Laura and I stood on the sidewalk, two teenagers with an envelope of cash and a dead woman's letter, watching Captain America choose mercy over protocol.
"New York?" she asked quietly.
"New York," I confirmed.
She tucked Sarah's letter into her jacket, close to her heart.
We walked into the bus station together.
The bus terminal was fluorescent-bright and smelled like diesel fuel and reheated pizza. I bought two tickets to New York while Laura kept watch—old habits. We had forty minutes before departure.
We sat on plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Laura turned to me, green eyes searching my face.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"Know what?"
"That we'd be freed."
I leaned back, watching the threads of causality weave through the terminal—travelers rushing to catch buses, families reuniting, someone stealing a wallet three rows over.
"Rogers' nature," I said. "Duty versus compassion. The letter from your mother tipped the balance. Add Murdock's argument about the system turning you into property..." I shrugged. "Probable outcome was release."
"And if you were wrong?"
"Then I'd have gotten us out anyway."
Laura's eyebrow arched slightly. "How?"
I held up my hand, letting a single invisible thread appear between my fingers for a moment before dismissing it.
"Handcuffs are just mechanisms. Locks are just pins and tumblers. Transport vehicles have emergency releases." I met her eyes. "They could've held us. But not for long."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You sound very confident for someone who's never escaped S.H.I.E.L.D. custody before."
"First time for everything."
This time she did smile. Small. Fleeting. But real.
The bus smelled like stale air conditioning and someone's overpowering perfume. We took seats near the back—tactical positioning, clear view of exits. Old habits.
Laura sat by the window. I took the aisle.
Two rows ahead, a mother sat with her son, maybe eight years old. The kid was talking excitedly, pointing at something on her phone. The mother laughed, zooming in on the image.
"See the talons?" she said. "Eagles use them to catch fish right out of the water."
The boy pressed his face closer to the screen. "That's so cool!"
Laura was watching them. Her expression carefully neutral, but the threads around her pulsed with something complicated. Longing, maybe. Grief.
I studied the interaction for a moment longer, then turned to Laura.
"You need a codename," I said.
She blinked, pulled from whatever thoughts were circling. "What?"
"Mutant thing. X-Men all have them. Logan is Wolverine. You're not X-23 anymore." I nodded toward the mother and son ahead of us. "What about Talon?"
Laura followed my gaze. The boy was still enthusing about eagle talons, making claw gestures with his small hands.
"Talon," she repeated quietly. Testing the word. Her fingers flexed unconsciously—two adamantium claws per hand, one per foot. Weapons she'd been born with. Or made with.
"It fits," I said.
She was silent for a long moment, still watching the mother and son. Then she nodded once.
"Talon," she agreed. Something shifted in her posture. Subtle, but there. Acceptance, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
She turned back to me. "What about you?"
I considered. "Spider-Man would've been good."
"Would've been?"
"Already taken. Saw footage during intelligence gathering. Operates in New York. Web-slinging, acrobatics, terrible jokes." I paused. "Also, my strings don't stick to things the same way."
Laura's lips twitched again. "So no codename?"
"Haven't decided yet."
"You could be String Man."
I looked at her. She looked back, expression completely deadpan.
"That's terrible," I said.
"I know." The almost-smile returned. "Just like Spider-Man's jokes."
I felt something unfamiliar in my chest. Warmth, maybe. Or amusement. Hard to tell.
The bus pulled onto the highway, city lights giving way to darkness punctuated by streetlamps. The hum of the engine settled into white noise.
Laura reached into her jacket and pulled out the folded letter. Her mother's letter.
Her hands were steady, but the threads around her trembled. Red and gold and deep, aching blue.
She unfolded it slowly. I turned my gaze toward the window, giving her privacy. Not watching. Just... present.
The first few lines, she was fine. I could hear her breathing, even and controlled.
Then it hitched.
I didn't look. Didn't speak. Just sat beside her as she read words written by a woman who'd created her as a weapon and died trying to give her freedom.
The quiet sound of tears came next. Not sobs—Laura didn't sob. Just silent crying, the kind you did when you'd been trained not to make noise even in grief.
I shifted slightly closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she'd know I was there.
Her shoulder pressed against mine. A small point of contact.
I let her lean.
The bus drove on through the night. Outside, America scrolled past in darkness and distant lights. Inside, a girl who'd been designated X-23 cried over her mother's last words while the boy designated Weapon 0 sat beside her, offering the only comfort he knew how to give.
Presence and proximity.
The promise that she wasn't alone.
Laura's breathing eventually steadied. She folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into her jacket. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she didn't wipe them. Just sat there, shoulder still pressed against mine.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I didn't ask what for.
I already knew.