Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  Pulling my arm back, I pitched the apple as hard as I could, grunting with the effort. My hands were still sticky, but I felt some catharsis when I watched the apple soar into the distance.

  Going…

  Going…

  Gone.

  The core grew so small in the distance I could no longer see it, but by then it was already a far distance away, not yet overtaken by the buildings. I frowned to myself, a little taken aback. I didn't know I could throw that far. Even for an apple, there was quite some velocity to that throw.

  Huh. Maybe I was stronger than I thought.

  I shrugged to myself, stepping back and closing the window again, then the curtain. Having a good pitching arm was less weird than being able to take down two full-grown men. I had yet to experience anything that could top that.

  Maybe I could try out for the Women's Major League when I got home.

  The thought sent a strange burst of laughter out of my mouth. Me? Baseball? Any sport at all? It was hardly a thing I'd even dream of. If I actually made it on a team, Mom would probably cry tears of joy.

  The strange sensation of amusement was gone as soon as thoughts of Mom returned. I pressed my lips together, forcing myself not to start crying again. There was nothing worse than not having your parents just when you needed them the most.

  I sat back on the floor again, now designated as My Spot. I couldn't bring myself to go back to the twins, even if it would assuage my deep-seated loneliness.

  Instead, I just tilted my head back to rest against the cushion of the bench, all the while ignoring my reflection in the mirrors. I closed my eyes, hoping against hope that this might all turn out to be some horrible nightmare.

  Some of the history is true, some made up for Sokovia since it's not actually a real country. Also, as is typical with the MCU, the political figures of recent years don't match that with real world history. As Obama is replaced by Ellis, so was Yeltsin/Putin replaced by Krovopuskov. This is to avoid unfortunate implications. The fictional counterparts aren't meant to represent anyone in real life.I couldn't sleep.

  Sleeping on a floor was a new low for me. I grew up knowing that sometimes it was either food or medication. There were times in the past where I went to sleep, wondering if my mom had enough to eat, if she lied and gave me her food because she didn't want me to worry.

  I never kidded myself on the fact that I was poor. That my mom was poor. Our whole family, really. I remember it used to bother me, sometimes. Not having nice clothes every season. Always buying from thrift stores; not because it was trendy, but because it was all we could afford. Not being as clean as everyone else. Not being able to eat or just go for ice cream with friends, because I didn't have that kind of change. I never had an allowance. No vacations, ever. The best we could do sometimes was a weekend in a motel on Long Island; or somewhere exotic, like Jersey City.

  And most of the time, it didn't even bother me at all, because being as sick as I was just rearranged those priorities automatically. They made me forget I had anything else to worry about.

  When you needed a nebulizer to use every night, so you didn't have to worry about getting an asthma attack in your sleep, you kind of get a different perspective on life, to say the least. Even now, as I tried to close my eyes and think of soft, comforting things, my face felt naked without the mask strapped on. My chest constricted with worry that my asthma, mysteriously gone, might suddenly return.

  But before, I had a room, a bed (nebulizer or not), a place that I could at least call my own. People, family who knew who I was, where I was. In the end, I had a home.

  And now? I was homeless. I didn't think it could get worse.

  But of course it did. Before, I had wished the apartment had reliable heating.

  Now I just wanted a blanket or a pillow.

  Funny how my priorities changed, again, just like that.

  Hours passed, probably. I couldn't see it, due to the covered windows, but I could feel it. It was closer to morning now, had to be. And I still hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.

  I laid on that floor for some time more until I couldn't take it anymore. A person could only stare at their freakish reflection that they didn't recognize for only so long before they started losing their minds.

  I couldn't look at myself anymore.

  Eventually, I pulled myself off the cold hardwood floor. There was a crick in my neck and my back ached. My stomach growled in complaint, and I remembered with irritating clarity that I had only had some bread and an apple to eat in the past twenty-four hours or so.

  I hated feeling guilty over a stupid apple. I hated that I couldn't see eye-to-eye with the twins, who so far had been nothing but kind to me. They gave me food, shelter, and had asked for nothing in return. They smiled at me like we were old friends, even if the notion still felt disingenuous to me. Being upset over stealing also made me seem ungrateful, when that was the furthest from the truth. Were they upset with me? They hadn't seemed like it, at least not to the point of a grudge, but I couldn't be sure. There had to be a way I could fix this.

  All I wanted to know was more about them, about myself, and how they knew me; but if it involved the Crucible, how good could those memories be?

  Wiping my tired face against my sleeve, I shuffled out of the room and made my way back down to the theatre hall. The morning air left the entire place a little chilly, my breath puffing out in front of me. I rubbed my hands on the sides of my legs, wishing I had more than these white hospital slacks to wear. Even jeans would be better than this.

