The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude

Chapter 1

It became very clear, during the debriefing I was served, that I couldn't talk about it. There just weren't words that meant the right thing. My mouth was heavy—too heavy to open. I think this scared Steve more than any of my other reactions. I could tell he was worried, and it made me feel guilty. The looks he gave me…it wasn't like I forgot how to talk, I just didn't have the words.

So that's why I wasn't speaking at Walter's memorial.

Pogo whined in my arms. Yes, I did bring my dog to Walter's memorial service. Or I was going to as soon as I figured out how to sneak him into the auditorium of the Wheeler Opera House, which had just enough seating for all the strangers that claimed to have known Walter best. He was a smallish dog, but not small enough to fit into a handbag. I didn't want to just walk in with him, because someone would stop me and ask me why I was bringing my neurotic cocka-poo into a memorial. That would mean I would have to have an answer and I would have to say it out loud. I did not have it in me to explain.

This street had been spared from Amora's destruction. It was one of the only streets not affected that night. This made the Historical Society even more protective of the buildings they cherished. I didn't have to look far to find damage, just had to turn my head to the left to see the blackened gap where our house had been, farther up the hill. I didn't not look, though.

Tony Stark stood with Pepper Pots and Bruce Banner on the corner of the street, out of the flow of memorial service attendees. People left them alone after a glance; it was normal to see famous faces in Aspen. They had ridden with me and Steve in a black limo from the helicopter pad that had been temporarily fashioned from the rugby field, to pick Pogo up from the make-shift pet rescue, and then to the Wheeler Opera House.

I watched the stream of hunched shoulders and curious eyes filter into the double doors of the old brick building. How many back outfits could there be? I looked down at my own black dress. I had to borrow it from Pepper Potts and it fit me wrong and I hated it. I looked like an overgrown pre-teen playing business-formal. My legs were clad in nude stockings and there was a run from the back of my left knee all the way down to the 'sensible' heel. It was too cold to get out of the car in this outfit. I wanted to be in sweatpants, in a sweater, in wool socks, under a quilt.

One of the best things about Pogo was that he let me hold him any which way I wanted: a living and breathing, and occasionally barking, teddy bear. I think he knew I needed his small comfort, and he had certainly been happy to see me. And he was the last surviving artifact of a life that was now over for me. I wasn't letting him go.

Steve joined Tony, Pepper and Bruce on the corner, with the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents I didn't know. One of them was a woman with sleek black hair and scowl. The other was an older guy; he seemed genuinely sad and it was possible he was actually here just for the funeral. His face was deeply lined with age, but there was a fresh grief I had felt from him when he inside the limo with me.

I jumped out of my skin when the car door opened. A blast of winter wind blew into the car and Pogo struggled in my arms.

"Ready? It's about to start." Steve bent and held out a hand. His face was kind. It was always kind. I mustered up the resemblance of a smile for him and tucked the dog under one arm. Steve's hands were warm and he really looked dashing in a suit. My heart fluttered under a heap of unhappiness.

"Is he coming, too?" Steve asked.

I closed the car door behind me as an answer and started towards the doors. His palm pressed against my shoulder blade and all I wanted to do was to just get back in the car with Steve and be warm. I forced myself to move forward, careful not to slip on the ice in my sensible heels.

No one spoke as I approached; conversation slipped away awkwardly like they had been talking about me.

"Shall we?" Steve said, my temporary mouthpiece.

A brunette door man handing out programs looked at me in alarm as we stepped up.

"Uh, you can't bring your dog." he sort of mumbled. I glanced at the inside of the building thinking I might be able make a run for it.

"This is Walter's stepdaughter." The older S.H.I.E.L.D. agent spoke up this time.

"Okay. But pets aren't allowed. It's a Historical Building. I can't let you—"

"It's a working dog." Tony said. "Are you going to deprive this young lady from the help she needs? Are you going to break the law?"

The doorman did a double take in Tony Stark's face, and then peered at Pogo in suspicion.

"No, I just…it doesn't look like a working dog. What does it do?"

"He's a translator." Tony loosened his tie, whipped it off his neck, and draped it ceremoniously over Pogo's. "See?"

There was a moment where the guy looked at our completely serious faces before we sort of pushed past him into the lobby. Steve apologized to him. Pepper pulled herself into Tony, smiling.

The auditorium was full, as was the balcony. There was hushed murmur. The front row on the right hand side had been taped off for the family. And there was family, but not mine. It seemed like I should know everyone at my own stepfather's memorial service, especially coming from a small town. The Ski-Company guys dressed up in suits was an uncommon sight. It took me a moment to recognize them without their red and black snow pants and jackets. Peering around I caught sight of Gabe, hair tamed almost comically to the side. His eyes jumped to mine quickly and he gave a little wave. I didn't have it in me to wave back.

There were two people I thought would have been at Walter's funeral: my Grandma, and my mother's sister, Diana. I had not been able to get ahold of either of them. It made me nervous that they were dead. They too, must have been pawns my mother tricked into loving.

