CHAPTER 3: HERE'S A FEW SUBWAY TOKENS

***GWEN***

I edge out of the gym as people start looking around, wondering what to do next. Nobody seems to notice me leave - nobody except Clint Barton. He's pretty easy to spot, because he's wearing one of his many purple-and-gray-striped T-shirts. It's got long sleeves too, so it's a very odd choice for this time of year now that the weather's warming up. Then again, this is San Castiel we're talking about. We're so close to San Fransokyo that we get foggy days even in the middle of summer.

Clint catches my eye and walks up to me, asking, "Did you see what happened?"

"Yeah," I say. "Didn't you?"

Clint shakes his head. "I just saw Peter walkin' out the gym with the Hamadas, and I'm like, what gives? Peter doesn't hang out with them." He scratches the back of his head. "Or, at least, he doesn't hang out with Skye."

"Yeah, no kidding," I laugh. "Everyone can see she creeps him out, the way she's so...how should I put it...affectionate with him."

"So what happened, then?" Clint asks. "I tried to ask Peter, but the Hamadas just kept on movin', and he followed them before he could talk to me."

I take a deep breath and give Clint the story, in the shortest possible version. Even that takes me a full five minutes. When I'm done, his only response is a shocked stare. "That's exactly what I looked like when it happened," I say.

Clint snorts under his breath. "Well, you'd probably have still looked hella pretty with your jaw on the floor." My eyes twitch, and I glare at him for a moment, just long enough to force him to look down in shame. "Sorry."

"It's all right," I say. "Now maybe if you called Peter and asked him again what's goin' on? I'd call him myself, but I don't have his number."

"How'd you know I-"

"You work on the paper with him, right? Of course you'd have his contact info."

Clint nods silently, then grabs his phone and makes the call. He holds his phone up to his ear for a moment, then says, "Hey, Parker, it's Barton. Um, Gwen just told me what went down in the gym today, and I'd like to know if I should have your aunt report you missing or anything like that. Call me back when you get this, okay? Thanks. Bye."

"No answer?" I ask.

"Went straight to voicemail," Clint says. "Which either means Pete's phone is off, or destroyed. He almost always answers it when it's on."

"Hmm," I say. "Any other ideas? What about if we try and find the Hamadas?"

Clint frowns. "Where would you look, though? At their house?"

I shake my head. "I doubt they'd have gone there...but that's a start. Maybe we'll find some kind of clue there."

"I know where they live," Clint says. "I, uh, did an interview with Hiro and Tadashi a couple weeks ago for the science fair, and I ended up goin' to their place 'cause they had to work at home on their project anyway."

"The inflatable health-care robot?" I ask.

"No, actually, it was something else," Clint says, swiping the screen on his phone so he can double-check the Hamadas' address. "Something with this shape-changing metal thing. Like out of Transformers, you know?"

"Interesting," I say. "So where do they live, then?"

"In the city, believe it or not," Clint says, pocketing his phone.

"The city?" I raise my eyebrows. I guess I shouldn't be surprised - Augustine's a pretty popular magnet school that attracts the scientifically-inclined from all over the Bay Area. Hell, even Tony Stark isn't a San Castiel local - he lives in Hayashi Hills, if I remember correctly. "What part of the city?"

"I had to take BART up there and get off at 24th and Mission," Clint says. "If we hurry, we could probably get there in half an hour or less."

"Let's go, then," I say, leading the way out the building.

Five minutes later, we're in San Castiel BART station. Because it's a Spare The Air day, BART travel is free - but at first, I pull out my Clipper card out of habit when Clint and I reach the gate, not seeing that it's already wide open and waiting for us to go through. Then, we ride the escalator down to the underground platform and wait for the train to arrive.

The train ride into San Fransokyo takes about half an hour, just like Clint suggested. It's only about a twenty-mile distance - ten as the crow flies, but the BART tracks have to detour around San Castiel Mountain on the southern edge of the city. It's not underground the whole way, but the aboveground part is only when we get into the city itself, and then it goes under again.