  Wanda and Pietro were already up when I finally made it down to the theatre hall. I could hear the soft echoes of their voices, talking quietly, and spotted them lounging in the old velvet-covered seats — Wanda laid back with one of her scars as a pillow, playing with her necklaces; Pietro in the row behind her, draped over three seats, his feet propped up on her headrest before she knocked them off with her hand.

  I stood by the stairwell, half-hidden behind the doorway, not entirely sure how to walk in and announce my entrance. I had hoped the two would be asleep because...I don't know, it'd be easier to sneak past them or something.

  That was a strange thought. I even did a double-take at myself. Is that what I wanted? Did I want to escape? Was I afraid of Wanda and Pietro?

  I blinked, frowned. I didn't fear the Maximoff twins, at least not in any physical way, not the way the Crucible's agents made me feel.

  But should I be? Just how dangerous were these two? If the Crucible did this to me, then what did it do to them?

  Suddenly, the voices stopped, and I jolted when I realized Wanda and Pietro had spotted me. When my eyes focused on them again, the twins had moved, straightening in their seats. My heart skipped a beat; I felt like I'd just walked out onto a stage full of people, not two ratty kids who looked like me.

  Wanda stood up, her fingers twisting together, her eyes nervous as she looked me up and down. She gave me a tight-lipped smile, like the kind a door-to-door salesman makes when meeting a hostile customer. '...Y-you are up! We, um, we were afraid to wake you, we did not want… never mind.' Wanda shook her head before she could finish the thought. 'Are you feeling better now?'

  'I…' I felt awkward holding her gaze, so I adjusted to studying the floor, the multitude of chair legs. 'I guess. I'm a little hungry.'

  That was a lie. I was famished.

  'We still have some food left over from last night,' Wanda said, pointing back to the stage, where they had left it. Only there was considerably less now, the floor covered in empty bags and wrappings. 'Sorry, Pietro ate most of it, but we can get more if you like. I know you have not eaten much.'

  'No, no, it's fine.' I muttered, finding my feet cemented to the spot. Wanda was starting to stare at me, and I had to physically pull myself away from the doorway, and it hurt because I just wanted to go back and hide again. I inhaled, filling my lungs and hoping it could suffice for the courage I didn't have. 'Actual
ly, uh, I just wanted to go outside for, uh, for a little bit.'

  'Good!' Pietro said, perking up at my words and holding out his hands. 'We will go with you!'

  'Um,' I bit my lip, my eyes flicking back to the ground again. Again, their niceness was disconcerting me; especially after yesterday, I wondered if this was them trying to make it up to me, although I wasn't sure if there was really anything to be made up. I sidled around them, started making my way down the aisle. I hunched up my shoulders. 'I'd rather go by myself.'

  'Oh,' Pietro slumped in his seat, and even Wanda wilted a little.

  'Be careful.' Wanda said after a moment. Her hands tightened around her necklaces just at the name. I thought I saw a flash of red, like sparks, but figured it was the light reflecting off her jewelry. 'Those men, agents, they still look for us.'

  'I know,' I said, stopping a second to look Wanda and Pietro in the eye. The concern in their faces seemed genuine, so I felt I should reassure them somehow. 'I won't be gone long. Just need to clear my head, I guess.'

  They nodded but I could still sense the tension of their nervousness. I quickly turned my back on them, heading for the door before I could lose my gumption.

  My shoulders were still all hunched up when I left the theatre and stepped out onto the cold streets. A soft breeze tossed leaves around my ankles, and I squinted up at the sky. It was as gray as yesterday, like some ever-present white ceiling above the city. The possibility of a storm seemed to loom all around, yet there was no sign of snowfall yet. There was the slightly stale scent of smoke in the air, something burning in the distance.

  Not really sure what I was doing or where I was going, I picked a direction and began to walk. I still only wore that green jacket the nurse gave me, although I was now considering adding some layers because this definitely wasn't enough anymore. The fact I didn't get frostbite from being out in the wintry woods for an impossibly long time was a miracle.

  There were stories of people succumbing to hypothermia, yet somehow surviving because their bodies went into hibernation. Is that what happened to me? I had survived with a considerable lack of frostbite or missing toes.

  I'd never gotten hypothermia before; thinking about it only reminded me of all the times I'd been sick before. Pneumonia stuck out because I'd gotten it twice, once in each lung, when I was seven and later at nine; the exact event when I learned about my death date.

  I wondered if it still applied. I studied my feet as I walked. Left, then right, out and back, just chugging along like it was no problem. I thought of how I ran yesterday, of the face in the mirror, and wondered how any of that could still be me. Even after the twins told me what happened, I still had a hard time wrapping my head around it. Was I, like, healthier now? If I could survive hypothermia with absolutely no ill-effects, if I could run so fast without getting an asthma attack, and suddenly know how to knock a man flat on his ass — did that mean I was better? Would I ever get sick again?

