Chapter Text

Chapter One

✭

Cold mist covered the ground.

Pale, pale blue in the darkness, so pale it seemed to emanate an eerie glow. It swept up in puffs and swirls with every step. It surged back in curling waves, sweeping out with every thrust, giving way to every drop of blood.

Her body moved of its own accord.

Eyes watching, in dispassionate observance, as her fist broke orbital bone. As her knife sunk down into spine. Feeling nothing and everything as blow after blow landed upon her body.

They were bigger. They were stronger. They screamed with glee and rage and freedom.

Ice frosted on her lip where blood had coagulated. Each breath pierced her lungs. Something hurt, something burned.

Somewhere, deep down, the tiny animal in her heart was scared.

She was badly outnumbered. She had been given her orders, and she had no choice but to obey. Eliminate all targets. Either until they or she was dead.

In total, she was not meant to survive.

But survival was what she was built for. These men and women, they were little more than caged beasts. They saw nothing but something to kill and tear open and feast upon. There was no stopping them, no controlling them.

They scratched at her face. Fist after fist landed against her chest.

Something broke inside her. She lost count how much. It didn't matter. The pain didn't matter, so long as she could ignore it, so long as it didn't slow her down. Each painful breath, each stumbling step, so long as that killing blow landed.

Her only advantage were her weapons. Her targets had nothing but their rage and their hands. And vicious, they were.

Blood splashed against cement and metal, so deep it seemed a grisly black in the blue hued light. Something struck her in the back of the head, and she toppled off the dais.

Cold concrete met her below. Hard and unwelcoming, a gravity so strong it was almost impossible to resist. The world swam around her, eyes unfocused in the swirling mist, invisible lights flashing in her retinas, a ringing in her ears. Something hot slipping down the back of her neck and down her collar.

And she knew, that animal deep down — they were killing her.

But she still slid her hands beneath her, and pushed up.

The world shifted, uneven and swaying beneath her feet. One side of her body felt heavier than the other, and the men that remained came at her too fast, blurring as they moved.

Her knife dripped with blood. Her knuckles split. Rust in her mouth.

And she threw herself back at them.

Knife point slamming up beneath the chin. A kick to her knee. Knife into the offending foot. Shield taking another blow, not the boot to the face.

Hands around her throat. Fists into gut, chest, face. At a certain point, its hard to tell who was hurting who. For every blow she landed, she earned twice, thrice, sevenfold in return.

And still, they fell. One by one by one.

Until there was no one left.

No one but her.

The last body hit the floor. And there was silence. Nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Her heart pounding in her ears. Scanning the room desperately, searching for any enemy in the shadows. But she had counted. All eight were dead.

She had accomplished her mission.

The only one left to die — herself.

And it would happen. She could feel it. Something punctured, something bleeding. Her head ached and pounded and swam. It was difficult to stand upright anymore, and she stumbled against a far wall, sliding down. Catching her breath. Hand to her side came away wet with blood.

She coughed, and that too came up red. But still, it felt good. To have succeeded in her mission. There was nothing left now. No more orders. No more commands. Just to wait.

Waiting.

Waiting to die.

It wouldn't be long now.

It was easy to close her eyes, and fall into oblivion.

Chapter Text

[Part One: 72 Hours]

Chapter Two

✭

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

✭

April showers filled the air with the scent of petrichor, sweet and rich. Even after everything that happened, I still found something new to appreciate in the world around me.

The weather would not make for an ideal ceremony later today, but it suited me just fine. To listen to the rain patter on the windows during school, to finally step out and find the sun shining again, the chill of winter finally gone.

"You still heading out to that memorial thing after school?" Peter asked me as the final bell rang, leaving Chem class together into the onslaught of evacuees in the hallways. Like me, Peter now stood above the crowd, having finally hit that growth spurt he always wanted and almost as tall as me now. Almost. He was still as lanky as ever, though, and weaving through the crowds was still necessary. "Don't forget May wants you home early so you can study."

I hadn't grown as much as Peter had, now reaching an easy six feet, but my hair made up for it. I held true to my personal code of never cutting my hair again, and then compromised with Aunt May for a trim here and there to take care of split ends. After over a year of growing out that hack job bob, my hair finally reached mid-back, nearly the length it was in middle school. It was also the first time I met the truth about curly hair at full health, and that it was truly unmanageable and best kept braided for as long as I could help it.

Still worth it, though.

Junior year had done well for me overall. No awful life-changing events. No terrible accidents or hospital trips. Not a single missed day of school — this was the first year I'd have a perfect attendance record, and I was determined to achieve it. I'd have no shot at Valedictorian next year, or even Salutatorian, because Midtown required a certain attendance ratio for their best students that I absolutely did not meet.

But this year. Just this once. This was going to be my year.

"Of course I'm still going," I said, slamming my locker door shut with all my books and papers inside. What I had to study for had nothing to do with Midtown, but something I had been looking forward to for a very long time now. Even if it did mean not getting to let loose on a Friday. I threw Peter a knowing look. "And I'm not going to forget about the b'nai mitzvah either. How can I when Wanda keeps texting me about it?"

"Hey, just saying!" Peter threw up his hands in innocence as we began our way out the school. "I got cold feet when I had to stand up there and read from the Torah in front of everyone."

"Well, unlike you, I won't be alone," I pointed out, even though Peter did raise a concern. I didn't exactly like being the center of attention, too many eyes on me. But I didn't expect this occasion to be too bad. "And I'm not a tiny thirteen-year-old anymore."

That had been something that had weighed on me for years — although it felt shorter, since I still couldn't remember everything that happened within two whole years of my life, stolen from me. I might have had my bat mitzvah at a proper time, on the first Shabbat after my thirteenth birthday. If I hadn't currently been in the hospital at the time, completely bedridden and unable to breathe without an oxygen tank. I had to witness Peter turn thirteen the same year, and receive what I never did.

But I was seventeen now. I was more than ready, after months of studying and more than a few tutoring sessions to get me caught up (largely thanks to Rabbi Appell's grandson Matt). And I had more fun this time around, helping Wanda arrange for the party afterwards, with Pietro pretending to be reluctant in helping with. They were even older, had waited even longer.

We were all ready.

I didn't have to explain to Peter the significance of it. He already knew. Just smiled and slung an arm around my shoulders, going in sing-song, "Just keep telling yourself thaaaat."

I laughed and pushed him away. "If I choke in front of everyone, I can trust you to never let me forget it for the rest of my life."

"It's my sworn duty," Peter grinned mischievously, before withdrawing his camera. "And there's going to be pictures. So many pictures. You in those shoes you hate. You every time you blink. Every derp face you have."

"I hate you."

"All the awkwardest of moments. And Aunt May is going to love each and every one of them. I expect them to be immortalized in frames all around the house."

"I'm starting to see why you're making so many enemies on the streets now," I said, making a half-hearted swipe for that camera. Not to snatch it, but to force Peter to put that damn thing away.

Which he did, after scoffing. "They like my jokes even less than you do. No one in this city has a sense of humor anymore."

"Your new boss most of all." I said, trying hard not to smile at Peter's groan. He had gotten freelance work as a photographer for the Daily Bugle, which he always wanted. Until he realized just who'd he be working with. J. Jonah Jameson, head of the paper and the biggest Spider-Man hater since Peter first started his career.

"Don't remind me," Peter sighed. "He pays all this money for spidey pics, just to roast me on live television! Who does that?"

I could only shrug. "Someone who knows you're too busy saving the city to defend yourself?"

Peter pouted, thinking that over. "Yeah, I guess. You're lucky he doesn't have a bone to pick with Rebel Columbia."

"That's because I don't have as prolific a career as you," I said, which was true. Rebel Columbia still remained a sort of "Emergencies Only" superhero, although that may change. With Wanda and Pietro coming into their own with their powers now, Howie working on a suit that can grow as he does, and Peter constantly making jokes about a superhero team-up a la the Avengers, there was the sense it might turn into something more.

Upon exiting the building, we ran into Ned — he had also gotten taller and was currently going through a Hawaiian shirts phase for reasons unknown. He looked a little miffed, apparently having overheard our conversation as we approached. "I hope you guys aren't talking superheroes without me. I still volunteer for the Man in the Chair position for this secret team you keep saying isn't going to happen."

"We weren't," Peter said.

"We're talking about how much Peter loves his boss," I added, earning a droll look from my cousin.

"Oh yes. So much."

"Man, who cares about him?" Ned said, leaping to the defense of his best friend. "Your photos are great, and it sucks he copyrights them for the Bugle. I would've kept my internship there if they hadn't stuck me in formatting. And didn't pay me."

"You'll find something," I said sympathetically. Getting jobs wasn't easy. I currently hadn't found anything. Ned was currently moonlighting as an IT expert at Midtown, being paid under the table by students (and technologically-inept teachers on occasion) to help resolve computer problems. And sometimes cheat, but that's only stuff of rumor and not to be repeated outside of certain group chats.

"Yeah," Ned sighed forlornly. "Although Flash did pay me three hundred bucks for saving his hard drive, so it could be worse. He needs to stop joining weird dating sites. Speaking of Flash, we still on for movie night tonight?"

"What does that have to do with Flash?" Peter threw Ned an odd look. "He's got nothing to do with it."

"Exactly!"

"Seeing as it's my turn tonight," I said, having been appointed as such by Peter, to correlate with the b'nai mitzvah tomorrow. "It's going to be an Indiana Jones marathon."

"Oh, classic!" Ned fist-pumped.

"Do I hear talk of teenage shenanigans?" From the crowd appeared MJ, curly hair tied back and her overalls splattered with paint, joining as in we stepped out onto the sidewalk, a collective party towards the subway. "Mia, I question your tastes in archeologists who insist on putting priceless cultural artifacts in museums when they belong to their people — but I can appreciate the exciting if unrealistic aspects of the supernatural."

Peter cut her a look, unable to determine if that was an insult or compliment. "Don't you hunt ghosts for a YouTube channel?"

"Maybe so," MJ pursed her lips, lifting her chin into the air as she looped an arm around mine. "But it's only crazy if you do it alone. And as a fellow artist, Parker, I feel compelled to warn you that sooner or later, you're going to lose your integrity the more you sell yourself to a faceless conglomerate."

"I wouldn't exactly call it faceless," Peter muttered, as we passed a TV storefront in which all the screens had J. Jonah Jameson's apoplectic face yelled silently in sync. "But duly noted."

"You're still bringing the pizza?" I asked, deciding this to be a very amicable reaction for the two of them.

"So long as you're providing the popcorn." MJ smiled serenely. "And yes, I'll make sure you get your pineapple."

I grinned while Ned made a disgusted sound. "I still don't get you. But I've got dibs on desserts. Gonna ruin your whole appetite for tomorrow — if Pietro doesn't eat it all first, I guess."

I had been doing my best to integrate Pietro and Wanda as part of my friend group. Even if they were older than me and my friends, I hoped to give them some sense of normalcy. They moved frequently between Avengers Tower here and the remote base in upstate New York. Partly to test their powers more safely, and partly because living in a city again was a lot for Wanda and needing mental breaks was a must.

But all in all, everything was going well. Ned and MJ were clear on who Wanda and Pietro really were, and the relief that they were cool with it had nearly ended me. Although Aunt May had to ban power tricks after the last time Pietro was dared to phase through a wall and ended up with a bloody nose.

"I promise," I said, trying not to laugh and pretend Peter or I didn't eat our fair share, either. "He'll leave some for the rest of you."

✭✭✭

The memorial wouldn't start until 4pm.

From the subway, I parted ways with Peter, Ned, and MJ. The park was only a short trip away, so I whittled away the following hours by walking around and grabbing a snack at a food truck.

It was a good day for the memorial, it would have been sadder to be held in the rain. As I made the walk over to one of the ponds within the park, the congregation of people became quickly obvious, as was the age difference between myself and everyone else.

But then it made sense, I supposed. These were the friends and colleagues of Diana Hawkins. Although I wasn't sure if she had any friends.

There were roughly a hundred folded chairs set out in neat rows around a podium, but those had all been filled up, leaving everyone else standing or sitting in the grass. I was surprised by the size of the audience in that little park square. More than a few famous faces, set among a general group of onlookers, some security, and press. Were these friends and family of Diana Hawkins? I wasn't aware she had many outside of Dmitri. The thought of him had my heart squeezing. He should be here.

But he wasn't. I saw no flash of copper hair anywhere, and I wondered where he must be right now. Was he still in London? Did he go back to Russia?

I've tried to move on. And I'd say I'd been pretty successful so far. Junior year, I've really bloomed as a young woman — as Aunt May would say. But it was mostly just getting helix ear piercings, painting my nails (black or yellow), and a little dating. Guys and girls who never would've noticed Measles Mia a few years ago. It was kind of fun, but I found it hard to pursue anything after a first date. There was also the Not-Date with MJ where we decided we were definitely better off as friends, and determining any established romance would kill our vibes on Midtown Conspiracies. MJ claimed half our appeal was the pseudo-old-married-couple vibes we carried throughout the show.

And there were also the Not-Dates with Matt, tutoring sessions he's been helping me with. Though physically he'd changed a lot, Matt was still the kind boy I knew from ages ago. He'd mentioned a girlfriend in passing once, though his sister Tilly had so generously assured me that Gretchen Chandler was old news. I've never met this Gretchen, but Tilly had been all too happy to report that it went so terribly that Matt hasn't dated since. So. There's that.

So, it worked out. And I decided maybe I just wasn't ready for anything. And maybe I just couldn't stand the idea of hurting anyone else, the way I had hurt Dmitri.

Shaking my head, I did my best to clear the dark thoughts.

A podium was set up against the backdrop of the pond, and behind it was a large white cloth covering some statue or structure, cordoned off by red ribbon. As I wove through the crowd and found a good vantage point, my ears picked up on a bit of conversation as I passed by chairs filled with strong perfumes, big hats, and fancy suits.

"...always a dear friend of mine…"

"... that poor boy, I wondered whatever happened to him…"

"...going to miss seeing her name everywhere…"

I found a good position beneath a tree, my back to the bark and feeling confident in the safety of the spot. Despite some of the high-level guests here, I wasn't the only one dressed casually, so I didn't stand out too much from the crowd in my ripped jeans and worn green jacket. I'd recently sewn a white star onto one shoulder, since displaying my tattoo at all was against the school dress code.

The memorial began with an initial speaker, announcing the event and thanking everyone for coming, before inviting the first speaker up to the podium. A rhythm of eulogies to listen to, this first a woman who I'd seen on red carpet premieres. She spoke with tears in her eyes, and I had to admit, it got to me.

And then I heard the rest of the eulogies.

There was something off, in the way certain phrases were repeated between different people. 'Her kind spirit' and 'my lifelong friend' and 'a beloved member of the community' and 'life of the party'. I had never known Diana personally, but she had never come across as particularly kind or fun, and as far as I knew everyone in those upper-class societies were scared shitless by her and the exposes she wrote. From a war correspondent in the late Gulf wars; to exposing the child trafficking ring that earned her a Pulitzer; her biting commentary on the corporate grip of insulin and its price gouging that led to a full-blown federal court case; and the numerous shrewd and unforgiving character studies that broke more than a few careers.

Her last story of all, to expose HYDRA in all its awful glory within SHIELD, had been what killed her in the end.

Diana knew how to make enemies, not friends.

And all I heard were platitudes, rather than memories. I had the distinct feeling some people were just here for show. It wasn't like Diana was here to prove what they were saying was wrong.

The last person to give the speech was an elderly man, who needed a cane to get up on the stage. He was hunched over and needed to pull down the microphone, but his dark eyes pierced through the crowd, eyeing everyone with a shrewdness as he introduced himself.

"Many of you know me as Mr. Baron, but to Diana, I was simply Avi," He began. "I still remember the first day she walked into my office, this spirited young filly with a head of red hair and a taste for blood. She was fearless, that woman, and I knew when I first hired her that I had someone truly special on my staff. She was going to make a name for herself someday. And when she won that Pulitzer a decade later, I had never felt prouder."

He paused to clear his throat, then continue. "Diana always lived by a saying. Veritas numquam perit. Truth never dies. It is never too late to tell a story, truth deserves to be known by any and all. Diana never swayed from that; she was the most honest person I knew. Honest with me, and honest with herself. Honest even when she probably should have been kind instead. She was a flawed woman, there were many things she struggled with. But her integrity had never been one of them. She would never sacrifice that, not for money, not for power. Which is why I think she would be ashamed of all of you here, who claim to have been such loyal friends of hers."

A ripple passed through the crowd, surprise and discontent. The old man was calling them out, and he didn't flinch in the face of potential outrage. He just smiled a wry little smile. "Who do you think taught her to see through such bullshit, eh? I may be retired some twenty years now, but I knew Diana till the very end. She was lonely. She loved her work to the detriment of everything else. And I won't forget how many of you abandoned her after that divorce. To see you all now, with your pithy platitudes and white lies. They say don't speak ill of the dead. I tell you right now, Diana didn't give a damn about that, either."

The murmurings continued and I couldn't help but hide a smile behind my hand. A few people got up and left, but the rest remained, a few people clapping at Mr. Baron's words. At last, he gestured to the white shroud that lay behind him.

"And it's for her unflinching hunt of the truth that I am here today," he continued, as the shroud was pulled away by an attendant.

Beneath it revealed a bronze statue, the likeness of Diana Hawkins, perched on a bench with notebook in one hand and pen in the other, raised inquisitively with an expression of intense curiosity, body leaned forward with focus. Her bronze pupils were hollowed out, reflecting the sunlight just so that gave her form an extra spark of life that made her almost seem real from a distance.

The audience clapped at the sight, and Avi Baron stepped down the podium, walking up to the statue to rest a worn hand on the statue's shoulder. No longer in front of a microphone, his voice was thinner and far away, but I could still pick up on it. "She loved writing in this park. And here she'll stay, watching the people she wanted to serve."

The ceremony wrapped up after that, the crowd beginning to rise. Press rushed in to ask questions and snap pictures, while everyone began to talk, mingle, and disperse.

In the end, it satisfied me. There was a lot left unsaid, I thought, between Diana and I. She had figured out who I was. Not just Rebel Columbia, but also the Soldatka. The Winter Soldier's daughter. If only I had tried to befriend her. Maybe she could've told me before I got hurt. Maybe I could have protected her, warned her of the real danger she was in.

But I had failed in that, too. Never even thought to, until it was far too late.

I had nothing to keep me here. I wanted to get a closer look at the statue, but it was now lost behind a swell of bodies. Maybe I could check it out another time. And it had now been over an hour; if I headed out now, I'd still be late for dinner, so I had better get going. Even now, there was a lot of traffic exiting the park, making it a slog to get through. No sprinting for the next train, just trying my best to weave through the throng. And that's not counting the people coming in from the other direction.

I was just stepping down a short flight of steps down a hill, the street in sight, when I accidentally bumped into someone. Just a light shoulder check, had me stumbling slightly. I caught only a glimpse of the person I bumped into, felt their hand catching my arm before I could fall —

— And stumbled into rain and darkness.

My knees buckled and I dropped suddenly, gasping as I landed on metal. Not tarmac, not grass. Metal. My eyes blinded by the sudden darkness, the cold water pouring off my head. I felt dazed, nauseous, hungry.

My head snapped up, alarmed, confused. I wasn't in the park anymore. I didn't know where the hell I was.

A metal fence to my left, a guardrail to my right. An empty abyss below.

A loud honk startled me, and a truck rushed past on the other side of the chain-link, a flash of blinking light and a tidal wave crashing over me — then darkness again. In the distance, I saw city lights. I recognized the skyline of Manhattan.

A bridge. I was on a bridge, soaked to the bone. At night. Alone.

When seconds ago, I had been in Central Park, surrounded by people in bright sunlight.

What the hell just happened?

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

✭

My heart pounded.

Where was I? How did I get here?

Rain continued to pour down on my head and shoulders, drumming across the metal bridge in an unending cacophony. An uncommon chill swept down my back, the sensation of something terribly wrong having occurred. Had I been teleported somehow? Time traveled? It made no sense.

Of course, there was an easy way to get an answer.

It took me a moment to feel the familiar weight of my phone in my back pocket, the flip-phone Nokia that had since become my constant companion in the wake of rejecting all social media and modern smartphones. All in the name of protecting myself.

What good that did me.

Only when I opened it, the screen didn't blink on. My panic only continued to rise as I pressed the power button, over and over, only to confirm that my phone was indeed very dead. How could that be? This sucker had over a day's worth of battery power, which was half the reason why I picked it. It shouldn't have lost power so quickly.

But I had no idea how long it had been on. How long I had gone without charging it. Over a day, apparently.

Not since I woke up this morning. Was it even this morning? What day was it?

I looked around again, wrapping my arms around myself as I shivered. Aside from a few passing cars, there was no one on the bridge. No one who might have seen me or passed me. Why was I here?

And then another thought hit me. Oh, god, my bat mitzvah. Did I miss it?

And then the rest followed. Aunt May, Peter. They must be freaking out right now. And Dad. He was supposed to be there. Everyone was supposed to be there. Were they out looking for me right now?

The water dripped warm down my face. I had to get home.

With no way to contact anyone, my backpack missing and my wallet with it, I had no quick means of getting home or getting help. I just had to walk. At least I knew where I was, to a certain extent. Still in New York, on the bridge over the East River. Maybe a few hours' walk home.

And once I got home, I could get answers.

This was fine. I was going to be fine.

That was the mantra I repeated in my head as I started to walk, trying to keep myself calm even as my heart rate and lungs threatened to betray me. I couldn't freak out, I couldn't start hyperventilating or having a panic attack, as tempting as it was right now. Maybe some freak accident happened. Maybe I just bonked my head and forgot a few hours. It didn't explain my dead phone, but maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought.

Or it's even worse, a voice in the back of my mind whispered.

I tried to ignore it.

As I headed off the bridge, I became aware of a growing ache in my stomach, a deep-seated hunger. I was starving. When was the last time I ate? I thought maybe I just missed dinner, but the more I walked the more I knew this wasn't the usual end-of-day hunger I experienced. No, this was one I was all-too-familiar with, but hadn't had in a long time. The kind of hunger where my head swam and my knees shook, where I hadn't eaten all day. Maybe more.

It took thirty minutes before I finally reached Queens, to the streets below the bridge. Everything was closed at this hour, the streets largely empty. No one around for me to call for help.

A strange kind of numbness washed over me as I passed in front of a 24-hour diner. It was mostly deserted except for a waitress and a few lonely patrons, but the smell of food was intoxicating. My stomach growled in earnest, and I knew I couldn't make it all the way home, not without something to eat. I was just too hungry. I struggled to keep my eyes open, grew dizzy if I turned too fast, and my stomach felt like it was caving in, the pain impossible to ignore.

But I also had no money. Nothing to my name except the clothes on my back. I couldn't pay for any food. And I didn't like the idea of dine-and-dashing, but right now it seemed as though I had no other choice, unless I wanted to break into a grocery store.

As I pushed the door open, the bell jingling overhead, I reasoned with myself; I could always come back tomorrow and pay for the meal I skipped out on, with extra for a tip.

Whatever I had to do, just so I could eat right now.

The waitress looked up when I entered, a middle-aged woman with bright yellow hair and pink lipstick, whose eyebrows shot up when she saw me. "Well, aren't you a sight, honey. What happened, did you forget your umbrella?"

"Um," I shuffled up to the counter, and found that my voice was very rough, raspy and quiet from lack of water. The waitress had to lean in, and I pushed some hair out of my face, trying to speak louder, not really acknowledging her question. "C-can I just have a, er, a plate of…"

I scanned helplessly at the menu on the wall behind her, then back at the waitress, whose brows started to furrow. Her little nametag said Dolly. "Are you okay, dear?"

"Yeah, I'm —" I didn't know what to say. What could I say to explain what the hell happened to me? "…Having a bad night. I'm sorry. I don't have any money to pay you."

It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. What was wrong with me? There goes my chance of getting food. But instead of telling me to leave, the waitress Dolly just smiles and pats my hand where it laid on the counter. I tried not to flinch, while she said, "Hey now, don't you worry about that. It's on the house. The special sound good?"

If I tried speaking right now it would immediately end in tears, so all I could do was nod and take a seat on one of the stools. Try to collect my thoughts, and get warm. There was a pay phone here but, again, I had no money and I didn't feel like imposing on the nice waitress any more than I had. By the time I even thought of it, Dolly was already using it, speaking quietly into the receiver.

I just needed to eat. To eat and fill up and get on my way. Aunt May would understand, if I came home smelling like food. I had to eat. I wouldn't have made it there otherwise.

In the back, I could hear the grill sizzling and the cook humming to the radio. Soft music played from speakers above, and a TV played the news silently in one corner. I could hear the water dripping from my clothes, plinking onto the floor as I sat there, shivering and aching and trying to stave off the encroaching emotional avalanche just waiting to hit me at any moment.

Dolly returned with a milkshake and a sympathetic wink, and I started drinking so fast I gave myself brain freeze. But it was so good, rich and creamy and cold, that I had to remind myself to go slow. The ache in my stomach finally began to soothe, and I was halfway through the milkshake when Dolly delivered a plate in front of me. Burger and fries, an excess of grease, fat, and salt. Perfect.

As I began eating, the bell jingled behind me, a woman entering. I didn't look around at first, too absorbed in my food, but if I had I would've seen her coming straight for me. A slow, measured walk, confident but wary — a cop, I immediately thought, right before she sat in the stool next to me.

She wasn't dressed like a cop. Dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, no make-up. Plainclothes, jeans and a raincoat that hid the bulk of her gun holster and handcuffs. I immediately tensed, but the woman's face wasn't hostile or intense. Just curious. "Hey, there."

It was such a simple greeting, and so suspicious that I froze mid-bite, staring at her in wide-eyed silence. Why was she here? Why was she talking to me? Had I done something? Was it something I did in my missing memory? I hadn't even thought to ask for a date or time while I was here, afraid of coming off too weird. As if walking in soaking wet without any money wasn't baffling to any waitress on the graveyard shift.

I didn't say anything to her, but she had my attention, so the woman just smiled gently and said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you. Just wanted to ask if you needed any help getting home."

Jesus, was she a mind-reader? I swallowed a little too hard, shaking my head. My voice croaked, "H-how —? Who are you?"

The woman reached into her coat pocket and I almost bolted right then and there, but instead of pulling out a weapon, she pulled out a badge. NYPD. "I'm Detective Sullivan. We've been looking for you, Amelia."

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Panic raced through my brain, wondering what had happened, what would bring the police right to me. Had they been following me? For how long?

I was almost afraid to ask: "What did I do?"

Detective Sullivan blinked in surprise. "Do? You didn't — you went missing, Amelia. Your family is very worried about you."

"Missing?" I repeated, aghast. Even though it made sense after the fact, I still didn't know what that meant. How long. What happened. "For how long? How did you know I was here?"

Detective Sullivan's brows furrowed in concern, before pointing to the TV. I turned, and was stunned to see my own face on the late-night news report — was that my school picture? Ew — an anchorman speaking very seriously while words scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Amelia Fletcher, seventeen years old, six feet tall with blonde hair, last seen at Midtown High at three-twenty…

Below the TV stood Dolly, giving me a small wave and apologetic smile. It took me a second to understand. She had recognized me. That's who she had been calling on the phone. I was just too dumb to listen in. If I had, though, I had no doubt I would've been hauling ass out of this place.

I turned back to Sullivan with a look of utter shock. They've been looking for me. My face, on the news. Everyone knew who I was, what I looked like. My name. My face.

I couldn't decide whether to be horrified or grateful. That whatever happened, or whatever almost happened — it didn't go down like last time.

Detective Sullivan accurately guessed what my reaction meant. She tilted her head inquisitively, leaning in a little as she explained, "Amelia, you've been missing for three days. We put out an AMBER alert, the FBI are involved. Especially since this isn't the first time for you."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Three days?! God, no wonder my phone didn't work. I wondered how many messages and calls would be on it when I charged it again. "I-I didn't know."

"You didn't know?" Detective Sullivan said, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. It sounded accusing and I flinched, so she readjusted her tone, softer now. "What do you mean by that, Amelia? Can you tell me what happened?"

Automatically, I shook my head. "I-I don't remember."

I hated that answer, how much it left unsaid. How it seemed to echo through time, through my memories, my past. How it all came rushing back now.

I thought it was over. And I was wrong.

"Are you sure?" Detective Sullivan insisted, her lips pursing in doubt. "You don't remember anything, anything at all?"

"I mean, the last thing I can remember is being at the park on Friday —" I began, eyes squeezing shut as I tried to scan my memories. But there was just a huge blank, and the harder I pushed the more my head hurt. "I d-don't — I can't —"

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay, we don't have to worry about it right now." Detective Sullivan quickly raised a hand to stop me before I could get overwhelmed. As I released a sigh, she reached over and grabbed a napkin from a nearby box, and handed it to me. "Here, your nose is bleeding."

"Oh," I took the napkin in dull surprise, pressing it to my face. It came back pink when I pulled away, the rainwater having diluted it. Had it been bleeding this entire time and I never noticed? With how heavy the downpour was out there, how dark the night, it wouldn't be a great shock. I looked at the detective. "I'm sorry. I have… I've had memory problems in the past. But this — it's never…"

I didn't know how to finish. How those words hung in my mouth, awful and heavy.

Sullivan opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. She seemed to consider that answer for a long moment, then said, "Okay. Well, in that case, I think it's best if we get you home right away, Amelia. Does that sound alright?"

I glanced longingly at my food, before admitting, "I can't pay for this. I… I lost my backpack, my money."

"That's okay, I can take care of it," Detective Sullivan smiled and patted me on the arm. I tried not to flinch away. Waving to Dolly the waitress, Sullivan said to me, "You can eat the rest on the ride back, alright? I'm gonna make a call and let everyone know you're safe."

Nothing else needed to be said after that. At least not by me. Dolly got me a to-go box and wished me well, then Detective Sullivan was ushering me to her car, a plain sedan with no police markings. It gave me the willies but I got in the back, warm box of food clutched to my chest. Detective Sullivan scrounged around until she found a blanket and threw it over my shoulders, and blasted the heat when she turned on the vehicle.

Soft jazz played on her radio all the way home.

✭✭✭

It was past midnight on a Monday. Or, that is, a Tuesday. Yet the house was all lit up when Detective Sullivan delivered me to the front doorstep.

She didn't even get one full knock in before the door flew open, the finale to a rush of footsteps. The rush of wind as it swung open, a cry of "Mia!" and suddenly I was being hugged by at least three different people at once, collectively dragging me inside like the victim of a zombie apocalypse.

I recognized their scents before I actually saw their faces. Peter and May, of course, the latter whose hand was trying to brush all that hair out of my face to make sure I was all right and allowed me to see again. Then there was Wanda and Pietro,

But they weren't the only ones there.

There was an FBI set-up in the kitchen with a bunch of computers hooked up to a landline telephone and agents in dark suits. Ned and MJ were in the living room, with bags under their eyes, and next to them standing up appeared Steve and Natasha.

There was only one face missing. Dad. I looked around the space, faintly hopeful, just to see Steve shaking his head silently. And I understood. He couldn't be here, not when there was law enforcement everywhere.

Still, I wanted to see him, too.

"What happened?"

" — she was found in a diner off the bridge —"

" — Diner, what were you doing there?"

"Did someone take you?"

"— We need a full description of everything that happened —"

"Did you lose your phone?"

"Where were you? Are you okay?"

"— I tried calling you a thousand times —"

"Have you eaten anything? We've got left-overs…"

Aunt May was already asking Detective Sullivan a ton of questions, at the same time she was asking me if I was okay; the FBI agents were also closing in, with frowning faces and their own questions. A radio playing somewhere added to the deluge, and I was just surrounded on all sides by people and noise. And on top of all of that, Wanda's familiar presence settled in the back of my mind, warm and comforting, and she must have sensed my rising discomfort because she pulled me out of the fray.

"Enough!" She said, her voice loud enough to silence the room. The FBI agents bristled at the order, but no one disobeyed. "Just give her a second to breathe."

I probably needed a lot more than that, but I was thankful nonetheless, as Wanda ushered me to the couch. The living room was absolutely not big enough for the entire company here, so it didn't feel that much more open once everyone was gathered. Wanda stayed on one side while Peter was on my other, and everyone fanned out from there.

Detective Sullivan began, making my job a little easier. I just had to sit there and listen as she explained her version of events, getting the call and approaching me in the diner. The FBI took notes on it all, and I started to get nervous, like I was about to be quizzed next.

Because I didn't know what to say. I hardly knew more than Detective Sullivan.

They first began asking me basic questions: my name, my birthday, where I was from, et cetera — all being recorded on a tape, to be reviewed later I assumed.

"Now we need you to tell us what happened," the first agent said, who introduced himself as Jones. "Why were you in that diner? Where were you the past three days?"

"I-I don't know," I said, shrugging. "I just kind of… woke up, and I was hungry and I needed something to eat. I lost my backpack and I didn't have any money."

"We found your backpack," the other agent said, a woman, Mendez. She pointed it out, sitting at the counter in the kitchen. "Left in a dumpster in an alleyway off of Central Park. Nothing was stolen from it, your wallet and your ID were all in there, except for your phone, which we assumed you still had on you."

"You never answered any calls, so we couldn't ping your location off of cell towers," Jones added with a particularly disgruntled look. "Then we contacted the service company to get your GPS tracking, but for some reason your phone doesn't have one."

I glanced down at my hands and pretended that hadn't been on purpose, that I hadn't specifically asked Howie to modify my phone a few months ago.

I had geared my life for the strict purpose of not being tracked by any government or corporations. I knew that this would be an inherent risk, but I also never thought I'd just… completely forget. And, well, I knew I'd have people looking for me, and that was better than any bitty cell phone.

(I still wasn't going to change that).

Steve must have seen my nervousness because he finally interrupted the agent, raising a hand and silencing him with just the simple move. "Mia, can you tell us what happened on Friday?"

I blinked at him, my throat dry. Swallowing, I nodded. At some point, someone had stuck a mug of hot cocoa in my hands, so I took a sip before starting again. "It was just a normal day. I left school with Peter, Ned, and MJ and I split off to that memorial event in Central Park. Everything was going fine, nothing happened until… until I was trying to leave. I bumped into someone and — and that's the last thing I remember. Next thing I know, I'm on the Queensboro bridge. That was a few hours ago."

"You're saying you don't remember anything from the past three days?" Steve asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Has this happened before?" Natasha asked, leaning in.

"Um," I glanced over at Wanda and Pietro. As far as I knew, the last time anything like this had happened, had been in France. The boat explosion. The black out. Waking up in a train when I had been conscious the entire time. "Just once, I think. But that was over a year ago. And that had been triggered by a… an attack. I don't know what happened here."

There had been nothing to spook me. No explosion, no traumatic event or resurfaced memory. I was just here one second and there the next.

"We have you on security footage," Mendez said, turning a laptop around so I could see the recording on the screen. It was scratchy desaturated footage of the park from across a street. In the distance, I could just make out a line of people walking down some steps. I could barely make out myself, bumping into someone, turning to face them for a moment, before moving on again. I watched myself walk down the street and out of sight. "That's the last time anyone ever saw you. We scrubbed CCTV footage from a dozen cameras in the area but none picked up where this left off. It's like you vanished off the face of the earth."

I just stared blankly at the screen, watching it play over again. Nothing stood out to me. Not even the way I walked. Maybe I was heading for the subway, but from the direction I took there, it was the wrong way. I couldn't remember why I would have done that.

"I was going straight home," I said, looking up to see the doubtful faces of the FBI agents. "I swear! I had nowhere else to be, I had studying to do. I don't remember this."

"And you didn't meet anyone there, didn't see anyone you might have recognized?" Mendez asked, frowning when I shook my head. "Noticed anything strange, anyone who might have been following you?"

Again, shaking my head, I didn't know what to say. I would've definitely noticed if I had a tail of any sort. And, as I thought about it a little more, avoiding security cameras was also something I could do with relative ease. But I wasn't sure if I should say that. If it would sound like I had wanted to avoid being tracked. Because I wasn't, why would I? I had no fear of being seen.

"Are you hurt at all?" Natasha asked. "No head injuries?"

I ran a hand through my knotted hair, but felt nothing. It seemed like something I would've noticed by now. No, all I ever experienced was a headache. And that nosebleed. "No, I just… woke up really hungry, that's all."

Steve reached out and closed the laptop before it could distress me further. "And when you woke up on that bridge, were you lying on the sidewalk, the road?"

"No, I was standing."

"Standing?"

"Yeah, just standing there," I said, wincing at how strange it sounded. "Not moving, in the rain."

Everyone was trading looks, and my shoulders started to hunch up with self-consciousness. "I'm really sorry. I-I don't know what to tell you. I just can't remember what happened."

"It's okay," Steve said, trying to give me a reassuring smile, although it felt the complete opposite to me. "We'll figure this out. Maybe you just need some time to remember, that's all."

"We're still looking for anyone else that might have been involved," Natasha added, and the way she said 'we' sounded like she meant more people than were currently present in the room. "Considering your history, we're not ruling anything out."

She ignored the annoyed look Agent Jones threw at her, before turning to me and reiterating, "We'll follow up with some more questions tomorrow. You look like you could do with some rest."

"Can it be after school?" I asked, as everyone started to pick up their things.

"Mia!" Aunt May admonished, her eyebrows shooting up in dismay. "You can't be serious."

"What? I don't want to miss school!" I said, holding out my hands. "I've got perfect attendance. Or had, anyways…"

"I think the school will understand why you can't be there tomorrow," May said, giving me a stern look, shutting down any protest before I could start. "Besides, this isn't over. You're going to see the doctor, too, just in case. I want you to get as much rest as you can."

There wasn't a lot I could argue with that. Right now, I just wanted the house to be a lot emptier, it felt crowded, claustrophobic, and I didn't like the presence of strangers here. Even if they were FBI. It just set my nerves on edge, and I was already not in a good state.

I just wanted to eat and lie down in my own bed and forget this all happened. Wait, no. Not forget. Just… just sleep for a little while. Hope that this will get better tomorrow, that the FBI and the police will find the answers they need and this will all clear up. There's going to be a real simple answer to all of this that I just hadn't considered yet, and it will all make sense again.

"Can I stay home?" Peter asked hopefully.

"What about us?" Ned asked, hooking a thumb at MJ. "Can we stay, too?"

"What, here?" May blinked in surprise.

"Yeah! I mean, I've already got my homework, so Mia can stay caught up!" Ned picked up his backpack just to prove it, and I quickly nodded my approval to Aunt May.

"And my mom is totally cool with it," MJ added quickly, adding her best School Picture Smile. "This definitely classifies as a family emergency."

Aunt May glanced between the four of us, eyes narrowing slightly. "This feels like a trap. I'm calling your parents."

"Aww." Two heads drooped in disappointment.

"We're staying, too," Pietro said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I smiled weakly at him and Wanda, the guilt rising up fast. No longer surrounded by half a dozen unblinking eyes, I finally managed to say, "I'm sorry. I must have ruined the b'nai mitzvah."

"We can always reschedule," Wanda smiled, taking my hand and squeezing it. "We waited years for this, what's one more Shabbat?"

Tears pricked in my eyes, and it was all I could do not to start bawling right there. The overwhelming relief, the confusion, the fact my perfect attendance record, the first one in my entire life, the longest streak ever, just got ruined. I didn't know why that was such a big focus right now. Maybe it was easier than having to consider the possibility something very terrible happened to me, and I couldn't remember.

"Thank you," I whispered.

another cover I made :)

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

✭

After one hospital trip, a hot meal and a hotter bath, I was finally buried beneath the covers of my bed hours later, in pajamas that felt just a little too loose. Although I couldn't remember what had happened to me, there was evidence. Like the fact I had dropped ten pounds, a sign that whatever I had been doing, wherever I was, I hadn't been eating. Not one damn thing.

And it must have been pretty bad if I hadn't been able to eat. Not even to eat out of garbage, or catch rats. Nothing.

I easily cleaned out all of Aunt May's leftovers, and was now settling comfortable in my bed. Or, as comfortable as I could be with Wanda rifling through my mind. My brain, a jumbled rolodex to be flicked through. The others were arranged around on the bed (MJ and Ned got the go-ahead from their parents, for just this one night), sitting and waiting in anxious silence as Wanda worked her magic. Literally.

"Anything?" I asked nervously.

Wanda, eyes glowing red as she sat cross-legged on the bed nearby, shook her head. She was still dressed in day clothes, a red dress and black tights, but notably lacking the jewelry or make-up she often wore. Her eyes were set at a point slightly above mine, not quite meeting my gaze. "No, I cannot… there is nothing there. It is exactly as you said, your memory skips from the park to the bridge. Nothing in between."

"Are you sure?" I didn't like the sound of that. Like a film reel that had been cut and edited, the spool of my memory felt like some little plaything of the universe. "It's not just suppressed o-or hidden?"

"No," Wanda scowled, eyes closing for a moment as she concentrated. "No, I would be able to tell. There would be signs of submersion, echoes of the memory even if you cannot directly recall it. I can even see your older memories, from the Crucible, things you still cannot or will not want to remember; but this? I cannot find anything, Amelia. Like an empty space on a bookshelf, there is nothing to pull. I'm sorry. Whatever happened to you, it is not anything I have experienced before."

I slumped back in defeat. Not necessarily surprised, but disappointed. And worried. When new things happen to me, things like this, nothing good could come of it.

"What about my last memory, in the park," I said, lifting my head again. "Did you notice any faces in the crowd that might have been familiar? That person I bumped into?"

"You never saw their face."

Peter, ever the positive one, just shrugged and said, "So, we'll just have to figure this out the old-fashioned way. Tried and true detective work."

"I, for one, want to pose my theory." MJ said, raising a finger.

I gave her a hard look. "If you say aliens, I'll kill you."

"What? But it has all the hallmarks of an alien abduction!" MJ insisted, and started counting them off her fingers. "No memory of the event, starving, completely untraceable, and total vanishment off the face of the earth — as if you were! And really, we know extraterrestrial life exists now, so who's to say it wasn't aliens?"

I hated that I was actually considering this as a reasonable option. But in lieu of a better explanation, I didn't know what to think. "And what the hell would aliens want to study me for?"

Everyone gave me droll looks.

I rolled my eyes once it hit me. "Oh, right, of course. Who wouldn't want to do a space biopsy on a super soldier?"

"Alien or not, there is someone behind this," Pietro pointed out, arms folded as he leaned against my dresser. His hands curled in and out of fists. "Someone real. Someone we can find, we can hurt."

"Hurt?" Ned threw a wide-eyed look at the Mutant boy. "Is that, er, really necessary?"

Ned and MJ both knew of the Maximoff's true nature; Wanda and Pietro had decided for themselves they wouldn't hide who they were, at least with anyone beyond random passerby. Of course, that also came with the fact that, unlike most of the friends I had here, they were a little more… straightforward in fixing any problems. With violence, for example.

Pietro cut him a look, gesturing to me. "Would you consider anyone willing to do this, someone to be harmless?"

"Well, no," Ned paused, pursing his lips in thought. "But I dunno, maybe we should try turning them in, as a priority?"

"Only if they surrender first."

Least to say, there were still some… cultural differences that still needed to be worked out.

"Look, whoever did this," I finally said, trying to think past the growing headache pounding behind my eyes. It wasn't from Wanda, just from the sheer exhaustion catching up with me. I wondered if I had gotten any sleep in the past three days, either. "If someone did this, there has to be a reason. And that's what I'm worried about."

"If?" Peter repeated, his eyebrows furrowing.

I shrugged, not looking at any of them. "That's the other thing I'm worried about. If this is just… a me thing."

"It isn't," MJ said almost immediately, then paused and glanced around her to gauge the room. "I mean, it can't be, right? The last time this happened to you was ages ago. Why would it happen again?"

"I don't know." My hands fiddled nervously, empty. The FBI had taken my dead phone as evidence, but said I could have it again by the end of the week once they were done with it. I hated not knowing what was on my phone. I hated that I wasn't the first person to be able to look. Not that I didn't trust the FBI (I didn't), but they'd have no reason to delete anything on my phone. But still. Peter and everyone else were sharing the messages they sent to me over the past couple days, just so I'd have a reference in case I spotted anything fishy later.

And if there weren't any clues to be found on my phone? Then there was a chance there really wasn't a perpetrator behind this. That it really was just me. Just my mind. Doing… something.

Going crazy. Going rogue.

But I tried not to think too hard about that just yet, not devote myself to the idea. That was what my next session with Dr. Siwa would determine. Hopefully.

"Kids," Aunt May knocked on the doorframe, already dressed in her pajamas, hair undone and bleary-eyed. "Time for bed now. We've been up long enough as it was."

"Oh, right," We all glanced at the clock on my bedside table. I looked back at Aunt May and smiled wearily. "We will, I promise."

She smiled back, and came over to hug me and kiss me on the cheek. "I'm glad you're home. Sleep tight."

An extra squeeze, just a little tighter, a little longer than usual. I wasn't embarrassed by the display of affection, at least not in front of my friends. Peter knew all too well how Aunt May could lay on the overly-cute sweetness for ultimate embarrassment, and I was of the opinion that everyone else liked Aunt May too much to make fun of me.

It definitely wasn't because I myself was too cool.

Despite the comfort and warmth of being home, I found it incredibly difficult to go to sleep. When Aunt May flicked the lights off, my heart had leapt into my throat, my eyes adjusting to the darkness and expecting to see — something. I wasn't sure what, but the way I suddenly felt on full alert again had me nervous. Like there was something in the darkness I couldn't see, waiting.

Waiting.

I tried my best. Lying in bed, nestled between MJ and Wanda, both of whom were small enough that it wasn't too tight a fit on the queen bed. It was nice, just to not feel alone, even if I was the only one awake. Wanda's presence in the back of my mind slipped away as she drifted off, her mind traveling elsewhere.

Stitch remained firmly in my arms, as I stared up at the ceiling, or the window, the square of dim light that slipped past the dark blinds.

It was four in the morning when I heard it, the softest creak in the floorboards. No footsteps, just something heavy standing on wood. I jerked upright, looking around me. Wanda and MJ were asleep in my room, the boys in Peter's. Neither of them stirred, and none I could hear in the room next to mine.

None of them heard what I had.

Carefully, I slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb anyone as I padded lightly across the floor and out the room. The house was completely dark, only the light from the street casing steep shadows across the walls. And there, standing in the middle of the living room, was a large silhouette of a man, face hidden in shadow.

"Dad!"

It came out in a hush, the loudest I could be without waking anyone else. I reached him in two long, quick strides, arms coming around to catch me in a hug.

Bucky Barnes was still soaking wet from having been outside for most of the night, yet somehow hadn't made a sound in boots that should have been squeaky. Aunt May told me he'd been out looking for me himself, but I had no idea when he'd get back, when he'd get the news. It seemed I finally had my answer.

"I came as soon as I heard," He whispered, squeezing me even tighter than Aunt May. Made no complaints about all the hair getting in his face when I buried my face against his neck. "Your aunt said you were on the bridge?"

I nodded, his rough jacket scraping my face, the few days of stubble on his cheek. Dad had preferred to stay clean shaven nowadays, but I could only imagine how my disappearance must have affected priorities. It just added to the guilt I already felt.

"Tell me what happened."

I hated having to retell the same confusing story again, for the fourth or fifth time. Reliving the awful disorientation, the dizziness, the hunger, the coldness. Dad moved us to the couch, but kept me close with an arm around my shoulder, listening in silence with only a few questions here or there. It wasn't a very long story, but I still felt like I had to explain myself somehow. Explain the unexplainable. Why I couldn't remember, where those three days went. How I could disappear so thoroughly that even he couldn't track me, which didn't seem possible. If anyone could find me, I knew, it would've been Dad.

He had taught me all I knew. Every trick I used, he had done it first, and better.

It just didn't make sense.

"Do you think someone did this?" I asked, when I was finally finished. "Or… or is it just me? Just my… my memory?"

And if anyone would know the difference, the woes of amnesia, it would also be my dad. He frowned, his eyes distant as he thought. "I don't know. If there was someone else, I couldn't find a trace."

My heart sank. At least if there had been some perpetrator, some tangible enemy to be faced, it meant it could be dealt with easily, so to speak. But if it was something in my head? Something no one could reach? No one could arrest, could stop, could blame? What was there to do?

"Are you okay?" He finally asked me, tucking some hair out of my face as I rested my head on his shoulder. "You weren't hurt?"

"No," I mumbled, hugging myself. At least if there had been injuries, it could have been evidence of something. "I don't think so. Supposed to see the doctor tomorrow. But I was just tired. And hungry. I don't think I'd eaten anything."

"For three days?" Dad sounded alarmed. He exhaled through his nose, a vague sound of consternation. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if silencing a thought.

"What?" I blinked up at him, getting worried. Dad always tried to filter his words, I knew that, but that didn't stop sparking the curiosity of wanting to know what he really thought. "Has this ever happened to you before? Could I still slip back into that state, I mean, without… you know?"

But Dad could only shake his head. "I don't know. There's just so much — so many years. So much that could have happened. A lot I still can't remember. I wouldn't be able to tell the difference. But… no. I don't think so. At least, it hasn't happened to me yet."

That didn't give me a lot of hope. "So, it's still possible, then. That it's just some effect of the protocol."

Dad looked reluctant to answer that.

I didn't blame him. Dad probably just didn't know. We weren't the architects of our protocols; we weren't privy to how it worked or how it was made. If we were, I was sure Dad would've figured out a way to undo it by now. If it was even possible to be undone. And whoever created this protocol was long dead, and if they kept notes, they weren't in the SHIELD files that had been leaked online last year. Maybe that was for the best. I'm pretty sure I'd have a mental breakdown if the whole world knew the trigger phrases.

In some vain attempt to lighten the mood, I joked, "Well, it could always be aliens."

Dad blinked at me, frowning in surprise. "What? Aliens? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind," I ducked my head down, realizing the joke failed. No point in trying to explain it. "Figured that would be the least horrible option right now."

"Hm. Sounds pretty horrible to me." Dad replied, with just the tinge of irony, giving me another squeeze. "I'd rather not think about you getting abducted again."

"Oh, right," Yeah, guess that joke wouldn't be so funny to a parent. Better not say it to Aunt May either, then. A moment of silence stretched between us, before I finally said, "Can you stay tonight? I mean, you're not going back to your place, are you?"

Dad had moved twice since his first cruddy apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn't that he didn't like any of them, but rather that he preferred to keep moving, even if he was staying in the general city area. Right now, he was living up in Flushing, not too far away. But I still didn't want him going anywhere, even if it might be awkward. The ones who had been the most reluctant about him had been Aunt May and the twins (and I supposed Natasha, too, not that she ever confided in me about it, but I could see the way she reacted sometimes when he was even mentioned). May was highly critical of Bucky in much the same way she had been of Steve when he first showed up last year, except this time was worse. For obvious reasons.

And, well, Aunt May didn't have the same experience Wanda and Pietro had, seeing the violence the Soldat was capable of themselves. But he wasn't the Soldat anymore, and I knew that at least Wanda understood that. She was the first to start warming up to Dad, although for the first few months they just avoided any place he was. They were at least polite, if cold. I figured that was a concession for my sake, but I still appreciated it. Dad, at least, never went out of his way to interact with them, never intruded on their space. It probably helped in the long run.

They were better in his presence now, which I was glad because I still wanted them all at my bat mitzvah. Having to add heaps of unspoken and unresolved trauma and resentment would only add to the stress and discomfort that I didn't want the day to have. After eight months, I could safely say that Wanda and Pietro were comfortable around him. But they still preferred to know beforehand if he was there or not. For that reason, this felt like a small breach of trust. But I hoped they'd understand.

"I can," Dad said, with a tilt of his head. "If you want me to."

Would Aunt May like it? Probably not. Seemed rude to ask someone to stay over when she wasn't consulted. But right now, I didn't want Dad to go anywhere; the thought of him leaving me here, alone in the darkness (even if I wasn't alone, even if morning would come in a few hours) had my heart squeezing in fear. Hell of a time for separation anxiety to kick in.

"Yeah," I murmured, setting my head against his shoulder again and closing my eyes. "I do."

"Alright." He smiled faintly. "I'll stay."

✭✭✭

I woke up again only a few hours later.

The glow behind my eyelids indicated that the sun had just risen. But the house was quiet, only the smell of coffee was present. Everyone was still asleep. Except for Dad. I could feel his heartbeat, hand slowly petting my hair. I'd fallen asleep curled up against his side, pillow smushed up against my face, the faint warmth of his arm resting against me. His heartbeat somewhere above my head.

And his voice.

A low murmur, the deep hum that felt familiar and safe. In the twilight between dreams and reality, it took me a moment to hear the other voice. To realize he was talking.

Someone else, sitting close. A feminine voice. Speaking in whispers.

…Aunt May?

I hadn't yet figured out what they were saying, still pulling myself out of the grog of sleep, shifting and squinting out into the too-bright morning. "Wha's goin' on…"

I was afraid I had missed something, maybe I was supposed to be awake. Was Aunt May upset Bucky was here? When my eyes adjusted, I could see Aunt May sitting in the chair nearby, leaning over the cup of coffee she nursed in her lap, wrapped up in a bathrobe. Both had stopped talking as soon as I had started moving.

Dad's arm pulled away as I rose up, slumped over and tired. Two hours was hardly enough sleep, but worry was waking me up fast. "Is it — I'm sorry, Dad just showed up last night and I —"

"It's okay, I told her." Dad said. "She's the one who called me, Mia."

"And I'm not angry, sweetie," Aunt May smiled, and there were still shadows under her eyes. Did she get any more sleep than me? "I was just chatting with your dad."

"What're you guys talking about?" I asked, speech still slow and slurred by sleep, wincing and blinking into the morning light. It felt like it should be a Saturday, when it was in fact Tuesday. The disorientation left me even more confused, trying to get my bearings as Aunt May rose from her chair.

"Nothing, dear," Aunt May came over to brush a hand through my hair, a kiss to the temple. Her tone was soft and gentle, her eyes averted. "Go back to sleep."

art by me :)

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

✭

"So, let's start at the beginning…"

I sighed, hung my head. I knew Dr. Siwa was trying to help me out, but one could only repeat the same story over and over again until she went crazy. But I obliged, since at least Siwa was here to help me find answers.

Dr. Siwa's office hadn't seen many changes over the one year that I've been here now; I still sat on the far-right couch cushion; still preferred to play with the squishy stress ball amongst the other items laid out on the coffee table for me; The soft blues and grays of the room remained, with their hint of gold in the old artifacts and tchotchkes. The only thing new was Dr. Siwa's notebook, now a soft green color; and the potpourri, gentle and slightly pomegranate.

"I know this is frustrating," Dr. Siwa smiled sympathetically, noting my reaction. "Memory is, even at the best of times, a fickle bitch — pardon my French." That got a bit of a laugh out of me, so he continued, "It's unreliable, it's malleable, and even without amnesia, perfect recall is incredibly rare and difficult to prove besides. But going over your experience multiple times may help weed out details that might be incorrect, and of course help give us a clearer picture of what happened. And what you felt is just as important as what you've seen and heard."

"Well, I was scared, panicked," I said, with a shrug. Between that and my hunger and exhaustion, there was little space left over in my brain to experience anything else. "Disoriented. I just want to know why this is happening. If someone did this to me. Or if I'm just..." I made a twirling gesture around my temple.

"Now, Mia, we both know you're not crazy, nor are you going crazy," Dr. Siwa admonished lightly. He never liked that word, nor any other implications of it.

"But doesn't psychosis start to present at this age?"

"Yes, sometimes, but you don't present enough symptoms for me to consider it," Dr. Siwa replied in a measured tone. "More importantly, what you are experiencing seems to be neither a hallucination or a delusion. It's a gap in your memory, and many things could be the cause of that. It's my job to figure out what, exactly, and see if we can work it out from there."

"What do you think it is so far, then?" I couldn't hide my nervousness. Because even if it was a psychotic disorder, something that would normally be treatable with medication — it wouldn't be treatable for me. And after two days stewing this (lack of) information, maybe it was starting to get to me.

"Well, from what you described of your last similar experience to this, with the boat," Dr. Siwa gestured with his hand. "And from what I know of your past, my best guess right now is that it's a result of trauma. This is not an official diagnosis, merely a working theory, but I have discussed with you how in times of a traumatic situation, we may not only disassociate, but our minds will also simply block the memory, compartmentalize it, and tuck it away, because it knows you and your body cannot function if you have to consciously live with it. That's not to say there aren't any terrible side effects of this, it's merely one of many involuntary coping mechanisms our brains can do for us."

"So, you think something happened to me in those three days," I said, slowly, trying to keep myself calm as I said it. "Something bad."

Wanda's observations, about there being no memory to retrieve at all, didn't hold a lot of weight with Dr. Siwa. Probably because he didn't know her like I did, and probably because psychic powers weren't an accredited form of diagnosis and therapy. He could only judge what he himself could observe. That didn't change the fact that I believed Wanda, and if indeed that memory was truly gone, completely erased, then I figured I had a lot more to worry about than just a traumatic incident.

"Something you shouldn't have been made to experience," Dr. Siwa corrected, in that infuriatingly gentle tone that was way too kind. "I can't know what it is, but whatever had happened, it may reveal itself in other ways. I want you to take careful stock of yourself in the coming days and weeks, Mia. If you notice anything new about yourself, your behavior that wasn't there before. That seems to have no logical origin. It may be an unconscious reaction of your mind to what you can't remember."

I nodded. There had been no physical clues to whatever happened; I came away with a relatively clean bill of health from the doctor. Even a rape kit, just in case.

I had asked for it privately, when I first got back home, while the FBI agents were still there. Aunt May had decided then and there to take me to the hospital instead of waiting till morning, which meant I had gotten back home even later. I hadn't known for sure, but I just wanted to cover all my bases. I would've healed too fast for there to be any exterior evidence.

It came back negative, both me and my clothes. It was one less thing off my mind.

But only one.

"Do you notice anything different about me?" I asked. Maybe I could get a head start on this if I knew what I was looking for.

Dr. Siwa only shook his head, his braids swaying. "It's too soon to say, and an hour of interaction hardly compares to your own experience. Or even what your family or friends might see. If they say something, take note of it, and we can discuss it next time we meet."

I made a face but nodded anyway. I wasn't sure if my friends would say anything — it was just as likely they might not say anything at all, because if I was acting weird, well, there was a pretty obvious reason as to why.

But hopefully, if something was really wrong, they'd say something.

✭✭✭

Going back to school was not the blessing of normality I'd hope it would be.

Aunt May had decreed that I wasn't going back to school until Dr. Siwa okayed it (he did), so I was a shaking, vibrating mess of a teenaged girl by the time I finally went back. Two days. Two whole days, my perfect attendance ruined, and now everyone was whispering about me again.

Some kids were nice, like Flash or Liz. Just said they were happy I was back, that I was okay. Others, like Courtney from gym or Danny from English, snickering and sharing rumors. Like I tried to run away from home. Went on a mad bender and ended up in jail, hence the missing days. Among other things they thought I couldn't hear from across the room.

At least APUSH was quiet, a small class meant kids were less willing to whisper when it was easier to tell everyone apart. And also, the many, many videos we got to watch insisted on silence, and a nice audio that washed out everything else for me.

The classroom was dark, the lights switched off for the old movie we were watching. A 1940's German propaganda film depicting the rise of the third Reich and featuring the many known faces of their upper echelons. This one in particular was lauding Germany's technological strength, featuring such acclaimed figures as Johann Schmidt (pre-skin sloughing) and Baron Heinrich Zemo, who for some reason got to keep his fancy noble title during the Reich. Probably because he was rich.

I shouldn't be surprised, not really. It had been like this when I first got back home in November two years ago. This was less bad, I supposed, since I wasn't literally coming back from the dead. But still. I had worked so hard to build a good reputation for myself, to be more than just the dead girl that came back buff, and how easily it fell away! Did I really give off such criminal vibes?

Maybe the buffness was a part of it. And the tattoo. And the scars. And the worn clothes, torn jeans, multiple piercings, and black nail polish. There was only so much a girl could do. I didn't dress WASP-y enough to deserve sympathy instead of suspicion.

At any rate, I was being left alone, and that was what mattered.

A hand tugged at my sleeve.

Well, mostly.

I looked over at Howie sitting next to me. His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he signed, "Did you really go missing?"

I sighed, glancing at the interpreter dozing in the far corner of the room, given a momentary break with the film subtitles. Howie wasn't allowed to "talk" during films, but since signing was quiet, Mr. Johnson usually let it slide. I was the only one Howie really talked to anyways, and I was even quieter.

I half-paid attention as the film depicted in scratchy black-and-white film and dubbed-over German as Heinrich, stocky and looking like a brick shithouse in a white lab coat, helped the Red Skull develop his infamous laser technology. Less than ten years after this film was made, both would die at the hands of the Howling Commandos.

Moving my hands so it wasn't too obvious that I wasn't paying attention to the film, I replied, "Yes. Just for a few days. I'm okay now."

"What happened?"

"I don't know." I wasn't going to beat around the bush for Howie. He was thirteen now, a big boy. If he could decide for himself he wanted to go to Midtown to finish his high school degree, then he was big enough to hear the truth from me. "Still trying to figure that out."

"Anything I can do to help?" Howie asked, his expression hopeful.

I couldn't help but cast him a soft smile. Howie, who always looked on the bright side, who always wanted to help. Whose Iron Vitruvius prototype came with flotation devices and medical aid rather than weapons. I wished I had an answer for him, because there was nothing Howie hated more than having nothing to do, than feeling useless. I felt that on a deep level myself. But I could only shake my head. "Nothing for now. But thanks."

Howie Stark was doing pretty well for the most part in school, and I supposed my treatment was better than his. Along with his last name, Howie was visibly shorter than everyone in the school, no growth spurt in sight — and tripled by his intelligence and complete blindness to teasing meant that he had a big ass target on his back. Howie was naive enough not to see it most of the time, but I knew that sometimes the pressure got to be a lot.

But he wanted to graduate and go to MIT next year (or Julliard… or Columbia… he hasn't decided yet), and this was how he wanted to do it. I guess Tony decided Midtown was prestigious enough for his tastes (and filled with enough friendly faces) that he allowed it.

Still, I may or may not have engineered my personal situation so that I could share classes with Howie, who was in mostly junior and senior level classes, on a syllabus of his own; Peter as well. He got science and chemistry; I got history and home economics. That was a mixed back. History was totally fine, but Howie nearly had a conniption when we were cooking together and I broke the dry spaghetti noodles to fit into the pot. He got detention for cursing me out in Italian.

Least to say, Howie preferred I didn't handle pasta. I preferred he stayed away from anything that was flammable or explosive.

"Let me know," Howie replied, his attention completely on me instead of the film. He was probably the smartest kid in school, but that didn't change the fact he had the attention span of a squirrel. "Me and Dad are working on this machine that can reconstruct memory in digital space — it's still in the testing stage, but it's completely harmless and he might let you use it if we ask nicely. And if he doesn't, I can sneak you in anyways. Dad's been getting a lot of conferences with this Ross guy lately."

"Ross?" That name piqued my interest. As in, General Ross? The guy chased Bruce Banner across the world?

"Dad won't say what it's about. Just some Avenger business," Howie got a cross look he usually got when butted out of adult topics. "Doesn't want me anywhere near Secretary Ross. I think he thinks he's protecting me, but I don't know from what. Isn't Ross supposed to be one of the good guys? He's not HYDRA."

"He might not be," I said, wishing I could imbue as much irony into my hands as I could into my voice. "Just because he's not HYDRA doesn't mean he's a good guy."

There was plenty of evil before HYDRA, and there would be plenty evil after. Not that I thought General Ross was evil necessarily, I'd never met him, but I knew his reputation well enough. He was no friend to superheroes. The fact that he was now Secretary, filling the shoes of the illustrious Alexander Pierce, did not give me hope.

The class ended with Mr. Johnson assigned a paper with a topic of our choice, regarding Allied war tactics against the Axis, and off we went. All things considered, the day was normal. Aside from a few weird looks and those goddamn whispers, I could almost pretend everything was normal as I carved a path through the crowd for Howie.

Give it a few days, I knew, a week or two, and everyone would have forgotten all about it.

✭✭✭

I wasn't surprised that Peter was waiting for me at my locker when the final bell rang.

"I hope you're here with good news and not just because you're worried about me," I said lightly as I put away my textbooks and pulled out my backpack. I had a bad feeling I'd be a victim to some helicopter parenting in the future, but helicopter cousining might be the bigger surprise.

"Me? Worried? Psh," Peter smacked the air as if dismissing the thought. "You're the last person I've ever worried about. Not when you've got a knife on you at all times."

"I do not," I lied.

"Sure," Peter grinned, seeing right through me. Only the truly foolish would ever believe a lie I said. "Anyways, yes, I do have good news. Rabbi Appel hooked me up with a gig next Friday, I'm getting paid to take photos of the Ravens' game this weekend. And I got an extra free ticket if you're interested."

"Yeah, you know me, big Ravens fan," I said, wondering if Peter was pulling my leg. I knew who the Ravens were. That was Faraday High, one of Midtown's rivals, up in Astoria. I also knew one of their quarterbacks, who also happened to be Appel's grandson. "Isn't that where Matt goes to school?"

"Maybe."

Well, it was little wonder where the Rabbi got his tip to hook up Peter, then. But I just shrugged, remembering to be delicate when I slammed my locker shut. The last one had dents in the shape of my fingers. "Well, that's nice of him. Guess it couldn't hurt to go. Going to football games is a normal thing for every teenager to do."

"You've never been to a football game in your life." Peter pointed out with a barely concealed laugh.

"Neither have you!"

"Unless I'm getting paid," Peter replied with a grin. "A hundred dollars for the whole night, that's way more than minimum wage."

"I don't suppose that also counts for food and drink,"

"Jokes on you, I bring my own food to games," Peter said, as we started walking out. I pretended not to notice how he kept looking around as if someone might snatch me away right in front of him. "But I'm sure if you asked Matt, he'd get you something."

"Really?" I blinked at him in surprise. Peter said it like it was a joke, but I had no idea where he was coming from to begin with. "Why would he do that?"

Peter stared back at me, then looked away. "Uh, don't worry about it. I'll save some food for you, just in case."

"Please, I can pay for myself. You're already got me a free ticket." I didn't want Peter spending his money on me, not when he was trying so hard to save up. For a car, for college. For his future. I had a bit of savings, not to mention the small allowance I got from not one, but three parents, which added up to a nice sum no matter how much I kept telling them to keep their money. I wasn't even sure what Dad did for a job nowadays, but he was clearly getting paid if he could afford to give me five dollars every week. At least my piggy bank was happy. "Besides, it'd be nice to see Matt. Especially after how much he helped me."

It was Rabbi Appel who suggested his grandson help me study for my bat mitzvah. I had been nervous at first, considering Matt had even more jock vibes than I did, but he turned out not so bad, and clearly helped me enough where I felt ready for the next step.

"Yeah, I'm sure he'd be happy to see you, too," Peter said, again in that tone of voice that sounded like a joke. But when I looked at him in question, he just shrugged and smiled like it was nothing.

Whatever little in-joke he was hiding, I wasn't in the mood to go hunting for it. The day had worn me out, having to deal with the reaction of being back, of teachers wondering if I was some delinquent on the edge of another stunt. If I could run away and risk FBI involvement without blinking an eye, what else could I do?

Together, we headed down to the subway, just the two of us. Ned had his D&D club today after school, and MJ had her painting project to work on, the one she neglected all weekend. The silence that fell between the two of us wasn't unusual, I was comfortable with the companionable quiet that often settled between Peter and I. But this time, it felt a little different. Tense, with unasked questions.

I could ask, I knew. But I had a feeling Peter would make himself known, if I was a little patient.

And I was right.

"So, Mia," Peter said at length, in his Way Too Casual voice. "Everything is okay, right?"

"Yeah?" I asked, frowning at him. It was such a weird question, and I wasn't sure what he was referring to. Was this what Dr. Siwa asked me to look out for? "I mean, after everything, I'm okay. What do you mean?"

