Ghost of You

f o r t y

I was playing scrabble with James Buchanan Barnes Jr. when it happened. 

I had just played the tiles to spell 'Maximize'. Triple word score. Eighty-Four points. I was celebrating. He was trying to convince me that 'maximize' was a made up word.

That's when my phone started to blare like a siren. Once, twice, then again for a third time. 

"Christ those things are annoying." He says, arms crossed and a surly expression displayed on his face. "Survived fine enough without one for twenty-eight years." 

"Well maybe if you had a cell phone when you fell off that train during World War II you could have called someone to pick you up instead of getting captured by evil scientists." I tell him, getting up from my seat to grab my phone from off the counter nearby.

"But then you never would have met me." He replies. "You'd be all alone in Wakanda with nobody else to cheat on Scrabble with- Jesus!"

He stops mid-sentence to groan as the phone goes off for a fifth time. Having not grown up around technology, he doesn't recognize the sound the phone is making but I know what it means immediately. It's the sound all Apple phones make when they send the Amber Alerts. But never in my life had I heard more than one at a time. 

My suspicions are confirmed when I scroll through my phone. I silence the notifications to stop the influx of alerts because yes, they were still coming through. There had to be at least ten of them. It's not just those alerts either. All of my news apps are spamming me with notifications. My eyes aren't fast enough to read them before the next alert comes in. 

I silence the phone, heading over to the nearest side table and grabbing the remote. I switch the TV on, turning it to the nearest news channel. 

"Holy shit." Bucky's eyes go dark as he takes in the sight on the screen. 

My cell phone slips out of my hand falling onto the floor with a thud. I hear the crack of the screen as it does, but I don't go to retrieve it. My sole focus is on the images appearing on the television and the comments of the newscaster as it flipped through them, each one more terrifying than the next.

"Panic and terror rain through New York City as a large, flying alien ship appears off of Bleecker Street. Chaos ensued as civilians ran from the scene, many loved ones being separated from their families as they ran for cover." The woman says in a serious and somber voice. "Officials are saying that the attack has been confirmed to be from an extra-terrestrial source, although they have been unable to identify the cause of the unprovoked violence."

I stare in horror as what only could be described as a massive flying donut-shaped demon spaceship descends over Manhattan. Men, women and children sprint away from the scene, abandoning their cars and bikes to flee on foot. 

"While it's still unknown what prompted the attack, the ship disappeared not long after it had arrived. Famous billionaire and owner of the Iron Man suit, Tony Stark, was first to arrive on the scene."

The screen flipped to footage of Tony in his suit, lasers shooting towards a tall figure but it was too shaky to make out who or what it was that he was shooting at. It had clearly been taken by someone on their phone as they ran for cover.

"Sources at the scene have confirmed that Tony Stark was on the ship as it departed and has yet to return, although many of the eye-witness accounts in the area have suggested that Stark wasn't alone. These citizens have informed us that no other then Manhattan's own masked-hero Spider-Man had joined Stark on the scene."

"Peter." I whispered, completely petrified by the images on the screen. 

If you looked closely, you could just make out a figure in a red and blue suit. He was being dragged up into the space ship, trapped in some sort of blue force as he rose to the sky. Tony's suit was flying determinately after him until the footage cuts out.