This is before "The Man in the Ant Hill" started.
(Mia's POV): Same night, somewhere in New York.
The truck screeched to a halt, jolting me awake. I scrambled out of the wooden crate before anyone could spot me. Peeking through a crack in the back doors, I scanned the surroundings.
'Welp, definitely New York,' I thought, then noticed approaching S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers, and hid my eyes away from the gap of the half open crate, 'Shit, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents! Gotta get out of here.' My heart hammered as they neared the truck. 'Think, Mia, think!'
My fingers brushed against a bobby pin tucked behind my ear. 'AHA! Jackpot. Though...how do I-Never Mind, I should think about it later.' With practiced ease (thank you, teenage spy shows), I bent the pin and jammed it into the padlock.
A few tense seconds later—ℂ𝕃𝕀ℂ𝕂!
The lock sprang open.
With quiet pride, I unlocked it, carefully lowering the lock to the ground.
After assuring myself that no S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were aware of what was going, I cautiously opened the crate door, slipped out, and concealed myself behind neighboring crates. I created a distraction by slamming a nearby crate door before hiding behind another.
By not drawing attention to where I actually am.
A grin, betraying my amusement and confidence, tugged subtly at the corners of my lips: 'Thanks to the many movies and TV shows I researched, I knew this trick like a pro.' I flip my hair over my shoulder like a boss and hear murmuring voices heading my way.
Slipping into the loading dock's shadows, I instantly didn't hesitate to dart between crates until I found an exit gate and emerged onto the open New York streets.
Hours later...
The cold night air bit at my skin, but adrenaline kept me warm.
New York sprawled before me—neon lights, honking cabs, the hum of a city that never slept...but then, my stomach growled.
"I know, stomach, but I don't have cash on me," I tiredly told my stomach while hugging myself around it as I continued wandering around the city in my hospital gown in search of some clothes that I could wear for the cold night.
Scene changes, and among the rags and scavenged clothes in the donation boxes, I stopped and pulled out something that I found useful—a baggy white sweater, slim jeans likely rejected from other donations, and hole-riddled socks.
A charity box near a thrift store had been my savior.
Relieved in my new clothes and with socks warming my feet, I continued walking. When I passed by every shop and restaurant being closed around me, I began passing a storefront window, which is where I froze and took a closer look (since I'm near-sighted).
My reflection stared back—jet-black hair cascading to my waist, an oval face with sharp cheekbones, and those eyes—chocolate brown, but with a tiny, star-like shimmer in the left corner.
I touched my cheek, tracing the unfamiliar shape inside my left eye.
"Is this... me?"
Then, for a split second, the reflection shifted. A different face—my face, from before—flickered in the glass.
A name I hadn't heard since I got here whispered in my mind.
My breath hitched.
'No. That's not who I am anymore. I'm Mia Lightwood, and this is my new life.' I tore myself away, storming down the sidewalk until the image faded.
Later, in the park...
Central Park at midnight was eerily beautiful.
Lamplight illuminated the fountain, its water shimmering like liquid silver. Exhausted but unwilling to sleep, I ran to its edge and sat. I cupped my hands, splashed my face, and leaned down to drink when—.
"Don't."
A voice—gruff, wary—made me jerk upright. An old man with a white mustache in a rumpled coat that covered his white sweater, with his cane in one hand, stood a few feet away, his eyes locked onto me with his glasses.
"That water's recycled, kid. You'll get sick."
I blinked. "...Oh."
He studied me for a beat, then sighed, digging into his pocket when he suddenly threw a honey granola bar that landed in my lap.
"Eat that instead. And come with me."
I recognized him just as he walked away, granola bar in hand, leaving me to follow.
Weeks later...
Life had a funny way of working out.
Stan Lee—' the' Stan Lee, my childhood favorite comic hero, now my grumpy ol'kindhearted landlord—had taken one look at me sleeping on a park bench and practically adopted me. Now, I'm living as his personal caregiver and unofficial granddaughter.
I was dragged to his cramped apartment above a comic shop where his romanticized stories of comics' "good ol' days" clashed with the documentaries I knew.
"Kid, you're gonna catch pneumonia if you don't get inside," his grumbling voice echoed in the living room. I immediately entered the apartment, groceries in hand, wearing only a blue nurse uniform and white sneakers.
I roll my eyes playfully, "And once I am inside, Stan. I'd like to know if you've taken your medication pills yet."
"A darn it, nothin' gets passed you, huh?"
I smirk, "You bet your ass, sir."
That earned me a chuckle.
After locking the door and bringing in the groceries, I made lunch so he could take his medication. We ate and chatted about our days, as usual. Later, after I made dinner, I was getting ready for bed when he called me into his cluttered office with a smirk.
Confused, I went in until my dark chocolate eyes landed on the massive box sitting on his desk.
"Uh. It's not my birthday," I said, eyeing it.
Walking to stand behind me, he pushes me forward to his desk, "Nope. But it's your 'congrats on not being dead' present," he jokingly shot back, as I stare down at it before I open it to find something that made my heart explode.
Inside—art supplies, HB pencils, vinyl eraser, straightedge ruler, pens, coloring pencils & markers, extra professional-grade pencils, inks, and a stack of pristine paper.
My throat tightened.
"Stan, I—"
"You doodle behind my empty documents long enough. Might as well make it official." He winked, "And also, I thought you could be my roommate. Permanently."
Tears welled up, I launched at him, hugging him so hard he wheezed.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you—" I excitedly cried in joy, when it was short-lived as there came a knock at the door, Stan frowned: "You expecting someone?" I shook my head, wiping my eyes. "No, but—" The knocking came again—harder, impatient.
Dread coiled in my gut. I figured something was up, and walked to the door, swung it open—And there he was.
Nick Fury.
Trench coat, eyepatch, and most importantly, the famous glare.
My blood turned to ice.
"Mia Lightwood," he said, voice deeply gravelly, "We need to talk."
'I am so screwed.'