A Horizon, A Journey
“Where is she?” Michelle’s grip tightened against the man’s satin collar, cold malice in her eyes, countenance akin to that of a brightly burning flame. She stared at the man before her, a towering burlesque figure.
“Not your fucking business, kid.” The man glared and was met with a slap to the left cheek, before wincing as Michelle held the steaming smith’s tool dangerously close to his temple. The blackened rod faded into a molten crimson hue at the end, and hovered over grimy skin as Michelle studied the man’s features.
“If you’ve hurt her,” she began, voice deceptively smooth, “I will brand you thrice for every mark you left upon her body.”
“You’ll come to find I didn’t do a thing to ‘er,” the man held a firm gaze, before spitting to the side disgustedly. “The little wretch left on her own.”
Michelle’s hand loosened around the branding device. “She wouldn’t.”
The older man chuckled. His breath smelled like smoke. He was standing far too close.
“Get lost, kid. Neither of us have a shot at seein’ her again.”
-
The scar was still there, burned tissue trailing down her pointer finger and coming to a halt near the base of her wrist. Michelle’s gaze flickered to it, and then away. She turned her hand so that the back of it stood facing the air, and the old wound lay tucked snug against her thigh, hidden from view.
“We’re here,” Jarvis announced, startling the girl from her thoughts. Michelle gazed out the carriage window, scanning the bustling harbor in realization.
“Thank you, Jarvis- everyone, look!” Peter piped up from where he’d been peering out the window eagerly, and he patted Ned’s shoulder. “How thrilling- I can’t believe we’ll be spending a week out in the tropics! There’s so much to take in, I-”
“Slow down, kiddo,” Tony chuckled- genuinely chuckled at the boy’s hearty excitement.
The group of four exited the carriage, giving Jarvis their regards. The butler nodded and drove off to unload their suitcases and have them stored in the chosen ship’s lower hold.
With a slow inhale, Michelle observed her surroundings, calculating the swiftest route to the ticket booth that had been obscured by countless passersby.
Mighty vessels of varying wooden hues dotted the coastline, roped to pegs on thin wooden bridges hovering just above the seawater. Barnacles and scarlet sea stars and all sorts of gently-weathered brine clung to the supporting stilts, those of which descended into a dark gradient where the waves lapped hungrily at their ends, before disappearing into the deep. Gulls whooped overhead, spiraling through a cerulean sky and cutting through wisps with sharp white wings.
Smoke and the scent of booze arose from where old weathered sailors sat in small clusters, cursing and recalling days of old. Pipes trailed from their mouths, bottles spilled or shattered by their feet. Each seemed to have a new contesting story, muttered by a gruff voice and describing an exaggerated overseas endeavor.
A few aged men whistled at Michelle as she walked by, and the girl only spat in the dust. Peter had often urged her not to engage with a boisterous reaction in an effort to prevent any more trouble. Even so, the disgust that weighed on her chest and bloomed across her skin remained of the same imminency. She recoiled, and ducked past more obnoxious figurines as the group finally approached the ticket booth.
“Ready for an adventure?” Peter smirked cheerily, and Ned elbowed him in the shoulder.
“You bet,” he winked.
Mr. Stark purchased the tickets and arranged the boarding hour, haggling with an employee despite having no shortage of currency. The man glanced at Michelle, seemingly worriedly, before occupying himself with business once more.
This gesture made Michelle conscious of her demeanor, and she attempted to shake off the thoughts that had plagued her morning. On the way to a waiting dock with benches and travelers and children, Peter gently gave her a nudge.
“That man,” his eyes were fixated onto one of the sailors from not long ago. “Will he be on the same ship as us?”
Michelle eyed the figure warily. “I don’t know. Are you getting a gut feeling?”
Peter’s intuition rarely failed the group; in numerous scenarios his quick thinking and sense of self-reliance had gotten his friends out of many a twisted situation. Combined with Ned’s careful optimism and Michelle’s street wits, the trio was unstoppable. Peter’s sensitivity to the sailor would not go undetected, and even Tony shot the kid a glance.
“If he gives you guys any trouble,” he pats the young man’s shoulder confidently. “Let me know. I’ll be completing a transaction with the help of Jarvis once we get onboard. But I’ll be close enough to keep an eye out. Nasty piece of shit,” Tony eyed the sailor with disdain as the burly man scratched at his unkempt attire. “I don’t want him getting anywhere near you kids.”