"Oh, I just —" Peter rubbed the back of his head nervously, tried for an unconvincing smile. "Just wanted to make sure that you were, you know…. Happy. Here. At home."

"Happy?" I repeated, now even more confused than before. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I, er, I dunno, just wondering, that's all," Peter said, in that same voice that spoke more than what he was saying. All too innocent, all too insecure. When he caught my look, Peter winced. "It's not… anything bad, I'm just — I just want to make sure you're okay. That you didn't leave last Friday because you wanted to."

"And, what, I wouldn't remember why?" I asked, skeptical, trying very hard not to be offended. And maybe failing a little. Did Peter really think I'd want to run away? "Is this because of what everyone else is saying about me?"

Peter flushed a little, averting his gaze. "I just wanted to check in on you, that's all. Cross that off our list of explanations. If you say you're happy, then — I believe you."

That last part sounded sincere, and while I still bristled, I backed off a little. Maybe it was the thought of Peter being susceptible to rumor, or me thinking that he knew me better than that. Of course, I was happy. I was happier than I've been in a long time, at least until the event happened. Everything in my life was stable, I had plenty to look forward to, no demons to hide from.

And now everything felt just a little less certain. That maybe the ground I walked on wasn't as sure as I thought it was. It was startling to settle again, but still. The shake-up, and Peter's question, had me second-guessing everything.

It left me with a seed of doubt. Had I left of my own volition? It would explain why I would have dumped my backpack, wouldn't have answered my phone. Which I still didn't have.

If I had left, why? Where was I going? Why did I end up on a bridge so close to home?

And why couldn't I remember?

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

✭

The rest of the week passed without incident, although that was not to say I wasn't worried about it. The closer to Friday I got, the more anxious I was, and on the day itself I was terrified something was going to happen to me again.

But nothing did.

I went to bed safe and sound that night, a nice weekend ahead of me. The ceremony on Saturday morning, the football game on Sunday evening. I wasn't even particularly excited for that but I was glad to have something to do, somewhere to be, and not just hiding in my room all day.

The bat mitzvah service began in the morning, at the same time we usually went for Shabbat — only this time, I had a speech to practice and a much nicer-than-usual outfit to wear. A sleek blue dress with quarter-length sleeves, that went down to my knees. Aunt May had seen to it that I wore something brand new for the ceremony, and it kind of made me feel like I was about to go to a board meeting. But in a good way.

Then it was braiding my hair so it looked nice and neat, a bit of subtle make-up and of course, accessories. In this case, it was just my mother's necklace, the silver Magen David glittering against the dark blue fabric.

She was the only piece that was missing.

Peter also had to get dressed up, which he grumbled good-naturedly about. He had a part to play as well, which meant combing his hair and wearing a starched shirt and his "grandpa" shoes. Oh, and spent fifteen minutes finding his kippah in his mess of a room.

Then a quick breakfast before Aunt May was hauling us out the door. In the car, I still had my sheets with me, mouthing the words of my speech to myself.

Next to me, Peter joked, "You don't have to memorize it, you know. It's kind of an open-book test. Literally."

"Please don't call it a test," I muttered, not needing the added stress of the word. It wasn't a test, I knew that, but that still didn't alleviate the tremendous pressure I felt in not fucking up. I'd been looking forward to this day since I turned thirteen years ago. I may or may not have gotten any sleep last night.

"Well then, maybe think of this for good luck," Peter said, and held out his tallit, still residing in its box — the one he inherited from his own father, and wore to his own bar mitzvah. I hadn't laid eyes on it in years; tucked neatly away in its case, up on a shelf away from the disaster of a bedroom.

I smiled, and reminded myself I couldn't cry, I just finished my make-up. "Oh, Peter—"

"Don't say no!" Peter insisted, putting the soft fabric into my hands. "I think they'd want this, you know."

They, being our parents. Mom, Richard, Uncle Ben. Thinking about them had my heart squeezing, and I tried not to let it overwhelm me. The tallit would wait until we'd arrived at the temple, a prayer spoken, to draw that woven cloth around my shoulders, almost like a hug.

But the previous anxiety only ramped up when we arrived at the temple, where there was already quite a crowd. Not any bigger than usual, I already knew the congregants and knew what faces I'd see. Rabbi Appel greeted everyone at the door, smiling when he saw me, giving me a brief hug as I approached.

"It'll go off without a hitch," He assured me in a conspiratorial whisper, added a wink, and ushered us inside.

Inside, a few faces in particular were waiting for me.

The next hug caught me off guard — this time Pietro, grinning ear to ear. "Look at you, all grown up! But don't worry, you will always be our little sister."

I scoffed, hiding a laugh, as Wanda added, "There is nothing to worry about, I am sure you'll do wonderful."

"Hey, no fair peeking," I replied, shaking my head. But Wanda only shrugged and smiled; she probably didn't even need to look into my head to tell how I was feeling.

Among the other guests were Claire, who had promised to take time off work for this. She greeted me warmly, a tight squeeze of a hug. "You look so grown up, abejita. Your mom would be so proud." Then when she pulled back, she cut a glance over her shoulder and asked me in an undertone. "Did you invite that weird guy? The one with the beehive thing, from years ago?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, perking up. I had sent an invitation to him and Ms. Watson as well, though I hadn't thought they'd actually show up. But there they were, giving me a small wave in the back corner of the room. Probably to avoid Claire's wrath. "Yeah, I asked if he might be here."

I had also contacted them recently regarding my lapses in memory, the apparent fact that I've been… sleepwalking… disappearing without consciousness. Mr. Holmes had promised he'd follow the trail I'd left; he and Watson didn't believe, as the police and doctors did, that I was just some stupid runaway kid looking for attention. That I wasn't secretly addicted to drugs, which the police still suspected despite all my tests coming back completely clean (not that any drugs would have an affect on me to begin with) or living a second life on the streets.

It was nice, not to feel crazy all the time. That other people believed me.

She gave me a look. "Why?"

"Because…" I shrugged, unable to find the words. "They're my friends, too."

"Well, as long as he behaves himself…" Claire replied, looking unconvinced. She reserved her stink-eye for another man entirely. "Guess he has more right to be here than someone I could mention."

"Please don't start a fight with my dad," I said, wincing a little. Claire had carried the flag of my mother's resentment after her passing, unwilling to forget what Mom had gone through at the time. "He's just doing his best."

"If you say so," Claire cut me a look. "His best better be pretty damn good."

And last but not least, there was Steve, and Dad. They both looked rather identical in button-up shirts and chinos and ties, and only Steve looked anywhere near comfortable in them. I didn't even notice what Dad was wearing until now. Not particularly expensive, the shirt was too tight around his shoulders and the pants looked awfully stuffy on him, and he seemed self-conscious about his long hair, pulled back now. But it was the nicest I'd ever seen Dad. The only slightly odd thing about him was the gloves on his hands, which I supposed might be noticeable if everyone else wasn't so focused on how tall he was. I heard more than one giggle in the background from some of the other girls present.

I had both worried they'd be late or something, Steve in particular, who could be called away at a moment's notice. "I'm glad you came!"

"Hey, wouldn't miss this for the world," Steve grinned.

Dad's hug was much more subdued, but no less meaningful. This was his first time at temple, and I could feel how tense he was to be in an unfamiliar place he didn't get to scope out first. But still, he was here. "Knock 'em dead, kid."

Then everyone started shuffling into the sanctuary. I took a seat as I usually did, but my whole body was tense, waiting for when I'd be called up. Rabbi Appel gave the opening words, and prayer, as he usually did, much of which I didn't hear because of the blood rushing in my ears and trying not to crunch on my speech papers too loudly.

And then, too soon: "Miriam bat Naomi."

Daughter of Naomi. It had been a long time since I heard my mother's name like that. The very ghost of her seemed to follow me like a shadow. Haunting me, comforting me. Not weighing me down so much as it used to, but still there. I had to pull my eyes off the floor, make myself look ahead as I got to my feet and headed to the bimah. Standing up there, feeling everyone's eyes on me, my heart skipped a beat — that age-old terror coming through, being seen, being known — before the Rabbi gently tucked the tallit around my shoulders, and grounded me back into the moment.

It wasn't stage fright. Not exactly, anyways. But being stared at, by all those eyes, feeling like I was in constant judgment, had me feeling a little off-kilter. This was the part I dreaded, most of all.

But I quickly realized I wasn't alone, of course not. Rabbi Appel was there to take some of the heat off myself, and then there was Peter and Matt, passing the Torah and opening it. Peter gave me an encouraging smile, while Matt looked a little red in the face. He was roughly the same height as Peter, but heavier, and certainly looked stronger (even I knew that wasn't true); I didn't think the flush could be from carrying anything, though, especially not with Peter helping.

Then my attention was drawn to the words before me. The letters swam in front of my eyes in endless lines, before my eyes focused, everything settled. And then I began to speak.

I knew the opening blessing by heart. It was quiet at first, and Rabbi Appel gestured with my hand to raise my voice. My breath was a little shaky as I inhaled and continued, louder, and surprised myself that it made speaking a little easier. Made me sound more confident, even if I didn't really feel that way.

It grew a little easier after that, at least with my eyes on the scroll before me I didn't have to be constantly aware of the audience. And Rabbi Appel was there, gently guiding me through it, patient whenever I stumbled or stuttered in my anxiety. Hebrew wasn't so unfamiliar as it used to be, but under pressure any mistake felt grievous. But no one laughed, no one snickered. I started to relax a little more.

Months and months of preparation. When it had been Peter's turn, four years ago, he had completed a mitzvah project beforehand; something I had discussed with Rabbi Appel, which he thought I had already completed, much to my surprise. But he had pointed out that my acts of service during the Age of Ultron (as it were), in helping to make food for refugees and helping organize those food and supply runs with my friends — and not including that one time where I attacked some drones to defend a poor bystander — were to him the sign I had the perfect understanding of what it meant to perform a mitzvah, one of hundreds that existed. In this case, he had referenced chessed, a tradition of kindness, and left me to reflect on that for a while.

So much had led up to this; in a year, I'd be a legal adult, but now I'd be responsible for my own actions, good and bad. Before, it had been my mom, and it had always felt odd, to be the only one of my peers here to be the one kid who wasn't b'nai mitzvah. To be seen as a child, not responsible for her own actions, her own choices, even though that's what I had been holding to myself for years now.

Because Mom was gone now. And Dad had enough on his plate to worry about.

Rabbi Appel had asked Bucky if he'd want to speak in my honor for the ceremony, as a parent expressing joy/relief of no longer bearing the burden of their child's actions — but Bucky had declined. I hadn't held it against him, even before he explained his reasoning; that he hadn't known me long enough, hadn't been there for me, and that there were a lot of actions the two of us knew that felt too hard to face publicly, even just in implication. That period under protocol. Because even if Bucky didn't admit it, I knew he'd always feel responsible for what I had done as the Soldatka, or how it would affect me in the future, and that probably would never change.

Afterwards followed this week's verses from the Torah, as read by Matt. Though I was relieved to finally be able to step back and not think about everyone's eyes on me, I couldn't fail to notice how much smoother Matt's speech was than mine, less hesitation and stuttering. I'd been so long in my head up there that I didn't even think of what I must have sounded like, if I was even understood.

Then it was my bat mitzvah speech - prepared for this moment, based on the Torah portion Matt had read, and I had to tie it in. It was a piece of Leviticus, and so from Leviticus I spoke. One of the easier ones to remember, even if you've never read a Torah or Bible in your life; love thy neighbor as yourself. Don't hold grudges, especially with relatives of the offender. I didn't think I was a grudge-holder; but it was one thing to forget, another to forgive. There was so much I couldn't remember, the things I've done and the things done to me. I couldn't bring myself to go into detail, only that it followed me every day. You only had so much control of yourself; I knew less about that, and more being out of control. Could I even make myself feel something I didn't want to? My thoughts wandered even with the notes I brought, questioning my own argument. What the hell did I know? What was I even saying?

Maybe it made sense to them. It made sense to me when I was writing it earlier this week. But now I was distracted by my own anxiety and I couldn't remember my own thought process. And that was besides the cold sweat down my back, or the ways my hands started to tremble with all these eyes on me. So many eyes... I was used to that structure of reading thanks to years of schooling, but it was my first time doing it in front of an audience like this. 

But I had to. I wanted to, even as nervous as I was. To show I've grown, I've learned. That I was ready to take responsibility. And now, as Rabbi Appel gently congratulated me, as I stepped off the bimah and tried to keep it together. Wishing she was here to see this. Mom had always been the rebel, ready to flout tradition at the drop of a hat; but I felt that she might be proud of me in this moment. 

Getting emotional in front of an audience was not my idea of fun, and certainly not something I'd do otherwise, even with a gun to my head. But this was different.

I was glad to sit down, nestled within my family and witness the rest of the morning service went on, letting my heart come down back to its regular resting beat again. Back to the familiar routine, pretending not to notice that a good number of the guests here were not regular congregants or part of the neighborhood. Watching Dad out of the corner of my eye, watching me back, maybe. I wondered if he remembered his own bar mitzvah, what must be almost 80 years ago now.

Maybe I could ask later. Bank on that the celebration of today would put him in a good mood, or at least a charitable one. That if he did remember, he might share. Religion was one of many topics, like that of his past, he just did not open up about. I'd have to ask first, and even then wasn't guaranteed an answer. 

And then, that evening:

"Mazel tov!"

The party began.

This may or may not have been the part I was looking forward to the most. The hard part over, everyone filed into the adjacent dining hall, in which I was thrilled by the decorations kept hidden from me until now. It was bee-themed, just as I had requested — yellow, white, and black balloons twisted into a bee's bulbous shape; cakes shaped like flowers and beehives; an array of seventeen hexagonal candles (plus one for luck) in a honeycomb formation. So much honey-themed food that it would be a challenge to have a taste of them all.

I loved it.

There were presents, too, of course, but that wasn't so important as the eating and the dancing. So much dancing, of course one had to keep eating to maintain their energy, in order to keep dancing. Peter was playing DJ, playing the songs he knew I liked, and also a few just to embarrass me, such as a certain few songs from Disney movie soundtracks.

Peter was also one of the few people I trusted to lift me in a chair, and even then, I knew he'd fake losing his balance just to scare the shit out of me. Dad helped, of course, as well as Steve and a few others, so no one would question how zipper-thin Peter Parker could lift a chair plus me into the air all by himself.

Overall, the effect was greatly cathartic, the flood of stress and high emotion giving way to celebration and fun. The overwhelming sense of relief that it was it was over, that I had done it, that I was among the b'nai mitzvah. I was my own person now, even if only in the spiritual, cultural sense. That everything that had happened before now, it was behind me, and my life ahead was my own to take.

No longer feeling like an outsider. No longer feeling less-than, insufficient, incapable.

It was the happiest I've felt in a long time.

✭✭✭

There was a package waiting at the doorstep when we got home.

It was mid-afternoon by then, festivities over and my feet sore from all the dancing, carrying the gifts I'd received. Among them, a candlestick that resembled the ones Mom had so much that it made me cry; several individual bundles of eighteen dollars (totaling seventy-two); and a challah board, so I could finally perfect that recipe. But this package, as Aunt May picked it up off the hallway floor, was not belated gift. But from the FBI.

My cell phone.

As soon as we were inside, I practically dumped everything just to get my hands on it, to see what was on there. Dad helped Aunt May put the leftovers away, although I had the distinct feeling he was listening in as Peter and I hovered over the box in the living room.

It was nice to be back in the house again, quiet and secluded. Steve ended up taking a work call after all, during the party, and Wanda and Pietro had to leave afterwards, to return home for training. Apparently, Colonel Rhodes had them on a strict military schedule, and wanted them used to routine. For whatever good that would do when one of your students is a speedster that could run from New York to California in under an hour.

Inside the box was a folded plastic bag, within the cell phone and a sheet of paper. An evidence log with details explaining that the digital contents had been stored away, and the chain of hands it had gone through. And now it was mine again.

Thankfully, it still had some battery left, so the cell turned on instantly. Peter, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar and tie cast aside, studies the screen with me. "Holy shit, did I really leave 103 texts?"

"Damn," I muttered, as I scrolled through my inbox. "And sixteen voicemails, and fifty missed calls. Half of them after my phone died, it looks like."

"What can I say? I'm a dogged guy."

I went through the voice mails one by one, just in case. I already knew what most of them would be about, winced as they got more and more urgent and frightened. Not just from Peter, but from May and Dad and Steve and MJ and Ned and half a dozen more. My voicemail was actually full, and I felt a little bad deleting them as I went through, like I was ignoring this week-old concern.

But none of the voicemails were from any strangers, holding any secret or threatening messages. I wasn't too surprised.

The texts took even longer to wade through.

"What are you hoping to find?" Peter asked, as the sound of my clicking thumb filled the room with an increasingly annoying sound. "You think this mystery person who took you left a message?"

"I don't know," I said, because I didn't want to admit how dumb that would be to assume. I had no texts or from unknown numbers, no private IDs except for the ones accounting for Steve and Natasha. "I was wondering if I might have replied back to anyone, or…"

I probably would've known if I had already, someone would've said something. The notes left with the cell didn't reveal anything, not what the FBI had concluded from whatever information they gathered from the device.

But there was something else. I noticed the clock looked weird, that it had been changed to the twenty-four-hour setting. And the weather app had a new location on it. Italy.

"Italy?" Peter repeated when he saw it. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Were you planning a vacation or was it for Howie?"

"You think Howie has the patience for me to look up anything on this dinosaur?" I asked wryly. "I think not. No, I don't remember doing this, either."

"Huh," Peter frowned, leaning back and scratching his head. "I wonder what's so special about Italy. Dream vacation?"

I threw Peter a look, trying not to bristle at the implication that I was trying to run away again. But he just looked back, shrugging innocently, and I decided he meant no harm by it. At last, I heaved a sigh, setting the phone down. "I don't know. I don't think it's Howie-related. He would have said something by now."

"Oh yeah," Peter agreed, nodding sagely. "He cried when I called and told him what happened."

"Peter!"

"What?" He threw up his hands. "I wasn't trying to make him cry! He was just scared for you, that's all!"

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

"What, that he cried?"

"Yeah!"

"Why the hell would I?" Peter was trying very hard not to laugh at my indignation now. He recoiled when I smacked him with a pillow. "Hey! I'm serious! He felt bad enough he wasn't able to help, I didn't want to rub it in. Just, you know, don't tell him you know that. Or that you heard it from me."

I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes. "I wasn't planning to. But next time I upset him, you let me know, okay? I can't have that on my conscience."

"You got it, Mouth." Peter grinned.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

✭

It was a warm night, warmer under the giant floodlights that illuminated the football field. The stands were packed, from families in their purple-and-gold gear to the folks in maroon-and-white face paint, waving foam fingers and shouting into plastic megaphones.

I felt like I was on the planet Mars observing an alien culture. I'd never been to a sports game before, except for that one time Steve took me to a ballgame. But that was major league baseball — there was something decidedly more feral about high school football. All those moms and dads who were way too invested in their kids' sports career, and ready to fight tooth and nail with anyone who cheered for the wrong number. They had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

It was actually kind of great.

Just something about the atmosphere I could jive with, blend in and not feel like everyone was watching me. Just one of the crowd, a small part of the large, faceless masses. And also lots and lots of cheap food. Sports were never really my vibe but I could understand the appeal, in an existential kind of way, and also, it's just nice to be invited to things.

Friday night lights, as they were, brought out the crazy in people. I had to wear earplugs just because the noise was so intense around me, I couldn't make heads or tails of the game announcers narrating over the loudspeakers. I could empathize with the plight of all the babies and infants also here, with giant soundproof headphones around their ears for protection.

The cheers heightened as the two teams streamed out onto the field. The Ravens and the Wildcats, and somewhere on the sidelines was Peter, taking photos. I wondered which flash of the camera was his.

I waved when I saw Matt, walking along the edge of the field on my side. I was just low enough in the stands that he must have seen me, because he looked up and waved back, a big grin on his face — before the coach called his name, and he quickly stuffed his helmet on and ran onto the field. He was met with a chant of "Wolfman! Wolfman! Wolfman!" From both the audience and his teammates, with some howling thrown in for good measure. At a distance, he looked completely indistinct from the other football players, except for the giant numbers on their back (#22 for Matt).

Also on the sidelines was a troop of cheerleaders dancing; among them, her dark hair in a bow-bedecked ponytail, was Matt's sister Tilly. Just a freshman, it lent to her enthusiasm in waving those pompoms and putting extra pep into their chants. Still a skinny little thing, she was small enough to be a flyer at the top of their towers.

It was a warm enough night that I was comfortable in a tank top and shorts; otherwise, I wouldn't be flaunting my tattoo (and muscles) around so many families. A messy bun to keep it from getting too humid on the back of my neck. A very normal, classy look if I did say so myself, pretending that I wasn't also covered in scars.

Normally high school football didn't last this late into spring, but what with the age of Ultron cutting into what normally would've been summer practice time and in general fucking up administrative and financial capabilities of most schools, some of which started later than others come autumn, meant it was well into November by the time various school systems could coordinate game schedules and sufficient practice times for their teams. Instead of annoyance at the delay, most people were just happy football got to happen at all.

Still, I found it difficult to focus on the game as it commenced. My focus remained on my phone. Even after a week of getting it back, I couldn't find anything new I hadn't already discovered when it was initially returned. Couldn't figure out why I had a weather page for Italy. Had I been planning to go there? Was someone taking me there? Had they abandoned me when they realized they couldn't do it?

Had I gone to Italy and back in just three days? Was that even possible?

So, I'd been spending a lot of my free time googling flight times to Italy, which must be fun for the FBI agents undoubtedly monitoring my behavior. And yes, my research showed it was possible. I would've been there for less than a day, at least if I took a commercial flight.

And then that was its own set of factors. Commercial flight would be so risky with TSA and cameras and public airports. Private jet? So much better. Smaller and faster. I had no proof of this, of course, just conjecture, so the only people I could discuss this with were my friends. Peter, for example, knew I was not in possession of a private jet, so he didn't have to worry that this was me planning some wild runaway scheme.

In fact, just coming here to this game, he and I had been in deep discussion if there was a private jet involved, if I had been the pilot. I didn't think I had been taught to fly a jet, but Peter pointed out I wouldn't know until I tried.

We'd put a pin in that.

Life moved on. There was a game to attend, and summer to look forward to. Since everyone's summer vacation was basically stolen from them last year, I couldn't think of a single person not currently looking forward to the coming months. I knew I did. Mostly for sleeping in, hanging out with friends, and not worrying about a giant robot trying to take over the world.

It was weird how easily my life went back to normal after the strange missing three days, but in the end, I decided it was probably for the best. If I never got answers, then I just wanted to move on, get back to what I was doing before. Two weeks was long enough for people to stop whispering about it in school, for some new hot goss to overtake the rumor mill. I had finals to worry about, and taking driver's ed. Mixed lessons between Aunt May and Dad finally put me in a position where I felt semi-okay being behind the wheel of a large two-ton vehicle capable of manslaughter.

(Aunt May didn't like it when I thought of cars that way).

"Hey, Mia!" Matthew "Wolfman" Appel called out, and I understood how he got his moniker; not just with a thick head of dark hair, but also a pair of very hairy arms, that evoked a certain lupine nature. He was slightly out of breath but grinning as he came to lean against the railing in front of me. "I'm glad you're here. I, er, I wasn't sure you'd come!"

"Yeah, I had a night to kill, and Peter needs the moral support," I said, only a little bit joking. Peter could deal with a hostage situation without breaking a sweat but put him in a room full of strangers where he has to socialize and he chokes. "You guys seem to be doing great, though."

"Yeah, Coach thinks we might have a shot at the championship," Matt hooked a thumb over his shoulder, like this was just a casual detail, but his chest swelled with pride. "I'm just trying not to embarrass my sister. She's got routines in case I fumble."

"Her cruelty knows no bounds."

"Oh, yeah, she knows how to keep me humble," Matt said, in that kind of good-natured joking tone reserved specifically when talking about siblings in polite company. He made a face and scratched the back of his neck as he continued, "So, uh, you usually come to games?"

"Ah, no, it's not really my scene." There was also the fact I missed the entirety of sophomore year's football season due to being indisposed by exploding terrorists. And the two years before that. And before that, just being too sick to go to any game whatsoever. Seeing Matt's face fall slightly, I added, "But considering I've never been to one before, I mean, it seems neat so far."

"Wait, this is the first football match you've ever been to?" Matt seemed stunned, then grinned. "I'll make sure it's a good one, then!"

I started, surprised. That seemed like a lot of pressure I didn't intend to give. "Oh, well, you know, no stress or anything—"

"Hey, it's fine! Every player needs his motivation," he said with a casual flick of his hand, like pulling off a win for his team was no big deal. "Hey, I know we don't have tutoring sessions anymore, but now that they're over I've got free time on the weekends. If you, you know, want to keep hanging out. Like, normal people. Friends. No learning."

"Er, I guess." We had met once a week over those six months, after services at temple, when it was most convenient. A total of roughly twenty-four interactions that revealed Matt to be a fairly patient and encouraging tutor. But having been on the teaching end of it myself before, I didn't really use this experience to socialize; I had a focus, a goal, and maybe it was more utilitarian to me than it was for Matt. Making a friend hadn't really occurred to me. Until now. And cue feelings of guilt at not realizing how he may have interpreted it. Not that it wasn't mutual or anything. I just didn't want to cross boundaries. Especially considering how it ended with the last tutoring experience I had.

"Well, you know, if you want," Matt smiled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "No big deal."

I wasn't sure what to say, and being terrified of an awkward pause that could kill the conversation, I had to just spit out whatever came to mind first, "Yeah, sure… Matt."

He blinked in surprise, then beamed at me with such enthusiasm that there was no way I could match it. I didn't even do that much. "Tilly's gonna be so happy to know you're here. She's got some new Rebel merch she wants to show off."

"Oh, fun," That time, my smile was definitely a little forced.

It was just my luck that Tilly happened to be a huge Rebel Columbia fan. Given her ardent love of the superhero, I was constantly sweating bullets around her wondering if she was going to figure me out. Despite the presence of Steve in my family circle, she had yet to put it together — mostly because Steve's reason for being in my life was being my dad's friend. A completely normal reason that doesn't beg a lot of questions, mostly because Dad refuses to answer them.

And whenever Steve had been in Tilly's vicinity (like at my bat mitzvah) she interrogated him with questions about his "protege" — all Steve had to do was lie and pretend Rebel Columbia was just some completely different person, definitely not me, and so far, Tilly had bought it. Because, of course, why would Captain Steve Rogers lie?

That, and the fact that I've successfully managed to keep my face out of newspapers. And also by just not being very active, or doing things that cameras aren't going to catch me doing. I had one close call during the battle of Novi Grad, where the photo of me hugging Steve had made it into TIMES magazine again (this time, not on the front cover — that had been reserved for a terrifying shot of the Sokovian capitol city flying a mile above earth — but reserved for a splash photo in the article itself). I'd seen a cut-out of it in Tilly's binder, and it was also her lock screen on her phone.

Peter had said I now knew his grief regarding Flash, who had self-proclaimed to be Spider-Man's #1 Fan. He didn't like it when I pointed out Tilly didn't hate my guts.

"My dad also wanted to know if you and Peter would want to hang out with the family after the game. We always have a big meal, fast food, smoothies, the whole enchilada. You in?"

"What if you guys win?"

"Especially if we win," Matt said, shaking his head. "Wants to keep me and Tilly out of the crazy afterparties. And for, like, bonding and stuff."

"You want me to say yes so Tilly doesn't talk your ear off." I smirked knowingly. Because if it's not me Tilly is fangirling to, it's going to be her big brother.

"Yep," Matt said a little too quickly, flushing. "That's definitely it."

"Yo, Applejacks!" someone called from below, one of his teammates. His voice echoed across the stands for everyone to hear. "Quit flirting and get your ass over here! We still got a game to play!"

Matt glanced over his shoulder and his cheeks had gone red when he looked back at me again, laughing nervously. "I'm gonna to kill him."

I almost offered to help, but I didn't think he knew me well enough to get my sense of humor, so I just smiled back and said, "Don't let me keep you."

"You won't! I mean, you're not!" Matt quickly shook his head, and he seemed almost reluctant to stand up and go, glancing back again as if he could somehow guess how long he had left before he pissed off his team. "I'll, uh, I'll catch you later!"

And with that, he was jogging back down the audience stands to the field below.

"Break a leg!" I called after him, then winced (was that appropriate football lingo?). "Or not."

Privately hoping Matt had been too far away to hear any of that, I didn't notice when Peter appeared, jumping down from behind into the seat next to mine. Camera in one hand and hotdog in the other, he spoke with his mouth full: "Well, that was hard to watch."

"Shut up." I scowled, folding my arms and sinking lower into my chair. "I'd like to see you do better."

"Yes, between the two of us, I can definitely read social cues better," Peter said after taking a big swallow of food. Then he elbowed me good-naturedly, a smile with no malice. "It's not your fault. Everyone's not on the same level as you."

"You mean the kind of level where I interpret a congratulatory shoulder clap as a threat and try to punch them?" I asked, recalling one incident where Flash almost got a broken nose if it hadn't been for Peter's fast thinking being faster than my fist. Thankfully Flash didn't hold it against me; instead, acted like the Queen of England being manhandled by a commoner, all because Peter saved his face.

Peter snorted, clearly remembering the same event. "Yeah, that kind of level. But Matt will figure it out. Eventually."

"Yeah, eventually." But I just felt bad. Hunching up my shoulders, I said, "I didn't realize he just wanted to be my friend."

Peter blinked at me. Then his face fell slowly into his palm.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's never nothing with you. What is it? What do you know?"

"Nothing!" Peter insisted, but the way he threw up his hands and did his whole laughing-when-nervous thing made me suspect otherwise. "Nothing you have to worry about. I swear."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Alright, you wanna hint?" Peter said, and I leaned in close. Very seriously, in a conspiratorial whisper, he said, "You ever notice how Matt stares at your biceps?"

"What?" I made a face, wrinkling my nose. That didn't make any sense. "How would you know he's staring at my biceps? Are you staring at him?"

"What?" Peter blinked, taken aback. "No, you're completely missing the point—"

"Then just tell me what it is!" I said, hating these games. But Peter just shook his head and shrugged, and I knew I wouldn't win. With a sigh, I pulled back and stood up, stretching my arms. "Ugh, fine, keep your secrets. I'm gonna get a hotdog."

"Get me one, too!" Peter called after me as I began ascending the steps. The smell of frying meat was intoxicating and the food shack was just down the way; it had taken a tremendous amount of inner strength for me to resist eating so far, and now I finally had my excuse. Whether or not I'd acquiesce to Peter's request would depend on my mood when I got there.

It felt like there was some inner joke about me that I wasn't privy to, and it rankled. I'd get it out of Peter eventually. Maybe hold that extra hot dog hostage until he did.

Climbing up those stairs, it happened just like it would in a dream. Where you lifted your foot and it fell through the step. My body fell forward and I gasped as the ground seemed to drop out from beneath me, only for my heel to hit concrete. The sudden jolt of vertigo came with it a sudden darkness.

A blink, and I was stumbling in an alleyway.

All the breath in my lungs vanished, like a gut punch. No. Not again.

Please, not again.

But I wasn't in the stands. I wasn't anywhere near a football field. The alleyway I was in was dark and cold and quiet, and I couldn't even hear the echoing of a cheering crowd or music from a game.

My throat was parched, and I tried to call out but my voice was too weak. The buildings on either side of me rose up like forbidding black walls, their windows dark. It was well into the night. Just like last time.

Where was I? My arms stung as I reached out and leaned against the brick wall, oddly comforting as I stumbled out into the street. Wearing the same shirt and shorts I had been a second before, good. The soles of my feet cut into cold, rough tarmac, pebbles poking my heels. Missing shoes, not good. Looking up, street signs in English, good again. Phone in my pocket, dead. It couldn't be. I just charged it before I went to the game.

No, please, I begged, to no one in particular. Once more, trying to remember what I had been doing just a second ago. Just wanting to get some food, that's all. I was in a crowded place, how could I have just… disappeared again? Peter had been right there. Surely, he would've noticed. Surely…

I tried desperately to find any answers. Maybe I hadn't been alone. But all I could smell was moldering trash, body waste, and car exhaust, long faded. Any scent of a person was way too old to have been with me here, recently. No, I had been alone. I had been for a while. Just a weird, mildly antiseptic smell on my hands. My eyes caught nothing in the darkness, no shoe prints or odd figures disappearing around the corner. Yet my skin prickled, my throat closing up. There were no cameras here, but it felt as though I were being watched.

At least it wasn't raining. I was still dry, although that didn't explain how I'd lost my shoes. A quick scan of the area revealed nothing. Wherever I had taken them off, it wasn't here. If I'd taken them off.

How deeply the darkness pressed down on me. Not even the nearby lights provided any comfort, an eerie yellow-green that was cold and wary rather than welcoming. A humidity that added to the invisible suffocating feeling in the air, and the deep desire to scrub some clinging substance from my skin.

My head swam with every move of my body, feeling off balance and slow to react. Was this what a hangover felt like? It was the only thing I could think of to describe the feeling. But my stomach was empty, and I knew what alcohol would taste like had it been on my tongue. Which it wasn't. As if I could get drunk anyways.

This dizziness, the daze, made it difficult to focus. Only at the last second did I notice the pair of headlights rushing towards me.

Twin beams of bright white light blinded me instantly.

The horn shocked me to my senses.

I gasped, throwing myself backwards, arms rising up to protect my face. The truck rushed past, veering wildly to avoid me, before screeching to a stop some twenty feet away. The street was entirely empty except for the blinking of the traffic lights above, flashing red into the late night.

Shivering and shocked, I barely had time to catch my breath when the passenger door slammed open. Oh, god, were they pissed at me? What time was it? Where was I—?

"Mia!"

I jolted at the familiar voice. Out of the truck someone rushed towards me, too fast. I jumped back, my fists immediately raising to defend myself — but then the streetlights illuminated the face of Matthew "Wolfman" Appel, eyes wide in the darkness.

Hard to say which one of us looked more surprised to see the other.

"We've been looking all over for you!" He rushed towards me so fast I flinched. Matt skidded to a stop, raising his hands. There were smears of black paint across his cheeks from the game, now partially rubbed away. He was no longer dressed in his football uniform, but now in regular shorts and his letterman jacket. "Whoa, hey, are you okay?"

"W-what time is it?" That was the first question out of my mouth. Didn't even occur to me to answer him. I was awake, I was standing, I was okay. That was all I needed to know, even as I shook and shivered and hugged myself. "How long — when did I —?"

My voice rasped and I coughed, a little too hard apparently. Then Matt's dad, Noah (he didn't like being called Mr. Appel, too formal), was coming out of the truck, the door slamming again, his deep voice calling out, "Mia, are you alright? Matt, help me get her in the car —"

Noah was even bigger and hairier than his son, wearing plaid even in the summer, and had a gentle but commanding voice difficult to ignore. Soothing in its deepness, I had the sensation I was going to be okay. He had the presence of someone who wouldn't be out of place living in the middle of a deep forest. As I stumbled over to the white truck, something fell over my shoulders. Matt's jacket, still warm. He helped me into the backseat, where Tilly waited on the far end. She was still in her cheerleader outfit, dark curls still tied up in a ribbon, and pompoms tucked between her knees. Her face looked unusually pale under the small cabin light, ghostly blue eyes looking me up and down with her hands clasped together.

"Mia!" She said, her voice high-pitched, a little trembling from emotion. In her hair were little silver clips resembling my shield, and somehow seeing that red star made me queasy. "I can't believe we found you! We've been looking all night."

I winced getting in. My arms still stung, and it wasn't until I was under the light in the truck's cabin did I understand why. My skin had turned a strange pinkish shade, fern-like markings stretching across my forearms in random spots. Burst capillaries, I realized belatedly, with the clinical distance of a mind not altogether in the moment. From what? I couldn't recall what would cause this kind of injury. There were no bruises, no broken bones or bleeding, no signs that I'd actually been attacked. At a glance, it might look like an ordinary rash.

Feeling ever more nauseous, I pulled Matt's jacket tighter around me, tucking my arms out of sight. "You… you've been looking for me?"

I looked slowly around as I sat in the middle, Matt flanking my other side. Noah returned to the driver's seat, and before it could even occur to me how lucky I was to be found so soon, I was now jumping to the coincidence of it. "How did —?"

"Peter told us as soon as he realized you were missing," Noah said, his voice calm as he kicked the truck back into gear. He glanced at me over his shoulder for a brief moment. "You were missing for four hours, Mia."

Four hours.

Something in my face must have said something, because Noah asked, quietly, "You don't have to tell us what happened. But I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Why?" I asked, and Noah turned the rear-view mirror so I could see myself. See my pale face, my blue lips, how my hair hung in my face in a limp, awful way. The blood dripping from my nose, having already stained my shirt in morbid red splotches. And I didn't protest as the truck began to move, the cabin turning dark once more. It felt a little easier to hide that way.

Noah was making calls on his cell phone, but I had trouble focusing on his words. The truck was eerily quiet and I didn't like how the unspoken questions seemed to hang in the air. Even worse, I had no answers for them. Once more, I couldn't remember what had happened, or why, or even when. And on top of it all, I had the sense that they wouldn't believe me if I told them. So, I put that aside for now. Instead, I asked, "Is Peter okay?"

"Yes, he's fine," it was Matt who answered, his dad too busy talking to someone. The light from the dashboard reflected in his dark eyes. "He and May have been out here looking. And the police."

"We should be asking you that," Tilly added, leaning forward. She looked so small, so frail in the darkness. Like a ghost. "Are you okay?"

Honest answer? "No."

Tilly bit her lip, and I regretted that, scaring her. But I couldn't lie, either, could I? It was very obvious I wasn't doing so hot. "W-why did you leave?"

I didn't understand her question. Like I had a choice in the matter. "I… I didn't want to. I don't remember what happened."

Tilly blinked in surprise. "You mean, this is like last—"

"Shh!" Matt cut her off quickly, hissing, "I told you not to ask about that, Tilly."

"But I just want to know—"

"— and you think now is the best time? —"

"Kids," Noah's voice cut through the argument, not angry but just as powerful, silencing them both at once. He didn't look away from the road. "Let's not scare Mia, okay? She's had a rough night already."

I said nothing. I didn't know what to say, didn't know how to answer Tilly's question. I knew what she wanted to say, and yet I couldn't get over my surprise, my curiosity, wondering what exactly she heard about the last time this happened. What kind of gossip was going around. What people outside of school thought of me.

My nausea came back, and I just squeezed my eyes shut and focused on keeping it together for as long as I could.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

✭

My nose continued to drip blood all the way to the hospital.

It was a short ride, thankfully, but a tense one. It felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life, waiting there in silence, trying to keep a lid on my fluctuating panic. One minute I felt like I was in control, the next I was terrified I'd completely lose it. I didn't want to break down into tears in front of everyone. Even if Noah had turned on the radio, it would've made for a small, helpful distraction. But he didn't.

The emergency room wasn't very busy at this hour, sullen and sedate with a few people huddled on chairs, cradling a broken arm or propping up a swollen knee. A child that looked like he'd caught the flu, half-asleep nestled against his mother's side. I didn't have a long wait before a nurse came for me, and I tried to do my best to give an accurate account of my physical state. My nose, my arms, the scrapes on the bottom of my feet. But when I shrugged off Matt's jacket, it only revealed unmarked arms - skin an irritated pink, but otherwise unblemished.

No darkened veins, no fern-like pattern crawling up my arms.

Nothing.

"…How did you say they looked like?" The nurse asked, frowning up at me. Giving me the vaguest benefit of the doubt.

Aside from a slightly unusual redness, there was absolutely nothing remarkable there. Except maybe my old scars, which probably caught the nurse's attention more than anything else, and what I did not want to comment on. It wasn't relevant. It wasn't what I saw. What I felt.

My mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. What happened? "I don't know... I just had this weird redness, like my veins — it stung. It was just there a moment ago, in the truck…"

At this, both I and the nurse turned to Matt in unison. He'd been there, up close, he gave me his jacket. He had to have seen. He had to.

Tilly and Matt stuck with me in the little examination room while Noah went out to find May and Peter, who'd just arrived. I felt better with their presence, until now, feeling like I was now the center of a stage play where I was about to be judged for my performance. Wondering how I could ask them to leave because I wanted to request yet another rape kit. Not that I believed it happened, the only thing that felt off about me were my arms. But still. The last thing I trusted right now was my own judgement.

And there was nothing the hospital could offer here that could fix that.

At our staring, Matt flushed, glancing away and shrugging. "It was too dark, I couldn't see much."

There was a second of silence where their answers just hung in the air. Matt looked at me and flinched, as if he had realized he said something wrong. "I'm sorry."

Then I looked to Tilly, hopeful. But her eyes averted in embarrassment. "I don't know, I wasn't paying attention. I only saw your nosebleed, it freaked me out."

She might as well have punched me in the gut. Neither of them noticed? But then, I realized, of course. I could see better in the dark then they could. If I had even seen anything at all. And I understood, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that if the injury had been light enough, I would've recovered quickly.

The nurse inhaled, nodding slowly but said nothing. She looked over my arms again one last time, perhaps just to mollify me. But I knew and she knew and we all knew that she wouldn't find anything. Whatever it had been, I had healed too fast for there to be any evidence of injury or attack left behind.

If there had been any at all.

There was a cop outside the door, too, they had been the first to arrive. A few preliminary questions before the nurse threw her weight around and got me to herself; probably felt bad for me to allow Matt and Tilly to stay. Still, as she began her basic check-up, I couldn't help but overhear the cop outside speaking in a low tone to another officer.

"Just like last time. Claims no memory of the event... Barely anything to put on the report …could be maliciously missing…"

"… just another runaway?"

"… possibly…"

My stomach twisted in on itself. The noise, the PA system, the bright lights, the smell, it was all too much. I actually ended up retching in the bathroom, but apparently, I never got that hotdog because my stomach was completely empty.

Something had happened to me. Again. Once more, out in public, surrounded by people. The lady cop had told me that I was last seen on camera in the football stadium, climbing up those damn steps. But like those cameras, my memory had no further clue of what happened after that.

"You're lucky your cousin was on the ball," she said, clicking her tongue as she scribbled something down on her notepad. "Got half the neighborhood looking out for you, Miss Fletcher. Not every kid has that."

Lucky. I didn't feel lucky. Grateful, perhaps, for Peter and Noah and everyone else who took it upon themselves to go looking for me. Matt, who probably lost out on a lot of post-game celebration (he revealed his team won with a sheepish look, and I felt bad for stealing that thunder). But lucky? Lucky to be alive, maybe. In one piece. Lucky it was only a few hours.

But not lucky that it didn't happen again. Not lucky that I still had no answers.

Feeling like I was starting to lose my mind a little.

By the time Aunt May and Peter arrived, I had gone numb. The shock and confusion and spikey panic faded into a dull throbbing in my head, sounds muted and textures distant. The lights of the hospital, still too bright. I thought I was imagining it when I saw the deep red hair of Natasha Romanov bringing up the rear, but no, it was her. Her solemn expression unchanging. I guess it was better than the alternative. No FBI agents this time.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Aunt May had asked me, for the millionth time. She flanked one side, Peter the other, with Natasha leaning against a nearby column, like a sentinel on guard. Her eyes were watching the halls, but I knew she was listening to this conversation. Aunt May's hand combing through my hair brought my attention back to the moment. "Noah said he found you in an alleyway in Brooklyn, your shoes —"

"I don't know what happened to them," I mumbled. I had on a pair of fuzzy warm socks with little rubber paw prints on the soles to prevent slippage, courtesy of the hospital. I still felt frozen inside. "I just woke up in that alleyway…"

"Noah said you just stepped out right in front of his truck!"

"I did?" That wasn't how I remembered it. I thought I had been standing there for a while before the truck appeared. But now I was starting to question just what I could recall. I shrugged weakly. "Maybe I did. I don't know. I've got such a headache…"

My head hadn't stopped pounding, and the hospital's atmosphere only made it worse. I hated being in these halls. This particular facility was unfamiliar, but in the macro they were all the same, and it made me nauseous just to be here. All those memories of being hooked up to IVs, being rushed to the emergency room, lying frozen and scared in an MRI machine while it clanged and boomed ominously around me. The cloying smell that somehow stuck to the back of my throat for days after I'd already left.

"I'll go see if I can find you something," May said, with a sigh. We all knew there was no medication for this. "While I finish up that paperwork…"

I felt immensely guilty as she got up, purse under her arm. Hospitals weren't cheap, even for a short visit like this where nothing even really happened. Aside from another testing kit, all I got diagnosed with was dehydration and dry nose, and possibly some kind of mild allergic reaction for all my arms revealed. Not even a band-aid. But would our insurance cover this? Could we afford to pay out of pocket?

Peter, as if sensing my concern, put a hand on my shoulder and said in a low voice, "Don't worry, Mia. It's not going to cost us. Ms. Romanov said she'll take care of it."

(Natasha, who had followed May to provide assistance, started waving a credit card around that looked like it had been stolen from Tony Stark's wallet).

"Really?" I said, surprised. But maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I was lucky. Or fortunate. Grateful. "Guess I should write her a thank-you note, huh?"

It was a weak attempt at levity, but Peter flashed a smirk anyways. "Aunt May might even let you use her nice stationery."

"Yeah, I can ruin it with my handwriting," I said, and we shared a laugh. A little strained, a little uneasy. Carefully dancing around the elephant in the room. But I didn't know how to address it. I didn't understand enough myself to even begin processing. I was just tired and hungry. I wanted to sleep.

Once it becomes clear that May wasn't coming back anytime soon, Peter went on a quest to find something to munch on. There wasn't a vending machine in sight, and maybe I relished the chance to be on my own for a little bit.

But my solitude wouldn't last long.

It was all of a minute before someone sat in the seat next to me once more. Was I never going to get this bench to myself? I looked over, unsurprised to see Nat sitting there. Perhaps she had been waiting for an opportune moment to speak to me privately, out of earshot of concerned familial figures.

"It's been a long night, huh?" Natasha asked, arms resting along the backs of the chairs, way too casual. But that was how she worked, disarming you before getting to the meat of things.

"Yep," I wasn't sure what she hoped to get out of me, after multiple rounds of questions by everyone else got the same answers. It all amounted to nothing much. I doubted any progress was made at all in the previous incident and I doubted this would help it any further. It only added to the deluge of questions. "I think the police think I'm yanking their chain."

"They don't see what we see," Natasha said, although she looked distinctly unimpressed. "And they don't have our resources, either. We're still looking for clues, Mia, even if they aren't."

That was one small concern out of the way, but didn't make me feel better in the grand scheme of things. That the police might not take me seriously in the future in case this happened again. And I was really afraid it was going to be now. So, I had to ask, I had to know what the professional spy made of this: "What do you think this is?"

Nat pursed her lips, then shook her head. "I don't know. But we'll figure it out."

She glanced at me and smiled faintly, reaching out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "You're not alone in this, don't worry."

That was probably meant to be reassuring, but it only reminded me that these events, events I had no control over, were hurting my friends and family. And there was nothing I could do to fix that. Still, I mumbled a thanks, before asking, "And my dad?"

"He knows." Natasha said quietly, her eyes casting about as if she feared the walls had ears. Maybe they did. "He'd be here but, well, you know…"

"Yeah." I sighed, resting my chin on my arms. Police presence was a good way to ward off Dad. And I understood, but that didn't mean I missed him any less. Wanted that sense of comfort and safety. I hoped I'd see him soon. "And Steve?"

"On mission," Nat replied, not saying what exactly that mission was. "But he'll get the message I sent. I'm sure he'll call you soon. When your phone charges again. Any idea why it lost power?"

"Yes," I said, and pulled it out to show her. Show her the battery pack in the back; Nokia was very nice in making this particular brand come with replaceable batteries. Which also made them easy to pop out a little, cutting off all power and all possible tracing techniques. Can't track a dead phone. I hadn't noticed it until after we reached the hospital and Matt noticed it while I was trying to find a charger. The screen now shone brightly, revealing a dozen unread messages. "That's all it took."

It was something I could've done myself. Undetectable for those few hours I was missing, yet leaving myself a lifeline in case I changed my mind. Just pop the sucker back in and I was good to go again.

"Hm," Was all Natasha said, studying the phone with a frown.

I wondered if she was thinking the same as I was, that I had done this myself. It definitely wouldn't take a genius to figure it out. When she opened her hand to it, I let her have the phone, study it for herself. Snapped the battery pack in and out just to test it, before returning the device. "Well. If there is someone else involved in this, they sure know how to keep us off their trail."

"And if it's not?" I asked. "If it's me?"

Natasha didn't meet my eyes, studying a far corner of the room. "Then this you, this other you, is very determined not to be found. And if so, we'll just have to figure out why that is."

The other me. The Soldatka. That was the only other version there was that could be in control of my body. To be honest, I didn't think I — she — would need a reason to do this. She was just too paranoid, too cautious. It was in my protocol to avoid ever being detected. She would do it because it was merely routine.

But that didn't sound particularly hopeful. And there was a chance Nat may have figured that out for herself, so I said nothing.

And I wondered what the other me was doing.

✭✭✭

There was no avoiding what came after.

School that Monday was awful. If I thought my first disappearance caused waves, the second time made an even bigger splash. I did my best to ignore it. My friends pretended everything was okay. Yet I was never alone, and I was convinced they could hear the same things I could.

"...you hear? Mia Fletcher ran away again…"

"...heard she got in trouble with the police…"

"...mom says she's trouble. In a gang or something."

" — oh, definitely. You see that tattoo?"

"Forget the tattoo? You see those scars?"

"... said it was only a matter of time…"

They followed me everywhere. In the classroom. In the halls. I'd get my textbooks and hear some kids giggling and whispering down the hall, watching me with round eyes. Then my head would snap around and I'd look them directly in the eye and they'd scattered like lemmings. But it only made the rumors worse.

That I was dangerous. That I was a criminal.

All because I'd gone missing for a few hours.

Maybe these rumors had always been there, thoughts and assumptions lying in wait for the fires to be stoked. The catalyst to set the ball rolling. Even Midtown Conspiracies played a role, some kids thought it was an excuse for me to break into buildings. Which, you know, I did, but for a greater cause. Hunting ghosts was serious business.

MJ defended me to the very last, bless her heart. Spending afternoons working on stories, filming and editing, it was a nice reprieve. Hiding in that closet space and getting lost in the wild stories of others. Answering comments on the YouTube channel and answering fan mail. Which we didn't get a lot of, but have since started to recognize some usernames. One of whom I was fairly positive was Tilly and/or Matt.

At least the fans didn't think I was a criminal. Possibly a supernatural entity. But nothing weird.

And I found I could no longer refuse Howie's offers for help. Now that it's happened again, what could I do? All search for answers had gone nowhere, so it was down to his super fancy machine in Avengers Tower. When I showed up after school that following week, Howie was practically bouncing. If I hadn't known better, I'd say he was just excited to show us his new toy than just to help.

"What's this place called again?" I asked, standing in the middle of a blank white room. When Howie mentioned a machine, I imagined something like a computer, but nothing this… big? I felt like I was in a white void, if it weren't for the fact that everyone else was in here, too, and the one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. They pulled away to allow open access to the hallway beyond, and apparently for the invisible audience that wasn't here right now.

"We call it Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing," Howie answered, fiddling with some controls on his tablet, tongue sticking out. "Or BARF for short. Dad developed it as a therapeutic device, but using proprietary technology. Its main purpose is to take your memories and bring them to life, play them out as they happened, or even change them. Not in your head, exactly, but you could play out different possibilities. Say things you didn't get to say before, get a reaction that wasn't there, that sorta thing."

"That's amazing," Peter said, looking around in awe. The walls were nothing more than white glass, filled with untapped potential. "This could have so many real-world applications."

I had not come alone, of course. Peter was now making a concerted effort to accompany me everywhere, and no longer making it super subtle. Maybe even cutting into his Spider-Man time to do so, which I felt bad about. Wanda and Pietro were here as well, an excursion into the city on an excuse to sightsee and shop for new clothes (Pietro loved that men's sports shoes were a statement thing, if only he didn't burn through them so fast), but they weren't fooling anyone. They were here for the same reason Peter was. I was convinced Peter may or may not have a secret chatroom where they discussed babysitting schedules for me. But maybe that was just my paranoia talking.

"We know," Howie nodded grimly. "So many, we haven't released it yet. Not until we have a good idea just what exactly it can be made to do. Dad's keeping it under wraps till his dealings with the Secretary are over."

"What does Tony use it for?" I asked, wondering what could motivate a man to build what sounded to me like a giant trauma-reliver.

"A lot of things," Howie shrugged. "Mostly about his dad. My grandfather. He died in a car crash a long time ago, along with Dad's mom. He wanted to see them again. Talk to them." His cheeks pinked, and he looked away. "Wanted them to meet me."

"Aww." We said, which made Howie flush harder.

"If I saw my father again," Pietro said, glowering into a corner. "I'd break his nose."

"Pietro!" Wanda admonished.

"I can make that happen!" Howie piped cheerfully.

"No," Wanda cut a hard look at both of them, before gesturing to me, "We help Amelia first, yes? See if there's anything we can find."

"Then can I punch Dat?" Pietro asked.

She sighed, hands on hips, hanging her head. "Yes. As many times as you want."

"Yes! Let's do this."

"I'm glad we can appeal to your charitable nature," I tried to smile good-naturedly, but I was not looking forward to this experience. I was afraid it was going to involve something invasive, maybe needles or some shit, but Howie just handed me a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses and told me the computer would do the rest. I still did not see where the computer was. But I put on the glasses. "How will it pick up on the right memories?" Or lack thereof?

"Luckily, I just have to find your most recent memories," Howie said with a faint smile, and started tapping on his tablet. At the same time, I felt a little tingling behind my ears, where the wings of the eyeglasses pressed against my skin. Whatever was on his little screen, it had Howie frowning. The other three peered over his shoulder to see what was going on. "Well, you have a corrupted data file right here. Let's see what BARF can do."

"You really gotta change that acronym," Peter said.

"I know," Howie sighed.

Then, blue planes of light flickered across the room, emanating from small cameras situated in the furthest corners. Grids appeared, taking the form of vague objects, and before me appeared a human silhouette, quickly rendered into something familiar. Myself, only blank-faced, wearing the clothes I'd worn that day at Matt's football game. It was startling to look into my own face like that. Was this me, or the Soldatka?

"Where's everything else?" I asked, when the rest of the room darkened, but nothing came out like my reflection did. There were a few odd shapes, what looked like to be the idea of buildings or furniture, sharp vertical and horizontal lines. "Does it normally look like this?"

"No," Howie said, moving around to get a better idea of the scene playing out before us. I watched as my holographic reflection moved jerkily across the room. "Usually, BARF recreates everything to lifelike clarity. Not like this, like a… dream. I can add details and fill in the gaps, but it won't be your memory anymore, just a simulation of something else. We only do that if we want to play out different futures."

Well, I wasn't interested in that. The five of us wandered around the room as my reflection walked in place. It seemed glitchy, and while I didn't appreciate Howie talking about my memory like it was a faulty computer file, I could see the merit in the description. It was broken, corrupted, by something none of us could determine.

"What's this?" Wanda pointed to something, and for a moment, none of us could figure out what she was pointing to. It just looked like a blank space against a holographic wall. But then, standing next to her, I could see it. A plane of image coming through only at this angle. Another silhouette. "Is that your shadow?"

Immediately, I knew it wasn't. It was too broad, too stout, and the head was of someone with short hair, not long and curly in a ponytail, like I had been wearing. "No, that's something else."

"Someone else," Pietro corrected, peering over my shoulder. "That is weird. How come you can only see it at this angle?"

"Maybe it's like a video game element?" Peter suggested, and at a collection of bemused looks, he explained, "Like, in a game, each object in that digital 3D space needs data to exist. And if that object, say, emits light, or casts a shadow or a reflection, that's a different element entirely, done by a separate program. So even if the object doesn't exist anymore —"

"The reflection remains!" Howie completed, grinning, barely containing his glee. He was already typing frantically. "Oh, this is fantastic! I've never considered just how BARF would interpret an incomplete memory sequence. I'll have to save this for further exploration..."

"Maybe there's other stuff like this," I said, and like a spark, it sent everyone in motion. Moving around, turning in place, looking for any secret planes or glints of reflection for something that wasn't there anymore. I remained in that spot, studying that first element that Wanda found. Trying to find any discernible characteristic in a flat image, the mere outline of someone. Trying to match it. All I could determine was that it was male, and shorter than me. Possibly wearing a long coat which hit everything from beneath his neck to above his knees. It didn't match the silhouette of any man I knew, not Dad, not Steve.

I glared at it. This someone. This someone who saw me, who had been there. What were they doing? Did they try to help? Or were they somehow the cause of this?

"Oh, got something!" Pietro called out from across the room, and pointed to something in the corner. Like before, we all gathered around in a tight cluster, angling our heads just so. And indeed, there was something. A flicker of light, like electricity, sparking back and forth in a looped image.

"What the hell is that?" Peter scowled. "Looks like something short-circuited."

"Maybe you were working around or near a power source," Wanda suggested, reaching out to touch the image, hanging at about knee-height. About level with where a wall plug would be, I supposed. "Or a building with faulty electricity."

"That only narrows down half the city." I muttered. Where could I have gone in those three hours? This was feeling rather hopeless, only small clues to be found, but nothing concrete. Nothing I could use. Maybe I felt slightly less crazy. But only slightly. I wanted to keep looking, wanted to look at my memories from the first time.

I didn't get the chance to ask.

"The hell is going on here?"

All five of us jumped and looked around. It must have looked comical, the way we were all standing in a tight-knit group, heads swinging around in unison to stare at the man who had just walked in. He was tall, stately, a navy suit, white hair and bushy mustache, late sixties perhaps. I didn't recognize him right away.

He scowled at us, and I noticed the little American flag pin on his lapel that immediately pegged him for politician. "I didn't realize Stark let a bunch of kids play with his dangerous experiments."

"We're not playing," Howie was the first to pipe up, scowling in indignation. He raised his tablet as if to indicate the very real, very hard work he was doing right now. "And it's not dangerous, Mr. Secretary. I'd never make something like that."

The man peered down at Howie, dubious. "You're Tony's boy. Howard, right? Didn't you make a bomb that shook up half of Sicily?"

Howie's cheeks pinkened and he ducked his head. And as we stood there, glaring back at him in Howie's stead, it hit me. "You're General Ross."

"It's Secretary now," The man's sharp blue eyes fixed on me, and a chill went down my back. I was wrong about the politician part, I realized. Warmonger was far more appropriate. "And you are?"

My mouth shut, unwilling to answer. Not to the man who had made it his life's mission to hunt down Bruce Banner to the ends of the earth, who had a hand in tearing up Harlem years ago in an unnecessary battle. Who took up the late Alexander Pierce's job after the man died, quite ignominiously. Safe to say I didn't trust anyone who got hired for that job position now. And that was before Ross had started another personal crusade to find every last trace of HYDRA and destroy it. Including the Winter Soldier, who as far as anyone knew, was still on the run.

"Ah, let me guess," Ross raised his chin, a knowing glint in his eyes when I failed to respond. "Rogers' little protege, right? What tale are they spinning now, that you're his little sister? Because he can't possibly be your father."

What the fuck. Did he know? Did he know who my dad was? Now I was terrified, especially considering that Ross was now standing in the middle of one of my own damn memories. This was way more of me than I ever wanted this man to see. His mild threat did not go unnoticed either, with Pietro carefully sliding in front of me, the only one tall enough to render me harder to see. Wanda tapped Howie's shoulder, maybe whispered into his mind, because he was quickly swiping the screen, and the room returned to its previous blank white state.

"Ah, and you must be the Mutants," Ross looked around, smirked, before fixing his gaze back on us. "Funny how Stark managed to find a clause to keep you two out of sight. Won't last for long."

"Must be a real pain in the ass to follow the Geneva Conventions," Peter was the first to speak, a solid quip that had the man scowling. But we were just a bunch of kids in a room, being judged by a man who was negotiating with our fates. "How many laws have you broken now?"

"That was war, boy," Ross seemed to study Peter the longest, unable to place him anywhere. "So, what is this, the Avengers After-School program? Are the adults not causing enough problems, you five have to add to the chaos?"

"We're not even doing anything!" I protested, throwing out my arms and speaking over Pietro's shoulder.

"For now," Ross said, his gaze casting about over the five of us, as if already picking out our prison uniforms. He stepped back, tucking his hands behind his waist and said, "The days where the Avengers, all these so-called superheroes, operate with impunity, are coming to an end. And if anyone should learn their consequences have actions, it's children."

And with that, the Secretary of the United States, and the man who penned the damned Sokovia Accords, walked away without another work.

"After School Avengers, pfft," Pietro scoffed, derisive. He spat on the floor, only to apologetically scrub it away at Howie's scandalized gasp. "Sorry. What is he doing here anyways?"

"Trying to take control of the Avengers," I said. Steve had spoken to me a little about it, always with a stormy expression that meant trouble. I had asked to see a copy but he had yet to deliver, which meant it was probably pretty bad. "The Sokovia Accords. It's been on the news."

I would've been surprised if they somehow managed to avoid it entirely. The upstate facility must have TV, right? The twins exchanged a dark look, perhaps displeased that the name of their home country was used in such a way. "What happened in Sokovia was…" Wanda began, then shook her head. "It could've been worse."

"It could've been better," Howie added, and to everyone's shocked expressions, he quickly added, "I mean, that's what Ross thinks. If the Avengers had oversight, maybe it would have been avoided entirely."

No one said anything for a long moment, considering the possibilities. The grim reality of the situation. So many people hurt or killed, over a stretch of months last year. Our parts we played in it. Peter looked at the younger boy. "Do you know what they're talking about right now?"

Howie could only shrug. "I'm not allowed in the boardroom. But they're loud. Everyone arguing with Ross. The Avengers arguing with each other. Everyone's afraid of another ULTRON happening again. Or worse."

I didn't want to imagine what worse than ULTRON was. Even HYDRA would be in tough competition with that. But I also doubted that something that big, that bad, would be completely avoidable if we just put guys like Ross in charge. It couldn't be that simple. It would never be that simple. "The last time there was oversight, the World Security Council tried to nuke New York. And then we found out SHIELD was infected from the inside."

Howie nodded. "I don't know what the right answer is. I just know I don't want to make things for Ross."

Peter looked shocked. "Is that what's on the table for you?"

At Howie's nod, Wanda looked furious. "They can't get away with this, can they? The Avengers won't allow it to happen."

"Well, if worse comes to worse," Pietro joked, throwing up a hand. "We could always go back on the run. Ow!"

Wanda had punched him for that, not receiving it well. "No. We already built so much for ourselves. Why do we have to give it up just because men like Ross do not like what they cannot control?"

The room had gone uncomfortably tense, and my personal problems had fallen to the wayside. Which I wasn't resentful about. Whether or not I solved the mystery of my brain, Ross was now a problem percolating in the background. And I knew I was classified as a potential threat in his eyes, whether or not he knew who my father was. If I couldn't be used as a weapon, then I was dangerous, a loose cannon. And there was nothing authority hated more than a loose cannon.

"I do like the idea he's scared of us, though," Peter admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He cast a playful look at the group. "Just a bunch of teenagers. And one small person." Howie scowled, and Peter ruffled his immaculately-combed hair. "I'm kidding. Mostly. Not about the scaring Ross part, though."

"That does sound tempting," I agreed. Threat or not, at least I wasn't alone. "Too bad he has no idea who the fuck you are, Peter."

"Yeah, sucks to be him, right?" Peter grinned. "Can't wait until he finds out Spider-Man has a Twitter."

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

✭

Sometimes the best quiet to be found was at Dad's place.

This current iteration of his safehouse was a small studio apartment in a refurbished factory, all brick walls, high ceilings, and plate-glass windows. The place was chilly, with a radiator system that was finicky at best, but a chill had never been a problem for Bucky Barnes. I thought the term studio gave the place an artistic flare, otherwise it was better known as a one-room flat. At least there was a real bed this time, on an iron bed frame, and on the opposite side a kitchen, with a nice array of windows all covered in newspaper.

Dad wasn't ready to let go of his paranoia. To be honest, neither was I. But the place was nicer than the last few. Small steps. The biggest appeal to this place was the rafters, in which I could climb up to and observe everything from below, like a sailor from his crow's nest.

That's what I was currently doing right now, swinging my legs beneath me as I saw on the wooden beam, getting a nice top-view angle as Dad cooked dinner. I had to hunch forward slightly to account for the heavy slant of the roof above. Watched as he dropped a pinch of salt into the frying pan, while the deep bass of another apartment gently reverberated through the walls. Most of the other tenants here were broke college kids looking for a cheap place to stay for a few months.

The constant noise wasn't great when you're trying to sleep, but I did find the place to be calmer, more sedate than it was to be at home or anywhere else, where I was constantly taking in an influx of sound and movement, people and voices who have things to say and places to be.

"You should add more salt," I said from above, wafting a bit of the aroma into my nose. It smelled delicious and probably would taste fine — but there was no such thing as too much salt. For me, at least.

"If you say so, Monkey." Dad called back without looking up, sounding amused. "How 'bout you stop backseat cooking and help set up the table?"

I grinned and complied, dropping down from the rafters and landing in a silent rush. There were some cheap plates and silverware in the cupboards, things one could abandon easily and buy more without guilt — but also nicer to eat on than paper plates and plastic forks. It did mean I ended up with dishwasher duty whenever I spent the evenings here.

As I began my back-and-forth between kitchen and dining room (a small circular table in between "bedroom" and "kitchen" with two chairs and a hand-me-down floral tablecloth courtesy of Aunt May), Dad stirred the almost-complete stir fry and said: "Next place I find, I'll make sure it has a spare bedroom."

I glanced over my shoulder at him as I arranged plates and forks, surprised. "Oh, you don't have to."

"I want to. I read those books Sam got me," Dad said, leading the way to the table with the hot pan. "About co-parenting and split custody. It's not the same thing I have, but… it's got a few good pointers. For parents. Even if a kid doesn't live someplace full time, they should still have their own space, their own private room to be themselves in. Something about… personal development, sciency stuff. I wouldn't know."

This was not the first time he mentioned this. Dad had once before asked if a bedroom was something I wanted, something he should think about; not that Aunt May would truly sacrifice any custody, but just a night here or there. Most parents with little to no custody probably wouldn't bother, or just offer the couch or a camping cot (he still had the one I gave him). But not Dad. I couldn't imagine him having any sort of permanent living situation anytime in the near future, or that I'd ever actually be living with him, but it was nice that he thought of me nonetheless.

"How come?" I asked as we sat down together, spooning different portions into our respective plates. On top of stir fry there were a number of reheated leftovers and a few things freshly ordered out, arranged around the table. Dad was trying to cook more, but it would be impossible to create that kind of dinner in a normal amount of time, so he had some extra help.

Dad gave a wry, almost self-conscious smile when he said, "When I was young, I didn't get my own room until I practically moved out,"

He laughed wearily, and I was surprised by the sudden and easy recall he had. Either he hadn't noticed, or perhaps too lost in the memory to realize right away. "My family lived in a place not much bigger than this. I used to hate sharing a bed with my little sister when I was a kid, but it was better than freezing my toes off sleeping on the floor. Then when I was older, Steve was there half the time. So not a lot of space to go around."

"Wait, you have a sister?" I gaped, stunned. Steve had mentioned her a few times, but not in great detail; maybe it hurt for him to have to think about it. And this was not the first time Dad had remembered. "What's her name?"

"Oh, her name? It was— It was...…" Just like that, the smile faded, the clarity dimmed from his eyes, and Dad's brows furrowed. "I don't — I can't remember." He paused, looking conflicted, almost angry with himself. I wasn't surprised, this tended to happen whenever he got a flashback. Just a lot of details at once, a vignette of another life, and then gone again. There was a long moment of silence before Dad shook his head, mumbling, "I...I'm gonna go write this down before I forget."

