting me on the shoulder. The red star was a burning glare against the cool gray of the balcony around me. I frowned, bleary, confused. When had I taken off my jacket? "It was just a panic attack."

I finally took him in for the first time, getting a good look. He seemed about middle-aged, with dark curly hair graying at the temples. He peered at me over a pair of black spectacles, this sort of inquisitive — but kind — expression on his face. The face of a man that, for some reason, made me feel instantly at ease. Considering how he'd just helped me out, maybe he just had that sort of natural air.

"P-panic attack?" I repeated, startled by how hoarse my voice sounded. I wiped at my face and discovered I had been crying. Jesus. "What? That was...I thought it was just asthma…"

I knew it wasn't, even before the man snorted. "Well, if it was, that was one of the worse asthma attacks I've ever seen. Do you need any help? You should probably go home to recover."

"N-no!" I went ramrod straight, scrambling to my feet in a rush. But I overestimated myself, lost my balance, and caught the railing for support. My head swam, and I had to fight back a wave of nausea. The man rose slowly after me, looking increasingly concerned as I shook my head. "I-I have an interview today. I c-can't miss it, I can't —"

"Look, I think they'd understand," he tried to reason with me, scratching the back of his head. "A panic attack is a good reason to reschedule, if you ask me. They deal with young kids all the time here. Is this your first interview?"

I swallowed, trying to calm myself again, and nodded mutely.

"So, nerves, then," The man shrugged with a smile, as if that were all it was. As if he had any idea. But I understood what he saw. Just a freaked-out kid not ready to be an adult.

"Not exactly," I said, turning my face away. My mouth was completely dry. My fingers had gone stiff with cold but I couldn't pull them from the rail. "I-I saw that mural in the office b-back there, and it...I don't know, it just…"

"Oh," the man said, his chin rising as it dawned on him. By the tone of his voice, I didn't have to explain what it was about. "I'm sorry. Were you there?"

"No."

My answer was curt, and he gave me an odd look, as if not expecting that answer. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, clearly unsure what to do with this information. Again, he said, "Oh."

After a pause, he finally intuited the truth. "You lost someone."

It wasn't even a question, like he just knew. I opened my mouth to say 'yes', but nothing came out. He seemed to understand, nodding without a word. A silence fell between us as my heart rate finally leveled out again. I broke the quiet with, "Were you there?"

"The Incident? Yeah," The man nodded, pursing his lips and looking away. "Not gonna lie, it kinda sucked."

A giggle escaped my mouth, although it sounded a little teary. In order to save face, I bent down and picked up my fallen blazer, wrapping it around my hands. My fingers were so cold I couldn't feel the texture of the fabric, and I started rubbing them together to warm them up.

He cleared his throat. "Well, if you want to save that interview, I guess you can always go back inside. Although in my professional opinion, I think you're better off taking a break. Maybe come back when you feel better?"

That was unacceptable. But he was right. I just gave him a befuddled look, "What are you, a doctor?"

"Of a sort,"

I frowned at him. He didn't look like a doctor — no white lab coat, nothing that indicated he worked in either science or medicine. Just a jacket, button-up shirt, pair of jeans. He was even wearing a bare of worn green sneakers, like a dorky soccer dad. I glanced up at the building, then back at him. "Y-you work here?"

"Uh," he paused, then said, "Not exactly. Look, I don't know what's really going on, but I can call you a cab if you want —"

"Pretending to be a doorman now, Bruce?" came a new voice. I jumped as the doors behind us burst open and out walked a dark-haired man in a black suit. "What, life here isn't keeping you occupied enough?"

I didn't recognize him until he breezed right past me, playing on his tablet. I blinked several times, turning on the spot to watch him pass, my jaw dropping.

Tony Stark.

The man, Bruce, just rolled his eyes. I stared at him, too. He knew Tony Stark? Who the heck was he? "Very funny. I was just helping this young lady here."

"Oh yeah?" Tony Stark stopped on the lower deck, turning around to face me with a quirked eyebrow. He looked me up and down, apparently sizing me up, then threw a doubtful expression at Bruce. "With what?"

