Chapter Text
Bistro Concorde, Upper Manhattan – 9:14 PM
The silence wasn’t quiet.
It was sharp—like glass underfoot.
The wine had gone warm in their glasses. Ichna barely heard the scrape of John’s chair as he stood, eyes still locked on the TV over the bar. Diners murmured, glancing over shoulders, whispers spilling like spilled salt. One man discreetly raised his phone. Another woman paused her bite mid-chew, recognition blooming across her face.
Ichna couldn’t move.
John reached across the table, fingers brushing hers. “We’re leaving. Now.”
She blinked. Nodded.
They didn’t rush. Not yet. That would draw attention.
John tossed cash on the table—far too much—and guided her gently, hand at the small of her back, through the maze of tables. A waiter tried to say something. John shook his head.
Out through the service exit. Into the alley.
The city air hit her like a slap—thick with summer humidity and something else. Something heavier. Sirens, distant but growing. Not yet for them. But soon.
Ichna leaned on the brick wall, eyes unfocused.
“They named me,” she said softly.
John scanned the rooftops, the street beyond the alley. “They named all of us.”
“No. They singled me out.”
He looked at her, jaw set. “Because they’re scared.”
She didn’t answer.
Rooftop Two Blocks Away – 10:05 PM
They crouched beneath a water tower, the lights of Manhattan stretching endlessly beyond.
Ichna rolled her left wrist. The SHIELD-issue tracker embedded just under her skin buzzed faintly—alerting her that she was officially off the grid.
She’d always been off the grid.
But this made it real.
John held out a small magnetic pulse tool. She nodded. He pressed it against her wrist.
A pulse. A click. Nothing.
She exhaled as the tracker died.
“You don’t have to run,” John said.
“I’m not running,” Ichna replied. “I’m adapting.”
He smirked, just barely. “That’s what I like about you.”
She pulled her hair back into a low tie, her hands shaking as she secured it. “Where’s the fallback point?”
“Echo Safehouse. Brooklyn.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to use it unless—”
“We just got declared war criminals,” John said. “I’d say the rules are off.”
A rooftop Two Blocks Away – 10:05 PM
They crouched beneath a water tower, the lights of Manhattan stretching endlessly beyond.
Ichna rolled her left wrist. The SHIELD-issue tracker embedded just under her skin buzzed faintly—alerting her that she was officially off the grid.
She’d always been off the grid.
But this made it real.
John held out a small magnetic pulse tool. She nodded. He pressed it against her wrist.
A pulse. A click. Nothing.
She exhaled as the tracker died.
“You don’t have to run,” John said.
“I’m not running,” Ichna replied. “I’m adapting.”
He smirked, just barely. “That’s what I like about you.”
She pulled her hair back into a low tie, her hands shaking as she secured it. “Where’s the fallback point?”
“Echo Safehouse. Brooklyn.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to use it unless—”
“We just got declared war criminals,” John said. “I’d say the rules are off.”
Echo Safehouse, Brooklyn – 11:23 PM
The apartment was dim, dusty, and buried beneath a laundromat that hadn’t been open since the Snap. It smelled like rust, gun oil, and old paper. It was perfect.
Yelena was already there, packing weapons into a duffel bag with methodical rage.
“About damn time,” she muttered. “Did you two enjoy your little candlelight dinner while the rest of us got torched on live TV?”
“Nice to see you too,” John said.
Bucky was seated near the window, sharpening a knife out of habit. Ava stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Bob Reynolds leaned against the wall near the emergency comms, gaze hollow.
“They want to arrest us,” Ava said, “but they won’t. They’ll disappear us.”
Ichna sat slowly on the armrest of the couch. “They made me the face of this.”
“Because you’re the anomaly,” Yelena snapped. “You’re the one who makes their science look like guesswork. Of course they pinned it on you.”
“They don’t know what they’re dealing with,” Bob said softly. “They think we’re pieces on their board. They forget we’ve been on fire before.”
“I vote we split up,” Bucky offered. “We’re harder to catch that way. Then we reconvene.”
John glanced at Ichna. “Three days. Point Albion.”
“Yeah,” Ichna said, her voice distant. “Seventy-two hours. Then we move.”
Somewhere in Manhattan – 1:33 AM
The apartment above the shuttered physics bookstore hadn’t been touched in years. Dust coated the windows. A spider’s web clung to the corner of the ceiling fan.
Ichna sat cross-legged on the floor beside an old SHIELD storage trunk—her father’s. The lid creaked open. Inside: blueprints, personal logs, a photo of her parents in a Nova Scotia safehouse.
She pulled out a voice recorder. No one used them anymore.
That was the point.
She clicked it on.
“Dear President,” she said.
Silence.
“You don’t know me. But you will.”
She paused. Then added—
“And when you do, you’ll understand why the ground beneath your podium shakes.”
Click.
The light on the recorder went red.