Chapter 20
“Let me do the talking,” Stephen tells her. She nods beside him, staring at the portal in front of them. They couldn’t see on the other side. “And if things get weird,” he added, handing her the device. “Leave.”
She clenched her jaw, nodding again despite every cell in her body fighting against this. Was she doomed to repeat the past? Different Strange? Different bad guy? Was there another universe just unknowingly waiting for her panicked arrival?
America slips it in the inside pocket of her jacket and with it, her dread settles in heir chest. She doesn't know if she's taken a full breath since finding out the Scarlet Witch was still kicking (and with newfound motivation to get her).
His narrows his eyes on her, she’s fidgety, more so than usual. He’d much rather leave her here—since the TVA had been searching for her in the past—but shit usually hits the fan when they separate and right now the TVA was the lesser evil.
He’s putting a significant amount of faith in this plan on his ability to snark his way out of most situations. Blind hope that the ‘wing it’ method will prevail once again. He doesn't entertain the idea of failure. Not only does he not have the time for it, he doesnt think he can quite stomach something going wrong.
He quips his brow, chiming dryly, “here we go.”
The pair step from the 838-New York Sanctum to a hallway of beige and brown.
“Huh,” Stephen comments. It isn't...what be expected. While he had managed to keep his expectations low, he hadn't imagined the only timeline authorities to have abandoned their station.
Probably not the best sign.
Let's set the scene. First, and maybe most notable, the hallway is tilted enough that the duo is almost standing on wall instead of thin, brown carpet. It reminds America of a carnival fun house and feels just as eerie. The lights are a patchwork of dark squares on the ceiling or flickering and buzzing.
America can't bring herself to feel relieved. While they weren't rushed with agents and subsequently arrested—there was still an uneasy uncertainty that gurgled uncomfortably in her stomach. She glances up at Stephen expectantly, as if he were holding on to additional information.
He registered her pinched expression and frowned, joining her in the perplexity of the situation. “They must have an archive room or storage somewhere. Come on. Stay close.”
**
America and Nila stargazed on warmer nights on top of rooftops. They had sleeping bags from the women’s shelter—they occasionally stopped in for new clothes (mainly socks and underwear) or a shower or sometimes food—but never long enough for anyone to get their names or ask too many questions. While the shelter itself is discrete, social workers tend to gravitate towards the unaccompanied minors.
But rooftops were a solace. Away from prying eyes and questions. It felt safer above ground.
It felt safer with Nila.
America had been traveling alone for so long...lost for so long...she had forgotten pieces of herself along the way. She forgot that her sides ache when she laughs or the satisfaction of fulness or how loved she feels when someone cards their fingers through her hair.
Nila helped her remember these pieces of herself.
Huddled together in their sleeping bags, the two girls giggled over nothing and everything. America pointed out constellations and Nila would count satellites and airplanes. They often fell asleep like this, partially tangled together and mid-discussion until one of them dozed off.
The next morning, they pack up and assess their supplies. Did they have enough for the day? (they never did) What could they get from the donation pile at the shelter versus shoplift versus pick pocket for?
Nila was arguably better at pick pocketing. Not only did she have the slender fingers for it, she wasn't nearly as clumsy as America was.
“But you’re better at the locks,” Nila had reassured after the two splurged a bit of their hard earned stolen money on fries and milkshakes. “Thats why we’re the perfect pair.”
The two smile at one another, goofily, neither one acknowledging the seriousness of their situation. As if they’re not homeless or runaway children or carrying around the burden of growing up too fast. They get to hold on to a bit more childhood like this—together.
This day they’d need to drop into the shelter. They hadn't been in nearly three weeks and Saturday's usually meant a new donation boxes had been set out.
With the summer coming to an end, the two would need go start stockpiling warmer clothes. Probably boots too, although they doubted they’d get lucky enough to find two pairs of winter boots before the snow fell.
Once scaling down the rusty side fire escape, the two playfully shoved one another as they walked through the alleyway. The smell of early morning street vendors quickly filled the air as the city wakes up.