Bruce opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then gestured vaguely in my direction. He was too awkward to speak on my behalf, and I froze for a second, before answering, "I-I had a panic a-attack. I was here for my interview, for the mentoring p-program, but — but I missed it, I just, I couldn't —"

My stuttering only got worse the longer I talked and I just kept shaking my head like an idiot. It wasn't just my increased nervousness, but being watched by Tony Stark while I continued to fumble the ball — that unreadable expression of his, sort of skeptical, sort of amused. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Probably that I was an idiot. Realizing I was rambling now, I just closed my eyes and winced. "I-I'm sorry, I know you don't care, you have better things to do —"

"Amelia Fletcher," Tony Stark cut me off. I blinked, startled, but he was busy studying the tablet cradled in his arm. When I didn't answer, his eyes flicked up to me again. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Uh," I wavered on my feet. "Y-yes?"

It came out like a question. Tony Stark looked unimpressed, going back to his tablet. "What, you aren't sure? Says your interview was twenty minutes ago. Sheryl marked you as absent, but that's clearly not the case...I'll just mark you down as 'late'… panic attack, did you say?"

"Yeah, um," My mouth hung open for a second as I struggled to understand what was going on. Tony Stark was still reading that tablet. Wait, was that my resume? "I didn't mean to — I mean, I know I was supposed to show up but then I just couldn't breathe and —"

"Eh, don't worry about it, happens to everyone." Tony Stark waved a dismissive hand, still not looking at me as he scrolled down the page he was reading. "Nice tat by the way."

He gestured at my shoulder, not even looking up, but my hand still went to cover my shoulder in embarrassment. First a panic attack, and now he saw my tattoo. I was as far away from professional as I could get right now. I didn't want to think of how disappointed Aunt May would be when she found out how badly I screwed this up. It was just supposed to be a simple interview. The rules were easy to follow: don't freak out, and don't show your tattoo.

Well, too late for that.

"Kinda punk-rock, I like it," Tony Stark nodded approvingly, which was the last reaction I'd expect from a bold tattoo. But before I could say anything, he forged on with a brusque tone: "Says here you're an honors student at Midtown School of Science and Technology. Good place. Hey, actually one of my, er, interns work there. Peter Parker, you know him?"

The familiar name was like a shot of adrenaline. I straightened a little, tucking my blazer against my stomach, my shoulders hunching up. "Yeah, P-Peter's my — He's my cousin. I've known him since, uh, forever."

"Cousins?" Tony Stark lifted his head in thought, towards the sky, then back to me. He wagged a finger, saying, "Oh, yeah, I think he might've mentioned you once or twice. Left Happy an hour-long voice message about you coming back from the dead, whatever that means. Kept making Top Gun references."

"It's a, ah, long story."

"Well, nobody has time for one of those, I've got a board meeting to ignore in twelve minutes," Tony Stark went on, checking his watch, before shaking it up his sleeve again. "So, it says here you're fluent in French, Spanish, and Russian. Jeez. What are you, trying to undo the Tower of Babel before you hit twenty? Can you really speak all three?"

"Th-that's correct," I bit my lip, tilted my head. I'd left out Sokovian, feeling that would've been weird to read. Not that it wasn't taught in schools or anything, but 1) it wasn't a lesson Midtown offered and 2) Everyone already knew I'd been in Europe for a while and I didn't want to give them any other ideas. On top of all that, I still wasn't sure what was going on here. "I-Is this an interview?"

"Well, that's the reason why you're here, right?" Tony Stark threw me a look, like I was slow to catch on. "Besides, you look fine to me. So do you usually stutter like that or do you need, like, a glass of water or something? Personally, a shot of whiskey on the rocks usually works for the jitters, but I probably shouldn't be saying that to a minor."

"No, I'm f-fine," I said, hating myself for messing up even that short reply. "It's been like this since I was little. I've been…I've been getting b-better, though."

If this counted as another point against me, Tony Stark didn't let on. Without even addressing that, he asked, "How soon can you start?"

