The snap

She flies to Berlin. 

She doesn’t get in touch with Wolfgang, a good friend of Sun’s. She’s not particularly in the mood for the company of strangers. Plus, she’s pretty sure she came across his family name when researching Russian mafia networks in Europe a couple of months back. She’d like to steer clear of that world for now, if she can avoid it. 

She fetches the bag she’d stashed at the central train station: cash, two burner phones with a slew of SIM cards, a bunch of passports with matching driving licences and insurance cards, everything seems accounted for. She walks to the flat, the city easier to navigate every time, stops at the open air market on the way to pick up fresh bread, Turkish dips and fruits. As far as she can tell, no one’s lying in wait for her. She takes a shower and on a whim, turns her old SIM card on. Unsurprisingly, a lot of messages are waiting for her.

“Hey, Alex. It’s Maggie.” She tenses up at the familiar voice. Maggie… “I know it’s been a while. And it’s not like we’re in touch or anything. I hope this won’t be too unwelcome, despite the fact that we don’t actually do this. I mean: phone calls. Listen, I ran into an ex-colleague from National City today and he seemed to be under the impression you had resigned from the DEO? He says it’s been a couple of months already? I just… I hope you’re ok, Alex. And if you ever… If you ever want to talk, or if you happen to pass through Gotham, you have my number. I’m… I’m there for you. If you need. I… Stay safe.”

She isn’t given the time to recover from hearing her ex’ voice after so long, the second message starts immediately after.

“Alex, this is Kelly. James’ sister. I hope everything’s fine. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to thank you in person for attending James’ funeral: thank you.” A pause. “I’m calling to let you know I’ll be organising a little something in a couple of months, in National City, around Remembrance Day, for James. Nothing as big as last year, obviously, something more private. It’d mean a lot to have you with us.” Yeah, nope, not going to happen. Even if she’d received this message on time. “I know he’d have wanted you there. Gosh, you must think I’m only calling you for depressing ceremonial matters. I’m sorry. Let me know if you can make it. Have a nice weekend.”

Kelly left this more than a year and a half ago. She must think Alex very rude for never rsvping.

“Hello, my name is Natasha, Natasha Romanoff. From the Avengers. I wanted to first share our condolences, about your sister. I didn’t get to spend much time with her, but from the little I saw, she seemed like a truly exceptional person. I’m sorry for your loss. A few of your sister’s personal items were just returned to us from Wakanda.” There’s unease in her voice when she continues: “As her next of kin and her listed contact in case of an emergency, would you like us to forward them all to an address? You’re welcome to come retrieve them at the compound anytime, otherwise. Whatever you prefer. Let us know. You can reach us at any hour of the day under the following number: … … …”

The reminder is one Alex could have done without. She’s made it a point not to come into contact with any of Kara’s belongings: she has yet to step foot in her flat, had all her personal effects from Catco shipped straight to her mother’s house. Yet, this feels different. It’d be the very last items Kara had on her, used, interacted with, before she disappeared. Things from just before and maybe even from during the battle.

“Alex, this is Joan.” Joan? “I hope this reaches you. And that all is well on your end. I mean… all things considered. My partner and I – you remember Sherlock, right?” Right: Joan! And how could she not remember Sherlock: the guy’s antics had made for one hell of an unforgettable morning after. “We’re in the middle of a complex investigation, with links to National City and we’ll be travelling there on Thursday. We don’t know yet how long we’ll be staying. If you happen to be around and are up for dinner or drinks, let me know. I’d love to catch up. No worries if it doesn’t work out. You have my number, but just in case, it’s … … … Take care.” 

“Hello. This is Eric Foreman. From Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in Princeton, New Jersey. This may be a long shot, I hope you don’t mind: I’m calling because Dr Remy Hadley – a colleague – has been missing for several weeks now. And we’re worried. I found your number in her notebook and thus assumed the two of you know each other.” Remy... Remy. The name rings a bell. But of course: Remy from medical school. Talk about a blast from the past. “I wonder whether you might have heard from her recently or may know something about her current whereabouts? If so, would you be so kind as to give me or the hospital a call? I can be reached at the following number: … … … Thank you.”

“This is Joan again. I just left you a message. About Sherlock and I coming to National City in a couple of days. Anyway, I… I just wanted to clarify that… I don’t want it to sound…, or for you to feel like it’s…,” her voice drops “you know…” She can’t help but let a small smile escape at how uncomfortable her one time fling sounds. “What I mean to say, is: I truly am looking forward to meeting and catching up. It can be just over coffee, something simple. It doesn’t have to be awkward, right? Umh… Ok, bye.” 