Nearly a year in this world and America could navigate this city as if it were the veins against the front of her wrist. She knows the alley ways to avoid—the ones near the bars that will have slumped over drunk people even at this hour—or the shops that now have crude drawings of them with BANNED scribbled beneath. She also knows which to take for the fastest route to the women’s shelter.
But first.
The metro.
America loathes the subway. The network of underground tunnels, that's cool. Hurdling quickly through the dark with thirty other sweaty people, all mean mugging their feet with no escape, decidedly less cool.
They had paid for a metro card each, slipping through the crowds deftly. Nila she manages to lift a few wallets from open purses or half zipped bag packs on their way.
The two clamber into one of the sweaty zoom tubes and find seats. The seats are lined with blue felt with an awful pattern of different colored shapes over top.
The worst part about the metro—other than the smell—is the confinement. Once you're on. You're on.
Which is why Rita picked it.
Sitting diagonal of the two girls is a thin figured woman in a dark pair of trousers and a grey graphic tee. Her brown hair falls shoulder length but she does have two side sweeping bangs. She has sharp features and intense eyes.
The girls are sitting close and speaking in Spanish in hushed tones. Occasionally, one or both of them will laugh and soon resume conversation until—
“America Chavez.”
America’s attention zips towards the origin of the intrusion. The woman. She has no expression, she gives nothing away. Not a smile or eyebrow movement to be seen.
Her mouth had gone dry, though she still managed to croak, “who are you?” The only person in this world who knew her full name was sitting against her right side.
The woman’s head tilts some and a look of amusement crosses her face. “Your mothers are looking for you.”
**
They had passed several rooms consisting of cubicles. A smashed monitor of some kind in every area. Papers scattered everywhere. Chairs tipped over. Glass embedded in the carpet. Bullet holes in the walls.
It was clear that whatever had happened—happened quickly. Stephen instinctually walked closer to America.
Eventually their wondering led them to a massive area of files stored on large bookshelves.
“Jesus Christ,” Stephen murmured. “Wong has a better filing system.”
America snorted at that, genuinely. “He does not. I saw his desk, he just shoves everything in.”
Stephen’s eyebrow tugged upwards. “You were in the Sorcerer Supreme’s room?”
She quickly meets his gaze before glancing back at the enormous assortment of information. “Yeah. When I thought he was hiding something. Feels like a long time ago now.”
Stephen nodded, apparently satisfied enough for that answer. “Intergalatic and multiverse travel will do that to you.”
“No kidding,” America huffed. She absorbed the sheer amount of files, filling floor to ceiling bookshelves.
“Let’s hope it’s alphabetical.”
**
America sputtered. Nila watched the interaction cautiously. America had explained that her mothers were dead or at least, presumed.
“M-my mothers?” She repeated back, stammering over the words. Suddenly she was flooded the smell of homemade cooking and could hear humming drift in and out.
“Amalia and Elena.” She says their names so matter of fact, unknowingly sending shockwaves through America. They are familiar, yet foreign to her.
Her vision is blurring with tears. “Where are they?” America’s pleas are no short of desperate.
Rita pulls her lips thin before answering. “They are back at the TVA. It's headquarters for us.”
One good thing about the metro was people did not give two shits what you were doing or what you're talking about—youre getting judged regardless. The man closest to them shuffled to put his headphones on.
“I can take you there,” Rita explains.
The idea of seeing her moms again sends a gleeful explosion of emotions within her. The excitement waivers when her mind settles back into her body. “Why can’t they come here?”
This question seems to confuse this woman, who finally relents to making a frowned expression. “They sent me here to retrieve you. Amalia is sick and can’t travel.”
America was gobbling up this information with such eagerness. She was ready to do as asked—whatever it was—and finally be reunited with her moms. Nila shifted in her spot besides America, effectively pulling the girl back down into awareness.
America’s excitement was met with a wary expression from her companion. America’s enthusiasm simmered into suspicion.
“How did you find me?” She shifts her attention back to the nameless woman, who had watched that brief exchange with concern.
Rita forced a smile. “We were able to track the variation in this timeline. Not you directly but—“ her eyes settled on Nila.
America positively has no idea what this woman is saying but feels the need to take Nila’s hand in her own, defensively.