"Anytime," I said immediately. I understood what he said a second afterwards. "Wait, I got the job?"

"Do you want it?"

"Y-yes."

"Then you got the job," Tony Stark said with a curt shrug. He tapped something on to his tablet, waited, then continued, "We've got plenty of mentorship positions open here. Dani needs an assistant for the twelve-and-under groups, and James hosts an English class for immigrants —"

"No."

"No what?" Tony Stark glanced up at my again, frowning.

"I can't work here," I said, gripping the railing to steady myself. Saying 'no' to Tony Stark seemed like a big risk, considering he just gave me a job and could just as easily take it away, but I had to be firm about this. "Not in this building, I mean. I just… I can't."

I couldn't walk in everyday and see that mural. I didn't want to be reminded of this experience every time I came here. I especially didn't want it to happen again.

Surprisingly, this didn't seem to bother Tony Stark. He raised his eyebrows and said, "Hey, fine by me. We got off-site positions, too. How do you feel about a one-on-one job? Just you and another kid."

"S-sounds good to me," I said, relieved, slumping against the railing a little bit. That went over a lot better than I expected. If it had come down to it, I might've rejected the job entirely. The thought of proving Morita right was an unpleasant thought, but having panic attacks sounded a lot worse.

"Fantastic," Tony Stark said, not missing a beat. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or just straight to business. I decided on the latter, when he added, "We've got a kid on the Upper East Side, Dmitri Kasyanenko — wow, that's a mouthful — recent exchange student from Russia. Needs help with science and math. Sounds like it's right up your alley, Amelia."

"It's Mia," I said weakly. I didn't think everything would be set up so soon. I felt a little off-kilter just trying to keep up.

"Sorry?"

"Mia," I repeated, feeling like an idiot as I forced myself to speak louder. "M-my name. I prefer Mia. O-only my mom calls me Amelia."

"Alrighty then, Mia," Tony Stark took this in stride, just like everything else. He started pacing back and forth in front of me. If the wind chilled him, he gave no indication, although his nose and ears were starting to turn a little pink. "Well, that's simple enough. Pair you with Mr. Kasyanenko and get you on your way. Just need you to sign here."

I was almost alarmed when he walked right up to me and handed me the tablet. I had to force myself to take it from his hands, and with a trembling finger, signed my name on the digital form. Dysgraphia made it look like a fourth-graders' signature. When I handed it back to him, I found myself a little startled to see how...normal Tony Stark was up close. He seemed so imposing and cool on TV, when in reality he was shorter than me. His eyes were about level to my nose.

Perhaps realizing this as well, he frowned, looking me up and down again before taking a generous step back. "Right. I'll get this sent to your guardian and whoever runs that school of yours, and you're all set to go. How's today sound?"

"Today?"

"Yeah, you know," Tony Stark rolled his eyes, spun a hand in a circle in the move-it-along gesture. "Your job? Hello? You gotta meet the kid first before you can help him."

"Wait, now?" I pointed at the floor, aghast. Tony Stark was even more efficient than I first thought. I didn't think everything could be settled in under an hour.

"What, you got something better to do?" Tony Stark threw me a funny look, then flicked his hand towards the door. "Hop to it, Beanstalk, we don't have all day. I've still got that board meeting, remember? Can't keep taking care of you crazy kids. You can pick up your company badge and phone at the desk inside. It's got the address and all the files you need already on it. Why are you still standing here? Vámonos!"

I stumbled a little as I backed up, trying to decide whether to smile with glee or panic again because Tony Stark was operating on a higher, faster level than I was. I was sorely unprepared for the expectations for this job, and yet I was excited to actually be doing something again. But as I turned around, I remembered the other man, Bruce — he was no longer standing behind me anymore. In fact, he'd completely disappeared.

I paused, frowning, feeling a little sad. And guilty. I didn't even know when he left. "Oh, he's gone. I meant to say thank you."

"Who? Oh, you mean Bruce?" Tony scratched his beard, pulling a face. "Yeah, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else he's here. He's kinda got this whole wanted fugitive thing going on, having a tough time convincing the Mayor he's safe to have around. We're trying to keep it on the DL, if you catch my drift."