We had barely even started eating and he was already up again, a beeline for his go-bag. Hidden in the non-functioning radiator was a backpack, and in it, all of Dad's most precious things he wouldn't leave behind. Several notebooks among them, filled with whatever detail he remembered from his past.

They were private enough that he didn't even want me to look at them, and had been nervous when I'd revealed I'd already known about them. Had discovered the first journal under his couch last year after I broke my leg. I didn't blame Dad for his secrecy, I knew I was lucky to know at all — those notebooks were his entire identity, everything he knew about himself, written on those pages. If he lost his memory again, they were his failsafes. But if he lost those journals, he'd have to start over from scratch.

Even now, Dad sat away from me as he began to scribble on the lined pages, already lost in thought.

I sat there, chewing thoughtfully, wondering if I should say something. I couldn't complain. Not when this was probably the best and only therapy he could give himself at this time.

When his food started to get cold, I decided to move the plates from the dining table to the coffee table. Setting it next to him but keeping my distance, so Dad didn't think I was trying to snoop. It was only when he caught the scent of now-room-temperature food did Dad blink, look up and around at me, and jolt in surprise.

"I, ah, I'm sorry," He shook his head, as if just waking out of a dream. "Got lost in my head again. I didn't ruin dinner, did I?"

"No," I said, smiling as I pushed his plate closer. I liked the stories he told me, and the more he could remember, the better. "Did you remember anything else?"

Dad looked back to his journal, eyes flicking back and forth as he scanned over the freshly-written words. Like he'd somehow already forgotten what he'd written. "Rebecca. She preferred Becca. I had remembered before but I'd… I'd forgotten."

He seemed deeply disturbed by this. And why not? When regaining your memory was your only chance to rediscover yourself, only to learn the things you remember weren't just going to stay forever now. It took effort to remember, practice. It faded in and out, clearer on some days and hazier on others. Which was why writing it down was so important for Dad.

"She looked just like you," Dad continued, reaching out to stroke the top of my head. The curls pulled back into a braid. "Her hair was just like this. Only brown."

I managed to smile again, swallowing back the trepidation I felt at the very lost look Bucky had in his eyes just then. Like he was seeing someone other than me. I didn't really know what Rebecca looked like, and I had a feeling she wasn't six foot tall and super buff back in her day. I also didn't want to remind Dad of the few times he's called me Becca; I couldn't tell if he'd just forgotten or if it was some sort of habit, reflex, that was always a part of Bucky Barnes. Like calling out the name of your old cat instead of the new one's, long after the previous had died.

It was the kind of conversation difficult to bring up. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to now. To reveal that I was more or less putting on an act every time he might have remembered something he already had before. Was that even a good idea? I was probably better off asking Sam or Steve for advice before doing anything emotionally compromising.

So I asked a harder question instead. "Have you tried looking for her? She might still be around, or her family."

Bucky frowned, eyes averting before shaking his head. Began to eat a little as if avoiding having to answer, but then swallowed and spoke. "No. It's not — if she's still around, I'm not sure I'm the brother she wants. I can barely remember her as it is. And if she's g-gone—" he choked, recovered, "— her family will only see me as a stranger at best. And if I can't remember, then I have nothing to give them."

"They might just want to know you for you," I said, giving a shrug and then a wince, knowing how painfully optimistic that sounded. Personal identity was shaky at the best of times for Dad, he was always honest about that; who's to say how this potential extended family might perceive him as, and that's before you throw in the whole fugitive ex-assassin aspect to it.

"No offense, Monkey," Dad gave me a rueful smile. "I'm not sure if I even want to know me, after what I've done."

I faltered, unsure of what to say to that. I understood what he was saying, and I knew Dad had to be careful. So I knew not to push it, even as a curiosity remained, wondering if there was still family out there, waiting for him.

He reached for the remote and turned on the TV; it opened up to a basketball game, of which was of no interest to us, but he didn't change it. It was just in case companionable silence ever became preferable. And there were a few minutes of silence, where we watched and ate and tried to figure out what was going on.

The TV was at a low enough volume that when Dad broke the silence again, it wasn't obtrusive. "So, how have you been feeling lately? Have you… I mean, did the little guy manage to find anything with his fancy machine?"

And of course he went for the more serious topic, so I couldn't pretend everything was okay and avoid it with a vague answer. I shook my head. "Not really. The memory was too messed up for the computer to visualize properly. Maybe a few clues, but nothing concrete. My therapist doesn't know what to make of it, either. But I think he expects me to tell him that I'm just lying, that I was trying to run away."

A long silence stretched between us, filled with the sound of tinny cheers and the smatter of running footsteps and smack of a ball on the court.

Dad blinked at me. "…Are you?"

"No!" I exclaimed, peeved that he'd think so. But Dad looked genuinely concerned, and I paused. "Why? Do you think I would?"

Dad shrugged, averting his eyes. "If you did, I know it would be for a good reason."

My hackles lowered a little, realizing he wasn't trying to accuse me of anything. With school finally over, the gauntlet of finals came and passed after that bad weekend, nothing else had happened. My paranoia continued to grow and I was on the constant look out for anything suspicious, anyone who might be following me.

And there was a look in Dad's eyes. A worry. Not for what might happen to me, but a … a yearning. For me to tell him what's wrong, this mysterious reason that I must have. This secret I must be keeping, a lie upheld to everyone but myself.

If only it were so simple. If only.

Because it didn't matter if I would have a good reason or not. Because that wasn't what was happening. Of course, I had no way to know for sure, and anyone's guess was as good as mine — but I knew deep down that this was probably worse than I realized. I just didn't know how much yet.

"I don't think it is," I said, and then realizing what that sounded like, the quirk of Dad's eyebrow, I quickly added, "I mean, I don't think what's happening is a… a choice. Whether I'm aware of it or not. Something's happening and I'm not in control."

I wasn't sure what Dad's reaction would be; Aunt May got all tight and flustered and came out with a dozen warnings and reassurances at once. But Dad was silent for a very long moment. There seemed to be a quiet air of disappointment, like maybe he believed I was still lying, still refusing to tell him the truth of why I was apparently trying to run away and was just trying to preserve his feelings. I wanted so badly for him, of all people, to believe me.

Then he said, "In that case, we'll figure it out. We… we'll find you next time. If that's what you want."

I nodded emphatically and Dad seemed more than a little relieved at that. Maybe he thought I was trying to run away to hide from them. From him. I wish I knew.

Even though it felt a little lame to say, I didn't want him to think I wasn't serious. Or just trying to preserve his feelings. "Thanks."

The apartment felt a little less tense after that, and Dad started asking more probing questions. About what we had discovered with the BARF machine, up to and including the encounter with Secretary Ross. A story which decidedly had not improved Dad's mood one bit.

"Bad enough this is happening," he muttered under his breath. "The last thing we need is to worry about is the government trying to arrest you."

"I think he's more interested in catching you," I pointed out, which just deepened Bucky's scowl. It wasn't directed at me, but I still winced a little. "Sorry. If you asked me, I think it's just another way for Ross to prove that he's in control. He can stop the bad guys, and put the good guys on a leash."

"A leash he'll never keep a grip on," Dad mused darkly, finally changing the channel to the news. Not surprisingly, one of the popular segments was the development of the Sokovia Accords and a short recap of the events leading up to it, every night. "No single power should ever be in control. Haven't they learned that yet?"

"Especially not with the Avengers," I agreed, shaking my head. Tony and Steve's faces got the limelight in all the news highlights, being the main negotiators. Then poll results flashing across the screen, taken from Twitter, about the public's opinion on how the Accords should turn out. Perhaps not so surprisingly, many were for the Avengers to maintain independence. And while it was only Twitter (a media I only barely understood but did not find particularly trustworthy) it must really suck for Ross to be in the trashcan of public opinion. Maybe catching the Winter Soldier was supposed to be his big win, a way to turn the tide in his favor.

I wasn't sure if it would work out. Hopefully, I'll never have to find out. Because Ross was never going to get my dad.

I almost wasn't paying attention when the news switched to another, smaller story. "... from Cleveland, Ohio, police found the body of a local man who was apparently murdered. Restrained and hung upside down, the victim was drowned to death in a sink. There was no signs of break-in or anything valuable stolen; police estimate the man had been dead for several weeks before he was discovered. Neighbors began complaining of a horrible smell and called the authorities, who did a wellness check. Police have now confirmed the victim to be a Victor Smith. There is a reward for anyone who can give the police information leading to the killer..."

An image appeared on screen, a portrait of the victim. Victor Smith, as it was, a late middle-aged man, rather thin and pale. Dad did not appear to be listening, up until that picture appeared, and he went ramrod straight.

"What is it?" I asked, leaning forward in alarm. "What's wrong?"

But then Dad relaxed, shaking his head. "It's… it's nothing. I recognized him. Victor… Vasily Karpov. He's HYDRA. Or used to be…"

I took another gander at the face up on the screen. "You think someone else found out and meted out some justice?"

"Possible," Dad shrugged, although his expression was confused again. Like it had been earlier, when talking about his sister. Not clear on the details. "I can't remember exactly what he did. He'd just been there, at…. At the…" He rubbed his temple. "It's hard to remember. All those bunkers start to blend in together."

"Well, one less problem for us, right?" I said, trying to put a hopeful spin on it. Not wanting Dad to get too worked up about it. "The only good HYDRA agent is a dead one."

That got him to chuckle despite himself, and I considered it a victory. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

I turned my eyes back to the news, maybe this guy had a family or something (he did not), when Dad's phone buzzed. Twice, in quick succession, which seemed a little odd. He glanced at the old brick phone, and made a small sound of annoyance, before leaving it unanswered. Then noticed my staring, a raised eyebrow, before he finally admitted, sheepishly. "It's nothing. Just an invitation."

"To what?" I gasped, maybe overdoing it a little just to tease him. "From who?"

"A birthday party," Dad answered, and made it sound as if this was a celebration from hell. "From Steve."

"Steve's having a birthday party?" I made a face. That didn't really seem like Steve' style. Maybe Tony convinced him into it. Fourth of July was hot for beer and fireworks. I had missed his birthday last year, due to the whole ULTRON thing, but as far as I knew, Steve wasn't planning anything big. If at all.

"No, not Steve," Dad chuckled, perhaps thinking the same as I. "It's for Peggy. She'll be ninety-four next month."

"Ohh, are you going?" I was absolutely positive Dad had never been invited to anything before. At least, not by anyone that wasn't me. This was new. This was big. Like, baby's-first-steps big.

"I… I don't think I will." Bucky replied, making a face when he anticipated my disappointment. "What? I can barely remember her, and I know Steve is only asking to be polite."

"How do you know?" I asked, never one to back down from a challenge. Also, that didn't quite seem like Peggy's style. Why would she have anyone over she didn't want? "Are you sure she didn't ask you to come specifically?"

"I — why would she do that?"

"Because, I don't know, you guys used to be friends, and you're also the same age?" I threw Dad a pointed look, which he avoided. "I mean, she's aged way better than you and Steve. Like a fine wine."

"As opposed to what?" Dad looked baffled, gesturing to himself. "Vinegar? I'm vinegar?"

"You said it, not me."

Dad had just opened his mouth to retort, half laughing, when the phone buzzed again. "Oh, well. Now he wants to know if you'll come, too. Apparently, Peggy insists."

"Tell Steve I'll only go if you go," I grinned, and was not entirely surprised that Dad made no such move whatsoever. Stone still on the couch, leaving poor Steve unanswered. "Fine. I'll tell him myself."

Dad wasn't fast enough to stop me, and by the time he'd wrestled my phone away from me, it was too late. Message sent. Dad's phone buzzed one last time. This time, a single emoticon: a smiley face. I cast one of equal evilness to Dad. "Guess that means we're going."

He sighed, hanging his head in defeat. But Dad didn't protest, didn't throw up any reasons or excuses, some probably very reasonable, as to why he couldn't or shouldn't go. Instead, he studied me carefully, asking, "You really want to go to this thing? Socialize, dress nice, appeal to a little old lady's sensibilities for several hours?"

"Uh, yeah, if it's for Peggy Carter," I said with a roll of my eyes. And then I added, "Besides, she already likes me. I just want to see you wear something that doesn't have holes or patches in it. The real question is, do you want to go?"

In truth, I didn't want to force Dad. Not if it made him uncomfortable. Safety reasons aside, I knew just throwing a fugitive assassin into a nice little birthday luncheon in the middle of Washington DC probably wasn't the greatest idea, and a lot to ask for a guy who was even more social-averse than I was.

And Dad was honest. "No, not really. But if it makes you happy…"

He let that sentence trail off, waiting for me to respond. And when I did, all happy smiles and enthusiastic nods, Dad heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Alright, I'll go. What could go wrong?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

✭

Peggy Carter's backyard was the perfect location for a garden party.

On a sunny July day, the roses and lilacs were in full bloom, filling the air with a soft fragrant voice. Red and white petals decorated the trimmed grass and the trees rustled gently in the breeze, providing much-needed shade. Little chocolates shaped like the number 94 were inserted into an assortment of cupcakes laid out on a buffet table. Soft jazz music played from an antique record player set nearby.

Strung up from the eaves of the backyard porch was a line of balloon letters spelling out HAPPY BIRTHDAY. An arrangement of smaller tables covered in an assortment of checked, plaid, and floral tablecloths, a kind of eclectic mismatch that was pleasing rather than discordant. Furnished with what must be fifty years' worth of acquired china tea sets, with punch, little sandwiches, and slices of cake, it made for a picturesque birthday party.

It made me glad that I had the right instincts to dress up for this, even though Dad insisted there had been no dress code to the invitation. That didn't mean I was going to let him show up in dirty work pants and whatever old jacket and baseball cap he pulled out of his closet.

It was amazing how different he looked with his hair combed (went for a modified man bun, although I offered to braid his hair) and a sports jacket borrowed from Steve. Dad still kept the glove on his left hand, just in case any of Peggy's guests weren't in the know. If they didn't recognize him, then they didn't have to. I myself had chosen a cornflower blue flower dress

When we arrived, about twenty people were in attendance — mostly people I didn't recognize from Peggy's life, and a few I did. Among them was Steve, of course, already sitting at the birthday girl's side — Peggy looked to be in good spirits today, sitting in her wheelchair and observing the party as its venerable hostess.

She smiled in delight when she saw us coming around the side of her little house, opening the little fence gate with a creak. "Oh, you've come! I admit, I was worried. And Mia, don't you look just darling in that dress. Now come and sit, let me have a good look at you, James, my eyes aren't what they used to be."

"It's, er, you can just call me Bucky, ma'am," Dad looked remarkably awkward as he shuffled over, throwing a look at Steve when his friend had the audacity to hide a laugh. "What?"

"Nothing!" Steve insisted, far too innocent. Like Dad, he was also wearing a button-up shirt, but in a more summery light plaid. Something Dad wouldn't be caught dead in, I imagined.

"You're still calling me ma'am," Peggy replied, her white curls bouncing as she chuckled and raised out a wrinkled, delicate hand to turn Dad's face towards her. "Although I suppose now I'm old enough to deserve it, hmm? And you, just like Steve, haven't aged a day since I last saw you."

Sitting down next to him, I studied Dad for a moment and wondered just when that might have been. 1944, middle of the war. There was a slightly blank look in Dad's eyes that said he didn't remember, but he didn't say anything and neither did I. I wasn't sure how much Peggy knew about us, but seeing she didn't look surprised to see me with Dad, she must have known enough. And didn't seem at all concerned she invited a fugitive assassin to her birthday party. But Peggy Carter was also one of the original founders of SHIELD, so she's probably done much scarier things in her lifetime.

Instead of leaving him to flounder, I piped up, "Steve still looks better, though."

"Hey, you!" Dad pinched my nose while the others laughed. "A little too quick to sell out your old man, huh?"

"I dunno, Buck, she might be right," Steve added, raising his eyebrows as he pretended to preen and swipe back his hair. "What is it the kids say these days? On fleek?"

"Oh god no," I realized too late that Steve was not on my side and that I was entirely outnumbered by old people, all of whom thought my cringing reaction was hilarious. I didn't know who told Steve that bit of youth slang (Peter, probably) but it immediately had me wanting to crawl out of my skin.

"That's because you don't have children, Steve," Peggy said, patting Bucky's hand sympathetically and giving him a wink. "As I'm sure as dear Mr. Barnes here has already learned, parenthood just has the gray hairs coming on faster."

"Don't I know it," Dad muttered, and I took that as my cue to go find something to eat and leave these three to talk (and not use me as a convenient teasing target).

It had been a four-hour trip by train to get here and I was starving anyways. One could only resist the smell of cake for so long. While perusing the food options, I took note of the other partygoers, and was surprised to recognize Tony Stark of all people here. He was currently engaged in a lively conversation, telling a funny story to his audience, judging by the sounds of laughter coming from his direction. It hadn't occurred to me that he'd know Peggy, but then again, his father worked with Peggy closely, didn't he? And wherever Tony was, Howie couldn't be far behind.

I spotted the boy sitting alone at an isolated table, further away from the noise. Howie was currently engrossed in a sketch he was working on, more interested in the drawing than his own food. And, sitting next to him, was another boy I recognized but did not expect to be here.

"Jonas?" I barely remembered the name I was supposed to use, coming over to their table. Both looked up in surprise and smiled as I approached. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Oh, yes!" Jonas — what Vision preferred to be called when he was masquerading as a civilian — nodded happily. He currently appeared as a very strange-looking teenage boy. Against the brightly printed clothing he copied from an Old Navy catalog, "Jonas" had pale skin and even paler hair that gave the impression he was a ghost. "Howard thought it would be an excellent way for me to gain more experience in a social setting. This is much less intimidating than these high schools you attend."

His particularly lanky features and narrow face, coupled with his accent, gave powerful Victorian orphan vibes. It was unsettling, and that was before he did his whole walking-through-walls shtick. He also struggled with the concept of hair and what to do with it, so he kept his white-blond hair quite short, a bit longer on the top to sweep over his forehead.

No one knew exactly the full scope of the Mind Stone's power, but apparently it also gave Vision some mild form of illusion or shape-shifting ability (it was hard to tell which). He might look like he could be knocked over by a stiff breeze, but he was still made of pure vibranium if you tried to punch him.

"Uh-huh," I said, casting Howie a knowing look, who flushed and beamed innocently. "Yeah, I'm sure Howie had absolutely no other reason, none at all."

Like wanting another kid at what was largely going to be a party full of adults. There were a few children, Peggy's great-grandchildren, running around, but they were only around five or six. Not exactly Howie's age group. And only Vision could really conversate on the same intellectual level as the boy genius.

"Signora Carter said there would be no alcohol, for my father's sake," Howie explained, which was probably why Tony had a very big mug of coffee in his hand. "And he likes to socialize. But everyone here just asks me the same questions. I just want to finalize the Iron Vitruvian project. Vis— Jonas is helping me."

"Oh yeah? Where are you two at now?" I asked. As disconcerting as it was to see Vision like this, it was, in fact, an improvement to his previous disguise attempts. Appearing as an adolescent was a recent development; Vision apparently liked to hang out with us teenagers, dipping his toe in human socializing by joining us in cafe and diner hangouts. As to why he preferred our presences as opposed to the actual Avengers team, I had no idea, but no one opposed when he asked to come along.

Unfortunately, even when appearing human, Vision had looked distinctly older than us despite being the youngest of the entire group. He was barely a year old, beating out Howie at thirteen. So being perceived as the adult chaperone/school teacher/youth group leader (often offered the check first, never asked for his ID, what kind of classes he taught) was very awkward for all of us.

That was also around the same time he was exploring familial concepts and kept referring to Howie as his uncle, which… did not help.

"Determining colors!" Vision bounced in his seat, looking thrilled that his opinion was being taken into account. "I suggested red and green, of course."

Howie looked faintly aggrieved. "Which looks great on you, Jonas. But I don't want people thinking I'm just painting my suit to look like Italia's flag. Or a Christmas tree."

The imagery had me fighting a smile, and earning a gesture look from Howie. "See? Even Mia thinks it's funny. I don't want to be laughed at every time I'm trying to save the world. There're other kinks I have to work out anyways, like my lip-reading software. It keeps getting messed up on anyone with a Scottish accent."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," I said; a problem was never a problem when it came to Howie, only another challenge. "Peter might have some good ideas for colors, too. How do you like birthday parties so far, Jonas?"

"Oh, it's intriguing!" Vision beamed, looking around with wide blue eyes. "I thought it was rather silly at first, for humans to inaugurate their day of birth every year. But now I understand, survival of another year should always be celebrated, and age is a marker of increased experience and knowledge. I may not be able to appreciate the wonders of food, but I understand cake and the giving of gifts is integral to the celebration."

"You know, you'll be turning one in a few weeks," I pointed out. Seeing how excited Vision was at this whole idea, why not suggest it? "We could throw you a birthday party, too."

"Really?" Vision blinked, surprised. "I would like that, very much! Just, er, I would prefer not to invite any strangers."

"It'd be your party," I couldn't help but laugh. "You can invite whoever you want."

"Then absolutely! I only want the people I know there," Vision nodded, satisfied. "Except Howard, of course."

Howie did a double-take, gaping at Vision in affront, and even I was speechless for a moment. But Vision just seemed pleased by our reactions and leaned in, whispering, "That was a joke! I'm practicing my humor."

"Bastardo," Howie muttered under his breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. "You need to keep working on it."

"Just remember to use the doors," I said, trying hard not to laugh after the fact. I knew Vision meant no harm with his attempt at a joke, and maybe it was adorable that he was trying so hard. "I don't know if Peggy's heart can take it if she sees you walking through walls."

"Ah, right," If Vision knew how to blush, he probably would be right now. Instead, he just smiled bashfully and shrugged his shoulders. "I keep forgetting. It's just so much easier to phase through matter…"

We continued to chat as I ate some cake and sandwiches. Vision continued to look tempted by food, but we all remembered the last time he tried, and decided it best not to attempt it again while in polite company. He was convinced that if he could create a containment system within his body to hold the food without allowing it to contaminate his hardware, as well as work on developing taste buds, he could embrace the full human experience. How an android would later expel the eaten-but-undigested food was another matter entirely.

It was on my way back for a second helping, did someone call out my name, and I turned to see Peggy waving me over. Steve and Dad were still with her, and now another woman. Blonde with dark eyes, middling height and a deceptive civilian appearance wearing jeans and a floral peplum top. But there wasn't enough casual fashion in the world to hide the fact that it was Agent 13, formerly of SHIELD. I almost stumbled. What was she doing here?

"I have someone I want you to meet," Peggy said, gesturing to Agent 13. "This is my grand-niece, Sharon. She's taken after me in a lot of ways, but like you, I think she's grown beyond her family legacy."

It was hard to summon a smile at that moment. Mostly because I didn't know how to react, didn't know if Sharon was friend or enemy. Mostly I was stunned she was even here at all. That she was Peggy's grand-niece? I didn't even know Peggy Carter had siblings.

I shot a look at Steve, at Bucky. Steve appeared at ease, not the least bit surprised, but Dad was carefully pretending he didn't exist right now. As if Sharon Carter wouldn't have noticed him sitting right there. Surely Peggy must have introduced them, too. I must have just missed it.

"We've met," Sharon said, gazing evenly at me. Not a blink. Not a smile, but she didn't look angry, either.

I could only nod, barely remembering the last time we saw each other. It had been in the crumbling Triskelion, I was barely conscious, still waking from protocol. I remembered seeing her, a skinny analyst, and a STRIKE agent. The man I'd shot. That was the part I remembered, before collapsing. That had been over a year ago.

I couldn't believe she was actually related to Peggy Carter. I wasn't sure if I'd ever heard Sharon's real name, or her last name. Not that I'd make the connection between Sharon Carter and Peggy Carter, the surname wasn't exactly unique.

But still.

Peggy was now in deep conversation with Steve and Tony, so the two of us stepped away. Sharon seemed to expect my surprise, because she finally said, "Don't think too hard about it. Most people don't know, either. Steve didn't until six months ago."

"Really?" I wasn't sure which fact surprised me more. The part where she kept this a secret, or that she and Steve were apparently still on speaking terms after everything that happened. From what I understood, he hadn't been particularly pleased about her deception, or the fact SHIELD had been spying on him. But maybe that was water under the bridge now. Seemed like a weird thing to ask.

"I didn't want any favors," Sharon explained, taking a sip of her punch. "Or expectations. I didn't want people to look at me and see the great Peggy Carter, next leader of SHIELD. Didn't want people to think I got to where I was because of that connection, either. Only on the strength of my own merits. It mattered. Back then, at least."

Back when SHIELD still existed. "What do you do now?"

"I work for the CIA," She replied, with a kind of noncommittal shrug. Sharon flashed a smirk in my direction, "I'd tell you where, but I think you understand the confidentiality involved."

"Yeah, I'm not that curious," I lied, as if I didn't want to know what a CIA agent did. I already knew she was a spy, but the CIA ironically had (slightly) more transparency than SHIELD and many more historic rivalries. That was the kind of history a girl could sink her teeth into.

Still, with that knowledge, her presence here had me nervous. "I heard they're one of the agencies still looking for the Winter Soldier."

"We are," Sharon replied, glancing at me only once before taking another sip of her drink. She took a long look over the party. "As of yet, we haven't found any leads or any sign of his activity. As far as we know, he's gone underground. He may take up mercenary work, or maybe he's just keeping his head down. But he's not the only HYDRA agent we're hunting down. The Winter Soldier was just one of many assets. We're much more interested in catching the guys who were actually in charge."

She paused, letting that sink in. I didn't say anything right away, trying to detect any deception in her words, coddling or patronizing. "Even with Secretary Ross breathing down your neck?"

Sharon let out a faint snort. "The Secretary can suggest who we might prioritize in our efforts, but what we actually do is up to the Director. The fact of the matter is, the Winter Soldier is a ghost. On top of being impossible to find, he's also not been recorded as an active threat. Not like other targets we're tracking down, people who are still trying to bring the return of HYDRA, or replace it with something worse. Those are the threats I'm worried about."

"Like who?" I asked, bewildered. I had assumed most of HYDRA, all the top leaders had been captured or at least identified.

Sharon cut me a wry look. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Ha-ha." I rolled my eyes. "Right, confidential, whatever."

Sensing my annoyance, Sharon added, "It's no one you need to worry about, Mia. Trust me."

I cut her a look, unsure if I should. But by all accounts, this not-conversation we were having about my dad said that Sharon wasn't looking for him. Wasn't going to turn him in. I didn't ask if she recognized the man sitting with Steve and Peggy, didn't want to know if she already knew what he looked like or not. If she was on the same side as Steve, working with him, or what.

"If you say so," I said at last. Could I trust Sharon on a personal level? Maybe. She did allow me to escape the Triskelion when she caught me sneaking out; when she had no reason to trust me then, either.

But I also knew she liked her job, and wanted to do it right. And if that job meant finally hunting down my dad? If she had no choice but to obey her orders?

I couldn't guess what side she'd choose. The best I could hope for was never having to find out.

"Can I ask you something, Mia?" Sharon said, fixing me with those dark eyes of hers. When I shrugged, she continued, "I heard about those… disappearances. Steve told me," She added quickly, as if that was supposed to make me feel better. Why was Steve telling her that? "I just want to make sure that… you know. If you're okay."

"If I'm okay?" I repeated, surprised. "You mean, if I remember something that might be pertinent to your job?"

A look of annoyance flashed across her face. "I'm off the clock, Mia. Not everything I do is because of my job. I'm asking because it sounds like everyone is worried about you. And for good reason. The FBI seems to think you're just a kid acting out. But I've seen you acting out. This isn't the same."

My face heated, remembering that night when she was supposed to babysit me in DC, while Steve was on a mission. That hadn't ended well.

But I could see why she thought it looked similar, and maybe I was glad she knew it was only surface-level. So, I said, "It's not. But I don't know why. It just happens."

"Hm," was all Sharon said.

My anxiety got the better of me. "Does the CIA know? Ross?"

"No," she said, with the kind of firm confidence that told me she was telling the truth. "Don't get me wrong, Ross is very aware of you. But more in a super soldier way than anything else. He suspects you might be building a team."

That took me off guard, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Wait, really? No way."

Even Sharon was smirking, raising her eyebrows at me. "You're saying you're not?"

"No!" I said, and I hoped to god I was convincing, because it was true. Right? "Just because I've got a lot of… interesting friends doesn't mean we're, like, an actual team. We can barely agree on where to hang out most of the time."

"No, not right now," Sharon said, nodding and scraping her heel on a paving stone. "But Ross doesn't think it's outside the realm of possibility. And neither do I."

Her tone was difficult to pin down and I could only frown at her in confusion. So, Sharon subtly pointed at Howie and Vision. "I saw how you were interacting with those two earlier. They look to you for guidance."

"Vision's a part of the actual Avengers," I pointed out.

"Is he?" Sharon said in that same tone again, infuriatingly coy and full of hidden meanings. She smiled faintly. "From what I hear, he's having some growing pains trying to fit in with a bunch of hard-boiled adult superheroes. Just because ULTRON gave him the body of an adult male doesn't mean it's going to fit him right away."

"So, I should just recruit him for this team that definitely doesn't exist," I said flatly. I wondered how the Avengers would think of that idea. I didn't have an inside look at how Vision was adjusting to his life as a superhero android, he was either at the Tower or in the upstate facility with Wanda and Pietro — but if he was really having trouble fitting in, I didn't mind if he preferred to keep with us. "I'm sure Ross just loves that he exists, too."

A powerful android made of a billion-dollars-worth of a rare, impenetrable metal, equipped with revolutionary artificial intelligence and powered by a magic, possibly world-destroying space rock? Yeah. Nothing to worry about.

"He sees this team that definitely doesn't exist as a way to circumvent the Sokovia Accords." Sharon said. "Both Steve and Tony are fighting hard, but it might come down to a compromise. They're trying their best to keep kids out of it. And most of you guys are still minors."

Okay. I could now see how someone as hyper-paranoid as Ross could interpret teenage superheroes as a threat. "And he thinks I'm at the head of this? Why? I'm not the oldest or the strongest. I'm not even the first."

Sharon could only offer an innocent shrug. "I can't say what it is. All I know is that he's got you pegged for it. Maybe he's seeing something the rest of us don't."

"Clearly," I said, wondering if Sharon was treating this so nonchalantly, without an ounce of opposition to the idea, was for a reason. "How do you think these Accords are going to go?"

"Best case scenario?" Sharon offered, but only shook her head. "I'm not sure there is one. We can always dream that Ross or the American government or the UN will use the Avengers wisely and distribute their aid when it's needed and in just the right amount. But we all know that will never happen. There's no perfect solution to this. But there's definitely a wrong one."

That surprised me, but I wasn't sure what to say, either. Was Sharon really opposed to the Sokovia Accords? Maybe it made sense for her, but she was a hard person for me to pin down, ideologically. All I knew was that she was SHIELD through and through, and HYDRA and anything like it were anathema to her.

Thinking again about her focus on Vision, I wondered if he didn't play a bigger part in this conversation. If Vision was an Avenger, he would be a part of whatever team Ross would want to control. But if he wasn't, Ross didn't get his hands on this ultimate weapon.

For that matter, the same could be said for Wanda and Pietro. They too were being trained up with an expectation to eventually join the Avengers, whether or not they ultimately decided that for themselves. Wanda, a powerful witch with unimaginable powers. Pietro, with a super speed unlike anything anyone had ever seen before. Both with the ability to start and stop a lot of problems. I couldn't help but feel defensive, protective. Ross couldn't get his hands on them, any of them.

At last, I said, "Worst case scenario?"

"The Avengers cease to exist," Sharon replied. "Either they're disbanded to prevent giving people like Ross control over them, or they're assimilated into something new. Rebranded, if you will. Which is why this hypothetical team of yours would also be seen as a problem. But that's just what I think. I definitely wouldn't give it any serious thought, if I were you."

"Right," I said, brows furrowing. Before I could say anything else, a relative called out to Sharon, and she smiled in response, leaving me there to my thoughts. I stewed there, cupcake in my hand, entirely forgotten.

Me, building a superhero team? Leading one? Ridiculous.

I wouldn't even know what to name it.

✭✭✭

"What's with the face?" Dad asked.

I blinked, startled from a reverie. as the countryside whipped past the windows outside. The train rumbled around us; the cabin filled with the quiet roar of its speed. The sun was just starting to set, casting everything in fiery glows, the seats still warm. "What face?"

"That face you've had on since we left the party." Dad said, frowning slightly. "Did that Carter lady get to you? The blonde one, I mean."

"No," I said, which I then recanted when I found it to be a lie. "Well, a little. We were just talking about… the Accords. Ross."

"Oh," Dad said, his tone dropping, eyes glancing away. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "What did she say?"

"Nothing inspiring," I said, which was more truthful. I shrugged. "She doesn't have high hopes. Ross wants too much, and eventually he's going to get some of it, one way or another." I paused. "That, and the fact he thinks I'm going to start a secret superhero team specifically to spite him."

"Oh, is that so?" Dad flashed me a bewildered smirk, which was how I felt about the idea. "Well, if you are, I hope I'm invited."

"Yeah, you can be our parent chaperone," I laughed, shaking my head. Just the thought of it had me recoiling with how lame it sounded, but I still appreciated Dad making light of it. "What did you, Peggy, and Steve talk about?"

"Oh, you know," Dad shrugged, scratching his cheek. "Remembering the old days. Or trying to. I still can't recall much. Peg didn't seem to take it personally, at least. I think she's just glad Steve and I aren't just two sad old men anymore. Most of the time, anyways."

"You're not sad," I said, even though it was kind of a lie. Dad always carried a kind of melancholy about him that never seemed to go away, even on his good days.

But still. Dad looked at me suspiciously. "I don't hear you denying that I'm old."

"Well." I looked up at the ceiling, playing innocent. "…You're younger than the telephone."

"Wow." Dad huffed, pressing a hand to his chest as he mocked offense. "Wow. Damned by faint praise, huh?"

"You couldn't think of a more recent invention?"

"Well, it's either that, or you're the oldest Tolkien fan alive," I said, shrugging helplessly and laughing when he ruffled my hair. "You read the original Hobbit back before he retconned half the story for Lord of the Rings."

"Tolkien did what?" Dad blinked in surprise. "Wait, what's a ret-con? Is that why it feels different when I read it again earlier?"

But I just shook my head and stood up, hoping I could end the topic before Dad could get upset that one of his favorite books was more or less rewritten. "I just have to go to the bathroom, I'll be right back."

The bathroom was located at the end of the cabin, and even as I slipped inside, I could feel the train slowing down as it approached the station. I tried to make it quick, then, not wanting to get caught up when everyone rushed to leave or enter the train.

I opened the door, and stepped out into the middle of a city street.

I gasped, the motion of the train floor vanishing and replaced by cold concrete, the air-conditioned interior replaced by a wave of humidity. And hunger.

I was so hungry.

My knees gave out almost immediately, but it wasn't from the sudden shift in environments, the lack of motion beneath my feet. No, I just felt — weak. Horribly weak. My hands shook as I braced my fall, hands pressing into the gritty asphalt. Once more, winded.

It was daytime, overcast instead of sunny. No idea what time of day, only that it wasn't sunset anymore. The air, uncommonly chilly yet horribly oppressive at the same time.

I wasn't on the train like I should have been. Not even the New York train station. But I was in New York. I knew, because I recognized the apartment building directly in front of me.

Dad's.

Something warm dripped down my face, and as I touched my hand to my lips, I already knew what it was. A few drops fell onto my clothes. Looked down, and saw I was still wearing the blue dress I'd gotten, just for Peggy's birthday. Only it was dirty now, wrinkled and stained and torn in a few places. The hems frayed. Unwashed. Like I'd been wearing it for days.

Already, I knew.

It happened again.

art by me, "Jonas's" appearance based on a young Paul Bettany lol

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

✭

Why.

Why is this happening.

This time, I didn't have my phone. Couldn't remember if I had it on me or left it behind when I had gone to the bathroom.

Stumbling forward on uncertain feet, blood dripping down my face, I shook with a cold only I could feel. Nearly crumpled when I reached the stoop of the building, scanning the list of names on the buzzer dash, unseeing.

Each letter just a line of useless squiggles. No point in even trying to read. But I remembered where Dad's was, under a name that wasn't his.

I buzzed the wrong place first on accident, the button above, before hitting the right one. My hand shook with the effort, even though I'd done this dozens of times before. Leaning heavily against the door, I didn't hear it unlock. I buzzed again. No voice came on the intercom. He didn't usually speak, but I'd always got some kind of response. Was he even here? Or was I alone?

The very thought had tears springing to my eyes, the panic that had been lurking at the edges of my mind drawing in for the kill. I didn't want to be alone. I was terrified out of my mind, and there was no other way for me to get home. No wallet, no cards, no subway pass or money for a cab.

I would have to walk. And I didn't think I could make it that far. Not even to the nearest police station, wherever that might be. My breath came in sharp and ragged, my knees shaking just to keep me upright, the jamb supporting most of my weight. A pounding headache behind my eyes, thirst and hunger warring for dominance in my empty gut.

Still, I tried to speak into the intercom, hoping he'd at least hear that if he was home. That he'd know it was me. "Dad? Dad, are you there…?"

My voice was so hoarse, throat and tongue so dry, that I barely sounded like myself. Tried to summon up some saliva and try again, but it didn't help. And I was just so tired, standing here and waiting, I just wanted to close my eyes for a moment…

I must have blacked out, because next thing I knew, the door gave way and I jolted awake as my balance gave out. Arms caught me before I could fall, pulling me inside.

My first instinct was to rip myself away; but I was so weak the best I could manage was a belated twitch. My mind panicked where my body was slow to respond. The panic increased as large arms wrapped around me — but not to crush me. Only hugging me close to his chest.

"I got you, I got you," A low voice spoke into my ear, but he sounded as if he were a million miles away.

Dad.

His voice faded in and out, difficult to understand. A million frantic questions, faltering reassurances, a desperate attempt to keep his tone calm and level.

There was still a shake in his hands as he carried me up the steps.

Head lolling on my shoulders, I didn't have the strength to keep it upright, to keep my eyes open, as much as I wanted to. In fact, this seemed like the best time to pass out again, safe in Dad's arms, being brought to safety, a place I knew, locked doors and covered windows. Far away from the outside world. Away from anyone who'd try to take me again.

Dad did his best to rouse me. One moment we were in the stairwell, the next on his couch, a glass of water pushed to my lips. I sipped cautiously at first, unsure of what it was, and as soon as my body recognized nourishment I couldn't get enough. Struggled and complained wordlessly when the glass was pulled away before I could drink it too fast.

"Slowly, Mia," Dad said, a disembodied voice. "You'll make yourself sick."

I listened, only because I had no choice. It was difficult to stay in the moment, to keep from drifting. Even in the small confines of his apartment, my vision blurred, everything out of focus outside a short distance. It was just easier to rest my head against the upholstery and pretend that I was okay.

The red brick walls and the high beams were familiar, comforting, as was the scent of Dad that permeated the place. Like a blanket being wrapped around me, enclosing, protective. The hazy light from the windows, and I wished he could draw the curtains. Attempting to do it myself only wound up with me falling off the couch, Dad shepherding me back onto the cushions, and me not making any sense as I tried to explain what I wanted.

Dad gave me a sleeve of saltines to munch on while he made calls. I couldn't tell if it was one really long one or many short ones in a row — I was too busy gathering all my focus and self-restraint in order not to shove the entire stack of crackers into my mouth at once. The world swayed beneath me if I moved too fast, my head feeling both too light and too heavy at once. At a certain point my stomach started to heave and I had to put down the crackers, even as my body begged for more.

Still on the phone, Dad came over and tried to get me to sit up right, urge me too my feet. "C'mon, Mia, we need to get you to the hospital —"

"No!" That same panic gripped me again, heart pounding, skin turning cold. I pulled away with a sudden jerk.

Dad looked utterly baffled, reaching for me again. "Mia, we have to. It's okay, your aunt will meet us there and —"

"No!" It was the only sound I could make, the clearest I could be. My thoughts were a jumble, the fear mixing in with the confusion. All the places someone could find me. The twists and turns of hospital corridors, so easy to get lost in. All those secrets behind all those doors. So easy to disappear into and never be seen again.

I couldn't go. I refused.

Whether or not I could actually say any of that in a coherent way, I couldn't tell. I could only hear myself speaking, but not in any way I could understand. Everything a rush, words spilling out like vomit, a mess, nonsensical. Hands gripping the couch so hard my knuckles turned white, I'd have to be dragged away.

Dad just held up his hands, looking pale, and had caught some of my panic in the urgency of his voice. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay! We don't have to go, alright? We can stay here. You'll be safe here." And then, still looking at me, he added, "Yeah, I'm sorry, I can't get her to move. She's too scared. Can you meet us here?"

For a moment, I had this insane notion I was being watched, monitored. That Dad was reporting to some higher power, keeping me contained. Everything in my body told me to run, to hide.

Then I remembered he was talking on the phone. I could hear May's tiny voice responding, too distant to understand.

I forced myself to sit back, to somehow calm my racing heart. I didn't see how pale Dad had gotten; although he did his best to appear neutral and calm, there was a strain in his face, a tension in his jaw, his shoulders, the way he moved. A violence hidden in one's stride.

He was angry. At me? At someone else? Whoever else he was talking to on the phone. He kept pulling it down, putting it to his ear, down again. So many calls. How many people were coming?

I tugged the blanket around my shoulders tighter. I didn't remember having it before, when it got there, but I was suddenly highly aware of how cold I was.

My chest hurt, sounds faded in and out. I couldn't remember who arrived first, but one second the place was empty and quiet — and the next it was crowded and noisy and filled with too much movement, questions, voices, all crowding in on me at once.

"What happened? Has she said anything?"

"Where was she?"

"How did you find her?"

"Mia, honey, you have to tell us what happened."

"She's in shock, please, she can't say much right now."

"Did she say why she wouldn't leave?"

"No, she's — she was incoherent. She's…"

"What? She's what?"

"…I've seen it before. It'll take her a while to snap out of it."

"Well, how long is a while? She can't stay here! Have you told the police?"

"Hell no."

"Why the hell not —"

"— You know why not —"

"Hey, hey now, let's keep it together, guys. We're all on the same team, right? We're here for Mia."

"Mia, honey?" A warm hand rested on mine, soft and small. Aunt May, her voice closer, her face coming into focus. She smiled at me, but worry laced the edges of her face, her brows pinched. "I know you don't want to go to the hospital, but it's just to be safe, okay? You might be sick, you don't look well."

But I only shook my head, my voice a mumble. "No."

"No? But Mia, you look like you haven't eaten in days. You're still wearing the same clothes from a week ago. We don't know what happened to you."

Again, I shook my head. May's lips pressed together, biting back frustration, increased worry. "Okay, then. We won't go yet. Maybe later. But how about we take you home, okay? Let you sleep in your own bed again. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Her hands were already on my shoulders, as if to guide me to my feet. But I resisted, curling deeper into the couch. "No!"

Aunt May looked taken aback, throwing a helpless look at the others here. Dad, Steve. Peter. Sam. Natasha? Why did she keep showing up. None of them seemed to have an answer for May. She turned back to me. "What's wrong, Mia? Why don't you want to come home?"

I pulled the blanket up further, as if I could hide my face, hide from all their gazes, boring into me. "Not safe."

No way in hell was I stepping outside again. Every time. Every time this happened to me, I was outside. Somewhere. In a park. In a stadium. On a train. Somewhere a stranger could find me, reach me.

Not again.

"Not safe? Why is it not safe?"

Couldn't go outside. Too many places to disappear. To be taken. To wander off. Aunt May was insistent, though, "Mia, please, you don't want to do that. Please, come home with us."

Again, I shook my head, and Dad stepped in. "It's okay if she stays, if that's what she wants. I'm not gonna — I can keep her safe."

"Oh, really?" Aunt May whipped around. "Like you kept her safe on the train?"

Dad looked taken aback. "What?"

"You heard me! This wouldn't have happened if you had just kept an eye on her!"

Everyone looked stunned, Dad took a step back as if she'd slapped him. Even Natasha said, "Hey, I think that's a little uncalled for —"

"Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" Aunt May demanded.

"No," Natasha said, her voice firmly diplomatic. "But slinging insults isn't going to help."

"It's not an insult if it's true!"

"Look, I know we're all a little high-strung —" Sam began, but May was already on the warpath now, turning on one to the next.

"If you think this is a little high-strung, you've got another thing coming," she snapped. I had never seen Aunt May so furious. It was terrifying. "Take his side if you want, but I know what's best for her."

"This isn't about taking sides or placing blame." Sam interjected. "I don't know what's better for Mia. Maybe we should just ask her for what she wants—"

"Oh, because she's really in a state to talk right now!"

"You can't just make her leave!" Bucky insisted, wringing his hands.

"Or what? You'll stop me?" Aunt May stood up to face him, something threatening in the way she stepped between us. "Mia may be your daughter but she is my child! I'm the only one responsible for her! She is not staying here—"

"You have no idea what you're dealing with here! if you push her, you'll only make this worse —"

"Oh, and you've done such a splendid job so far!"

"Hey, hey, let's take it easy!" Steve stepped between them just as their voices turned to shouts — and that's when I ducked off the couch, scrambling away for the nearest place to hide. There were not a lot of options here. I either had the bathroom or the closet. The bathroom had a small window, the closet did not. My choice was made.

I felt better, once sequestered in the darkness, the small cramped space. So easy to manage, to be in control of. Hidden away, no eyes in here.

The voices paused once, then restarted again. "Now look what you did!"

Another argument, with greater fervor than before. I didn't try to listen, it gave me a headache to try.

A shadow fell over the crack in the door. I froze, heart pounding. But they didn't open it, didn't force me into the light. A whisper. "Mia? Are you okay?"

Peter. I relaxed, closing my eyes, trying to find the words to speak. Honest answer? "No."

I could see his shadow nodding at that, crouched on the other side of the door. "Yeah, I figured. Can you come out?"

A long pause. Just for Peter, I gave it consideration. But in the end, I couldn't do it. They were still arguing out there, and I had no idea who was winning. And that's besides the fear of being forced back outside. Deep down I knew May was only trying to do what she thought was right. But she had no idea how terrified I was at this moment.

"No."

Peter sighed through his nose. "Okay. That's okay. Then, um, can you open the door? Just a little?"

I considered that, too. I wouldn't open it all the way, not a chance. But a little, maybe I could do. As long as his idea of a "little" was the same as mine. So, without saying anything, I reached over and cracked the door slightly, just an inch. A thin beam of light streamed in, and I tucked in my feet so it wouldn't touch me. It came up short, Peter blocking the rest. Then it opened a little more, and my heart skipped a beat — but it was only Peter's hand, sliding in.

His hand found mine, and he held it, firm but gentle. I wondered if he could feel how hard my hand shook.

Instead, Peter said, "Damn, Mouth, your skin is freezing," A huff, like a laugh.

"I know." I didn't pull my hand away, even if leaving the door ajar freaked me out. Something in the gesture grounded me to the moment, calmed me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

I was unconvinced, my voice flat. "They're fighting about me."

"That's not your fault." Peter said, his voice still a murmur. It seemed no one had noticed he'd come over, too wrapped up in their argument. "They're just scared, that's all. They don't know what's going on. They're mad at each other because they don't have anyone else to pin the blame to."

"That's dumb." Came my very eloquent response. What Peter said sounded right, but that didn't mean I appreciated it any more than I already didn't.

"Yeah," Peter laughed a little, but it was weak, half-hearted. "Good thing we won't be like that when we grow up, right?"

I knew what he was trying to do, but something in those words disconcerted me. Grow up. Become adults. I was seventeen and very recently began to fear that was as far as I'd get to go.

…No, it's always been there. If it was seventeen, it was sixteen. Fifteen, thirteen. Nine. Six. Every year was another landmark, another step closer to the finish line.

At length, I finally said, "Yeah. I hope so."

Peter, hearing my hesitation, tried to peer at me through the crack in the door. I could barely make out his eye, glinting in the dark. "Hey, it's going to be alright, Mia. We're gonna make it through this. Just like we did every time before."

He squeezed my hand for emphasis. I squeezed back when words became too hard and I didn't know how else to show my understanding. I didn't know if I agreed, but I wanted Peter to know I heard. And that I believed he believed in that. That was good enough.

"You still don't want to come home?" Peter asked after a moment.

I could only shake my head, repeating, "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I get it. When you're ready to come home, we'll be waiting. Don't worry."

For the first time since I woke up, I smiled. It was small and weak. But a smile nonetheless. "Thank you."

✭✭✭

After an hour or two (it was hard to keep track of time), Peter managed to coax me out of my little haven. The closet was cramped even before Dad had filled it with boots and clothes and boxes. Only Peter could do it, when Steve or May or even Dad couldn't do it.

His solution was simple.

Order take-out.

It was the easiest way to feed everyone and get them to stop fighting. Can't argue when you're busy eating. And I, above all, was very much in the mood for eating. The front door opened and closed and as soon as the smell of sesame chicken, egg rolls, and fried rice wafted through the crack in the closet door, I knew my time had come.

Very, very slowly, I slipped out. Cautious, to make sure another fight didn't break out while they were setting the too-small table. Peter looked a little smug, victorious that he had known exactly what to do. I didn't mind if he rubbed it in their faces a little. I just wanted them not to fight anymore.

Dad had to scramble for extra seats. Sam had to sit on two stacked milk crates, which he complained about; although that didn't look as weird as Natasha perched on the arm of the sofa, balancing crouched on her toes with chopsticks in one hand and a carton in the other. May and Dad sat as far apart as they could from each other, which meant neither of them could sit next to me without problems arising. I couldn't choose without making it worse. So Steve sat on one side and Peter on my other. An uneasy truce was formed.

For the first ten minutes, everyone just ate in silence. Whoever footed the bill had gotten enough food for a small army, enough for everyone, including three super soldiers. I was a little put out to be given small portions of plain rice, until Steve reminded me to take it easy. Finish the rice (slowly) and I could get some tasty protein.

When I finally got my first piece of chicken, I took it in small bites, even if I could've eaten the whole thing at once. My stomach, thankfully, didn't revolt, and I kept it down long enough to get another piece, and another.

Natasha was the first to break the silence.

"We were able to follow you to the pier."

"What?" I blinked up at her.

Natasha paused to finish her bite, then continued. "Barnes alerted as soon as he realized you were missing. It was fast enough that we knew you were still in the city. I followed the tracker to a pier on the Hudson. That's where the trail ended."

"Tracker?" I asked, my gut dropping. "Wait, you put a tracker on me?"

Food had made me more lucid, made it easier to speak. Which was great, because if I wasn't shaken before, I sure as hell was now. How long had Natasha been following my footsteps?!

"Back in the hospital," Natasha nodded, as if this were totally normal. No one else raised a fuss about this, not even a little bit of surprise, and I realized with dread that I was truly the last person to know about this. "I knew that if this happened again, then I wouldn't regret it. And if it didn't? Well, it'd wash off at some point, and you'd never know. That had been key."

Wash off…? As I thought back to the last time this happened, how I had spoken to Natasha, I suddenly remembered. When she had tucked back my hair. My hand raised to the spot behind my ear. I never would've seen it. "How?"

"Because if you knew, then that would've been the first thing you'd get rid of," Natasha said, matter-of-fact, picking through her carton for the bits of meat. "That is, if you were running away intentionally. But I — we — have reason to believe you aren't, now. I found the tracker, crushed, at the pier. Got enough for a partial fingerprint, but nothing I could work with."

She let that sentence hang in the air, green eyes flicking up to meet mine. And in a moment, it clicked. "I don't have fingerprints."

Natasha pointed her chopsticks at me. "Exactly."

And I understood what that meant. Someone else had been there. Someone else had done this to me. Someone else was responsible. But who? "You haven't found out anything else?"

"No." Natasha shook her head. "Few leads. Whoever is behind this, they're… professional. No fingerprints in any system means either they're good at hiding. Or they've never been caught."

"There were no security cameras in your last known location," Sam continued, pulling up something on his phone. He presented to me a map of the city, a spot pinpointed, where I must have been last. "We called in our bloodhounds —" he gestured to Steve and Bucky "— just to make sure we weren't being thrown off."

Dad nodded, his voice quiet. "You were there. The scent was only a few hours old."

A few hours. Just a few hours. Any sooner and they might have caught something, anything, else.

"We've been keeping an eye on news reports. International incidents. Anything that might have coincided with your disappearances," Steve added, leaning his elbows on the table and folding his hands together. "But nothing we can tie together. We were hoping you might be able to tell us something, now that you're safe."

Safe. I could've laughed. But I tried to stay serious, like they were. Even if it felt like I'd walked into the Twilight Zone and the whole world was out to make a mockery of me. I could only shrug. "Same story. I don't remember. I'm sorry."

A flicker of disappointment all around me, but no one looked particularly surprised. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, so I just bowed my head and kept eating. May, who had been watching me in earnest this entire time, leaned forward and said, "Mia, are you sure you don't want to at least come home?"

Maybe she thought that being more coherent now, I'd come to see reason. But that same fear reared its ugly head as soon as she asked, and it was all I could do not to bristle. My voice was tight, shoulders hunched, when I said, "N-no, I can't. Whoever this is, they know how to find me. I was ten feet away from Dad when they got me. That's all it took. I just — I can't go outside. It's not safe."

Aunt May wilted in defeat. But this time she did not swing her anger onto Dad, or keep insisting the point. Looked around, as if anyone might convince me to change my mind. Sam just raised his eyebrows at her. At last, May heaved a long sigh. "What do you want to do, then, Mia?"

"Stay here."

Aunt May opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then she frowned. This was not the answer she wanted, but I wasn't going to give her another one. "Okay, that's fine. That's… that's fine. I'll go home and bring you back some clothes, does that sound good?"

I offered her a grateful smile, not wanting to Aunt May to think I didn't appreciate her trying to help. And some fresh clothes did sound good. I didn't even know if this dress could be saved. Which sucked. I really liked it. "That sounds good. Thank you, May."

That seemed to ease her, and May sat back, her posture relaxing. Maybe just having something to do was enough. She still didn't acknowledge Dad, and he likewise pretended she wasn't there. It wasn't total peace, but it was better than it was a few minutes ago.

She was almost reluctant to leave later, even though she'd be back in an hour or so with clothes. Peter, too, and I imagined the only reason Aunt May didn't insist she also stay was for the current animosity between her and Dad, and the very little space available. I might have been glad for it. This place was crowded even with just me and Dad.

The rest also made their departure, with an exchange of hugs or reassurances. And then, very soon, it was just me and Dad again, and a shit ton of left overs. Dad let me have my pick, and I ate until I was comfortably full.

It felt like ages since I last got to eat like that. Too troubling to linger on.

May returned, just as she said, within the hour and a bundle of clothes in her arms. Once more taking the opportunity to implore, to take me to the hospital, just a quick trip. But my stance hadn't changed, and she had to compromise. If (and that was a very strong if) I felt safer, we could go. But only then.

It was the only way to satisfy her, and I felt bad for making Aunt May worry so badly. I knew going to the hospital was the right idea, too. But even stepping out into the building's hallway was enough to give me palpitations.

Straying too far from Dad's side. No. I had to stay in one place.

May also insisted I'd call or text her frequently, just to make sure I was okay. And at this point, I was in no position to argue. Texting her every hour or so was a small ask after everything that's happened. Texting Peter would be easier, and work just as well.

I put on those new clothes right away. Sweatpants and a loose shirt, that smelled like Aunt May's fabric softener. After a shower, of course. Aunt May waited around long enough to collect the dress, with a promise to fix it, make it better. As if fixing the dress might also fix the rest of this mess.

Then, at last, crashing on the couch. Dad was right there with me, tucked into his side. He said nothing and he didn't have to. After all the questions launched at me, all the answers I had been unable to give, it was nice to just sit in silence. To dwell in the moment, parse through what happened, while Antiques Roadshow provided a superficial excuse to curl up on the couch. Pretend we were a totally normal family with totally normal things to be worried about.

Waiting. Waiting for something. I didn't know what. Natasha and Steve and Sam had all left with promises to keep searching for answers, but they hardly had more than they started with months ago.

At this point, I didn't have hope left for any miracle breakthrough. It was easier to just close my eyes and try to sleep.

✭✭✭

I woke slowly.

It was the kind of waking up where I didn't even realize I was awake, until a muscle twitch or a blink alerted me that I was in my body and not in a dream.

I sat up, head turning to look around. The apartment was dark, faint light glowing from the windows, curtains drawn as I had finally requested earlier that evening. The bed on the opposite side of the room, the dark pile of blankets that was Dad, sleeping softly. He didn't rouse as I came to my feet, silent against the floorboards.

May had also brought my sneakers, now parked by the door. My feet carried me over. Slipping them on. Hand reaching for the doorknob.

Slowly, very slowly. Dad would wake at the slightest sound, the wrong noise. Undo every lock, one by one. So meticulous. One by one, they all fell away.

I didn't close the door behind me. Too much noise, not enough time. The hallway was dim and narrow. Less quiet — an apartment further down was playing music. Another, came the smell of popcorn. I passed them all.

The streets were largely empty at this time of night. Into the wee hours of the morning, not even a taxi could be found.

A homeless man dozed on the corner, jolted when I walked by. He cursed, as if seeing a ghost. "Someone put a damn bell on you…"

I glanced at him once, and he looked back. Shied away. Not a threat.

As I continued on, I saw a girl in the window of a storefront.

My eyes locked with the girl on the other side, her face framed by melons.

No, not a girl.

My reflection.

I stared into the face I did not recognize, and moved on.

Somewhere inside me, my heart lurched. But my feet kept moving, one step after another. Not in any particular rush. Even as my mind began to race. As I tried to make myself stop.

Why couldn't I stop?

What was going on? What was happening to me?

My heart raced, my thoughts reeled, and yet my body continued as if it were on strings, pulled by a puppet master I couldn't see. My mind trapped inside, unable to take control. I could feel everything, see everything, hear everything. The solid concrete, the brush of my clothes, the cool air, the distant traffic. Every single breath I took. Every blink I made. It was all so very terribly real.

This wasn't a nightmare.

This was happening. And I couldn't make it stop.

I couldn't open my mouth, call out for help. As if there would've been anyone to hear me. And if there had, what would they do? Seeing a girl calling for help, when nothing was happening to her, when she was just going on her way. They'd think I was insane. Or just seeking attention, being bothersome.

My throat went dry with terror. Where was I going? Where was my body taking me?

I was heading south, towards the river. That was all I could figure out. If I stepped into the river, would my body swim? Or would I drown?

I didn't see anyone. No car stopped along the way to pick me up. But I didn't have forever. At some point, something would happen. I had to stop. I had to break out of this.

Something warm dripped down my face. I couldn't make myself look down, but I knew what it was. Blood.

This. This was it. I was asleep and then I was awake and it was happening and there was nothing I could do.

I wanted to weep, to scream, but my body refused to obey me.

An intersection ahead. The lights were green and while there were no cars coming, the crosswalk sign had its red hand up. I wanted to shriek as I stepped off the curb into open road.

No car came. I wished they had. Take me out, stop me, stop me from doing whatever it was I was doing.

"Mia!"

Oh, thank God.

"Mia, stop!"

Dad. Even sprinting, he was surprisingly quiet, but I could hear his racing footsteps. I was going at an easy pace, the only thing I could be thankful for, because Dad caught up with me quickly. He appeared in a blur, coming from behind and stepping in front of me, and it was only his hands grabbing my shoulders, holding me in place, could I finally stop.

That contact, it was like being struck by lightning. A gasp, like a punch to the chest.

"Mia, what the fuck!" Dad rarely swore around me. Not like that. Only when he was joking, casual conversation. This was anything but casual. "What are you doing out here?"

"I don't know," I choked out, my voice so small and tight I could barely get it out. Still my body pushed forward, trying to shrug him off, keep going. But this time, I could resist. Could clench my hands, bunch my shoulders. Hold myself back, inch by inch. "S-something… something's happening to me —"

It was as if my body short-circuited, and my knees gave out.

Dad caught me easily, and we both dropped to the ground, as I shook and gasped and let out a weak cry. His arms around me, a tight hug my body wouldn't break out of, as comforting as it was containing. "What do you mean? What's going on?"

"I d-don't know," I stammered, just barely clinging to control. I tasted blood in my mouth. "I j-just woke up like this. My body its — I couldn't control it —"

"You woke up like…?" Dad repeated to himself, as if trying to understand what that meant. I had already come to the same conclusion. They got me. Whoever it was, they got me.

Outside, inside. Awake or asleep. I wasn't safe.

"Oh, god," Dad whispered, as horror dawned on him.

"Don't let me go," I begged, tears finally streaming down my cheeks. "Please don't let me go."

"I won't," Dad said immediately, squeezed me tighter. His response self-assured, confident in at least one thing. "You're not going anywhere, I promise."

I was this close to believing him, when a van, parked fifty feet ahead, exploded.

The blast itself nearly bowled us right over. A giant fiery plume blew straight into the air. The windows of the van shattered in an instant, as well as the glass on several nearby buildings and vehicles.

My ears were ringing, and it took me a minute to realize it wasn't just my ears — the blast had set off multiple alarms, from both the cars and shops they damaged, the homes on the upper floors that suddenly had no windows. Fire from the van spewed everywhere, like bits of magma from a volcano. It had already spread to a nearby trash can, a bench, and part of a storefront.

And from the flames emerged a dark figure, walking through as if it were nothing. Bulky and male, heavy footsteps crunching on broken glass and litter. A face limned in white, a skull. No, not a skull. A mask.

I couldn't see the eyes beneath, but I could feel them on us. It distracted me from what was in his hands, electric rods crackling in the hot air.

"Shoulda stayed home, pops," the man called out, and my blood ran cold. I recognized that voice. "It wasn't supposed to go this way."

Brock Rumlow.

Chapter Text

[Part Two: Ghosts]

Chapter Twelve

✭

I tried to move, tried to run. But even without Dad's arms around me, I couldn't make my legs move. Couldn't make anything move. I choked, "Dad —"

"I know," Dad's breathless, pulling me to my feet, and it's only then my body obeys. "We need to —"

"What, leaving so soon?" Rumlow called, still casually sauntering closer, his boots falling with an arrogant heaviness. His batons crackled and I winced at the sound, my skin tingling at a forgotten memory. Up close, I could see the extent of his gear, how well-armed he was. Gun strapped to his shoulder, what looked like grenades attached to his belt. Not dissimilar to how the Winter Soldier operated, but Rumlow didn't have the same grace— the gear was bulky instead of streamlined, he couldn't carry as much as a super soldier, and what he did have still weighed him down enough to have a noticeable effect. "The party hasn't even started yet!"

Super soldier or not, though, Rumlow was still a walking arsenal.

"Not a party you want to start, pal," Dad snapped back, his voice strained, the barest attempt at a warning. A veneer of mercy, almost, something he rarely gives. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

The street wasn't particularly wide, just two lanes in either direction. Parked cars made it even narrower. And Bucky Barnes was even deadlier up close than he was looking down a scope.

How did Rumlow think he'd win in this fight? Then again, it seemed he hadn't planned on Dad being here.

"I do, actually," Rumlow sneered. "We've always known who you are, Soldat."

Dad tensed, hands tightening around my arms as he pulled me back. "HYDRA."

His surprise would've taken me aback if I wasn't so terrified.

Rumlow, too, paused. A tilt of his head, the glitter of eyes beneath that mask. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Dad carefully sidled in front of me so I was blocked from view. There was a knife in his hand. I didn't see where it came from. "You're gonna have to give me a hint."

"Rumlow?" He said, and when that didn't garner a response, he continued to yell at increasing volume, belying his rage. "Brock Rumlow! I was there every minute you were in America! I saw everything you were and weren't! I am HYDRA and HYDRA is me! You were the greatest thing we ever made and you failed us!"

"Do you know this guy?" Dad asked under his breath, and I could only give a tight nod in response. Couldn't even be sure Dad saw it until he said, "Run."

And I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I knew right away what Dad's plan was, to engage and give me enough time to get away. But when Rumlow charged, my feet remained planted to the ground, cemented there as Dad took him head on. Watching in mute horror as Dad took an electric blow through his metal arm, that grunt of pain, before pushing through it.

Rumlow saw the knife coming and blocked it with his forearm — just barely. He shook with the effort against superior strength. A second punch knocked him back but Rumlow managed to stay on his feet.

It gave Dad long enough to look back and do a double take at the sight of me still there. "Mia, run!"

His tone was desperate, confused, and I wanted to scream at him, I'm trying! How hard my heart pounded watching them fight, watching those cars burn as I tried to will my feet into action, for my legs to move, for my body to turn away and do everything to listen to my instincts. Screaming at me to get away.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't.

"She can't!" Rumlow practically sang, parrying Dad's knife when he came at him again. It skittered away, close to my feet. A baton jabbed into Dad's ribcage, the smell of burnt clothing. A blow to match his words: "She'll only do what she's told!"

My breath froze in my chest, heart stopping. No.

Rumlow's voice dripped with malice. "Attack."

No, please.

But my body wasn't my own. Dad's back was to me, wide open. In my hand, his knife. Still warm from his grip. Raised to strike.

Dad turned around just in time.

His open palm slammed into my chest, pushing me back. It wasn't as strong as it could be, almost soft in a way, not meant to hurt. But strong enough for me, for a super soldier.

And while Dad was distracted, Rumlow struck again. Blow to the knee, trying to bring him down. It almost worked, Dad's leg buckling, but he didn't drop all the way. Brought his arm up to blow my following blow, the knife coming down on his head. "Mia, stop!"

"I'm sorry," I could only sob. Blood dripped down my face. My knuckles white around the hilt, trying to pull back, to halt the force of my attack. My limbs shook, but it was not enough.

There was no way around it. Dad didn't have a choice.

Rumlow was smart, I had to give him that. Using me to fight his battles for him. He, a normal, weak man, would never last against a super soldier. Against the Soldat. I didn't want to be his winning edge.

As Dad rolled away, back to his feet, he went back for Rumlow, but I got in the way. Another slash of the knife, but he disarmed me easily — a move I saw coming a mile away.

Dad taught me. He knew what I could do, would do. I hoped it would be enough.

He batted me away, like a cat underfoot. I was just glad not to have a weapon in my hand — up until Rumlow tossed me a baton and my traitor hands caught it.

I came up behind him again, but this time Dad anticipated it. Had just taken a blow to the shoulder before cutting one of Rumlow's straps, a gun clattering to the ground — before turning out of the way just in time. I had too much momentum to withdraw in time, and my baton came down on Rumlow.

He let out a shocked grunt, trying to block the blow, but was a little too slow. Hit his arm instead of his baton, and knocked him back.

"Dumb bitch!" Rumlow let out a slew of other curses at me, but my body was already on the move, turning towards Dad again. Lunging forward, only for Dad to catch my swinging arm and toss me away again, just in time to intercept Rumlow's follow-up attack.

It was all I could do just to try and slow myself down, to take that second's pause, to look around, to resist whatever was controlling my body. In a few instances, I felt the cracks of it. I was awake, conscious, too much so — enough to feel that shake in my grip with the baton, how easy it was to let go when Dad threw me off his shoulders, a second longer to catch my breath before getting up again.

"I'm so sorry," Was all I could say when I managed to land a hit on Dad.

And he'd wince and shake it off and almost smile and say, "It's not your fault, monkey." Or "Nice hit!" Or "Getting too fast for your old man, now, huh?"

He was trying. Trying so hard to make light of this, to stop my crying, to make it not seem as bad as it was. But it really was bad. No, it was worse.

Rumlow could only sneer in disgust. "No wonder she's so soft, when you're coddling her all the time."

I kept waiting for the police to come. Kept my eyes out, hoping for the telltale flash of light. But I saw none. Why wasn't anyone coming? Why were all the traffic lights out?

It could've only been a few minutes since the van first exploded. This wasn't a great neighborhood, but still. Surely someone would've called for help, raised the alarm. You don't just go around exploding cars and get away with it.

And then I thought, no, the police can't come. They couldn't see Dad. He was a wanted fugitive. I didn't know what Rumlow wanted, if he wanted the police to get here or if he wanted to finish it before they did.