Two seats were available close to the right isle. It was quickly decided that Steve and I and Pogo would sit up there and the rest of our group would fend for themselves. As we took our places the murmurs got a bit less whispery and bit more like regular talking. I made Steve sit between me and the very overweight woman in pearls and grey curls; I sat on the end.

The service started and I couldn't concentrate on the words. It was like white noise. I listened to the sniffles and the crinkling of the paper program that had a black and white picture of Walter smoking a cigar in a ski cap. I felt like the whole auditorium was looking at the back of my head, which was completely ridiculous because they were all there to think about Walter.

Pogo sat on my lap, with Tony Stark's tie hanging from his neck. He watching the people to my right. I stared down the row, as inconspicuously as possible. I didn't recognize even one person. I looked down the other way, to Walter's family, who were all crying. Like mascara running down faces, snot dripping of chins crying. Steve caught me looking at the family and pulled a packet of tissues out of his jacket, handing them to the woman in pearls. She looked surprised to see him there, and then nodded her round red face in thanks, passing them off to the rest.

I had never tried to get to know Walter. In my mind he was my mother's sugar daddy. Old and rich, he had fit the bill as a husband for Amora to leech off of. Towards the end he had almost become like a real stepdad. He bought me an apartment in New York. He had tried to warn me about Amora over the phone. He was used like a pawn and them murdered when he was no longer useful. Judging by the huge amount of people and the constant sniffling, he was loved.

Guilt, again. Things happened to me and the people around me. Bad things. My initial reaction was usually to blame someone else, but it was clear to me that this was my fault. If I hadn't been born Amora wouldn't have used me against my real mother and father, wouldn't have hidden us on Earth, wouldn't have killed Walter.

I had been to a funeral once before: Michael, Amora's first husband. My first step-dad. I was in fifth grade, and again, not close enough to him to feel the proper amount of grief. He had been aloof and traveled a lot, bringing home extravagant gifts for Amora and side hugs for me. Which was really weird as a kid to get side hugs. He died of a heart-attack.

I almost choked, suddenly realizing she killed him too, probably. Of course she did. The money he left Amora had gotten us through until Walter was in the picture. It shouldn't have surprised me, but it certainly hurt again. The same wound, prodded at with a different object. Why didn't I realize my mother was a crazy murder? The same reason I didn't realize, for 23 years, that I am actually not human.

It was strange to be mourning someone in a theater. I had danced here every year in the Nutcracker, since I was five. The memorial felt like a morbid and solemn musical, with church melodies interspersed between monologues. We were all dressed up, fixated on the stage and the current speaker, who had now broken down to the point that her voice squeaked when she tried to speak. It was embarrassing me. I wasn't crying like I was supposed to. I wasn't speaking on his behalf like I was supposed to. I wasn't performing like I was supposed to.

I belatedly felt everyone standing for a final song. I rose unsteadily, and leaned on Steve, who wrapped his arm around my back, his fingers brushing my collar bone. My arms were tired of holding Pogo; he wasn't a scrawny dog.

It was supposed to be the best day ever, right? I finally had my freedom from the heavy chains Amora had placed on my heart and mind. I had no burden of a crazy mother, who turned out to actually be a magical kidnapper alien witch. Her spell was lifted, new winds blew the fog out of my mind; I had no ties to bind me. I was free. I was free from everything because I had nothing of my past left.

I was too free.

Identity comes, in part, from memory. And what if those memories were all lies?

—

The car had grown cold in our absence. Steve waited until I slid into the seat before crunching his body in after me. Pogo jumped off my lap as soon as I released him from Stark's tie. He leaped into the front passenger's seat. I didn't bother to move him, he would whine at me the whole ride if he didn't get to sit there. The driver slid into his own seat and reached over to give Pogo a pat on the back before turning the ignition.

The two S.H.I.L.E.D. agents found seats in the stretch limo, towards the front of the car, where they could keep an eye on their precious cargo of superheroes. They spoke in hushed tones as Bruce Banner, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts piled in. The car was equipped with enough seats, but it felt crowded nonetheless, with larger-than-life personalities.

Tony immediately pulled out a flask from the car stock, as well as a bag of peanuts, and offered them to Bruce, who declined. It became clear, though, that Tony was actually asking him to open the bag for him.

"Well, I think that was nice. Very classy." Pepper said into the silent car as Bruce popped the bag and handed the peanuts to Pepper, who put the nuts in the cup holder closest toTony. "He was a great man."

"Back to the field, please," one agent instructed the driver. The car inched though the exiting crowd of mourners.

"You sure you don't want to stay for the Survivors' Dinner?" Steve asked me.

I nodded resolutely, avoiding eye contact. Guilt. I should be going to greet people, to accept and give condolences. Should. Wouldn't.

I felt the gaze of the others and I looked at my hands in my lap. I was warming up, sitting between Bruce and Steve, but I hadn't stopped shivering yet.

Pepper's phone vibrated.