It took me a moment to comprehend what he said. "Wait, what? Did you say fugitive?"

"Uh, yeah," Tony Stark snorted, like it was obvious. He had already turned his back to me, going back down the steps as he attended to a new task on his tablet. "Bruce Banner, brilliant scientist, exposed to gamma radiation, became big giant scary green thing? Some people call him the Hulk but, eh, I think he could use something a little flashier, you know?"

"Um," I didn't know what to say to that. I was starting to accept that as the norm for being in the presence of Tony Stark. Maybe I was just star-struck (or Stark-struck…? Hahaha I'll show myself out) or maybe the panic attack had taken more out of me than I thought. Either way, I was left a little speechless.

Because, the truth was, Bruce Banner — The Hulk, the same Hulk that destroyed Harlem and helped the Avengers against the Chitauri — just calmed me down from a panic attack.

I was sure there was a joke about irony in there somewhere, but I was too dazed to think of one at the moment.

Tony Stark stopped talking to me, having parked himself on the edge of the balcony, fully engrossed in whatever work he was doing now. Considering myself officially dismissed, I stepped back inside Stark Tower.

I couldn't wait to tell Peter and Ned about this.

~o~

You know, if I'd been anywhere near right in the head today, I would've been able to recognize the address the secretary had given me.

70 Lincoln Center Plaza, New York, NY 10023

For some reason, I thought it was a home address. It wasn't. It was the School of American Ballet. The entire plaza was dedicated to the arts. I knew this. I was a native New Yorker, I knew all the major locations by heart. I've been there before on field trips. But for some reason, the address didn't ring a bell until I finally saw the big square Metropolitan Opera House, with its rounded arches and walls of glass. The circular fountain in the center of the plaza, with the smaller theater and studio halls on either side of me.

I don't know. Maybe it was because I wasn't expecting to be led to a ballet school — the best ballet school, I should say, because this was one of the fanciest places I've ever been to. Kids who went here learned to become dedicated ballerinas and dancers. It was their entire lives. Meanwhile regular high schoolers like me were stuck sitting in classrooms all day, trying not to pass out from boredom.

It also could've been because I was still recovering from the panic attack, and maybe doing this now wasn't such a good idea. Maybe Bruce Banner (still trying to get over that) had a point. I shouldn't be working right now. I should be resting. Not giving myself more stress to worry about.

But I told Tony Stark I was fine. He believed me, for better or worse, and I wanted the job. If this is what I had to do to keep it — and, more importantly, pass fall semester of Sophomore year — then so be it. I wasn't going to let one panic attack get in the way of my plans.

Getting here took twenty minutes on the subway, which gave me enough time to recompose myself, put my blazer and coat back on, check my hair, and acquaint myself with my new StarkPhone. It was just like Peter's, only brand new and without the spiderweb of cracks all over its screen. It even had my name and basic info already programmed into it.

I'd never owned a phone before. Not a flip phone, certainly not a smartphone. For a brief while, I was completely engrossed with using the touchscreen, tapping the apps, playing with the keyboard and camera. Just before my stop, I sent Peter a text message — guess who i met today — suppressing a smile as I let him stew on that for a while as I walked the rest of the way to the Plaza.

According to the Dmitri Kasyanenko's contact info, most of his classes were held in the Rose building, along with the rest of the school, so that's where I headed first. I would later be redirected to the Koch Theater, when I ran into a teacher who said the mature students were already rehearsing on stage. So, with a resolute sigh, I turned my heel and went back the way I came.

My annoyance evaporated as soon as I stepped inside the great hall.

It was massive. I vaguely remember coming here before for a school trip, but memory hardly served to capture the true majesty of the place. I gaped up as the vaulted ceiling, five stories high, bathed in dark red and gold light. A massive spherical chandelier with small circular lights hung in the center of the room, with a kaleidoscope of diamond tiles spinning away from it. The place was brightly lit, all lights turned on as the hustle and bustle of a main performance was put into construction.