"Why are you doing this?" It was such a stupid question, so infantile, so naive. But they fell out of my mouth nonetheless, filled with impotent rage and fear.

"I'm not doing anything," Rumlow said, and I could hear the jeering smile behind his mask. He weaved around Dad for another strike, a flash of a knife. Gone. A gun. Bullet absorbed into Dad's metal hand, ripped away. "This is a grander design."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dad grunted. Took a blow to the face but it barely stunned him.

"You'll see," was all Rumlow would say, delighting in our ignorance. "You'll see!"

Again and again, Dad absorbed his strikes. Dodged mine or took the easy way out. He could've easily taken me down in a few quick moves, but Rumlow was too incessant to give him the time, his arsenal seemingly unending. Heavy armor to protect him from the worst of Dad's blows. But he was tiring. In the end, Dad would win, through sheer attrition.

And in the end, I was as much help as hindrance for Rumlow. I struck Dad only for him to duck and for the blow to catch Rumlow instead. Seeing how Dad deliberately placed himself in the middle, close enough to Rumlow so he couldn't get out of the way fast enough when I came in. A strong shoulder check, a kick to the ribs, elbow to the back.

It only made Rumlow angrier.

As the fight progressed, we got too close to the fire, spreading along the street, lighting up detritus and debris. Dad landed a solid kick to Rumlow's chest and sent him flying, tumbling towards the fire. Rumlow just barely managed to stop in time, yelping and scrambling away — the mask tumbling to the ground, and the harsh light of the flames lighting up his face, the spittle at the edges of his mouth.

"They'll see you for who you really are," He hissed, as he stumbled away from the fire. His eyes were wide and wild, almost spooked, breath coming out in heavy pants. "A weapon. A monster. They'll never stop hunting you. You were only ever safe with us."

Dad appeared unmoved as he stalked closer. I could see it as I reached for a fallen pistol, saw it in the slope of Dad's shoulders, ready to take the kill. This ended now. "If this is your idea of a recruitment speech, Rumlow —"

"It's Crossbones now!" Rumlow snarled, his cheeks pulling at the marbled, melted, scarred skin, pink and pale. One eye had gone white, blind, but it seemed to do little to hinder him. "I died the day you abandoned us!"

"I'll make sure it sticks this time." Dad's metal fist had just closed around Rumlow's throat.

"Not if you want to keep her alive, you won't." Rumlow didn't even try to fight it, just stood there and grinned. His eyes swept to me. Dad paused, and followed his gaze.

Maybe he realized I wasn't attacking him anymore. Maybe he wondered why I had gone silent. It could've been any number of things, but the fact remained that I had a gun in my hand. Pointed to my own head. Finger trembling around the trigger, fighting hard, so hard, not to twitch. Tears streamed down my face in the effort to fight it.

"Mia!"

"Dad, I can't —" The words sounded strangled, and all I could see was the bright fire burning my eyes, blurry through the tears, the vague shapes of Rumlow and Dad before me. Dad's outstretched hand, too far away. The cold muzzle of the gun pressed to my temple.

"Mia, don't!"

"She'll do it," Rumlow smirked, so self-satisfied. "It's what she's programmed to do. Kill me and she's dead, Barnes." And then he raised his voice, sickeningly sweet, "Isn't that right, sweetheart? If he lays another finger on me, would you kindly put a bullet in your head?"

I couldn't say anything, a lump in my throat, my heart pounding faster and faster. Seeing my fear reflected in Dad's face, the horror, the dismay. There was no real choice in this.

Dad stumbled, fighting between two instincts, killing Rumlow and stopping me. The hesitation was enough to have Rumlow laughing with glee. "You've gone soft, haven't you! HYDRA never would've tolerated this weakness. The mission always came first, remember? If you kill me, it ends now. She's just collateral. She was never the priority. The sooner you remember, the better."

Dad swung a furious look at him, and for a moment I swore he was going to snap Rumlow's neck. But instead, he lets go. Metal fingers unclamping with a reluctant jerk. I expected Dad to at least punch Rumlow or something, but no, not even that. Even Rumlow seemed aware of it, took great satisfaction in watching the great Winter Soldier brought low, rendered harmless, pulling away like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs. He grinned, "Go on now. Go save your precious little bitch. Cherish it, Barnes. Because you're running out of time."

His words followed Dad, taunting, as he ran to me. That horrible second where our eyes met and both shared the same fear — of Rumlow calling out the order anyways, and I'd pull the trigger. Then a blink, to let Dad know I trusted him, that I wanted this to be over.

A hesitation, only for a moment. Then the gun was ripped from my hands, one arm wrapping around me and pulling me in close. At the same time, his other arm whipped around, gun in hand, aimed at Rumlow.

But he was gone.

All that remained was a crackling fire, an empty street. I hadn't even seen where Rumlow had gone. In the moment, I didn't care. Dad could hunt him down if he wanted, but my legs no longer had the strength to keep me upright.

"It's okay! It's okay!" Dad kept me up, supporting me as I buried my face into his shoulder and started to sob. "It's over, now, it's over."

My body ached with the exhaustion of the fight; I had little more than bruises, Dad tried so hard to keep from hurting me, but I had no choice but to put my all into it.

And I knew, as my arms wrapped around him, fingers clawing into Dad's coat, that I had my body back.

We just stood there for a moment, Dad letting me cry. A hand patting my head, trying to soothe me. But there wasn't enough time. "Mia, we can't stay here."

I knew that. Between my breathless sobs and blood pounding in my ears, I could hear the distant sirens, getting closer. What took them so long?

"Mia," Dad gave me a squeeze, then pulled away, and I was surprised to find I could stand on my own. My face, flushed with emotion, shame, unable to look him in the eye. "We have to go. Can you run?"

He was asking now. Because I hadn't done it before. Couldn't. But I could nod, choke out a few words, this time just because I was emotional and not in the grips of protocol. My legs shook beneath me as Dad led me away, at a walk first, and then breaking into a run. Quickly, thankfully, confidence returned to my body, a control I could trust in myself.

For now.

✭✭✭

Dad did not lead me back to his apartment.

Instead, he took me to a small hovel of a place, an abandoned tenement building with boarded up windows and floors with partially collapsed levels. It was a squatter's place, although there were none currently here. An ancient TV tucked into the corner of a back room on one of the upper floors, an old twin mattress on the floor, barely big enough for an adult. The same room had a radiator, which Dad popped open to reveal a backpack inside.

When he tossed it to me, I said, "You've planned for this."

"I plan for everything."

There was a tightness in Dad's voice, one that scared me. "What are we gonna do?"

Dad paused, as he dug up some dusty water bottles from the same broken radiator. "I don't know. But we can't stay here. And we can't go home. You were right, monkey. They know how to find us."

On the one hand, I was relieved someone finally believed me. But the relief was short lived, and I could only just make myself drink when Dad pushed a water bottle into my hands.

"I'm gonna be right back," Dad said, and before I could ask what, he was pushing a gun into my hand. The same gun I had before. I almost recoiled, but Dad took my hand, put it around the handle. "Mia, don't — just hold onto this. Anyone that comes through that door that isn't me, you shoot them, understand?"

I nodded, not knowing what else to do, not wanting to hold the gun that I had held to my head not twenty minutes ago. I didn't even realize Dad had kept it. But of course, he would. A weapon was a weapon. And I had nothing else to protect myself with.

"I won't be gone long," Dad said, kissed the top of my head, and then he was gone. I just stared after him, my mouth dry. Forgot to ask where. Probably back to the apartment.

I curled up on the mattress, feeling the start of a panic attack creeping at the edges of my mind. I didn't want to have another breakdown, not right now. Not when Dad wasn't here, and not when he was. I wouldn't be of any help that way. Still, a few sobs came out intermittently, and I just focused on trying to keep my breathing slow and even. There was a remote nearby and I was surprised to find that the TV actually worked, although it had terrible reception. I had to play with its antennas before I could pick up any channels.

It was just something to do, something to distract myself with. It was still night outside, the occasional police siren ringing by. I froze in fear until it passed, before allowing myself to relax a little. Kept an eye on the door. Fearing whatever shadow might fall through it.

If Rumlow would be there again.

I winced as I settled back down on the mattress, letting a news channel play out its late-night commercials. Rumlow had gotten me on my side with one of those damn batons, and when I lifted my shirt, I discovered an array of red, fern-like scarring across my abdomen.

Just like what I'd found on my arms, after the football game.

Sick to my stomach, I dropped the hem of my shirt and brought my knees to my chest, hugging myself tightly. Fighting with my nausea, closing my eyes and just trying to listen to the inane nonsense selling coming from the TV. Its speakers crackled weakly, the volume low so as not to disturb anyone that might be in here, or give me away. But just loud enough to distract me. To think about anything else.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. An hour. I was starting to get worried about where Dad was, what he was doing, if he got caught. Was Rumlow still following us? He wouldn't dare attack Dad alone. Wouldn't stand a chance. Did he have back up somewhere?

I kept replaying the fight in my head. Rumlow had said something, a grander plan. Like he wasn't alone, wasn't at the head of this. I believed that much. Believed he wasn't smart enough, clever enough to pull this off on his own. There had to be more, someone else. Another head of HYDRA? Some surviving element that we missed? I didn't know. I just knew that whatever it was, they were behind whatever was going on with me.

At least I had that one answer. At least it wasn't just all in my head. My own mind unraveling, acting against me. At least I broke free in the end. But what good would that do me if they kept finding me in the end. What were they using me for?

A floorboard creaked. In an instant, my hand was on the gun, pointing it at the door — just as Dad crept in. He raised his hands and it took me a moment to lower, heart pounding. "Sorry."

"You're fine, monkey," Dad sat down next to me, mattress squeaking pitifully. He dropped a heavy bag at his feet. One, a backpack I recognized from his apartment, the one with the notebooks. The other, much larger, round like a drum.

"You got my shield?" I asked, stunned. I didn't remember Aunt May bringing that over. "Wait, you went to my place? Did they see you?"

"No, they were asleep," Dad shook his head. "Made sure not to wake them, but I — I knew you'd feel safer with it."

That much was true. I hugged the canvas bag to my chest, felt the solid metal beneath it, gently curved. I didn't want to need it. But it would be so much worse without it. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the worst-case scenario. As tempting as it was.

And then Dad was turning up the volume.

I opened my eyes, and found myself watching a familiar scene on the TV. Its screen had occasional flashes of snow, but it was easy enough to recognize the exploded van. The security footage of a ruined street, and two figures running away. An anchorwoman reporting on the scene, the place lit up with dozens of vehicles. Police, FBI. Text scrolling at the bottom.

MANHUNT FOR THE WINTER SOLDIER.

Dad cursed under his breath. The news continued to play out, although I couldn't hear the words they were saying. My ears filled with a distant, incessant ringing, as I watched the security footage paused, reversed, played over and over again. Zoomed in, blown up. Dad's face. Bucky Barnes.

"If you see either of these two, please call the authorities immediately, discreetly. The FBI urge not to engage, the Winter Soldier and his partner are highly volatile and should be presumed armed and dangerous at all times. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross has called for a national emergency…"

It wasn't even over before Dad was up, packing what little we had. My breath came out too fast, seeing my own face there. They hadn't identified me yet, but it wouldn't take long. By morning, everyone will know.

I didn't even hear Dad until the TV suddenly shut off, and felt his hand shaking my shoulder. "Mia, Mia, we need to go. We need to leave now."

I didn't question it, just grabbed my stuff, my water bottle, and followed him out the door. In an instant, it was as if all my aches and pains were gone, replaced by new adrenalin. New fear. "What are we gonna do? Where are we going?"

"Away from here." He said without looking back, heading down the stairs.

It was a non-answer, and I wondered if Dad even knew. If he was just making it up as he went along. That didn't make me feel much better. We weren't alone here, we didn't have to just take off like this. "But we can get help, can't we? I mean, we can call Steve, he can explain —"

"No!" Dad turned suddenly in the stairwell, so fast I almost ran into him. He saw my look of alarm and took a deep breath to steady himself. "N-no, Mia, we can't do that. Whoever is doing this to you, they won't be stopped by the Avengers. And Steve, he isn't — he's not enough. I can't put him —" Dad shook his head, jaw clenching in frustration, regret. "It's too big. Maybe he can help. But not in a way we can use right now. The only way this stops is if we become ghosts, understand?"

And there was a terrible sense to that. I knew no matter where I went, so long as I stayed in New York, I wasn't safe. Not from Ross, not from the police, not from HYDRA. We had to leave. Had to disappear.

It was the only way to keep everyone else safe.

Ross would come knocking on everyone's door. I knew that. But it was better if my friends and family had nothing to hide behind those doors. Weren't hiding me. The less they knew the better. Not even Steve would be above reproach. I didn't even want to imagine what effect this would have on the Accords.

This was for the best.

But as we entered the street, my gut clenched with guilt. "Dad, wait —" he stopped again so suddenly it scared me, but still, he listened, "I have to call May."

He grimaced. "Mia, we can't —"

"No, you don't understand!" I insisted, holding up my hands, begging for just a little patience. "I made her a promise, okay? That if something like this happened, I'd let her know. That I'm not coming home. I just need — I need to find a pay phone."

Dad stared at me for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Conflicted, worried, anxious all at once. Then he nodded. "Okay. But we have to make it fast."

The nearest pay phone was a block down, a ramshackle booth covered in graffiti. But the machine still worked, and Dad spared me a few quarters.

The line rang. And rang.

Pick up the phone, I begged. Pick up pick up pick up.

But she didn't pick up. It was three in the morning, and May kept her cellphone muted at night. I could've called the landline, but didn't want to risk Peter answering instead. Or both of them at once. That would've been too hard. He'd try to get involved. Not to mention, I didn't have the time to dig up some more coins and try again. So, when it went to May's voice box, I had to swallow my tears and try to speak.

"Hi, May, it's me," I said, wondering what May would think, seeing a strange number had left her a message when she woke. "I'm, uh — well, if you haven't seen the news yet, I'm — its really bad, May, I'm so sorry." I swallowed, voice thickening with emotion. "I didn't mean for it to happen. But I have to go. I don't know where, but I'm gonna be safe."

I glanced at Dad, who stood guard out of the booth. His head turned to glance at me, brow furrowing. Catching every word. I decided not to mention him. May would already know. Just focus on what she needed to know. "I'm not hurt, I'm okay, but I'm just — I'm going to be gone for a while. I don't know how long. But I love you, okay? And tell Peter I love him, too."

I paused, my mouth opening to say more, but I didn't know what. A mechanical voice informed me I had a few seconds left. With nothing left, I blurted, "Please stay safe. I'm going to be okay. Love you. Bye."

It sounded lame even before it came out of my mouth. But then I was slamming the phone onto the hook and stumbling out of the booth. I wanted to run. Run fast and far and wide. Run away from the horrible guilt and grief and sadness that threatened to overwhelm me at any moment.

Dad took my hand. A gentle squeeze, a tug to guide me along. Our footsteps made no sounds as we took off.

Shadows, vanishing into the night.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

✭

Peter woke up to a pounding on their front door.

Jolting out of bed, Peter was lost in a mess of blankets, his limbs all tangled up, while he heard Aunt May's footsteps as she rushed to get the door. He wasn't even out of his room before the FBI were swarming into the house. All blue jackets with big yellow letters, badges and paper warrants being waved in the air. Peter didn't even have time to be embarrassed about not changing out of his Star Wars pajamas before he was corralled into the living room with Aunt May.

It was just a swarm of noise. Voices, half-shouting, filling the air at six in the morning. The sun had barely risen. Cabinets being opened and closed. The closet being torn apart. Bedrooms invaded. Even Uncle Ben's office, that sacred, silent place, opened and tossed like it was just a storage room.

Just watching it made Peter so terribly angry, watching one of the agents accidentally knock down one of Uncle Ben's model planes. It's wing and prop snapping on the floor. The agent having the grace to wince in apology before scooping it aside.

It took Peter a very long time to remember that Mia wasn't here.

That was to be expected. He already knew that. Mia hadn't been home in several nights.

He was more surprised when the FBI never found her shield. She kept it under her bed, it wouldn't have been hard to find. Unless Aunt May had moved it. Or… or someone else took it.

Not that he had time to ask about any of that, between Agent Jones launching incessant questions at them and blatantly ignoring the ones Aunt May was throwing right back at them, between shouting "Don't touch that!" Or "Hey, be careful, that's antique!"

The agents kept trying to pull her focus back on them.

"Mrs. Parker, are you aware that your niece may be involved with dangerous criminals?"

"Oh, you mean besides the people who kidnapped her?" Aunt May snapped back, pulling her bathrobe tighter around her shoulders. "Do you mean those criminals? Or maybe you're talking about whoever is behind taking my daughter away these past few months, that your beloved FBI has done jackshit about?" Aunt May gave him a sweet smile. "I just want to make sure we're on the same page."

The entire time, her hands were white-knuckling her phone, locked tightly in her fists. Peter was just glad he had the foresight to grab his own phone first before the FBI busted in.

"Ma'am, this isn't about that —"

"It isn't? Oh, well, excuse me for expecting you guys to do your jobs sooner rather than later," May replied, teeth bared. "Or are you only interested in Mia when she's a criminal instead of a victim?"

Agent Jones didn't have time to answer that before Peter asked, "Where is she? Where's Mia? Is she under arrest?"

His mind was reeling at the possibilities. Just last night, Peter had seen her. After a week gone missing, she finally came back. In the same clothes, looking half-starved, her mind frayed to hell. It made Peter sick just to think about. His hands clenched and unclenched. He should've stayed. He shouldn't have left her there at Bucky's.

Maybe she did something in that week missing. Something caught on camera. Maybe the FBI had just caught up.

Agent Jones fixed Peter with a frown. "When's the last time you saw Mia Fletcher?"

Peter had just opened his mouth when Aunt May answered. "Not since a week ago, when she left for DC. Or did our missing person's report not have that on file? Sure took you guys long enough."

Peter blinked in surprise, but snapped his mouth shut. He didn't know why Aunt May was lying, but decided to go with it.

Agent Jones shifted uneasily on the seat he had commandeered, avoiding their burning gazes. "We haven't found your niece, Mrs. Parker. We're here to investigate allegations made against her."

"Allegations? Of what? By whom?" May demanded, alarmed.

"We have information that indicates that Amelia Fletcher was an associate of a HYDRA operative known as the Winter Soldier," Agent Jones explained, and Peter's blood went cold. "That she was there in DC of last year, when the Triskelion was attacked. We're here on orders of Secretary Ross to confirm the legitimacy of these claims."

"Last year?" Aunt May's cheeks flushed with rage. "This has to do with last year? Are you fuckers crazy —"

"Aunt May!" Peter interjected before she could get the FBI up in arms about slander. Could they get arrested for that? He hoped not. Holding up his hands, he tried to play mediator best he could. "We don't know what happened in DC, okay? We thought Mia had been taken hostage by HYDRA. That's what you guys told us!"

"We know," Agent Jones said, with a nod of his head. "But that was before we had a full understanding of the situation."

"You mean, before Thaddeus Fuckface Ross was Secretary." May snapped. "We all know he's been gunning for Mia, for months! Now he finally found his chance!"

"In all fairness, Mrs. Parker," Agent Jones said, his face tensing, trying not to react to May's creative interpretation of Ross' nickname. "You haven't seen the news yet."

"What news?"

Peter's phone had just started to buzz when Agent Jones turned on the TV. That's how he knew it was bad. That dread building up before they even flicked on to the news channel. He didn't have to. It was everywhere.

And Peter had to sit there and watch in silence. A single security camera recording of Bucky Barnes and another guy blowing up a van and getting away before police arrive. Peter heard but wasn't really listening when the anchorman spoke, tinny voice distant and far away. The video paused at certain points to circle faces and zoom in on details.

"…Authorities have positively confirmed these men to be Brock Rumlow and a man only known as the Winter Soldier, both agents of HYDRA who both escaped justice one year ago. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross has declared a state of emergency, as well as an international manhunt to capture the two terrorists. The US government is working with Interpol and various other agencies to locate these men. It is currently believed they may seek sanctuary in non-extradition countries, like Russia or China, or in city-states like Madripoor, located in Southeast Asia, where known associates may also be hiding. Authorities have yet to report what these two agents were doing in the Brooklyn borough, their motives or means of escape. They ask anyone if they've seen anything to please call this volunteer line…"

The video was short, playing over and over in fifteen second increments. Mia wasn't anywhere in the video. Peter wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. She had been with her dad. What was Bucky doing? Where was she?

And, at the same, he remembered - her shield. The FBI hadn't found her shield, though it would've been quickly found in its usual hiding place under her bed. Peter looked around, but saw no one parading around with it like they just found the Ark of the Covenant.

It wasn't here. Though it had been last night, because Mia had never come home.

Peter was so busy trying to deduce the meaning of that that he almost didn't hear the FBI agent's next words.

"We found where the Winter Soldier had been staying for the past few months," Agent Jones continued. "But he hasn't returned since the attack. Because of your niece's ties to him, we have reason to suspect there may be evidence here that can help us locate him."

"What about Mia?" Aunt May turned on him, just as furious as before. "Are you going to locate her?"

"Rest assured, ma'am, she is also a priority."

"I hope you mean in rescuing her, bringing her home," Aunt May fixed him with a piercing look, unblinking.

Agent Jones didn't respond to that. "Please, Mrs. Parker, if you could answer some of our questions now. Have you had any contact with your niece since her most recent disappearance?"

"No, and you already know that. I've already told the police everything the last time."

Peter's phone buzzed again and he remembered that he was holding onto it. He glanced down and found both Ned and MJ blowing up his phone — asking about Mia. Asking why FBI was knocking on their doors. His stomach sank further and further.

Ross was going to tear their lives apart just to find whatever he was looking for.

✭✭✭

Federal Bureau of Investigation Official Report

Date : June 26, 2014

Content : Transcript records of family, friends and associates of Amelia Miriam Fletcher, investigating her disappearance and connection to HYDRA operatives.

To be delivered immediately to Secretary Thaddeus Ross for review.

Name: May Parker

Relation to subject: Aunt, legal guardian

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI Interviewer: Mrs. Parker, can you please repeat for our record, what is your understanding of the subject's relation to HYDRA?

M. Parker: You're joking, right?

FBI: I am not, ma'am.

M. Parker: Fine, then. For the record [taps the table with her finger], my niece has been and always will be a victim of this HYDRA. They took her from our family when she was thirteen. Faked her death. Is that in your records? They never wanted her to be found again. And you keeping her name out of the news is just making HYDRA's job easier.

FBI: We don't know yet that her disappearance is related. We can't announce our assumptions —

M. Parker: Oh, like your assumption that she's actively involved with HYDRA? The Secretary's assumptions that she's a criminal based on, what? I want to see that evidence, agent.

FBI: I'm afraid I can't do that, ma'am.

M. Parker: And I'm afraid you're gonna find jackshit here, G-Man. Now get out of my house.

FBI: We can't do that, either, man.

M. Parker: I'm calling a lawyer.

FBI: Ma'am, this isn't an interrogation —

M. Parker: [speaking on her phone] Hello, is this Nelson & Murdock? Yes, I'm being harassed by federal agents —

FBI: No, wait —

[End Excerpt.]

Name: Peter Parker

Relation to subject: maternal cousin

Excerpt of interview transcript :

FBI: When was the last time you communicated with your cousin, Peter?

P. Parker: About a week ago. We texted about the party she went to.

FBI: When she went to DC, correct?"

P. Parker: Yep.

FBI: Do you anything to confirm she was actually where she said she was?

P. Parker: What do you mean?

FBI: I mean, did she send any pictures? Any proof she was at that party?

P. Parker: Uh, no. It's not really her thing. You can ask the people there, though, they probably took pictures.

FBI: Hm. We also noticed that Amelia doesn't have any social media, her last Facebook post was four years ago. She doesn't have any secret accounts we should know about?

P. Parker: Nope. She doesn't do social media.

FBI: C'mon, Peter. You're teenagers. You all have something.

P. Parker: Not Mia. She stopped using it because she knows you guys can track her through that. Which is what exactly you're trying to do, right?

FBI: We're just trying to help find her, Peter.

P. Parker: Yeah? Well, you're losing three-to-zero. So, uh, good luck.

[End excerpt.]

Name: Michelle Jones-Watson

Relation to subject: Friend, classmate

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: Miss Watson —

M. Watson: It's Jones.

FBI: Excuse me?

M. Watson: I don't go by Watson. It's Michelle Jones. Get it right.

FBI: Uh, okay. Miss Jones, can you please describe your relationship to Amelia Fletcher?

M. Jones: Oh, she's just my cohost.

FBI: …Your cohost?

M. Jones: Yeah, to my YouTube channel. Midtown Conspiracies. Ever heard of it?

FBI: Uh, no.

M. Jones: Oh, well you should watch it. Here, I got it on my phone. [She pulls out her device and begins playing a video depicting her and the subject in a cramped closet-like space, filled with strange sound effects and images flashed across the screen. The video she's showing is about the assassination of John F. Kennedy]. What do you think?

FBI: Erm, it's interesting. Now, if you could put that away, we have more questions to ask, Miss Jones —

M. Jones: So, are we right?

FBI: What?

M. Jones: About JFK, who killed him. Lee Harvey Oswald was framed. So was that Mutant guy. Right?

FBI: We're not here to discuss that —

M. Jones: Okay, then, I've got another question.

FBI: Miss, we're asking the questions here —

M. Jones: [speaking over him] What is the FBI's official statement on the Hulk incident of 2007 and the rumor that one of Ross' army men injected himself with an unknown substance in order to combat the Hulk and was responsible for the destruction in Harlem, and would Secretary Ross like to comment on his past as a reckless general performing unethical human experiments, trying to recreate the super soldier project, during his time in the Army —

FBI: This interview is over.

[End Excerpt].

Name: Edward "Ned" Leeds

Relation to subject: Friend, classmate

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: Have you ever met Amelia's father?

E. Leeds: Yeah, he comes by her place every week or so. Steve's pretty cool.

FBI: Have you seen Amelia or Steve around this man [presents photo of the Winter Soldier, taken from recent footage], at all?

E. Leeds: Who's that?

FBI: He's a known Russian assassin and terrorist, goes by the Winter Soldier.

E. Leeds: Wait, isn't he the guy who killed JFK?

FBI: That's not what we're asking —

E. Leeds: Well, did he, or didn't he?

FBI: We're not here to discuss that.

E. Leeds: It's a yes or a no!

FBI: [long sigh] We can neither confirm nor deny that the Russian agent known as the Winter Soldier was behind the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

E. Leeds: Hmm. Sounds pretty sus, dude.

[End Excerpt.]

Name: Eugene "Flash" Thompson

Relation to subject: classmate

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: How would you describe your relationship with Amelia Fletcher?

E. Thompson: Oh, Mia? Yeah, we totally dated.

FBI: You - you're her boyfriend?

E. Thompson: Was. Is. Sometimes. It's kind of a complicated, on-off sort of thing, different lives, West Side Story, you know how it is.

FBI: I — I'm sorry, no, could you explain? We had no indication Amelia Fletcher was dating anyone.

E. Thompson: Oh, yeah, well, she's a private kinda gal, you know? We're cool like that. Don't have to announce it or anything.

FBI: …Right. Then you'd have close personal knowledge of what she was like in the days leading up to her disappearance, right?

E. Thompson: Er, well, we weren't together at that point. We mostly texted.

FBI: Do you mind if we see your most recent texts?

[E. Thompson hands over his phone].

FBI: … her last message to you was three months ago. Complaining about a raccoon in your attic?

E. Thompson: I thought it was a ghost! I needed it exorcised.

FBI: So, you called her for help? For… for an exorcism? Does she do that stuff often?

E. Thompson: Oh, yeah, all the time! Have you seen her YouTube channel? She's great!

[End Excerpt.]

Name: Elizabeth "Liz" Allen

Relation to subject: classmate

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: How well did you know Amelia Fletcher?

E. Allen: Oh, since middle school, we went to the same place together. She and her cousin, Peter. They were always kind of shy. But sweet.

FBI: Did you ever find Fletcher odd or off-putting, was there ever something she did that you found questionable?

E. Allen: Uh, I don't know. She and that Michelle girl have that weird ghost club of theirs, but I don't know, it seems kinda harmless. I heard they have a lot of followers on YouTube.

FBI: Okay, so this channel of theirs, we've heard a lot about. Did Fletcher ever talk about these conspiracies she believes in?

E. Allen: I mean, it wasn't all conspiracies, that's just the name of the show. Michelle's really the conspiracy theorist, I think the show was her idea. They do all sorts of stuff.

FBI: Like trespassing and breaking and entering. Does that sound harmless to you?

E. Allen: I mean, yeah? They were going into old abandoned houses. I've seen them with cuts and bruises a few times, but nothing scary. They're just like that.

FBI: You've been on an episode or two, haven't you? Have they ever tried to coax you into breaking the law?

E. Allen: Uh, no. We were just sharing ghost stories. I'm sorry, what does this have to do with Mia going missing? Are you saying ghosts took her?

FBI: Ghosts aren't real, Miss Allen.

E. Allen: Says you.

[End excerpt].

Name: Matthew "Wolfman" Appel

Relation to subject: friend, neighbor

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: So, Matt—

M. Appel: Wait, I heard what that other guy said. Mia did not have a boyfriend.

FBI: Er, how did you hear about that?

M. Appel: I follow Flash's Twitter, duh! He took a selfie with your other agent dude. Talked about saving his girlfriend or something.

FBI: He — what?

M. Appel: It's not true. You better have that in writing.

FBI: Mr. Appel, please, this is not about who's dating who. We're just trying to get a feel for the people in Amelia's life.

M. Appel: Well, that other guy is a fucking liar. Also, not Mia's type.

FBI: Okay, okay, I believe you. Now that's settled, could you tell me about that night Miss Fletcher went missing for several hours? How did you find her?

M. Appel: We found her, alright. My dad almost ran over her in his truck.

Noah Appel [father, shouting from the other room]: Matthew!

M. Appel: [shouting, feedback on mic] What? It's true! You didn't even apologize!

N. Appel: Are you really still mad about that?

M. Appel: Yeah, I'm still mad!

FBI:[into microphone] Alright, let's try again later.

[End excerpt].

Name: Elizabeth "Betty" Brant

Relation to subject: classmate

Excerpt of interview transcript:

E. Brant: Wait, so you've found Mia?

FBI: No, no, we're still trying to find her, we're looking for information regarding the whereabouts —

E. Brant: So, the FBI is interviewing me? Oh, shit, I gotta tweet this! Midtown's gonna wanna know!

FBI: Miss, please don't —

E. Brant: Hey, do you mind if I do a live video?

[End excerpt].

Name: Howard "Howie" Stark II

Relation to subject: classmate, friend

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: So how did you first meet Amelia Fletcher?

H. Stark: At a party. She saved my life.

FBI: Saved your life? From what?

H. Stark: From an evil megalomaniacal robot trying to take over the world.

FBI: Are you talking about ULTRON? She was there in Stark Tower when it happened?

H. Stark: Yeah, Steve invited her.

FBI: Right, her father. I understand you and Amelia share experiences in being kidnapped and held hostage. Was that something you two ever discussed?

H. Stark: Yeah. We also liked to talk about nosy government agents who don't leave us alone, and suck at their jobs.

[End Excerpt.]

Name: Victor "Jonah" Shade

Relation to subject: ?

Excerpt of interview transcript:

FBI: So, er, how do you know Amelia Fletcher?

V. Shade: She was critical in ensuring my creation. My birth, if you will.

FBI: I… Could you — could you explain that, please?

V. Shade: Happily! I was born last year under less than desirable circumstances.

FBI: Last year?

V. Shade: Oh, sorry, allow me to recalculate [short pause] I meant seventeen years ago. It just feels like I've only been alive for a year! [laughs]

FBI: O…okay. Well, it says here that your legal name is Victor Shade, but that you also go by Jonah. Do you care to explain that?

V. Shade: Certainly. Victor Shade was a name chosen for me by my uncle, as a joke. Jonah is the name I chose for myself. Simple, yes?

FBI: Your uncle named you?

V. Shade: Yes, my father wanted to name me after himself, I guess you could say.

FBI: Alright. So, you go to school with Fletcher, correct?

V. Shade: Oh, no, I'm going to a private school, closer to home. Filled with lots of real teenagers, which is what I am, too.

FBI: Um, right, okay. So how did you meet Fletcher again?

V. Shade: Oh, right. Are you familiar with Plato's Allegory of the Cave?

FBI: [sigh] No, but I really hope it's relevant.

[End Excerpt].

Name: Cpt. Steve Rogers

Relation to subject: Father

Except of Transcript

FBI: So, is it true you're Amelia Fletcher's father?

S. Rogers: That's what's in her record, isn't it?

FBI: Yes, but we just want to confirm. We're curious, though, regarding your period frozen in ice. Would you care to explain how all that works?

S. Rogers: No.

FBI: No?

S. Rogers: Nope.

FBI: Captain Rogers, you understand the severity of the situation. We're just trying to get an accurate idea of what your relationship with Miss Fletcher is like.

S. Rogers: Oh, is that so? Could've fooled me.

FBI: Captain, can we be sure that the Avengers will remain uninvolved in this matter? Ross expects you to be impartial —

S. Rogers: Impartial? Are you ever impartial, agent, when one of your family members has been kidnapped? Your own child?

FBI: Well, if I was ordered to —

S. Rogers: Ordered to? Well, I don't take orders from Ross.

FBI: Sir, we need you to let us do our jobs —

S. Rogers: Like you've been doing for the past few months, while Mia suffered? That job? Please enlighten me.

FBI: Er, well —

[End Excerpt].

Note: Full transcripts are enclosed. Please highlight the relevant information (if available) for Secretary Ross to review.

It was late evening by the time the FBI finally left their apartment.

Steve had arrived around noontime and raised some more hell for the FBI on their behalf. Now they were just picking up the mess — Peter, picking up what was left of Uncle Ben's office, while May and Steve spoke in undertones in the kitchen.

More than a few of Ben's planes had been damaged, not to mention the general mess made. Peter moved slowly, not just to be careful, but so he could listen in on the conversation in the next room. Steve and May getting their stories straight, sharing what they knew. That message Mia had left on Aunt May's cell phone. The one she successfully managed to hide from the FBI. No doubt their phones were probably tapped now. But Mia managed to call before the FBI got to them.

Aunt May only played the message for him after all the agents had left. Mia's voice still rang in Peter's ears, haunting him.

"Hi, May, it's me. I'm, uh — well, if you haven't seen the news yet, I'm — it's really bad, May, I'm so sorry."

Peter closed his eyes, trying not to lose focus while attempting to glue back one of the wings to the plane. His hands shook with the effort, not wanting emotion to get the better of him.

"I didn't mean for it to happen. But I have to go. I don't know where, but I'm gonna be safe."

He could still remember holding her hand in that closet, trying to coax her out. Mia had been so scared. Her hand, so cold, trembling in his.

"I'm not hurt, I'm okay, but I'm just — I'm going to be gone for a while. I don't know how long. But I love you, okay? And tell Peter I love him, too."

Peter swallowed thickly, and when he opened his eyes, his vision was a little blurry. He carefully wiped his face, trying not to get superglue on his eyelids. He was so sick. So sick of losing Mia. When would it end?

"Please stay safe. I'm going to be okay. Love you. Bye."

She had been with Bucky. Of that, Peter was certain. But then what the hell was that video about, the one all over the news? He could hear Steve and Aunt May trying to make sense of it in the other room.

"… wouldn't do this. I don't know where the video came from. But something isn't adding up."

"Is it possible that he might have — you know…"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. I don't think so. I'm not sure Rumlow has the right… tools, for that. But according to the time stamp, Mia's call came after that video was recorded. He might be alright."

"She didn't mention Bucky in her message."

"I know. She might have done that on purpose. Or she might be alone. Either way, I think it's safe to say that she hasn't been caught yet."

"By who? Ross or HYDRA?"

"Both."

That video. Peter agreed with Steve's opinion, that there was something weird about it. Something in the way it was recorded, the way it fizzled between moments, screen going white with noise and broken pixels before coming back in again. Peter pulled it up on his phone, his interest piqued again. There were dozens of copies up on YouTube, Twitter, wherever else. Peter found one with just the footage and no extra commentary. Watched it again and again. Scrubbed back and forth.

And that's when he found it.

Heart racing, Peter carefully shut the door to Uncle Ben's office, locking himself inside. He didn't want to be overheard while he texted Ned and MJ.

PP: Guys, how soon can you get here? It's about Mia.

MJ: Soonish.

NL: You can't just call us?

PP: Not safe. Better if we talked in-person.

NL: Fine, but I might be grounded.

MJ: At least it's summer, right?

Only belatedly did Peter think to ask Aunt May if it was okay his friends visited, after they had agreed to do so. Aunt May was in such a mess that she just waved her hand distractedly and said it was okay.

"How you hanging in there?" Steve asked, fixing Peter with a sympathetic look. He had arrived in the hopes to get rid of the FBI, but it seemed to have only intensified their search. The apartment now felt uncomfortably quiet, now empty. Peter hadn't even had the chance to check Mia's room, only knew that it was a disaster, too.

"I'm fine," Peter shrugged half-heartedly. In truth, he was jumpy, nervous, excited, but was trying to hide it. He was still in his pajamas, mad enough about the FBI that he didn't change out of spite. "Are the Avengers really looking into this?"

"Of course,"

"Okay," Peter paused, bit his lip. "If you find Mia, I want to be there."

"Peter," Aunt May sighed.

"No, I mean it!" Peter insisted, not wanting to be shot down just yet. "Not when it's dangerous or anything. But— but if she needs someone. I can be there. I can help."

Peter wasn't sure how to get across his meaning. That if Mia winded up… trapped again, in her protocol or whatever, that he could help. She said something about how his face brought her back, and Peter wanted to believe he was special in some way, that he could bring her back in case it happened again.

But talking about it also felt like jinxing it. Still, Steve seemed to understand. He gave a small nod. "If anything happens, you'll be the first to know. I promise."

Peter let out a small breath, shoulders sagging in relief. Captain America wouldn't lie, not to him.

It was about an hour before both MJ and Ned were there; the only food Peter had to offer at this late hour was popcorn and ramen noodles, which they accepted without complaint. Both MJ and Ned looking more than a little frazzled after their own personal experiences, but the FBI didn't raid their homes like they did to the Parker's. Just some very intense interviews.

In his bedroom, behind a closed door, Peter was practically ready to burst with what he's been wanting to tell them.

When he showed them the video, Ned just frowned. "I don't get it. It's the same one we all saw. What's different with this one?"

"You did not bring us all the way over here just to watch it together, did you?" MJ crossed her arms.

"It's not about what's different." Peter shook his head. "It's about what's not there. Look."

He had it up on his computer screen now, for a bigger picture. They all crowded around his desk, leaning in as Peter began tapping through frame by frame, second by second. It was a short video, only a quarter minute long, yet there was so much to go through. "Right there! Did you see it?"

"See what?" Ned and MJ asked at the same time.

Peter scrolled back and clicked through it again. This time, he paused on what he'd noticed, and pointed. "Look, right there. That space next to Mia's dad. Looks weird, right?"

The quality of the video footage wasn't great to begin with, so Peter had to zoom in so they could see it. The very faint shape in the background, almost like a cut-out, copy-pasted over with cloned pixels. In the shape of another person. "I think there was someone else in this video, and they were edited out."

"What?" Ned gasped, leaning in further to squint. "No way. They totally did! I can see the outline!"

"What the fuck," MJ scowled, and then had Peter take it into a video editing program so they could change the graphic visual values. Heighten contrast, play with saturation levels, shadows and highlights and boom — the editing work stood out like a sore thumb, blank space where a person and their shadow had been shoddily erased from the video. "You're right. I bet whoever did this didn't have enough time to go full CGI on this. Are you saying Mia was there?"

"I think she could've been," Peter agreed. Who else would've been there with Bucky? "But that's not all. Look at the video itself, you see how it fizzes out at certain points and comes back. The time stamp looks like it's been added on, too. I don't think Mia was just erased from the video. I think stuff has been cut out entirely, then put back together to… to tell a certain story."

"Like Mia's dad rejoining a super-secret evil agency that's not supposed to exist anymore?" Ned asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Yeah, I can see it."

"Also suspicious that this is the only camera angle that we got," MJ pointed out. "No extra footage, or any other security cameras that might have caught something different, more work to edit. Just this one."

"Like it was planned," Peter concluded. Even though he had already realized it himself, saying it aloud made it all the more real and horrifying. He looked back to the screen. "Someone's behind this. But who?"

"Ross?" Ned suggested. "I mean, look how fast he jumped at the chance to get into our lives. He's wanted the Winter Soldier for ages."

"Doesn't explain how he got Rumlow to play along," MJ pointed out. "Or where he's been all this time. I heard he escaped jail a few months after the fall of SHIELD."

Peter didn't know, either. "I wouldn't put it past Ross, at least. Even if this isn't him, he's not making things better, either. If he finds Mia first…?"

He let that sentence hang, letting the other two come to their own conclusions. The same one Peter had. Ned murmured, "She's not coming home."

"He can't do that!" MJ protested, but even as dismayed as she sounded, it was also half-hearted. Like she knew Ross could. Because he can. "There's gotta be something we can do, right?"

Peter was just about to answer when a knock came at his door. Steve peered inside. "Hey, kids, we just ordered some pizza —" he stopped. Maybe he saw the looks on their faces. Or the fact that the security footage was blown up on Peter's computer screen. Steve's brow furrowed. "What're you guys up to?"

Peter, Ned, and MJ exchanged glances. Then, they started to speak.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

✭

The metal floor rocked beneath me, rolling gently with the waves.

The air was a little damp, smelling of metal and mildew. The stale air of being stuck in the brig for days on end.

The cargo ship was surprisingly quiet, a decent crew, but on a very large ship. There was plenty of space to hide and never get caught; Dad seemed to know like he'd done it before, but didn't tell me how or when. Just knew a safe spot could be found in a niche in Cargo Hold 3, a small ledge high up on the wall, just big enough for the two of us to sleep.

My backpack served as a pillow, Dad's coat as a blanket. It wasn't the worst way to sleep, aside from not being able to fully stretch out. And the extreme boredom. Not even a book to read. I just concentrated on not getting seasick.

Dad had made a beeline for the piers after I finished the phone call with May. I thought we might take a train or steal a car, but no. Dad decided that the only safe place was across the Atlantic. He was probably right. Ross didn't have jurisdiction outside of America. And if Rumlow found us again, it would be a lot easier to get rid of his body.

Sneaking aboard had been easy. Climbing up the chains that moored it, hand over hand like monkeys, before slipping on board. It was night and no one was loading, security lackluster. A few cameras, a watchman at the gate, another guy walking around with a German shepherd. But we were through the docks before it could ever catch our scent.

Dad scoped the place out while I remained huddled in the shadows on deck. Just in case things went south and this place wasn't as safe as it appeared. I didn't even know exactly where this ship would go. Just far, far away.

I've been hanging out in the little niche ever since. We were well hidden, up above anyone's line of sight. And, of course, very quiet.

There was no way to know the state of the investigation. I wished I had something. TV, radio, cell phone. Anything to stay up to date. To know if they were getting close.

But I knew, deep down, that if it was on the news, it was already too late.

Still, I was a nervous wreck those first two days. Always expecting the ceiling to come down, a SWAT team to swoop in, flashlight beams sweeping across the hold. But not even the crew knew we were here. Dad stole cans of food from one of the storage containers, not from the crews' own stash, making our presence even lesser known.

It wasn't very comfortable, but it could be worse. There were cramped bathrooms scattered throughout the ship, which if timed correctly, no one will ever catch you using, aside from the strange telltale flushing in the middle of the night. Missed having showers, but there were body wipes in one of the crates Dad searched and that was as good as it was going to get. We wouldn't be able to hide the evidence of our presence here forever, but by the time any sign of us was found, we'd be long gone.

I rested my head against the metal wall, closing my eyes and tried to embrace the rocking of the ship. Seasickness was not my friend today.

With so little to distract myself with, the best I could do was attempt a poor man's meditation. Which involved trying not to hurl.

There were no windows, so outside of my internal clock I had no idea what time it was. I could judge from the level of activity aboard the ship that it was evening; less footsteps echoing across metal corridors, the faint whiff of a stew being cooked, something fishy. They were all eating dinner right about now. The fish scent did not make my stomach feel any better.

Dad appeared like a shadow from the gloom. A small sack of food with him, like a grungy Santa Claus here to deliver his stolen presents. I pulled up my legs to make more room for him on our little ledge, but refused when he offered a can of peaches.

"You need to eat," he said, an undertone, still holding out the can.

"Not hungry," I mumbled, wrapping my jacket around myself tighter.

"You said that yesterday," Dad replied, frowning. Can of peaches, still there. It was better they stayed in the can rather than making a brief trip to my stomach before being evacuated again. "What's the last thing you ate?"

I looked around at some of the trash collected around our little encampment. "Saltines. It was the only thing I could keep down."

Dad exhaled through his nose, setting the can down before opening up his sack of illicit goods. He pulled the items out, one by one, stacking them neatly by group. Cans of fruit and soup, non-perishable cake snacks composed of fake sugars and frostings, and several water bottles. I took one of those, at least. Water didn't bother me so much.

"All I have are these," Dad pulled out a pack of small cheese-sandwich crackers. "I can find something else if you —"

"No, it's fine!" I took them quickly, already feeling the guilt rise up. As annoyed as I was with Dad worrying about me, I didn't want to become a burden. Inconvenient, whiny and demanding when we were both just trying to survive. "These are good. Thank you."

It was a sort of lie. I had no idea how my stomach could handle all that salt and immortal cheese. But just so Dad wouldn't push the peaches on me again, I ripped open the plastic packaging and took a nibble of the first cracker. Mmm, salt. Dad watched me like a hawk, as if I were gonna pull some Houdini trick and make the food disappear without actually eating it. He only relaxed, slumping against the wall, after I polished off the small pack.

"How are you feeling?" He asked me.

"Seasick."

"No, I mean, besides that," Dad shook his head, brow furrowing. He gestured with his hand, slightly awkward. "I mean, about— this. Are you okay?"

"Okay's kind of a strong word," I said, wrapping my arms around myself. So far, my stomach hadn't revolted against the crackers, which I took as a good sign. "Physically, I'm fine. Everything else? I dunno. I'm still trying to… figure it out, I guess. Why this is all happening."

Two days since our escape and I still hadn't a clue about why it all went down. Aside from Rumlow's involvement, I had learned nothing about what's going on. Why he's involved, why I kept blacking out, and who, if anyone, was controlling me. I could still remember what it felt like, to be awake in my body but not in control. I shuddered.

"I keep getting nightmares," I finally admitted, at length. "About that night."

I kept my eyes focused on the floor, so I didn't see Dad's expression. Just saw him nod out of the corner of my eye. He didn't sound surprised. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop it."

I blinked up at him, not expecting an apology. "No, I don't blame you! Is this because of what Aunt May said? Because—"

But Dad held up a hand. "She was right. She trusted me with your care and I failed." I had just opened my mouth to protest when he continued, "No, Mia, you weren't there. You never saw what it was like when you were gone. Three times it happened, and there was nothing I could do. Your aunt is a regular woman, she could only do so much. But I — I should've stopped it."

"What? How?" I demanded, utterly baffled. What was he talking about? "Because you're not normal? Because you're a super deadly assassin, you should've been able to find me?"

"Yes," Dad said, with all the certainty in the world. "Because that's what I do. What I did. It was all I ever did. I found people, and I killed them. But that I couldn't do that with you — it's never happened before. I've never failed. That's why your aunt is right."

I wanted to call bullshit, but didn't want my emotions to get the better of me. We were trying to hide, after all. Still, I could feel my eyes burning, fighting back the tears. "I-I'm not mad at you, though. I know you did everything, it was just —"

I cut myself off before I could finish that sentence. But Dad knew well enough what I was about to say.

"Not enough?" He just huffed, a humorless chuckle, hanging his head in shame. "Yeah, I know."

A tear slipped out and I brushed it away angrily. "That's not what I meant."

I took a deep breath to steady myself, not wanting my voice to shake any more than it already was. "Whoever's doing this is just better than you, that's all. Maybe they just know your tricks."

When Dad didn't respond, I scooched over, coming around to sit at his side, shoulder to shoulder. "I wouldn't have followed you if I didn't trust you, Dad. I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't think you were right. I don't know what's going on, but I feel safest with you, okay?"

I felt, rather than saw, him take a deep breath. Dad's arm came up and wrapped around my shoulders, drawing me in close for a side hug. I let my cheek rest against his shoulder and he kissed the top of my head.

A long sigh that ruffled my hair. "Oh, monkey. You're gonna break your old man's heart."

✭✭✭

The third day, I made a mistake.

Evening again, alone, trying to find a calming rhythm in the motion of the ship and trying to catch some sleep before Dad came back. But if a hard wave didn't wake me from my sleep, a nightmare did.

Every time, I found myself back on that street. The fire burning so bright it almost turned night into day. Rumlow's scarred face, like melted candle wax, molded into a caricature of rage. Electricity sparking from his batons, hitting Dad, hitting me.

One particular blow sent me straight out of my dreams — my whole body jolting awake, leg snapping. My heel kicked and struck an empty soup can.

It went skittering towards the end of the ledge. My heart stopped, I lunged forward.

I watched, in silent horror, as the empty can tipped, my fingers missing it by a hair's breath.

I didn't even see the crewman below until I looked over. He was just passing under as I scrambled after the can.

Watched it fall, fall all the way down to the floor. Cringed at the clatter it made, metal against metal.

The man stopped. Turned. His flashlight fell upon the can.

I snapped back just before the beam of light swung up in my direction. The ledge high enough that if I lied flat, nothing could be seen at the angle he was at. The deep shadows the flashlight brought helped as well.

Still, the crewman called out. "¿Hola? Hay alguien ahí?"

My heart pounded in my chest, staring up at the illuminated ceiling.

The man called out again, letting the silence hang for a moment. Then I heard a faint clinking, what sounded like him picking up the can, and then footsteps. Walking away.

I laid there for a very long time. Wondering if he was going to come back. Wondering when Dad would return. Maybe he'd been just around the corner and saw everything. My stupid fumble, almost getting caught.

But no one came back. For a long twenty minutes, I lied there waiting. Just waiting. But the crewman didn't return with reinforcements.

My sleep was restless that night.

That following morning, when I woke up, I found a chocolate bar waiting on the floor.

I'd just jumped down, in my early morning bathroom break before anyone else was awake — I hadn't noticed the candy until I almost stepped on it. Who'd left that here, Dad? He wouldn't do that, he'd just give it to me, or leave up on the ledge where I'd find it. He certainly wouldn't be clumsy enough to drop it.

I bent down, picking up the bar carefully. The wrapping was untouched, I couldn't detect any sabotage or foul play. Someone else had left it here. Maybe a careless crewman? Perhaps it fell out of one of their pockets on one of their patrols.

Well, it was mine now.

I quickly learned, however, that it was not a mistake.

That night on the fourth day, a crewman came by on his regular walkthrough, flashlight swinging about. I noticed right away, however, that his footsteps were familiar. The weight of them, the cadence of his walk. A heavyset man with thick boots and the jangle of a set of keys. I pulled myself back as deep into the corner as I could, heart pounding so loud I almost couldn't hear what he was doing below.

A pause in the footsteps, something crinkling. And then moving on again, at that same steady pace.

I waited ten minutes before moving. This time, when I looked down, I saw a paper plate lying on the floor, in the same place the candy bar had been. This time, however, it was a sandwich.

Dad returned a short while later, another bounty of stolen food with him. He seemed not to notice anything was amiss, and for a moment I was tempted not to say anything. But I felt guilty for not saying anything before, but I was afraid of making a big deal out of nothing. This sure didn't feel like nothing, though. And if this blew up in our faces, then I'd have no one to blame but myself.

As we made a feast of non-perishable items and junk food, I finally found my courage to speak. "I think one of the crewmen knows I'm here."

"What?" Dad looked at me sharply, alarm written all over his features. He had immediately tensed, leaning forward. "Are you sure? Did they see you?"

"No," I shook my head. "But one of the cans fell from up here a day ago while one was passing by. He never saw me, went away and didn't come back. But I think he's been leaving food for me. First a chocolate bar," I produced the wrapper. Dad seemed displeased that I'd already eaten it. "What? Not like it was poisoned. I could tell. And then an hour ago, he left a sandwich."

Dad stared at it. I'd taken only a bite, after giving it a thorough sniff for any evil ingredients. "A whole sandwich?"

"Yeah." I said, shrugging helplessly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. But he hasn't done anything yet, as far as I can tell. Doesn't seem like he's told anyone else."

"Hm," Dad scratched his chin, thinking it over. He lifted the sandwich, sniffed it, and took a bite, just as I had. After swallowing, he said, "They're not dangerous men. Most of them are middle-aged, out of shape, none of them armed. Not a threat. He probably thinks if anyone's here, you're alone. But don't interact with them, okay? It's only another few days before we reach land."

I nodded fervently. I had no plans to do so.

But fate had a different idea.

The fifth night, he caught me.

Maybe I should've seen it coming. Maybe he figured out my routine, or just got lucky.

All I knew was that I was just coming back from the bathroom when I spotted him standing right beneath the ledge, flashlight looking up. It was not the crewman's regular patrol, he shouldn't be here. I had just spotted him and ducked into the closest alcove before his flashlight fell on me.

But he must have spotted movement nonetheless. A shadow, flickering in the darkness. "¿Hola?"

The alcove was cramped, two high walls of crates reaching all the way to the ceiling. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run. And the flashlight's beam grew brighter, footsteps drawing near. No no no.

In truth, I wasn't sure what I was afraid of. Getting caught, or Dad walking in and making this worse. As scared as I was, no one here probably deserved having to face a deadly assassin. But I didn't have long to worry about it when the flashlight turned upon me. I winced, flinching, raising up my hands to shield my face.

Almost immediately, the flashlight lowered again, leaving me momentarily blinded. "Lo siento. ¿Estás bien?"

I blinked, wincing, frowning at the figure of the man before me. He was rather stout, stocky in shape, wearing rugged clothes, worn jeans and a flannel shirt and vest — but I didn't see any weapons, he wasn't carrying anything. Except for a radio, I saw nothing alarming.

His concern, as well, took me off guard. I hesitated, still crouched in the corner, hands still up over my face. Should I say something?

Slowly, the man bent down to one knee, his free hand raised. "No tengas miedo," The man spoke softly, a husky tone to his voice. A weathered tone, like the old seaman he was. As he continued speaking in Spanish, the man reached into his pocket. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

I tensed, instinctively prepared to have a knife or some other weapon pulled on me. But instead, the man brought out another candy bar. Twix. He offered it to me, but when I didn't come forward, he set it down on the floor and gently pushed it closer. "See? No harm. Just food. You must be hungry, yes?"

Despite myself, I nodded. As much as Dad tried, our sea diet had hardly been healthy or filling. What little I could keep down, anyways. Still, it was hard to unfold myself, to get closer. What if it was a trap? Why was he waiting there for me? What did he want? Why was he being so kind if it wasn't meant to lure me in?

"I'm sorry, I hope I didn't scare you," The man continued, still soft and amiable. He lifted the flashlight to illuminate his face, round and mustached, bright brown eyes and a slightly goofy smile. "My name is Jorge. It's nice to meet you…?"

I stared at him. Despite myself, I answered. "Mia."

"Mia," He repeated, with an almost fatherly smile. "That's a pretty name. Now, I've been working on this ship for a long time. We don't usually get stowaways. Especially not children. Are you here alone?"

I nodded again, eyeing the candy before looking back at his face. In a fight, I could take this man easily, unless he was wearing some kind of disguise and was hiding a six-foot five bodybuilder under his five-foot ten portly exterior.

At length, I nodded again. No reason to give away Dad now.

Jorge studied me for a moment longer. "This is a very long way to go alone. Where are your parents?"

I scanned the corners, but I still couldn't find anywhere to go. Finally, I gave in, and responded in kind. "I don't have any."

"Is that why you're here?" Jorge asked, and when I nodded again, he added, "You must be pretty desperate to sneak onto here. It's not very safe."

"It's safer than where I was before."

"Ah." Jorge raised his eyebrows, and I didn't like the pity I saw there. But it seemed genuine.

I bit my lip, listening hard. Had Dad come back? Was he nearby? Maybe I could talk my way out of this — if I wasn't already neck deep in trouble. "Are you going to send me back?"

Jorge laughed. "Back where? We can't turn around, we're in the middle of the ocean. We have no way to send you back."

"Oh," I said, feeling a little silly now. Of course, they couldn't send me back. But that didn't mean they couldn't turn me in when we reached port. "Will you turn me in then? To the European police?"

"I would certainly feel obliged," Jorge said, and my heart sank.

"They'll only send me back again." Or to jail.

"Perhaps. But they might help you, too."

I laughed, but it sounded broken, tearful. How could I explain to him that turning me in would only make things worse? The moment I was found again, I knew it would be over. Either Ross got to me, or whoever was behind my blackouts. And then where would I be?

Jorge frowned at my reaction. "You don't think so?"

I shook my head, pressing my hands to my face. I didn't want to cry, not in front of a stranger. This man couldn't hurt me, not physically, But he already knew too much. Our journey was doomed before we could even get anywhere. "There are people after me. People who want to hurt me. If they find me again, I'll never be free."

"Who are these people?" Jorge asked, tilting his head. What I said had surprised him, because he looked rather taken aback. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen? You are still a child. Who would want to hurt you?"

A humorless smile pulled against my face. "You have no idea."

"It sounds to me like you're in a lot of trouble, Mia."

"I'm fine." I swallowed, but my throat was thick, dry. "Please, don't tell them anything. Once you reach land, you'll never see me again. I promise, I won't cause any problems."

Jorge looked reluctant. "You're very young to be going off on your own. Europe is a very big place. Many countries. Where are you from?"

"New York."

"Ah, really? I have cousins there!" Jorge smiled, gesturing out from his chest. "I visit them whenever we dock there. But my family is in Ecuador. I don't see them as often as I want to. Do you have any family, Mia?"

"Yes." I said, unsure if I wanted to say more than that. "But I'm not sure if its safe for me to go to them."

"I'm sure they must be worried about you." Jorge said, a very wise guess. "Perhaps when we dock, you can try calling them? Perhaps they can help you, instead of the police."

"Maybe," I said, not wanting to commit to the idea, but also hoping that if I played along, Jorge might be convinced to let me off on my own. I glanced at the candy bar again and, after another moment of consideration, reached out for it. He smiled as I scooted back again, prize in hand. I flushed and mumbled, "Thank you."

"It's nothing. I just want to help."

I glanced away, then back at him, frowning. "Why?"

"Do I need a reason?" Jorge offered me a shrug. "Is it not enough to want to help people? Especially those in need of it?"

"I guess not," I murmured, before biting into the chocolate bar. It tasted good, so good. Maybe not as good as the sandwich, which had real fresh food, lettuce and meat, in it. But still, good. "Do the others know about me?"

"Not yet. But the captain will have my hide if he knows I'm keeping secrets from him."

"I'm sorry," I never wanted to put him in that position.

"Don't worry about it. He owes me a few—" Jorge paused, looking up and around. "What was that?"

"What was what?" I asked, as the man stood and looked around with his flashlight. He didn't respond so I listened; at first, all I could hear was the dull roar of the ship, the distant crash of waves, the thunder of the sea storm we were passing through.

And beneath that, something else.

A kind of… thumping?

It wasn't against the ship, no sound of reverberating metal. No, it sounded like something inside. A distant creak of metal, a change in the air temperature and humidity, like someone opened a window somewhere. But did a ship like this have windows that opened?

And then I heard it.

Pop!

Distant, like a bolt flying off, or a door slamming. But it wasn't either of those things.

I recognized the sound, right before I heard the shouting.

Gunshots.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

✭

"What was that?" Jorge asked, already reaching for his radio.

There came a squelch of noise from its speakers, coinciding with the muffled gunfire. A burst of noise, yelling voices, completely indistinct in the chaos and panic. It was so dark and still here.

And then silence.

"What's going on up there?" Jorge spoke into the radio, but received no reply. "Hello? Anyone? Captain?"

No response.

Jorge looked at me, worry etching his features. He pointed back into the darkness. "You should hide, it might be something —"

He didn't get to finish before another burst of gunfire interrupted him, now much closer. At the other end of the hold, the far entryway lit up in the darkness. The gunfire was close. And from the sound of it, more than one firearm. More than one assailant.

There was a cry, someone caught off guard. Then darkness again.

I didn't hesitate, lunging forward to grab Jorge's arm and pull him along. Away, the other direction, the only other exit nearby. No time to turn around and see if we were heard, followed; Jorge's footsteps were loud, his breathing panicked, and he tried to object but I held a finger to my lips as we tore down the narrow corridor.

It was all I needed to know. If it was more than one person, then it wasn't Dad. That he hadn't snapped; been caught off guard or unwisely attacked. This was something else.

I couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

All I knew was that we couldn't stay here. I would've gone back up to my hiding spot, the cover would've been excellent — but there was no way Jorge could get up there, too. And I couldn't just leave him to… whatever this was.

Footsteps behind us. I turned a hard left and we stumbled into a small storage closet. Jorge scrambled into the far corner, next to a tall metal cupboard, while I pressed my back up against the wall next to the door.

Heart pounding in my ears, biting my lip to keep from breathing too hard, too fast. Trying to listen, to count the bootsteps that echoed down the corridor. They were quiet, much quieter than another set I heard, running and erratic, darting to and fro — but not quiet enough. I peered out the doorway to see a squad of two men, backs to me, dressed in all black. In their arms, heavy black assault rifles, turning on a crewman who had tripped and fallen in his rush. His hands were upraised, begging for his life as the men zeroed in, trapping him in a corner. Their faces hidden behind black helmets, reflecting the flash of the muzzle when the crewman was shot dead. Not a word spoken. Not an inch of mercy.

Jorge let out a sound, barely a whimper — but it was loud enough. Maybe he knew the man, recognized his voice. He made to step out, but I shot up a hand, shaking my head frantically. I could already hear the armed men getting closer. From their perspective upon entering, if Jorge remained in his spot, the cabinets would hide him from immediate view. It wouldn't last the second they stepped inside, but a second was all I needed.

My hands were empty, and I found myself tracing empty pockets. The pistol Dad had given me was still up in our hiding spot. Shit. All I had on me was a knife, pulling it from my boot. Jorge stared at the blade, a neat seven inches of dark steel. Still, he kept silent, as the soft footsteps came closer and closer.

I stood stock-still as the end of the black barrel of a silencer appeared in the corner of my left eye. Emerging from the open doorway, taking it slow, the rifle lengthening before me. The gunman hadn't seen me yet, still just behind the door.

As soon as his boot crossed the threshold, I attacked.

He never saw me coming. My hand came down on top of the rifle, forcing it down to keep it from firing at any of us. The man grunted in surprise, but didn't have time enough to scream before my knife plunged into his chest.

In one swift motion, I dropped to my knee, pulling the man down with me, and flipping him over my back and onto the floor. Another slash of my knife and the sling cut free.

Yanking the weapon free from his dying hands, I brought it to bear, right in time to encounter the second man coming in fast.

He never had time to fire.

Three quick shots and he was down. The first bullet didn't break through his Kevlar, but the second did — the third went through his face mask. Down he went.

Behind me, I heard a whimper. Jorge, clutching his chest, staring at me with wide eyes, white as a sheet. I'd forgotten he was there.

"What are you?" He demanded, breathless.

A great question. Not one I had the time to answer.

"I'm sorry," was all I could say, as I began searching the corpses for anything I could use. "Are you hurt?"

Jorge frowned, perhaps unsettled by my lack of answer. But at length he shook his head, voice still trembling slightly. "N-no, I'm fine. But these men, who are they?"

"I don't know," I said, which was the truth. They had no radios, only earpieces — I pulled one from the first body, figuring I could try and listen in, best I could. Their gear was completely black, and I found no identifying marks, no flags, nothing that would indicate what country they were from or who they worked for. A black ops team, but military or contract, I hadn't a clue.

I didn't know what to make of that. Maybe Ross had found us. Maybe it was someone else. Either way, I didn't have time to speculate.

"What are you doing?" Jorge asked, dropping down to one knee as I continued to pull extra magazines of ammo, a belt, dropping one rifle and taking the other (the sling was still good).

"Taking what I can use." I said, as I pulled a holster and its side piece, adding it to my growing armory. Anything useful, I had to take. The weight meant nothing, and I was still considering if I should double back for my shield. I didn't know how many more men were behind these two. The chatter was silent on the ear piece. "How many men are on your crew?"

"Twenty-eight," At my look of surprise, Jorge shrugged. "What? Did you think we were navy? We don't need that many men to care for the ship. Why?"

"Where would most of them be right now?"

"Mess hall, maybe," Jorge thought about it, scratching his chin. "Or sleeping. Do you think they're taken hostage?"

"Maybe," It wasn't very enthusiastic. These men had taken to killing very quickly, which meant any hostages they took probably weren't being kept for ransom. "How far away are we from shore?"

"We were supposed to make it to land mid-morning tomorrow," Jorge replied, which meant we were a lot closer than I thought.

Close enough that a black ops team could be quickly dropped in at a moment's notice. But by who?

"Why are they here?" Jorge asked me, dark eyes boring into mine. "We don't carry illegal material. Not that I know of, at least. They're not pirates. What are they doing here?"

My mouth had gone dry, and I looked away. Maybe Jorge had already guessed; his observations were astute. These guys certainly weren't your run-of-the-mill cargo thieves. "I think I know. But I hope I'm wrong. How good is your climbing?"

Jorge gave me a baffled look, but I soon showed him why. After checking to make sure the hallway was clear, I lead the way back to the hold, checking the area. It was utterly silent, aside from the muffled sounds of waves crashing and wind howling, metal hull creaking. It was completely dark, and I caught no glint of night vision goggles. The hold was empty. For now.

Jorge was completely blind where I could see relatively well in the darkness. I helped guide him, hand on his shoulder, as I went back to the little niche high up on the wall. Slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I made quick work scaling up. It would be easier this way, than having to help Jorge up from the bottom.

He looked doubtful as I bent down, offering my hands to pull him up. No surprise, despite my height I definitely didn't weigh as much as he did, and perhaps didn't look like I could lift a two-hundred-pound man.

"Vamanos," I whispered, trying not to sound too urgent in case it panicked him. "You'll be safer up here, out of sight. They'll never find you."

Jorge still looked doubtful, but finally he grabbed my hands. His palms were sweaty, but with one good lift I had him up off his feet and up onto the ledge in one easy motion. He'd gasped in surprise, not expecting the ease and speed at which I moved. "How are you so strong?"

I paused, as I grabbed my shield, wondering how to explain it. Any of this. "I work out. A lot."

Jorge raised his eyebrows. Even in Spanish, my lies weren't very convincing.

Then came a burst of chatter in my ear, making me wince. I couldn't understand it at first, and said to Jorge, "Stay here until I let you know it's safe, okay?"

Jorge stared at me. "What are you going to do?"

"Find my father."

With that, I jumped off the ledge and hit the floor in a soft whoosh of air. Carrying both shield and rifle was a little unwieldy, but I felt so much more comfortable with that familiar weight on my back. A sense of protection as I went along, not even noticing the blood on my hands until I entered the lit hallway again.

Like an aftershock, it hit me. I'd just killed two people. It had been so quick, so easy. I hadn't even hesitated. Didn't even think about the reality of the situation until now.

Like it was just second nature.

And as I moved on ahead, I knew those two wouldn't be the last.

Another burst of chatter in my ear, and now that I was focused on it, I could understand what they were saying.

"Où sont Guillaume et Marc?" One voice said, male, sharp. He'd noticed something had gone awry. "Signalez votre position! Quelqu'un les a-t-il vus?"

A chorus of "Non" followed, and I wondered why they were speaking French. All the accents sounded genuine; maybe Ross called in a favor from across the pond. But something about this just didn't feel quite right.