It’s a shame this message reaches her so late: she would have genuinely liked to catch up with the very attractive sleuth. Once they had both gotten over their nervosity, they had genuinely clicked. To say “right person, wrong time” would be a stretch, considering the limited amount of time they had spent together, but she’s got a feeling it wouldn’t be too far off either. (And to think that she had met Joan through an app, of all places.) 

“Miss Danvers, this is Karen, from DreamProperties. I tried reaching you last week. Things are becoming a little bit difficult here in National City. There’s a lot of pressure on the housing market. As part of the Ellis administration’s New Deal, the authorities are considering passing a bill that would allow them to requisition all unoccupied apartments in the State of California, for redistribution to anyone deemed an essential worker. I would like to discuss possible adjustments to our contract with you. Would you be so kind and give us a call at your earliest convenience? My direct line is: … … … Thank you.” 

“Alexandra, I hope you’re doing ok, kiddo. I haven’t heard from you in a while. An old man like me, I can’t help it, I worry. All is well here, my children are very thankful you’re letting them stay at your mother’s house and taking good care of it. The garden looks splendid, Eliza’d be most pleased with the flowers that are blooming this season if I may say so myself. Ah, I almost forgot: this is Mr Ghadler. I’m calling you from my son’s phone. Speak to you soon. How do I turn this off? Is it this button or...”

“Dude, long time no see. So, listen, I know I haven’t been in touch, been kind of busy, what with half the world disappearing. I hear so were you. No surprises there. A little bird told me you’re on a sabbatical. Good for you, Alex! I too am taking some time off: I’ve been helping Lois out here, in Midvale. Jon and Jordan have taken their father’s disappearance quite hard. And as if managing teenage boys weren’t enough (yuk, by the way, but more on that later), we now have two grieving teenage boys discovering their Kryptonian heritage! Long story short, it’s been quite messy. Not gonna lie: Lois is pretty much at the end of her rope. And then I realised: hey, who do I know who may have some pointers on how to make this easier. Easier for them, I mean. Tricks on how to dampen their powers for instance, or learn to control them. Mhh… now that I think about it, it’s pretty insensitive of me, coming to you about this, what with Kara disappearing as well. Anyway, I’d love to chat, we’re pretty much open to any suggestion at this point, so give me a call. I’m calling you from a burner phone, you never know who’s listening in these days. Here’s the number:… … …”

The list of missed calls goes on, including a few more from Maggie, palpably worried. And one a couple of months back, from someone who didn’t leave a message: Lena. She works it back: it was before Tokyo, a week or so after she killed that board member. 

She texts Sun to let her and Mun know she arrived safely. They’re back in Seoul and just visited her trainer in the hospital. She decides against replying to Maggie for now, makes a note to call DreamProperties back asap, sends Joan a short apology text message and thinks back to Kara’s first months on Earth, before leaving Lucy a voice message. Remy’s drama’ll have to wait.

She calls Vasquez’ parents for her monthly check-in. She tries to keep the conversation short. They’ve received a series of documents by post from the Snap Victim Compensation Fund they can’t make heads or tails of. She offers to take a look and asks for snapshots, which leads to a 15min tutorial on how to take snapshots with their cell phone in the first place. (So much for a short phone call.)

It’s a lot, after going for so long with limited social interaction. It leaves her feeling drained. 

She ends up in the queue to Berghain at 2AM, the beat filtering out from inside and escaping into the night’s chill. She doesn’t care for the techno nor the promise of sex in so many of the glances she catches. It’s losing herself in a sea of anonymous bodies she’s after. And as always, the club delivers.

She cancels her plans to go to Madripoor and books her next journey before crawling into bed the next morning.

She lands in New York bleary eyed from the jet lag.  

John F. Kennedy Airport is abuzz with activity, the line for US citizens at immigration pales in comparison to the endless queues at the Temporary Snap Working Visa counters. The monitors play a Department of Health and Human Services PSA on suicide prevention on repeat. Suicide rates more than tripled in the aftermath of the Snap. She wonders where they’re at these days.

She hasn’t stepped foot in the US in over a year, the move anything but smart. Still: it’s necessary, unavoidable. She’s put if off long enough, it’s time to face the music. She’s welcomed back with little more than a cursory glance, which feels rather… anticlimactic. 

She gets a ride upstate to the Avengers Compound, dreading the usual small talk that consists in this macabre competition of perfect strangers listing who they’ve lost and trading tips on how to get by. On the radio, the moderator presents their top 50 songs from snapped artists. She tunes it out and falls asleep, her head lolling uncomfortably against the headrest. When she wakes up, the moderator’s moved on to their top 50 songs about the Snap. She asks the driver to turn the radio off.

