"You! Them? What on earth was that about?"
The girl's mother frowned in confusion, unable to understand why anyone would try to snatch her son's toy car. Instinctively, she sensed something was off. There had been intent in their movements, coordination in their approach. That had not been random.
Still, it was just a toy car. With her husband and children beside her, chasing criminals alone would have been reckless and unnecessary.
Even if she caught them, what then? The people who grabbed the toy had not looked normal. What if they were unstable? What if they had escaped from some institution?
The two remaining attackers had fled in opposite directions. The strongest fighter present, the girl's mother, did not pursue them. Bella, whose mental resilience bordered on abnormal, did not chase them either. The whole incident had nothing to do with her.
Or at least, that was what she told herself.
The youngest girl in the family, however, reacted quickly. She had positioned herself toward the outer edge earlier. At that moment, she suddenly stuck out her leg.
The fleeing woman tripped hard and crashed to the ground.
The mother looked briefly exasperated, but since the woman was already down, she moved decisively. In one smooth, disciplined motion that hinted at formal training, she subdued the attacker and retrieved the toy car.
A clean victory.
Bella watched, certain that the toy car held some kind of secret. Yet she had no intention of getting involved. She was just a passerby. Why waste time entangling herself in something suspicious?
At that moment, the boarding announcement for her flight echoed through the terminal.
She immediately said goodbye to the family.
"I strongly recommend calling the police right away. Their motives were extremely suspicious."
She tore a page from her small notebook and quickly wrote a line.
"It was nice meeting you. I'm Isabella Swan. Here is my phone number. If the police need to verify anything, feel free to contact me."
For reasons she could not explain, she handed the note directly to the beautiful girl.
Perhaps, she thought dryly, it was because beautiful people tended to be more memorable.
The girl glanced at the note, then introduced herself.
"Natasha Romanoff."
What?
Bella's expression shifted instantly.
She forced herself to remain calm and studied the girl from head to toe before asking carefully, "What year were you born?"
If a man asked that question, it would be intrusive. At best he would be splashed with water. At worst he would be kicked. But from one girl to another, it felt harmless enough.
Natasha seemed mildly surprised but answered casually. "1984. And you, Miss Swan?"
"I was born in 1983. Please, call me Bella."
"Natalie," the girl replied after a beat, shortening her name with effortless cool.
The conversation ended almost as quickly as it began. In truth, Bella fled.
Was Clint Barton about to appear next? Would Tony Stark walk around the corner holding a prototype gadget? Whether Natasha was merely a pretty girl or a legendary operative, whether she was born in 1984 or 1884, none of it was Bella's concern.
As an ordinary civilian, distance was survival.
Inside a shop, Bella bought her thrifty father a pair of fashionable sunglasses. The encounter with Natasha was pushed to the back of her mind.
She located her gate.
Just as she stepped forward, something stopped her.
It was not a sound. Not a sight.
It was a feeling.
Images flooded her mind without warning. Disease. Rot. Disaster. Mass death. Some scenes were vivid and visceral. Others flickered like slides, appearing and vanishing too quickly to grasp.
Her palms turned slick with sweat. Her heart pounded violently. It felt as though she were receiving information beyond human bandwidth, signals her brain was not equipped to decode.
Sweat soaked her forehead. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
It was as if an invisible hand had seized her soul.
Fear crushed down on her chest, nearly suffocating her.
"Passengers for Flight 180, please prepare for boarding."
The announcement sounded normal to everyone else. To Bella, it broke apart into distorted electronic fragments, threaded with faint static, like interference from a powerful unseen source.
"Why is she standing there?"
"Is she sick?"
The ordinary human voices struck like stones thrown into water.
Bella snapped back to awareness, barely regaining control of her body. Stiffly, she turned her head.
A group of more than forty teenagers passed by, led by an older female teacher. Several girls cast Bella sympathetic, slightly amused looks.
Poor thing. Never flown before?
"Miss, do you need assistance?" the teacher asked gently, noticing Bella hovering awkwardly at the gate.
"What? Oh. No. I'm fine." Bella nearly jumped. She stared at the plane outside the window, at the steady rain falling across the tarmac, at the clock on the wall.
Her heart refused to settle.
She stepped aside.
Her memory was hazy. She had seen the movie years ago. The details were blurred. But her instincts screamed.
If she boarded that plane, she would die.
Watching the forty young passengers prepare excitedly for departure, she hesitated several times before finally speaking.
"The rain is getting heavier," Bella called out to the teacher. "The flight's already been delayed an hour. Maybe… maybe…"
Her voice trailed off. How was she supposed to explain this?
"She's crazy."
"Look at her outfit. She looks like she's never left her hometown."
"Maybe she has a point. The weather is pretty bad."
The students were roughly her age. Now they discussed her openly, as if she were entertainment.
Opinions split quickly. Some of the boys argued for caution. Several girls mocked her outright. After seeing the girls' reactions, most of the boys quietly switched sides.
"I'm serious," Bella insisted. "I have a very bad feeling about this plane."
The teacher interrupted her with a tone usually reserved for someone unwell.
"Miss, I suggest you see a doctor. You're young. Some conditions need early treatment. All right, everyone, follow me."
The teacher ushered the students forward. Bella's warning dissolved into chatter about vacations and excitement.
She exhaled slowly.
Doubt gnawed at her. Had she remembered wrong? Would getting involved drag trouble down on her fragile shoulders? She was not a superhero. She was not trained for crises, mundane or supernatural.
Was this even her responsibility?
Her thoughts shifted.
This was not about nationality. Not about where anyone came from.
It was about people.
An elderly man walked slowly toward the gate. A young mother bounced a baby in her arms. Laughter echoed from a cluster of friends.
Bella's remaining sense of conscience surged upward.
In her mind, the probability of that plane crashing exceeded ninety percent.
She could not stand there and watch them walk to their deaths.
Ignoring the whispers, she stepped forward again, desperately trying to persuade the passengers not to board.