The silence in the cabin was thick enough to choke on.
Several hours passed before the man with the deep crimson skin—Jason—groaned back into consciousness. His head felt like it had been used as an anvil for a disgruntled blacksmith. His first instinct was to bolt, his mind flashing back to the Kree border patrol he'd just outrun after pinching a handful of Quani batteries. He tried to lurch upright, his muscles tensing for a desperate dash to the airlock.
He didn't move an inch.
Instead, the movement caused hundreds of razor-thin metallic threads to bite into his flesh. He was lashed to the interior hull like a specimen in a collector's jar.
'What in the Nine Realms is this? Did those blue-skinned bastards find me already?' Jason's thoughts raced, frantic and jagged. 'Impossible. I pulled three irregular jumps through blind wormholes. Nobody tracks a Ghost Ship through that much static.'
He struggled again, a surge of adrenaline pushing him to test the restraints. Jason was an Aiyuan, a race known for their deceptive strength and thermal-reactive skin, but the more he thrashed, the deeper the wires sank. The metal seemed to respond to his heat, tightening with a life of its own.
'Wait... this isn't a Kree cell. This is my ship.'
He managed to crane his neck, looking past the cluttered mounds of salvage. The cockpit was a cave of shadows, illuminated only by the rhythmic, emerald blinking of the life-support monitors. And there, sitting in the pilot's throne, was a figure.
'Space pirates? No, pirates would have stripped the hull and tossed me out the airlock by now. Who waits for a scavenger to wake up? What do they want with a bottom-feeder like me? Is it the batteries?'
Fear, cold and sharp, began to replace the initial confusion. He had heard stories about the darker corners of the Void—entities that didn't want your cargo, but your soul, or worse, your biomass.
"Listen, whoever you are," Jason whispered, his voice muffled by the metallic mesh over his mouth. "If it's about the Quani batteries, take 'em. Heck, I'll show you where the secret stash is. Just... don't make it messy, okay? I should've just taken the rap on Xandar. At least Nova Corps feeds you three times a day."
Silence was his only answer.
Jason held his breath, straining to hear anything over the low-frequency thrum of the engine. Aiyuan weren't just red-skinned scavengers; they were sensitive to the "emotional wake" of living beings within a short radius. It was a survival trait developed to spot predators on their volatile home world.
He closed his eyes, extending his psychic senses toward the cockpit.
'Confusion... longing... a jagged, icy anger... and then... peace?' Jason's brow furrowed. 'Wait, there's more. Slaughter. A deep, bottomless urge for destruction, wrapped in a blanket of exhaustion. What is this guy? A walking supernova of mental instability? If I wake a lunatic like that, he might just dismantle me for parts.'
Desperation took over. Jason wiggled his fingers, feeling the cold hard surface of a ring on his pinky. With a subtle flick of his tendon, a micro-circular saw—a tool designed for delicate circuitry theft—extended and began to whine with a high-pitched whir.
He started to saw at the primary anchor wire near his wrist.
Screeeeee!
The sound of metal on metal was deafening in the vacuum-quiet cabin. In the pilot's seat, the small figure shifted. A soft, sharp intake of breath hissed from the cockpit.
'Abort! Abort!'
Jason retracted the saw so fast he accidentally sliced a shallow gouge into his own thigh. "Gah—!" He swallowed the scream, his face turning a shade of red that bordered on purple. Tears pricked his eyes from the sting, but he froze, watching the figure in the chair.
Leo sighed in his sleep, his head lalling to the side, but he didn't wake.
Jason let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked at the tiny blade on his ring, then at the mountain of wires. He began again, much slower this time. Nibble. Stop. Listen. Nibble. Stop. It was going to be a long night.
Meanwhile, on a planet that felt increasingly like a distant dream to Leo, the festive lights of Queens were beginning to twinkle.