"Any sign of the packages?" The male voice said again, whom I assumed to be the leader of this group.

"No," another male replied, and I was surprised when I heard it not only in my earpiece, but in the room ahead of me. I crept forward, finding myself in the engine room, on a catwalk. Below, another man clad in black armor stood alone. One hand at his ear, the other cradling his rifle.

I dropped down to a crouch, heart pounding in my throat as the conversation continued. He hadn't spotted me yet, wasn't looking up.

"Haven't seen any sign that they're aboard, sir," the man below said.

"The captain claims there aren't any passengers aboard the ship," added another man. "I can interrogate further, but it seems he's telling the truth. If there are any stowaways, they don't know about it."

"Of course they wouldn't, you think the Winter Soldier is dumb enough to get caught by a bunch of old sea dogs?" The leader snapped, not appreciating this input. "My sources tell me the Winter Soldier is on this ship, and my sources are never wrong. There's only so many places to hide, we're not leaving until we find them!"

Below me, the man groaned, clearly aggravated. It was the last sound he got to make. The one time he looked up was to see a shadow descending upon him. My full weight, aided by the pull of gravity, drove my blade through the back of his neck, slipping in between that narrow space between helmet and vest.

He crumpled beneath me like a sack of potatoes.

I was up and moving, not taking a second to catch my breath. I wasn't sure where I'd find Dad, only knowing they hadn't found him yet either. I still had no idea the size of the force we were dealing with here. How many more men I'd have to kill.

Until I was cornered, stealth would serve me just fine. I didn't want to fire any more bullets unless I had to — too much noise would attract more attention, more trouble. I continued down the corridor leading off the lower level of the engine room. Around me, the lights flickered from white to red. Maybe reserve power. Maybe to make it harder for a certain pair of super soldiers to operate.

They could plunge this entire ship into darkness and it still wouldn't stop me.

The corridor ended with a set of stairs, culminating into a door that led outside. The storm continued to rage outside, making the floor shift violently beneath me, nearly throwing me off my balance at one point.

"Sir, the waves are getting pretty rough —" one voice said, sounding concerned.

"The ship can take it," The leader snapped back. "Just keep your balance and get this done."

I peeked through the narrow porthole, but it was difficult to tell if there was anyone outside. All I saw were the crashing waves below, and a dark sky beyond, black and stormy, roiling with angry clouds.

Behind me, I heard a few more smatterings of gunfire, chatter in my ear confirming another crewman accounted for. My stomach twisted, and that made my decision. I cranked the wheel and slipped out the door.

It was little more than a thin balcony on the other side, a sharp drop into the waves below. The ship just so happened to crest a wave, which knocked me back, slamming me into the side of the ship. The door slammed shut behind me before I could stop it. The clang reverberated, and I heard the whirring of the wheel flying back into place, locking me out. Shit.

"Did you hear that?" A voice asked over the intercom. "Sounded like a door."

"Sure it wasn't gunfire?" Another asked. "Did anyone make contact?"

No one confirmed, and the leader called off the vote to investigate. "Don't get distracted. It could be just things moving around with the waves. Don't investigate anything alone."

Their voices were nearly drowned out by the storm raging outside, and I had to clutch the railing just to keep myself from being pitched overboard. I couldn't remember why I thought it was a good idea to come out here, but I was stuck now. Only way to go was forward.

The catwalk led up the side of the ship, towards the top deck. I inched myself along, clinging for dear life with every toss off the waves. To think I was seasick before, at least I wasn't terrified of burial at sea. Water kept hitting the hull, and I was hit with water from so many directions I couldn't tell if it was rain or ocean. In less than a minute I was completely soaked.

I passed another line of portholes halfway up. Inside, I spotted a dimly lit room, filled with men. Some on the floor, others standing. A flash of lightning revealed it to be the mess hall, and the men on the floor were tied up. Jorge's crewmen, surrounded by more of these soldiers. Mercenaries? Eight of them total. How many more were there?

The lightning must have caught my face as well, because one of the crewmen jolted at the sight of me. I ducked down just in time, as others turned to look.

I couldn't hear what was said on the other side. If there was alarm, if there were people rushing to investigate out here. I hadn't come across any other doors, but if they were like the one I had come out of, I probably couldn't enter from the outside anyways.

I remained there, pressed against the wall below the porthole, for a solid minute. Just to make sure no one saw me. My wet clothes clung to my body.

The catwalk shuddered beneath me, as a shadow appeared to my right.

I gasped, knife whipping out, but a metal hand gently closed around my fist and pushed it away.

"It's okay, it's just me," Dad said, and I could barely hear him over the storm, but I hugged him anyways. His arms fell around me and for a moment, the world fell still. No rocking waves, no crashing thunder or stinging rain. Just a muted roar. "Are you okay?"

His voice sounded soft, far away, even with speaking right next to my ear. I could only nod, not wanting to break down right now. Not wanting to confess the three men I'd already killed and how that was already starting to catch up on me. I couldn't let it. I had to stay ahead. Compartmentalize now and unpack later.

"What's going on?" I asked. How he found me, why he was out here, I had no idea, but I was too relieved to start asking questions. "Who are these men?"

"They're Algerians," Dad replied, helping me up to a standing position. The world, all the noise and motion, rushed back in as he led the way forward. No time to stand still when there were things to do, problems to solve. "Mercenaries."

"Ross?"

"I don't know," Dad could only shake his head. Where I had picked up half an army's worth of weapons, Dad had only a handgun. He readily accepted the rifle when I offered it. "Maybe. But this doesn't seem like his style."

I wanted to ask Dad how he knew what Ross' style was, had he been studying the secretary? But there was no time for that. Dad moved quickly, and like me was completely soaked. His long hair hung in his face, dark enough that I didn't immediately notice the gash above his eye, the blood washed away by the constant rain. Still, it alarmed me. "What happened?"

He threw me a questioning look, before raising a hand to his face. "Oh, this? It's nothing, don't worry about it."

But the look I gave must have said that I wouldn't be following that suggestion. Dad sighed, shoulders slumping. "I just — guy caught me by surprise. It's nothing serious and he's dead now. So don't worry."

The cut did seem superficial, and in the grand scheme of things, would heal quickly. Still, I felt shaken, even as we moved on. As we came to the end, coming around to the top deck, Dad dropped to a crouch and I followed suit. He paused a moment to check the rifle, clearing the barrel of any water, testing the scope. "How many have you come across so far?"

"Three, they're dead," I said, keeping a lookout as we huddled against the deck railing. A low metal wall, it felt much safer than being on the catwalk, but it was difficult to see much. In front of us were massive walls of giant containers creaking ominously, leaving only narrow paths and alleys where anyone might appear. Looking up, I spotted a sentry on post atop a stack of containers, but he was looking in the wrong direction. I pointed him out to Dad, who simply nodded in acknowledgement. "Eight in the mess hall. I don't think they spotted me."

"Good," Dad replied, leaning back to take aim above. It was a sharp angle, the sentry almost directly above us. It seemed hardly optimal for a good shot, but one pull of the trigger and I watched as the sentry's head snap back. The gunshot was completely drowned out by the storm. "That brings us down to twenty."

"Twenty?" I repeated, stunned. How many had there been, thirty or more?

"Whoever's behind this came well-armed and well-manned." Dad nodded grimly, gesturing for me to move. "Just for us. They wouldn't need half that much for a crew this size."

I knew he was right about that. Jorge had said they only had twenty-eight men and I doubted any, if at all, were armed. They would be easy pickings for only a squad or two. Not an entire platoon.

The two of us hauled ourselves up a tower of containers, four stacked in total. On top, the wind raged, nearly threatening to bowl me over once I pulled myself up. Then it whipped the other way and pushed me forward, and Dad grabbed the back of my shirt to keep me still until the gale passed. It was then I noticed the giant helicopters that were perched atop the containers nearby. I didn't know a lot about cargo ships, but I was fairly certain that twin-blade military-grade aircrafts were not a part of their repertoire.

Just like the mercenaries' gear, the helicopters were unmarked, painted completely black. Had it not been for the sheen of rain and the frequent lightning, I might not have noticed them at all.

The cockpits were empty as we passed by, and there was only one other sentry, which Dad took out as soon as he turned around. Caught by surprise, only to take a bullet before he could send out the alarm. We came to the end of the stack, which provided a nice view to the far rear of the ship, where the command tower stood. Like the rest of the ship, it was mostly dark. The uppermost windows were flickering faintly, and it took me a moment to realize it was people, figures pacing back and forth. Maybe the leader was among them, and the captain of the crew.

At the edge, we laid down on our stomachs, lowest profile. Dad peered through the rifle scope for a long minute. "These mercenaries won't evacuate before they kill everyone. They'll leave no witnesses, no one who might have noticed us. They'll scuttle the ship and it'll be years before anyone finds what's left of it."

I frowned at him, wondering why he was saying all this. "Because of us? They didn't even know we were here."

"Ross, or whoever is behind this, wouldn't take that chance."

"It's just —" I didn't know how to word it. So excessive? So cruel? These crewmen were fated to die just because their ship happened to be the one of dozens we could've boarded in our escape from New York. "It just seems so unnecessary."

Dad's response was a dry, humorless chuckle. "Men who do this don't think like you do, monkey. Overkill is standard issue. Even if this did come out, they'd come up with a story, that these guys aided and abetted active fugitives, had made themselves enemies of the state. The less evidence they leave behind, the more they can get away with."

I had nothing to say to that. Just that I hated it, which was probably obvious anyways. I could only look away, scowling, directing my gaze back to those distant figures in the command deck. It was one thing to kill someone, to protect myself, to protect others — it was another to be the inadvertent cause of someone's death, an innocent person who had so little to do with me that it was entirely coincidental, a tangential connection.

It wasn't fair. It was our fault.

My fault.

A click of metal. The rifle, handed to me.

I blinked, surprised, looking up at Dad. "What are you—?"

"I'm going in," Dad said. He was already rising to a kneeling position. "You stay here and cover me."

"Wait, no —"

"Yes," He cut me off, calm but firm, pushing the gun into my hands. "I'm not putting you in danger again, Mia. You're safer here. And you can still help. Do you want to help?"

It was an honest question. I knew I could say no. I could simply use the scope to keep an eye on him and that would be that. But internally, I recoiled at the idea. Couldn't bear to just sit here and wait, twiddling my thumbs. Useless.

"Fine," I mumbled, pulling the rifle into my shoulder. It felt uncomfortable, still, feeling that empty space next to me. "You'd always spot for me before."

A sniper was never alone, not really. Not unless he was really good. Like the Winter Soldier. Like Dad. Someone like me, needed another to watch their back. That's how we did it in the Crucible. On missions. I'd never liked it, but at least I had the comfort of being protected.

"You'll be fine," Dad assured, a ghost of a smile in the darkness. "You're a good shot. Just watch your peripherals, listen to your surroundings. And watch for my signal. Okay?"

I could only nod stiffly, and watch as he disappeared over the ledge, silent as a ghost. I didn't hear him land and didn't know he had, until a minute later when I spotted him at the base of the command tower. Pushing some loose hair out of my face, I pressed my eye into the scope, squinting.

Dad had already taken out the guard at the entry way, catching him around the corner and pulling him into the shadows, where the body disappeared. There were multiple levels, and on the outer deck above, another mercenary paced alone, keeping an eye out, unaware of their prize right below them.

All I saw from Dad was a tilt of his head, half-directing, half-nod. I took aim, accounting for the wind, the drop of the ship as it shifted down a wave.

Pulled the trigger.

The man dropped onto metal, a distant clang swallowed by the window. The rifle kicked into my shoulder, but it didn't shift me as much as the rocking did, and I had to plant my feet wide behind me just to keep still for a good shot. I waited as Dad mantled up, and went through the same routine twice more.

On my ear piece, I could hear his actions causing a disturbance. I wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, but it was drawing their forces towards the command tower, leaving behind the harmless crewman to take on the much bigger threat.

By the time he reached the command deck, it was chaos. I couldn't see anything inside the windows, it was just flashes of light and shadow, blood splattering the window, distant screams in the air. I couldn't risk shooting into that, not knowing what I'd hit, unable to make out friend or foe.

The mercenaries got what they came for. And the Winter Soldier delivered in what he did best.

Absolute carnage.

Even with the influx of more men, coming in from below decks (and thus making it difficult for me to pick them off), it hardly seemed to falter whatever was going on inside. I caught a few obvious targets through windows, another on a catwalk. Anything I could to take the heat off Dad.

Then I heard something behind me.

Through the crashing waves, the booming thunder and disorienting flashes of lightning, howling winds and rain, threatening creaks of a ship under siege, came the sounds of footsteps, rushed and scrambling. I snapped my head around just in time to see several figures clambering up atop the containers — three men, one already rushing for a nearby helicopter, while the other two spotted me.

The shorter one, notably not wearing a face mask, revealing a white man with a shaved head, jabbed a finger at me. "C'est la fille! Attrapez-la!"

Oh, great.

"Oui, Batroc!" The big one came charging at me first. I didn't even realize how big he was until he got close — almost seven feet tall, his legs covered a lot of distance, and reached me just as I rolled on my back, taking aim.

But too late. His boot connected with the rifle, sending the shot wide, and the gun out of my hands. It skittered across the corrugated metal before tumbling off the side.

I rolled again just in time to avoid getting another boot stomped on my ankle, coming to a crouch and pulling out my pistol.

The big one came after me, but my bullets were too small, and his vest absorbed six whole rounds before he reached me again. The gun was empty. I tossed it, and ducked under his swinging arm.

The jab to his side did nothing — too much padding, I found. Didn't have time to pull out a knife or shield before something powerful struck me from behind.

The second man, slamming a powerful kick into my knees. Had he struck my back, he would've hit the shield, and it would've absorbed the blow. But the knee? That was smart. It dropped me down again, and I took another blow to the back of my head.

Not enough to take me out.

The big one whipped around and swung another fist, and it should've occurred to me why they weren't pulling firearms on me, but in the moment, I was too busy to think about it. Just trying to keep on my toes.

Dodging again, dealing with two opponents at once. The shorter one — which, really, only meant he was more my size and not a seven-foot-tall giant — was much more agile, pulling a flip that had me stumbling back in alarm before he could strike me.

Pulling out my shield to deflect a blow, hearing the satisfying crunch when the unfortunate set of knuckles made impact. To bash them away, only for them to come running back.

I couldn't risk throwing the shield. Besides the helicopters, there was no good surface for me to bounce it off of, and with the unpredictable waves, I couldn't be sure if I'd just be yeeting it into the ocean. It limited my actions, but better than losing more of my tools.

Although the big one had strength on his side, he was still only human — I could feel it in his blows, the fragility of his bones. The shield had already broken at least one bone in his hand, as little as it seemed to faze him. I could do this. I could take it.

But then the ship betrayed me. A sudden shift, like the whole world dropping out beneath me. Everyone started sliding, even the helicopters, but I was too late to right myself, falling right into the big one's hands.

His fist came around my throat before I could slip away.

Even the big one seemed surprised at his luck, before hefting me up in victory. I yelped, choking as his grip tightened, shield dropping as I tried to pull his hands from my throat. It skittered away, sliding dangerously close to the edge of the platform, before another shift in the waves had it resting against the skids of a helicopter, where it seemed to stick.

I would've breathed a sigh of relief had I had any air left.

"What do we do with her, Batroc?" The big one asked, leering up at me. I kicked and struggled, pulling at the hands at my throat. He wasn't a super soldier, but he was damn huge. One hand easily wrapped around my throat, that was not fun. "Toss her overboard?"

"No, you idiot!" Batroc, the other man, snapped — the leader, I realized, the voice I'd been hearing through the earpiece. Through that, I could still hear the rest of his team getting slaughtered. He didn't seem to notice, or care. "We need her alive! Unless you want to explain to our client why we killed something so expensive!"

Expensive? Ugh.

"What about the Winter Soldier?" The big one asked.

"Who cares!" Batroc said as he started backing towards the one working helicopter, its rotors warming up. "Ross can have him! We only need one to get paid!"

That seemed to settle the big one, even as the massacre in the command deck continued. The ear piece had been pulled out in the fight, but I could still see the distant gunfire out of the corner of my eye. I wanted Dad to come back, to help me, get me out of this. But even if it ended right now, I didn't have hope he'd get there in time.

"I've got the handcuffs," Batroc said, pulling something from the interior of the helicopter. The handcuffs didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before. A large piece of metal that looked to contain not just my wrists, but my entire forearms. That would be a bitch to break through — clearly, they had thought ahead in how to contain one of us.

Another pitch in the ship and my whole body swayed in the big one's grip as he struggled to remain upright. I kept an eye on my shield, but it remained where it was, wedged beneath the helicopter's skid. It was useless to me right now. But I wasn't completely unarmed.

I wasn't going to hang around (ha) and find out what those cuffs felt like. The big one was distracted, looking at Batroc and not me.

Batroc, however, saw what I was up to. "Batonvert, attention!"

But he was too late.

My knife came up, slashing across the inside of Batonvert's arm. The soft, fleshy part that didn't have convenient blade-proof armor. I cut through to skin easily. The man let out a cry and his hand released me.

I landed on my feet, not that it meant much — the ship immediately pitched and I almost went tumbling backwards off the stack. And then Batonvert was tumbling along, too, right into me. I spun out of the way in time, hoping he'd go flying off.

But I wasn't so lucky. The ship righted itself in time, and Batonvert lived to see another day.

For now.

Batroc, too, had been tossed around. The handcuffs had disappeared, perhaps he'd lost his grip on them. Couldn't complain. My focus turned back to Batonvert when he, too, pulled out a knife.

"Allons-nous jouer?" He grinned, with a gruesome set of crooked teeth.

Perhaps the blades kept Batroc from getting any closer. Not that I complained, as Batonvert lunged towards me in a wide slash. His arm was still bleeding profusely, but it didn't seem to slow him down much. So much strength and power, all in one very mortal body.

He went at me again and I sidestepped, feinting under his defense and getting him twice across the abdomen. Batonvert hissed and knocked me away with his empty fist. But it felt like another small victory.

A slash caught me across my left arm, no shield to defend myself. Felt the knife cut through my thin jacket, no armor at all.

Just another scar added to the collection.

Knife fights were not to be done on a whim. It couldn't have been more than a minute, but Batonvert was already starting to lose wind — chasing after me as I constantly dodged and evaded, trying to predict the next shift in the ship's movements, nicking him here and there, small individually but adding up over time.

And Batroc still hadn't joined the fray.

In fact, he was actively running away.

I wouldn't have even noticed, so focused on staying alive and keeping Batonvert at arm's length, had he not said something.

"Batroc, what are you doing?" The big man called, alarmed. I dared to glance over, seeing the fleeing form out of my peripherals. I lunged forward anyways, and Batonvert stumbled, but I caught him across the thigh. A deep one. "Gah!"

"Mission aborted!" Batroc called back as he dove into the open bay doors. The helicopter was already taking off, whipping up a small maelstrom with its spinning rotors. "I'm not dying for this!"

"Batroc, no —!" Batonvert shouted, dismayed, but it was too late. The helicopter was already taking off, whipping wind and rain into our faces. We both had to pause to shield our eyes until it lessened. And then Batonvert was back with a renewed energy. "Bastard! He'll regret that!"

I highly doubted it, but I was in no mood for banter.

"Silent one, eh?" Batonvert sneered as he came after me, renewed vigor having him charging again and again, constantly putting me on my back foot. Blades clashed, cuts swiped, stripes of blood dripping down the both of us. He heaved, breathing hard, a bit of red spittle emitting from the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I'll leave your mutilated body behind for your papa to find, hm?"

My eye twitched, but I refused to let that scare me. I've had worse threats levied against me, by more dangerous people. People who actually knew me. Knew what they were dealing with.

"Then he'll kill you," I said, my voice resounding with a strange calmness, even for me. "And you'll wish it would've been me."

Batonvert blinked, surprised, but kept going anyways. I didn't care. He wouldn't stop until he was dead, and whether through exhaustion or murder, I didn't care which. Just that it would be soon.

Around a helicopter, he pushed and pushed me. I knew my shield was behind me now, close, but I couldn't risk turning around and trying to reach for it. Batonvert was right on top of me, even as he managed with his new limp. I'd gotten his face a few times, and could only imagine what I looked like myself. But he was flagging. I just had to time it right.

One of his blows was just a little too slow. It swung by me, scraping against the side of the helicopter. When he did it again, I acted — slamming my fist after his blow, into his hand, and driving the blade into the metal frame of the helicopter. Wedging it good and deep.

He didn't have time to pull it out. His arm bent across his body at an odd angle made for perfect leverage. Hooking a leg onto his arm, I swung myself up on his shoulders. A familiar move, not one I'd done before, but something I must have seen. Maybe Natasha.

Batonvert bucked beneath me like a wild bull, but wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough to throw me.

My blade came down. One good thrust, more than any bullet could do, cut through his vest and drove directly through his sternum, right into his heart. Batonvert gasped, eyes widening, before his knees buckled.

He dropped. My feet hit the ground and I remained standing as Batonvert crumbled into a heap between my legs.

It was over.

I looked up into the sky, as if I might still see Batroc's helicopter there, watching the show. But it was long gone. I had no idea if it would survive in a storm like this. But it had gotten here under the same conditions, it could probably leave as well.

Shame. I'd hoped he'd crash into the ocean.

Aside from the howling wind and rain and incessant attack of the ocean — it was silent. Blissfully silent. No more gunfire. No more screaming. I stumbled over to my shield, knees suddenly feeling like jelly as I bent to pick it up. At last, the adrenaline gave way to relief, exhaustion. The sting of a hundred different cuts finally coming into sharp focus as I stumbled away, fumbling as it took me several tries to place my shield onto my back holster. It felt much heavier than before. Or maybe my arms just didn't work like they used to.

In the distance, a small gleam of light. I couldn't tell what it was at first, so dazed I thought it was a lighthouse, or possibly an alien spaceship — but no. It was a break in the clouds.

Sunrise.

I didn't know why it had me suddenly tearing up, but it did. An overwhelming sense of relief, this horrible night finally over. Finally able to rest. I dropped to my knees, suddenly aware of my racing heart and my short breath. Pausing to suck in lungfuls of air, to steady myself as the waves gradually gentled.

"Mia!" I almost didn't hear my own name in the wind. Couldn't remember who'd be calling it, until I looked over and saw Dad running straight for me. I meant to lift my arms to greet him, but the thought never reached my limbs. They remained slack at my side as he pulled me into a hug, before quickly checking me over. A curse in Russian. "Mia, you're bleeding everywhere."

"Oh?" I hadn't noticed. All the rain made it impossible to tell where I'd been cut, and the pain had become so nebulous that it was hard to locate. And I just wanted to close my eyes. I looked down and noticed that my left sleeve was almost completely shredded, and the rest of me wasn't that great either. "Huh."

Dad certainly looked worse for wear, too. Blood. A lot of blood. My guess was that most of it wasn't his. The rain was already washing most of it away. All I could remember was that I was supposed to be covering him, and I'd failed. "I-I'm sorry, I got distracted."

"No, no," He looked taken aback, then shook his head, pulling me in for another hug. I could close my eyes then, just rest my head for a second. A second was all I needed. Then I'd feel better. "I'm not mad at you, monkey. I shouldn't have left you alone. That was my fault."

His voice sounded so anguished, and yet I could find a reason why. My thoughts drifted, skittering out of focus and then back again. I had a job to do. He did his. And we were still alive. That was probably good. His hand stroked through my tangle of wet, wind-tossed hair. Any braid I had before was long gone. But that was okay.

"It's okay," I mumbled, voice muffled by his wet shirt. "I'm okay."

sketch by me :)

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

✭

What was left of the crew gathered at the command deck.

It was a bloody path all the way there. I got to see up close what Dad had done to the mercenaries, and not a single one of them was pretty. But all of them were dead.

No mistakes. No prolonging.

About a dozen men remained, all crewmates, in the wreckage of the command deck. The floors were slick with blood, being washed away by buckets of water, turning pink as it swirled down drains. The windows were either shattered or riddled with bullet holes. Half of the consoles were completely smashed or broken. The crewmen all had haunted looks in their eyes, exchanging wary glances when we entered the room. I didn't know what Dad was doing, why we didn't just cut and run as soon as we could. But we still had to get our stuff from below deck.

The captain, a man in his mid-fifties with a graying beard and the look in his eyes of someone who has finally seen it all. In Spanish, he spoke to Dad. "I suspect its you we have to thank for all this, yes?"

Dad looked around, then back at the captain. A single nod.

The captain's eyes glanced between the two of us, as if trying to make sense of a complicated equation. "Stowaways?"

Again, a nod.

"And the girl, yours?"

Another nod.

"And these men, they come for you. They killed us." The captain continued, and upon receiving another nod, steps closer to Dad. I shrink further behind him, expecting the captain to maybe start shouting, or swinging a fist. "And you killed them."

This time, Dad made no movement. Just met the captain's gaze, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The whole room was quiet and still, the air tense as all eyes were on us.

Then, at last, the captain raised his hand —

And held it out.

Dad stared at it for a long moment. After a moment's hesitation, he accepted the handshake.

"You saved us." The captain said, and his grip was strong, shake emphatic. "I don't know how you did those things that you did. I don't know why those men wanted you. But I'd like to think I would've done the same in your position."

The both of us were taken aback. Dad looked positively bashful. "It was — it's nothing —"

"Killing is not nothing," the captain shook his head, gesturing to his men. "Our lives are not nothing. We are here and they are not. Whatever you need, we can help."

It was quite an offer, and it only seemed to put Bucky in a more uncomfortable position. "Please, we don't need anything. We'll be getting off at land, and you'll never see us again. We won't cause any more trouble."

"There will be police waiting on shore," The captain said, looking skeptical at his claims. "I already contacted them. This is a… well, a disaster. You'll get away if you leave before we reach landfall."

"Will you tell them about us?"

The captain paused to consider it, scratching his bearded chin. "I see no reason to go into great detail. One man singlehandedly stopped an attack aboard our ship and saved our lives."

"Never got a good look at him," One of the other men supplied, and made a point to look blankly about the room as if Dad had suddenly turned invisible.

"And who would believe us when we told them a single man could do all this?" Another asked, gesturing about the room. "They'd think we'd gone crazy!"

Dad looked around the room, then back at the captain. "A lot more than just the regular police will come talking to you."

So many more. I imagined Ross chief among them. But if this daunted the crew, none of them gave heed. The captain just shrugged. "After today, a little interrogation will be nothing. They will not find the truth from us. Really, how much do we know? We don't even have your names."

A pointed statement. Both an acknowledgement, and a request. Don't tell us any more than you already have.

Dad seemed to understand well enough, reaching an arm to wrap around my shoulders. Pulling me close. "Thank you."

"Consider it the price of a stowaway," The captain replied with a tiny smirk. "We'll see about getting you two down on a lifeboat…"

As they continued to talk, my gaze wandered about the room. The crewmen went back to work, cleaning up as best they could. Some were more injured than others; I didn't know how many of them had been killed. I was afraid to ask. I just knew that it was enough.

And then I saw Jorge, and my shoulders dropped in relief. "You listened!"

"I did," Jorge nodded, tired, as I approached. He looked pale and gaunt, but had enough in him to give me a wan smile. "They never found me. But you — you're hurt."

"It's nothing," I said quickly, brushing at my face as if I could somehow wipe away the blood and bruises that had accumulated. "I'll be okay. You?"

"Nothing to stop me from getting back home to my family," Jorge replied, brow furrowing as he looked me up and down again. Dad and the captain were still talking, but it seemed Jorge had something else to say. A long moment, then: "Why were those men after you? You're just a child."

A child who could easily lift a grown man twice her size. And I was already pretty big. I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't. The silence lingered, and Jorge nodded to himself. "Ah, yes. Well, I wish you well in your journey. Stay safe. And perhaps avoid ships for a while, yes?"

"Ha-ha. I'll keep that in mind." I laughed wryly. I definitely had no plans to be going back out to sea anytime soon.

✭✭✭

Within the hour, Dad and I were being lowered to the waves below, on nothing more than a boat only twenty feet in length, easily tossed about on the great sea. But the waves weren't so bad this close to shore — it was only ten miles to land, the captain said. Just keep heading east. Hide the boat or burn it, it didn't matter. Just don't leave it adrift where it'll be a danger to other watercraft.

And then, with the salty wind whipping our faces, meager belongings tucked beneath the benches, we took off from the cargo ship.

The lifeboat's little engine sputtered and revved, and we practically skipped over the waves. Great lunges over crests before dropping down into the swells, like the worst rollercoaster ever. Each hit of the wave sent great splashes of saltwater into our faces.

It was the longest ten miles of my life. Every time we crested over a wave, I expected to see a blockade of more ships ahead, police ready to take us in. But there was nothing. A sailboat here. Another large ship in the distance. A fishing dinghy whose owner waved as we passed. But no one stopped us.

The sun was well into the sky by the time we reached shore, just a mile off the coast from a nearby village. In the distance, the mountains of Denmark rose up into the hazy clouds, green going on grey. I helped Dad drag the boat across the rocky beach and into the brush, nearly three hundred feet away. No time to burn, the smoke would bring attention at this time of day. Just cover it in branches and debris, and wipe away the trail it left in the sand.

I was still soaked from the ride, but at least the water helped wash away most of the blood. We stayed off the main roads, skirting around the nearby town. In the backyard of one of the houses was a clothesline, garments gently flapping in the wind and carrying with it the scent of lavender detergent. The house was quiet, so Dad plucked a few pieces as we passed, tossing me a new shirt and jacket. Changing at a nearby diner; while I was in the bathroom, fixing as much of myself as I could, I could hear Dad talking to a waitress.

I didn't understand Danish, but I found out what he was asking about soon enough. We stopped only briefly to get food, and as I sat down in the booth he chose, Dad slid over a brochure of a bus system. "There's a stop in the next town over. We can take it all the way down to Hamburg."

"And from there?" I asked, glancing up at him from the paper.

"Dunno." Dad could only shrug. He hadn't really touched his Æggekage, only taking sips of coffee. When I finished my meal, he let me have his. "Wherever's safe enough. Wherever they won't look."

That could be anywhere. Or nowhere.

I didn't argue, at any rate. I knew it would be a long way before we ever got settled anywhere. If we did. I tried to look at it positively, like a fun European road trip where we got shot at occasionally. Totally normal.

Once I finished eating, we left without alerting the waitress. Just a pile of euro bills and some coins, and vanish. Ghosts.

At the very least, I thought we'd have some time to catch our breath before the next big thing. Like, you know, a day or two. Not that evening, when we finally reached Hee, a little village just north of our starting point.

The place was so quaint, we stood out like sore thumbs. The sky had become overcast during the day, leading to a somewhat dreary evening. It was quiet, and we were one of a few people waiting at the bus stop, with generous personal space between us. If standing far apart from one another was a cultural norm, I didn't mind. I just huddled closer to Dad.

We were still waiting when Dad suddenly went still. I looked up, already on high alert. "What is it?"

Dad said nothing, just jerked his chin over. Across from us was the town square — some restaurants and shops, municipal buildings, a church, and an inn. And out of one door, out stepped a very tall, very blond, very familiar man, speaking to someone behind him.

Holy shit. It's Steve.

He was dressed low profile, dark jacket, baseball cap and sunglasses. But there was no mistaking all six foot two of him. And Sam was with him, of course, dressed similarly. Two guys in baseball caps and sunglasses kind of ruined the whole undercover look in my opinion, but I was not in a joking mood with my heart suddenly pounding. They were here. They could help.

"What do we do?" I asked, a whisper. The bus had just pulled in around the corner, coming to a whining stop in front of us. It partially blocked us from view from Steve and Sam. I could only imagine they were drawn here by the news of the ship attack. It was startling, how quickly they'd narrowed in on our location. But it's been a week since we first ran off. I still hadn't seen a lick of news.

"Get on before they see us." Dad said, pulling me along as people waited for passengers to disembark, before climbing aboard.

"What?" I asked, startled. "But they could help —"

"We don't want their help." Dad was getting pushy, putting me ahead of him so I'd have no choice but to get on the bus. I didn't want to. I kept looking back at him over my shoulder, stumbling up those steps.

No time to argue when there were tickets to negotiate. I could've gone AWOL and jumped off, made a run for it. But I knew better, knew not to make such a scene. And maybe I was just a little scared of Dad leaving me behind.

It wasn't until we had sat down, on seats opposite the windows that Sam and Steve would be facing, did I finally get a chance to speak again. "Why are we running away from them? I know you don't trust Sam, but Steve —"

"It's not about trust, it's about —" Dad spoke in an undertone, tense. He looked like he was going to say more, then stopped himself. Took a deep breath. "Look, Mia, after what happened, we can't go back. We gave up our old life when we left. If we go back, if we give in, try to contact anyone from then — we're done. People like Ross will find us. Whoever's doing this to you, they'll be right behind. We can't be found. We don't want to be. Understand?"

With a creak of the door and a grumble of the engine, the bus trundled forward, slowly picking up speed. I said nothing, looking out the window as we left Hee, and everything in it — Sam, Steve, and whoever else might've been with them — behind.

My heart ached. My eyes burned. I knew we had to run. I didn't realize it was going to be so… so…

Permanent.

The silence got to the point where Dad must have realized he fucked up. He ran a gloved hand across his face, groaning to himself. "Mia, I'm sorry. I didn't realize — I should've said something, we should've talked about it before — I didn't want it to be this way, but —"

"I got it." I said, still looking out the window, and cutting him off in a tone that was so curt, it surprised even me.

It certainly took Dad off guard. He went silent, almost seemed to wince. I felt bad about it, but it wasn't dishonest, either. I'd simply forgotten the pragmatism required of this kind of survival. No connections. No weaknesses.

"I'll try to make it better." Was all Dad could say, his voice small. Already admitting defeat. "I promise."

✭✭✭

We reached Hamburg by midnight, and from there we took a train to Berlin. It was easier to blend into the cities, to simply melt into the throngs of people.

After spotting Steve and Sam that first time, Dad remained on edge for the rest of the night, and into the following day. As far as either of us could tell, the other men hadn't spotted us back in Denmark, and we spent several hours in both Hamburg and Berlin going through all the motions of losing a tail. If they had somehow followed us all the way here, they likely wouldn't have a clue where we were now.

I still wasn't happy about how it had to turn out. I could only imagine what was going through Steve's head right now. Did he have any idea of how close he came to finding us?

In Hamburg, I got a better idea of what he had been facing while me and Dad were hiding in the belly of a cargo ship. The whole incident on the street was all over the news — Crossbones had been positively identified, but I was still nowhere to be seen in the videos played over and over again. It left a chill down my back. The news made it seemed like Dad and Rumlow were working together, not trying to kill each other.

It just reminded me of what happened in DC. Steve all over the news. Me, nowhere in sight.

It had to be for a reason.

Batroc hadn't been working for Ross. Whatever third party was behind this, I imagined whoever hired him had also hired Crossbones. Dad was of a similar opinion after I had told him what happened atop the shipping containers. It was unlikely this mystery man could control all the news feeds — not when Ross was right there, would've noticed. Would've loved to put me on blast. Or perhaps he's the one holding back. Maybe he doesn't want people to know about me.

Both sides only needed one super soldier. I didn't want to think of what would happen if both got what they wanted.

My injuries had mostly healed over by the time we reached Berlin, almost two days since we entered Denmark. We stayed there for a few nights, staying in a different place each time, just to be safe. Watching the news, biding our time. Dad had gotten a bunch of maps, trying to figure out where we should go next.

Everywhere we went, we carried what we had. I felt like a walking beacon, carrying the shield with me. Even in its canvas case, it felt so obvious what it was. But people hardly gave us a second glance.

On the third day in Berlin, something spooked Dad. He wouldn't say what it was — just came into our room at the little motel and said we had to go. Another train this time, a ticket to Czechia. I had only just begun grasping the basics of German before we were leaving the country behind once more.

There wasn't much else to occupy my time with. Reading wasn't fun, especially not while in a vehicle. But I could pick up a guide book and try to learn from that. If Dad wasn't too wound up, he'd teach me, too. He wasn't entirely sure how many languages he spoke himself, but German was an easy one, he said. Just gotta get around all the long words and pronunciations.

It also served as a transition into Czech. I didn't expect to learn any of these in a day or two, but it kept my mind occupied, as rolling hills and mountains whisked by the windows.

Try not to think about Steve desperately trying to find us before anyone else does. Try not to think about how close any of them might be to succeeding. Try not to wonder how Peter and May and Ned and MJ were doing in my absence, how the authorities were treating them. Try not to worry about how heavily the Sokovia Accords loomed in the news, how Wanda and Pietro were doing, or Vision and Howie. How this was affecting them all. If I hadn't just made things worse for them in the long run.

Prague turned out to be a mistake.

We had been there for only a day when I had spotted Americans sitting in an outdoor cafe that we passed. I knew they were American, because their accents weren't quite right, although they were determined to speak in Czech. They were both packing but trying to appear like civilians — yet their shoes. Patent leather, thick soles, meant to be worn with suits and not the jeans they were wearing. All wrong.

They could've been CIA. NSA. Maybe mercenaries or Ross' men. It didn't matter. They were here, and they were close. Too close. All it took was one tap on Dad's arm, and he knew. He saw everything I did, and probably more.

We left that same day.

After that, I thought I kept seeing more. A woman in the train station, trying to scrape something off her shoe. Was she hiding a gun? Was she speaking French because her Czech wasn't convincing? Or that man who sat on the other end of the train car as we were leaving; talking on his cell phone, both too discrete and too intense. His heavy-duty watch standing out from his otherwise plain outfit.

They were everywhere.

We had to stop and get off. Go on foot for a while. Didn't even bother with a cab or renting a car; that involved more interaction, more people seeing our faces. Mixing up transportation wherever we could, but walking was always best. Completely untraceable.

I couldn't sleep for days, even as Dad insisted I try. I couldn't. Just the thought of any random passerby being some kind of spy, from who knows how many agencies, either working with or against Ross, trying to catch us first. Day after day it was exhausting; we could never confirm if any of our suspicions were true. So far, none had panned out. If there were agents, none had succeeded in following or stopping us.

But that didn't mean we could just relax.

We spotted Steve again in Gdańsk. Scared the shit out of Dad — because Steve saw us, too. Just for a split second. He'd already started moving towards us, just as we were descending into a subway station. Dad grabbed my arm and we hauled ass as soon as we were out of sight.

Steve lost us before he could even reach the ticket gates. I watched him, from inside the subway car, running across the platform, looking around — but never seeing us.

So close.

I felt terrible, and that was before I knew about the messages he was trying to send.

In a small town outside Dresden (we had double-backed into Germany), I had quite literally almost run into Sam.

I'd been on my own, coming back from getting some food at a deli I had spotted on the way in. I had just stepped out the store, goods in hand, just as Sam walked past on the street.

I had pulled back in time, but maybe I was too slow. Maybe he saw me out of the corner of his eye; heard the tinkle of the doorbell, heard my smothered gasp, and turned. But I had already spun on my heel and walked back into the store. Kept walking, into the back hallway, where the bathrooms were. Heard the bell tinkle again as the door opened.

Oh shit.

I ducked into the women's bathroom. It was single use, so I could lock the door and buy myself some time. There was a window, but it was small and high up on the wall. I was halfway to working it open when I heard a knock on the door. I was almost tempted to call "occupied" but bit my tongue. I was glad I did.

"Mia?" Sam's voice called, partly muffled. "Mia, I know you're in there. I'm not here to hurt you, I promise."

I knew that. Of course I knew that. I wasn't afraid of Sam.

But that wasn't the point.

"Steve saw you guys back in Poland. He's worried about you, just wants to help. We both do. We won't let Ross win."

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But the more I watched the news, the more it became evident that Dad was right — we couldn't go back. The Sokovia Accords was going through the UN whether the Avengers signed it or not. If Ross couldn't have Avengers oversight, then he would have the power to dismantle it. All the wonderful human rights violations were making for a fireworks display in the political field, but there was a growing fear that Ross might just brute force his way through it.

"I know your dad doesn't want to," Sam continued, "But just give us a chance, okay? We can figure this out together. Steve and I know you guys weren't responsible for what happened in New York. We know Rumlow was trying to frame you."

Well, good to know they were on the same page. I hesitated, pulling back from the window for a moment. If anyone could figure this out, it would be Steve.

But I couldn't keep Dad waiting forever. It wouldn't take long for him to figure out something went wrong.

"Mia, can we talk?" Sam asked again, trying the knob. "Just for a minute? Mia?"

It took a few good shoulder slams, but by the time Sam got the door open, the bathroom was empty. Just a light draft from the open window above.

I came back as fast as I could, reporting to Dad what happened. The statements made, offers given. He thought about it for less than a second. We were moving again.

We bounced between Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary, making sure we were truly alone again. Then continuing further east, into Romania.

I wasn't sure what finally convinced Dad that this was the place to stop. I just knew that when we stepped out into Bucharest, he had this look in his eyes. Like he was tired. He was done. Maybe he saw it in my eyes, too. After a week of solid travel, we had to stop.

Just for a little while.

We got another cheap motel that night. And another and another, until soon enough we were there for a week. A week and a half. Two.

I should've known it was too good to be true when Dad came in and started packing his bag. "Where are we going now?"

But he just smiled and said, "You'll see. Come on."

He led us not to a train station or a bus stop. But an apartment building. Small and out of the way, not in a particularly affluent part of Bucharest. Perfectly nestled between a small park and a market. I still hadn't understood until Dad was walking us up the stairs, and withdrew a key, opening a door at the top of one landing.

Inside was terribly small, barely three rooms stitched together. The main living room was part kitchen, with just an old couch serving as the main seating area. But it was much better than the multitude of different motel or hotel rooms we've been bunking in night after night.

"It rents by the week," Dad explained, as I walked over to a window and took in the view from behind the dusty curtain. "But the bedroom's yours. We can stay here, as long as you'd like."

I paused to frown at him, caught on the way he phrased the question. The way Dad stood there, slightly awkward, holding himself as if ready to bolt, bracing for a rejection. Hands playing with the keys, twisting and turning. Watching me carefully, so carefully, for every tiny reaction.

Doing this for me. Wanting to fix things.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't home. But for now, I decided I would be okay.

So, I smiled. "I love it."

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

✭

Things in New York were not going well.

Peter didn't enjoy going to Avengers Tower — not anymore, at least. But he didn't have much of a choice if he wanted to keep up with the news. Which, honestly, was just getting worse by the day.

As soon as he heard that Mia might be in Europe, Peter so desperately wanted to run off and go help find her. But May would kill him and also figure it out the moment Peter stepped anywhere near an airport, so no chance of getting away with it.

So, the only way Peter could stay involved was to go to the tower and see what's going on. Howie was almost always there, and Vision almost as often (Peter is fairly certain they went to the same high school). The Maximoff twins spent most of their time in the upstate facility, so Peter knew it must be pretty bad if they're at the tower every time he came around.

Like now. The other four were already huddled up around Howie's laptop when Peter came around the workshop. "Hey, guys, what's up —"

"Shh!" all four raised their fingers to their lips, eyes still glued to the screen in front of them. It's only then did Peter hear the tinny voices playing from the small speakers, and he trotted over to listen in. Peeking over Howie's shoulder, Peter found they were watching what looked like security footage — grainy, desaturated, and at a high angle looking down at a group of adults in intense conversation. He recognized most of them.

The Avengers, of course — all of them except for Bruce Banner, who still hasn't reappeared since last year, after defeating ULTRON; and Thor, who seemed to be off-world more often than not recently. Sitting around a long conference table that seemed to be located in another part of Avengers Tower. And, at the other end, Secretary Ross and a posse of men and women in Brooks Brothers suits. Feds.

It took Peter a second to figure out what was going on. "Since when are we spying on highly-confidential negotiations for the Sokovia Accords?"

"Since they started," Howie said.

"Since they started talking about us," Wanda added, with a significant look. "Ross keeps talking about reparations for what happened in Sokovia during ULTRON, as if the last twenty years aren't deserving enough of reparations!"

"This time, he says it's our fault," Pietro scowled, a sort of buzzing energy around him, atoms tensed and ready to go. "When we were just doing what the rest of the world couldn't. Ross never cared about our home until he could use it against us. Reparations are just a front to getting what he really wants."

Peter couldn't claim to know what Sokovia had gone through the past couple decades, but he did think it extremely unfair for the loss of Novigrad to be pinned on two teenagers. "Has he tried talking to you guys directly?"

"Not yet, but Steve says it'll happen soon," Wanda shook her head, leaning back and folding her arms. "He'll want Vision there, too."

Vision hunched his thin shoulders. Peter still couldn't get quite used to the android's human disguise; the overall paleness was still off-putting, combined with Vision's preference for bright clothes. He hardly looked ready to face off the force of nature that was Secretary Ross. "They have been vague, but I'm sure it has much to do with this." He tapped the yellow gem at the center of his forehead, the one detail that ironically seemed the least strange thing about him.

"He wants the Mind Stone?" Peter asked. He didn't see how that was possible. "I mean, if they tried to remove it, wouldn't that —?"

"Destroy my existence?" Vision said, cracking a rare, wry smile. "Yes, I'm sure they're well aware of that. I don't think it bothers them very much."

"It could also be the fact you're made of ninety-nine percent Vibranium," Howie also pointed out. "That's fifty percent of the world's vibranium, outside of Wakanda."

If Peter hadn't known any better, he wouldn't have believed for a second that this kid, who made Peter himself look downright beefy, could contain that much mass. Expensive mass. "So, Ross wants the very powerful Mutants and android, no surprise there. Any other tall orders?"

"Aside from the usual rundown with the Winter Soldier — no updates, by the way — Ross is now aiming his attacks on the Avengers themselves," Howie replied, gesturing to the computer. Steve and Tony sat in front of the group; Steve with an air of chilly calm, and Tony with bristling defensiveness. "Blaming them for ULTRON now. Which I guess is fair. But he's using it to put the Avengers under the purview of the UN."

"Which Ross just so happens to participate in," Wanda said, with a roll of her eyes. "Complete coincidence, I'm sure."

"And, er, how's that going?" Peter said, leaning against the table and folding his arms. Trying so hard to remain cool and calm, not betray his own growing anxieties. "Don't, ah, suppose they mentioned Spider-Man at all, have they?"

Pietro cut him a smirk. "Would you be sad if they didn't?"

"Uh, well, I dunno, a little —" Peter spluttered. On the one hand, if Ross didn't care about him, that meant Peter was being underestimated. A good thing. But still. To be ignored completely felt like a snub. But he couldn't focus on that, there were more important things at play. "Well, anyways, have they gotten anywhere?"

"Hardly," Vision replied, shaking his head. "Ross will only capitulate if they agree to other transgressions of privacy or human rights. They're at a stalemate."

"Ross will be presenting the current version of the Sokovia Accords to the UN conference at the end of the week," Howie added. "If they can't get anything changed, then what Ross is seeking is what the delegates will be voting on."

Peter let out a deep breath of air. That wasn't good. He could only hope that the UN would have some sense and know better than to allow Ross' plans to go through; but the Accords also gave the UN more power, over the Avengers, over all "enhanced" individuals. Peter didn't trust politicians enough not to be blinded by their own greed when power is served to them on a silver platter.

"They say it's going to be a landmark event, whatever that means," Pietro said. "Sokovia will finally have representation. As will Wakanda."

"That's a first for both, isn't it?" Peter asked. The United Nations had been founded in 1945; Wakanda had been isolated long before that, and many previously-soviet nations hadn't been able to join until after the USSR had been disbanded. Getting affirming nods, Peter could only deliberate further. "Maybe it's a good sign. Maybe Ross won't get his win so easily."

He wanted to be hopeful. Peter wanted so badly to believe in the goodness of humanity, that others would see how just cruel Ross' overreach was. The road to hell it would pave. But Peter's hope has been dwindling for a long time now. Ever since Mia vanished.

"Maybe," Wanda said, but her tone was doubtful. "Let's just hope Ross doesn't find what he's looking for, first. It'll only prove that he can execute what he promises in the Accords."

They spoke in euphemism when it came to Mia. Hardly daring to say her name openly, as if it might be a curse, incite unwanted attention. The fact neither Mia nor Bucky had been caught yet may be cause for hope — or just the continual sign that disaster was on the horizon. Just as Steve and his team were out looking, so was Peter on his end. Peter had expected to have received some secret message from Mia by this point, as she once had two years ago after escaping the Crucible. But as far as he could tell, Mia hadn't reached out to him. Not in any way he could perceive.

It crushed him. More than just a disappointment, it wracked Peter with worry. He didn't know if Mia was okay. If her lack of communication was simply because something bad happened, or if she was simply maintaining radio silence. Maybe it was better this way, given the kind of heat she was under. But she had to know that they could help, somehow, right? She had to know Peter wanted her to try. That it wasn't over. They could still fix this.

Peter didn't know how yet. But there had to be something.

"I don't suppose any of you are going?" Peter asked, trying not to make plans about hitching a ride to Europe. He didn't know if Vienna was anywhere close to where Mia was, but he was fairly certain she was no longer in America.

But the four shook their heads. Vision said, "Captain Rogers has suggested we all 'bunker down' in the upstate facility. We'll be safe there, he says, out of the way. I'm inclined to agree, but it's quite… remote."

Peter assumed this did not include him, and wasn't sure how he felt about that. But he understood being remote. Protected, but too far away to do anything. "Are you guys going to?"

"I might," Wanda sighed, earning a look from Pietro. "What? You think I want to be in a densely populated area in case things go wrong? They know where to find us here. Ross doesn't know about the facility upstate. Besides, I've got all my DVDs there."

Pietro just made a sound of discontent. "I don't want to be locked away like some unwanted pet! We could be doing something, right now, looking for— for her! I could cover more ground than any of them, but we must stay here and keep our heads down because of Ross and his men! It feels like cowardice. Since when are the Avengers cowed by men like him, men who they don't even answer to?"

"They're just looking out for you guys," Peter said, wincing slightly. He already knew this argument wasn't going to go over well, he knew Pietro despised being coddled. "If anything goes bad, it's just more ammunition for Ross to use against the Avengers. If he's telling the truth about that secret prison he has to contain people like us, then I get why the Avengers aren't trying to poke the bear right now."

"Just threats!" Pietro looked disgusted, throwing up his hands. "Any prison can be broken out of; so what if Ross makes good on his threat, arrests and imprisons them? Will they simply lie down and accept their fate? Or will they do what is natural, and fight back? The Avengers have always governed themselves, and now they allow themselves to be governed by fear. I will not be that way."

"I don't know if it's that simple —" Peter began, grimacing slightly.

"Well, it should be!" Pietro huffed, pacing away. "The Avengers cannot afford to question themselves now. They'll look weak, lacking conviction. They know what they do is right, and they try their best to do it. That is the spirit, that is the reason why I joined!"

"In this hypothetical situation," Howie began hesitantly, as if afraid to set off Pietro even more. "Where we're imprisoned in this Raft — breaking out will only label us criminals. We'd be constantly on the run. To be Avengers with that on our heads would have us working alone."

"We already work alone!" Pietro pointed out. "We don't rely on the aid of other countries. Is it nice sometimes? Yes! But whether or not we have it won't stop us from doing what we have to. We didn't have anyone's help during ULTRON, remember?"

Peter was about to disagree, as he could recount all the times they'd given and received help from civilians, and the actions of regular Sokovians during the last stretch of the Age of ULTRON had been heavily recorded. But then he realized that's not exactly what Pietro meant — he had meant organized help, military and otherwise. There was no SHIELD anymore to fill that gap between nation and Avenger. No buffer to protect them from people like Ross.

"We've lived our entire lives under eternal persecution," Wanda pointed out, her expression even and unshakable. She merely shrugged. "How would this scenario be any different? We will persevere, as we always have."

"While I do not echo Pietro's fervor, I agree with his argument," Vision added, looking to Peter. "The Avengers have never required permission before. Their effectiveness is directly tied to their lack of ulterior motives. They neither work for money, nor country, or faction; but simply a philosophy, to protect and uphold the safety and wellbeing of all people, regardless of who they are or where they are from. And that is what makes men like Ross fear the Avengers. You cannot control an idea."

"The Avengers aren't soldiers," Howie concluded. "We're not mercenaries. We don't do anyone's bidding. Mia knew that."

Howie froze, catching himself too late. But no one said anything for a long moment. But him saying that reminded Peter of something.

"Yeah, she did, and you know what she's doing right now?" Peter asked them, and got blank stares in return. "She's keeping her head down. Staying out of sight. Doing everything you guys don't want to do. I'm sure she doesn't want to do it, either, but she's probably scared out of her mind right now. That doesn't make her a coward. She's just trying to survive. Hiding doesn't make us weak. It just makes us smart. We have to bide our time, okay? If she needs something, she knows how to reach us. If Ross somehow wins, and the Avengers are arrested, then it's just going to be us that's left."

A chill went down Peter's back. That sounded a lot scarier now that he's said it aloud. But it was a potential reality he'd been coming to terms with for the past month, ever since Mia disappeared.

"Us?" Howie repeated, his face going pale. "We're just kids!"

"I know," Peter said, trying to quiet his own racing thoughts. He had to stay focused, remember what his guidance counselor said. Gotta be goal-oriented. "But we're no use to Mia if we're already locked up by Ross, right? What do you think she'd do if she were here right now?"

Everyone exchanged looks, and Pietro looked supremely annoyed to know the answer. "She'd want us not to get involved unless we absolutely had to."

"You'd tell her the same thing, too," Wanda pointed out, barely fighting a smile at Pietro's deepening scowl. But he didn't deny it.

"That means we should be ready, however," Vision pointed out. "In case the situation does require our intervention."

Howie perked up at this. "Does this mean I can use my suit?"

Peter, who had yet to see Howie's suit in action, was scared to say yes. He went for a more diplomatic answer. "Er, keep it on standby?"

"Molto bene! About damn time." And with that, Howie hopped off his stool and took off into the workshop, going through drawers and cabinets. He returned with a stack of red and blue cloth, surprising Peter when Howie dropped it into his lap. "I've been saving this for you. If we're going to be waiting on high alert, then we should all have suits."

"But I already have a suit!"

"Yeah," Howie said, raising his eyebrows. "But not a good one."

Peter gaped, offended. "I worked hard on that suit! Do you know how long it took me to find those goggles?"

"Goggled made of autorefracting, photosensitive lens?" Howie asked, patting the stack, on top of which laid thin sheets of translucent plastic material. "And I'm sure your sweatpants are made of highly durable fabric that can stretch without losing elasticity over time, and provide both moisture-wicking and wind-chill-resistant properties, si?"

Peter stared at Howie for a long moment, before his hands finally settled on the stack of fabric and pulled it to his chest. "... No. It's not gonna break my aunt's sewing machine, will it?"

Howie grinned, pleased. "Just remember to cut along the seams."

Just then, a voice spoke through the PA system. "Vision, Wanda, Pietro, report upstairs in five, new mission brief. Howie, stay here."

Howie groaned, throwing his head back, as the other three frowned at each other and got up. Peter glanced over at the computer screen and was surprised to find that conference room empty, the meeting having apparently finished a few minutes ago. What had happened? Somehow, Peter didn't think the Avengers made a miraculous breakthrough with the Sokovia Accords in the last five minutes. Vienna was gonna be a bitch.

Still, a mission, now? Peter was intrigued, "You think it's for —" Peter scrambled for a nickname "— our jolly blonde giant?"

Wanda fought a smile but shook her head, "I don't know, but it does not feel like it. She is not the only one we are looking for. It could be the Winter Soldier."

"Or HYDRA," Pietro pointed out, as he pulled on his jacket. "There are still pockets of them around that we have been picking off. Probably will be for years."

"Either way, doesn't matter, because I can't help," Howie pouted, slumping back onto his stool and pulling his computer closer. "They won't even let me be the guy in the chair. Dad gets to build suits again but I'm not allowed to fly until I get my driver's license. Or PhD. Whichever comes first."

"Don't worry, buddy, I'm sure you'll get there someday," Peter said, giving Howie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"If it is her," Wanda added, pausing as they headed out the door. "We'll let you know right away. I promise."

✭✭✭

It hadn't been Mia. If it was, Peter would've expected his phone to have blown up by now. But it's been radio silence and at this point, Peter doesn't expect that to change.

Aunt May was waiting for him at home. What time she didn't spend at work, she was trying to find any trace of Mia on the Internet. Scanning news stories, both foreign and domestic, for any sign that might indicate where Mia would be. It was better than posting up missing child posters, or trying to work with the police. The feds wanted Mia under arrest, and after the FBI's failure to take Mia's disappearances seriously, May had taken it upon herself to do the brunt of the work, and not confiding outside anyone in their close social circle.

Peter's only upside was that there was no school in summer, only to hope May didn't notice his overly stuffed backpack coming home that evening. Maybe someday he'll tell her the truth about Spider-Man, but right now Peter needed as much freedom and leeway as possible. Aunt May was worried enough as it was without him adding to the mix.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to pay any notice, glancing only once from her computer screen, set up in the kitchen with both a cup of coffee and a glass of wine. "Hey, Peter, how'd it go today? Any news?"

She sounded so casual, as if Peter couldn't detect the hope in her eyes. But he just shook his head, and watched her shoulders slump. "The twins promised they'd let me know if they hear anything, but… well, nothing yet."

"No worries, if anyone could find her, maybe they will," Aunt May smiled, but it was tired, frayed at the edges. She rested her chin on her hand and patted the seat next to her. Peter panicked for a moment, before dropping his backpack against the other side of the island, hoping it didn't look too suspicious, before sitting down next to her. "How've you been doing, Pete?"

"Oh, you know," Peter flushed, shrugging his shoulders and shifting side to side. He always made fun of Mia for being a terrible liar, but right now he's sure he'd fail a polygraph test before the first question. "Same old, same old."

"Yeah?" Aunt May furrowed her brows, concerned. She ruffled his hair, just like she used to when he was a kid. "I know this is hard on you. I shouldn't have to be asking you these things, I know. I'm the one who should be telling you things, not the other way around. This summer was supposed to be fun! You and Mia were supposed to be… supposed to be…"

Her words trailed off, gaze distant, lost in thought and grief. Peter tried to smile, but it was hard. He didn't know what to say. He could reassure her, he supposed. Lie through his teeth. "I'm fine, May, I promise. Just, you know, trying to keep my eye out. Always checking my emails. My phone. I don't think she's reached out to us."

"Well, she hasn't appeared on the cover of Time Magazine again," Aunt May sighed, pinching her brow beneath her glasses. "So, I assume she must be avoiding international incidents and open warfare. Any particular country you think she'd go to?"

"Well, she always wanted to see Paris," Peter said, thinking back to some childhood conversations. Although maybe that had been Aunt Hedy's dream, he couldn't be sure. "Maybe Atlantic City? Mia always thought it was a made-up place, like Metropolis, until last year…"

That gets a coarse laugh out of Aunt May, only now both her hands were covering her face, and her laugh sounded close to tears. "If she's in Atlantic City, it'll be a cold day in hell."

A vice closed around Peter's throat, and he regretted saying anything at all. So, he just leaned into Aunt May for a hug and there they sat for a very long time. Waiting and crying, watching the door, as if at any moment Mia might come walking in, and everything would be okay again.

✭✭✭

Peter couldn't sleep that night, or the next. He'd taken a small break as Spider-Man, partly out of worry for Aunt May, and partly to check out the materials Howie had given him. Peter could never afford stuff like this, much less manufacture it himself.

It was never something he'd ask for, not something Peter thought he was entitled to. Not something he expected from a friend, a quasi-team that felt a little more like Mia's than his own. But that was okay, too. Peter was grateful, and he preferred making his own stuff, rather than relying on a fancy printer machine to make one for him.

Just him and Aunt May's sewing machine. He waited until she had fallen asleep until he began the work, hoping not to wake her with the noise. He moved it to his room for extra solitude, with his computer on and headphones in, watching live news feeds. At this point, he had already seen the fallout of Lagos. Peter hadn't been there, didn't know how much he should trust the reporting on the scene.

Crossbones had been there. And as bad as that was, Peter had been weirdly hopeful. Maybe that meant Mia was nearby, hiding, because he was looking for her. But there was no mention, he got no messages. Crossbones just wanted to blow something up again, and this time he succeeded.

From what Peter could understand from the various broadcasts, there had been a bomb in a high-rise. One the Avengers managed to track down at the last second, but couldn't prevent from detonating, couldn't disable it in time — the Scarlet Witch tried to contain it within some kind of magical shield. But while she kept it from exploding upwards, she had failed to consider the floor beneath, and how the rest of the blast had been pushed downwards. There had been casualties — not as many as there could have been, but even one was too many. Crossbones was apparently caught in the explosion, rather die than be caught, but his body had yet to be recovered. Possibly obliterated, given the high level of explosives used.

The country was in an uproar, the UN appalled. Peter knew this was only going to make the Sokovia Accords all the harder to prevent — he watched the UN conference on tenterhooks, trying not to stab himself with the sewing needle as he went along.

On his screen, the King of Wakanda was making a speech. It was the first time anyone had seen him in decades, the man and his people so reclusive. The footage had even caught a glimpse of his personal guard, a group of austere women with spears rather than firearms. Spears of vibranium, if the rumors were true.

It was midmorning in Vienna, late at night for New York. Peter was just pinning in the lenses to his mask when the feed suddenly cut out.

"What?" Peter paused to scowl at the screen. He hadn't been paying attention, hadn't been looking. There had been a flash of light, a crackle of pixels, and then the video went black. All sound went out, after an ear-splitting screech. The live commenting section exploded, but at least it told Peter it wasn't just his Internet connection. Something had happened.

It was one long, anxious minute before the feed restarted, but now from someplace new entirely. Before, the cameras had been inside the UN conference room, focused on the King of Wakanda with a wall of windows behind him. Now it was outside — focused on a building swallowed by smoke and fire.

No, not just any building.

Peter felt his heart drop as words started scrolling at the bottom of the screen, right before the sound kicked back in again.

UN CONFERENCE ATTACKED BY BOMB. SUSPECT UNKNOWN. TWENTY WOUNDED, TWELVE DEAD AND COUNTING. COUNTRY OF AUSTRIA ANNOUNCES STATE OF EMERGENCY.

Peter felt like he'd just been punched in the chest, knocking all the air out of him. Holy shit. Holy shit. This was real, this was happening. Heart pounding, Peter scrambled for his phone. He had to text, no, call, Howie. He had been there, right? Didn't Tony take him to Vienna? And Vision, the twins, were they still in New York?

Peter didn't know — all he knew was that everything had changed. Their plans, their problems, their dreams.

All wiped away in a single moment.

As his phone rang, Peter's eyes flew back to the screen, surprised when the anchor started displaying new footage. Grainy security video, the perpetrator?

"That's fast," Peter muttered under his breath.

The security footage was grainy, only recently captured and presented. But there was no mistaking the man captured, a high-angle camera looking down on a large figure with dark hair, looking surreptitiously over his shoulder, just hours before the conference took place.

On the other end, the line picked up, and Howie's voice crackled through. "H— hello…?"

But Peter had forgotten he was calling anyone. Forgotten why he had called. That was before Peter realized — he recognized that man.

Bucky Barnes. Mia's dad. Uncle Buck.

The Winter Soldier.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

✭

Strange, how quickly a month could pass.

Summer in Romania turned out to be quite pleasant. It wasn't an overbearing heat like I was used to in New York, humid and sweltering. Maybe it was just a cooler season, but it was nice to leave the windows open at night, let the breeze run through and carry in with it the sounds of rustling leaves, quiet streets, music playing from some far-off location, thin and eerie.

We passed the days keeping our heads down. When our savings got low, Dad did under the table work — some of its construction, sometimes delivery or other small menial tasks. Helping old Mrs. Florescu carried her groceries up five flights. Or fixing little Luca's flat tire. Patching up a ceiling or fixing clogged pipes. There was always a little something to do, just enough to carry us by on tips and favors.

No steady jobs. Nothing that required names and addresses, bank accounts, or background checks.

It was quiet. Lonely. My bedroom, such as it was, was little more than a closet with a tiny window, just big enough to fit a bed and a small chest of drawers. I had little to put in them anyways, yet as the days passed, I found myself filling them with small things. First some extra clothes, here and there. A trinket or two. Anything I couldn't store on a windowsill or under the bed. Enough room on top for a lamp. I tried to read at night, even if it made my head hurt. But I found I preferred just looking out the window; Dad insisted we paper all of them, so at night I kept them open, to feel the air move, to see anything — trying to make out the stars, or watching the lives of others through their windows across the streets.

There wasn't much to do. I found myself floundering at first; with nowhere to run, nowhere to go, and Dad insisting I did not find work (he could take care of us, I didn't need to do anything), I was often left to my own devices. I never had much change, but I liked to wander through the markets, before that started to bother me. Sometimes I'd see something that reminded me of Peter, or MJ, or Steve, and my heart ached. This terrible notion that they would love this piece, and that I should get it for them, only I can't because I'm in a far-off country and they have no idea where I was.

That I was hiding from them. From everyone. With the noted goal of never being found again.

It made it hard to sleep at night.

The park was better. More open, with less reminders of home. The market allowed me to practice my Romanian, but I honestly preferred to be on my own. Knowing I couldn't make any real connections here, in case we had to uproot ourselves and take off again. In the park, I wasn't so glaringly reminded I didn't belong here, that I'd never belong here. I could sit in the shades of trees and pluck flowers. Make daisy chains, a childhood activity I never got to embrace when I was young. Nice to finally indulge.

Sometimes I spotted a phone in someone's hand. Saw them typing away at a computer in a cafe. Had to resist the urge to grab it, to call Peter, to send an email. I knew he would still be looking. So was Steve and Sam, who I was far more likely to see.

But they hadn't appeared yet. And I had to continually resist the urge to make contact. I couldn't. I shouldn't. That life was over now.

It ruined my appetite. Dad always insisted I eat, but I'd noticed he'd been giving me larger portions. Maybe I was starting to lose weight, and it had become noticeable. I wondered if he'd bring up the topic, but he hadn't. Maybe it was obvious. Maybe it was awkward. I certainly wasn't going to bring it up myself.

Just do my best to swallow the food placed in front of me and fight off the sensation of being literally sick with guilt later.

It got a little easier as time went on — not by much, but noticeable after a few weeks. My room felt a little more like my own. Daisy chains decorated the headboard and the window in lieu of curtains, drying delicately. A small collection of books in Romanian stacked next to the lamp. A line of pretty rocks I found lined up on top of the chest. A little wooden bee that Dad carved for me on a particularly long train ride.

And the compass. The one Steve gave me. I'd found it in my jacket pocket, having completely forgotten I'd kept it there. It clattered against the dog-tags, also from Steve. Dad never wanted them back. A part of me felt guilty for bringing them here, as if it were something that might damn us, a hint of our past that we pretended didn't exist.

"Mia," Dad said one morning, after serving me several rounds of eggs and toast (the cheapest to buy). "I need you to go into the market and buy some things, we're almost out of plums."

I still went by Mia here, mostly because it was such a short name and already common here. Dad went by Iacob now, and looking at our fake IDs said our last name was Cel Tradat. Not that we ever had to use it much, outside of our neighbors. Mia cel Tradat certainly had a ring to it, at least. Easy to remember, and so very far from my real name.

"You and your plums," I muttered, but it was with an affectionate half-smile. Shopping for groceries was less bothersome, but I was surprised he was asking me. "What are you up to, then?"

"Some work down by the train station." Dad replied, with a jerk of his head in its general direction. "You remember Kronid from the bar? He needs some help loading his truck with his grandmother's things."

"Probably because you're the only one he knows that can deadlift a couch." I pointed out.

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that." Dad replied, bopping me on the shoulder teasingly as he passed into his chair. "I'll give you a list and some change."

"I can pay for it myself!"

"Sure you can," Dad replied around a mouthful of cereal, before pulling out a small wad of pills and a handful of coins from his pocket. They clinked onto the table in front of me. "But you're not going to. Save it for yourself, we have enough."

Enough. Barely enough. Just enough to scrape by and nothing more. But I didn't argue, simply taking the cash and counting it out, deciding to give Dad the right amount of change when I got back. I knew he wasn't doing it out of pity, but I still hated feeling like a charity case. Even if we were, truly, living so beneath the poverty line as to be entirely invisible. As was the point.

