The Newark Private Airfield wasn't officially open to most civilian maps. It was a jagged tooth of asphalt and corrugated steel tucked between the industrial skeletons of the Jersey shipyards and the salt-stained marshes of the Meadowlands. It was exactly the kind of place where things—and people—disappeared.
Peter Parker stood on the tarmac, his Spider-Man costume not doing much for the chilly breeze. In his pocket, the sleek, obsidian-colored device Ethan had given him hummed with a low-frequency vibration that made his teeth ache. It was a "Frequency Scrambler," or so Ethan had called it. Apparently, it was a piece of high-level electronic warfare that was currently scrubbing his existence from every Stark-Satel and SHIELD reconnaissance drone in the tri-state area.
"He's late," a voice rumbled from the shadows of Hangar 7.
Richard Rider, the man who would be known to the galaxy as Nova, stepped into the pools of amber security light. He wasn't in his Centurion armor—not yet—but the way he moved suggested a man who found gravity to be a personal insult. He wore a flight jacket that looked older than Peter, and his eyes were constantly tracking the clouds, as if looking for a breach in the atmosphere.
"He's not late, Rich. He's just handling some last-minute details," Peter said, checking his watch. "Matt doesn't exactly take the subway when he's in the suit."
"We shouldn't even be here," Richard said, crossing his arms. He looked at the sleek, matte-black Gulfstream G650 sitting in the hangar. The tail fin bore a discreet logo: a stylized 'M' wrapped in a circle. Maddox Industries. "I could have us over the Bay Area in ten minutes. Fifteen, if I stop to grab a burrito in Denver. Why are we sitting in a pressurized tin can?"
"Because," a new voice interrupted, smooth and calm, "the moment you break the sound barrier over the Midwest, every Avenger from here to the Mansion starts asking why a human rocket is streaking toward Alcatraz. And we are specifically trying to avoid being 'seen' by everyone."
Matt Murdock emerged from the fog, the red leather of the Daredevil suit darkened to a deep maroon by the mist. He walked with his billy club collapsed in his hand, his head tilted at an angle that suggested he was listening to see the entire airfield.
"Murdock," Richard nodded, though his tone remained impatient. "I thought you'd be the first one to advocate for speed. High-stakes kidnapping, remember? Xavier has been rotting in the hole for quite a while."
"I advocate for a quick, but controlled approach," Matt replied, stopping a few feet from the plane's boarding stairs. "Alcatraz isn't just a regular prison; I'm sure there are guards. If you fly in there like a meteor, the enemy will hear you coming before you hit the Nevada border. We need a stealth. Not a fireworks show."
Peter stepped between them, "Okay, okay, let's all calm down, look. We're all on the same side. Mr. Maddox—provided the jet because it's registered as a medical transport for the NeoCore Systems. It's got a Class-4 stealth suite and a pilot who's been... well, he's been thoroughly vetted."
"Vetted by a mysterious person we don't know," Richard muttered, but he transformed into his Centurion armor as he walked up the stairs.
The interior of the jet was a jarring contrast to the gritty airfield. It was all cream leather, brushed carbon fiber, and glowing holographic interfaces. It smelled of expensive cedar and ozone.
At the front of the cabin, the cockpit door was open. A man in his late twenties, wearing a crisp flight uniform and a headset, turned around with an expression that could only be described as 'manic glee.'
"Holy—" the pilot gasped, his eyes widening as he looked past Richard and Matt. "You're... you're him! The guy! The Wall-Crawler!"
Peter felt his face heat up. "Uh, hey. I'm Spider-Man. But, you know, just keep it between us."
"I'm Kevin," the pilot said, nearly tripping over his flight seat to offer a hand. "Big fan, man. Huge. I was in Queens during the Vulture incident. You caught my cousin's car before the Vulture could drop it on a bus. I've got the grainy flip-phone footage saved on three different hard drives!"
Richard snorted, dropping into a plush swivel chair. "Oh, this is going to be a long flight."
Matt sat opposite him, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A hero of the people, Spider-Man. Truly, your reach is vast."
"I'm glad I could save your cousin Kevin. Shut up, Daredevil," Peter hissed, taking a seat and buckling in.
As the jet taxied toward the runway, Kevin's voice came over the cabin speakers, crackling with excitement. "Alright, folks, we're cleared for an 'undercover' departure. Mr. Maddox has me running a low-altitude corridor to avoid the commercial lanes. Spider-Man, sir, if the G-force is too much, just let me know, and I'll level her out! I wouldn't want the Web-Slinger getting airsick on my watch!"