Sound echoed off the walls, a combination of a hundred voices, discordant clips of music, and the banging and sawing noises of props being built.

On stage, crew were set-dressing and dancers were blocking their movements. I spotted the director almost immediately — he was the loudest in the hall, constantly shouting, holding three different conversations at once: with his clipboard-armed assistant, a girl who was holding a pair of worn-out slippers, and the invisible caller on his Bluetooth. He didn't even notice me walking in, and his voice was just another amongst a dozen, all talking over one another. The theater was abuzz, and I wondered how anyone could concentrate under the cacophony.

I didn't know who or where Dmitri Kasyanenko could be. As fancy as Stark's system was, it failed to provide me with photo identification. I'd probably have to ask around, although I dreaded approaching the director — he'd probably know for sure, but I doubt he'd have the time to deal with me. Probably best I left him alone. Maybe I could ask someone else…

Was he a student, a dancer? Or maybe he worked in production. All I knew was that he was sixteen, so at least he'd be easy to pick out from the adults. There were plenty of older dancers here that I could quickly cross off the list of potential Dmitri's, but there were at least two dozen if not more students milling about. Even worse, many were in costume, wearing matching outfits. God, this was going to be a nightmare.

Smaller children, maybe eight- or nine-years old, were playing in the seats, apparently having nothing better to do as their director slowly lost his mind. A few ran past me, playing tag. I watched then, wincing when one tripped, but then popped right back up again with an ecstatic shriek.

I passed a group of girls chattering in Russian. It took me a moment to actually tell it was a different language, because I was at first engrossed by the scandalous love life of a girl's mother. It made me pause, before moving on. How many students here were international? Did Tony Stark pair me with a Russian kid because his English wasn't so good? It seemed logical, but again, I wouldn't know until I met him. The uncertainty made me squirm a little. How difficult would it be to work with him?

The air was warm, almost humid, with activity, and I pulled off my coat, folding it over my arm. As I drew nearer to the stage, one dancer in particular caught my eye. On the right-hand side of the stage was a tall boy with golden-brown hair, slowly pirouetting on the spot with a simple grace.

I didn't realize I was staring until he turned his head in my direction and smiled. "Hello."

I started a little when I realized this was directed at me. Rocking back on my heels, I smiled awkwardly back and hoped he didn't think I was being creepy. "Uh, h-hi."

Oh, good, with the stutter, now I sounded shy. I wasn't, at least I didn't think so. Good job, Mia.

"Is something wrong?" He asked with a tilt of his head, pausing for a second. He had a slight accent, but its exact nature was muffled by chorus bouncing through the hall. It didn't help that his voice was a little soft, even though I stood only about ten feet away.

"No, no," I quickly shook my head, speaking louder so I could be heard over the noise, and maybe sound more confident in myself. I had to step closer to hear him, coming a stop at the edge of the stage, craning my head to look up at him. "Just, um, just watching you. It's really...you're really good."

Mission: Sound Confident — failed.

I wanted to kick myself for acting so stupid. Couldn't I put a single sentence together? God, I should've quit while I was ahead. Why didn't I tell Tony Stark I needed a short break before starting this? I couldn't function in normal society. I was a total wreck and I was only barely hiding it.

Before I could mentally berate myself further, the boy laughed. "Ah, thank you! They are just warm-ups, but it is good to know I am doing well."

He lifted his arms up in a stretch. Every part of him was elegant and sinewy, lean but not unmasculine. Standing on his toes, in matching black shoes and leotard, made his legs look extended, ethereal, even doll-like. The thin black shirt and leotard outlined every fine, powerful muscle in his shoulders and back. I realized I was staring and quickly averted my eyes, fighting a blush. Oh man, this was not a good time to be admiring boys.

Clearly new to this puberty thing if I'm distracted so easily. The last time I ever had thoughts like that were when I was thirteen. Guess I still was thirteen, in some aspects. I hadn't completely grown out of my old self.

"Do you dance?" He asked, still stretching, now to his arms and shoulders. I could hear it better now, the accent. Russian, too, like those girls. I guessed it made sense. As far as ballet schools went, America and Russia competed with the greatest.