Rita straightens, smoothing out her pant leg once. “You don’t want to see your mothers, America?”
“Of course I do,” she pleaded. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But…” she trailed off and looked the woman up and down. “I don’t trust you. Moms wouldn’t send a stranger without—I don’t know, some proof? Ever hear of the stranger-danger thing? It’s a thing.”
Rita ground her teeth together but nodded. “I see. I can bring back information only they would know,” she comes to her feet just as the metro is screeching to a stop. “We’ll be in touch, America.”
Rita merged into the crowd of people shifting to get on or off. And the two girls watch until the door wheezes closed and the train starts again.
“That was weird, right?” America asked, her heart beat drumming in her throat.
Nila squeezed her hand tighter.
**
It was alphabetical—thank god—but not using the phonetics Stephen was used to. This used dozens more symbols. Some kind of format he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“We’re looking for anything on artifacts,” Stephen explains as he’s rummaging through files. He lets them fall to the floor after he’s finished. “Or anything regarding Chthon or the Goblets.”
“Got it,” America nodded, moving away from him.
“Hey!” He snapped quickly, softening when America abruptly turned with wide eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, adding in a much firmer voice, “stay close.”
America fought back an eye roll but nodded regardless, starting on the bookshelf ahead of Stephen.Her fingers ran along the bindings as she made her way to the front of the shelf.
She’s plucking them off the shelves and skimming each for any relevance. There’s files on people, events, areas. All things America has never heard. She lets the files fall at her feet in a small, accumulating pile of paper.
She steps to start on the next section when her eyes catch familiar words on the bottom half of a loose paper. America crouches down and pinches the paper to get a better look. Surely it’s not…
Signed at the bottom with a handwritten signature and typed letter beneath is the name Rita Sinclair.
America’s stomach churned as she stood and quickly pulled another from the shelf, flipping to the back to find the same signature. Rita Sinclair.
Again—Supporting Agent: Rita Sinclair.
Another—Supporting Agent: Rita Sinclair.
America has to keep steady because she knows Stephen will appear if he hears her erratically breathing like that. She takes shaky, manual breaths until it evens out enough to continue.
She skims through the file. It’s about a variant. The mission description describes scrubbing the timeline after making the arrest. Variant uncooperative, was typed in the notes section, resulting in having to use measures to protect the timeline. Variant erased.
America felt sick. She read another. Same situation. Rita went on numerous missions for the TVA and hardly returned with the variant.
Her stomach sank. Nila was a variant. From first contact to Rita and America’s last interaction, the woman was clear that Nila was a variant. A rogue member of the timeline that needed to be ‘handled.’
“Got anything?” Stephen’s voice made her jump, her skin crawling with uncapped nerves. He was still scanning through his area.
“N-no,” she stammered, glancing at the mess of papers on the tilted floor. “You?”
She could hear him pulling more files free. “Not yet, but it’s gotta be around her somewhere. Maybe there’s a file on 838-Strange.”
“Good idea,” America says in a quiet reply. She continues yanking files free.
Strange deciphers the odd symbols on the placards beneath the shelving units. At first he assumed it was an alphabet of some kind. It took him longer than he’d like to admit figuring out that it was filed in order of the timeline.
He maneuvers through the shelves, settling in an area and beginning the process of pulling-skimming-dropping. The TVA had been surprisingly...involved over the centuries.
**
The second time they met Rita was three days later outside of a laundromat. They had scrounged together enough for a load of laundry and a few items from the vending machine.
With the building behind near empty, the girls were partaking in a round of cart racing. Each sat in the basket of the metal carts and used push brooms to maneuver through the isle of washers and dryers. Their laughter echoed over the rhythmic rumbling of the machines.
Rita had interrupted the moment right before America was about to cross the make shift finish line of empty chairs.
The wheels squeaked to a holt.
“Your mothers are scientists. Top of their field. Elena used to sing you to sleep.”
“That doesn't prove anything.” Nila had taken position beside America’s cart, her hand on the bar. “Lots of moms sing to their babies.”
Rita turned her head slightly to the side as she clarified. “She’d sing You are My Sunshine.”
America let out a pained breath. Nila shifted uneasily on her feet.