But inside the Miller household, the holiday spirit was nowhere to be found. Aunt Jenny sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her eyes fixed on the television. A choir was singing "Joy to the World," their faces bright with artificial cheer, but the sound only seemed to make the house feel colder.
She looked at the corner of the room where the Christmas tree usually stood. This year, the space was empty. The boxes of ornaments remained in the attic, gathering dust.
The front door creaked open, admitting a gust of winter air and George. He looked exhausted, his work jacket stained with drywall dust and grease. He dropped his tool bag with a heavy thud and made a conscious effort to adjust his expression.
"Jenny! You won't believe the day I had," George called out, walking into the living room with a performative brightness. "Worked on a place over in Brooklyn. The drain was clogged with—get this—a literal collection of vintage spoons. People are losing their minds, I swear."
He walked over to her, his smile faltering the moment he saw the look in her eyes. She wasn't just tired; she looked hollowed out.
"Hey," George said softly, sitting beside her and pulling her into the crook of his arm. "Did you manage to get out today? I thought maybe some tinsel or a wreath might... you know."
"George, why isn't he calling?" Jenny's voice was small, cracked like old parchment. "It's Christmas. Leo has never missed a Christmas. Even when he was little and obsessed with those metal scraps, he was always here for the dinner. He's been gone so long, and I just have this... this feeling in my chest."
She turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Call the S.H.I.E.L.D. office again. Tell that Agent Coulson that I don't care about national security or top-secret missions. I just want to hear my boy's voice. Just for a minute."
George felt a lump form in his throat. He had already called. He had called five times that week. Each time, he was met with the same polite, scripted wall of silence.
"Jenny, honey... you know how it is. It's the 'Big League' stuff now," George lied, his heart aching with every word. "Stark's got him working on something that's probably going to save the world. Even Tony isn't taking calls right now. It's just a few more days, I promise."
Jenny didn't answer; she just buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed quietly.
"Look," George said, his voice turning firm. "We aren't doing this. We aren't sitting here in a dark house waiting for a phone that isn't ringing. You've always wanted to see the old country, right? China. Let's go. The day after tomorrow. We'll pack our bags, see the temples, eat real food, and by the time we get back, Leo will be standing on the porch complaining about how we didn't leave him any leftovers."
Jenny looked up, a glimmer of hope fighting through the sadness. "You'd really go? Right now?"
"In a heartbeat," George said, though he knew his bank account was screaming.
In the sub-basement of the Malibu mansion, the hum of the servers provided a steady backbeat to Tony's obsession.
"Sir, a notification from the travel bureau," Jarvis's voice cut through the air. "George and Jenny Miller have booked two tickets for Beijing, departing in forty-eight hours."
Tony, who was currently suspended in a harness while DUM-E attempted to bolt a new sensor array to the Mark 42's spine, paused. He looked at a framed photo on his desk—it was a candid shot of Leo and the Millers at a barbecue a year ago.
The manic energy that had been fueling Tony for days seemed to drain out of him for a brief moment. He knew why they were leaving. They couldn't stand the silence in that house anymore.
"Good," Tony muttered, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "China's a long way from New York. It's safe. The Mandarin hasn't started poking the dragon over there yet."
He rubbed his eyes, the metal implants in his arms itching under the skin. "Jarvis, let's make sure they travel in style. Wire a million to both of their personal accounts. Tag it as a 'Consultation Retention Bonus' for Leo's ongoing work. Make it look official so George doesn't try to send it back."
"Understood, sir. Shall I include a personal message?"
"No," Tony said, his gaze drifting back to the holographic Earth spinning in the center of the room. A single, blinking red dot remained over the Atlantic—the last known location of the incident. "George is a sharp guy. He knows I'm keeping them away from the blast zone. Just let them have a holiday where they don't have to look at the sky and wonder."
Tony turned back to the suit, his eyes hardening. He had to perfect the remote-link. He had to be everywhere at once. Because if the world was going to keep taking people away, he was going to make sure he was the one standing in the way next time.
(Word Count: 1,358)