A chuckle rose up my chest before I could stop myself. Me? Dance? No way. "Oh, ha, no, I don't dance. I'd be awful."

The boy had reached around to touch his hand between his shoulder blades, joints folding like rubber. I didn't know it was possible to be so limber, and absentmindedly started reaching behind my own back, to see if I could do it. (I could).

"Have you tried?"

I paused, shrugged. "Uh, no. Not really."

He threw me a look, arching an eyebrow. "Then how would you know if you're awful?" Then he smiled to show he wasn't being critical. "I'm sure you'd be an excellent dancer."

"Oh, yeah?" I said, crossing my arms. While I was sure he wasn't being mean-spirited, I was still frustrated by his light-hearted challenging. Couldn't he just let me be? "How do you know?"

"Because you're an athlete," He said, and at my look he quickly added, "I can tell by the way you carry yourself. You have good balance, and you're steady on your feet. All you need is to know is how to use them."

I decided not to tell him how I used my body to render a human unconscious with a maximum of three blows. I was also a little disconcerted by how easy I had been to read, but hid it behind a scoff. "Ha, okay, sure. I think I'm good, thanks."

The boy just shrugged, "Well, suit yourself," and returned to stretching his back, bending forward to reach the floor.

I frowned, brow drawing together. While he didn't push the notion, it still felt like he won the argument — I had no savoir faire and I was pretty sure I just made a faux pas, being too defensive. And I sort of liked talking to this guy, despite my own wishes.

But I just shook my head, looked away. What the hell was I doing? Wasting my time with this guy when I should be here looking for that Kasyanenko kid. I could always go to the director, who was right there, although I still had the distinct feeling I'd get kicked out just for approaching to him…

"Are you here for something?" The boy's voice cut through my thoughts, effectively ending any chance I had at coming up with a comeback. I looked back at him; the boy was sitting on the floor now, bending one knee and reaching for the other foot. He craned his head around to look at me from over his shoulder.

"I'm looking for someone. His name is Dmitri Kasyanenko. Do you know him?"

"Yes." The boy frowned, pulled up. "Wait, you're Amelia, aren't you? Amelia Fletcher?"

I did a double-take, my arms dropping. "What? How did you know my name?"

"God, how rude of me — I should've realized, said something sooner." the boy muttered under his breath, shaking his head and standing up with a look of dawning comprehension on his face. I took a hesitant step back as he jumped off the stage and strode right up to me, holding out his hand with a smile. "Because I'm Dmitri."

He looked even younger up close, now. A thin face, prominent cheekbones, freckles like mine. Only his mouth was too wide, his chin a little too small. He was...pretty. Not all the way to handsome, but certainly attractive; Maybe he took after his mother.

"Oh. Oh." My jaw dropped, and after a moment, I took his hand, feeling like a complete idiot. I was utterly flustered, both by my own actions and those bright hazel-green eyes, looking right into mine.

Finally, his accent clicked in my head. Oh, so that's why they wanted someone who could speak Russian in the program. But after holding a conversation in perfect English with Dmitri, I wasn't sure why. He seemed just fine on his own.

Once I recollected my thoughts, I said, "Well, I m-must have given you a great first impression, then. Um, s-sorry a-about acting like that."

I felt like I blew already it, that nothing I said could fix this. Even worse, my stutter had made an encore, as it always did when I was nervous. Not even super soldier serum could save me from that.

Of course, it had to be him, Dmitri had to be the one guy I really noticed, the one that made me stare and blush, and then act like a bitch to. I had expected someone with a thicker accent, a shy personality — someone who needed a Russian speaker, to communicate better, open up with. Maybe it was a little stereotypical — but that was the impression I had gotten from Tony Stark.

"No, no, I apologize," Dmitri said with light chuckle, waving his hands in front of him. "I should not have pressed you like that. I tend to ask too many questions. I should know by now that not many people appreciate that."

"What? No, asking too many questions is a good thing," I replied almost immediately, now feeling guilty for an entirely different reason. The last thing I needed was a guy too afraid to ask me questions, especially if I was going to be teaching him. His success meant my success, after all.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, added with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Trust me, I do it all the time."

