"You guys—those people—what on earth…?"
The girl's mother couldn't make sense of why anyone would steal a kid's toy car. As a police chief herself, her instincts screamed something's wrong.
But in the end, it was just a toy car. Chasing after it alone, with her husband and three kids right here, didn't seem smart or worth the trouble. And honestly? With how weird those attackers were acting, they could've been escaped psych patients for all she knew.
The man and woman sprinted off in two different directions. The strongest fighter in the group—the mom—didn't chase. Bella, whose survival instincts were built from understanding this was the Marvel universe, also didn't chase.
This whole mess had nothing to do with her.
The young girl, though, was sharp. She had already positioned herself near the outer side of the hall. As the female thief ran past, the girl stuck out her leg and cleanly tripped her.
The mom sighed but couldn't just ignore it now that the woman was down. She rushed over, pinned the thief with a crisp military takedown, and retrieved the toy car.
A glorious victory… over a toy.
Bella was convinced the toy must hide something, but she had no intention of sticking around. She was just a passerby—why waste her time?
Right then, the airport broadcast announced her flight. She quickly said goodbye to the family.
"Yeah—my advice? Call the police right away. Their target was… off."
She pulled out a sticky note and scribbled quickly:
"Nice meeting you. I'm Isabella Swan. Here's my number—contact me anytime if the police need a witness."
And for reasons unknown—probably face value—she handed the note specifically to the young girl.
The girl gave her name too.
"Natasha Romanoff."
Who?!
Bella's expression twitched. She forced herself to stay calm, studied the girl up and down, then asked—very carefully—
"What year were you born?"
If a man asked that, he'd get slapped. But girl-to-girl? Fine.
The teenage Natasha didn't think twice. "1984. You? Miss Swan?"
"Uh… 1983. You can call me Bella."
"Natasha." The girl's reply was clipped, confident—almost cool.
Their conversation ended quickly, mostly because Bella fled.
If Natasha Romanoff existed… was Hawkeye going to appear next? Tony Stark? Whether she was tiny Natasha or full-grown Black Widow, whether she was born in 1984 or 1884—it had nothing to do with Bella.
Bella was a civilian. Civilians should run.
…
She bought a stylish pair of sunglasses for her discount dad, and the whole Natasha incident slipped from her mind.
She found her gate, stepped forward—and suddenly stopped dead.
A wave of images crashed into her mind: disease, rot, catastrophe, slaughter. Some vivid. Some flickering like broken slides—appearing and vanishing too fast to grasp.
Sweat drenched her palms. Her heart hammered like it was trying to break free. It felt like… information. A message. Something she was receiving but her human brain couldn't decode.
Her forehead grew damp. Her lips parted but no sound came out.
A crushing, invisible hand clenched around her soul. Terror squeezed her lungs tight.
"Passengers for Flight… 180… please prepare for… boarding…"
The announcement twisted into glitchy electronic noise. Static buzzed underneath, like something powerful was interfering with the sound itself.
"Why is she just standing there?"
"Is she having some kind of medical issue?"
The words dropped into her mind like a rock into a lake. The trance shattered. Bella sucked in a breath, her neck stiff as she turned to look.
A large group of students walked past with a middle-aged teacher leading them.
A few girls gave Bella a pitying look. Country girl. Probably never flown on a plane before.
"Miss, do you need help?" the teacher asked, seeing Bella stuck at the gate, neither entering nor leaving.
"Huh? Oh—no! No, I'm fine!" Bella practically jumped. She looked at the plane outside, at the steady rain, at the clock on the wall. She couldn't calm down.
She stepped aside. The memories were faint, like a half-forgotten movie she'd seen years ago. The details were gone.
But her gut screamed one thing:
She could not get on that plane.
If she boarded, she would die.
Watching forty excited students line up to board made her stomach twist. After several rounds of hesitation, she finally spoke up.
"Wait—ma'am? The rain outside is getting worse, and the flight was already delayed an hour. Maybe… maybe…"
And then her words ran out. How did one even explain this?
"Freak."
"Look at her outfit. Total hick energy."
"She might actually have a point. The rain really is bad today."
The students were her age, but they treated her like entertainment. The boys supported her concerns; the girls mocked her. As soon as the boys noticed the girls' reactions, half of them switched sides immediately.
"I mean it—I'm not joking. Ma'am, I have a really bad feeling. This plane—"
She didn't even finish before the teacher cut her off with a tone reserved for gently correcting idiots.
"Miss, you should see a doctor. You're young—early detection matters. Come on, everyone, let's go."
She herded the students forward, ignoring Bella completely. The forty-some young men and women were already chatting about their trip.
Bella exhaled shakily. Doubt gnawed at her.
What if I'm wrong? What if meddling makes things worse? Can I handle the trouble? Either social trouble… or supernatural trouble?
And honestly—
Was it really her business if Americans got themselves killed?
But then she looked around: elderly travelers with white hair, a mother holding a newborn, families, couples—ordinary people.
Her small bit of conscience rose up.
She believed the chance of disaster was over ninety percent.
She couldn't just let them walk into death.
Bella braced herself and began trying—again—to stop the passengers from boarding that plane.