"And if that turnip boy talks to you again, tell him I have a gun," Dad added after I'd pocketed the money.

"Dad!"

"What? It's true. I've got knives, too."

"Are you talking about Radut?" I asked, scowling. "He sells tomatoes, not turnips. And he's fine. He talks to all his customers."

"He likes talking to you a lot more."

I could hardly restrain an eyeroll. "He's just a boy, Dad. Being friendly means he gets more tips and customers."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's all he wants," Dad replied airily, as he started fiddling with the radio dial. The television was unreliable, and the radio could pick up a better signal for news and music. It was not enough of a distraction for this conversation, however.

"It's a good thing I didn't tell you about Ursule then," I muttered as I headed for the door.

"Ursule?" Dad still caught it, his head picking up. "Who's Ursule?"

"No one!" I chirped, and before Dad could begin an interrogation, I ducked out the door. "Gotta go, love you, be back soon!"

"I said no dating!" Dad's voice called, muffled past the door after I'd slammed it shut. In truth he had nothing to worry about, but maybe I delighted a little too much in keeping him on his toes. I had no intention of dating anyone, or even contemplating it — in this economy? With my life, and everyone tangentially related to it, on the line? No thanks. But it was nice to talk to people my own age sometimes. Get coffee from the kiosk girl with the pretty smile, or the tomato boy with the nice tan. Being as bored as I was here, freaking out Dad once in a while was just one of those simple joys in life.

The market was only a few blocks away. Bags in one hand and list in the other, moving carefully to avoid pickpockets, I started collecting this week's groceries. Some lettuce here, a loaf of bread there. Stopping and making chit chat occasionally with the vendors who recognized me — keeping to pleasantries but never truly telling them much. Just enough for them to think I was.

A brief pitstop at the coffee kiosk, where Ursule already knew my order by heart. "I don't even know why you come here when you like tea instead. You know I'm not even supposed to serve tea, right?"

"And yet," I said, raising my eyebrows as I took a sip. The money I paid came from my own funds, rather than what Dad gave me. Just in case.

"Very funny," Ursule shook her head. "You know, you still haven't told me where you're from."

"You already guessed by my accent," I reminded her, taking another sip and observing the flow of traffic. It was an overcast day, a little chilly but not unseasonal for summer. The warm tea seemed like a perfect mix.

"Yeah, but America doesn't narrow it down, it's huge!" Ursule said, gesturing dramatically with her hands. "Big and huge! Like your lies!"

She was being deliberately melodramatic, not a real accusation. I laughed. "I'm not lying!"

"Yeah, like I'm supposed to believe for a second that coffee makes you sleepy. Or that you've spent more time traveling the world than living at home. How do you go to school? Isn't that illegal?"

"I'll see you later, Ursule!" I said, deciding maybe I should end this conversation before it got too deep. Ursule was more skeptical than most, and had a lot of questions for Mia cel Tradat and her unconventional childhood, traveling the world with her nomad father, never living in one place for too long. It helped that I'd actually seen enough of the world to be able to talk about it convincingly. I just had to leave out all the exploding boats and bridges.

I didn't fail to notice that Dad had kept tomatoes (and turnips) off the list, even though they were in season and very cheap right now. Still, the plums were right next to Radut's stall, and he beamed when he saw me coming, waving his hand. I felt bad that I wasn't going to buy some of his tomatoes — maybe I should, just leave them on the counter to taunt Dad a little. But that would also mean using up what little money we already had.

While I warred between my spiteful and reasonable natures, I did the decent thing and said hello anyways, picking over the plums. "Your gardens still going strong?"

"Oh, better than ever!" Radut grinned, hands on his hips. Tall with a mop of curly red hair, he wore an infectious grin flecked with freckles. He had an effusive nature about him, easy to talk to. He reminded me a bit of Matt sometimes, a thought that had my stomach clenching with guilt. "Maybe even the best season we ever had. My dad thinks its good luck, after last year."

I chuckled ruefully. "Yeah, I bet. Can I have these ones?" I asked to the plum seller, before turning back to Radut. "So, any other news, then?"

"Not that I can think of. Oh! Your accents getting better,"

"Oh, thank you!" I said, with my best Romanian pronunciation and wondering if maybe Dad was right. Radut probably was flirting, and I was my usual oblivious self. Shit. "You've helped me practice."

Radut flushed, doing a little shoulder shimmy with pride, and as we continued to speak, I noticed he had a newspaper rolled up and tucked into his apron. I could only make up half of a word or two, a big bold headline over a large picture I couldn't make out. But what I saw wasn't enough. It took me by surprise. "Does that say 'bomb'?"

"What?" Radut blinked, then looked down when I pointed. "Oh, this? I just picked it up this morning, it's nothing."

"But what does it say?" I wanted to know. I hadn't had the chance to catch the news yet. "Is it from today?"

"I — yes, but you don't have to worry about it, nothing in Romania —" Radut insisted, and there was something shifty about him now, stepping closer to the stand so the newspaper was blocked by the boxes of tomatoes. "So, Mia, I haven't seen your father lately, how's he doing?"

It was such a sudden shift in conversation, I didn't know what to make of it. Radut stood there, too awkward, trying to smile through what was clearly growing nervousness. Shifting too much, eyes flicking away constantly. What the hell was going on?

"He's fine," I said, before going back to the point. "Can I just look at the front page, please? I just want to see what it says."

Radut's smile started to crack, to flicker. "Mia, I don't think you do."

"Why not?" I demanded, and something tickled at the back of my mind, a pricking of the hairs at the nape of my neck. Something in his tone. All wrong.

"Because —" Radut's eyes glanced away again, and this time I got the feeling he really was looking at something. I turned my head, as he said, "It's not good news."

"What could it possibly…" I began, but my sentence drifted as my eyes caught something on the other side of the marketplace. I thought I saw someone — a brief shadow, someone tall — a woman, I thought. Dark skin and entirely bald. Not entirely unusual in Bucharest, but there was one key detail that made her stand out.

Her eyes, meeting mine, before she was gone again.

I swallowed hard. "What's going on?"

Radut looked like he was going to say something else, but by that point, freaked out and getting scared, I'd lost my patience. "Show me the goddamn newspaper, Radut, or I'll just find it somewhere else!"

His pause was short, but the way he looked at me — forlorn, almost sad, in a way that struck me — seemed to last a long time. But then he capitulated, his hands shaking slightly. And as he draped the newspaper across his array of tomatoes, I saw why.

There, above the centerfold, was a massive splash of bold letters, written in Romanian: WINTER SOLDIER WANTED FOR THE BOMBING OF VIENNA.

And right beneath it, a huge blown-up picture of grainy security footage, with a section cut out and zoomed in to the right. A tall, dark figure walking through a narrow corridor, a square of light catching the edge of their face as they looked over their shoulder. Loose dark hair tucked under a cap. Indistinguishing clothes, baggy, but not enough to hide his face.

Bucky Barnes.

Dad.

I forgot how to breathe.

I could feel Radut looking at me, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the image. "I'm sorry," he said, and I could just see his hands above the fold, pressed against his stomach, twisting and worrying. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. A lookalike. You know?"

I felt sick, even as I looked up at Radut, confused and alarmed. I could see it in his eyes, how he didn't believe his own words. He was scared. "Why hide it from me? Why pretend everything was okay?"

"I don't know," Radut admitted, his shoulders drooping in shame. "I thought — I hoped it wasn't real. Is it?"

"He didn't do this," My tone was curt and cold.

The bombing might be real, but I knew Dad wasn't involved. He couldn't be. He was with me here, and there was no stretch of time where he could've made it to Vienna and back without me noticing.

Who would bomb the UN? Why frame Dad? I had no clue, but I had a sickening sense it had something to do with Rumlow. Hunting us down, and using everyone else to do it.

Radut flinched, as if my words had cut him. "I know. But Mia, If I could recognize him, then it won't be long —"

I realized what he meant, already backing away. I would've turned and ran, but saw Radut's expression change, right before I bumped into someone behind me. I wasn't paying attention, was already halfway to apologizing, when a large hand came down on my shoulder.

And stayed there.

"It's alright," the man said in English, a broad accent, plainly American. "Let's take it easy now. We can do this nice and quiet, and no one has to get hurt."

I didn't even look around. I just saw Radut's face, how all the blood had drained from his face. Did he understand what was said? Did he know what was going on?

I was still trying to make sense of what was going on. Trying to put it all together in my head. Wondering where Dad was, wondering if he's seen or heard the news yet. Wondering if I should just go along and give in and do my best not to scare Radut or any other poor civilian here.

Until I remembered who I was. What I was.

Not to myself.

But to everyone else.

"Do you hear me?" The man said at my ear. "Give your boyfriend a nice smile, okay? Let him know everything's fine. Now give me your hands before I put you on your knees."

I heard a click — handcuffs, as if those could hold me. But nevertheless, I gave Radut a watery smile, which he did not return, stock-still like a deer caught in the headlights. He was scared, and I didn't think any smile was going to make things better. I just shook my head at him as I slowly raised my hands. In Romanian, I said to him, "I'm sorry you have to see this."

Radut blinked, confused. I didn't give a chance for either of them to ask what I meant, before my rising hand brushed against the jacket of the man behind me and grabbed the lapel.

Then, with all my strength, I flipped the American over my shoulder and slammed him into the ground in front of me.

He didn't have a chance to grab the gun in his shoulder holster before I stomped on his hand and delivered a quick blow to the face. Instant knock-out.

Around me, pedestrians cried out in shock and backed away, causing a ripple effect of shock and confusion. Radut still stood across from me behind the stall, having stumbled against the rear banister. Eyes wide and staring, jaw open in shock.

I grabbed the firearm and took it without thinking. I didn't know what the American agent planned to do with it, but I preferred I had it rather than him or anyone else shooting blindly into a crowd. As I stood, pinning the holster to my belt, I said to him, "When they question you, just tell them the truth. You won't get in trouble. I promise, you'll never see me again."

It was all I had to offer. I didn't want Radut or anyone to end up in jail because of me. Radut didn't respond, just continued to stare. I wanted to say more, but something caught my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted people rushing in, pushing through the crowd. Big, burly men and women, dressed plainclothes but in obvious leather jackets to hide the bulk of their weapons, looking like they were about to draw on me.

Shit.

So all I could say was, "I'm sorry."

Radut's eyes flicked between me and the approaching agents, struggling to get through the crowd, their voices already shouting at me to stand down. His gaze returned to me, suddenly bright and bold. "Just go. Run!"

I didn't wait another moment. The turn of the heel, and I was off, sprinting as fast as I could through the crowd. There had been an open pocket, roughly circular, around Radut's cart where I had downed the agent. The civilians saw me coming and immediately parted like the Red Sea.

It gave me just the slightest of a head start.

I'd made it about fifty feet when I heard a crash behind me, a cacophony of shouting and noise. Worried for Radut, I looked over my shoulder, and saw that his tomato cart had been overturned — in front of and on top of the agent's path, a gory splatter of tomato juice and innards everywhere. Radut's arms up in the air, alarmed and shouting incoherently, as if completely oblivious. His gaze, briefly, catching mine.

I could only offer one last smile before vanishing into the crowd.

My feet pounded the old streets, all cobblestone and broken pavement. Ducking and dodging through people, before forcing myself back to a frenzied walk as soon as I was out of sight of the agents. I had to get away, but running would just make me look obvious.

Then I saw Ursule's kiosk and got an idea.

I was already taking off my jacket when she spotted me, her brows furrowing. "Mia, what's wrong? Did you see what happened over there? I heard an awful commotion."

"It's probably nothing," I lied, and so terribly that Ursule's eyebrows shot way up. I tossed my jacket onto her counter, saying, "You mind hanging onto this for me?"

"What? Why?"

I couldn't think of a lie fast enough. "I'm being chased."

"What? By who?"

Already my throat had gone dry, but I didn't stop moving, rounding around her cart so I was on the other side, and hopefully out of direct line of sight in case the agents saw me coming down the way I had come. "Have you seen the news yet?"

Ursule turned as I moved around, her frown deepening. "No, why?"

"Well, you should," I said, and just as I heard a rush of incoming footsteps, several pairs of boots now slick with tomatoes. Heart pounding, I pressed my back against the side of her kiosk, using one wall to hide me as they stopped on the other side. They must have spotted the jacket.

"Hey, you!" One of them shouted at Ursule in English. "The girl who left this coat. Where did she go?"

I couldn't see Ursule's response, only her voice as she called, "She went that way!"

I leaned over and peeked out, watching as the group of four tore off in another direction, the one Ursule was pointing in. Completely random. Wild goose chase.

"Thank you," I said, barely a whisper.

Ursule whipped around to face me. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

But I shook my head, no time. I just dug through my pockets and slammed some bills onto her kiosk. I didn't know why. Completely idiocy, running on auto-pilot. To show my gratitude? All those tips I should've added more to?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I have to go."

"Wait!" Ursule said, holding out her hand before I could take off again. "Are you going to be okay?"

I thought about it for a split second. "Probably not."

I hated how true that sounded. My utter pessimism. It sure as hell wasn't what Ursule wanted to hear, but I didn't have time to assuage her. "Just stay safe, okay?" Was all I could say, before taking off again.

I hadn't had much of a life here, but it had been something. I'd made friends — just two. But enough to hurt. I knew I'd never see either of them again. I worried what would happen because I happened to step into their lives. And I didn't have that kind of time to worry. Not when my own life was at risk. Not when I had to prioritize.

I could only hope that it would be my own life I was ruining.

I had to get home. I had to make it back before they did.

Before they got to Dad.

But when I reached our apartment building, I found it swarming with police. Big black square vans, like the kind used by banks. Or prisons. Sawhorses being hastily set up on the streets to control traffic. Regular cops shooing away pedestrians while the big boys behind him were already preparing to enter.

The whole block, cordoned off.

I was too late.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

✭

The apartment was quiet. Still.

It had been easy to slip in without being seen. To hear the nearby helicopters, hovering in the distance, watching everything from a bird's eye view. That would be annoying, but a problem for later.

Right now, Steve had to find Bucky and Mia first.

He wasn't exactly sure what would happen when he did; Steve had the general idea of an escape plan, perhaps fake an arrest to quell any itchy trigger fingers that would be waiting outside. He just had to get them out safe, and away from Ross and any other interested parties as soon as possible.

But that would be the easy part.

Getting Bucky to go along with this hairbrained idea would be far more difficult.

The place was empty. So small that Steve would've heard if there was someone hiding in the bathroom, or the tiny bedroom. He could catch Mia's scent there, recent. They had been here just this morning. Steve spotted a little carved bee on the bureau and pocketed it. He had a feeling Mia wouldn't be coming back here.

The apartment was small, almost too small for a family of two. There was a mattress in the living room, windows all papered up. No computers, a radio and an old TV. The fridge, a collage of notes and scraps of paper, a small collection of magnets.

A notebook atop the fridge. The elastic bookmarked a page, the most recent entry. Steve recognized Bucky's handwriting, short sentences, pasted scraps. An old trading card of Captain America. His own face staring back at him with a government-approved smile, pointing at the viewer.

"Heads up, Cap. German Special Forces coming in from the south."

"Understood," Steve said, before turning around.

Bucky. Just standing there, in the middle of the room. Unarmed, it seemed, dressed in civilian clothes, old and worn. Looking him up and down. Steve knew how he appeared; dressed up in full gear and shield. Ready for a fight. Bucky's expression was blank, no sign of any previous friendship they had. Just wariness. But it was better than outright hostility.

If that had been the case, then Bucky wouldn't have given him the chance to turn around before attacking.

For a moment, no word was said.

Finally, Steve had to be the one to break the silence. "You know why I'm here."

There was no confusion in Bucky's face. No shock or surprise. A tenseness in his shoulders, like a man who knew he was being hunted down. He'd most certainly seen the news by now. "Yes. Are you with them?"

Bucky gestured vaguely towards the outer wall, where they could both hear the activity on the street below. Steve shook his head. "No. They don't know I'm here. Not yet, at least."

"They've set the perimeter," Sam's voice came in his ear again. Steve bit back a curse. Not much time.

"I know you're nervous," Steve continued, setting down the notebook. How precious they had been, helping Bucky remember, building a new identity for himself. "And you have every right to be. But I'm here to help. I mean it. Whatever happened, we can figure this out."

Bucky didn't move. No warmth receiving those words. Just the bitter tang of fear in the air. "I wasn't in Vienna. You know I don't do that anymore."

"They're entering the building." Sam interjected, with increased urgency.

Steve thought fast. Maybe two minutes before contact. Make these next words count. "And Mia?"

"It wasn't her, either," Bucky said, his low tone both unshakably confident and filled with veiled offense. Interpreting that question as a threat, when it was anything but.

"Where is she?" Steve had to know. One element he had to be aware of before those pounding steps reached this flight of stairs.

"Safe." Bucky replied. Vague, as Steve expected. A lie, perhaps. Not here, was the implied message, and all Steve needed to know.

Steve could only nod in acknowledgement, letting his shoulders drop half a degree in relief. "Well, the people who think you did are coming here now. And they're not planning on taking you alive."

"That's smart," Bucky bobbed his head, not the least bit surprised. No doubt he could hear them coming as well. Hear the click of weapons, the jangle of extra ammunition in pouches. More bullets than either of them could handle in these tight corners. Bucky's feet shifted ever so slightly, so his back was no longer facing the front door. "Good strategy."

"They're on the roof, I'm compromised," Sam reported. Steve wondered if Bucky could hear that too, from his earpiece.

Steve glanced between the door and Bucky, already sensing what was about to happen. The exact thing he was trying to avoid. "This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

But Bucky could only sigh, adjusting the glove on his metal hand. Fear fading into resignation. "It always ends in a fight."

"Five seconds."

A window, a fire escape, something. Steve looked around, but with the windows all papered up he had no idea which was the best option. He was pretty sure the north side was bordered by a lower building. To the east, a long drop to the street below. Not fun, but survivable.

But he was running out of time. They both were. Out of desperation, Steve begged, "Bucky, come on, think of Mia. You can't protect her if you go down here. She'll be completely on her own and she won't know who to go for help."

The gleam of Bucky's metal hand shone in the dim light of the apartment. "That's the thing, Steve. I am protecting her —"

"Three seconds."

"— I'm giving her a head start," Bucky finished.

"Breach!"

To their right, a window exploded. Flash-bang grenades landing at their feet.

And that's when everything went to shit.

✭✭✭

The only reason I wasn't spotted immediately was thanks to the crowd starting to form, confused and frustrated that they couldn't cross, not being told the danger that lurked. No doubt if they knew, panic would spread.

But it didn't matter.

Realizing how obvious a head of blonde curls might be, I quickly pulled my hood up, slowly weaving through the crowd. Trying to find a way in. Trying to catch anything the police radios were saying.

Around the building, big black vans were parked around, sawhorses and tape put up. Regular policemen in their white shirts and black jackets, perky little hats on. Distinct from the special force units in their all-black gear, bullet proof vests with German labeling on them. German? Not American or Romanian. Multiple parties at play here, it seemed. I wondered how many countries were getting involved.

There had to be something I could do. Was Dad still inside? Did they have him cornered?

I knew what I had to do, but it made me sick to think about. We had contingency plans, what to do if one or the other got captured. Dad had been clear. If anything happened to me, he'd come to the rescue. But if it was him who got trapped?

Run. Run and don't look back.

My throat dried and I swallowed thickly, looking up at the tenement building that had been my home for so long. I couldn't stay. There was nothing I could do.

Turning my back on the sight unfolding before me was the hardest thing I had to do. Simply trusting that Dad could get away on his own. Meet up with me later at the rendezvous point, which was in Italy. How was I going to get to Italy on my own? I didn't even have my go bag, it was still inside the apartment. The backpack I had now had only the barest essentials and not nearly as much hard cash as I'd like.

And my shield. I didn't have my shield.

But no going back. I knew that. Those were the rules. I could survive without it.

The crowd was only getting thicker, even as the police tried to shoo them away. Easy to blend into, easy to slip away.

The first rule to running: walk, don't run. No one noticed the tall hooded girl going at a brisk pace. I quickly scanned through my options for transportation. Bus, car, train. Train would be best. Would take me straight to Italy and if I did it fast enough, there wouldn't be any delays thanks to what's happening here.

I crossed the street and cut through an alley. Behind me, the distant thunder of gunfire. I paused, heart pounding. Fighting the urge to look behind me.

I couldn't. I can't.

I had to keep going.

One foot in front of the other. No haste, no panic. Just be normal.

With that in mind, I steeled my nerves and kept moving forward.

The nearest train station was about ten blocks down. A bit of a walk, which felt even longer given the fact there were people hunting me. I kept eyes and ears out, looking for any sign of those American agents. They'd been sent on a wild goose chase. Hopefully the Germans didn't catch up, too. Maybe they were all tied up trying to capture Dad.

Or kill him.

No, don't think about that, I chastised myself, swallowing down the sick feeling rising in my gut. The Winter Soldier's final stand wouldn't be against some punk ass special forces unit. I had to trust he'd be okay somehow.

And he had my shield. He was better off than I was.

The train station came into view, a long silvery building surrounded by traffic and parking garages. Lots of people here, minding their own business, at a casual pace or rushing to catch their ride. Completely unaffected by the growing chaos happening less than a mile away. News traveled fast, but not that fast. Not yet. I still had time to get out of here. By the time anyone figured out what happened to be, I'd be long gone.

I pretended not to see the newspaper racks as I went inside, the grainy picture of Dad on all the front pages. There were TV screens up in the main atrium, but they had no sound, and only flicked between different departure and arrival schedules. A few shops inside had their own screens, but nothing that drew in a crowd. None that seemed to be on the news.

All the open kiosks for tickets had lines, so I picked one and waited. Trying not to look too shifty or anxious. Studying the schedules, seeing the open train for Rome.

Good, that'll be good. I'd never been to Rome before. Must be nice and warm this time of year. Warmer than Bucharest, at least.

The line moved slowly, but it was moving. People fumbling for bags and purses, exchanging money, struggling through language barriers. I had strong confidence I could make my interaction pretty quick, my Romanian made basic interactions pretty smooth.

But I'd never get that far.

I didn't see it so much as feel it. The station was busy, full of movement, smells, sounds. Each footstep vibrated through the floor and ringing in my ears. The acoustics made it a little disorienting, but not so much I couldn't keep track of things in my head.

Several pairs of feet moving in unison. But the odd part was that they weren't moving together. One was to the left. Another to my right. A third behind me. Each identical in pattern and weight of their step. Light, careful, deliberate.

I looked up.

Two lines over, a woman stood a head above the rest. Dark skin like polished stone, her head shaved, a neat pattern tattooed on her scalp. Not standing in the line itself, but outside of it.

Staring straight at me.

There was something immediately hostile about her gaze, but she didn't approach or attack — waiting. A chill went down my spine as I dared glanced behind me. Two other women, nearly identical to the first in sleek black clothes. Almost like businesswomen, with their finely tailored black coats. But there was something inherently wrong in that idea. These weren't businesswomen.

Their clothes were too lightweight to hide any firearms, I thought.

I kept my head down, pretending not to have noticed them. They kept drawing nearer, like prowling wildcats cornering a lone deer. I still saw no weapons. Maybe a gleam of metal, but no click of a slide pulled back, a bullet falling into place. Who were they? What did they want?

"Miss? Miss, can I help you?"

A voice jolted me from the growing miasma of panic. I looked up at the woman at the kiosk, raising her eyebrows at me expectantly. "Did you want to buy a ticket?"

"Oh," I said, stumbling forward. My heard pounded in my chest. It was hard to just stand there, fumbling with my wallet while every instinct screamed at me to run. The women were still there, somewhere behind me. Watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce as soon as my guard was down.

I didn't know what to do. Just tried to get my tickets as quick as possible. Chose France instead, since I was being watched. I couldn't let them know my real destination was Italy. I'd figure out how to get there later.

Time running out. As soon as I had the ticket in hand, I knew I didn't have long. Maybe as soon as I turned around. Maybe when I'd cleared the queue. It was too dense with people to engage in a fight.

I had to do something.

Ticket taken; money handed over. The clerk blinked up at me, confused when I didn't immediately move away. The next person in line behind me tapped my shoulder, asking to move forward. I did so, reluctantly, on stiff legs and clutching my tickets tightly. Moving slowly, testing the waters, as I filtered past the line, past the woman watching me, and out into the open atrium again.

One step, then another. Towards the turnstiles, where I'd scan my ticket and pass through. Easy peasy.

Behind me, I heard the women following. So quiet their footsteps were almost silent in the din of the atrium. But I could still hear them. Following me. Lions pursuing prey. Waiting. Waiting for what?

I kept moving ahead, trying to keep a normal pace, even though I was walking slower than usual. Slowing down. Until I stood in the center of the atrium. The maximum amount of space for a swift attack, a clean kill.

Ahead of me, two more women appeared, just as the other three, standing in front of the row of turnstiles. Tall dark-skinned women, just as the other three, their clothes deceptively simple in design, belying their true design as light, efficient clothes to move in. To fight in. Loose enough to move, but not so much to be a detriment.

I came to an abrupt stop, heart skipping. Surrounded on all sides.

They were all looking at me, but none of them spoke a word. Maybe they didn't have to. It was obvious enough what had brought them here. It was simply unclear why. Who they were, who they were working for. I didn't get the sense that they were with whoever Crossbones was working for, but what the hell did I know? Until a few months ago, I didn't think I could shift into protocol in my sleep. My grasp of reality clearly wasn't level with anyone else's.

Around us, people continued to walk to and fro to their various destinations. Completely oblivious.

I glanced left. I glanced right. The circle was wide enough that I could run, but not so wide that they couldn't close the distance before I got away.

Then I remembered the gun I still had, hidden beneath my coat. Shit. That was never going to get past the metal detectors.

Maybe I wasn't going to be boarding that train after all.

I took one slow breath. Closed my eyes for just a moment to calm my nerves. I had stopped moving for only a moment, but that moment felt like it had lasted a lifetime.

Very slowly, I began to slip the backpack off my shoulders.

Then I turned heel and ran.

Just as I expected, the women closed ranks, coming in from all sides to block my escape. The one nearest pulled something from her sleeve — some kind of knife or baton, I wasn't sure, but I knew it was coming. If they knew who I was, they wouldn't come unarmed.

My backpack slipped all the way off my arms and I slung it around, smashing it against her hand and knocking away the weapon. I slammed into the other two at full speed. Despite their intimidating looks, I quickly discovered them to be regular humans, the way they cried out and fell away easily at the force of impact.

Good to know.

Breaking free, I charged forward, slinging my backpack back on, and felt something thump into the fabric. Bolting for a side corridor, I glanced over my shoulder and found a small dagger embedded in my backpack. Holy shit. Had it not been there just in time, I'd be in much worse shape.

I could hear them giving chase, shouting at each other now, the silence broken. I couldn't understand what they were saying, some language I'd never heard before. But I could guess well enough what they were saying to each other. It's more or less the same when it's a fight.

I was faster than them. I could outrun them. Get out of the station or somehow make it to a train, any train. I just had to get out of Bucharest, and it didn't matter where or how.

I'd just whipped around a corner, heading back in the direction of the train platforms, when I saw a flash of silver. Pain exploded across my shins right before my legs were knocked out from underneath me.

I cried out, tumbling forward and crashing to the ground. Rolled over just in time to avoid getting struck with the same spear that had swept my legs.

A sixth woman, just as the others, this one with a distinct gold gorget that encircled her throat. I scrambled back to my feet, already hearing the other women catching up. My attempt to break away again was denied, the woman with the gold necklace, blocking my path with her spear. "You are not going anywhere."

"Get away from me!" I grabbed the spear and tried to bend it, twist it, render it useless — but was stunned to find that the metal did not yield as I expected it to.

In fact, it was stronger than I was. What the —

The woman jerked her arm, and I had been holding on too hard. The thrust sent me off my feet, sending me forward and then flying back to the floor again. She slammed the butt of her spear against the floor, creating an eerie gong that rang in my ears. "Your father must pay for his crimes, and so shall you."

She spoke English with a distinct accent, African I guessed, but that hardly narrowed it down. And that didn't exactly clear up my immense confusion either.

I scrambled back on my elbows as the rest of the women gathered — all with spears of their own. Where the hell were they hiding those in their suits? The corridor was much narrower than the atrium had been, and I quickly found my back against the wall. Shit. Now I really was cornered.

"It wasn't him!" Was all I could think to say, but I already knew my pleas would fall on deaf ears. Their expressions were austere, forbidding, unsympathetic. "If this is about Vienna, my dad didn't do it. He was never there!"

"Save your words," the woman with the golden throat snapped. She must be the leader, I decided. "Our King will determine your innocence for himself."

And in slow motion I saw them all raise their spears in unison — to trap me, to force me to surrender.

That wasn't going to happen.

I felt the gun press against my back. Between that and my knife, I didn't have a lot of options.

With only a split second to act, I snapped my arm behind me and unholstered the pistol. With the length of their spears, I'd probably only get one shot off before they knocked it out of my hand, so I had to make it count.

They saw the gun and recoiled, pulling out of my line of fire — but I wasn't aiming at any of them. Up, behind them, a single bullet fired before their leader smashed her spear into my wrist. The pistol flew from my hand.

The bullet struck the fire alarm.

All at once, everything changed. The lights started to flash and sprinklers went off, a siren filling the air. It bought me just a few seconds, the sounds and the water startling the posse and giving me a chance. I ducked under the leader's spear, arm aching and bruised but nothing bad — slamming into her as hard as I could to make a getaway.

They recovered too fast. As their leader cried out and collided with the wall behind her, the other five snapped into action.

Water poured from overhead, droplets flew from their spears as they rounded on me. One sliced my sleeve as I grabbed one woman and threw her into another. A third slipped on the polished marble floor, now completely slick — I delivered a kick to her chest and sent her away.

Another brought her spear down across my shoulder; she could've stabbed me, but instead used the blunt pole. Which still hurt like a bitch. The metal, entirely unyielding, nearly brought me to my knees. What was that stuff? It couldn't be—

I remembered the knife caught in my backpack. Reached around and used its thin form to block the incoming strike of the leader. And to my surprise, the metal clashed but held. The knife, despite its thinner metal, didn't bend, either.

Her spear was only inches from its face. I saw my reflection in the brushed texture of the dagger in my hand. Silvery in quality, I realized I recognized the quality of the metal. Quite intimately, in fact.

"Vibranium?" I breathed, stunned at the realization. They all had Vibranium weapons, a metal so rare that not even the United States could get their hands on any, no matter how much money they had. How could these women have so much, and for such simple weapons?

I realized the irony of that later, as if I didn't have the simplest of shields made of the same priceless material.

At any rate, none of the women responded to my question. The leader's spear had far more torque than my little blade, and she'd win out even with my super strength. Just as well, when the rod of a spear smacked into the back of my knees to send me down again, which just so helpfully got me out of the way of the leader's weapon. My blade came away and I made a wild slash at her stomach. Not to hurt, really, just to get her away, as my knees came down onto the floor.

She jumped back and I rolled to the side, barely avoiding another spear slamming to the ground where my head had been a moment before. They could be using those spearheads to more effect, I knew. They didn't want to kill me. At least, not as much as those other guys.

A spear sliced through the strap of my backpack, another cut through the bottom. The backpack and all its contents spilled out across the floor, soaking in the water.

Still on my hands and knees, I swept an arm upwards, throwing water into the eyes of a woman who got too close. It wouldn't hurt, only caused her to recoil on instinct, and I tried to grab the spear from her, only for a hand to grab the back of my collar and try to haul me back. It unbalanced me slightly but I was heavier than I looked, perhaps, and harder to knock over.

Another hand joined the first on my shoulder and realizing what it could do, I lifted both feet off the ground and kicked the woman in front of me, knocking her away and keeping hold of the spear.

The two behind me weren't expecting it and stumbled back, then again when I spun around, spear in hand.

I was far more comfortable with a knife or a gun or a shield, but a polearm wasn't outside my breadth of knowledge. And I was glad for that knowledge when three spears came down and I had to raise up my stolen one to block them.

Lights flashed and spears sang as metal clashed against metal. I blocked and parried and tried to find a way to break free, but the women kept reoriented, kept moving, never allowed me another chance to escape, no hole to break through their defense.

Even the one I unarmed still had more up her sleeve. Small marble-like objects flew from her fingers and sparked across the water, burning my eyes and stinging my skin when they made contact.

Water was starting to weigh me down. I regretted wearing such thick clothes now — but it kept the blades of their weapons from sinking too deep, only barely cutting my skin.

My shoes were heavy and sloshed with water, making my movements more ungainly, but I'd fought on a ship at sea, this was nothing. Mostly nothing. The men on that boat were nothing compared to these women. They were highly trained and in a way I'd never encountered before. Maybe Dad would be able to identify their style, especially if he's pissed them off before — but I was at a complete loss.

They kept pushing and pushing me back. The air was filled with so much clanging that my ears were continually ringing. In the distance, I thought I heard more shouting. Male, it sounded, perhaps not with these ladies, but that didn't mean they were friendly, either. I was wasting time. They were stalling me, trying to wear me down.

One caught me across the face. Vibranium against jawbone, I almost blacked out. Head snapping to the side, I stumbled, fell against the wall. Caught myself and managed to cling to consciousness, but blocking the next incoming strike was weak. The spear fell from my hand.

The blunt end of another spear slammed into my gut, and it felt like getting hit with a cannonball.

I gasped uselessly; the air knocked from my lungs as I collapsed. Behind them, I saw the blinking of flashlights, the rush of many dark forms in bulky armor and firearms. Their shouting echoed down the long corridor, but for the moment they were ignored.

Some animal part of my brain still thought I had a chance. The basest of survival instincts, seeing threat and wanting to run. But when I fell to the floor, I tried to pick myself back up again, only to feel a sharp point at my neck.

"It's done," The leader spoke above me, her tone final. "Yield, or else."

"Everyone, freeze!"

Six spear points bore down on my exposed back. Water splashed against my face, cuts and bruises aching in the cold. The barrels of twice as many guns swayed back and forth amongst us.

There was no running now.

I dropped my head down into the water, defeated.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

✭

"What's going to happen to him?"

The Joint Counter-Terrorism Centre in Berlin was a well-fortified compound in the heart of Berlin. With its monochromatic colors, minimalist and efficient architecture, and its cold filtered air did little to feel welcoming. Then again, I was in a windowless cell; metal cot, open toilet-and-sink combo, and nary a handy air vent in sight.

And I was still cuffed — a large metal contraption that acted more like a straight-jacket than a pair of handcuffs, effectively locking my arms together against my chest, elbows bent at a ninety-degree angle. Despite the fact that these walls were a solid foot of impenetrable steel and cement, Interpol decided that I still wasn't contained enough.

But it was better than being locked up in that tiny glass cube like Bucky was.

On the other side of the transparent polycarbonate cell door was Steve — looking haggard, frustrated. With me, perhaps. Or with the ten levels of bureaucracy that he's had to deal with since he, too, was arrested.

But only one of us was truly locked up.

"I don't know," Steve finally replied, sighing in what sounded like defeat. Neither of us liked that answer, but at least I knew he was telling the truth. "They're sending in a psych analyst to gauge his… temperament. Then, I imagine, they'll be sending him to the Raft."

"You mean the big floating gulag in the middle of the ocean that doesn't exist on any official reports?"

"It's not a gulag —" Steve stopped himself, grimacing slightly. "But yes. That's where he'll go."

"Probably a cell for me there, too, I bet," I said, slumping back against the wall on my cot. It was a poor attempt at a joke, but I was more surprised by Steve's sustained silence. He could've indulged me and chuckled; he could've chided me, or reassured me.

But Steve didn't do or say anything. I leaned forward again, frowning. "…Right?"

"To be honest, I don't know what's going to happen to you, Mia," Steve finally admitted at length, his gaze first studying the floor, then rising to meet mine. "Ross hasn't demanded you be prosecuted in the same way he has for Bucky. Or me. Or anyone else that was involved."

I blinked, stunned. "What? Why?"

Steve could only shrug. "No idea. He's not showing his hand too soon."

"Something tells me it's not out of the kindness of his own heart." I said wryly, shaking my head. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised.

"No, I doubt it," Steve agreed, with the faintest trace of a sad smile. "But the fact is, your face has been kept out of the news. You're not associated with any of Bucky's crimes. I don't know if that was intentional on his part or not, but it keeps his hands clean."

"It means he can convince the UN I'm not as dangerous as him," I said, jaw clenching. I wanted to break something, to throw myself against the walls until either I or they broke first. "He could even say he rescued me from the Dora Milaje."

It was only after I'd been detained, along with the Wakandan Kingsguard, did I find out who and what they were. And why they were after me. "Dad didn't plant that bomb. He hasn't killed anyone. You know that."

"I know, I know," Steve said, nodding in such a way that it looked like it hurt. He raised a hand in a placating gesture. "I'm doing what I can, trying to stall. We're trying to get lawyers involved, since Ross is so intent on prosecuting. He can't deny us our rights, especially if he wants to give us a public dressing-down in front of the UN. If Bucky ends up in the Raft, it'll be temporary at best, I promise. I'm trying to get you released into my custody, too. Since you haven't been charged with any crimes, they can't keep you legally detained past twenty-four hours."

I didn't know how long it'd been, but it definitely hadn't been a full day. Maybe six hours at best. And something told me these guys would try to hang onto me as long as possible. "And how's that going for you?"

"Well, it's been an interesting journey through several international departments," Steve replied, pinching the brow of his nose. "As far as anyone is concerned, I'm your biological father. No one's disputed that so I don't think that's the problem."

Which meant my secret was safe. I didn't kid myself into believing we weren't being watched and recorded right now, every word to be saved for a future court date. For Bucky's sake and my own, Steve had suggested he put his own name on all legal paperwork regarding fatherhood. So far, no one had questioned it. In fact, most people were very ready to believe it. I wasn't sure about Ross, but maybe it worked in his favor if he didn't go shouting that fact to the world, either. "Then what is?"

"Well, being arrested means I lose custody rights," Steve chuckled dryly. "Technically I'm not even supposed to leave the very comfortable office room they assigned to me. But that means custody then falls to May, who as we know is not here right now. And I'm not exactly sure if or when they're going to make contact with her, or if it's even feasible she's able to help. Natasha's trying her best, but least to say we're being stonewalled at every turn."

"Which means I might be here longer than just twenty-four hours," I surmised, then thought about it a little more. "Or they'll find someone suitable to take over in the meantime."

"I have a feeling it'll be the latter,"

"Great," I mulled that one over. I wanted to see Dad, but I didn't know how or when, especially as we're being kept separated. Maybe Interpol really did believe I was kidnapped or something, but that wouldn't justify these handcuffs. They were probably going to move me or Dad out at different times, meaning the last I ever got to see him was in that garage; Dad being rolled away in that awful box, barely able to move. "I know it's a big ask, but do you think I could see him? Just once, before one of us is taken away."

Steve's expression didn't give me a lot of hope. His brows furrowed, lips pressing together. "I can try, Mia. That's all I can promise."

It was the best I could ask for. I could only smile weakly back. "Thanks."

Steve smiled back, sad and tired. "We'll figure this out, Mia. It's not the end. I can't hang around forever, but as soon as I hear something, I'll let you know."

I could only nod. It kind of felt like the end. The end of my life as I knew it. Nothing would be the same after this. "Any last words of advice?"

"Sure." Steve rocked back on his heels, giving me one last knowing look. "Don't talk to anyone without a lawyer."

"Ha, very funny," As if I needed a reminder. Still, my heart lurched slightly as I watched Steve turn to leave. How much I'd missed him; how much I hadn't, couldn't say. "And Steve? I — I'm sorry. For running away, and causing all of this, and —"

"It's not your fault, Mia," Steve cut me off gently, pausing to look over his shoulder. "Whatever's going on is way beyond just you and me. But we can talk about what happened later, okay? Fair to say we have bigger problems right now."

"Yeah," I said, my voice small, wilting a little. I still felt terrible, hardly pulling off the greatest apology, wondering how this all went so wrong so fast. And then Steve was gone and I was left alone to my thoughts.

Everything had happened so quickly after the police arrived at the train station. The Dora Milaje had almost fought them, too, but apparently guns trumped spears. Their King had already been arrested and maybe that took priority. I couldn't help but wonder if I wasn't better off at their mercy, instead of falling directly in the hands of Secretary Ross. Only one of them already had an established reputation of flagrantly bulldozing over various laws of the Geneva Convention, and it wasn't the Dora Milaje.

At any rate, I was stuck here. Arms locked together like a head case in a mental facility. This was fine. Totally fine.

"Mia?"

My head snapped up, startled at the small form standing in front of my cell door. I almost couldn't believe it. "Howie? What are you doing here?"

"I'm with my father," Howie said, as if this were obvious. Maybe it was. I haven't been able to see Tony Stark at all, but I was aware he was here. Howie was dressed in the usual; dark hair painstakingly combed, matching pants and jacket combo, although he spiced it up with a regular t-shirt beneath, a LEGO design. Cute. He signed along with his speech, which was muffled by the glass. "He had this thing at MIT, and then the bomb happened, and now we're here." His eyes lingered over me, hands twisting together nervously. "I heard it was about you — I wanted to come. He didn't say no."

"Oh."

"I was the only one that could," Howie added quickly, as if I needed the extra explanation. He spoke rather fast, a gush of words, like he'd been holding it in for too long. "The others wanted to come, too. But Wanda and Pietro got grounded."

"What's going on with the twins?" I asked, rising with concern. Grounded? They were practically adults, who could ground them?

"Tony had them stay at the compound, with Vision," Howie explained, throwing up his hands. "Which is why I am here, all alone. Peter knows you're here but he and your aunt are having trouble finding flights over. It'll be a few days. I think Tony is trying to stall them."

"Why?" I blinked, surprised.

"I think he suspects something." Howie admitted, hanging his head. "He won't tell me what. But I think he thinks something might happen and he doesn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Because of my… situation," I said, amending my wording at the last second. "Then why are you here?"

"He thinks he can protect me."

There was a long stretch of silence. I raised my eyebrows at him. "Can he?"

Howie scowled back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I didn't fail to notice the metal wristbands peeking out of his sleeves. "I can protect myself. Besides, I'm not afraid of you. I know you wouldn't hurt me. Besides, someone has to keep the team updated, and it might as well be me."

I had to fight a smile at that. Of all the people that were most insistent that the group of us weren't just friends, but a "team" not unlike the Avengers, it was Howie. I couldn't tell if it was just idealism or if he seriously believed that, but it was charming nonetheless. Right now, we didn't feel much like a team. Not with the way I'd been behaving. "Yeah, I guess that's fair. Is there anyone else there at the compound with them?"

Howie shook his head. "Just those three, I think. All the other Avengers are busy dealing with… this. Except for Thor and Dr. Banner, obviously. Still no news on them."

That didn't surprise me in the least. If they had reappeared, I figured I would've seen it on the news by now. "So, they're alright, all the way out there on their own?"

"I think so," Howie shrugged, but he didn't look convinced. "Pietro likes having the run of the place, but I think Wanda and Vision are starting to feel a little… trapped. But with Ross having his nose on them, it's probably safest."

"Probably?" I didn't like the sound of that. "Howie, is there something you're not telling me?"

The boy shifted nervously on his feet, glancing away, then back again. "Everyone's trying to play nice right now, but I'm worried they're not seeing the bigger picture. Tony's afraid of losing the company. Pepper's CEO, but there's still a board, and that could change. He's already started… investing." Howie said it in an odd way, and I leaned in, trying to decrypt his meaning. Howie's gazed wandered around, fingers tapping together as he meandered over the double-meanings. "New stocks and bonds. Private holdings. Backing up files. Making back-ups of back-ups. I've seen it, on his computer. I wasn't supposed to, but… I think they're preparing for the worst-case scenario."

That definitely didn't sound good. New stocks and bonds? Private holdings? I had no idea what that meant, I didn't know jackshit about how businesses worked and I was fairly sure Howie knew that. So, if not that, then what? Was Tony making secret stashes, withdrawing money to safeguard it?

There was no way for me to ask without giving it away. "Well, whatever happens, you stay safe, okay? I don't know what's going to happen to me, but if Ross makes any sort of move, you know what to do."

Howie took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and nodded. "Si, si. I'm sure it'll be fine. It probably won't be as bad as everyone thinks, right?"

"Probably," I said, trying to give Howie a reassuring smile; wondering if I was lying. To him, to myself. The future felt so uncertain. Forget a five-year plan, I had no idea what might happen five days from now. I might end up in prison. I might end up in some kind of black box location. Who knows. "Tell the others I said hi. That I'm okay. And — that I'm sorry."

"Di niente. I'm sure they won't be mad," Howie offered. "I'm not."

"Well, that's nice to hear," I said, but I could only assuage a little of my guilt. It would've been better if I had some kind of answers, some kind of explanation for why this had to happen. That I ran away from something real and tangible; not just a terrible mishap that got way out of hand. "I'm sure if they're pissed, you'll let me know, too."

"Oh, absolutely," Howie nodded seriously. "And with an itemized list of things you can do to make it up for us."

"I expect nothing less."

I heard footsteps, and Howie turned his head, stepping back when a woman appeared. I recognized her — Agent Thirteen. Kate. Or Sharon. Whatever her real name was. "Hey there, kid. I recall telling you not to leave that chair."

"I left it by the elevator." Howie said, all too innocently.

"Yes, I saw," Sharon replied wryly, then jerked her head to the side. "I suggest you get back before some guy with a badge and a buzz cut gets mad about it."

Howie sighed, giving me one last good-bye wave before jogging off. Sharon turned to me, her expression indiscernible. "Just got approval from upstairs. You get a few minutes with Barnes before the shrink arrives."

"Really?" I perked up.

"Yeah, and it might even happen if you get off your keister." Sharon added, tapping the passcode into the door's keypad. It slid open with the slight whoosh of a decompression chamber.

I couldn't gauge whether she was friendly or not, but I guessed by the mildly sarcastic answer that she wasn't completely hostile to me. Considering she was with the CIA, and a part of the team that helped capture us. "I don't suppose you can take these off."

I raised my arms, heavy with the giant cuffs. Sharon just turned away. "Nope."

"Where's Steve?"

"Where he should be, negotiating with the Accords while he still has time," Sharon replied, her tone carefully neutral. I didn't know where she stood on that, but considering she had been one of the few good SHIELD members left, I wanted to believe she'd be on our side. "This whole thing with Barnes has got him distracted. Ross has been able to make a lot of ground while Captain America was out of the way."

She was already walking when I stepped out of the cell, so I had to speed up a little to stay in pace; keeping silent as I took all of that in. Had Steve really spent so much time searching for us that he didn't spend enough time fighting the Accords? "What's going to happen with that?"

"Well, considering the UN bombing killed dozens of people, including the reclusive Wakandan King who made his first public appearance in decades just for this event —" Sharon took a deep breath. "Pretty bad, by my estimation."

My shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I figured."

"His son really doesn't like Barnes."

"I heard."

"We've got him detained, too."

"For now."

Sharon cut me a look as we entered the elevator. "We know what we're doing, Mia. I know it's slow and frustrating — but we'll see it through to the end."

Blinking, I frowned down at her, trying to make sense of those words. Sharon was oh so very careful. She knew, just as Steve did, that we were being watched. I wanted to believe, more than ever, that she wasn't saying this to mock me. I couldn't hear it in her tone. "I just want my family and friends to be safe."

Sharon gave a short bob of her head. "No one's in danger yet. The only one in real trouble is Barnes. Not you, not anyone else. Rogers and Wilson won't be held forever, and something-something diplomatic immunity will probably kick in for the young King as well. I give it a week at best. Maybe not with all their tools and fancy gadgets. But we both know they can operate pretty well without them."

"Even the King?" I asked, confused. I hadn't seen him in action, only saw the strange black suit he wore, the helmet someone carried away. Vaguely cat-like, with feline ear points.

Sharon didn't get a chance to answer before the elevator doors opened. Stepping out into another hallway, it was a short walk into the containment facility — several levels underground, it seemed, where I had been a few above. The place was dark, the air even colder, so filtered my mouth dried in a few breaths. It felt so sterile.

And there, in the center, surrounded by floodlights and probably a dozen security cameras, was the cube-like cell. Dad, locked inside, strapped to a chair with all limbs restrained, as well as his torso. Our footsteps echoed, and then I realized it was just me, walking closer, while Sharon lagged behind. I glanced behind me, and she gave only a single nod. "We'll be watching."

And she was gone.

For a moment, it felt like a gift, to have some privacy, before remembering said warning. Nothing was private. I had to be careful with what I said. Dad looked up when I approached, eyes widening in surprise.

"Hi," was all I could think to say. My voice sounded so terribly small in this great room.

"Hey, kid," his tone was soft, a little hoarse. A few lesions on his face from a fight I didn't get to see. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know." Maybe it was stupid of me to request this, but I didn't know when I'd get another chance. I really didn't want to start crying right now. "I just wanted to see you. One last time. They said they're going to take you away."

Dad nodded like this didn't surprise him. "Some remote location. It'll… it'll probably be for the best."

I was taken aback. "What? You don't mean that."

"I don't know, kid." Dad shrugged, or tried to, with the restraints holding his shoulders down. He looked utterly defeated. "It feels like I've spent half my life running. Something like this was bound to happen eventually. Maybe it's better that it happened now, before more people got hurt."

"But you had nothing to do with that bombing!"

"I know that. And… and Steve will clear things up for them. But I think the world will be a lot easier for you with me out of the way. People can… rest easy a little."

"Rest easy, while there's a crazy bomber on the loose?" I asked, skeptical. I didn't know where this was coming from. What had Dad changing his mind like this. Was it just the reality of being arrested? That Steve was in trouble, too? And I sure as hell couldn't rest easy with the Accords on the table, either. "You and I both know something fucked up is going on here."

"I know." Dad looked away. "I just don't think I'm the right person to handle it. Right now, everything I do seems to make things worse. And I can't forgive myself if it's my actions ruining your life."

I inhaled sharply, summoning words to speak, before stopping myself. My eyes suddenly burned, and I knew I couldn't say anything without it getting emotional. My arms strained against the metal brackets. More than anything, I just wanted to hug him. One last time.

I heard a shuffle behind me. A light cough. I turned, surprised, to see a man in a tweed suit, glasses, beard, standing awkwardly at the mouth of the compound. He had with him a little briefcase, and looked entirely out of place in this room of glass and metal.

The man cleared his throat, speaking with a German accent. "Ah, my apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm Dr. Broussard, I've been sent here to by the U.N. evaluate Mr. Barnes."

Next to me, Dad's demeanor instantly changed; from withdrawn and guilty to immediately putting up walls, hackles rising. Guarded, unfriendly. I took that as my cue to leave. "Sorry, I'll just head out now."

"Oh, no, I don't mind," Dr. Broussard tried to give me a reassuring smile, perhaps a little intimidated. He wasn't a short man, but he was of a smaller stature than even me. He came around to place his briefcase on the desk arranged in front of the containment cell; gestured to Dad. "If he prefers your presence, if it makes him more comfortable, I have no complaints."

I glanced at Dad, uncertain. He didn't say anything for a long moment, expression completely closed off. At length, he finally mumbled, "You can stay."

"Wunderbar. If you could, miss, please sit at this table. For recording purposes, I believe the UN would prefer an unobstructed view." Dr. Broussard gestured to the single chair at the table. I decided to comply, seeing no issue with it, remaining in direct line of sight with Dad. He didn't look particularly relaxed to me, so I could only imagine how much worse it'd be if I wasn't here.

Dr. Broussard pulled out a clipboard, thick with paper, from his briefcase. I could only catch a glimpse, but I could see a set of information already printed, along with what seemed to be a kind of list. Categories, fill in the blank. As he spoke, Dr. Broussard paced around the table, sometimes behind me, sometimes in front. "We'll get started right away, if you don't mind, Mr. Barnes… Your first name is James?"

Dad didn't respond. He kept his eyes down, head bowed slightly. I didn't know if I should do something, but I got the feeling if I was too involved it might affect his score negatively. If this was indeed some kind of test.

Dr. Broussard waited a long minute for him to respond, taking slow, measured steps. When he didn't, Dr. Broussard sighed. "I'm not here to judge you. I'm just here to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?"

Again, nothing.

Dr. Broussard paused next to the table on my right. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

"My name is Bucky." Dad spoke, voice low, like he was grounding out every word against his will.

With that, Dr. Broussard began to pace again. "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." He wouldn't look at me.

"You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop." Dr. Broussard surmised calmly, a nod of his head. "Don't worry. We only have to talk about one. Do you recall your whereabouts last Tuesday evening? That would be the twelfth."

"I was in Bucharest. Romania. I have been for the last month."

"And you never left during that time?"

"No."

"Ah, very well. And what about the evening of May 18th?"

Dad blinked. "I was… I was in New York. Why?"

"Because that is the date forensic scientists determined the bomb was planted." Dr. Broussard said calmly, and I straightened in my seat.

I couldn't help it, I spoke aloud, "I thought those photos of him were from right before the bombing?"

Dr. Broussard didn't look at me. "Yes, that was the initial belief. But we came across new information recently, and it's imperative to ask. Now, please, remain silent for the questioning. James, had you ever left New York during that time?"

"I — maybe. I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" Dr. Broussard repeated skeptically, then wrote something down. My stomach squeezed and I regretted speaking up at all. Dad caught my gaze and shook his head, pained. There was nothing I could do.

Still, May 18th. The bomb had been waiting there, this entire time? Why so far in advance?

"Why don't we discuss your family?" Dr. Broussard continued, making another circuit around the desk behind me.

Dad frowned slightly, his face twitching as if he had one of those headaches. "Have I — have we met before? Your face, it's…"

"Familiar?" The doctor cocked a brow. "Perhaps. But rest assured, I've never been one of your targets. Now, if you would kindly answer my question, how long had you known you were a father?"

I only saw the flash of surprise across Dad's face, right before my own heart leapt — and with a great hum, the lights went out. All electricity, cut out, casting the room in total darkness. The only power that remained were the flashing red lights, a terrible shriek in my ears. Some kind of alarm.

No, not an alarm. In my head. Coming from the small metal device pressed to my ear.

I tried to gasp, cry out — but in seconds every muscle locked up, tendons snapping tight, my chest convulsing as I tried to remember how to breathe. I immediately slumped back, only to be caught by a tweed-covered arm, holding me upright.

"Easy now," Dr. Broussard murmured, as I choked, unable to move. What did he do to me? Why? Who was he? "Remember to breathe. It's only temporary."

Across from me, in the containment cell, Dad was already writhing against his restraints. "What the hell is this? Don't you lay a hand —!"

"I wouldn't waste my breath with useless threats, Mr. Barnes," Dr. Broussard spoke, unerringly calm. His other hand stroked the top of my head, like a pet. "She doesn't have much time left. Бунтарь."

Rebel.

My heart skipped a beat. I tried to move, tried to speak, tried to do anything. But even if my arms weren't locked against my chest, my body couldn't respond to me.

"Колумбия."

Columbia.

"No!" Dad wrenched so hard in his seat that one of the restraints cracked.

"Пустой, девяносто."

Hollow. Ninety.

The only thing I could move were my eyes. Not even blinking was an option, all I could do was stare, pleading silently, as hard as I could, watching as Dad started fighting against his restraints.

"Баюкать."

Cradled.

Really fighting — metal pulling and grinding. Even the cell built specifically for him wasn't enough to contain him.

"Mарионетка."

Marionette.

I could already feel it, my mind turning fuzzy at the edges. I tried to fight it. Tried not to listen. But Dr. Broussard was right next to me, speaking right into my ear. Soft and gentle, almost like a lullaby.

"Семь."

Four.

Breathing got easier. Maybe whatever he did to me was already fading. Or maybe I just couldn't tell anymore.

"Hачало."

Threshold.

Metal arm breaking through. Knuckles slamming into glass. Dad gritting his teeth, part anger, part panic. Glass cracking, inches thick.

"Ледник."

Glacier.

His eyes never leaving mine. Shouting something, but I couldn't hear it anymore.

"Завод."

Factory.

Glass shattered to the floor, metal arm now turning to the remaining restraints, trying to pull himself free.

"Are you ready to comply?"

Too late.

"Ready to comply." The words that came out were both there. And not there.

The arm restraints clattered to the floor — at the same time the metal door came flying off the containment cell. A gun appeared on the table. How long had it been there? Where had it come from? It didn't matter. It was in hand, against temple, just as Bucky threw himself out.

Halfway to launching himself at the false doctor, he froze.

"Sehr gut." Dr. Broussard patted her shoulder. "If he takes another step, put a bullet in your head."

Bucky's eyes flicked from her, to the doctor. Breathing hard. Every muscle screaming at him to move. His voice was barely a whisper, gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want." Dr. Broussard said, in a face and voice that felt so awfully familiar. So far away, just out of reach. If he had more time, if he could think straight, if he wasn't so filled with panic and rage right now, maybe Bucky could remember. "I need to speak to him."

"No." Bucky couldn't allow that. The Soldat was dead. Gone. To speak to him? Absolutely out of the question. "You can speak to me."

Where were the guards? Security? Anyone? They should be here by now; at least, that's what Bucky hoped. Steve, Natalia, anyone who'd be able to stop this. To save Mia. Surely the power outage couldn't have halted everyone in their tracks. But Bucky didn't know anything. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. It was a fact of life. His life.

"You can't remember," The doctor shook his head, and was so arrogant and sure of his hold on Bucky that he casually walked right up to him. "Even now, you don't recognize me, do you?"

Face to face, inches apart. Bucky could crush his throat, punch a hole through his chest, do any number of lethal acts that would end this in a moment — but he couldn't.

Mia just sat there, silently. Gaze blank as she held a pistol to her own head. Her finger on the trigger, unmoving.

Bucky reluctantly looked back at the doctor; he'd taken off his glasses, and that had helped a little. But not enough. Bucky hated telling the truth. "No."

"Ah, see? You are of no use to me," The man chuckled. "But we have met before. Once. So, I'm not surprised if I don't ring a bell, as it were. It was my father you were more interested in. But that was many, many years ago. All there is left to do is to balance the books."

As he said this, he withdrew a something from behind his back. A red book, a teasing gesture almost. Bucky was still trying to parse through his strange words, but at the sight of that, all line of thought ended, replaced only with fear.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"I do, actually. And I wanted to do you the favor of looking in your daughter's eyes as it happened." The man continued, his voice low, a little smile on his face. "Make her watch the final moments of her father, as I once had to. Тоска,"

Longing.

"No." Bucky twitched, an instinct, but as soon as he did Mia had moved as well. The tiniest flick of a finger that had his heart his So, throat, and he forced himself to remain still. "Stop. Please —"

"Ржавый, печь." Rusted. Furnace.

Begging. He'd been reduced to begging. Bucky had to swallow the bile that rose up his throat, bitterness and self-loathing. Hands clenching and unclenching, every fiber of his being having to fight his instincts. Fight, flight, none of it was applicable anymore.

"Рассвет, семнадцать," Daybreak. Seventeen. The man spoke at an even, brisk pace. Perhaps he knew how little time they had left.

Someone, anyone. But no one appeared. Bucky could only stand there. Just stand and watch, begging Mia to meet his eyes. Wanting to believe she was still there. He knew she was.

"Доброкачественный." Benign.

He just couldn't reach her.

"Девять." Nine.

"I'm sorry," the words came out choked; Bucky waited too long to say them. Already his fingers were numb. But he had to try. The man was right. Time was short. "Mia, I'm so sorry."

"Возвращение домой." Homecoming.

"It's… it's going to be okay." A lie, a horrible lie. Dragged like a corpse from his teeth.

"Один." One.

Bucky kept his eyes on her. He couldn't stop this, so the last thing he wanted to see was Mia. "I-I promise, I… won't let anything —"

"Товарный вагон."

Freight car.

Watched, as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

And then Bucky was gone.

Chapter Text

[Part Three: I am Become Death, Destroyer of Worlds]

Chapter Twenty-One

✭

Bodies littered the floor.

Steve lifted his hand from the neck of a man at his feet, pulse empty, and kept moving. No time to linger on any of the dead, and he doubted they'd find anyone alive. He hadn't even reached the vault yet, but he already dreaded what he was going to find.

Sam was directly behind him, covering his back. They hadn't spotted any signs of life. No attackers were found. All the bodies were of men and women sent to handle the containment breach; all either killed by hand or with their own weapons. Quick, efficient, professional. He knew this handiwork like a cold chill down his spine.

The sublevel halls were filled with an unearthly silence. Just the sound of their footsteps, the undulating klaxons, the rumble of the circulation system, pumping in cool, dry air. No one besides him and Sam still breathing, but Steve knew Bucky hadn't left the building yet. Sharon speaking in his ear, reporting no exit sensors (doors, windows, vents) had been activated. So, he must still be inside somewhere.

She had been the one to give Steve and Sam the go-ahead to investigate when both tactical units sent down failed to report back. Steve didn't believe Sharon got Ross' exact approval for that, and he didn't hang around to find out.

Within the actual vault itself, the cavernous room filled with the first tactical unit - Steve found no one he wanted to find. The metal cube that had been Bucky's cell was smashed and broken from the inside out, glass everywhere. The table and chair overturned; the doctor's recording device smashed to bits. But the doctor himself was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Bucky. Or Mia.

What the hell happened?

"Steve, I don't like this," Sam said behind him, looking around warily. "Where's Barnes? Where did he take them?"

"I don't know." Steve didn't know if Bucky - the Winter Soldier - could take anyone anywhere. He wouldn't hurt Mia, Steve knew for certain, and it was possible she'd follow him of her own volition; but the doctor? Steve couldn't explain that. To kill him or leave him behind, perhaps, but to take the stranger as well made no sense.

What also didn't make sense is if, and how, was the Winter Soldier activated. As under pressure as Bucky had been, Steve did not believe any amount of said stress would have pushed the man to kill all these people. Well, unless they were threatening Mia. But still. And if it was the Winter Soldier, what happened? No one else in that room knew the trigger phrase. Had reliving bad memories brought the assassin to the forefront, literally? Steve didn't want to believe so, but he honestly didn't know how it worked. And he's not sure he liked the alternative option, either. That Bucky just… chose to do this, to kill so many people, when he had tried so hard to move away from the weapon HYDRA turned him into.

The back of his neck tingled. Something felt wrong here, wrong in a way that no logical explanation could wash away.

Steve heard the shift in movement before he saw it. From the corner of his eye, a shadow separating itself from the darkness. Steve saw it just in time to knock Sam out of the way from the incoming attack.

But Steve didn't have his shield. It was still locked up somewhere, along with Sam's wings and the Wakandan king's catsuit. So, Steve took the full force of the ambush, taking the brunt of it in his shoulder, and it sent him right off his feet.

Steve crashed onto his back, winded. No average person could knock him down like that. It took him a second to recover, hearing the bootsteps coming closer. Steve looked up, wincing, seeing that familiar face. "Bucky, wait —"

But only dead eyes met his.

He wasn't Bucky anymore.

✭✭✭

Howie spun in that office chair for the hundredth rotation.

Time moved slowly in that windowless room. Calling it an office room was a joke. It was a glorified cell with fancy furniture. The rooms were soundproof. For private meetings, perhaps. But also to keep someone inside from hearing what's going on outside. At least the wall facing the hallway was mostly glass, so Howie could still look out. People rushing back and forth. The power had gone out ten minutes ago and no one had bothered to come around and tell Howie what to do. Except his dad, of course. Just told Howie to sit tight, buddy, we got this handled. It sounded like a lie.

But he trusted his father. Dad. Pops. Sometimes just Tony. Tony Stark was like that, preferred being called his first name as opposed to anything he deemed weird, like Father or Mr. Stark. Howie didn't know if Tony actually liked being called Tony by his own son, but Howie also had his father's name, and maybe that was pretty weird for Tony, too. He had never called Howie by his given name, Howard.

Agent Carter had told him to stay in here as well, where it was safe. But Howie didn't feel very safe, not knowing what was going on. He wasn't sure if he trusted Agent Carter, whose side she was really on. She used to be SHIELD, and now she was CIA. Working alongside Interpol, she acted as a liaison for General Ross, whom Howie didn't trust at all.

When it came down to it, who would she choose in the end?

Howie didn't want to be in the position to find out. He was getting sick of sitting around, and Mia's words still played over and over in his head. If Mia were in his position, would she just sit there and do nothing?

No, she wouldn't.

Getting up from his chair, Howie peered out the window into the hallway. To the left, he could see the great atrium that made for the entrance of the Interpol headquarters, still brightly lit thanks to the skylights above. The red lights still flashed, some kind of security breach.

But the PA system was in German and Howie understood only some of the words. Some kind of danger, but locking in place rather than evacuating. What lights remained flickered on the straining backup generators.

There was some activity going on outside. What looked like a SWAT team, maybe several. He didn't see anyone he recognized. What kind of trouble were they in? Were Steve and his teammates still under arrest? If there was danger, would Ross allow them out to help? Howie guessed otherwise.

On the door, there was a keypad on both sides. It didn't respond to Howie's touch, and the door was certainly locked from the outside. It was possible the electronic lock was dead, maybe a manual one in place that he couldn't see from this side. The keypad sat on a metal plate, easily removed to reveal a baseplate screwed in all four corners. Tiny, miniscule screws.

Luckily, Howie always kept his handy-dandy mini tool set on him at all times. Howie knew he and Mia didn't have much in common; he didn't know Krav Maga, he couldn't kill a man with a letter opener, nor was he equipped with super strength; but Howie would get through this door just like she would. Just a little slower.

Removing the plate revealed a series of wires and a chipboard, rather simple in design considering its fancy, high-tech exterior. With a few sparks from the cut wires tapped together, Howie felt the click of the lock. Very slowly, he tested the handle, and it gave way. Howie peered out, checking to see if the way was clear. No sooner had he stepped out did his hearing aids pick up on shouting, rising in intensity and getting closer.

Alarmed, and without much of a plan in mind, Howie rushed out. He had some vague idea of getting out of the building with the intention of escape, of somehow getting back to the team, and telling them — telling them what? Howie didn't even know. He just knew something was very wrong and Mia was in trouble and they had to do something about it.

There was a spat of gunfire, only to be cut short, a distant yell. In the time it took for Howie to cross the hallway into the atrium, it had been completely evacuated - only moments ago it had been filled with people. Regular office folk just trying to do their work in the midst of a crisis. But now all that had changed, in mere seconds.

Barnes appeared out of nowhere. A blur of violence, bodies flying before he appeared at the top of the stairwell - having fought the entire way up from the vault several floors below. Howie didn't see Steve or Sam anywhere in sight.

Howie barely had time to get out of the way - throwing himself backwards, crawling and scrambling on his hands and knees, tucking himself into the nearest corner he could find: a waist high counter, the interior of which had shelves of bottles and liquids. Neither the short wall nor the bottles would provide much defense if any bullets were fired through.

Still, Howie grabbed one of the bottles, holding it in his two fists, holding it up against his shoulder as if he might take a swing at the Winter Soldier should he get too close. The silliness of such an attempt wasn't lost on him, but Howie was terrified out of his mind - he couldn't see the fighting, but he could hear it. The crash of glass and furniture. Grunts of impact, smacks and thumps of physical contact. The crack of something being smashed into the marble tile.

A tremendous crash rocked the wall, sending bottles flying and crashing to the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, various liquids splashing.

And there he was, standing over Howie. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. A massive shadow looming over him; pale, dead, empty eyes gazing down at him, the light gleaming off that metal arm.

Howie's breath caught in his throat, and he raised his improvised weapon, not to strike, but merely to protect. As if it would be of any defense.

The Winter Soldier blinked.

"Get away from him!"

Tony came almost out of nowhere, stumbling in his loafers and finely tailored suit — always looks nice, but was always so well-fitted to the point of being inflexible, as was now the case. Over one hand was a gauntlet, one of Tony's spare Iron Man units, just enough to fire a small repulsor blast at the Winter Soldier.