Dmitri looked surprised. "You do? And you don't get in trouble for it?"

"Ah," I hesitated, then added with a duck of my head. "...Well, no. I still get in trouble. But that's only because most people are hiding things they shouldn't be having in the first place."

"Well, that's an interesting method," Dmitri said after a moment of consideration, looking mildly impressed. Then he leaned in with a teasing smile, and whispered conspiratorially, "In that case, I hope neither of us has any secrets they should have from each other."

Oh, boy. If he had winked, I probably would've died on the spot. The way Dmitri said it meant there were no barbs behind the words — he didn't really mean it, and yet I couldn't help but catch the irony; of all the people who had secrets to hide from someone who asked too many questions, it had to be me.

It occurred to me I've never been in this position before. For a split second, I almost sympathized with those people, who hide from justice to get away with their own illicit activities.

But only for a second. I, for one, hadn't actually broken any laws.

(Not lately, anyways).

"I just got the email an hour ago," he told me, heading towards one of the front row seats, which had been taken hostage by hundreds of purses, backpacks, and duffle bags. He pulled a phone out of a green one before heading back to me. "Telling I had been assigned a tutor? Amelia Fletcher, yes, that is you. I did not think I'd be meeting you so soon. Stark does not waste time, I suppose."

"No, he does not," I said, having just met the man and nearly left in the dust by a single conversation. "I didn't think it'd be so soon, either. But I guess better now than later. So, you need help with math and science, right?"

"Ha-ha," his laugh was ironic, tired as he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up oddly. "Oh, yes. You may ask yourself, why does a dancer need to know math and science? But I need my general credits or whatever they are called, to stay here, yes? So, I have to pass this season, and I can stay." He made a face. "I am certain that sounds pathetic to you."

"What? No, it's fine," I let out a huff of amusement, unable to hide a smirk. "Actually, I'm kind of in the same situation as you."

"Really?" Dmitri looked surprised. He frowned, then a shout from the director made him flinch, and he threw me an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I have to go. Rehearsal is for another hour and a half. But I meet you afterwards, yes? There is a library nearby, we can meet there and discuss things further. Does that — does that sound okay?"

"Sounds great," I said with a smile, rocking back on my heels. It was nice to see Dmitri seemed just as nervous as I was. As he climbed back onto stage, I added, "Do you need my number? You can text me when you're done."

"Already have it," Dmitri waved his phone at me. To answer my unsaid question, he said, "Email, remember? But yes, I will let you know. Sorry for the wait. I know you must have better things to do."

You'd be surprised, I thought to myself wryly, as I said good-bye, giving one last wave before heading out the theater. It had been cloudy early, but the sky had cleared up since then, and a silver sun gave a vague sense of warmth upon the earth. The brisk air was a nice change from inside, and for a moment I just stood in the plaza, taking in a deep breath. That could've gone worse.

Then I looked around and wondered what the heck I was going to do until three-thirty.

Well, I was right on Broadway, and there was plenty to do around here. I caught the savory scent of a nearby deli and started heading towards the street, deciding I might as well get something to eat and think about what just happened.

I decided I liked Dmitri. Sure, the first impression wasn't great, but he seemed genuinely nice. And I couldn't help but think that if Michelle were here, she'd be making fun of the way I had been looking at him. There was no way I was going to tell her. Or Peter or Ned, for that matter. It'd be too weird.

As I stepped off the curb, I was secretly thankful Dmitri didn't go to our school.

I didn't see the bus until too late.

"Careful!"

Snap! I gasped as I was suddenly yanked backwards. The bus roared by, brakes screeching, rubber smoking. Its metal side slipped inches past my face as I was sent sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk.

Before my head could crack against the tarmac, a pair of arms caught me, breaking my fall.

I expected to see a face. Instead, two white lenses blinked through — were those welder's goggles? — from a red mask. He was already talking to me: "Hey, you need to watch your step next time, miss. I can't always be there to save you —"

With a startled cry, I seized and yanked myself out of his touch. The guy jumped back, holding out his hands in a sign of peace. "Whoa, easy! I was just helping you out!"

