Chapter Seven
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It was a warm night, warmer under the giant floodlights that illuminated the football field. The stands were packed, from families in their purple-and-gold gear to the folks in maroon-and-white face paint, waving foam fingers and shouting into plastic megaphones.

I felt like I was on the planet Mars observing an alien culture. I'd never been to a sports game before, except for that one time Steve took me to a ballgame. But that was major league baseball — there was something decidedly more feral about high school football. All those moms and dads who were way too invested in their kids' sports career, and ready to fight tooth and nail with anyone who cheered for the wrong number. They had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

It was actually kind of great.

Just something about the atmosphere I could jive with, blend in and not feel like everyone was watching me. Just one of the crowd, a small part of the large, faceless masses. And also lots and lots of cheap food. Sports were never really my vibe but I could understand the appeal, in an existential kind of way, and also, it's just nice to be invited to things.

Friday night lights, as they were, brought out the crazy in people. I had to wear earplugs just because the noise was so intense around me, I couldn't make heads or tails of the game announcers narrating over the loudspeakers. I could empathize with the plight of all the babies and infants also here, with giant soundproof headphones around their ears for protection.

The cheers heightened as the two teams streamed out onto the field. The Ravens and the Wildcats, and somewhere on the sidelines was Peter, taking photos. I wondered which flash of the camera was his.

I waved when I saw Matt, walking along the edge of the field on my side. I was just low enough in the stands that he must have seen me, because he looked up and waved back, a big grin on his face — before the coach called his name, and he quickly stuffed his helmet on and ran onto the field. He was met with a chant of "Wolfman! Wolfman! Wolfman!" From both the audience and his teammates, with some howling thrown in for good measure. At a distance, he looked completely indistinct from the other football players, except for the giant numbers on their back (#22 for Matt).

Also on the sidelines was a troop of cheerleaders dancing; among them, her dark hair in a bow-bedecked ponytail, was Matt's sister Tilly. Just a freshman, it lent to her enthusiasm in waving those pompoms and putting extra pep into their chants. Still a skinny little thing, she was small enough to be a flyer at the top of their towers.

It was a warm enough night that I was comfortable in a tank top and shorts; otherwise, I wouldn't be flaunting my tattoo (and muscles) around so many families. A messy bun to keep it from getting too humid on the back of my neck. A very normal, classy look if I did say so myself, pretending that I wasn't also covered in scars.

Normally high school football didn't last this late into spring, but what with the age of Ultron cutting into what normally would've been summer practice time and in general fucking up administrative and financial capabilities of most schools, some of which started later than others come autumn, meant it was well into November by the time various school systems could coordinate game schedules and sufficient practice times for their teams. Instead of annoyance at the delay, most people were just happy football got to happen at all.

Still, I found it difficult to focus on the game as it commenced. My focus remained on my phone. Even after a week of getting it back, I couldn't find anything new I hadn't already discovered when it was initially returned. Couldn't figure out why I had a weather page for Italy. Had I been planning to go there? Was someone taking me there? Had they abandoned me when they realized they couldn't do it?

Had I gone to Italy and back in just three days? Was that even possible?

So, I'd been spending a lot of my free time googling flight times to Italy, which must be fun for the FBI agents undoubtedly monitoring my behavior. And yes, my research showed it was possible. I would've been there for less than a day, at least if I took a commercial flight.

And then that was its own set of factors. Commercial flight would be so risky with TSA and cameras and public airports. Private jet? So much better. Smaller and faster. I had no proof of this, of course, just conjecture, so the only people I could discuss this with were my friends. Peter, for example, knew I was not in possession of a private jet, so he didn't have to worry that this was me planning some wild runaway scheme.

In fact, just coming here to this game, he and I had been in deep discussion if there was a private jet involved, if I had been the pilot. I didn't think I had been taught to fly a jet, but Peter pointed out I wouldn't know until I tried.

We'd put a pin in that.

Life moved on. There was a game to attend, and summer to look forward to. Since everyone's summer vacation was basically stolen from them last year, I couldn't think of a single person not currently looking forward to the coming months. I knew I did. Mostly for sleeping in, hanging out with friends, and not worrying about a giant robot trying to take over the world.