"If Petey were here," Clint says, plugging his nose as we go into the second tunnel and the air pressure rises, "he'd point out how bipolar the geography around here is. All these hills poppin' up all over the place, and water on three sides."

"No wonder real estate here is so expensive," I say. "There's just not enough land for everyone."

"You're tellin' me."

We finally get to 24th Street/Mission station after a long ride through the tunnel. This station apparently is even deeper underground than the one in San Castiel - the escalator ride up to the entrance level takes a full minute, and even then we're still one story below street level.

"Okay, where to now?" I ask.

Clint consults his phone again, getting directions off his map app. (Haha, I made a rhyme.) "Hang on," he says. "Sometimes, after I've been out of service for a while, it's hard to get back in service again."

"Is that an old phone?" I ask, peering at the case - it does look like an older iPhone variety. I think it even has the older-style USB port for the connection and charger cables.

"Yeah, but it still works like a charm most of the time," Clint says. "I just never bothered upgrading 'cause my parents...my dad's been out of a job for a while, and he hasn't had a permanent job in almost five years, so we can't exactly afford the latest models right now."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"That's why I got into journalism class," Clint continues. "'Cause based on my dad's example, the tech industry is too competitive for me. I'm just not that pushy, you know?" He holds up his phone so he can get a better look at the screen; with so much glare from the sun, I imagine it's hard to see anything. "Finally. Come on, this way."

Clint leads me up and down the streets of the Mission district for a while, until eventually his phone chimes at us, like a car's GPS system, to tell us we've reached our destination. I look around and the first thing I see is a coffee shop on the first floor of a townhouse on the corner. "This is it?" I ask, sniffing the air and smelling baked goods.

"Yep." Clint walks through the glass door, and I follow him in. He goes up to the counter and starts talking to a middle-aged woman - her name tag reads "Cass." I gaze at the donuts and éclairs lining the shelves of a glass display case while Clint does all the talking. Various words and phrases filter into my brain - "Where's Peter?...I was told he'd be here...Okay...Thanks anyway...No, that's all right, he's got my number."

I stick around long enough to buy a maple-glazed donut - since my parents decided to cut down on their sugar intake, there's been no Saturday-morning trips to the donut shop in almost a year. That, and because Dad's a cop, he doesn't really want to perpetuate any stereotypes.

"Who was that woman?" I ask. "Not their mom, I'm guessing."

"What, just 'cause she's white instead of Asian?" Clint laughs. "The Hamadas are actually half-white, anyway. That lady is their Aunt Cass."

"Oh. So where are their parents?"

"No idea. I didn't ask."

"Uh-huh." The donut dissolves into sweet deliciousness as I start to eat it. I even let out a few little moans, prompting Clint to look funny at me.

"What?" I ask, a defiant edge to my tone. "You could've gotten one too, if you'd like."

"I'm tryin' to save my money," Clint says. "Remember? No permanent jobs in my household right now."

"You gonna get a summer job, then?"

"I think so."

"Where?"

Clint shuffles his feet. "Maybe at Elephant Bar?"

I nod approvingly. "At least it's a job. Do they still do that steak sandwich with only one bun?"

"I...uh...I don't think so. That's a thing there?"

"It was last time I ate there, which was, let's be honest, more years ago than I have fingers to - ow!" A small but heavy object falls onto my head. In my surprise, both of my hands fly to the top of my head to rub it, and I end up dropping my donut. "Crap," I groan, seeing the half-eaten donut on the ground. Luckily, the uneaten half is securely inside the paper wrapper, so I don't even need to worry about the five-second rule.

But as for the object that hit me - I have no idea what it was, and I don't see it anywhere else around me. "Clint, did you see anything?" I ask.

"No, I didn't - oh wait, what's that up there?" Clint points to an upper window of the Hamadas' house, where a funny-looking metal thing is sitting on the windowsill.