Peter nodded happily at this, and Ned gave a grateful half-shrug. The boys then proceeded to grab Mr. Stark by each arm and tug him towards their ship of choice with anticipation, nearly dragging the poor man off the platform and into the murky seawater in the process.
They discussed the mechanics of the ship, and Peter whipped out his journal to draw a rough outline as Ned examined the small fish feeding off of driftwood particles nearby.
Michelle stayed back and observed, concealing her underlying suspicions regarding Mr. Stark- for they were nearly as strong as that regarding the old sailor.
-
“Remember to add in the crow’s nest,” Tony glanced over the boy’s shoulder. The group had boarded ship and were waiting to exit the harbor, salty sea breeze ruffling Pete’s hair. He glanced up as Tony circled him and sat down, gesturing to the mast of the sketch.
Nodding, Peter etched the rough outline of a circle in proximity to the main mast, and Tony eyed him, impressed.
“You’ve got a real talent for this stuff, kid,” he remarked, and Peter grinned widely.
“My mother loved to paint,” he murmured, and continued his design. Tony observed in silence for a few moments before the ringing of a bell announced the beginning of the troupe’s departure. A slow swaying motion rocked the boat as it was pulled further out to sea, ropes unbound and dropping to the dock.
Almost instantly, Peter shot up and ran to the ship’s edge, leaning against the barrier and waving farewell to strangers along the shoreline, smiling widely as a cool wind caressed his cheeks.
Tony jolted up after him, ensuring that the boy would not, out of his own clumsiness, trip over the ship’s edge and plunge to his demise.
The harbor faded into a miniscule scene, its withdrawn vessel now gliding through mighty open waters.
Michelle, Peter, and Ned intently discussed the sights and sensations of the sea. At times the water was a crystalline cerulean, occasionally shifting into a jade green, and, at times, a bewitching ebony that dispersed fragments of sunlight as if they were a trail of white rose petals across charred soil.
“Look!” Peter would cry out at a brief flash of silver scales, but they would disappear beneath the waves as quickly as they came. Michelle glanced behind her frequently, checking for the bastard sailor that had eyed her so eerily. He was nowhere to be found.
“Ahem,” a voice caused the young woman to whip around. She stilled as it was only Jarvis, a lavish notebook embellished with geographical distinctions in his hands. The pages were frayed, and looked as if they were once soaked through.
Jarvis calmly held it out. “Mister Stark had one brought along for each of you,” he explained as Michelle traced the edges with the pad of her pointer finger. “He gave Peter’s to the boy before being pushed in the water at the lake, courtesy of yours truly. I apologize for the damage, your notebook was with him as he fell in.”
The butler seemed apprehensive that Michelle would not accept it, and, to his surprise, she took it and examined it demurely, before tucking it away in her worn satchel.
“Thank you,” was all she replied with, and turned her back as Jarvis left the area with a curt nod.
If only I could fill these pages with illustrations as intricate as hers, Michelle thought to herself. You swore, one day you would teach me. Bring my words to life with your pictures. Bring us to life with your love, and now I travel without you by my side.
A hoarse cough snapped Michelle out of her haze. She turned to see none other than the sailor from the harbor, smoking another pipe not far from where she’d leaned against the ship’s ledge. His profile appeared stronger against the pale blue sky, only slightly obscured by the smoke trailing from between his lips. He did not pay her any mind, although it was clear he had approached her for a reason.
Michelle narrowed her eyes, keeping them focused on the sea. Peter had darted off during her conversation with Jarvis, chasing Ned despite annoyed glares from fellow passengers. She was conveniently alone, and huffed frustratedly at that.
“What do you want,” she muttered. “I’m not interested in your disgusting propositions, whatever they may be.”
“I’m not here for you, girl,” the sailor pressed the pipe’s end to his mouth and inhaled, coughing slightly. Michelle wrinkled her nose as the putrid aroma wafted between the two.
“There’s a rule,” she declared suddenly. “No smoking onboard.” With that, the young woman had reached over and plucked the cigar from his lips, holding it high over her head. “That’s rather disrespectful to the captain, don’t you think?” Michelle smirked and cocked her head.