It was weird how easily my life went back to normal after the strange missing three days, but in the end, I decided it was probably for the best. If I never got answers, then I just wanted to move on, get back to what I was doing before. Two weeks was long enough for people to stop whispering about it in school, for some new hot goss to overtake the rumor mill. I had finals to worry about, and taking driver's ed. Mixed lessons between Aunt May and Dad finally put me in a position where I felt semi-okay being behind the wheel of a large two-ton vehicle capable of manslaughter.

(Aunt May didn't like it when I thought of cars that way).

"Hey, Mia!" Matthew "Wolfman" Appel called out, and I understood how he got his moniker; not just with a thick head of dark hair, but also a pair of very hairy arms, that evoked a certain lupine nature. He was slightly out of breath but grinning as he came to lean against the railing in front of me. "I'm glad you're here. I, er, I wasn't sure you'd come!"

"Yeah, I had a night to kill, and Peter needs the moral support," I said, only a little bit joking. Peter could deal with a hostage situation without breaking a sweat but put him in a room full of strangers where he has to socialize and he chokes. "You guys seem to be doing great, though."

"Yeah, Coach thinks we might have a shot at the championship," Matt hooked a thumb over his shoulder, like this was just a casual detail, but his chest swelled with pride. "I'm just trying not to embarrass my sister. She's got routines in case I fumble."

"Her cruelty knows no bounds."

"Oh, yeah, she knows how to keep me humble," Matt said, in that kind of good-natured joking tone reserved specifically when talking about siblings in polite company. He made a face and scratched the back of his neck as he continued, "So, uh, you usually come to games?"

"Ah, no, it's not really my scene." There was also the fact I missed the entirety of sophomore year's football season due to being indisposed by exploding terrorists. And the two years before that. And before that, just being too sick to go to any game whatsoever. Seeing Matt's face fall slightly, I added, "But considering I've never been to one before, I mean, it seems neat so far."

"Wait, this is the first football match you've ever been to?" Matt seemed stunned, then grinned. "I'll make sure it's a good one, then!"

I started, surprised. That seemed like a lot of pressure I didn't intend to give. "Oh, well, you know, no stress or anything—"

"Hey, it's fine! Every player needs his motivation," he said with a casual flick of his hand, like pulling off a win for his team was no big deal. "Hey, I know we don't have tutoring sessions anymore, but now that they're over I've got free time on the weekends. If you, you know, want to keep hanging out. Like, normal people. Friends. No learning."

"Er, I guess." We had met once a week over those six months, after services at temple, when it was most convenient. A total of roughly twenty-four interactions that revealed Matt to be a fairly patient and encouraging tutor. But having been on the teaching end of it myself before, I didn't really use this experience to socialize; I had a focus, a goal, and maybe it was more utilitarian to me than it was for Matt. Making a friend hadn't really occurred to me. Until now. And cue feelings of guilt at not realizing how he may have interpreted it. Not that it wasn't mutual or anything. I just didn't want to cross boundaries. Especially considering how it ended with the last tutoring experience I had.

"Well, you know, if you want," Matt smiled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "No big deal."

I wasn't sure what to say, and being terrified of an awkward pause that could kill the conversation, I had to just spit out whatever came to mind first, "Yeah, sure… Matt."

He blinked in surprise, then beamed at me with such enthusiasm that there was no way I could match it. I didn't even do that much. "Tilly's gonna be so happy to know you're here. She's got some new Rebel merch she wants to show off."

"Oh, fun," That time, my smile was definitely a little forced.

It was just my luck that Tilly happened to be a huge Rebel Columbia fan. Given her ardent love of the superhero, I was constantly sweating bullets around her wondering if she was going to figure me out. Despite the presence of Steve in my family circle, she had yet to put it together — mostly because Steve's reason for being in my life was being my dad's friend. A completely normal reason that doesn't beg a lot of questions, mostly because Dad refuses to answer them.

And whenever Steve had been in Tilly's vicinity (like at my bat mitzvah) she interrogated him with questions about his "protege" — all Steve had to do was lie and pretend Rebel Columbia was just some completely different person, definitely not me, and so far, Tilly had bought it. Because, of course, why would Captain Steve Rogers lie?