"How'd you spot that?" I ask, raising one hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun. "You must have really good hawk eyes."

The thing on the windowsill raises a claw-like appendage, then drops a tiny metal ball that it's been holding. This time, Clint and I both duck out of the way, and we see the metal object break into a series of smaller ones. These smaller things are then carried away on the wind - but then I realize they are moving against the wind, not with it.

Then the thing leaps down and lands on the sidewalk in front of us. Now that we can finally get a good look at it, we see that it consists of three metal balls, each one with two roughly conical arms protruding from it. The uppermost ball has a yellow face painted on it, flashing a toothy grin.

"Huh," I say. "This must be one of Hiro's inventions."

"What makes you say that?"

"I dunno," I say. "The face seems like something a younger boy would put on his robot."

"Good point," Clint says. The robot jumps into the air, only getting about three inches off the ground. "Hey, you think he's tryin' to tell us something?"

The robot points down the street. I could swear it's making little squeaky noises of excitement every time it jumps and points. "Should we follow it?" I ask.

"Why not?" Clint says. "Maybe it'll get us a little closer to figurin' this crap out. And if it doesn't pan out, the BART station's that way anyway, so we can just go back home."

"True." I look down at the robot again. "Um, go get 'em, boy," I say. I know, it's a robot, not a dog. But the robot listens to me, scurrying down the street like a little jointed metal squirrel. Every so often, it races up a light pole, then swings from it until it can leap to the next one. I think it might just be showing off.

Before long, the robot leads us right back to the BART station. It slides effortlessly down the banister, then waves Clint and me impatiently down the stairs when it reaches the bottom long before we do. The gates are still open for free, so we pass through those. Then the robot spins around on one foot for a while before zeroing in on its next target - a vending machine.

"You think it's hungry?" I ask Clint, watching the robot jumping in vain, pointing vaguely at something inside the machine. Neither of us can figure out what it wants, until Clint thinks to lift the robot up so it can look. It actually shakes its head a few times as Clint moves it up and down the rows of snacks, until finally it settles on a pack of Gummi Bears, nodding until we're sure its head might fall off.

"I'll take care of this," I say, pulling out the change from my donut. It's more than enough for the Gummi Bears, so I deposit the money.

In the distance, I can hear an old-fashioned phone jangling loudly. I look around and see a small bank of pay phones on the other side of the station lobby. The robot perks up at the sound too, then jumps out of Clint's hands and zips on over to the phones.

"I'll follow it," I say. "You just get the candy. And the change."

I leave Clint to take care of that, then go over to the pay phone. The robot stands in front of the ringing one, and I pick it up. Even though I'm aware of how possibly germ-infested this public pay phone is, I hold the phone up to my ear and ask, "Hello?"

"Huh?" a boy's voice calls out - is that Hiro talking? "Who is this?"

"Is this-" I begin, but then I'm cut off when someone sneaks up behind me and holds a dangerously sharp-looking yellow disc near my neck.

"Where'd you get that robot?" a woman's voice whispers in my other ear.

I squirm a bit, trying to get away, but the woman's got too good a hold on me. I can still turn my head, though, and I yell, "Clint!"

Clint, who's talking to a tall dark-skinned blonde woman, whirls around, sees me, and runs across the lobby, yelling, "HEY! What's your problem, lady?"

"Go-Go, what the heck are you doing?" the blonde asks, trailing after Clint.

The woman with the sharp disc lets me go. I can finally see her - she's Asian, and goth, with a purple streak in her hair. "Just had to make sure she was okay, Honey," she says.

"I could've told you that," Honey says, rolling her eyes behind her red-framed glasses. She looks much more pleasant than this Go-Go lady, or whatever her name is. Her sunnier wardrobe (all yellow and white) definitely helps.

"Hi there," Honey says, flashing me peace signs with both hands. "I'm Honey Lemon, and this jumpy type here is Go-Go Tomago. Who are you?"