Richard leaned back, locking his hands behind his head. "So, 'Sir Spider-Man,' do you usually get a commemorative plaque after every flight, or is that just for the private charters?"
"It's the boots," Matt added, his sightless eyes were 'fixed' on Peter's direction. "The public finds the red and blue very reassuring. It says, 'I'm here to save you, and I'm also available for birthday parties.'"
"Yeah, laugh it up, guys," Peter grumbled, pulling the Frequency Scrambler from his pocket and plugging it into the plane's console as Ethan had instructed. "While you two are busy being 'International Men of Mystery' and 'Intergalactic Space Cops,' I'll be the one making sure Stark and SHIELD don't see us, so we don't end up at a black site."
The screen on the console flickered to life. A map of the United States appeared, but it was overlaid with a grid of shifting red zones.
"What am I looking at?" Richard asked, his bravado dropping as he leaned in to look at the display.
"Apparently, it's called the 'Stark-Shield Integrated Defense Mesh,'" Peter explained, his fingers flying over the holographic keys. "Normally, this jet would be a bright orange blip. But the thing I just plugged in is doing something called 'Temporal Ghosting.' It's sending back a signal of the empty sky from ten seconds ago to any radar that hits us. We're essentially a hole in the world."
Matt tilted his head. "Sounds complicated."
"Ha, I see what you did there. There's also the active noise cancellation for the hull," Peter said. "The thing holding Xavier has a very powerful radar. We're trying to make this plane feel like a flock of birds."
"Sounds thorough. I can do it too," Richard admitted, looking out the window as the lights of Manhattan began to shrink beneath them. "But I still don't like it. Rescue missions are hard. We don't know his current location either. It'll take a long time to locate him."
"The pun doesn't work if you can see. Which is why you and I are the distraction," Peter said, his voice turning serious. "We're the surgical strike. Matt can find the Professor, Richard can provide the extraction afterward, and I..."
"And you can sign autographs for the pilot," Richard quipped.
Peter rolled his eyes. "I was going to say 'crowd control,' but sure, let's go with the autographs. I'll make sure to write 'To my favorite Space-Jock' on yours, Rich."
The plane leveled off at thirty thousand feet. The cabin went quiet for a moment, the only sound the steady, artificial thrum of the stealth engines.
"Peter," Matt said softly, his tone shifting. "The source of the information. Who gave you this tech? I'm assuming it's the same person who gave you the coordinates. So is it the Issac Maddox person whose jet we're on?"
"I know what you're going to ask, Matt," Peter sighed.
"How did he get such information?" Matt continued. "I'm guessing even the X-Men don't know, or they'd be going there and not us. You don't seem to trust him fully, but you're doing as he says."
"No, I trust him, just other things happened," Peter replied, looking at the glowing red dot on the map that represented Alcatraz. "Something terrible is going to happen soon, and I need the Professor to help stop it. If I have to do things I'm not particularly fond of to stop it, then I'm going to do it."
"Just make sure you can see where the 'end' is, Peter," Matt warned. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're following blind. Pun unintended, but you get what I mean."
Richard looked between the two of them, then back at the cockpit where Kevin was hum-singing a Spider-Man theme song. "Well, if we're all going to die in two months, I might as well enjoy the free ginger ale." He pressed a button on the armrest, and a refrigerated drawer slid open. "You guys want anything? Or are we too busy arguing and brooding to hydrate?"
Peter leaned back, closing his eyes. He thought of his recent conversation with Ethan. After this was all done, he should have another talk with him on his terms.
"I'll take a water," Peter said. "I have a feeling I'm going to need a clear head once we hit the fog."
As the jet sped westward, cutting through the night like a silent, invisible blade, the three heroes sat in the luxury of Isaac Maddox's charity. They were a human, a spider-enhanced human, and a cosmic warrior.
High above, the Stark satellites swept the area, their sensors recording nothing but the cold, empty air and the occasional drift of a cloud.
"Spider-Man!" Kevin's voice chirped over the comms again. "Just a heads up, we're passing over Chicago. If you want to do a fly-by and stop somewhere first, let me know!"
"No, Kevin!" Peter shouted toward the cockpit. "No stops, just head to our destination!"
Richard and Matt burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the high-tech cabin. Peter slumped in his seat, a quip dying on his lips as he realized that no matter how far he flew, he was still the same kid from Queens—just with much more expensive problems.