She ignores the insistent stares from the small group of people stationed outside and makes her way to the front gate, pulling her cap lower over her eyes. A peek at the banners they’re holding (“Justice Now”; “You fucked up, Now you clean up”; “What happened to ‘I can do this all day’, Cap?”; “Fair compensation for the victims and their families!”, “Avengers = Mass murderers”) lets her know they’re not fans camped out, hoping for an autograph. 

She presses down on the intercom: “Hey. Hi. I’m Alex, Alex Danvers?” She throws a furtive glance over her shoulder and continues in a lower voice: “I’m here for Kara’s – uh… Supergirl’s – stuff? You left me a message a while ago…”

The heavy gate opens with a click. She pushes it in and makes her way to the compound’s cluster of buildings, the protestors’ chanting fading away, replaced by an eerie silence. 

There’s no one in sight. Except for a redhead, striding towards her. She instantly recognizes her from internal memos and the press storm after the 2014 Congressional Committee hearings: Natasha Romanoff, the Russian transfuge. You’d think she’d be the last person Director Fury’d want on his team and yet, she’d become a close ally and a core member of the Avengers team. 

Someone in the presence of whom Alex can’t under any circumstances let her guard down.

“Welcome to our base of operations, Agent Danvers.” Her demeanour’s not unfriendly, if anything perhaps a little too unthreatening. 

She wonders what information can be found on her in the files the Avengers have access to. “Alex. Just Alex is fine.”

“Alex. I’m Natasha.” She offers her hand. “We’ve never met.”

Her hand is firm, the handshake short. “No. I don’t think we have.”

“Fury does like his boxes” she replies with a knowing smile.

Understatement of the century. She’s pretty sure Director Fury’s secrets have secrets. Alex opts for sidestepping the transparent attempt at commiseration: “I guess you could say that. What’s up with the crowd outside?”

“Oh, these guys? They’re nothing compared to the nutjobs we used to have a year or two ago” she dismisses, with a gesture of her hand. “People are angry. I can understand that.”

“And they blame you?”

“We’ve got all sorts: those who criticise us for losing. Fair enough: we were aware of the threat Thanos represented, made a plan, fought him and lost. Those who think we didn’t do enough in the aftermath. And then we’ve got those who accuse us of leaving them behind, whatever that means. If you’re looking for someone to blame, we’re a pretty easy target.”

“Mhh.”

Her eyes turn curious: “I’m surprised you showed up.”

“Yeah?”

She cocks her head: “It’s been a minute.”

“Yeah, I guess I had some things to wrap up before… well, before making the trip.”

There, that’s vague enough.

Natasha Romanoff fixes her with a penetrating stare: “Don’t we all.”

She feels uncomfortable under the scrutiny: “So. Um. My sister’s stuff?”

“Yes. Would you like a tour of the compound first? I don’t know if you ever saw the old one: the Avengers Tower.”

“Uh…” She was part of the reinforcements sent to New  York for the Chitauri Invasion, what feels like several lifetimes ago. “Not from up close, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.” She gestures around them: “As you can probably tell, we don’t get that many visitors these days.”

Lingering wasn’t part of the plan. But Natasha Romanoff is already turning away and Alex doesn’t want to come off as impolite, so it looks like her plan will have to change. 

“Follow me.”

She shows her a hangar and a workshop, gives her ample time to admire the Quinjet, before they reach the main building. Alex can’t help but compare the facilities with the DEO’s, back in National City. It’s all very big and futuristic, but also completely empty, with an overall unkempt air. 

Something parked outside the main building catches her eye, which doesn’t go unnoticed. “That’s Steve’s bike” Natasha Romanoff volunteers. “You’re a fan of motorcycles?”

She shrugs: “I used to own one.” She’s overcome with the sudden desperate craving for the exhilaration she would feel when riding it.

They pass by an indoor lap pool, a shooting range and stop at a wide shelf, where she reaches for a lone metal box: “Here you go: Kara Danvers.” 

If there were other boxes in the now empty compartments, for the (many) others who didn’t return home from Wakanda, they’re long gone. (Alex doesn’t much like the visual.) She takes the box. It’s so small, too small, too light. 

“This reached us very late. It took them some time to sort through it all in the chaos the battle and the Snap left behind. I’m going to give you some privacy. If you need anything, you can find me in the living area over there, to your right.” She seems to hesitate, gives her upper arm the ghost of a squeeze and ends with: “I’m sorry for your loss, Alex.” 

So they’re firmly on a first name basis now. They are after all on the same side (or at least they used to be). But still: not going to happen.

It’s the solicitude that gets her every time. As if they know how it – how she – feels. As if they can compare and empathise. 