Clint and I introduce ourselves, then, like at the coffee shop, he does all the talking. "We're lookin' for our friend," he says. "His name is Peter Parker, and last time we saw him, the Hamadas took him somewhere. We don't know where."

"I might," Go-Go says. "They're still parked at the airport, right?"

Honey checks her phone. "Nobody's texted me sayin' they left, so I guess so, yeah."

"What are they doin' at the airport?" I ask.

"Part of their assignment with SHIELD, I think," Go-Go says. "Come on, let's go. If we hurry, we could still catch them."

"Yeah, maybe if you drive," Honey laughs.

Go-Go's eyes take on a dangerous gleam, and Honey's smile shrinks away with hilarious slowness. "No," she says emphatically. "Go-Go, last time you drove, you wrecked Wasabi's ride. My car's brand-new, too!"

"I promise I'll get us to the airport in one piece," Go-Go says, crossing her heart. "Now come on already!"

Clint and I stay behind while the two ladies run for the stairs. Honey soon turns around and asks, "Aren't you guys coming?"

"Um…" Clint starts.

"We kinda have to…" I say, but my voice trails off.

"Hiro's robot sure likes you," Go-Go remarks with a short laugh. I look down and see the robot wrapping its little arms around my ankle - the only part of me it can reach. At least it's not humping me like a dog. "If he didn't like you, trust me, you'd know about it," Go-Go adds.

I sigh heavily. "Okay. I guess you've convinced me. You comin', Clint?"

Clint looks around towards the escalator to the subway platform, then slumps his shoulders. "Yeah, I'll come with. It's not as if I really got anything else to do, you know what I mean?"

"Awesome!" cries Honey. She leads the way out of the station and over to a small Mazda van, where two men - one black, one white - are sitting inside already. The black man introduces himself as Wasabi, and quickly explains that it's because of his fondness for spicy sushi - "not," he insists, "for spillin' wasabi on my shirt. That was one time, people!"

Go-Go snickers as she gets into the driver's seat. "And hey, this time he brought it up himself. How's that for progress?"

Wasabi buries his face in his hands.

The white guy, who's sitting next to me in the backseat, raises his hands for high-fives from me and Clint. "'Sup, dudes? Name's Fred," he says, completing the skater-punk persona already shown in his attire - knit cap, long-sleeve tee, and cargo shorts. Apart from the beanie, Fred's outfit isn't all that different from the one Hiro Hamada was wearing today. The difference is that his clothes look faded and a little dirty, like they haven't been properly laundered. Maybe they're the kind of clothes that are deliberately made "vintage?"

Go-Go starts the engine. "One piece, Honey," she says, angling the rearview mirror so she can see her. "I promise."

"Just get on with it," Honey says, looking a bit worried.

No sooner does Go-Go start driving down the street than we all hear a faint rumble. Everyone cringes - we're all fearing the worst. The start of the next Big One.

It's not an earthquake, but there's still people screaming as they run out of the BART station. And before long, we see what they're running from - a bunch of creepy creatures with pale skin, pointed ears, and solid black eyes.

"Holy crap," Fred whispers, awestruck. "Dark Elves. They do exist!"

"Floor it!" Honey yells.

She doesn't need to tell Go-Go twice. The little van jumps out of its parking space and screeches its way down the street at high speed. I look back and see a number of Dark Elves following us.

One of them is armed with a huge crossbow, which it's priming with an arrow. Ready...aim...fire.

"They're shooting at us!" I yell.

"I can see that!" Go-Go swerves onto Mission Street, making a hard right.

Unfortunately, there's already a traffic jam in the making - we're clearly not the only ones trying to get out of the area. And the Elves are still following us, readying more arrows.

Go-Go curses under her breath. "Honey, I'm really sorry," she says, turning the steering wheel as far to the right as it will go, "but I think I'm gonna have to break my promise."

"What? No!" But it's too late. Even as Honey begs her to stop, Go-Go is already stomping on the gas, heading for the narrow gap between two cars ahead of us.