That, and the fact that I've successfully managed to keep my face out of newspapers. And also by just not being very active, or doing things that cameras aren't going to catch me doing. I had one close call during the battle of Novi Grad, where the photo of me hugging Steve had made it into TIMES magazine again (this time, not on the front cover — that had been reserved for a terrifying shot of the Sokovian capitol city flying a mile above earth — but reserved for a splash photo in the article itself). I'd seen a cut-out of it in Tilly's binder, and it was also her lock screen on her phone.

Peter had said I now knew his grief regarding Flash, who had self-proclaimed to be Spider-Man's #1 Fan. He didn't like it when I pointed out Tilly didn't hate my guts.

"My dad also wanted to know if you and Peter would want to hang out with the family after the game. We always have a big meal, fast food, smoothies, the whole enchilada. You in?"

"What if you guys win?"

"Especially if we win," Matt said, shaking his head. "Wants to keep me and Tilly out of the crazy afterparties. And for, like, bonding and stuff."

"You want me to say yes so Tilly doesn't talk your ear off." I smirked knowingly. Because if it's not me Tilly is fangirling to, it's going to be her big brother.

"Yep," Matt said a little too quickly, flushing. "That's definitely it."

"Yo, Applejacks!" someone called from below, one of his teammates. His voice echoed across the stands for everyone to hear. "Quit flirting and get your ass over here! We still got a game to play!"

Matt glanced over his shoulder and his cheeks had gone red when he looked back at me again, laughing nervously. "I'm gonna to kill him."

I almost offered to help, but I didn't think he knew me well enough to get my sense of humor, so I just smiled back and said, "Don't let me keep you."

"You won't! I mean, you're not!" Matt quickly shook his head, and he seemed almost reluctant to stand up and go, glancing back again as if he could somehow guess how long he had left before he pissed off his team. "I'll, uh, I'll catch you later!"

And with that, he was jogging back down the audience stands to the field below.

"Break a leg!" I called after him, then winced (was that appropriate football lingo?). "Or not."

Privately hoping Matt had been too far away to hear any of that, I didn't notice when Peter appeared, jumping down from behind into the seat next to mine. Camera in one hand and hotdog in the other, he spoke with his mouth full: "Well, that was hard to watch."

"Shut up." I scowled, folding my arms and sinking lower into my chair. "I'd like to see you do better."

"Yes, between the two of us, I can definitely read social cues better," Peter said after taking a big swallow of food. Then he elbowed me good-naturedly, a smile with no malice. "It's not your fault. Everyone's not on the same level as you."

"You mean the kind of level where I interpret a congratulatory shoulder clap as a threat and try to punch them?" I asked, recalling one incident where Flash almost got a broken nose if it hadn't been for Peter's fast thinking being faster than my fist. Thankfully Flash didn't hold it against me; instead, acted like the Queen of England being manhandled by a commoner, all because Peter saved his face.

Peter snorted, clearly remembering the same event. "Yeah, that kind of level. But Matt will figure it out. Eventually."

"Yeah, eventually." But I just felt bad. Hunching up my shoulders, I said, "I didn't realize he just wanted to be my friend."

Peter blinked at me. Then his face fell slowly into his palm.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's never nothing with you. What is it? What do you know?"

"Nothing!" Peter insisted, but the way he threw up his hands and did his whole laughing-when-nervous thing made me suspect otherwise. "Nothing you have to worry about. I swear."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Alright, you wanna hint?" Peter said, and I leaned in close. Very seriously, in a conspiratorial whisper, he said, "You ever notice how Matt stares at your biceps?"

"What?" I made a face, wrinkling my nose. That didn't make any sense. "How would you know he's staring at my biceps? Are you staring at him?"

"What?" Peter blinked, taken aback. "No, you're completely missing the point—"

"Then just tell me what it is!" I said, hating these games. But Peter just shook his head and shrugged, and I knew I wouldn't win. With a sigh, I pulled back and stood up, stretching my arms. "Ugh, fine, keep your secrets. I'm gonna get a hotdog."

"Get me one, too!" Peter called after me as I began ascending the steps. The smell of frying meat was intoxicating and the food shack was just down the way; it had taken a tremendous amount of inner strength for me to resist eating so far, and now I finally had my excuse. Whether or not I'd acquiesce to Peter's request would depend on my mood when I got there.