She goes outside, on autopilot, walks to the edge of the water she’d caught a glimpse of and sinks down on the pebbles. She sets the box aside with a metallic klink. This is what she came for. She had the entire flight to prepare herself mentally and yet, she’s not ready. No, not ready at all. 

She doesn’t notice the tears at first, until they reach her neck and slip past her collar, until her vision’s so blurry she can barely make out shapes anymore.

She closes her eyes and lets them fall freely.

Captain America shows up. 

Because if there’s one person Alex would like to spend time with in her current state, it’s Captain bloody America.

He looks exactly like his posters: clean shaven, not a hair out of place, a classic kind of attractive, if you’re into that kind of thing. He doesn’t mention her puffy red eyes – she’s grateful for that – and offers she join them for dinner inside. She realises with a start that night has fallen, the evening air growing chillier, and tightens her grip on the box she’s cradling in her lap. 

He too, expresses his condolences with touching sincerity. Over tasty Indian, he lists unprompted the many traits and strengths he admired in Kara. This, despite the fact that she sided with Iron Man & co in Leipzig. Natasha Romanoff drops little details and personal observations here and there, but remains rather subdued throughout. Their interactions speak of relaxed domesticity. Kara obviously earned their respect and so much more. 

She realises with a start that she’s sharing a meal with some of the last people to see her sister alive. 

When all that’s left on their plates are poori crumbs, Steven Rogers – “Call me Steve” (not going to happen either) – retrieves a little red notebook and jots something down in it, while Natasha Romanoff produces a bottle of vodka. Even though vodka’s anything but her drink of choice (Steven Rogers promptly declines a shot glass with a wince), she’ll take what she can get today. 

It’s so strange, for her to be talking to these two larger than life characters Kara used to fangirl over and do so without her; for them to treat her as an equal, when she was nowhere near Sokovia or Wakanda. 

Speaking of which: with the alcohol and the late hour, the conversation inevitably veers to the battle of Wakanda. Kara helped boost morale, was instrumental in securing the skies and assisted Natasha Romanoff in killing someone named Proxima Midnight. Not only that: after Thanos ensnared Natasha Romanoff, fought off a tree (did she hear that one right?) and knocked Captain America down, Kara was, according to them, the last one standing between Wanda Maximoff, Vision and Thanos. 

They don’t know how Thanos bested her, no one saw her disappear. (She must have been so scared, all alone when it started to happen.) But they’re able to put to rest a gnawing fear, at least: they’re certain there was no body, meaning Thanos didn’t kill her in a fight. So she hopes it was somewhat painless, at least.

It’s not comforting per se – the result’s the same: Kara’s not here – but it does make a difference, somehow. 

She feels like crying again. 

When 4AM rolls around, Steven Rogers calls it a night. They offer she take one of the empty rooms before hitting the road in the morning and when she accepts, abruptly hit with the day’s travel and rollercoaster of emotions, Natasha shows her to the individual quarters wing.

“What’s wrong with this one?” she asks, passing a closed door.

“That’s Wanda’s room.”

Oh. Wanda, as in Wanda Maximoff. She knows for a fact the youngest addition to the Avengers disappeared in the snap. (But who is she to judge.)

Anticipating her next question, Natasha Romanoff goes on to explain: “And that’s Vision’s and the one opposite is Clint’s.”

Wait. Clint Barton?

Her confusion must show, for she continues in a heavy voice: “He didn’t disappear. He’s off somewhere.” She shrugs, shoulders slumping slightly: “We all deal with our grief in different ways.”

The image of Akihiko’s body slumping down, his blood pooling into a puddle, flashes before her eyes. She shakes it off. If Alex’s last visit to Macau is any indication, Hawkeye is dealing with his loss in a particularly physical way in the city’s infamous underground fighting tournaments. She wonders if his Avengers colleagues know of his new gig. 

Where are the Hulk and Tony Stark? “So, who’s staying here these days, then?”

“That would be Steve and I. Rhodey drops by from time to time but rarely sleeps over, Carol stays overnight on occasion.”

So the place’s essentially deserted. From a facility housing dozens and where hundreds used to work, down to two. That must have been quite the adjustment – probably still is one.

“Are you sure this is ok?”

“Of course. Here we are.”

The room Natasha stops in front of is clean, nondescript and bare. She places the box on the nightstand, drops her bag on the table, strips down to her underwear and crashes in the bottom bunk bed, the vodka sloshing uncomfortably in her belly. The mattress is hard after years of disuse, but she prefers it that way. She falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.

She dreams of a battle she wasn’t at, of standing between Thanos and a fallen Kara, of fighting him off and helping her sister back up.

She dreams of second chances and do overs.

She dreams of Kara.