"I swear, I don't know what those idiots are thinking! Morons! Wasting taxpayer money!" Natasha ranted—sounding exactly like an everyday American complaining about the White House, the FBI, or anything else in range.
Bella honestly thought the girl was unlucky. Just walking in an airport, gets caught in a toy-car robbery, then dragged straight into a national disaster. Did Black Widow have a built-in disaster magnet?
Maybe Bella should keep some distance in the future.
Thinking of the toy car, she couldn't help asking,
"So… what exactly was inside that toy?"
"A missile control circuit board. You know Stark Industries?"
"…I should."
Natasha hugged a pillow, sitting cross-legged on the bed. From Bella's angle, the curve of the girl's back was ridiculously graceful.
Natasha turned toward her, eyes bright—dangerously charming in a way that could probably kill both men and women.
"You know the new tracking missile their company's been working on?"
Why was this girl so excited about missiles?
Bella had already confirmed the age—Natasha was just a year younger. A baby Black Widow.
But among kids her age, she was unusually knowledgeable. Mechanical engineering, biomed, orbital velocity, quantum theory—talk to her about anything, and she could hold a conversation.
She craved new things. Craved danger. It was simply who she was.
"I don't know much about missiles. Explain it?"
"Gladly."
Natasha lit up like a junior military nerd and rattled off everything she knew.
Information was limited—this was the year 2000, and even with a better internet, no cutting-edge weapons data would be public. So she gave the broad strokes.
Bella didn't understand missiles.
But she understood people.
"I get why the FBI is acting the way they are. They're… impressive, in a stupid way."
The next morning confirmed her suspicions.
A Stark Industries division head verified the circuit board's authenticity. The FBI immediately released a preliminary report—half speculation, half narrative glue.
Someone had stolen a missile's control board and hid it inside a toy car. During baggage claim, the thieves grabbed the wrong bag—that explained Natasha's side of things. Clean, simple.
Bella's side? Much messier.
There were many theories behind the crash, but the FBI's initial conclusion was: missile attack.
Why?
Because a group had just stolen missile tech right there in the airport.
If they could steal a circuit board, they could steal a missile. Maybe their accomplices panicked, realized the operation was compromised, and blew up the plane to cover their tracks.
The report was full of words like "perhaps," "suspected," "likely," "possibly."
But it was official.
The four toy-car thieves were now major suspects in the Flight 180 disaster. One was still missing. Behind them was a buyer. Follow the chain far enough, something would turn up.
And that "something" was enough to close the case.
Stark Industries didn't object.
If the government wanted to use manpower and resources to catch whoever stole their tech, that was great. After a bit of hesitation, they signed off on the report.
As for flight compensation?
Not their problem—that was the airline's headache.
After two days of investigation and compromise, everyone was satisfied enough.
The case moved into phase two. Bella and the rest were allowed to go home.
Since many students on the flight were minors, the paperwork required parental signatures.
Bella's mother, meanwhile, was in California on vacation—phone off.
So they had to call her father, the police chief, to come sign.
What did her father look like again?
Bella froze.
She hadn't even met him yet. She'd only been in this world for five days.
She stalled a bit, waiting for other students to reunite with their parents before stepping out.
The only adult male left outside should be her dad. He was probably anxious, waiting to rush over and hug her. Easy enough to blend in.
Her plan was decent… except for one complication.
"Hahaha—Samantha, your town's pretty good. In Forks, I'm the only police chief we've got."
A mustached middle-aged man was chatting with Natasha's mother.
Natasha's mom was gorgeous with a killer figure, and she laughed brightly.
"Honestly, Peter's a bit useless. He's not much help. But bears outside the Forks area? Can you believe that?"
The mustached man puffed up proudly.
"Not just bears. One of my old buddies is Quileute—says you can see wolves in the winter."
"That's actually kind of fascinating."
"Right? Last time we headed into the forest…"
When Bella and Natasha stepped out, the two police chiefs were chatting like best friends—every sentence syncing up, sharing knowing smirks over gun-handling gestures.
If not for the grieving families nearby, they would've been laughing out loud.
"That your dad?" Natasha tilted her head.
Bella nearly answered I don't know, this is my first time seeing him.
She compared him mentally to the photo she remembered. The man in the picture had been younger, moodier. This one was more mature.
But close enough. And nobody else looked remotely similar.
So she shrugged.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Both girls sighed at the same time.
"Your dad's pretty handsome, actually. Why'd he and your mom split? Bad chemistry?" Natasha asked.
Bella thought, recalling the diary.
"She thought he didn't know how to have fun. My mom likes big-city lifestyle—parties, shopping, beaches. My dad likes fishing and hunting. Totally different worlds."
Natasha tapped her lip with a finger.
"No wonder. Your dad and my mom are… oddly similar."
They had talked about family before.
Natasha's mother's first marriage was a disaster—handsome husband, but alcoholic, violent, unemployed. They split soon after Natasha was born.
Her current stepfather was an average office worker.
He'd brought a son from his first marriage.
She'd brought Natasha.
Then they'd had a baby together—Natasha's little brat of a brother.
A patchwork family—very normal in America.
And now, for better or worse, she and Bella were tangled in the same mess.