"Perfect." She said after a moment, typed a reply, and then looked up. "Walter's Personal Representative, Neil, you met him yesterday, he's in charge of the settling the financial affairs." I nodded. "He has sent in the forms as of two minutes ago. My estate attorney and accountants can handle most of what's left. Walter was very thorough. I don't think you will have anything to worry about."

I nodded. That was one weight lifted. I had no idea what to do after someone died, let alone after you've lost your whole family. Thank God for Pepper Pots and her need to take charge of situations. The Avengers has not been able to avenge Walter, but they had taken care of me.

The car was quiet then. Solemn. Tired. Bruce, especially looked haggard. He always did, a bit, but the last two days he hardly said a word, and like me, was resigned to a moody silence. He wasn't very big, when he was a man. I sat higher than eye-level with him, and when I looked over, his brow was deeply furrowed. I wanted to say something to make him feel better, for a moment, then the words were gone again. There was nothing to say.

The driver took a detour around a particularly bad patch of destruction and memories, and I said my goodbyes to my hometown, in my head. My new life was starting. Change is good, I told myself. This was my chance to start over.

These spurts of fake cheer burst like soap bubbles; here and shiny, delicately iridescent, then gone, leaving only a sticky residue.

My entire life, or what's left of it, was in the back of this car. Any residual clothes I had left at home when I had moved to New York, Pogo's small kennel, a few books, a photo album, were all packed away. The rest had been put up for auction, sold, demolished or restored as Pepper Pots' estate lawyer had seen fit to arrange. I was leaving Aspen for, probably, the last time. I would miss the clean fresh mountain air, clear sky, open spaces with no crowds. I would miss the snow capped peaks in the winter and the billions of aspen trees changing from green to gold to rust in the fall.

I would miss my aunt Diana and my Grandma, and that niggled at me like a hangnail. I had tried calling them, but I didn't actually try to get to my Grandma's farm, located just 40 minutes away. They should have been at the funeral. Unless they were dead or secretly hated Walter or me. Or if they had been on Amora's side. My stomach turned and I squirmed at the thought.

We moved as a group into the helicopter after the pilot, Steve, and I hauled my luggage in one trip, into the cargo hold. I let Pogo pee and then loaded him into his kennel. The flight was loud and freezing, but soon over. We landed not five miles away at the private airport where a plane would take Steve, Pepper, Tony, Bruce and I to New York City. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents parted ways, headed to some secret destination, on to the next mission.

The private jet was luxurious with leather interior with a bar and multiple TVs. It had three separate cabins, one of which Tony and Pepper disappeared into. Dr. Banner found his way to the smallest cabin near the front, where first class would usually be located on a commercial jet, leaving Steve and me sit across from one another. A stewardess with a low-cut blouse and six inch heels offered us drinks.

"Coffee. Black," Steve said. "Please." He looked at me and I shook my head at the red-lipped stewardess, as a no-thank-you.

"Make that two." Steve added, knowing I'd probably drink it if it was in front of me. She smiled sweetly and left us to our uncomfortable silence, silence that seemed to stretch far behind and in front of me like a desert.

"I'm worried about you, Siri," he said suddenly. It was loud and clear. Steve, always direct and honest, put my evasions and passivity to death.

My jaw clenched and my eyes traced the hem of my dress in my lap.

"Are you OK?" He sat forward and put a hand on my cheek. Despite myself, I felt my face get warm.

Instead of trying to find the words to tell him I was not OK, I closed my eyes, and I moved boldly through the space that was separating us. I pressed my lips to his, pulling what strength and peace I could from them, and he kissed me softly, with reserve I didn't particularly want.

What I wanted was a real kiss, A kiss that would drown me, make me forget everything but him. I wanted physical love that I could latch onto and know was real. God, I needed something real. It was over before the pretty stewardess returned. We were on the edge of our seats knees touching, faces centimeters apart. Too far apart.

"Siri," he tried again, his breath an invitation.

"Look. I know you aren't talking." He paused for a long time and sat back into his chair. I moved like a magnet, shuffling into his lap, a place I'd come to love. The only place I felt safe.

"That's fine. I'll do the talking." He continued, pulling me close. "You've lost a lot. I get that. I did, too. I lost everything. I had to start completely over, new life, new world, new people. Everything and everyone I knew was gone. My friends, my…everyone. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, I know what you're going through. I know what it is to be lonely. And I'm here for you, to stay. I want to help. I have to. Please. Let me help." His voice ended in a whisper next to my ear.

"You are." I sat up away from his body, my eyes jumped to his, finally making contact. He was the only thing that was helping. "You…are…." Those were the first two words I'd said in a long time. I didn't know how to tell him what he was. If I didn't have him, I would be lost. I knew he came with baggage, a history, everybody did. His own pain pulled me momentarily out of my funk, as I thought about what he had lost. I wasn't the only one hurting.

He searched my face, and then sighed, resigning to just hold me, like he had been doing for the last two days.

We watched out the small round window as Aspen faded from sight, the ground below a jagged mess of snow and rock. The sun set soon after that, and when we flew over a lake, it was a shine of gold, reflecting the clouds in their most glorious colors. I fell asleep listening to his heart, steady and strong.