It felt like there was some inner joke about me that I wasn't privy to, and it rankled. I'd get it out of Peter eventually. Maybe hold that extra hot dog hostage until he did.

Climbing up those stairs, it happened just like it would in a dream. Where you lifted your foot and it fell through the step. My body fell forward and I gasped as the ground seemed to drop out from beneath me, only for my heel to hit concrete. The sudden jolt of vertigo came with it a sudden darkness.

A blink, and I was stumbling in an alleyway.

All the breath in my lungs vanished, like a gut punch. No. Not again.

Please, not again.

But I wasn't in the stands. I wasn't anywhere near a football field. The alleyway I was in was dark and cold and quiet, and I couldn't even hear the echoing of a cheering crowd or music from a game.

My throat was parched, and I tried to call out but my voice was too weak. The buildings on either side of me rose up like forbidding black walls, their windows dark. It was well into the night. Just like last time.

Where was I? My arms stung as I reached out and leaned against the brick wall, oddly comforting as I stumbled out into the street. Wearing the same shirt and shorts I had been a second before, good. The soles of my feet cut into cold, rough tarmac, pebbles poking my heels. Missing shoes, not good. Looking up, street signs in English, good again. Phone in my pocket, dead. It couldn't be. I just charged it before I went to the game.

No, please, I begged, to no one in particular. Once more, trying to remember what I had been doing just a second ago. Just wanting to get some food, that's all. I was in a crowded place, how could I have just… disappeared again? Peter had been right there. Surely, he would've noticed. Surely…

I tried desperately to find any answers. Maybe I hadn't been alone. But all I could smell was moldering trash, body waste, and car exhaust, long faded. Any scent of a person was way too old to have been with me here, recently. No, I had been alone. I had been for a while. Just a weird, mildly antiseptic smell on my hands. My eyes caught nothing in the darkness, no shoe prints or odd figures disappearing around the corner. Yet my skin prickled, my throat closing up. There were no cameras here, but it felt as though I were being watched.

At least it wasn't raining. I was still dry, although that didn't explain how I'd lost my shoes. A quick scan of the area revealed nothing. Wherever I had taken them off, it wasn't here. If I'd taken them off.

How deeply the darkness pressed down on me. Not even the nearby lights provided any comfort, an eerie yellow-green that was cold and wary rather than welcoming. A humidity that added to the invisible suffocating feeling in the air, and the deep desire to scrub some clinging substance from my skin.

My head swam with every move of my body, feeling off balance and slow to react. Was this what a hangover felt like? It was the only thing I could think of to describe the feeling. But my stomach was empty, and I knew what alcohol would taste like had it been on my tongue. Which it wasn't. As if I could get drunk anyways.

This dizziness, the daze, made it difficult to focus. Only at the last second did I notice the pair of headlights rushing towards me.

Twin beams of bright white light blinded me instantly.

The horn shocked me to my senses.

I gasped, throwing myself backwards, arms rising up to protect my face. The truck rushed past, veering wildly to avoid me, before screeching to a stop some twenty feet away. The street was entirely empty except for the blinking of the traffic lights above, flashing red into the late night.

Shivering and shocked, I barely had time to catch my breath when the passenger door slammed open. Oh, god, were they pissed at me? What time was it? Where was I—?

"Mia!"

I jolted at the familiar voice. Out of the truck someone rushed towards me, too fast. I jumped back, my fists immediately raising to defend myself — but then the streetlights illuminated the face of Matthew "Wolfman" Appel, eyes wide in the darkness.

Hard to say which one of us looked more surprised to see the other.

"We've been looking all over for you!" He rushed towards me so fast I flinched. Matt skidded to a stop, raising his hands. There were smears of black paint across his cheeks from the game, now partially rubbed away. He was no longer dressed in his football uniform, but now in regular shorts and his letterman jacket. "Whoa, hey, are you okay?"

"W-what time is it?" That was the first question out of my mouth. Didn't even occur to me to answer him. I was awake, I was standing, I was okay. That was all I needed to know, even as I shook and shivered and hugged myself. "How long — when did I —?"

