You're Sweet, Little Babe
Morgan was good at many things. Math. Science. Building Legos. Ballet. Eating chocolate chip pancakes. She was also good at pep talks. She reminded herself of this as one of Mr. Osborn's goons (Peter's Fitz's words, not hers) brought her to the black SUV parked out front. Because here was the thing:
Morgan was not a baby. Not at all. She was eight years-old, practically a teenager, and totally old enough to make her own decisions. Seven-year-olds cry. Eight-year-olds take care of shit. (She was allowed to say "shit" now, too, just, maybe, super quietly.) But the point was, she could handle things. And, really, the only thing she was asked to do here was get a Slurpee. She loved Slurpees. She could do this.
Now, maybe she should have asked for more details. Maybe she should have double-checked with Fitz that she was supposed to leave now. Maybe Aunt Nat wasn't going to come for another few hours? Or few days? She didn't think Mr. Osborn would let her go again—she was old enough to know he was only allowing it now because he wanted to scare her dad. But it wasn't scary, not at all, not even a little bit. Fitz didn't stop her, so surely it was alright? She trusted Fitz with her life. He was her brother. Even if he did go by a different name than her mom called him and he seemed a little jumpy and kind of broke down when reading A Wrinkle in Time. (Maybe someone should have told him that only seven-year-olds cry.) Plus, he was Spider-Man. Spider-Man saved her life. (Not her mom's but that's okay, Morgan doesn't really care about that, it doesn't really matter, not at all, not even a little bit.) And she knew the game “Spider-Man and Spy Girl." She didn't really remember it remember it, but it sounded familiar. Plus, she had the bracelet (which kept vibrating for some reason—it was really quite insistent). Plus, he didn't try to stop her. So this was fine, this was all fine, she was not having trouble at all, not at all, not even a little bit.
The door slammed as soon as she crawled in the backseat, and Morgan jumped. (It absolutely didn't sound like the gunshot from that morning at all, not even a little bit.) Morgan wondered how she would have handled this a few months ago, when she was little and not as mature. She had a feeling it would have been difficult to deal with seeing her second dead body in the span of a year, especially with all that blood. It was weird her hands couldn't stop shaking. (Why couldn't her hands stop shaking?) And maybe she was having a little trouble hearing Mr. Osborn talking to her, on account of her heart being so loud. (Could she always hear it beating? That seemed new. Maybe it was something that happened when you were so close to adulthood.) She tried to pay attention.
"Now, Miss Stark. I know you are a smart girl." Mr. Osborn smiled. It made him look like the Chesire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Or a goblin. She wondered if she should tell him that. "Your daddy and uncles are waiting for you to come back safe and sound. It would be a shame to disappoint them. Stay in the car and don't make a sound." He closed the door and patted it twice, signaling Goon #1 to drive away. Goon #2 was in the passenger's seat, playing Candy Crush on his phone.
Goon #1 looked in the rearview mirror. "Boss is on speed-dial, brat. One wrong move and your daddy gets a bullet in the head." #2 snickered, but lost the level he was playing. Morgan thought it was poetic justice.
She looked out the window as the house slipped out of view. She remembered the 7-Eleven being about 10 minutes from the house. She knew that wasn't super long to come up with a good plan, but her mom told her once that negotiation was a combination of being persistent and making someone uncomfortable enough to give in. So she waited a whole 9 minutes until they pulled into the parking lot, and started bouncing in her seat. She groaned a little for effect.
"I need to go potty."
The goons laughed. "Nice try, girl."
Morgan groaned again, a bit louder. "I'm serious. I really need to go. I'm going to pee in my pants, all over the car. It's going to stink and Mr. Osborn won't be very happy with you." She bounced up and down and started crying. Fake crying, because eight-year-olds could do that. “Please misters. I promise. I won’t say anything. I won’t scream. I just need to use the bathroom. Please. I’m about to go right now.”
The goons looked at each other. #1 shrugged. “She’s a baby. What can she do? We have guns.” He turned and said, “2 minutes. In and out. We’ll wait outside the door. If you mention this, if you yell, if you try to run away, you’re dead. I don’t care what Osborn has planned.”