“Now will you come with me? The both of you? America, your mothers are waiting.”
Again America looked towards Nila, who maintained a hardened expression pointed towards the woman. “We don’t even know your name, lady.”
“Rita,” she answered with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Do you have a van full of puppies too, Rita?” Nila asked in a mocking tone. She finally glanced at America, who was never great at hiding her emotions. Her face twisted with conflict.
“You still think I’m lying,” Rita acknowledged with a sigh.
“Bring America’s moms here,” Nila suggested. America turned towards Rita again.
Rita only shook her head. “I can’t. They can’t. Amalia is sick, remember? You don’t have much time for this, America. You want to see your mom, right?”
“Her other mother then,” Nila reasoned, her eyes remaining narrowed.
“It’s not that easy,” Rita explained. “It would be difficult to transport either of them here without risking an incursion.”
“I don’t know what that is lady but you’re story sounds real convenient,” Nila ground out. “We’ll pass.”
“Nila,” America whispered suddenly, finding her voice again.
The older girl sighed. “Bring us something that belongs to one of America’s mothers. Something she’d recognize. Then maybe we’ll go with you.”
Rita paused, seeming to calculate her options. Finally she nodded, curtly, turning on her short heel and moving towards the glass door on the opposite wall. They listened for the jingle of the bell above the door before speaking.
“Do you believe her?”
“She knew my name,” America argued. “She knows my moms name and our song. I have to hope she’s telling the truth.”
**
“Gotcha you sonofabitch,” Strange celebrated to himself. He had finally found the correct Dr. Strange after reading about the scandals previous Strange’s have caused—one of them literally absorbed the powers of nearly every mythical creature and caused a total erasure of a timeline. And Wong called him dramatic.
He plucked the numeric paper stub stapled to the file. It had a serial number on the bottom and a picture of a golden chalice with carved ancient markings.
“Hey kid!” Strange shouts as he stuffs the file back in place. “Let’s go.”
When she doesn’t answer he begrudgingly backtracks through the shelves.
“America?” He can see piles of files where she had been. Begrudge was quickly curdling into worry. “Where the hell did you—”
She was standing between shelves with a file in her hands, the pages trembling as she clutched them with shaky hands. A glob of unshed tears clung to her bottom lid.
“You lied,” America managed to bite out. Stephen stiffened. “You said if they were anything like me they were okay.”
Stephen’s attention flicked to the papers in her hand then back to her. Slowly he asked, “what’d you find?”
With her bottom lip jutting out, she hesitantly pointed at the page with blurred vision. The file and pages dropped from her hand and scattered over the hall between their feet. America’s hands cupped around her face as a sob escaped her chest.
Without realizing, he's closing the space and ignoring as his shoes cover portions of the pages. His arms move to embrace her, holting when America suddenly pushed against him. Then again.
“You said it wasn't my fault,” she cried out, shoving him. His feet are planted but his heart had dropped into his stomach.
“Liar.” America hit her palms against the crossing fabric on his chest. “Liar.”
“America,” he let out in a breath, still trying to encase her in his arms. The cloak was helping envelop her, despite the hard thumps to his chest. “It still isn't. It isn't your fault,” Stephen says over her cries.
He finally manages to pull her in, pinning her arms between the two of them as his wrap around her. The cloak cocoons them.
“She’s dead,” America hiccups into him. He’s fighting his own tears, holding back the ache that's reverberating throughout his entire body. “My mama,” she adds in the smallest voice like she's regressed.
He briefly glances at the paper beside their feet. It's mission notes. The name listed is Amalia Chavez.
Variant intruder found. Uncooperative. Variant erased. Supporting Agent Rita Sinclair.
“Oh babygirl,” spills from his mouth. The collar of the cloak brushes against his cheek, catching anything that might've fallen. “I—”
A sound from the halls interrupts him. It's enough that both Stephen and America perk to attention.
America smears her tears with her sleeve after stepping slightly away from Strange. “What the hell was that?” she asks with nasalized, stuffy words.
“Our cue to leave,” Strange answers, offering a brief look of sympathy as America takes a shaky breath. “I've got the location. Let's grab and go.”