  It was so much change, so quickly. I wondered if Mom would recognize me now. Or Peter. I barely could. Was anyone looking for me? I'd been gone for six months, surely someone would know I was gone. People had to be looking for me. The FBI had to be on this, that was their job, looking for kids. Did they have any idea where I actually was? Would they know this new me is the same sick little girl who just went missing, or something, back in April? I know the FBI had, like, face-aging software, but could it do this to my face?

  I thought of my last remembered moments in New York. My moments dying. Blood from the mouth. The dizziness. The lights flashing.

  Suffocating.

  I shuddered, shaking the feeling from my head. What had that been? Tuberculosis? I always had problems with my lungs, and my weak immune system then would've made me a perfect recipient for any nasty airborne germs.

  And it all happened so fast...no wonder Mom had no idea it wasn't just a fever or cold; I'd never had tuberculosis before. It must've ruptured something inside me. My knowledge of anatomy had my guesses at the pulmonary vessel. Mess with something like that and of course there's going to be a lot of blood involved. The fact I was still alive at all was truly something.

  That led me to another thought. Had the people who kidnapped me...had the Crucible saved my life? Was I wrong for thinking I'd be dead if not for them?

  The idea sent chills down my back. Somehow, I got the feeling I wasn't saved out of the goodness of their hearts. No, there had to be something greater involved. The Crucible must have had a plan for me. Maybe they still did. Maybe that's why they were trying to get me back.

  I shuddered again. Hopefully, that wouldn't happen.

  Not really knowing where I was going, I continued walking for another ten minutes or so, stopping briefly to buy an apple from a vendor with what measly cash I still had left. It was really all I could afford. The idea of a budget with this little almost made me laugh, as I bit into the fruit and went on my way. I maybe had enough for laundry service, but not much else.

  I found myself in a busier part of Novi Grad. The roads were wider and traffic became constant, especially as the day wore on. I passed by dozens of people on the sidewalk; despite my ragged clothes and surely gaunt appearance, no one gave me a second glance. Of course, no one gave anyone a second glance, they were too busy keeping their eyes to the ground. It was rather chilling, but I tried to ignore it.

  Ahead of me, across the street, was a long building made of beige stone, a bronze statue out in front of a man wielding a hammer and a book. But that wasn't what caught my eye. It was the fact that the front right corner of the building was completely missing, like it had just been blown away; loose rubble littered the ground around it, and a street sweeper pushed his brush half-heartedly against large chunks the size of his head.

  I couldn't see inside the large hole due to the amount of scaffolding and temporary plywood walls, but I could make out black scorch marks against the edge of the damaged area. Like something had blown up.

  That's when my eyes finally picked up on the building's signage. Библиотека.

  Biblioteka. Library.

  I blinked. An epiphany, blooming in my mind, like the sun emerging from behind dark clouds.

  Dropping my arms, I headed inside.

  The library was as dismal on the inside as it was on the outside. Dim lighting and dusty air greeted me as I entered, along with the smells of construction — the starchy plaster and drywall, the vaguely metallic scent of exposed piping and wires. To the right, where part of the wall was missing, was a green tarp, which didn't do much to keep the cold out, but at least it was dry.

  It also hid most of the construction work — quiet as any library should be, I wondered when the workers came in. At night? I didn't see any lamps or floodlights that would be a part of that — nor did I see any tools or supplies. It seemed as though the workers had just forgotten to finish their job.

  This place might have once been grand, like the theatre hall. The ceilings were high, with marble columns, now cracked and pocked with man-made damage. My footsteps echoed off the floors,

  In front of me was the check-out desk, manned by a single female librarian who looked so old she'd probably seen the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. I approached the desk with some hesitance, glancing around. There didn't seem to be anyone else but us here, and the computer the librarian was typing on looked near ready to fall apart. Nothing in here seemed new or up to date.

  'H-hello?' I said, my voice rising precariously. The old woman, dressed in a thick black coat with a scarf around her head, didn't look up at me, continuing to work on her computer. I bit my lip, wondering if she even heard me, then clearing my throat, speaking louder this time. 'Um, hello? Excuse me?'

  'Huh, what?' The librarian snapped, her head jerking back to look up at me. She squinted, pushed her glasses further up her nose. 'Who are you? What do you want? Speak up, girl!'

  'I-I…' Caught off-guard by her sharp demands, I stuttered over
my words. 'I was wondering if you have any comp —'

  'You better not be here to vandalize!' The librarian interrupted.

  'I — what?' I did a double-take.

  'Vandalizing the library! You kids with your paint cans and dirty clothes!' The woman snapped, gesturing with a flippant hand. 'Ruining Sokovian monuments! I see your type around here all the time, thinking you can take advantage of a little old woman like me. Well, lemme tell you something, I was there when the first bombs dropped, and I didn't hesitate to pick up a gun when those jackboots started marching in. They wouldn't take this city without a fight, no siree —'