Five o'clock in the afternoon. The arrivals hall at John F. Kennedy International Airport was a river of humanity, a chaotic mix of joyful reunions and weary travelers. But for Captain George Stacy of the 19th Precinct, it was a circle of hell. He paced back and forth near the exit, a caged tiger in a black suit, his jaw so tight it ached.
Oh my god, he thought, the phrase a frantic, repeating prayer. It's happening.
His precious cabbage, the daughter he had painstakingly raised, the brilliant, beautiful light of his life, had been eyed by a wild boar. And not just any wild boar. One from the deep, untamed wilderness. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was the cold, hard, undeniable fact that his own cabbage seemed to have actively sought out the boar, leaping over the fence of her own accord.
At this moment, George Stacy had only one, primal, all-consuming thought in his mind.
He was going to shoot the wild boar.
Just then, the passengers from the flight arriving from Hagerstown, Maryland, began to trickle through the gate. George stopped pacing, took a deep, steadying breath, and planted himself at the exit, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk searching for prey.
And then he saw them.
His breath caught in his chest, and his carefully constructed composure shattered. It was worse than he had imagined. His precious daughter, his Gwen, was walking through the gate holding hands with a handsome, wild-eyed… thing.
A wave of pure, glacial fury emanated from him. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees. The other people waiting nearby felt the sudden, oppressive chill, instinctively glanced at the man whose face was a thundercloud of righteous anger, and took several large steps away.
The couple, lost in their own world, finally felt the cold front. Gwen instinctively looked in the direction of the chill, and her eyes went wide. "Shit," she whispered, her hand immediately slapping Hawk's loose. "It's Dad."
Hawk saw him at the same instant. A tall, imposing figure in a perfectly tailored black suit, exuding an aura of unimpeachable authority and paternal rage. Their eyes met across the bustling terminal. Hawk saw no welcome, only a deep, penetrating scrutiny and a cold, hard vigilance.
He understood it completely. If their roles were reversed, if some unknown boy had disappeared with his daughter for weeks only to reappear holding her hand, he would be even angrier. Breaking the boy's legs would be the gentle option.
What's that? The wild boar is me? Oh. Never mind then.
He was still a bit fuzzy on the details of how, exactly, they had reached the hand-holding stage. The journey back from the wilderness had been a blur of exhausted sleep (for her) and quiet, watchful contemplation (for him). But somewhere between a shared meal at a roadside diner and the flight back, an unspoken truth had solidified between them. And he was happy. Impossibly, terrifyingly happy.
The old Hawk would never have dared to even dream of this. He had no confidence, no future, nothing to offer. But the new Hawk was different. He had power. And with the Phoenix constellation now blazing within him, and the promise of a Saint Cloth on the horizon, his confidence was a tangible, growing force.
He watched Gwen rush over to her father, trying to placate him with a flurry of words. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked directly into the lion's den. He stopped before Captain Stacy, looked the man directly in the eye, and extended his right hand.
"Mr. Stacy. I'm Hawk. I'm sorry to have worried you."
George Stacy's eyes flickered down to the offered hand, then back up to Hawk's face. He ignored it completely, his gaze as hard as granite. He turned to his daughter. "Let's go. Your mother is waiting at home."
"Dad!" Gwen protested, her voice pleading.
"It's okay, Gwen," Hawk said calmly, withdrawing his unshaken hand. He knew this was a battle he could not win today. "You go back with your father." He gave her a small, reassuring smile, then nodded respectfully to the still-furious Captain. "Mr. Stacy."
With that, he turned and walked away, melting back into the anonymous airport crowd, refusing to make things any more difficult for her.
An hour later, Hawk returned to his apartment. He turned on the light, half-expecting to find a layer of dust from his twenty-plus day absence. But the room was clean. His grey shorts, the ones Gwen had seen hanging on his window, were folded neatly on the sofa. And resting on top of them was a single, white envelope.
Dr. Connors's gift.
He sat on the sofa, picked up the envelope, and slid out the single, heavy-stock piece of paper inside. It was a handwritten letter of recommendation from Dr. Curt Connors to the admissions board of New York University.
"Hiss," he breathed out. This was a substantial gift. A personal recommendation from a scientist of Connors's stature was a piece of social currency that could open doors. The old Hawk, the one who had meticulously planned his path through law school, would have been ecstatic.
But now? He looked at the letter, and all he felt was a quiet, detached appreciation. His future was no longer a narrow path he had to claw his way down. It was a vast, open frontier. He might go to NYU, he might not. The frantic urgency was gone. If I get it, it's my luck; if I lose it, it's my fate.
Still, a debt of gratitude had to be paid. He turned the envelope over. Gwen had thoughtfully written Dr. Connors's personal number on the back. He pulled out his phone, remembered its dead battery, and with a small chuckle, walked into the bedroom to plug it in.
As he sat on the edge of the bed waiting for it to turn on, his eyes fell on the nightstand. The photo frame. It had been moved. Just a fraction of an inch, but he knew. He reached out and readjusted its position, tilting it so that it faced the spot on his pillow where his head would rest. It was a small, private ritual. He liked to sleep on his side, and he wanted the smiling faces in that photo to be the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes each morning.
The phone chimed to life. He dialed.
The call connected quickly. "This is Curtis…"
"Dr. Connors, it's me, Hawk." He apologized for his long silence, explaining he'd been traveling and had only just seen the letter.
Dr. Connors's voice on the other end was boisterous, filled with an almost manic energy. "Think nothing of it, son! You deserved better than what happened here."
"You sound happy, Doctor," Hawk observed. "Did the experiment succeed?"
A hearty, triumphant laugh echoed through the phone. "Almost! Victory is at hand! One of the lab mice, Hawk… one of the mice has shown me the way! It has shown me the hope of a glorious future!"
"…Well," Hawk said slowly, a cold knot forming in his stomach as he remembered the small, white mouse with the broken tail, lapping his blood from the lab floor. "Congratulations in advance, Doctor."