My voice rasped and I coughed, a little too hard apparently. Then Matt's dad, Noah (he didn't like being called Mr. Appel, too formal), was coming out of the truck, the door slamming again, his deep voice calling out, "Mia, are you alright? Matt, help me get her in the car —"

Noah was even bigger and hairier than his son, wearing plaid even in the summer, and had a gentle but commanding voice difficult to ignore. Soothing in its deepness, I had the sensation I was going to be okay. He had the presence of someone who wouldn't be out of place living in the middle of a deep forest. As I stumbled over to the white truck, something fell over my shoulders. Matt's jacket, still warm. He helped me into the backseat, where Tilly waited on the far end. She was still in her cheerleader outfit, dark curls still tied up in a ribbon, and pompoms tucked between her knees. Her face looked unusually pale under the small cabin light, ghostly blue eyes looking me up and down with her hands clasped together.

"Mia!" She said, her voice high-pitched, a little trembling from emotion. In her hair were little silver clips resembling my shield, and somehow seeing that red star made me queasy. "I can't believe we found you! We've been looking all night."

I winced getting in. My arms still stung, and it wasn't until I was under the light in the truck's cabin did I understand why. My skin had turned a strange pinkish shade, fern-like markings stretching across my forearms in random spots. Burst capillaries, I realized belatedly, with the clinical distance of a mind not altogether in the moment. From what? I couldn't recall what would cause this kind of injury. There were no bruises, no broken bones or bleeding, no signs that I'd actually been attacked. At a glance, it might look like an ordinary rash.

Feeling ever more nauseous, I pulled Matt's jacket tighter around me, tucking my arms out of sight. "You… you've been looking for me?"

I looked slowly around as I sat in the middle, Matt flanking my other side. Noah returned to the driver's seat, and before it could even occur to me how lucky I was to be found so soon, I was now jumping to the coincidence of it. "How did —?"

"Peter told us as soon as he realized you were missing," Noah said, his voice calm as he kicked the truck back into gear. He glanced at me over his shoulder for a brief moment. "You were missing for four hours, Mia."

Four hours.

Something in my face must have said something, because Noah asked, quietly, "You don't have to tell us what happened. But I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Why?" I asked, and Noah turned the rear-view mirror so I could see myself. See my pale face, my blue lips, how my hair hung in my face in a limp, awful way. The blood dripping from my nose, having already stained my shirt in morbid red splotches. And I didn't protest as the truck began to move, the cabin turning dark once more. It felt a little easier to hide that way.

Noah was making calls on his cell phone, but I had trouble focusing on his words. The truck was eerily quiet and I didn't like how the unspoken questions seemed to hang in the air. Even worse, I had no answers for them. Once more, I couldn't remember what had happened, or why, or even when. And on top of it all, I had the sense that they wouldn't believe me if I told them. So, I put that aside for now. Instead, I asked, "Is Peter okay?"

"Yes, he's fine," it was Matt who answered, his dad too busy talking to someone. The light from the dashboard reflected in his dark eyes. "He and May have been out here looking. And the police."

"We should be asking you that," Tilly added, leaning forward. She looked so small, so frail in the darkness. Like a ghost. "Are you okay?"

Honest answer? "No."

Tilly bit her lip, and I regretted that, scaring her. But I couldn't lie, either, could I? It was very obvious I wasn't doing so hot. "W-why did you leave?"

I didn't understand her question. Like I had a choice in the matter. "I… I didn't want to. I don't remember what happened."

Tilly blinked in surprise. "You mean, this is like last—"

"Shh!" Matt cut her off quickly, hissing, "I told you not to ask about that, Tilly."

"But I just want to know—"

"— and you think now is the best time? —"

"Kids," Noah's voice cut through the argument, not angry but just as powerful, silencing them both at once. He didn't look away from the road. "Let's not scare Mia, okay? She's had a rough night already."

I said nothing. I didn't know what to say, didn't know how to answer Tilly's question. I knew what she wanted to say, and yet I couldn't get over my surprise, my curiosity, wondering what exactly she heard about the last time this happened. What kind of gossip was going around. What people outside of school thought of me.

My nausea came back, and I just squeezed my eyes shut and focused on keeping it together for as long as I could.