“Give that back, you piece of shit,” the sailor lunged forward, although his weight prevented his going far. All Michelle had to do was step back, winding the still-burning pipe between her fingers.
“Why should I?” The brunette studied her opponent’s weathered apparel. “Why didn’t you take your own boat, and drag your own ass to wherever you wanted to go? It’s obvious you’re familiar with these waters. You can smoke on your own ship,” she finished smugly, and the man let out a frustrated groan.
“You little fox,” he propelled himself forward once more, and Michelle dodged it nimbly, anticipating the fist that swung at her jaw and quickly leaning to the right. She began to grow nervous, as the crowd had noticed the spectacle and was closing in.
“Is that so?” She attempted to maintain her footing. “It would appear the only ‘little fox’ here is you,” she gestured at the gold coins spilling from a tear in the man’s pocket. “I wonder who those truly belong to.”
Grimacing, the sailor froze as the crowd murmured in disapproval. He eyed the scattered currency only moments before viciously charging at Michelle, about to throw a firm left hook before-
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a cold voice muttered from behind him. A hand grabbed him by the collar, resulting in the jab missing completely. His hand swung at nothing, and was immediately pinned behind his back as a blade met the rough skin of his throat.
“Agh, shit,” the sailor spat on the ground. “This ain’t my first rodeo, take the spoils.”
“I don’t want the spoils, Stane.”
The sailor whipped around, wincing as the knife penetrated the first layer of skin. His face went whiter than the coastal sands as his eyes fell upon the towering stature of none other than Tony Stark.
“Vanko,” Stark gave the man a thorough up-down with emotionless eyes. “You’re quite limp-wristed nowadays, I see.”
The sailor chuckled spitefully. “So the Iron Devil shows himself again.”
“You had no right to follow us,” Tony spat.
“You killed my brother,” Vanko clenched his jaw. “You deserve to rot in hell.”
Tony’s breath faltered, when Peter and Ned burst through the now-separating crowd.
“Mister Stark!” Peter’s eyes went wide as he took in the sight of his mentor holding that sailor at knifepoint against the ship’s ledge. “What-”
“Peter, stay back,” Tony warned, and secured his grip on Vanko once more.
“Aw, you found yourself a stray?” The sailor laughed grotesquely. “A baby-faced pawn to add to that twisted little chessboard of yours? Let’s hope you have more space back at the cemetery,” Vanko appeared to relish in the way Peter’s voice caught in his throat.
“Leave Michelle and Mister Stark alone,” he finally said, and Ned agreed. Vanko merely rolled his eyes.
“‘Leave the fox and the devil alone,’” the sailor mocked, and Ned had to restrain Peter from storming forth and taking the matter into his own fists.
The crowd had begun to disperse, disappointed that there were no more audacious displays of violence to entertain their idle minds.
Michelle stepped forward, pursing her lips. “We all know Mr. Stark is a man of many flaws,” she declared, expression stoic as she maneuvered confidently about the ship.
Peter’s gaze followed as she tossed the cigar she’d been holding overboard, earning another angered string of curses from Vanko. The pipe fizzled out with a final spout of smoke and sank beneath the sea.
“We’re aware of his former reputation,” Michelle bluffed. “Or at least, I am.” That much was somewhat true. She crossed over to where Vanko stayed bent against the ship’s ledge, knife still touching his Adam's apple. “Even so, to charge at me like that was quite the mindless blunder,” Michelle’s boots clacked against the deck as she knelt beside the man.
“Let’s not mess with the Iron Devil,” a smile tugged at the corner of Michelle’s lips. “Hm?”
Peter, on the other hand, was terrified. He gasped to himself, writhing from Ned’s grip and dashing to a more discreet quarters. Tony noticed this out of the corner of his eye, and withheld a sigh as he pulled the knife away from Vanko, releasing the panting man.
“Ah,” the older sailor straightened up. “Don’t have it in you to ruin lives anymore, eh? What, you one of those Puritans now?”
“Hardly,” Tony scoffed, and spun the knife with a clean motion before strapping it to his belt. “And Ivan is dead by his own account. I told him not to mess with those men.”
“He lost everything because you cheated,” Vanko hissed, skin beneath his eyes stained- the mark of a grief-stricken man. “He went because he didn’t have a choice.”
Tony said nothing, at this. He merely gripped the man’s shoulder, a reminder of the strength he still possessed, and released him.