Enough to absorb the bullet when the Winter Soldier pulled the trigger from the gun Howie hadn't seen.

It effectively knocked the Winter Soldier back far enough to put Howie out of his line of sight. Howie was already scrambling to his feet when Agent Carter appeared from nowhere, clamped a hand down on Howie's shoulder so hard as to bruise, and hauled him out of there.

Howie tried to look back over his shoulder as Agent Carter dragged him away, wanting to make sure his dad was alright. Tony had been knocked to the floor, but was still moving — the Winter Soldier was already half-way across the room in what felt like an impossibly short amount of time. Howie watched in mute shock as what appeared to be King T'Challa dropped down the glass staircase to intercept, exhibiting some kind of superhuman strength and grace himself.

"Stay here!" Agent Carter shoved him into a tight alcove. "Don't move!"

This time, Howie did listen. Sort of. He still peeked his head out to watch, although there wasn't much of a fight left to witness. The Winter Soldier managed to escape the building, and reinforcements were already arriving in the atrium, with none other than Secretary Ross himself.

The once pristine room was now in shambles, marble flecked with bullet holes, cracks and broken glass everywhere, furniture tossed about like there'd been a tornado. Ross was shouting orders, while Natasha helped Tony to his feet, Italian suit officially ruined. It was such a cacophony that Howie couldn't make out much, even with adjusting his hearing aids.

He wanted to get out and get closer to hear, to understand — but very soon it became plainly evident that things were not going well. Ross and Tony were arguing. Steve and Sam were nowhere in sight. No one came back with the Winter Soldier captured.

"— want immediate lockdown, I want any and all parties contained —" Ross, shouting orders. "— get Rogers and Wilson back in cuffs, I want status updates on the other Enhanced —"

"— Status updates? They're not even in the damn country —!" Tony's voice broke through. He was nearly a full head shorter than Ross, but his dramatic gesticulations made him easy to spot.

"— Mr. Secretary, our only concern is Barnes —" Natasha tried to add, her cheek cut and bruised, her clothes torn in parts from her encounter with the Winter Soldier. "— None of the other Avengers are a danger in this situation —"

"Aren't they, Miss Romanoff?" Ross fired back, before turning to another officer. "I want men in New York locking down that tower. No one gets in or out."

"You can't do that! You don't have the authority!" Tony snapped. "There's innocent people working there! Regular people!"

"And Avengers, too, I'm sure." Ross countered. "Carter, arrest him."

"What?" Tony yelped, at the same time as Natasha and Agent Carter.

"You heard me, that man flagrantly broke the law, and is now a hindrance to justice," It was startling how cool Ross was about it, commanding an arrest like he was checking his wristwatch. Already security officers were closing in on Tony, even as Agent Carter hesitated. "Romanoff, too. I want every Avenger, every Mutant, super soldier, or Enhanced individual, man or woman of any age — under arrest until this situation is resolved."

"Sir, their rights —" Carter began.

"They forfeited those rights when they violated the Sokovia Accords."

Howie could only watch, stricken with horror, as they started to drag his father away. Tony refused to cooperate, though he wasn't particularly strong, still struggled and writhed as his gauntlet was removed and arms yanked behind his back. "This is illegal! The Accords haven't even been signed!"

"They have, actually," Ross said, adjusting his cuffs with cool regard. "The bomb may have been a tragic distraction, but the bill was signed, and it's working its way through the UN bureaucracy. By the time this makes it into the reports, it will most certainly be legal, Mr. Stark."

"Don't fight it, Tony," Natasha warned, raising her voice to be heard over Tony's continued struggles. She herself remained stiff as Carter cuffed her as well, her gaze freezing as she turned it upon Ross. "We'll get the lawyers involved. We can make this as painful as legally possible, since you're playing that way."

"I appreciate you playing by the book, Ms. Romanoff," Ross said, "But I'm afraid it's not your forte. Lieutenant, make sure they each find a comfortable cell. Now, where's the boy?"

Howie went still, tucking himself back as heads started swiveling. He'd completely forgotten about himself, that this involved him, too. Merda. What was he going to do?

"I don't know," Carter said, her voice carrying across the way. "He escaped the office during the fight. He could be anywhere."

"Alright, men, spread out! The little shit can't have gone far."

"Ross, I swear to God —" Tony began, spitting between curses.

"Let's go, people, I want this situation under control in the next twenty-four hours!" Ross called, no longer paying attention to him.

Howie tried to control his breathing, and was failing miserably. Bad enough to start feeling lightheaded. The atrium was abuzz with activity, watching his father getting dragged away, along with the only people he could rely on for help. Howie had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. If he stepped out now, he'd surely be arrested and locked away with the rest.

But if he stayed here, it'd only be a matter of time before he was caught. Agent Carter gave him time. Howie doesn't know why, doesn't understand the purpose of lying to Ross when her whole job was to help him — but there was no time.

He had to act. Had to decide. This was the critical moment, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Howie might have panicked.

Just a little.

With little regard to what he was doing or what was going to happen next, Howie threw himself out of the tiny alcove — and almost directly into the officer walking up that way.

The man jumped back, startled, just long enough for Howie to duck under his arms and make a break for the fire exit. "Whoa — hey! Stop!"

But Howie didn't listen, even as he felt all eyes turn in his direction. Heard Tony stop shouting, before he started again — this time calling Howie's name, as he sprinted across the marble floor as fast as his short little legs could carry him.

There was a side exit that led out onto some kind of balcony. All Howie could make out was the sunlight cast onto a clear open surface, bright skies overhead.

Freedom.

Until a shadow dropped down in front of him.

Howie gasped, skidding to a stop and not quite making it. He nearly slammed face first into the man, who at first he thought was the Winter Soldier — but was, in fact, the King of Wakanda, who managed to catch Howie before he could make a hard impact. Hands on his shoulders, large and warm, not tight, but still holding Howie in place.

Howie gaped up at him in surprise, and the King seemed about as confused, brow furrowing as he looked up at Howie's pursuers.

The armed men, too, came to a stop, further away. Flagging at the sight of King T'Challa — and the women that appeared on the platform above him, from the staircase he'd just jumped down from. Their imposing stature, indecipherable expressions, pinning the security officers in their places.

"Stay where you are!" Ross called, already storming up to the scene. "Arrest him, too!"

One of the officers whipped around in shock. "What? Arrest a King?!"

"For what purpose?" The King asked, tilting his head. He held out his hands, revealing he was unarmed. He wasn't in his armor, but Howie had seen him in action. The King didn't need his armor. "I have broken no laws. I abided by your requests to keep the peace until such peace was disturbed, and then acted to capture your prisoner. My father signed your Accords as you had hoped. Yet you point your guns at me, and you chase children like dangerous criminals. I thought I could trust my father's wisdom, that he knew who he allied with."

"We were allies," Ross snapped. "But your father failed to disclose — well, you. You may be a King, but you are not above our laws. Especially ones signed on behalf of your country."

"Your men have no sovereignty over me," King T'Challa declared, his voice loud despite his even tone, projecting clearly across the room. "Though you may try."

None of the officers moved, eyes wide with apprehension.

"Arrest him! That's an order!" Ross's shout echoed behind them.

After a moment's pause, and a gathering of a half a dozen more officers, the security team finally advanced; it was clear this would become another altercation, as no sooner they approached did the Dora Milaje drop down as well, their staves clanging against the floor.

Howie was able to scramble away in the confusion, right before they clashed. He wasn't sure if they were even paying attention to him anymore; all Howie knew was that he had to get away. The door was right there, right —

He slammed into it at full speed, and thankfully it gave. Howie nearly lost his balance as he stumbled out, still going too fast, into the warm sunlight and out onto the balcony. Berlin stretched out beyond, though the lights in the nearest buildings and infrastructure had all gone out.

Howie made it all the way to the edge before he saw the huge drop, and skidded to a stop. Oh, wow, that was a lot higher than he thought it was. At least sixty feet, if not more, onto cold, hard concrete.

"Stop! Don't do it!"

Howie turned around, panting, wind whipping at his hair. Out of the door burst what men could get through whatever fight was occurring with the King and his guard; Ross appeared, scowling furiously, while Agent Carter appeared behind him, the only one that dared to get close. The officers held back, looking more worried than scared, not wanting to see Howie jump.

"It's okay, Howie, you don't have to run!" Carter had to shout now that they were outdoors. There was a decent breeze, carrying the sound of the nearby water and traffic from the city. "Your father is safe, no one's going to hurt him or you. Let's just come back inside, alright?"

She stepped closer, and Howie stepped back. Carter's face started to pale, and she held out a hand to him, now standing only a few meters away. She lowered her voice, and Howie thought he heard a hint of desperation in there. "I promise, Howie. Everything's going to be okay. It'll all work itself out."

But Howie looked into those dark eyes of hers, the wind throwing her blonde hair into her face. And something in Carter's eyes didn't match what she was saying. Pleading, yes, but she didn't believe in what she said. Howie didn't believe she did.

"Please, Howie," Carter insisted, perhaps sensing his distrust. "Don't jump. Don't do that to your dad."

His dad. Tony. Iron Man. Now under arrest by a man consumed by power. Howie looked over her shoulder, saw Ross just standing there. Waiting. Silent. Uninvolved.

Confident. Knowing he'd already won.

Howie looked back at Carter, setting his jaw. "Can you tell my dad something?"

Carter raised her eyebrows, biting her lip. "Why don't you tell him yourself?"

But Howie shook his head. "Tell him…"

He scrambled for something. Howie had a dozen stupid, mushy things he wanted to say but never could. Things that Tony might brush off, or wouldn't appreciate. Not in the way Howie wanted him to. They weren't there yet. It had to be something he'd understand. "Tell him — I'm just following his example."

And then he stepped backwards off the balcony.

"No!"

Agent Carter lunged forward, her hand reaching out, only for it to close on empty air. Howie dropped into the open air.

The rushing wind swallowed her scream, and Howie could no longer hear anything beyond that. It nearly blew out his hearing aids if not for the metal helmet encasing his head.

And just in time too. Howie had no idea if the drop would be long enough before he went splat. But just as the concrete was rushing up to meet his face, the repulsors in his gauntlets and boots ignited — and with a thrilling burst of power, Howie shot up into the air at breakneck speed.

As he shot past the balcony, he caught the split-second glimpse of Agent Carter's shocked face, jaws dropping in unison across the balcony, officers scrambling back at the burst of sound and speed. Ross pointing his finger and shouting, but Howie couldn't hear him. Couldn't hear anything.

All he heard was his racing heartbeat, his frantic breathing as he rose higher and higher. Cavolo! He was flying! He was really flying! More than just a rickety machine crashing into the Vatican or jumping out of trees, Howie was well and truly soaring through the skies above Berlin.

Oh, if Mamma could see him now. She'd never let his feet leave the ground ever again.

But Howie's joy was short-lived, as he remembered his task. He had to reach the team, he had to save them, before the Secretary's forces got to them first.

He had to warn them: It was already too late.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two

✭

Higher and higher Howie soared, the entirety of Europe stretching out before him.

The launch probably would've given him whiplash if the suit hadn't provided neck support — as it was, it was not particularly thick, due to the collapsible nature given that it was all contained in two bulky but small vambraces. Howie had calculated how long it would take to fully arm itself — 5.6 seconds, give or take — and gave him just a hair's breadth of space for any mistakes.

Howie had been wearing those bracelets more out of habit than out of any actual need; but Mia had told him to always be prepared. And she was right. Howie didn't know what he'd be doing right now if he hadn't had his suit with him, if he hadn't decided to make it collapsible, portable on two cuffs. Tony had scoffed at the design concept, the smallest he could get his suits to fit was a briefcase. But Howie was both a lot smaller, and put in a lot less firepower.

It wasn't meant for combat. It wasn't even made for sustained flight, but what choice did Howie have, as he arched above the building, a dozen heads whipping back on the balcony to follow his ascent, and up and up over the city of Berlin, before flying west.

How wonderful, how small everything looked. Howie had never flown over a city before — his projects had always taken place above a forest in upstate New York, where he could maintain privacy and no interference. And seeing trees and mountains was one thing, but the streets, the cars, the people? So far away, so inconsequential, like a child's game.

How the horizon stretched out and out before him. The great dome of the sky expanding until Howie was looking out across what must be France and Belgium, Switzerland and the Alps. His HUD declared the continued increased height he was going, the flight patterns of nearby aircraft, and the connecting uplink to the satellites Tony used for communication. Howie hoped he could call everyone else before he reached the Atlantic, but as the dots ticked and ticked on, he got the sinking feeling that Ross had already taken down their global connectivity.

Which means he was in for a very long flight.

Howie tried to get his breathing back under control, not wanting to hyperventilate and pass out at twenty thousand feet. He had to focus, stick to the flight path, and hope he could make a local connection to either the Avengers Tower or the upstate facility before Ross' forces mobilized. It was mid-afternoon in Berlin, which meant it was around 9 AM in New York. Hopefully everyone was already awake.

FRIDAY had already mapped out a flight path on Howie's HUD. Tony was right about having an efficient cooling system, otherwise Howie's pretty sure his breath would've fogged up his visor by now. The helmet was more claustrophobic than he realized, but Howie was pleased to find he was already going at a pretty fast clip, and he hadn't even reached top speed yet. His flight suit was just that - a lightly armored set that was built for lightness and speed rather than combat, like any of Tony's suits. And Howie, with his smaller frame, made it even faster.

The Human Bullet, Tony had joked, when Howie had shown him the estimated flight speed projections.

Higher and higher he flew, nearly reaching peak velocity. Below, the Seine River snaked out through green mountains and dusky plains, all of France laid out before him, and then the Atlantic Ocean beyond. FRIDAY's path showed about two and a half hours of travel. It might be the fastest anyone has ever traveled around the world at this distance, but it still felt far too slow for Howie. But short of blasting himself into oblivion, he wasn't getting there any faster.

There was a weird ringing in his left ear; Howie was pretty sure that the hearing aid had blown out completely. His right ear was still fine, although it did make him a little disoriented.

But it was tolerable. Howie just had to focus on what FRIDAY was saying, both vocalized and text written out at the bottom of his HUD. Pay attention to his surroundings, the sky and the land and the sea, and the multiple diagnostics columns on either side of his display, and, of course, following the arcing line that marked the shortest distance from him to home. Easy peasy.

Then the jets appeared.

"We have incoming," FRIDAY reported, showing two red dots on a small circular map, a white dot at the center: himself. "French Air Force attempting to make radio contact. Shall I patch them through?"

"Uhh —" Howie made a face. His French was pretty rusty, and he doubted they'd be very friendly anyways. Either because they were on Ross' side, or because they were French. They probably wouldn't take Howie's misadventures as well as the Pope had.

Howie turned his head, and he could see to the left and the right, just behind him, flanked the two fighter jets. He could just make out the black helmets within the cockpits, pilots trying to figure out what they were looking at. Howie figured It wouldn't take them long to figure it out - aside from the fact he was silver (that is, unpainted titanium-alloy), the Iron Man was a recognizable figure, and Howie hadn't exactly strayed from the original design. What could he say? Classic never goes out of style.

"They're ordering you to land immediately," FRIDAY informed him, her Irish brogue as calm as ever. "They are in contact with Interpol, and they're enforcing the Accords. It does not appear they can be reasoned with."

Howie didn't doubt it. He wasn't going to make political negotiations over the phones with some pilots who're just doing their jobs. This was way over their payroll; Howie wasn't going to win no matter what he said. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Well," FRIDAY paused for a moment. "You could outrun them."

"Outrun them?" Howie was agog. That was so horribly illegal and dangerous. "Can we even do that?"

"Of course. Your power unit has enough energy left to take you to Canada," FRIDAY said. "These two Mirage 2000s can reach a maximum speed of Mach 2 and can travel as far as 1500 kilometers when fully equipped — but they are unlikely to follow you the entire way before being called back."

"You're saying I should bluff them?" Howie said, incredulous. He didn't want to play chicken with a couple of angry fighter pilots who would definitely start shooting at him. The small arc reactor hummed warm against his chest; the only thing he couldn't fit into his cuffs, and had to slap onto his chest when he needed it to anchor the entire suit.

"I'm suggesting you start wasting their fuel." FRIDAY responded lightly. "And perhaps sooner rather than later."

Howie had to take a few deep breaths, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the jets adjusted formation. They were going to attack.

He closed his eyes, steeling his nerves. Howie could give up now, he knew. Start descending, make for the French beaches before he flew past. But he couldn't. He couldn't give up.

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to give his flight suit a real test.

And with that, Howie nosedived.

The response from the fighter jets was immediate, banking hard to either side before dropping. Howie's stomach launched into his throat with the sudden drop, the incredible velocity at which he was moving.

His attitude indicator blitzed, going bright red, flashing a warning, but Howie knew what he was doing. Mostly.

Right now, Howie was just focusing on not panicking, as the earth rushed up to greet him. The sandy French coast and crystalline waters.

Howie didn't want to kill these pilots, of course, as he pulled up hard out of that nosedive at hundred meters to spare (descending at a rate of seven-hundred-sixty-one kilometers per hour, nearing the speed of sound). A hairpin turn, only when he was sure that the fighter jets were close enough to use caution — slowing down right before Howie took off in a major burst of speed. With their large aircraft, their metal wings shuddering to recover that lost momentum.

He kept telling himself to remember to breathe, even as his brain smashed against his skull and he prayed he didn't inadvertently throw himself into G-LOC. Howie was well-versed in all the wonders of flight - and the dangers. With the advancement of aircraft, it was all too easy to get a little overconfident and forget they were all still beholden to the laws of physics.

The edges of his vision started to gray, which told Howie he was treading that dangerous line. So he lowered the angle of his ascent, dropping speed only slightly — Howie had a decent head start now, zipping over the Atlantic.

Although Howie couldn't necessarily hear the jets giving chase, he could practically feel the vibrations in the air. Their engines, their almost-corporeal lethal intent. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did Howie have to dodge incoming fire.

His HUB had flashed in warning seconds before and Howie had even less time to react. His heart practically launched in his chest and Howie banked hard, left and down as flashes of gunfire shot past him.

A round pinged against his shoulder — a graze, as close as it gets before it actually hurt. The impact sent painful vibrations down his arm and back, but not bad enough he couldn't think through it. Howie had decent armor, but this wasn't combat-ready. The armor was more to protect from impact and accident; not entirely bullet-proof, and certainly not front the kind of rounds shot from a fighter jet.

Definitely can't let that happen again.

"You appear to have antagonized them," FRIDAY said helpfully.

"Hadn't noticed!" Howie muttered through gritted teeth, having to keep himself from squeezing his eyes shut out of sheer terror as he serpinetined left and right, up and down. Trying to render himself as an impossible target to shoot as possible. All Howie could think of were those wild rabbits that lived in the forest, that raced in such unpredictable patterns that no predator could catch them.

The Atlantic flashed beneath him, a glittering surface of rippling, rock-solid sapphire. Howie tried not to think of what would happen if the worst were to happen and he had to crash land in there. Would those chasing him even try to rescue what's left?

Or would they leave him there to sink to the bottom of the ocean?

Another round of fire — Howie now pulled up higher and higher into the atmosphere, as if that might somehow help him escape a bad end into the ocean. He dared to look behind him, over his shoulder. At the two jets giving chase, and the now impossibly-small coast of Europe, so far away now.

It had only been a few minutes, if that. Had he really traveled so far in such a short amount of time?

FRIDAY still had the flight plan up on his HUD, which Howie wasn't strictly following anymore — but he tried not to stray too far from the guided path as he bobbed and swerved.

Still the jets pursued, still they didn't let up. One let off his rockets — heat-seeking missiles, much to Howie's consternation.

He had no flares to set off, so had to resort to trickery. Thankfully, Howie had speed on his side, so much so that he could arc straight up — up, and up, and around until he was behind the jets, the missile following him like a very loyal golden retriever.

Alarmed, the pilots broke away, trying to get away from Howie. He stuck close to the one that hadn't fired at him — unsure why, maybe because he just felt like being a little shit. Mutually assured destruction and all that.

Howie had no fire capability of his own, so using theirs against them was his only recourse. He flew side-by-side to the cockpit, giving a little wave. All he could see of the pilot was a black helmet and face mask, quickly swiveling back and forth in a clear panic.

It would've been funny if he wasn't twenty meters of total annihilation, dogging his tail, but whatever.

Thankfully, Howie managed to outpace the missile — it had only so much fuel to make its strike, and eventually fizzled out, tumbling out of alignment and exploding. And flying this close to the second jet meant the first one wouldn't dare fire at him.

A temporary solution. But not a tenable one.

The second jet kept trying to shake him off, as if Howie were a very persistent spider attached to his wing. The pilot ultimately broke away by cutting almost all speed completely, dropping back hard. And Howie didn't follow, not when it meant he could finally get away.

But it did open him up to more missiles.

This time, the pilots maintained distance, far enough away that Howie couldn't turn around without giving the missile ample time to catch up to him.

It appeared as a flashing red arrow on his HUD, radiating lines as it got closer and closer. Howie didn't know how he was still breathing, but he was suddenly very aware of his pounding heartbeat as he once more began evasive maneuvers.

The heat of his mini arc reactor hummed warm against his chest — the only thing keeping Howie warm as everything just got colder and colder. He'd never flown this high before, or this fast. He wasn't wearing his usual thermal bodysuit with down lining. Just his regular clothes instead. Not ideal.

But Howie couldn't drop to a lower atmosphere just yet — not while trying to outlast another missile. He had less momentum this time, however, and had to resort to trickery when it got too close.

Howie had only seen the maneuver done in movies and simulations, but what the hell, he was probably going to die anyways — when the missile was close enough, Howie dropped speed.

His stomach dropped, heart skipping a beat, as he lifted up his chest and flipped over the missile backwards. Saw the flash of metal beneath him, the little red light flashing. Then his thrusters kicked in again and he shot off, just as the missile sensed his proximity and exploded.

Howie definitely felt the heat that time, far too close for comfort. When he checked his HUD again, he was dismayed to find that he had gone far off course from the flight path.

But the fight wasn't over yet.

Ahead, Howie could see clouds on the horizon — thick and dark, a rumbling maelstrom over the ocean. Perfect.

The flight path diverted around it, but Howie knew it was his only chance. "FRIDAY, chart me a course through the storm."

"Master Stark, I can't recommend that," FRIDAY said, her voice pitched with apprehension. He always hated when she used that term; Howie was pretty sure Tony did that as a joke, like they were a pair of noblemen or something. "I detect electrical storm activity in that cloud front. You're in a flying suit of metal, if you're struck —"

"The arc reactor can take it, can't it?" Howie interrupted, glancing once more behind him to see the fighter jets still on his tail. "Passenger jets fly through storms all the time."

"Your reactor may be able to absorb it." FRIDAY agreed reluctantly. "But it may also overload your systems as well. You will also have to contend with turbulent winds, they'll be highly unpredictable, especially for small aircraft. It may cause you to crash."

But Howie considered himself much safer and more stable in his little suit than he would in a jet, with wings that caught every gust of wind.

The storm loomed closer.

The jets dropped back slightly.

Howie bit his lip, hoping they'd retreat completely. But as he dropped lower to meet the storm, so did they. Howie wondered if they'd just fly over it. Hopefully the storm would disrupt their radar at the very least.

And then it was too late to turn back.

The first gust of wind hit Howie like a freight train, followed by a sudden onslaught of rain. The world went dark in an instant, and before Howie could figure out his next move, he was tossed to the left, to the right — to and fro like a little boat caught at sea.

Water streamed down his visor in a never-ending onslaught. Between the thick, dark grey clouds, which were completely indiscernible from the black raging seas below, Howie was almost completely lost. He couldn't even tell if he was right side up or upside down. He cried out as another gust tossed him into a loop-de-loop, and Howie finally got an idea of how low to the surface he was when his foot caught against the top of a wave.

Howie cursed and fought against the wind to gain altitude. It was like trying to fly through a slurry, thick molasses that had a violent mind of its own. Howie was no longer in control — it was all he could do to stay in the air and pray that the winds would take him where he needed to go.

Only his HUD told him he was moving in the right direction; FRIDAY mapped his current flight pattern, and all Howie could make out of it was a terribly hilarious squiggly line, like a child had drawn across a sheet of paper.

"FRIDAY, can you tell if they're still following me?"

"My sensors can't read through the storm," FRIDAY reported, much to Howie's worry. "It is just as likely that they can no longer track you. My last reading indicates that they did not follow you in."

"Good," At least, Howie hoped that was good. The map indicated that the maelstrom continued on for several dozen miles, a horrendous storm he didn't envy anyone to endure.

On and on it went, with Howie being tossed like a rag doll amidst the wind and rain. He understood now while sailors both feared and revered the sea and storm as gods. Even in the modern age they were completely indomitable, and survival would be a combination of great skill and pure chance.

A flash of lightning struck out, an incredible blast of light that almost sent Howie directly into the sea again. It was so close that the following crash of thunder hit almost immediately, hammering at his eardrums. For a split second, the entire world was illuminated, and Howie was able to see the pattern of clouds, thick and roiling, colliding into each other. The waves of the sea, rising several stories high, white caps frothing in the gale.

And then darkness fell again, another buffet of wind hitting Howie in the back and thrusting him downwards, up again, veering far to the right. He was terrified out of his mind, but a distant thought told him that someone like Mia might've enjoyed this, in her own scary way. The thrill, the adrenaline, the sheer power of nature, flying so close to death they could high-five each other on the way past.

On and on it went. Narrowly avoiding trees of light, the cresting waves reaching up to snatch him out of the air. Howie had no idea how much time had passed. Minutes, an hour? There's a clock on his HUD, not that he had the time to read it, or think to ask FRIDAY.

The flight path remained clear, bright orange against the startling darkness. It was still daytime, but he might as well be lost in the middle of the night.

And then, just as suddenly as it appeared — the storm was gone.

Howie hadn't noticed at first, the way the world began to lighten. Not until he was completely out did the rain finally stop, did the wind finally retreat. Flying was no longer a fight for his life, but once more a pleasant gliding through the air.

The suit wasn't completely waterproof (a design flaw to reconsider later); parts of Howie were soaked, and he was shivering hard, breathing fast, his fingers and toes completely numb. FRIDAY detected his lowered body temperature and activated a few systems to warm up the armor. It wouldn't dry him out, but at least it'll get the blood flowing again.

Howie was so tossed up and turned around that he was only aware of the fact that he was still alive, and still following the flight path — completely forgetting his previous concern. But when he flipped around to look behind him, Howie saw nothing, no one else in the sky.

The fighter jets were long gone.

"I detect no other aircraft in the vicinity." FRIDAY reported, much to his relief. "I suggest maintaining low altitudes from this point onwards, so you'll face no interference returning to the States."

She didn't have to tell Howie twice.

Finally, finally, as he hit the coast, he could finally make a local connection to New York. But there was a problem. There was always another problem.

"Ross is on the lookout for any communication made by Avengers personnel or liaisons." FRIDAY informed him. "All nearby radars are on high alert to intercept any potential messages, encrypted or otherwise."

Which meant that no matter what Howie sent, Ross will get it too, maybe he'll even get it first and stop it from reaching the Avengers compound. But there was one signal he couldn't block completely. "Send the emergency distress beacon!"

"Right away, Master Stark."

It was the best he could do, maybe a twenty-minute warning before he was finally able to land in that forested compound; Wanda, Pietro, and Vision already outside, ready to greet him. Small ant-sized dots, growing very big very fast.

"Howie! We got your beacon," Vision was the first to reach him, gliding off the ground. "What happened? You said you wouldn't attempt a trans-Atlantic flight without me —"

"Are you okay?" Wanda demanded at the same time. "Where's Stark? Why are you alone?"

"Did they really catch the Winter Soldier?" Pietro also said, all three trying to speak over each other. "Is it— is it him again?"

There's no way Howie could answer them all at once. Out of breath, heart pounding, damp, half frozen to death, completely deaf in one ear and partially in the other, Howie came to stumbled landing, not even fully standing on his two feet before trying to pull off his helmet and talk with his hands at the same time. "Guys — they're coming — Ross — the Avengers —"

His hands couldn't move fast enough and Howie doubted his mouth was making much sense either, unable to hear himself speak very well.

Vision had to catch Howie in order to effectively slow his momentum. "Wait, what are you trying to say? What about Ross?"

"What happened to the Avengers?" Pietro demanded. "Did the Winter Soldier really set that bomb?"

But Howie was getting too overwhelmed, struggling to breathe. Was probably this close to breaking down into helpless tears.

It was Wanda who managed to get straight to the point, her voice speaking directly into his head. Show me.

That was easy enough — the last twenty-four hours easily flit through his head, all there for Wanda to see in it's entirely. From Howie's perspective at least. Howie didn't know if she also relayed this mental information to the other two, but it gave him enough time to gather his thoughts into one succinct goal.

"— Go! We have to go!"

✭✭✭

The warehouse was quiet.

Dark, barren, boarded up windows. And a very convenient vice strong enough to pin a vibranium arm in place until its owner calmed down.

It was a solid hour, after their hectic escape and finding this "safehouse" (although Steve very much doubted it would stay safe for long), and after getting him locked down, for Bucky to finally start acting like himself again. The protocol had already been broken by the time they pulled out of the river, but that didn't mean Bucky was out of the woods yet. He was shaking, constantly trying to get away, and speaking completely incoherently. Steve wanted to help him, but Bucky was in no state to be running off as a loose cannon, completely out of his head.

Just being near him had Bucky out of sorts, so he and Sam kept watch from a nearby room, just out of sight. Sam kept shaking his head to himself, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept them to himself. Steve wanted to ask, but he had a feeling he wouldn't like it. Besides, if Sam wanted him to know, he wouldn't hesitate to tell Steve like it is.

So, they waited. Watched and listened as Bucky strained against the vice, groaning and shouting without much sense; like waiting for an upset child to tire himself out into a much-needed nap.

And in the meantime, Steve worried. Worried about the team, about what kind of shitshow they just left behind. Ross must really be on the warpath now. Probably arrested the entire team; wondered idly about the Wakandan king and where he would stand in all of this. About poor Howie, caught in the middle of it all. The kid wasn't a criminal. Didn't deserve to be treated like one, especially as an adult.

But there was nothing Steve could do about that right now. He couldn't fix any of that — not yet, at least. Right now, he was just doing what he could. Recovering, recuperating, regrouping. Once he had Bucky back, they'll come up with a plan,

At last, the other room grew quiet. Sam peeked around the corner, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like he passed out."

Steve got up, doubtful. He could still hear Bucky's heart, beating too fast to be considered a resting rate. No way he was asleep. "I'll check up on him. You hang back."

Sam scoffed. "Don't have to tell me twice."

Yet he still followed (a healthy few feet behind), as Steve gingerly stepped into the room, back into Bucky's line of sight. The man twitched immediately upon notice; body bent over at a sharp angle, Bucky was practically on his knees, neck and shoulder straining silently against the vice. But not as much as before.

"Do you remember me?" Steve asked, stomach clenching at what might be the answer.

Bucky was silent for a long time, pale eyes hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. But Steve knew Bucky was watching him. Carefully, like an animal caught in a trap, evaluating the threat.

Then: "Your mother's name was Sarah."

Like a gut punch. Steve came to a sudden stop, blinking in surprise. Bucky hadn't remembered his mother, last they'd seen of each other.

"You used to stuff your shoes with old newspaper to keep warm," Bucky added, and this time Steve couldn't fight a smile. For a split second, they were boys again, ribbing each other over their own special cases of poverty.

But that was a long time ago. "Do you remember where we are? Who you are?"

Bucky have a pained nod, grimacing. "Y-yes, I remember. Ross. The cell. Germany. I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —"

"I know," Steve didn't need an apology. Not from Bucky, not for this. "It wasn't your fault. We just need to know what happened."

Bucky blinked up at him, eyes wide with dismay. "Didn't you see?"

Steve and Sam shared a look. Sam cut Bucky a hard look, "We didn't see anything. The power went out. By the time we got down there, the doc was gone and you were out."

"And Mia?" Bucky asked, looking between the two of them, desperate, hopeful, terrified. He opened his mouth as if to inquire further, but the question died in his throat. He read Steve and Sam's expression immediately. Accurately.

Metal hand curled into a fist, straining against the vice. Gritted teeth. "Where is Mia?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Three

✭

"How's that?"

"I think his hair came down a little closer."

"Hmm. Like that?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it."

"And his eyes, they were blue. Not that, er, you have a blue pencil."

Steve made a note of it, erasing through the irises slightly to indicate the lighter color. Each time he showed Bucky his sketch, each time his stomach lurched at the sight. Each time it looked more and more like the man he saw.

Like the man who took Mia.

Like…

"Gotta admit," Bucky mumbled, scratching his jaw and turning his gaze to the floor, when the sketch became too much to look at. "You're a better artist than I remembered."

Steve smiled briefly, a bit of a wry smirk there as he went back to adding details in the image. "I used to sketch portraits for money, remember? Especially when men were going off to war — they wanted something for their folks to remember them by."

Those words brought up an ancient memory, seeing a smaller, younger Steve hunkered on a park bench. An upturned cap to collect money, a sketchbook and small box of charcoal in his hands. It always amazed Bucky how easily Steve could capture someone's likeness in a few simple strokes, how a face could appear out of the void of white paper. Steve had a pencil instead of charcoal now, and was using the backside of an old leaflet, but it hindered his skills very little. When he was done, he showed the sketch to Bucky once more, before handing it over to Wilson.

The three of them sat in a circle around some old crates, still in that warehouse. They had yet to be found and Bucky didn't want to move while he still had the images fresh in his mind. He needed Steve to capture it first, before they made any moves. Before he forgot again.

"This is the guy, huh?" Wilson asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. "Looks like a generic white guy to me. But it does look like the man who we saw on the security feeds."

He handed the sketch back to Steve, who frowned at it. "That's not the only person he looks like."

"What do you mean?" Wilson asked; he'd been the only one to find an actual chair and was now sitting backwards on it, arms resting atop the back.

Steve flipped the image back to Bucky. "Tell me if this reminds you of someone else." Then, to Wilson, "There's always a risk of a sketch artist using their own biases when mocking up a person they've never seen. Well, both the artist and the witness. Because this looks like someone I — we — have met before. A long time ago."

"What? Who?"

Bucky knew the answer to that question. He stared long and hard at those cold eyes, the blue in the details. "The Baron. Heinrich von Zemo."

That received a blank look from Wilson. "Sounds German. The other guy was German, too."

"Well, this guy," Steve said, nodding at Bucky — clearly, he'd seen the same thing. "Was a top-level scientist for the Nazis during the war. In exchange for his work, he was allowed to keep his land and title to pass it on to his children. He was one of the men who helped form HYDRA."

"We killed him," Bucky said, his voice low. "In 1944."

He still remembered firing the shot. Steve was up close, of course, punching the bastard so hard he knocked the stupid crown off his head. Bucky had been in the rafters of Baron von Zemo's lab, rifle in hand, lining up the shot. It had been a tough one, between trying not to hit Steve and get a good visual through the building smoke, the laboratory going up in blazes around them.

Took the man right between the eyes.

The Baron was dead. They had double-checked, just to be sure.

No one could come back from that.

"Hard to tell how old he is here," Steve studied the sketch for a long moment. "But Zemo had been in his forties, and this is pretty close to the same age, I think. It's… spooky."

"But there's no way it can be him," Wilson said, throwing out a hand. "One, he's dead. Two, even if he was alive, he'd be a geriatric. Are you sure this guy didn't just resemble the old fucker?"

"It's possible." Steve said.

"It's probable," Bucky grumbled at the same time, now doubting himself completely. That sketch was the spitting image of the man who took his daughter — but it was also an uncanny resemblance to an old foe, long dead. "Either way, it's nothing to go off of. We can't use it. Not when we have… biases."

Steve had a point. It could be either of them placing Zemo's image on this unrelated man. To put a Nazi's face on some guy would be too damning. It wasn't evidence. It wasn't a lead they could follow. Just old war stories brought back to haunt them. And ghosts, no matter how evil, weren't going to save Mia, or clear Bucky's name.

"Well, it's something we can show people, at least," Wilson suggested with a shrug, already losing interest, looking at his burner phone. "And in the meantime, we have real evidence to use. Like the fact that his name definitely isn't Dr. Theo Broussard,"

"How do you know?" Steve snapped his head around, leaning over to look at whatever messages Sam just received.

"Carter just texted me. Said they found the real Broussard's body in his hotel room. Facial software linked the fake Broussard's face to another identity. Some guy named… Rudi Schmidt. Who names their kid Rudi? Apparently, he lives with his girlfriend here in Berlin. The guy's got no criminal record, looks like it's his real name. His citizen status states he's a natural-born German citizen, and his parents and grandparents before him — but she says there must have been a name change in the Fifties because the family records stop there."

"Wait, why is she telling us this?" Bucky scowled, suddenly suspicious. He didn't know Carter very well, just that one meeting at Peggy's birthday, and then only what Steve had told him; former SHIELD, now CIA liaison working with Interpol. The enemy du jour.

"Probably because she likes Steve," Wilson replied casually, then smirked when Steve threw him a look. "What? I'm not blind."

Steve blinked, and apparently decided better than to entertain that. "Did she say anything else?"

"Only that we have two hours before she's required to inform her superiors." Wilson said.

"Sounds like a trap." Bucky muttered, turning his scowl to his hands. Steve didn't tell him that much about Carter. Why? Did he think Bucky would hold it against him or something? But Bucky can't hold on to the resentment, not when it felt so petty with everything else going on.

"It's not," Steve assured him, before taking the phone to better read the address. "The address is close. She's given us a head start — let's not waste it."

There was no arguing to be had; though Bucky had his doubts, it was easy to fall into Steve's shadow, letting him lead the way. Steve made it easy like that, made following feel like second-nature, like it was the right thing to do. Bucky didn't doubt him for a moment.

The three of them, however, did not exactly blend in on Berlin's streets — not with their faces plastered on every TV and LCD screen in a nationwide radius. Disguises were required; in total, it meant changing their general silhouettes as much as they could. Which wasn't easy, given that they were all tall, all broad, a lot of muscle and bone that couldn't simply be hidden away; and Wilson insisted that as the only Black man in Berlin, he would not go unnoticed.

They did their best with hats, hoods, sunglasses. Trading their old clothes with some quietly picked up at a thrift shop, and then moving separately. Apart they could be indistinguishable, but as a group? Interpol and city police would be looking for a group of three men of their exact description.

Like fish threading through fields of seaweed, they each made their own separate way in the same direction, agreeing to rendezvous at the address in Spindlersfeld. Bucky would've liked to have gone via the rooftops, where he was less likely to be spotted on the ground; but with helicopters in the area, that might make him more noticeable, especially in the daytime.

The buildings here were old, like so many cities in Europe. Filled with histories, lives, ghosts. Old stone walls laced with old pockmarks; bullet holes. Some filled in, some not. Apparently, the city had been divided in half at one point, a giant wall cutting through the city. And before that, a gleaming city of economic splendor and cultural beauty. Or so the propaganda reels said.

Old ghosts. Old wars.

The three of them appeared like phantoms out of the shadows, onto the front porch of a narrow townhouse. Utterly mundane, even picturesque, with the blooming flower boxes on the windows and a manicured front lawn. White painted door and windows. Quaint, but welcoming. Open. No secrets to be hidden here.

It gave Bucky chills. The man who kidnapped his daughter couldn't live here of all places, could he?

Steve's German wasn't as good as Bucky's, but he had the stronger bedside manner, and was a lot less threatening. The three of them wondered if the woman would even talk to them, and if she would, would she let all of them in? That seemed unlikely. But neither Bucky or Wilson wanted to be left out of what may be a very informative conversation. So, they tried their best not to look like fugitives of the law while Steve rang the doorbell.

A woman opened the door. Mid-thirties, pretty, blonde and blue-eyed. She blinked curiously at them, confused. "Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"

Bucky relaxed slightly. Her reaction wasn't alarm or panic, which meant she didn't recognize them. Maybe she hadn't seen the news yet.

"Hallo, entschuldigen Sie die Störung. Sind Sie Annaliese Wagner?"

"Ja, wer sind Sie?"

And just like that, Steve seamlessly spun a sorry tale, of searching for her boyfriend, whose parents knew his parents who knew each other from way back when. Friends forged through fire, and now their son looking to rekindle the connection. It's soulful, it's heartrending, it's utterly convincing. Natalia couldn't have done it any better.

Annaliese Wagner opened right up to them, apparently charmed by the story — and apparently very dumb, or at least naive, welcoming Steve and his two travel buddies inside the house to talk more. The living room was tiny, barely enough seats for them all, but the three large men manage to squeeze together; Steve on the nice rocking chair while Bucky and Wilson cramped together on the loveseat, a silent, uncomfortable audience. They do their best to smile and wave and play the dumb American tourists Ms. Wagner would expect of them. Thankfully, she and Steve switch to English, as she brings them some complementary tea in absolutely tiny tea cups.

Bucky feels ridiculous trying to sip from them, still shaky from the day's earlier events. Like all of Europe wasn't on their asses, ready to shoot without asking questions first. But here they sat in a lacy, flowery den that smelled thickly of potpourri.

"Sorry for not having anything else on hand," Annaliese apologized, as she set the tray down on the coffee table between them. Crackers and cheese weren't a lot, but at least it was something. "We don't receive visitors very much. Rudi is very private, you see."

"That's okay," Steve smiles, easy as pie. "Do you know when he might be back?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe not for a few days. He has long work trips. But I'm sure he'd be so pleased to hear of your stories. I'm sorry to say his parents died a long time ago, but Rudi loved them very much. Family is very important to him."

She smiled and simpered and Bucky didn't fail to notice the shiny rock on her finger. A large emerald, unusual when diamonds were so common in this day and age, but Bucky could tell its age, the old wrought gold. A family heirloom. Not wanting to be the weird quiet guy, he tried to be polite. "You're getting married?"

"Oh, yes!" Annaliese looked down at her hand, feigning surprise as if she forgot it was there, and then beamed at him. She clutched her hands to her chest. "He proposed last month. No date set yet, but we're very excited."

"Congratulations," Steve said, offering his teacup as a toast, and Wilson and Bucky followed suit. Along the wall behind her seat was a fireplace, an array of pictures along the mantle. All of Annaliese and Rudi.

Steve gestured to the photo closest. "Is that him? My parents told me the Schmidts had a son, but I've never seen him before."

"Handsome, isn't he?" Annaliese said, pulling down the frame so they could take a closer look. Looking exactly like the man Bucky saw. Exactly like the sketch in Steve's pocket. "Rudi's a professor at the university, he'll be making tenure soon. He teaches genealogy, and his work takes him all around the world. Lots of studies, you know?"

"Oh, I'm sure," Steve said with the blank smile of a man who has no idea what a genealogy professor does. "You know, speaking of genealogy, I'd done some research before I came here. Mostly to make sure I had the right family, the right guy. Schmidt is a common name, obviously, but when I found Rudi, I noticed his family history only goes back so far, at least on those heritage websites. It made finding him difficult."

"Ah, I see," Annaliese nodded, her smile fading slightly. Apparently, Steve had touched on an uncomfortable topic, and she sat back slightly. Her shoulders rose and fell awkwardly. "He doesn't speak that far back of his family, but I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear that his great-grandfather served in World War Two. Just a common soldier, I think. But enough for his family to change their name afterwards. A fresh start."

Bucky trained his face to keep from reacting any, how carefully Annaliese worded her answer, all the things left unsaid. Neither he nor Steve got to witness what happened after the war was over, but he'd picked up some details since then. The trials, the laws, the shame. It wasn't surprising, he decided. But still. Something tickled in the back of his mind.

"Oh, of course, I understand." Steve said, and before the awkwardness could linger any longer, he deftly changed the subject. "His parents ended up living in East Berlin, right? I think that's how my parents ended up encountering them."

"A very different time back then," Annaliese nodded seriously.

"If you don't mind me asking, when did Rudi leave for work?"

"Oh, about a week ago, he left for a study taking place in Italy. He said he'd be back soon. If you'd only come a little sooner…"

As they continued making chitchat, Wilson checked the time, and subtly twisted his arm so Bucky could also read his watch. They had less than twenty minutes before their time was up.

Steve was still using that soft touch, keeping this only a conversation, and not an interrogation. A lot of go arounds with frivolous mentionings and casual lies; not the intense interrogation, getting the information they needed. Surely this woman had to know her fiancé wasn't who he said he was. That he was lying to her. About what, Bucky had no idea. Didn't know why Rudi Schmidt happened to be a dead ringer for a long dead man.

Excusing himself to the bathroom, he managed to glimpse a few more family photos hanging along the hallway walls. Old photos, a man in the seventies or eighties, with great sideburns and thick aviator glasses that hid his eyes. Long hippie hair. Rudi's father, perhaps, features partially hidden beneath the beards that were in fashion at the time.

Clearly the Schmidt genes were very powerful in this family. Another portrait, a man and a woman in vintage wedding garb. His parents, happily married. No photos of children, though. Not what Rudi might have looked like while young. Maybe that was a weird thing to hang up in your fiancée's house.

In the bathroom, he heard Steve manage to convince Annaliese to trade him Rudi's cell phone number. Clever bastard. Bucky would've just stolen her phone.

But then he hears it. Cars pulling in. Several, at once, heavy police vehicles dragging their tires through tiny streets. All drawing in at the same time, to the same location.

Here.

Bucky didn't bother going back to the living room. Simply jumped out the bathroom window, while Steve and Wilson made a very quick good-bye and somehow managed to bustle themselves out her back door, much to Annaliese's alarm. But she didn't have time to follow them, stalled when another knock came at her door.

They were long gone by the time she opened it.

✭✭✭

EIGHT HOURS LATER
THE RAFT

"I know I'm probably an outlier here," Clint announced to the room at large. "But this place sucks balls."

The Raft was the brainchild of a crazy architect and an even crazier psychopath. Who the hell invented an underwater prison facility? Who put the stamp of approval? "I'm, like, ninety percent sure this violates the Geneva Conventions. I didn't even get a lawyer."

"None of us got lawyers, Clint," Nat sighed in the cell next to his. He couldn't see her, unless he pressed his face to the glass and turned his gaze hard enough to the right that it hurt his eyeballs. He could just make out the glint of red hair. "You weren't supposed to let yourself get arrested. At least one of us should be out there helping Steve. Didn't you get my message?"

"Oh, yeah, after the kids left me high and dry," Clint huffed, folding his arms across his chest and slumping on the cot they called a bed. "Little shits didn't even tell me the feds were coming. One second, we were having a pizza party, the next they're rushing out the door, saying something about Howie. When I went to check on them, they were gone. And the FBI was on our lawn. So, you know. I played nice."

"You saw Howie?" Tony called from across the cell block, looking excited. The guy looked like he got into a fistfight with a dump truck and lost. His suit jacket was gone and the white shirt underneath was torn at the shoulder seam. He had a black eye and bloody knuckles. "He got to you guys in time?"

"I didn't see him," Clint clarified, still annoyed about the whole thing. He already wasn't thrilled being assigned Head Babysitter for the baby Avengers, just trying to keep a lid on things while the rest of the world went to hell in a handbasket. Clint thought he had a pretty good handle on things until he suddenly didn't. "But apparently he was there. I could smell that ozone exhaust stuff from one of those suits. They must have flown away just in time. And since no one else is gonna ask, who are those guys?"

He gestured to the two other occupied cells. One who looked like that African king Clint saw on the news, sitting silently on his cot, cross-legged and eyes closed, apparently deep in meditation. In the other, a tiny old man raging at the four walls around him; he'd been like that ever since Clint was first thrown in here an hour ago, and hadn't stopped since. Apparently, it was annoying enough that their warden had muted the cell so no one had to listen to him anymore.

"That's King T'Challa of Wakanda," Nat said, sounding bored. "His father was killed in the bomb. He tried to kill Barnes, and then Ross had him arrested. It's kind of a long story."

If this King heard their conversation, he didn't let on. Clint pointed in the other direction. "And the old guy?"

"That's Hank Pym," Tony said, staring at the older man with open amazement. "I have no fucking idea why he's here."

"How do you know him?"

"Oh, he used to work with my dad," Tony shrugged. "Pym hated him."

"Is he, like, famous or something?"

"Not that I know of. My old man mentioned him once or twice, but whatever work they did was under wraps."

"Enough to land him here, years after the fact?" Nat asked, in that tone of voice Clint knew so well. She knew something was up. Ross wouldn't go out of his way to arrest some outdated retiree if he didn't think the guy was a danger in some way. Maybe he knew something they didn't. Maybe his work, decades after Howard Stark was dead, was somehow still relevant.

"Dunno," Tony wiped at his face, looking around his cell again. Four walls, three of metal, one of bullet-proof glass that allowed them to stare at each other in increasing desperation. It hadn't even been a full day for Clint yet, and he was already going stir-crazy. "Don't suppose anyone has any helpful ideas right now. Pym not included. Anyone here from Hulk or Thor?"

"Both off-world," Clint replied. He knew because he sent one last emergency alert before he was arrested. "Rhodes is still in DC as far as I know. That government job is probably the only thing keeping him out there and not in here. You said Rogers and Wilson are still out there?"

"They got away, far as we know," Nat said, and he could hear the faint taps of her feet, pacing in her small cell. "Probably with Barnes. They must be hunting down the man who activated Barnes, and took Mia. Meanwhile, Ross is acting with the full power of the Accords. Any Enhanced individual, Mutant or otherwise, is being detained."

"How am I Enhanced?" Clint threw up his arms, before letting them flop on the bed. "I'm just a guy with a bow and arrow. I didn't blow up any buildings. Not recently anyways."

"I think vigilante is enough," Nat said wryly. "You think Hawkeye is going to be okay?"

"Hawkeye is fucked," Clint sighed, then scowled at the wall that split their cells. Was Nat talking about him Hawkeye, or the other Hawkeye that he wasn't going to acknowledge, and definitely not in a prison cell where they were definitely being monitored 24/7? Better play it safe. "Hawkeye wants a pizza. You think if we tip high enough, we can do delivery?"

Clint was joking, of course, trying to cut the tension. They were all on edge, lions in their cages, rattling and roaring. It was completely wrong to be trapped here. Half of the original Avengers were out of commission. Another two were completely unable to help. Just Steve and whatever allies he could find.

Oh yeah. And a bunch of meddling kids.

Yeah, they totally stood a chance against Ross and his multinational army of goons.

Totally fine.

"This is all my fault," Tony moaned, completely ignoring Clint's humor. Tony had his face in his hands, slowly sliding down the wall until his butt was on the floor, in total defeat. "I should've fought harder, I shouldn't have let Howie go off alone —"

"There's a lot of things we should've done differently," Nat said. "But there's no point in crying about it now. We can't expect Steve to try and save us. Not all the way out here, with no resources."

"And what, we're supposed to break out? With the same lack of resources?" Tony snapped back, throwing her a scowl. "I don't think I could even call my suits here. And even if I could, I can't take all of you. I don't even know what this place is capable of. How to get this hunk of junk out of the water."

Clint could almost feel it. He could hear it, the rumble, the hum of the ocean all around them, just beneath the noise of the air filtration system. It rumbled and shifted whenever there was a visitor, but nothing that any of them could truly tell. There were no windows in here. Just twelve cells in a circular block, ready and waiting to be filled with a bunch of helpless, angry people.

It was going to be a bad time.

And then, the elevator whooshed open, without so much as an announcement. Everyone in the cell block turned to look as the warden, a tough old guy who looked to be retired military, and Agent Carter walked into the block. Behind them, a tall woman with a spear and a golden gorget, her dark eyes not sparing any of them a glance as the trio went straight for the King's cell.

His door opened, and the man rose to his feet.

"Apologies, your Highness," Agent Carter spoke in a stilted, polite tone, her expression completely flat. "Your diplomats and lawyers petitioned for your release."

"On certain limits," the warden added roughly.

"What?" Tony squawked from across the room. "He gets to go free? What about us?"

"Your lawyers are on their way to Switzerland," was all Carter said as they passed back towards the elevator. "Until then, we'll see."

"This is illegal!" Tony called after them. "A human rights travesty! Those Accords are never gonna last. They'll get appealed! And I'm gonna sue the hell out of Ross!"

If his threats meant anything, it didn't get across — the elevator door sucked shut once more, and the group was gone. The King of Wakanda, once their prisoner in arms, now a free agent once more. Clint didn't know if that was a good thing or not. Didn't the guy try to kill Barnes? Assuming Barnes was innocent, of course. Not that Clint was totally convinced. But he didn't want to get into an argument with Nat.

"Damn them!" Tony punched the wall when it was too late. He winced and shook out his hand. "Shit. We really screwed the pooch, didn't we? Alright, gang, we really gotta find a way outta here. I can't wait for my lawyers. I'd love to hear some good ideas, Nat."

"Why don't you ever ask me for good ideas?" Clint complained.

Tony threw him a look. "Do you ever?"

"Well, no—" Clint scoffed. "But it's nice to be asked." He thumped the wall next to him with his fist. "Alright, Nat, let's hear it. What's the next great escape?"

But he got no reply. Across from him, Tony jumped up, suddenly cursing. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me —!"

"What? What is it?" Clint asked, frantic as he tried to press his face against the glass again, get a peek across the wall.

All Tony could do was point to the empty cell. "She's gone!"

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four

✭

Peter's phone screen glowed brightly in the dark hotel room.

He had the brightness on the lowest setting, but he still feared it would wake up Aunt May in the bed next to him. Well past midnight, Peter knew he should be sleeping as well. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't know how, not when he was scanning every newsfeed he could find.

Interpol had so generously offered to house them personally at a hotel upon their arrival in Berlin; a blessing in that they definitely couldn't afford the short-notice nightly rates here. Nor a place so nice. Two beds, air conditioning, a spotless bathroom.

And no TV.

That had stood out to Peter almost immediately. He also couldn't find any Wi-Fi network to connect their laptop to. He didn't want to think about the level of data he was consuming right now just to access the internet on his phone, just glad that Howie did him a solid before they left for their flight. But right now, all Peter could feel was a dawning dread.

After nearly a solid day of travel, and then being stuck at the hotel, Peter had the feeling Interpol was stalling, preventing them from seeing Mia. He'd been so exhausted when they first got here that at first Peter hadn't really noticed. Just really wanted to sleep. But after a generous nap with no news and a frustrated Aunt May trying to navigate the phone tree of Berlin, Peter had begun to wonder. And only now, reading headline after headline, story after story, of how the Avengers were either arrested or fugitives of the law — Peter didn't think they'd be seeing Mia after all.

If Interpol even had her.

Not that they'd admit it, of course. Peter wasn't stupid. But he didn't fail to notice that Mia didn't show up in any of these headlines about Captain America, the Falcon, the Winter Soldier. How Tony "Iron Man" Stark attacked a US official and how the upstate Avengers compound was raided. Each new piece was like a punch to the gut.

Not that they'd admit it, of course. Peter wasn't stupid. But he didn't fail to notice that Mia didn't show up in any of these headlines about Captain America, the Falcon, the Winter Soldier. How Tony "Iron Man" Stark attacked a US official and how the upstate Avengers compound was raided. Each new piece was like a punch to the gut.

Peter had been scanning the news desperately for any sign that it might be about Mia. He remembered what happened in DC, and knew that if they did have her, it would be under wraps. But if they were chasing her and making a big mess out of it, there'd be a trail.

And if she was… under control? If someone had her leash? Peter shuddered to think about it. But it was a possibility Mia had warned him of. And there were a couple different news stories that pricked his interest. An old man arrested in San Francisco. A family attacked in the Bronx, a boy shot. No word on what happened to them or why. The kind of mystery that one might believe would be tired to Mia.

But Peter couldn't be sure.

And if it wasn't about the Avengers, it was about Secretary Ross. Thunderbolt Ross, warmongering general-turned-politician, and operating with the same amount of grace (or lack thereof) as he had before.

How the Sokovia Accords had been ratified. The Associated Press and the ACLU decrying the blatant human (and Mutant, etc.) rights violations, the threats and promises for appeals. But until then, the Accords were in full effect, and no one was safe. Not even Spider-Man.

Not that Peter had gotten any blowback yet. Just some New York pundits hoping that the Menace of Manhattan will be the next on the superfreak chopping block. Interviews with people on the street, giving their various opinions. Some against, some for it. Some sane, some not.

"They're going after Spider-Man? Finally!"

"Can't they just leave us well enough alone?"

"Hey, my cousin is ambidextrous, you think they'll go after him next?"

"Wait, what do you mean they're going after Spider-Man? What's this world coming to? Are they gonna go after Gritty next, too?"

"Spider-Man? Who cares about Spider-Man? I want someone to take care of the freak-ass turtles in our sewers!"

"If they think they can take our Spider-Man, they got anotha thing coming!"

It was a little heartening, at least, but Peter knew this was the least of his problems. Whether or not New York rose with him, or against him, putting on that mask again would set a bright neon target on his back. Peter should be relieved that he left his costume at home (afraid that TSA would find it), but he couldn't help but worry that their place would get raided while they weren't there. And what then?

But there's nothing Peter could do about that right now. Knowing what Mia's been through and what she's afraid of, he brought his web-shooters with him; a safeguard, and undetectable when he takes it apart. Just looks like a kid's school project. No one at home seemed to have a clue of what was going on; for that matter, neither did Peter.

And he didn't know what to do.

A soft knock on the door.

It was so gentle that if Peter had been asleep, he definitely wouldn't have heard it. But he did, and nearly jumped out of his socks, forgetting where he was. Looking around, he saw a shadow flicker in the thin bar of light beneath the doorframe. Something scratching across the floor. Beside him, Aunt May remained fast asleep, so Peter deftly slid out of bed and crept towards the door.

Sharp ears told him that no one was standing on the other side of it. But there was something new — a folded note on the floor. Someone had slid it in.

Baffled, Peter picked it up. His only thought was maybe room service didn't want to be rude. But upon opening it, he found a scrawled note hastily written on the hotel's letterhead.

Meet us on the roof.

Us? Who was us? The note wasn't signed, and Peter didn't recognize the handwriting. But it was in English and it didn't feel like a mistake. His spidey-sense tingled. This was too weird for him not to check it out.

Could it be a trap? Possibly. Hmm, probably. But Peter was banking on that an enemy would underestimate him, Peter Parker, and that he could trust his instincts on this. They've rarely led him astray.

He couldn't open the window wide enough to escape out of, so the stairs it was. Coming upon the roof, Peter was met with a gentle gust of wind, the warm night air of Berlin. The hotel was located in the heart of Berlin, providing an excellent view of the stern and regal Brandenburg Gate to the west, and the Fernsehturm tower to the east, a giant needle shooting into the sky. Old and new. East and West. Not too long ago, there had been a wall between the two, and Peter idly wondered where he would have stood between.

Both monuments were well lit in the darkness — the hotel roof was not, leaving the hairs on the back of his neck to tingle when he spotted the dark silhouettes of four figures standing not thirty feet away, facing him.

In the split second between the tingle of his spidey sense alarming him, Peter recognized the group.

"Howie?" Peter asked, a little too loud. The one with the big hair shushed him. Yep, definitely Wanda. The smallest figure stepped closer, and Peter could see a little better in the darkness now (staring at his phone screen for two hours had done Peter no favors).

"It's just us," Howie whispered hoarsely, and it didn't entirely sound like he was doing it to be stealthy. His cheeks were flushed, his nose red, and a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"What? How? I thought you flew back to America?" Honestly, Peter had thought Howie had gotten caught. He'd seen the news coverage, both professional and civilian cameras that had caught the iron suit flying away from Interpol headquarters. Interpol gave no official statement on the exact identity, and people were speculating who could fit in such a small suit. But Peter knew. He recognized the design. If Interpol had caught Howie, Peter had doubted they'd say anything about it, either.

But he'd flown back to the States. And then came back. The kid looked exhausted. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Howie mumbled.

"He has a temperature of a hundred-and-two degrees," Jonas reported with a not-insignificant amount of aggravation. Of the four of them, he was the spookiest, all pale in the darkness. If Peter had seen him alone, he would've sworn he saw a ghost. "His suit was not prepared for that flight."

"It worked fine," Howie insisted, nasally voice turning to a whine. "I'm fine! Stop trying to ground me."

Peter couldn't quite compute what was going on. "Why did you guys come here? You know half the world is trying to hunt us down now. The Accords and everything. Ross is, like, four blocks away!"

"We're here for the same reason you are," Pietro said, ruffling Howie's hair affectionately. Despite the comfortable night air, the boy was shivering. "For Mia. Howie says she's gone missing again. She's not with Rogers or her father. We're certain someone took her."

"What?"

"And with the Avengers gone," Wanda added without missing a beat, unsurprised by Peter's shock and horror. "We're all that's left. I know you said you're not an Avenger, Peter, but —"

"I'm in." Peter's voice was firm, not a moment's hesitation. Not when his heart was pounding with sudden panic, fear, wondering what happened to Mia. Was this why Interpol was holding them off? Because they didn't even have Mia anymore? It would've been one thing if Mia had managed to escape on her own, and Peter could relish in that pride.

But if what Pietro said was true, then Mia needed their help. Every last one of them. Peter saw himself as your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, just a street-level guy. Not a worldwide superstar. Maybe not even a good team player. But this? This he can definitely make an exception for. "No question. I just — I didn't bring my suit. And Aunt May is here. I can't just go missing on her in Europe."

"We'll think of something," Wanda said, and Peter wondered if that was her offering to weave a little helpful magic for him, to keep May from freaking out. He wasn't sure he liked that idea. "Right now, we're still trying to figure out what happened. Maybe find Rogers. They're probably still in the city somewhere."

"Sounds good to me," Peter's fingers twitched and tingled, turning cold despite the summer warmth. He itched to do something, anything, but he just felt stupid and helpless. "We're still waiting for Interpol to contact us about Mia. They're keeping us in the dark. Now I see why."

The twins nodded solemnly. Of the four of them, only Wanda and Pietro seemed to know Mia like Peter did; deeply, truly, another side that others rarely did. A side of her that even Peter didn't fully know. But they loved her and cared for her in the same way, that same protectiveness that Peter's known since he was a little kid. This was personal. This was family.

"There's one other thing," Vision said, as he pulled something from his pocket. A sheet of paper, folded several times and looking a little crumpled. Unfolding it, he handed the sheet to Peter. "Ever since I saw this image, I've thought it was off."

Frowning, Peter studied the grainy image printed on the paper. It was one he recognized; the security footage capture of the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, exiting the UN building after planting the bomb. He knew it well by now. "How so?"

"I've only met Sergeant Barnes once, but I couldn't help but feel that… this isn't him," Vision said, shifting awkwardly on his feet, as if nervous about making such a bold claim. Like they might not believe or trust him. But the look on Peter's face said he already figured as much. That did not seem to be Vision's only concern, though. His brow furrowed as he added, "I've been analyzing that image for hours. The height is close to Barnes, but the frame isn't. The weight is off — I'm guessing that person in the image is at least a hundred pounds lighter and trying to hide it with bulky clothes. They're also wearing a wig. More to the point — not only do I not believe this is Barnes, I think it's… well, I think it's Mia."

Peter's entire body went cold. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him. No. No, it can't be.

"Her facial features are close enough that at a distance, in shadow and possibly with prosthetics, her countenance could be convincingly passed off as his without needing to alter live footage." Vision said, and shrugged helplessly. "And when everyone is waiting for the Winter Soldier to do something, well… maybe they don't question if this is confirmation bias."

"This image was taken months ago, before anything had happened," Wanda added, desperation in her tone. "That bomb had been waiting for ages. Someone made sure she was seen, so it could be found, and blame could be placed."

"When she went missing," Peter finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

He couldn't even be sure which time, when exactly this image had been captured. But he knew Vision's guess wasn't wrong, either. Short of complete computer wizardry, this was the only thing that made sense.

"Someone is behind this," Pietro said, his expression hard and angry. How he seemed to tremble with it, a kind of vibration that threatened to blur his face and enhance his movements, a soft buzz in the air like ozone. "Someone has been planning this for a long time. And we think they have Mia now. Just like last time, she's not in the news. She's not anywhere. They know what they're doing with her."

Peter felt like he was going to hurl, though his stomach was close to empty by now. The paper shook in his hands.

"I have to tell Aunt May," He finally said, right before he heard the car engines.

It had been distant at first, but getting closer. Then something twinged his spider sense and Peter was suddenly alert, wide awake, rushing over to the edge of the roof. Looking down and seeing a bunch of vans roaring in front of the hotel, a bunch of agents goose-stepping into the building. "Shit. Did they follow you guys?"

"No way," Howie said, before sneezing. "They can't have. We've been off grid this entire time."

"They're not," Wanda affirmed, silent for a moment as her eyes flashed red. "They're not here for us. They're here for you and May."

All the blood drained from his face, and after a beat, Peter rushed for the roof exit. The group called after them, but Peter ignored their voices, only thinking of Aunt May. He couldn't let them hurt her. Couldn't let them take her away, too.

But Peter was too late. The door to their floor had a small window he could look through, and coming upon the landing he could already see the flood of dark jackets crowding around their hotel room door. Aunt May in the midst of them, still half-asleep in her pajamas, hair a mess, blinking around in a daze. But still managing to argue with the head agent in charge. Peter could just make out their voices.

"You're not under arrest, Mrs. Parker." said the agent, and Peter vaguely recognized the woman Mia had once called Agent Carter. "We're just taking you in for your own safety. I promise, we will explain everything once we're in headquarters."

"But why?" Aunt May asked, wiping at her eyes. She happened to look towards the door just as Peter pushed in, and her eyes widened. Peter almost slammed through the door before he caught her motion. The slightest shake of her head. "Can we see Mia now?"

"I can't promise that right now," Agent Carter continued. "Is your nephew nearby? He has to come as well."

Peter wanted so badly to rush in, to be angry, to just do something. But his hands rest on the door press, cold metal chilling his skin. He couldn't move.

"I-I don't know where he is." Aunt May looked around, behind her, back into the hotel room. "He was in bed when I fell asleep. He must… he must have gone out for some fresh air. He couldn't have gone far, he's a good boy. I'll just call him, okay?"

"Alright, Mrs. Parker, you do that. We'll look for him, too. Let's get you to the car."

As Aunt May pulled out her phone, Peter backed away from the door, his heart pounding. The agents were already dispersing, a few heading towards the stairwell he was in. He had to get out of here. Thankfully, his phone remained muted as Peter rushed up the flights of steps, just grabbing the railings and throwing himself upwards in lieu of appearing normal. Speed was all that mattered.

Aunt May gave him a way out. Why, Peter didn't know. But he couldn't waste his chance. She seemed to think she'd be okay, and Peter had to trust that. As much as he hated it. Hoped he wouldn't regret it.

The team was still waiting when Peter returned to the roof, out of breath. "It's time to go. They're coming after me."

✭✭✭

The mountains had always felt like home.

Their white jagged peaks, everlasting even in the summer. The fields of green that climbed up as high as they could, forests and pastures and endless beauty. It was the kind of idyllic peacefulness many dreamed of, far away from the dense, progressive cities and endless suburbs of modern civilization.

The mountains, so far away now.

He could only see them at a distance, and his current surroundings were much less photogenic. The upper floor in an outbuilding attached to the World Trade Organization. The place was currently under construction, undergoing intense remodeling in the wake of more employees, more technology, better material than the beloved asbestos.

And currently empty today. Workers' day off, tools lying scattered around, industrial lamps stationed at angles and blanks of wood, rolls of fiber glass, beams of rebar, and stacks of sheetrock rendering the hollowed-out rooms a maze. But they would leave no evidence. Their footprints in the dust would be indistinguishable from those of the workmen who had been there before, and would be here after.

"Noon in twenty minutes," Rumlow reported, checking his watch. The man paced about the room like a caged lion; dressed in black tactical gear, the man was nothing short of prepared, but it was clear he was anxious, ready for some action. A soldier who hungered for war. "I don't see why she has to be the one to do it."

Rumlow jerked his chin in the direction of the girl, kneeling in front of some plywood covered in clean tarp. Her steady hands worked methodically, arranging the metal parts set out before her. Her clothes were similar to Rumlow's, but her skin was largely clean of scars. Not marred and melted by burns such as his.