Morgan gave him a huge smile. “Thank you so much. I’m about to burst.” They opened her door and grabbed her hand. She worked hard not to pull away when they walked next to her, side-by-side. There weren’t a lot of people in the store at the moment: a boy looking at gum, a man buying cigarettes, and a woman at the drink section. Goon #2 asked the cashier where the restroom was (“My daughter has to go.”) and dragged Morgan over to the door. It was a one-person stall that locked from the inside. He hissed at her, “Don’t be long,” and pushed her in.
Morgan locked the door and took a deep breath.
What next? She didn’t know how long she could wait. She thought it would probably be safest to stay in the stall, but the lock was no match for a gun, and she had no doubts that they would shoot if they thought she was stalling, witnesses and all. They seemed a bit loose with the rules Mr. Osborn gave them, and Goon #1 seemed really excited when he was talking about killing her. It would be disturbing if she wasn’t almost a grown-up. (And why were her hands shaking like this?)
The handle jiggled and Morgan started. She absolutely wasn’t ready. She grabbed her bracelet and started tapping it the way she saw Fitz earlier. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Spy Girl. You can do it.” She heard shouting. (Did her dad’s hands shake too? Maybe she should ask him if it was a Stark trait.) She didn’t notice that she had backed up to the sink. The shouting was louder. Someone was banging on the door.
Morgan found herself on the tile floor, her back all the way against the wall. She didn’t remember sitting down. Was it dirty? She learned about germs in school. Would she get sick? Would she die from sitting on a 7-Eleven bathroom floor? Wouldn’t that be a strange way to go.
She heard gunshots. Dr. Prentiss’s body was on the floor. He was bleeding. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Her mom was on the floor. Her head was bruised and she was red all over. Morgan kept her eyes closed this time, hoping the next time she opened them she was back in bed with her dad rubbing her back. She started to hum.
She could feel hands on her arms and shoulders. This was it. She was going to join her mom. She was going to die. Fitz would be so mad at her. She couldn’t even be a good Spy Girl. What would Aunt Nat say? It’s almost like she could hear her. Could she come back as a ghost and apologize? Maybe she could see her dad in his dreams?
“—rgan. Morgan.” Morgan was being pulled into someone’s arms. She heard another gunshot and flinched. Someone was whispering in her ear. Her heart was so loud, all she could hear was the vibrations of a voice. It sounded nice. Was her mom singing to her?
“Baby. I got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Nat, we’ve got to go.” “Is she alright?” “Get her to the jet.” “I think she’s in shock.” “Is she hurt?” “I’m going to kill them.” “The driver was calling someone before I got to him.” “Did he shoot himself?” “Looks like it.” “Someone needs to wait for the police.” “We called Edwards. They’ll be here soon. We need to find Tony.” “Morgan.” “Morgs.” “Sweetheart.”
Morgan stilled. That wasn’t her mom. She looked up to find herself being carried. Aunt Nat smiled softly at her. “There you are, Clara. I’ve got you.” She saw Uncle Clint and Uncle Bruce looking over her closely, mouths drawn tightly. Uncle Steve was on the phone with someone.
“Hey Morgan.” Uncle Clint kneeled down next to her. He put his hand on her back. “We’re gonna get you somewhere safe. But we need to know some things first. Do you know where your dad and uncles are?” She nodded. “That’s a good girl. Can you tell us, sweetie?”
“Up the road. Dr. Prentiss’s house. I—I don’t know the address.” Her aunt brushed her hair back and hummed with approval. “That’s okay. We were just making sure. You did good.” She threw some keys at Uncle Clint and handed Morgan over to her Uncle Bruce. “Bruce’s gonna get you checked out, okay? We’ll be back with your dad.”
“They—they said they were going to shoot him in the head if I didn’t come back.” Morgan could feel tears pool—real ones, seven-year-old ones. Aunt Nat and Uncle Clint shared a look. Uncle Bruce leaned over to look her in the eyes. “We’re gonna get him back, Morgs. Trust us.”
“Aunt Nat!” Morgan yelled as Natasha jumped in the driver’s seat of the SUV Goon #1 had been driving. “I tried to be a good Spy Girl. Tell Fitz, please!” She looked confused for half a second and then nodded. “Of course, Morgs.” They sped away.
Uncle Steve walked back over to Morgan and Uncle Bruce, giving her a searching look before pulling her into a hug. “Good job,” he murmured. “Now, Natasha said something about a cherry Slurpee. Let’s get that taken care of, Private Stark.” She nodded and took a couple of deep breaths. It was fine. It was all fine. Nothing to worry about at all, not one little bit.