“Take the spoils. And come to me tomorrow for the rest.”
Vanko froze, dumbfounded, as Tony bent below them and scraped up the stolen coins that had escaped his pocket during their tussle.
“I’m sorry,” the sailor rubbed his temples, chortling in disbelief. “You think I believe you- or would ask for the remainder of your currency?”
“It’s as you said,” Tony spoke with nonchalance. “I have plenty back home, and seeing as you tried to get away with stealing the little I brought here in the first place, it’s certainly not beneath you to accept it.”
Stammering, Vanko attempted to conjure an excuse between curses. Tony merely handed the man the rest of the coins. They clinked about in Vanko’s calloused palm, and Tony stopped before turning to leave.
“Like I said, come to my quarters tomorrow. It’s the least I can do.”
-
Night had blanketed the sea by the time Tony confronted Peter.
The brown-haired boy sat down at the edge of the ship, legs dangling over the edge, hands on the railing, expression distraught and pondering.
Tony only wished he’d spoken up sooner.
He knew the day they’d had would come- the deeply dreaded day in which his past would collide mercilessly with the present. The older man sat down and sighed, his breath forming sugary spirals in the air against the cold.
He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for Peter to inquire about what Vanko had meant. The boy clearly disliked withholding curious statements.
“Is it true?” Peter’s voice was bitter, lip quivering as he spoke. “Did you kill Vanko’s brother?”
Tony rubbed his temples. “He owed a dangerous crowd money. All of us, that day, we knew. We sat in the ring and played him anyway.”
Peter was silent.
“I bled him dry,” Tony continued, voice worn-down with unspoken regret. “I cheated, and I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse ‘cause it had been fun, at the time.”
Disgust began to seep into Tony’s tone as he relived the situation.
“We got drunk and went outside, as a group,” Tony’s eyes glazed over, now a dull gray that matched the dismal sea and sky. “They hunted him down, and we stood by and watched ‘cause we were drunk off of our asses and it wasn’t our problem.”
Glancing up, Peter finally turned to Tony with wide eyes.
Wide eyes kept open by growing fear.
Tony wanted to shoot himself.
“Yeah,” he muttered, “it wasn’t pretty.”
A moment of silence.
And then, a response.
“Neither is losing your wife,” Peter murmured and pointed at the sky.
“When a star dies,” the younger male began, “is it easy for the universe to recover?”
Tony scoffed, unsure of the intent behind the question. “Kid, I don’t fucking know,” he shot Peter a look and then a shrug, but Peter never shifted his focus to Mr. Stark.
“Does it?” He asked again.
“I- I don’t know, kid. What the fuck you’re going on about- I don’t know, Peter,” Tony stammered. “I don’t study astrology, but stars don’t have those types of feelings for each other. And the universe- shit’s vast.”
Peter smiled softly at that, as if Tony’s response were exactly what he’d wanted to hear.
“Exactly,” he mused aloud, the cheer having returned to his voice oddly quickly. “The universe is vast. It has infinite capabilities that allow it to recover extremely quickly. One loss can easily be replaced by a million other stars. No emotional attachment was broken, and nothing irreplaceable was gone.”
“What are you getting at with this?” Tony attempted to mask the way his voice shook.
“You, Tony Stark,” Peter pointed at the older man’s chest, “are not the universe. You are not equipped to handle losses perfectly. You don’t have a million other stars to fill the void a single spark in your life left.”
As far as Peter could see, Mr. Stark was at a loss for words. Good. Perhaps he needed to hear this, and hadn’t in a while.
Peter continued on. “I’m not going to resent you for the ways in which you tried to kill your sadness.”
Then, the boy added a condition. “As long as your past remains in the past, and you don’t carry that malice any further.”
Tony understood. He didn’t feel the compulsion to hurt and destroy- to dismalize livelihoods anymore.
The older man nodded, gaze fixated on the night sky.
The boat would drop anchor in a few weeks, and they would land on the rich grounds of central America, docking at some bustling trade port in which they would receive directions to a hostel.
Perhaps there, Mr. Stark thought, I might atone for my wrongdoings.
After a moment of silent contemplation amidst the stars, Peter departed to his quarters.
The next morning, Tony awaited a visit from Vanko to collect his promised currency.
He waited a long while.
Vanko never came.