"What the —" I didn't recognize him at first. The red and blue suit, which looked like a pair of pajamas hung loosely off him, with the big spider symbol painted on his chest? Should've been a dead giveaway. But I was still reeling from almost getting hit by a bus that I just stared at him like an idiot. "Where did you come from?"

"Um," He pointed at the sky, as if that were some sort of obvious answer. He wore fingerless gloves, which revealed a strange wrist mechanism on either hand. His entire get-up looked homemade, amateur, nothing like the cool expert look the Avengers pulled off. It was definitely a lot less cool in person.

I opened my mouth to speak, still freaked out, but someone to the right called out, "Hey, look, it's Spider-Man!"

Spider-Man saluted the man who was pointing at him down the street. "Just doing my civic duty!" he said, and I noticed how strange his voice sounded. It was husky, deep, but it sounded forced. Like he was putting on an act. Why would he do that? Beneath it, he sounded a bit young to be called Man...

I squinted at the superhero in his ridiculous suit. Although shorter than me, he was quick and lithe, befitting that of a guy with superpowers, I suppose. But there was something about him. Something off —

Before I could think to ask, Spider-Man lifted his arm and flicked his fingers — thin rope shot out of his wrist and I stumbled back as he shot up into the air with a quick but powerful jump. I almost considered going after him, but Spider-Man was already swinging around the corner and out of sight.

My shoulders slumped and I fell against a nearby kiosk, hand against my head. One near-death experience was enough to make me slow down for real this time. Still, I couldn't shake this odd feeling I had. I checked my nose, but it wasn't bleeding. Yet I couldn't deny that I had gotten a really strange vibe.

Did I know Spider-Man?

Questions and Answers (from FF reviewers):

Ren (Guest) asked: how is this timeline lining up? Six months since she disappeared and it sounds like the Battle of New York was shortly after that but now we're past Homecoming? Or are you just making it fit together? Totally cool with however you're doing it, I'm just curious and want to make sure I didn't miss something.

Answer: You aren't the first person to ask about how I'm changing the timeline for my fic, so here's a basic rundown of the new timeline I'm using.

Iron Man: 2008

IM2: 2010

Avengers: May 2012

Mia in captivity: September2010-October 2012

Peter becomes Spider-Man: May 2012

Sokovian Civil War Begins: November 1st, 2012

IM3: December 2012

Thor 2: November 2012 (I'm working on a new fic for Thor 2)

Captain America 2: Spring 2013

Avengers 2: December 2013/January 2014

Sokovian Civil War Ends: January 2014 (?)

Civil War: Spring/Summer 2014 (?)

Homecoming: Fall 2013/2014 (?)

Best I can simplify is by saying I'm shortening the time span between the movies that take place after the Avengers (2012), making the events occur sooner than they do "in real life".

I'm still trying to keep the movies in the order they occurred in. Please let me know if I made any mistakes :x

Asexual Potato asked: Does Mia have a face claim or no?
Answer: Yes, she does! Mia's faceclaim is an Australian model named Grace Quealy, a recommendation from a friend of mine and I've been stuck on her ever since.

Bittersweet256 asked: Plus do you happen to like white collar per chance?
Answer: Yes I do! I love White Collar, it's one of my favorite shows of all time. I'm sad that it's over now, but it had a healthy run and I'm glad it didn't outlive its great writing (unlike some shows... *cough*Castle*cough*)

PondLake asked: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Answer: What I always do ;)

Also, before anyone asks, Dmitri (whose name was changed from Antony, in case any old reader is confused) is another OC. He's going to play a semi-prominent role and maybe you can already guess where I'm taking his character, but the fic still remains as No Pairings and I'm not really focusing on anything other than Mia's home adjustment and the IM3 plot.

I know there are way more questions than that, but these are the most recent ones I could find, and also the ones I can answer without spoiling anything. f you have any other questions, you can also hit me up on my tumblr blog, rebelcolumbia. Anyways, hope you enjoyed!