↹ HEARTBREAK // M C U ↹ DISCONTINUED

0.3

The kid didn't look like much of anything. He was wearing a somewhat baggy black suit. She might've thought it was techwear if it wasn't for the knives strapped to each leg and the holsters on his belt.

He moved quickly, going from the fire escape to the ground in front of them in a matter of seconds. He barely reached Jet's shoulders, having to crane his neck to meet Harry's eyes.

"Osborne?" He asked again, a slight accent creeping through.

"Yes. No— I'm not Norman. I'm Harry. His son."

"Oh." The boy's shoulders slumped a bit.

"Why do you need Norman Osborne?" Jet asked, peering down at the kid. He was probably a bit younger than her neighbor, Peter. Twelve or thirteen. Not old enough for High School, let alone an internship.

Then again, maybe he was a child assassin, sent to kill Norman Osborne. With all the chemicals Oscorp dumped, it was no wonder somebody had it out for him. And it would explain the weapons. Jet counted four knives strapped to him and what she was pretty sure was a gun holstered under each arm pit.

"I need to become a super-soldier. Save my papa."

The accent was more pronounced the more he spoke. Russian, most likely. Subtle enough that she noticed, but Harry didn't seem to. Jet was about to ask where he was from when Harry grabbed him by the shoulders.

"You don't want to be anywhere near Norman, okay? You'll just end up dead." He shook him as he spoke, face cold in a way Jet hadn't seen before. "Go home and help your dad some other way. Grow up, get rich, and buy him a house."

The boy (she really needed to figure out his name) pulled away, glaring. "Can't go home, there isn't any home. I escaped only because papa was sick. If I go back, I'll get sick too."

"Where's back? Where did you come from?"

The boy looked at Jet, face tight. "Russia. Lab. They all wear six-armed skulls. Papa says I'm not supposed to talk about them."

Jet felt sick. "Hydra."

The boy tensed further, stepping away from her. "Are you— "

"No." She stressed, hands held up. "I'm not with them. I just . . . know a bit about this stuff."

Jet glanced between a white-face Harry and the mini-soldier. "Let's go back to my place. It'll be safe to talk there."

She scratched her head, sighing at the kid as she pulled off the long raincoat she'd brought with her. It was a bit past her knees, but on him, it would trail against the ground. "Here, cover up. It might be New York, but you can't walk around with guns and knives and not get some stares."

As they quietly walked towards the subway, Jet forced herself to take deep breaths. Her mom had always been very clear on how she should handle dangerous situations, and that's surely what this was. Befriending Harry was bad enough; bringing in this mystery kid was just asking for trouble.

"What's your name anyway?" She asked a few minutes later as they boarded the subway. He sat between her and Harry, fiddling with the zipper of her coat.

The boy hesitated before answering. "Max."

She nodded, holding out her hand. "You can call me Jet. And you already know that's Harry."

Harry was almost as quiet as the kid, fists white-knuckled against his thighs. He had been mute since they'd left the alley, letting her lead. The problem was that Jet was not good with kids. She was an awful babysitter and would probably never have kids. When she was twelve, she was homeschooled in Alaska. Fishing and hunting for her food, chopping her own wood, even though it made her arms ache and she was always freezing even with a fire. It was a shitty year. She homeschooled herself with supplies sent by her mother, not that she often bothered to actually do it. And she didn't talk to anyone, let alone other children her age. Hell, the first real friend she'd made was Harry. Her childhood wasn't exactly normal. She had no clue what kids did, what intelligence level they were at. She was doing High School math in elementary— how much could a kid even comprehend?