Zemo turned his gaze between the two, trying not to smile at Rumlow's bitterness. Americans were never subtle. "Now is not the time for jealousy."

"I'm not jealous!" Rumlow huffed, a young man, a child. "I just don't think you should be trusting her with this. What if she makes a mistake?"

"I made the targets clear."

"And if it's too far for her?"

"It isn't."

Few of the windows had any glass. To their east, stretched out the great blue expanse of Lake Geneva. To the west, beyond a few parks and small buildings, half a kilometer away, stood the grand Palace of Nations. Its white marble gleamed in the daylight, the sun behind them, casting both the building and its grand promenade in stark contrast, hundreds of flags waving on poles.

"How do you know?" Rumlow demanded, but a look from Zemo had him backing off, remembering his place. "I'm just — sorry. Not trying to question authority here. I could've done it, that's all."

"Yes, you could have," Zemo agreed, his tone serene as he adjusted the gloves on his hands. It was too warm for them, perhaps, but he could not allow even a trace of evidence to be left behind. "But I've walked this earth for too long. This task isn't for you. It's much more than just striking our targets. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Stuka plane in a dive?"

The other man made a face. "Isn't that one of those screaming planes the Germans used?"

"Quite," Zemo smiled. He doubted Rumlow had ever truly heard one with his own ears, experienced that terror, that thrill, in real time, in the height of war. "The aircraft, Junkers 87-B, were specifically designed to bomb the populace of German enemies. The Jericho Trumpets were entirely unnecessary, you see. They did not improve flight performance. They did not enhance a bomber's aim. They were purely there to terrify their targets. To let them know their doom was upon them. That there is no escape."

Rumlow stared at him.

Zemo continued, "Psychological warfare, my dear Crossbones. Propaganda. The Germans were groundbreaking in that regard, if nothing else. We knew our enemies' hearts, better than they themselves did."

"You say that like you were there."

"My line is an ancient one. My blood will always be in the Fatherland."

"Uh-huh," Rumlow didn't know what to make of that, apparently. But Zemo didn't need him to. He was only a soldier, he must only need to follow orders, and follow them well. And so far, he had performed excellently. The man had been exceedingly proud when Zemo dubbed him Crossbones; a name, a legend, to be feared. The sacrifices he made would not be forgotten. "Whatever you say, your highness."

"My lord," Zemo corrected him, glancing in the reflection of some stacked glass to straighten his hair. It was a relief to be rid of the beard, so uncivilized. He had been tempted to wear the coronet, but decided it was too ostentatious for a mission such as this. His suit was already a little too much, perhaps. At Rumlow's questioning look, Zemo added, "The use of 'your highness' is only appropriate for royalty. A Baron such as myself may simply be referred to as 'my lord.'"

The man threw him an annoyed look. For someone who so insisted on the power of order and stratification, Rumlow was exceedingly stubborn when it came to titles and proper etiquette. But Zemo could chalk that up to his western ideals, a life lived too long in democracy.

"It's time."

Zemo's voice cast a silence across the space. Only Zemo and the girl were in his near presence, but the rest of his entourage were stationed throughout, standing guard, waiting to move. Extraction would be quick and seamless.

Next to him, Rumlow folded his arms, still that petulant child, pouting as the Soldatka got to her feet, the rifle now complete in her hands. She listened only for his voice, his command. Zemo made sure of it. Adjustments to her protocol so no mistakes would be made. She was only a simple machine, not meant to deduce nuance or understand context. He had to account for every possibility.

"You sure it's not too far?" Rumlow asked, now speaking in an undertone. As if he were afraid to disturb the Soldatka's concentration as she set up at a window on the north side of the building, settling herself on her stomach and bracing her rifle to her shoulder. Zemo came to stand next to her, eyeing the target through binoculars.

"For her or for us?"

Rumlow paused. "Both."

"A typical sniper's range is between six hundred and twelve hundred meters, though they can hit a target from as far as two miles — on record, at least. We are slightly less than six hundred, which is more than enough for our little Soldatka here. Rest assured, Crossbones, your skills would not have been tested here."

It was meant to be a compliment, but Rumlow scowled. Still, he said nothing. At least for a minute or two, watching from behind Zemo as a rush of people started exiting the palace, on lunch break. Two whole hours, but they wouldn't be here for that long.

Zemo pulled up his binoculars and squinted. To the Soldatka, he said, "Northwest corner. Fire."

At his feet, she barely moved. The slightest turn of the rifle, her eye peering through the sight. The flick of her finger. A shot rang out. A loud boom, but much quieter than it could have been, thanks to the suppressor.

Between the sun, the distance, and the weapon, it would not be easy to locate the origin of the shot.

At a distance, a pinprick of red scattered across white pavement.

"Southeast, two degrees. Fire."

Boom.

As Zemo called off another target, then paused to watch as the chaos unfolded — people realizing the terror set upon them, tiny figures scattering every which way, like rats — Rumlow spoke again.

"Why here?"

"To strike fear, as I said before," Zemo replied easily, still peering through his binoculars and reveling in the carnage. Three bodies were all it took before the whole promenade realized what was happening. Police would be here within five minutes, likely less. "And to humble them. The United Nations, and their predecessor, the League of Nations, believed themselves to be the arbiters of world peace. Assigned themselves judge, jury, executioner, even to those nations who are not in their jurisdiction. To dare to call themselves neutral when they have always been allies of the West. There can be no peace without war."

With that, he assigned four more targets. The Soldatka fired four shots. Never missed, not one. Not a word, not a breath out of her.

The world would see the blood, the death. Their minds would run wild with fear and paranoia. But the minds of only a few were what mattered to Zemo. For them to know who pulled that trigger. To know who directed her.

That would be enough.

(flashing gif)



made by me :) can't remember if i shared this before but here we go again

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Five

✭

Geneva was in chaos.

Police put the entire city on lockdown, which definitely made sneaking in a little difficult. Not so difficult as to be impossible, of course. They were professionals.

"You think they could still be in the city?" Wilson asked as they milled about in the massive crowd around the palace, the scene of the crime. It was a beautiful day, filled with screams and sirens, cast in stark relief by the setting sun.

"If they are, they'd be idiots," Bucky replied grimly, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Only pools of blood and yellow-tape cordons remained of where the bodies fell. But Bucky was already trying to calculate angles. Where did they fire from? The courtyard in front of the palace was massive, with few tall structures in the area before it stretched out into the lake. It had to a spot from that direction. Possibly fired across the two-mile stretch over the lake, but some instinct told Bucky the location was much closer.

Whoever had Mia wouldn't take that chance.

It had taken them two hours to get here, record time in their stolen car. They'd kept up as information unfolded over their burners, but Bucky already knew most of the details before they were revealed. Single gunman, likely a rifle, small number of targets, all killed in under a minute. Probably long gone by the time anyone pinpointed their perch.

And he was fairly certain he knew who pulled the trigger.

"They're already saying it's the Winter Soldier," Steve said, like Bucky couldn't understand the French chatter around him. Still, the news didn't surprise him. "First the bomb, now this. It doesn't make sense."

Wilson frowned. "How so? Seems to me this guy's doing a pretty good job of getting Interpol trying to catch Barnes."

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but a blare of a foghorn and the shouting of police started corralling the onlookers further away from the scene. They couldn't hang around long anyways. Interpol had already arrived within the hour of the attack.

Before Steve managed to finish his thought, Bucky heard his phone buzz in his pocket. Steve removed it, a puzzled look at whatever text he received. "Underneath an overpass south of here. Sharon wants to meet."

"To arrest me." Bucky mused wryly.

"No," Steve shook his head. "She's got something for us."

Probably handcuffs, Bucky thought without any humor. But they had to keep moving anyway. Might as well go see what Carter wanted. Bucky still didn't trust her by a long shot, but if Steve thought this was the way forward, then so be it. There was still plenty of time for Carter to double-cross them.

Bucky knew he was probably being unfair to this woman, but least to say this whole situation had him looking at things in a new light. He hated that they were just chasing after this Rudi person, always two steps behind, and just barely keeping ahead of Interpol. No clue yet if they realized that the three had left Germany yet, but Bucky supposed it was only a matter of time.

Carter waited, leaning against the side of her nondescript black sedan, looking tense and tired. Like she hadn't slept since Bucky had been arrested the previous day. Her bun was loose and several strands hung loosely about her face, and her shirt was wrinkled and in need of change. Carter straightened at their arrival; Bucky scanned the area carefully, but didn't spot any signs that she had company, or that this was an ambush waiting to happen.

She was alone.

Or it appeared.

Bucky could feel the pair of eyes watching him, though from where wasn't immediately obvious. He was also distracted by Carter, who was acting fidgety, like someone with something to hide. Someone impatient, someone in a rush. The sort of thing that leads to trouble.

"I don't have long," Carter said as they approached, coming around to the back of her trunk. "Ross and everyone else are convinced that this is the Winter Soldier's doing, and you better believe he's using this as an excuse to militarize everyone available. Hopefully they won't notice these going missing in the lineup. Not for a while, anyways."

She popped the trunk, and Wilson let out a tiny "Yes!" At the sight of his wingsuit tucked inside.

"Sharon, you shouldn't have—" Steve began, but Carter raised a single finger.

"There's no 'should' or 'shouldn't' here," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "You guys are gonna need this stuff, end of story. Interpol knows about Rudi Schmidt but they only see him as a supporting agent. Not the man behind the curtain. We're still not sure what he is or who he's really working for."

"Well, thank you," Steve sighed, and gave her the kind of smile that, had they been boys, would've prompted Bucky to give him a smack upside the head. He bent and picked up the vibranium shield from her trunk, its familiar Stars and Stripes hidden in a canvas bag. "You won't regret this, I promise."

She just smirked, folding her arms. "I already do."

"And nothing for me?" Bucky asked, though he was mostly joking. Put at ease by this act of generosity. Carter went at great risk to steal from her own employers just to give them their extra tools. Bucky already had everything he needed.

Sharon turned her gaze to him, opening her mouth, but was cut off by the sound of a rope cord coming down. Two feet hitting the gravel, soft as kitten paws. "Oh, just a little something."

Steve spun around and Wilson cursed. But Bucky knew that voice anywhere. He turned and smiled faintly at Natalia, who tugged once on her grappling line and let it drop, before rolling it up again. Her green gaze met Bucky's and she winked.

Carter rolled her eyes at the intrusion. "Should've known that place would never keep you, Romanoff. How long did it take? Ten hours? Twelve?"

"Eight," Natalia replied lightly, like she was calling her mile time and not how long it took her to escape the highest security prison on the planet. A literal death trap in the middle of the ocean.

"Eight?" Carter repeated, and seemed to do some math in her head. "Then that would've been —"

"With your jet, yes," Natalia said, and smiled. "Thanks for the ride, by the way."

"What about the others?" Steve asked, with no small amount of urgency.

"They're still on the Raft," Natalia said, and at his gaping look, she just threw out her arms. "I couldn't hide everyone on the jet. Besides, they're fine where they are. They're fed and they've got plumbing."

"You just didn't want the company, huh?" Wilson replied, smirking.

"I work better alone," Natalia smiled that mysterious smile. "Besides, I figured if the impregnable Raft lost all its hostages at once, our Agent Carter here would be out of a job."

Carter huffed, shaking her head and muttering something under her breath. Then, to Steve, "Well, looks like you got yourselves your tools and then some. Hopefully it's enough."

Personally, Bucky was relieved. He didn't mind the Avengers for the most part. But even Wilson got on his nerves at the best of times. If all of them were here? There'd be too many cooks in the kitchen. Not to mention much easier to get caught again. Besides, asking Natalia to personally break out the rest of the team? What was she going to do, fit them into those tiny pockets?

"What's the deal here?" Nat asked, looking between the group. Aside from her gauntlets, she was dressed as a civilian, dark clothes and hair pulled back in a neat braid. All business, as usual. "You found out who did it already?"

"It's a guy named Rudi What's-His-Nuts," Wilson replied, slamming the trunk lid closed once it was empty. "Had a girlfriend back in Berlin, completely in the dark. We don't think she's involved, and has no idea who he really is."

"We're also pretty sure Rudi is a false identity," Steve added, then cut a look towards Bucky. "It's only a theory, but we think it may be someone from our past."

That earned equal looks of surprise from Carter and Natalia. Nat raised her eyebrows. "Care to share with the class, boys?"

Steve hesitated for a moment, but complied. And hearing it again, Bucky knew how crazy it must seem. Heinrich von Zemo was extremely dead. Very much so. No one comes back from a bullet to a brain, not even with fucked up Nazi science experiments. Except for that one Howlett guy they met, but then again, the bullet never entered his skull. So.

After they were done explaining, the women exchanged a look. Carter glanced back at them, "That's… definitely a theory if I've ever heard one. Is it possible Zemo had any children?"

Bucky wouldn't remember that, and Steve only shrugged. "If he did, we never encountered them. But he had a large castle and plenty of resources to hide a family if he needed to. It's not outside the realm of possibility. They might have escaped to South America."

"I'll put a tab on it," Carter nodded. "I don't know what I'll find, if anything. But I've got some connections with Mossad, and they might have something. In the meantime, try to keep a low profile while you're hunting down Rudi. I can keep the heat off you for a while, but obviously Interpol have already decided who's responsible for this, and I've yet to find another target for them to shoot at."

Bucky cringed at the word use. "It wasn't me who did that,"

"I know," Carter nodded to him. "From where I'm looking, you've got a solid alibi, Barnes. But we still need someone to pin the shooting on."

"It's not just that," Bucky shook his head. "The person who pulled the trigger — it's Mia."

Four pairs of eyes stared at him, silence falling beneath the overpass.

Then, at length, Natalia spoke, "Well, from the construction site, anyone could've made those shots —"

"Anyone, sure," Bucky already knew what she was trying to say, but it didn't matter. "It's a short distance for a sniper. But that's not the point. It was Mia. It had to be Mia."

Nat frowned and looked away. But Carter looked baffled. "Why?"

"To send a message."

"To who? You?"

Bucky shrugged. "Why not? It's been about me so far, hasn't it? He knows I'd recognize the handiwork. He could've made anyone else do it, but with Mia he knows it'll —"

He couldn't finish the sentence, voice choking off in the pain and the grief. There was no logic to the decision, why this man would choose Mia when her skills weren't necessary for the task. But Bucky knew. He knew in his bones it had to be her.

"To hurt you," Steve finally said, his voice grim and quiet. Head bowed, he continued, "This is personal. For him, and for us. For you."

"Which lends itself to the Zemo theory," Wilson added, when he spotted Carter's doubtful look. "If this is about revenge, you better readjust your motives for these attacks. I bet whatever politics at play here are just a smokescreen for whatever this guy's really doing."

Carter cut him a long look. "Maybe. I think you should also consider that the politics are still extremely important here. These two motives don't have to be mutually exclusive. The people killed were all diplomats or ambassadors for Western nations. Switzerland, France, the UK, Israel, and the United States. And also Russia, for some flavor. What does that sound like to you?"

They all shared glances. Natalia spoke first. "If this guy's looking to start a fight with the old Allied powers, I'm not quite sure he remembers how the last time it ended."

Her tone was wry, a bit of humor to cut the tension. But Steve nodded, agreeing with Carter's original point. "I don't know what kind of fight he's trying to pick, but the targets definitely don't sound random to me."

"There's a good chance he has more planned," Wilson added.

"We know, and we're trying to anticipate it," Carter sighed. "But with this revenge motive added on, it makes him extremely unpredictable. We don't know where he'll strike next, what his next move is. What his endgame is. Is he just a terrorist trying to sow as much chaos and destruction as possible? Or is he aiming for something a little higher?"

That was a thought none of them wanted to contemplate.

✭✭✭

Peter had no idea what they were supposed to be doing in Geneva.

He couldn't even speak French, much less Swiss or German. At least no one noticed when Peter called Jonas "Vision" by accident. Code names weren't necessary, not yet at least. As far as any of them were able to figure, no one was looking for them, not in Switzerland. It was very green here. A lot of mountains.

It hadn't taken them long to figure out that the news story was related to Mia. At this point, they were just following Interpol and trying their best to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Peter had a choice of either hitching a ride with Vision, Wanda, or Pietro, and honestly none of them were fun. He was sort of okay with flying in the sense it was similar to swinging — but not at the height or speeds they were going at just to make it to Geneva at a good time. And being carried by Pietro was both humiliating and had him puking his guts at the first stop and then just bile the following.

Least to say, Peter wasn't feeling his greatest. But probably better than Howie was doing — Wanda insisted he stayed in bed at the hotel room they definitely paid for with real cash. Howie had protested, he wanted to be helpful. But considering he was fighting between constant yawns and sneezing, it was better for him to take some cough medicine and lie down in a dark, warm room for a while.

They couldn't actually get close to the scene of the crime. Whole city on lockdown and they had to pretend they were tourists on a school field trip, bumbling around and trying not to get caught in any police rounding.

"You're sure Mia's actually involved in this?" Peter asked the twins as they hunkered down on the roof of a tenement building, trying to look out across the water at the palace in the distance. Where six people died, less than a day ago. The thought that it was his cousin that pulled the trigger sent chills down Peter's spine. He was secretly glad they couldn't get any closer.

"No," Wanda answered, but her frown didn't give him much hope. "But all things considered, it's fair to assume whoever took her did. This man bombed the UN congress, this would be well within his purview."

"He's sowing chaos," Pietro agreed. "And if Mia is under protocol, then she has no choice but to obey. It's not her fault, she probably isn't even aware of what's going on — but it could still be her."

Now Peter was definitely feeling a little sick. He didn't want to think of Mia in that way. He'd known to some degree of what she went through in the Crucible and in DC, she'd explained how her protocol thing worked. But that it was actually happening right now? That he couldn't do anything about it? Peter felt like he was tearing up from the inside out.

"If we find her, are we even capable of saving her?" Jonas asked. He'd been floating back in forth in what Peter assumed to be the android form of an anxious pace. And it was a valid question. Not even Peter knew the answer, so they both looked to the twins.

Wanda and Pietro shared looks, before Wanda answered. "Maybe. If I can reach her. I can sense that she's been here, but with her state of mind it's difficult to get a lock. She's… in and out. And getting fainter. Even if we do find her, it won't be pretty."

"She will attack us right away," Pietro added, giving both of them a serious look. "She won't recognize you. She will try to kill you with everything she has. Even if it kills her, too. Unless and until she's ordered to stop."

"Which she likely won't be," Wanda finished.

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. He'd seen Mia in her protocol state only once, two years ago. In the airport, after she contacted him how she'd get home. It had been like staring into the eyes of a stranger.

But she had run from him then. Mia had been scared and confused and just wanted to go home.

It would be different this time. Peter tried to steel his nerves to that fact, but still couldn't fully wrap his head around it. "There's no other way?"

"Not unless we catch her by surprise, knock her out somehow," Pietro said, but made a face. "Which will also be difficult. She's hard to sneak up on."

"And harder to knock out," Wanda said. "I could do it, but it would also risk hurting her. I doubt she could hurt Jonas, but we can't underestimate her, either. We don't know what she'll be armed with. And who will be helping her."

"The man who took her, you think he has more allies?" Jonas asked.

"Likely," Pietro nodded, his heel trailing a circle in the dirt, leaning against the ledge of the building. "Pulling off the attack in New York, the bombing, the electrical blowout, it all points to an organized team effort. He has resources, and he has men."

"They may be HYDRA," Wanda said, and when she got curious looks, she shrugged and flushed. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders, though it was a warm day out. "It's just a guess. But they would be the only people left with access to Mia's protocol trigger. If they aren't HYDRA, then they certainly got their secrets from them. And that makes them no less dangerous."

"Cool," Peter said, rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back into his fingers. They'd gone numb. "Cool cool cool cool. We got this. We totally got this. Right?"

The twins gave him sympathetic looks, and Jonas sighed. "I suppose we better not inform Howie of our plans?"

"We better not," Wanda cut a look around the group, as if daring them otherwise. "He's too young, and his suit needs to be fixed before he even thinks about entering a fight."

"He'll also feel left out," Pietro pointed out, which was by far the biggest motivator.

"He will be mad when he finds out," Jonas nodded sagely.

They searched high and low, all over Geneva. Where they could go at least. The parts they couldn't, didn't matter — Wanda felt nothing there. Faded, gone. They followed her like detectives followed a bloodhound on a scent.

After a day it was clear that Mia wasn't in the city anymore. But Wanda was sure, so sure she was close by. That she hadn't left the country. Somewhere in the mountains — Switzerland was filled with mountains. Mountains on all sides, snowy white, ragged peaks arcing down to sweeping fields of green and flowers. Just like in The Sound of Music, but less singing and more cows and sheep.

They listen to Wanda's senses, and they ask around. The second and third day they start looking outside the city, and have no choice but to bring Howie with them when they get further and further away from the city. He'd insisted, and even Pietro wouldn't be able to reach him in due time if there was trouble.

At night, they huddled in one hotel or motel or hostel to the next, always changing. Trying to eat and sleep as best they can. Jonas managed to find him a sewing machine and when Peter couldn't sleep, he sewed. He wasn't half-bad, if he did say so himself. But creating a new suit, even with stellar materials that Howie managed to get him, still took time. Thank God Peter memorized his own measurements.

Anything to keep his hands working. Anything to keep his mind off of Mia, and what she was enduring in this moment or the next.

For some reason Mia's presence never fully faded, which to them meant that she and whoever she was with were lingering. There were plenty of towns and villages in the surrounding area. She could be hiding in any one of them, hidden in the mountains. They just have to keep looking.

And they also watched the news. Not that it revealed much. Interpol was making little headway, probably even less. They still thought the attack was by the Winter Soldier, though they didn't actually have physical evidence this time; but did they need it, after the bombing, after the very public escape? Peter hasn't actually seen any sign of Steve or Bucky or anyone who might be on their side. They weren't arrested at least. But the other Avengers were, and probably other folks who Ross didn't want to advertise. Peter always gets the sick feeling they'd be on that Raft if they weren't careful enough.

Further up those mountains they climbed over the days. Closer, higher, to the peaks. At one point, a castle comes into view, a sight that stops the twins in their tracks. Staring at those old stone turrets, hanging off the side of a mountain like a fairy tale dream.

But when asked what was wrong, they only shook their heads and kept moving. At some point they moved off paved roads and ended up on the worn trails of hikers and shepherds, soft trodden dirt winding back and forth in a whimsical manner. It probably would've been fun, and they might have appreciated the views, if it weren't for their mission, and Howie still carrying a cold.

It was morning on the fifth day did Peter start feeling truly hopeless. Yet still Wanda insisted, Mia was here, she was close by, they almost had her.

They were in the middle of the great nowhere, possibly on the border between countries. Total no man's land, of villagers who may have seen a caravan of large black vehicles come by days ago. But they've been seeing a lot of stuff on the TV recently. They couldn't say if these vehicles were government or otherwise.

Peter was starting to give up hope, as they once more trudged up another mountainside. He regretted not volunteering to stay back at the hostel with Howie and watch over him; but Howie insisted he could handle it, and no one else really wanted to sit around doing nothing all day.

"Are you sure she's still here?" Peter's voice broke the silence, his voice painfully loud across a wide-open field. His shins and feet were sore from all this walking; it wasn't like there were any buildings to swing from here, and there was so much wide-open space that none of them dared use their powers unless it was an emergency. Even atop a goddamn mountain where no one lived.

"I'm sure!" Wanda called back, a little snappy. They walked in single file, taking turns carrying Howie, who was always the first to lose his energy. "She's here, she's close, I can feel it!"

Peter couldn't help but groan. It wasn't like he had any better ideas, but he sure felt stupid doing all of this. Interpol were probably scanning hundreds of hours of security footage, using geo tracking or whatever, finding real evidence that they could make a trail of. Here they were, a bunch of kids following a psychic and hoping she pinged off the right consciousness.

"I don't mean to cause offense," Jonas began, gliding along serenely with Howie in his arms. Seeing that, Peter didn't even know why they took turns. "But you've said the same thing the past couple days, Wanda. It's… not very specific."

Wanda just shook her head and threw out her arms. "I can't tell you anymore than what I can feel. And I can feel that she's close. Just a little longer! And be quiet!"

Easier said than done when Peter wanted to complain some more. He definitely should've brought more water bottles today; they've traveled a lot longer than he anticipated. They were at least five hours from their village, two from the closest one they just passed. All on foot, which probably meant nothing by vehicle. The clouds were lower today, more overcast and windier. The peaks were hidden beneath a wall of puffy white cotton, turning greyer with the hint of a possible storm. Man, Peter hoped it wasn't going to snow all the way up here. It was getting chilly.

Despite the cooler temperatures, plenty of wildlife grew in the area, as green as the summer they were in. Lots of little wild flowers dotting their path. If Peter followed his map correctly, the big old castle was somewhere ahead; they'd gotten closer over the days, though he'd hoped it wouldn't be their actual destination.

Not that he didn't want to find Mia. But a bad guy's lair within a medieval castle? Very cliche.

Still, the map said the place was abandoned, owned by some estate, no one actually living there anymore. None of the locals liked to go near it. So maybe that's where they should look.

A fog blew in at around midday, the humidity changing with the weather. It got a little hard to see ahead, enough that Peter could barely make out Wanda at the head of the line. The wind echoed eerily up here, and it was spooky to hear an animal call and not being able to see it. The great valley vista below them, which Peter had grown familiar with, completely vanished from view. Now it felt like they were walking along the edge of the cliff, their entire world shrunk down to a few meters on either side of them. Peter reminded himself not to stray too far from the trail unless he wanted to meet an untimely death.

Then, without warning, he bumped into Pietro in front of him, who stumbled into Jonas, who bumped into Wanda — she had come to a complete stop. Peter tried to look around them, "Hey, what's —"

"Shh!" Wanda and Pietro hissed at the same time, fingers to their lips. Howie had stirred from his nap, and all five of them squinted through the fog. Peter could just barely make out a dark figure ahead. Tall, bulky, wearing black clothing. Not a shepherd or fellow hiker.

That was enough to scare them. The five stumbled back, then off the trail, behind a large rock in the field a short distance away. Never taking their eyes off of the figure. Peter tried to make out details, but he couldn't even discern if it was a man or a woman. It definitely didn't feel right. The person was standing too still, and there was no vista to admire. What were they doing?

"Probably a sentry," Pietro murmured, his voice so soft Peter had to strain to hear it. "We must be close."

Wanda shushed them again, the wind blowing her hair across her face, made her earrings jingle. The sound was soft and light, hardly to be heard over the rush of the long grass and the wind buffeting the mountainside.

But it helped blow some of the fog away, opening a clearing in their midst. And the figure came into stark contrast before them.

It wasn't a man.

It was Mia.

She stood there, her back to them, looking down at something in her hand. She stood slightly off the main path, knee deep in the tall grass. Her hair, hanging partly loose from a poorly-done braid, whipped in the wind.

Peter felt like the air was knocked out of him. "It's her!" He breathed, shooting to his feet, but no sooner had he tried to take a step forward did Wanda and Pietro grab him, yank him back, holding him down. Peter struggled against them, suddenly desperate.

But Wanda had a vice-like grip on his shoulder. "You can't!" She hissed in his ear. "We can't rush her. She'll startle and attack us."

That, Peter could believe. Even in her normal state, Mia was not someone you wanted to sneak up on. But still, he was baffled. "What's she doing?"

She was just standing there. There didn't seem to be anyone else around. The place was entirely quiet, deserted. It felt like they were observing a wild animal on safari, trying not to disturb it. After a moment, Peter realized what she had in her hand.

A tiny flower, with a dozen thin, furry white petals and a yellow heart, twisting back and forth between her fingers.

Mia, in full combat gear, looking like someone dressed her to blend in with a bunch of evil henchmen with only that red star to set her apart — picking flowers. In the middle of the Swiss Alps.

"I don't understand," Peter whispered helplessly. Mia looked completely harmless. Aside from the many weapons attached to her person, and the shield painted black and red. She wasn't doing anything. "What's with the flower?"

"It's edelweiss," Howie said in an undertone, nodding to those little white flowers that grew in abundance around them. "Leontopodium alpinum. They only grow high up on mountain tops, adapted to survive cold temperatures and harsh climates."

The biology lesson was nice, but it still didn't explain what Mia was doing. But Pietro just shrugged, "She's probably just… waiting."

"Waiting? For what?"

"Orders." Pietro replied, his gaze hard and flat, which quickly ended any further questions Peter might have had.

"She can be… aimless, sometimes," Wanda added helpfully, watching Mia with concern. "I can't quite touch her mind. But sometimes when she's on a mission, and she's left with nothing to do… things can happen. Just small stuff. She'll get distracted."

"What, like a machine left to idle?" Peter already regretted saying that, it sounded so awful.

But Wanda just shrugged, not offended. "Maybe. Protocol has its limits. Its why they put the Winter Soldier on ice. He's not meant to be operating at all times. They start to lose control."

The sound of that, Peter got a little hopeful. "And how long does that take?"

"A few months or so," Pietro replied, killing Peter's hope, and then killing it a little further, "Or so we've heard. We've never actually seen it. Mia always needed a… reboot about as long, in the Crucible."

Peter didn't want to think about that. Mia was in that Crucible for two years. Two whole years! He didn't want to think about what a "reboot" entailed. Still, he could not take his eyes off of Mia. How she studied that flower. He wondered what she was thinking, what she saw, what made her pluck it.

She had to still be inside.

She had to be.

Peter doesn't know what compelled him, why he tried to get up again. But Wanda and Pietro fight against him once more, and in the scuffle, they must have made some amount of noise.

Because Mia turned her head.

And looked right at them.

The five of them freeze, hearts pounding, breaths held. Empty gray eyes gaze at them, little white flower in her hand momentarily forgotten. Peter is suddenly highly aware of the several guns and many knives that are on her person. Remembered how quickly she can move; how hard she could hit. Remembers how he really struggled to beat her in a one-on-one, no holds barred spar. And really, she'd been holding back then.

But instead of rushing at them like Baba Yaga with a gun, Mia just… stared at them. Continued to stare. Not even the twins dared to say anything. A group of antelopes in a stare down with a lion, wondering who would blink first.

"Hey, die Sau!" someone shouted in the distance, further along the path. Someone they couldn't see past the rock or the thickening fog. Angry, male, German, something Peter couldn't understand. "Was machst du da drüben? Komm hierher! Der Baron braucht dich."

The voice echoed, and Mia snapped her head around. Like she completely forgot they were there, she just turned and walked away. Away, towards the voice.

None of them moved until she had disappeared once more.

At last, Peter could release a breath. "What the hell was that about? Why didn't she do anything?"

"I don't know," Wanda frowned.

"Perhaps it's her protocol," Jonas suggested, setting Howie down for a moment as they got their bearings once more. No one emerged from the fog, though Peter could now hear movement, distance voices further along the path. "Her protocol is complex, but she can only follow given orders. Perhaps she had nothing that pertained to us."

"Jonas is probably right," Pietro said with a nod. "Maybe there's a gap they forgot to cover."

"They did not think we'd get this close," Howie suggested. "Or that they'd have to deal with us at all."

"We also didn't approach her," Wanda pointed out. "That would have elicited a response more than anything. She simply didn't interpret us as a threat, so she did nothing."

"We have to follow her," Peter urged, already getting to his feet. "Wherever they're taking her, we can't lose track."

"It's going to be dangerous," Wanda said. "They'll likely take us straight to their current base of operations. And we haven't come completely prepared."

"We can't turn back now!" Peter insisted, gesturing down the path. "IF we come back later, she might be gone! At least follow her until we know where they've stopped. Then we can come back when we're ready to save her. But I can't lose her now. Not when we're so close."

The other four exchanged looks, then nodded. "Fine," Pietro said, folding his arms. "But this is reconnaissance only. We stay unseen. And Howie? Please don't sneeze."

Howie gave a tiny salute, and together, the five of them were off again, trailing back into the fog.

Back to Mia.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six

✭

The castle loomed out of the fog like a massive ghost, pale and foreboding.

Getting closer, Peter fought a rising sense of doubt. They couldn't turn back now. They'd come so far already, and he didn't know how much longer the bad guys were going to hang around here.

Mia had disappeared into one of the off-road vehicles, carrying her somewhere within the old castle. It was easy enough to follow, though the group stopped a hundred meters away from the perimeter — there were cameras and guards with guns. There was no way they could just stroll inside. And Peter really didn't want to pick a fight until they had to. The thought of fighting their way inside seemed like a really bad idea.

It was Wanda who suggested they split up. "Peter, you will be able to get into one of the upper floors, yes?"

And sure, he could do that. He didn't particularly like the idea of leaving them behind, but yes. Peter could sneak up the sides of the building, all creepy crawly, and slip through one of the windows on the upper floors. "But how will we keep in touch?"

"Don't worry," was all Wanda said. "I'll keep an eye on you."

That didn't make him feel much better.

But it's not like he had any better ideas himself. None of them knew the layout of the castle nor where Mia would be inside. They'd have to look and hope they'd run into each other once inside. Peter is fairly certain Mia would absolutely hate this kind of plan, but they've gone into situations blind like this before. Well, maybe not exactly like this, but still.

Getting around the guards was easy enough. They were bored men who didn't expect anyone to find them up here, and with limited visibility due to the fog, had no vista to admire in the meantime. Pulling his hood over his head, the best Peter could do as a disguise, he made a wide detour around the length of the castle, hiding in the tall grass and heather. The castle's north end merged straight into the cliff side of the mountain, a sheer drop and no guard in sight.

Sheer drops were great for goats and spiders, though. Peter had no problem sticking to the side of the rock wall, then stone, though it was very cold. This was a lot higher than the skyscrapers he was used to climbing. A mounted camera swiveled back and forth, easy to dodge when he timed his movement just right.

Pausing beneath one window, wind whipping at his back, Peter peered through the dark glass. Didn't see anyone inside. No cameras or motion sensors. It was an old place and probably only recently retrofitted with electricity and modern plumbing. State of the art security features were probably still on the to do list.

The window hinges were old and stiff, and creaked terribly when Peter tried to wiggle it open. Yikes. Big yikes. He waited a long minute after trying to see if anyone would be alerted to the noise; when no one came around, Peter decided fuck it, and heaved himself inside. Threadbare carpet softened his landing, and he heard nothing in the narrow curved corridor he found himself in. Carefully shutting the window behind him (grimacing as it squeaked again), Peter picked a direction and started moving.

He wasn't as quiet as Mia, but Peter liked to think he was pretty close. Especially if he stuck to the ceiling, and thus, no footsteps. It also made it easier to avoid the hastily added cameras screwed into the walls.

The ceilings were thankfully taller than they had to be; this was a recreational estate and made after the medieval ages, so some royal guy could afford tall ceilings with painted walls to impress his guests. Made for some cold ass nights probably, but suited Peter just fine in this situation.

A few sentries passed below him completely oblivious. Peter tried to eavesdrop on their radio conversations, but it was all in German. Peter just did his best to keep an eye out for anything interesting while he continued his exploration.

The first big room he came across seemed to be a kind of sitting room, though now the antique furniture was covered in ugly plastic black cases filled with various equipment. Mostly computers, though some seemed to be a kind of radio, a scanner, along with various weapons. The electrical lighting seemed to date back to the 1920s, very dim bulbs, so industrial lamps on short stands had been brought in, fed with a veritable maze of electrical cord that looked like a pain in the ass to walk around. Definitely not OSHA compliant.

A few more rooms revealed little, though Peter was increasing his count of armed men here. He was guessing at least two dozen, if not more. Some analysts boosted the number, though there weren't many of them. Lots of fancy empty rooms that served for little else besides storage or improvised sleeping arrangements.

And he still had not yet come across Mia.

No clue about who these people were. It was HYDRA, of course, that wasn't much in question, but who was in charge? Peter had always thought most of the significant leadership was dead or imprisoned by now. Who was left?

That was, of course, until he came across a giant portrait in the main dining hall. All along the walls were old paintings of various old rulers in fancy doublets and mink capes, whose names Peter couldn't possibly have guessed. Slowly growing more modern the further along you looked, before finally ending at the centerpiece at the furthest wall, still partially covered by the old velvet curtain that kept it safe for so many years — the soft black cloth still revealed a partial military uniform, the thin combed hair, and little black mustache of Hitler himself.

Bruh.

Peter couldn't look away for a long moment, first out of disbelief, then to shake off the cold shudder that had worked up his spine.

Well. Guess that explained why this place was abandoned for so long.

That cold feeling settled in his gut. While great to know just what kind of people they were dealing with exactly, that did nothing to relieve Peter of his worries for Mia. Nope. Not even a little bit. Where was she?

Below him, the large double doors opened at once, loud and fast enough to startle Peter. A man strolled in, followed by an entourage, and Peter realized he definitely just can't hang out up here in the middle of the ceiling if these guys are staying. Which they were. The guy in charge was giving orders in German, but had stopped in the center of the room, in front of the large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the foggy landscape.

Moving fast, Peter threw himself across the room, hiding in the only place he could think of. Behind the curtain over Hitler's portrait.

Ugh.

He knew from museum field trips not to touch paintings, but this guy? Fuck this guy? Peter wasn't entirely surprised to find that when he touched the cracked oil painting, that its surface came away with his sticky fingers. Straight up just pulled dried paint right off the canvas, ruining it.

Heh. Peter smiled to himself, faintly amused, and then got an idea.

The occupants, completely unaware of his presence, continued about their business.

Zemo found this estate rather quaint, not nearly as grand as the original family home, but it would suit them for the time being. Though he couldn't see Geneva in this weather, he enjoyed the sensation of looking down upon them, watching the chaos unfold as he sat above it all, untouchable.

He smiled at the Soldatka as she appeared, silent as ever. The men who escorted her had an air of authority, but Zemo wasn't fooled. They were afraid of her. She only listened to their orders because Zemo commanded it of her, and he could just as easily take it back. They all knew where the true power laid.

And he enjoyed her silence. The girl made for a perfect companion. Though she rarely responded unless ordered to, Zemo knew she listened to every word. One could not ask for a better audience.

"All this land was once promised to us," he told her, gesturing to the world beyond the windows. "Had the Axis won, the Von Zemo's would've not only kept their land and titles, but also gained so much more. A fiefdom reborn, though for a greater cause than any medieval king. We would've fed nations, as we rebuilt them."

Zemo had never lived as a working farmer, but he saw the appeal of that hardworking, simple life. Where one's world was small, straightforward, and changed so little. How traditions remained strong. It bred strong people who could survive the harshest of seasons. Self-sufficient, yet their work put food on the tables of hundreds, possibly thousands.

"I often wondered at the toil of those harvesters, those cultivators. Builders and growers. Repeating the same action day after day. Feeding their livestock, tending their fields, building brick after brick. Do they see the nation they support? Do they know what greatness they live in? How good they have it? To feel secure in their lives, to question nothing at all?"

He cast a look back at the Soldatka and smiled. "Perhaps you would understand better than I. My life has been nothing but a constant ocean of change, enduring one crashing wave after another. But that is the world of politics. We must navigate carefully, and do it so well that those beneath us never notice the changing weather at all. If they perform their roles, then we can do ours. My life is difficult so theirs can be easy. Most of all, they know their place. All classes strive for the same common good above them all. They trust those above them. They know we have their best interests at heart."

"Do you?"

Zemo blinked, then looked back at the Soldatka, who had spoken. Out of turn. Her expression was as blank as ever, her eyes seeming to look through him than at him. But there was no question it was her voice, her words. Her question.

He did not ask her a question. Zemo pondered that for a moment, wondering if his phrasing had prompted this response. The Glass Presence only told him so much, and the Soldatka did not function in quite the same way as her father. Her protocol was not as refined or sophisticated.

Besides, there was no point in going into the finer details of a rural life, one of agriculture — not to the Soldatka at least. You cannot explain to a hammer what it's like to be a shovel. Zemo himself only knew what was relevant. The farmers farm, the bricklayers build. They were not impossible duties; any hardship these people faced was only brought upon by their own follies, and not anything those in power could control. Obviously.

"Of course I do," Zemo finally said, and then rectified himself. "They just don't see it yet. But they will come to appreciate the way things are meant to be. The vision never died, though it almost had in the Potomac. I intend to bring it back. The kings of old through their right to rule came from divine will; though they were incorrect in their reasonings, their methods of maintaining that power still hold today. Keep their bloodlines pure. Never dilute unless absolutely necessary. That is how HYDRA kept power, more or less. Democracy has always been a farce. Birthright, my birthright, will always remain true. Pierce had his ideals, but he sought to modernize our ways, painting them in a new, more American coat. I admired the man, don't mistake me; but his ideas were flawed, and now he's dead. Time marches on."

Pierce's end would've come eventually. He'd been a young man when he first rose to power within HYDRA, but he wouldn't be a young man forever. His attempts at being forward-thinking, of long-term goals far past his own existence, were well-meaning but ultimately failed. Dictatorship had its flaws as well. To maintain perfect, ever-lasting control, one must have a leader who never died.

And they must have their immortal weapons as well. In that part, at least, Pierce had succeeded. Though he had not started the Winter Soldier project, he had ensured its continued survival, and in that way, Zemo owed a great debt to that man. Pierce would never live to see his vision come true, but his name would be honored nonetheless.

Just… not under the same flag, perhaps.

"Someday, I might hold a great convocation of our generation's greatest minds, our leaders, here in this room." Zemo gazed about the dining hall; so dusty and washed out, once upon a time it must have been a room of grandeur and warmth and light. It surely served its purpose, once upon a time. "And if not here, then perhaps our ancestral home. But it will be some time before it can be fully rebuilt."

The place had been partially destroyed during World War II, no thanks to Captain America and his band of outcasts and criminals. Trying to rebuild anything these days without catching government attention was a terrible pain, and cost even more with the bribes he needed to hand out. But at least the process was underway. For the longest time, he did not have the means or the funds to do so. But someday, the von Zemos will be restored.

He gestured to the giant painting that dominated the rest, still partially covered. "Come, let's unveil the old masterpiece. If nothing else, this castle shall be the resurrection of HYDRA, and the world that once was."

A few men scrambled to respond, and Zemo had to command them to be gentle! Please! As they tugged stupidly at the velvet curtain. Morons, they might take down the entire frame if they're not careful. But at last, the curtain finally comes free, and reveals the painting in all its gl—

"Scheisse! What's this?" Zemo demanded, horrified and enraged at once.

For above him, the once glorious painting of Herr Hitler had been destroyed. And not just destroyed, as by time and elements, but vandalized. While one half had remained visible, the other half of the painting had been utterly destroyed; pieces of paint pulled out, the canvas where his eye had been cut out completely, revealing the blank wall behind the frame. Someone had doodled all over with a cheap black market, making a hairy eyebrow and altering the mustache. Added devil horns. A monocle. A little goatee.

And there, in the center of the painting, the vandal himself. A strange little hoodlum somehow sticking to the painting itself with nothing but his hands and feet, black sharpie still in hand — gazing down at the crowd below, with an equal expression of shock.

Only Zemo's shout shocked them back into action. "Verbrecher! Töte ihn!"

For a crime such as this warranted death, and nothing less. But Zemo had underestimated his own command — his idiot forces, who grabbed the first weapons they had on hand. Who didn't take a second to think why their target remained where he was while they raised their guns towards him.

The horror as triggers pulled and dozens of bullets went straight through the painting, turning it to little more than confetti.

And to top it all off, their aim was absolutely terrible.

"Wow, no aimbots here, huh?" Peter crowed after he had leapt off the painting, back flipping onto the chandelier in the center. The trail of bullets followed, haphazardly, and struck the glass and metal as well — long after Peter had already hopped to his next perch, and watched in growing delight as the once ornate chandelier came crashing to the floor in a broken heap.

It was about as much as he could enjoy with Mia right there.

Peter hoped the noise would at least tell everyone else where to find him. Because this was getting bad fast. The guys with the guns? No biggie? Web shooters took care of that — Peter snatched one with some web and yanked across the others like a great big domino pile, and took out some furniture, too, along the way.

But Mia?

She was coming straight for him.

Peter thought he was safe on the ceiling. But her aim was much better, and taking the gun from her hands did nothing to slow her down. She grabbed his own web to yank Peter off the ceiling.

He hit the floor hard, enough for the stone to crack beneath him. "Ow."

No time to lick his wounds. Mia was already charging.

Peter managed to roll on his back just in time, lifting his legs to kick Mia. Right in her stomach, throwing her backwards once more. Buying himself enough time to jump back to his feet, but not a second more. She pulled out a small pistol. He knocked that away, then had to dodge the follow-up knife. It cut straight through whatever his web-shooters could bring. A fact Peter still hadn't resolved with his chemical composition. Shit.

"Mia, come on! It's me!" Peter had hoped, after their encounter on the trail, that maybe there was something of Mia still there he could bring out. But after the third time of her trying to slash his throat, he was starting to think maybe Wanda and Pietro were right all along.

That did not improve his chances.

Peter knew he could hurt her. Stop her somehow. He was stronger than Mia by far, but hurting her? He couldn't do that. Mia was also acting with a much higher intensity than him, absolutely trying to kill him. Sticking her feet to the floor, catching her hand against a wall, it only slowed her down. She kept pulling out more knives. Tossed a flash bang at him, which Peter had to reel away from, fast. The room was already evacuating, yet Zemo remained, clearly enjoying the show.

"I don't know what you are, boy," the man said as he walked backwards towards the door. "But you are clearly out of your depth."

Peter wished he had a funny little quip to fire back with, but he was currently very distracted right now. He was prepared for Mia to pull out her shield, he could at least get that out of her hands, but he'd forgotten how bouncy it was. How Mia was much better at AP Trig than he remembered.

Him throwing the shield only for Mia to chase after it was good in theory; it gave Peter a second's break. Only to realize his mistake when Mia threw her shield and missed him was, well, not actually missing him.

A second chandelier fell and would've crashed right on top of him had Peter's spider sense not warned him a split second before.

"You know me!" He begged Mia, as if she wasn't looking at his entire face and trying to kill him anyways. "It's me! It's Peter! Come on! We can go home!"

But home was very far away right now. And when reinforcements arrived, Peter actually considered running away. The windows were right there. He could retreat, as cowardly as it was. Peter really didn't want to die.

Just as the new arrivals drew their weapons, however, a massive blast of red overtook them from behind, and bodies went flying. The doorway, once more cleared, allowed Wanda's entry, Howie huddled behind her. Behind her the flash of Pietro, zipping to the other entryway and barreling straight for the bad guys coming in from that end; their hands suddenly weaponless one second, and the next being knocked down one by one in a series of blows.

Then Vision, appearing through the floor and flying upwards, grabbing Mia from behind and lifting her into the air. His skinny Vibranium arms managed to lock Mia in as she writhed and spat against him, legs kicking uselessly.

"Wanda!" Peter called, both relieved and panicked at once. "I tried to make her snap out of it but it's not — it's not working! What do we do?"

Peter admittedly did not think this far ahead. He was really putting a lot of faith in Mia being able to recognize him, or at least be docile enough for them to kidnap her back and figure things out afterwards. But Mia definitely wasn't docile right now.

Wanda looked to him then up at her, brow furrowing. "I don't know. It was never a quick process. We could always try to knock her out —"

A burst of gunfire interrupted her

"Throw her against the wall!" Pietro shouted from across the room.

But Vision looked extremely preoccupied, yelping as Mia threw her weight around, making him swing about in the air. He definitely didn't look like he wanted to smash her head into a wall. His voice cracked, revealing his own panic. "Perhaps something a little less violent?!"

But Peter feared they might not have a choice. "Wanda, can't you do something? With your magic?"

"I can try," Wanda said, but looked doubtful as she raised her hands, threads of a spell weaving through her fingers. "But it's not exactly straightforward, I have to coax her to relax and — Vision, stay still!"

"I'm trying!" Vision insisted. "She's being very difficult right now."

Just then, Mia smacked her head back and clocked Vision right on the nose. That actually seemed to daze Mia more than it did him — it shattered his human illusion but Vision was still upright and floating. "No, wait, do it now!"

But Wanda never got the chance. The spell had only left her fingers when another gunman managed to get off a few lucky shots before Pietro knocked him down, only to be followed by two more — one firing at Pietro and the other back at Vision. Being fired upon from multiple directions panicked the young android, unable to shield Mia from multiple directions, and without thinking, dropped her for lack of a better idea.

Mia crumpled to the ground, and Peter hoped that was a good opportunity. But he'd only just rushed to reach her when Mia was already rising again.

Peter saw the knife in her hands at the last minute, skidding to a stop and twisting his body hard to avoid the attack. "Whoa!"

The blade sliced through his shirt and Peter felt the blade hot against his skin, blood spilling. But only a flesh wound as he pulled away.

Things turned chaotic fast. Too fast. Peter was so preoccupied with Mia and not dying that he didn't see a lot of what was happening around him.

Like several of Zemo's goons getting back to their feet, behind Wanda, and snatching Howie from her side before she could stop him.

Holding the boy at gunpoint, while Vision was busy blasting another guy with his forehead laser (holy shit), or Pietro skipping back and forth through the gunfire aimed at him, pushing him away from helping Wanda or Howie, before he ran out of the room entire, gone in a ribbon of silver. No one had any idea where he went.

Meanwhile, Mia managed to get Peter pinned to a wall, from which vantage point he managed to catch a glimpse of Howie sneezing into his captor's face. The man recoiled in shock and disgust, long enough for Wanda to act. Taking over his mind, forcing him to drop Howie, then to put his own pistol beneath his chin and fire.

Wow. Peter wished he didn't see that. Normally he would've liked to establish the rules of combat beforehand, but now knowing who and what they're dealing with, maybe he won't talk to Wanda about killing Nazis later.

In the meantime, Mia was slowly choking the life out of him. Right. He still has to survive.

Then Pietro, appearing out of the other door, Wanda's door, flew in and slammed straight into Mia, full speed. As Mia was yanked off him, Peter dropped to his knees, hacking and coughing.

She cried out at impact, thrown halfway across the room. But she recovered just as fast; he struck at her, but her shield absorbed Pietro's body strikes, and his fists alone were hardly enough to take her down.

Instead of attacking Pietro in turn, however, Mia tossed another one of those little damn balls at Wanda. It diverted Pietro, who suddenly changed directions mid-run and raced to grab the grenade before it reached Wanda. Mia must have timed it exactly, because instead of giving Pietro the two seconds he needed to throw it back, the flash-bang exploded right in his hands.

The blast took Pietro right in the face, and he went down with a shout enveloped by the bang. Wanda screamed.

Pietro hit the ground, preserved momentum carrying him through several chairs before he slid to a stop against a wall. Face covered in angry red burns, he groaned — not dead, at least.

Still coughing, Peter stumbled over to Pietro, as Wanda turned her full attention on Mia, but her first spell had little effect on Mia — slowing her down, but not taking her out. A second volley Mia managed to dodge; a third ripped up the floor at her feet, threw chairs and furniture and what have you at her.

Mia took one blow across the shoulder, another almost tripping her. Another cut across her face. And still, she did not stop.

Windows shattered and razor-sharp glass shooting directly at her. Mia took the worst against her shield and let the remaining cut across her legs and feet. Threw herself forward, rolling across the floor to pick up a fallen gun, and aiming it at Howie.

She fired, and only Wanda bringing up a magic shield was enough to protect the both of them. Vision swooped in to their defense, looking extremely reluctant when the gem at the center of his forehead unleashed another blast. But he had forgotten about Mia's shield.

Peter didn't know what would happen if the two forces made contact, and very soon he did.

Mia, still curled on the ground, hunched behind her shield as it not just absorbed the gem's power, but redirected it. First at Wanda, who's thin shield shattered upon impact, and then sharply at Vision, who cried out in shock. Both fell at the impact.

It was only then Peter realized how fucked they were. Both Vision and Wanda unconscious. Him shaking Pietro, trying to wake him. But Pietro was out for the count, his face badly injured, though Peter was so full of panic and adrenaline he couldn't say how bad it was.

But hearing Pietro mumbling, "Can't… see…" only made his heart clench.

Peter looked over his shoulder again to see Mia once more rising to her feet. Her eyes set on Howie, the only other person still standing, so to speak. But Howie was also on the floor, scrambling backwards. His hands moved frantically, and at first Peter thought he was signing, before he saw the repulsor in Howie's palm.

Just the repulsor, the skeleton of its framework around his hand. No armor. Nothing more than a tiny thing that Peter knew would do nothing but mildly annoy Mia.

Not Mia. There was nothing about Mia in this girl approaching Howie, gun in hand.

She could've fired from her distance. But to confirm a kill, you get close.

"Stop!" Peter didn't know what the hell he was doing, only that he had nothing left to lose. It was easy enough to pull the gun from her hand with web, but everything that came after?

Mia had always won their spars. Only when Peter used his full strength, had to think of out of the box ways to keep her down. Because Mia was always impossible to keep down. She just kept getting back up, no matter how much she was hurt.

Even now, she was bleeding from multiple places, as Peter slammed into her at full speed. Her hands, covered in blood. Whose blood? Peter didn't know. The cut on his side hurt but it couldn't have bled that much, could it?

Mia hit the ground beneath him, but quickly got the upper hand. Peter hadn't managed to pin her down before she was on top of him, knife in hand. It was seconds from burrowing into his eye before a blast knocked it from her hands. Howie, with one very good shot.

Mia's head whipped around to glare at the boy, giving Peter the chance to punch her. Hard. Harder than he's ever hit her before. Enough to knock Mia off of him, to feel that sick horrible feeling in his gut when she landed on the floor. Throwing himself at her once more, only to be knocked back when she raised her shield. Batted him away like he was a fly.

Peter landed on his feet, shoulder aching where he'd taken the worst of the blow. Ready for Mia to throw her shield at him. But once more, it wasn't him she was aiming at.

Instead, the shield bounced several times around the room, before striking the giant ruined painting. It was already on its last legs, a hunk of tattered canvas and heavy wood. Now it trembled, shook, fell. To the three bodies still lying underneath.

Peter couldn't pull Wanda, Vision, and Howie out of there all at once. If he had to choose, Howie would've been first and Vision last, but regardless — Howie yelped as Peter struck him with his web shooters and yanked him out from beneath the falling canvas. It crashed down, wood splintering, and Peter hoped Wanda would forgive him for it later.

He pulled Howie right into his arms. Howie was breathing hard, trying to say something, but between his cold and chattering teeth, it was impossible to understand. Peter couldn't protect both of them. If he separated from Howie, then Mia would go straight for him. There was no good option.

And that was before realizing that she wasn't alone. Only a few of the remaining men were still conscious, but three was more than zero and they all had guns. They winced and groaned and were covered in their own injuries, but that probably only made them madder. They didn't fire immediately — they were waiting for Mia. Maybe they wanted to enjoy the show.

Mia had a developing bruise on her jaw from where Peter had struck her. But there was no betrayal in her eyes. Still the same cold gray nothingness as before.

Once more, Peter eyed the windows. He didn't want to leave the others behind. But Howie was the only one left, and he was virtually defenseless. Peter did his best to place his body between everyone else and Howie. But they were cornered. He had no other choice.

In that glance towards the window, Peter saw something move out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, a cat, a something, moving so fast he had almost hoped it was Pietro back on his feet, but the size and shape was all wrong. One man shouted in alarm and fired, drawing everyone's attention. But he wasn't shooting at Peter and Howie.

The bullets struck the form, but didn't pierce it. The black suit glowed faintly purple at the impacts, but nothing slowed the man down as he struck, slashing one man across the chest, another across his face. More gunfire, this time cast wildly in a panic.

Peter barely had time to understand what was going on before they were all down. Only Mia remained.

Like a missile seeking out its target, she went straight for the newcomer. Single-minded and entirely unstoppable, only this time her opponent wasn't so easily beaten.

Peter wanted to shout at her, tell her to stop. But she wouldn't listen. Not even losing would have convinced her, he realized.

It only came to an end when the man, catching her thrown fist, threw her out a window.

It was so sudden, Peter almost didn't have time to react. "No!"

Glass shattered and Mia disappeared from sight. But the sound of impact was quick — rushing to the window, Peter was relieved to find Mia on the courtyard below. The fog had cleared somewhat, thanks to the helicopter planted not a hundred feet away, its rotors spinning.

Inside its open bay doors, Peter spotted the form of Zemo, beckoning to Mia.

Below, she was already getting to her feet. Peter called her name, and Mia looked up, but there was no recognition there. She stood there, for a moment, their eyes locked — and then she turned and ran for the helicopter.

"Mia! Stop! Please!" Peter called after her, his voice breaking in what could only be a sob. His body ached in every way, but nothing hurt more than watching his own best friend turn her back on him. Choosing to run away.

Only it wasn't a choice, was it?

A hand on his shoulder prevented Peter from jumping out after her. He could've done it, he could've made it. The helicopter was already starting to rise, but Peter could latch on. He could do something. But the hand that caught him was strong, already pulling him back.

"Please, stop," a voice urged. "There's nothing more you can do for her."

Peter struggled only for a second more, until the voice added, "Your friends still need you,"

And that's when he remembered. Pietro, Wanda, Howie, and Vision. He couldn't leave them behind. Defeated, Peter knew they were all in bad shape. He just didn't know how bad yet.

Pietro was already stumbling to his feet, but it was clear his vision was impeded, turning his head this way and that. Red tendrils curled around the broken pieces of canvas and wood, lifting up off of Wanda and Vision as they, too, slowly began to rise. Vision looked dazed, while Wanda was definitely nursing a limp.

All four of them stared at the man who'd intervened. Covered head to toe in a full black suit, its mask resembling that of a cat's, none of them knew how to respond.

"Who are you?" Peter asked, joining the rest as they stood together. He slung Pietro's arm around his shoulder when it was clear the older boy couldn't navigate on his own. If they got into another fight, especially with this guy and his bulletproof suit? They were screwed.

"I am T'Challa," the man said, lifting his hands to remove the helmet from his suit. Howie gasped upon recognition, and the man gave him a small nod. "King of Wakanda. I followed you here."

Wanda looked thunderstruck. "How? I never sensed you."

"I kept my distance," the King said vaguely, looking out the window, then back at them. "You would not have seen me even if you tried. The European police are not making good headway. When I realized you five were here, and you had personal knowledge of those involved, you might say I hedged my bets. I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to strike on your own, however. Had you turned back, I might have gone in and handled this myself."

"We couldn't wait!" Howie threw out his hands. "Mia was here!"

"And you would've hurt Mia," Peter added, pointing towards the window. "Which you did."

"She attacked me. I was only defending myself." The King replied, unwavering.

"You don't understand!" Wanda shook her head, wincing as she stepped forward. "Mia isn't in control of her actions. She— she's under protocol! That man, Zemo, he's the one making her do all these things!"

"Protocol?" The man frowned, tilting his head in a decidedly feline manner. "What do you mean?"

"It was years ago," Wanda explained. "Zemo is HYDRA, and it's HYDRA that brainwashed Mia. They put a … a code in her head, a trigger to turn her into a mindless weapon! If you have her code, then you can control her. Mia has no way to resist it; her father is the same."

"The Winter Soldier," T'Challa surmised. "This Bucky Barnes. What you're saying means either one of them could have planted that bomb. Could have killed those people."

They all nodded emphatically. Vision added, "They wouldn't be acting under their own willpower in this state. And neither of them has a desire to ever serve HYDRA again, we can promise you that."

T'Challa cut him a look. "You know the Winter Soldier well enough to make such a claim?"

Vision quailed slightly, averting his gaze. "Well, er, no. Not Barnes. But Mia. And she says her father would never willingly return. And I believe her. Barnes has been actively pursuing HYDRA remnants with the Avengers in rooting them out."

"I see," The man was silent for a long moment, evaluating the group of them. "And this Zemo, what do you know of him?"

The group exchanged looks with each other and shrugged. "No idea." At the man's stunned look, Peter could only shrug, "I heard his name when they were talking earlier, but aside from the fact he owns a giant painting of Hitler, I have no idea."

"So, you cannot actually claim he is HYDRA."

"Fuck yeah I can!"

"This has HYDRA all over it," Pietro agreed, gesturing to a room he couldn't see. "This is how they operate. I recognized some of the men that are still wanted for their association with HYDRA. And I was forced to grow up with them. Wanda and I both. We know them better than anyone else in the world."

It was a bold claim, yet the Wakandan King did not call him out on it. Instead, he seemed to take it into consideration. "I've heard a little of your group. The young Avengers."

"We don't have an official name or anything," Howie said, making a face. "Labor laws."

"Ah," The man raised his eyebrows, and for a moment, seemed faintly amused. "And thus, you work outside of the law. Not wisely, I think. But you're faring better than the true Avengers. Secretary Ross is keen to have us all arrested. His actions seem to put us on the same side."'

Peter scowled. "Not if you're going to kill Mia."

"I have no intention of killing anyone," T'Challa replied, dark eyes pinning Peter to the spot. His heart skipped a beat. "I seek only to bring my father's killer to justice. If this man you call Zemo is behind the attack, then he is the one I want. If what you say about your friend is true, then… I'm sorry. I can only promise I will not try to kill her. But she may not give me that choice."

Peter wanted to fight, to argue, to cry — but he knew what the King meant. Mia had already tried to kill Peter himself, and all their friends, and they were relying on their own attachments, their own hopes that she'll come back. This man didn't know her.

"I understand," Peter said at length, weakly. He supposed he should be grateful this guy was even listening to what they had to say.

"So, you're not with the Accords anymore?" Howie piped up. "You turned against Ross. How did you get out of arrest?"

"A little bit of legal technicalities." T'Challa replied, with the faintest smirk. "And a promise that Wakanda will not interfere with Interpol's investigation."

"But…" Vision blinked in confusion. "You are interfering,"

"Am I?" The King asked, looking around. "I do not see them here. I cannot interfere with an investigation if Interpol is not making the correct headway. They don't even know I'm here."

"…Oh." Vision said.

"I'm not inclined to help either they or Ross in their pursuits," the man continued. "And I think it would be in your best interests to leave as well. Sooner or later, they will come here. I can offer medical assistance as well."

"We're fine," Pietro's voice was sharp, cutting in fast before anyone else could take him up on that offer. As if he wasn't the worst off among them. "We've had worse. Just stay out of our way."

It seemed King T'Challa was fighting a smile, but he bowed his head graciously nevertheless. "Perhaps we shall stay out of each other's ways, then. Though if you are anything like my little sister, I highly doubt that will happen. Take care, then. And avoid the southern path down the mountain."

With that, the king placed his helmet back on and turned away, leaping out of the window in one graceful move. The five of them watched him go, vanishing into the fog, from wherever the hell he came from.

"Perhaps we were too hasty in refusing his help?" Vision offered timidly.

"Maybe," Peter made a face. "But it's too late now. We're probably better off on our own anyways. The King of Wakanda is a known entity. No one knows about us yet. I want to keep it that way."

"If we accept help, then we'd be indebted to him," Pietro scowled. "And I won't be indebted to a man who'd kill Mia no matter what we do."

"We need to leave, now," Wanda said, ending that conversation entirely. "The King has his own problems and we have ours. If we don't keep moving, then staying secret won't be an option anymore."

And they definitely couldn't afford that to happen.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven

✭

P A R I S

Team Cap wasn't doing so great.

Nat had said it as a joke, but the moniker stuck. And indeed, four days after the UN attack, they had made little headway in regards to any of their goals. Just barely staying ahead of Ross' hunt, and little to no trace of Zemo at all.

Bucky hated that they had to rely on Carter's information, the only person helping them right now. He still feared a double-cross,

They also couldn't contact anyone else they knew. Both in case of Ross finding their allies, or supposed allies selling them out. Not that Bucky had any of those, but the others did. Steve also suspected May Parker may have been arrested or in custody because she was no longer responding to any of his contact attempts. (May was already giving Bucky the cold shoulder before all this started, so he wouldn't have known). This also likely meant Peter was also taken in. Damn shame. He was a good kid.

Natalia, thankfully, had no shortage of safehouses. And if she couldn't find one, she'd make one. Their first day was spent getting out of Geneva without getting caught, spending each night in a new location. All four of them cramped into the same tiny blue Volkswagen beetle, a covert clown car, on long winding roads through the Swiss Alps.

There were multiple checkpoints, run by Interpol and state police; either to catch Zemo, or to catch them, it was hard to say. But each time they had to abandon one vehicle and steal another, after walking several miles (usually through mountainous woods) to skirt around the checkpoints and various other security details.

Carter had suggested they rendezvous at a safehouse in Paris, far enough away to avoid suspicion and close enough to manage in a few days. It should have taken less than one, but with all the detours, double backs, and deadlock traffic, it took much longer. At the very least they could be sure no one was tracking them.

The long car drive wasn't exactly pleasant either. For one, Bucky was stuck in the backseat with Wilson, and Natalia had full control of the radio. Steve didn't mind what station they listened to, but everyone else did, and none could agree. Nat's suggestion of various games to pass the time did not go well either. All Bucky saw were trees, and the many "would you rather" options were easy to answer (some because he's already had to make such choices). Wilson didn't like any of his contributions and Bucky questioned Wilson's logic on his own answers, so least to say it resulted in some kind of bickering — to be ended with either Steve threatening to stop the car, or Nat with stuffing one (or both) of them into the trunk.

They couldn't reach Paris fast enough.

By the last day, Bucky was seriously contemplating just taking off on his own to hunt down Zemo and rescue Mia. But Steve convinced him to stay long enough to hear what Carter had to say. If she had any actionable intelligence, if there was something they could do, still operating as a team.

Maybe Steve sensed Bucky's growing restlessness. Maybe he knew, as Bucky did, that they were wasting too much time.

Sharon Carter's rendezvous was located in the attic of a classic French apartment building; under the blue slate roofs, where the servants would have lived once, long ago. The place had since been renovated and modernized, with tiny showers and a communal toilet. The height of luxury, as far as Bucky was concerned. Too many people took modern plumbing for granted.

Carter waited in the little closet of a room. The window behind her overlooked the street below; the dark Seine River, the bateaux mouches bobbing along the stone piers, and in the distance, the Eiffel tower swooping up into the air, its web of black steelwork harkening to a different era.

In the room itself, there was an old couch, a few chairs, and a coffee table, squeezed next to a kitchenette and wardrobe. Much like the car, it was a tight fit for everyone, but Carter assured them the place was secure. Before her, laid out across the table, were an array of maps, print-outs, and missives.

"I'm glad you all made it in one piece," Carter said, offering a small smile and some coffee in tiny cups. "I hope the trip wasn't too bad."

"Slightly painful but nothing we couldn't manage," Natalia answered. She sat on the couch with her legs sprawled across Bucky's lap unbidden. It was better than having to share the seat with Wilson, at least. "How did you manage to get away?"

"I got reassigned," Carter answered, and at Steve's look of alarm, raised a hand to placate. "They didn't catch me. But both Ross and my supervisor thought, given my prior history with SHIELD and the current direction this investigation is going, I had a conflict of interest."

"So, they kicked you off the team," Wilson surmised with a shake of his head.

"More or less. I was reassigned to a station in Alaska. But before that, I caught wind of a new lead. I've got a week to arrive at my post, so I figured I could squeeze this in first."

"Squeeze what in?" Steve asked.

Carter gestured to the table before them. On it, a map of an island nation was prominent. "I received HUMINT that a certain German nobility will be attending a "charity" gala —" She made air quotes with her fingers " — hosted by an infamous weapons dealer and crime lord known as the Power Broker, who's main area of influence is Southeast Asia, but his reach extends all over the globe. He currently resides in Madripoor, which is where we're headed next."

"Madripoor? When?" Wilson spoke.

"Right now."

"What? We just got here —"

M A D R I P O O R

As it turned out, the Power Broker's estate was an old mansion built back when the area had been colonized by the English; it had that Anglo-Saxon feel, with a long marble colonnade surrounding the multi-story buildings, beneath a warm stucco roof; its long, massive windows; a grand garden that happened to serve perfectly for a party such as this; a courtyard with a center fountain, upon it a giant bronze statue of a Roman god, far outside the reaches of the ancient empire.

The only thing explicitly modern were the electrical fittings, the barbed wire gate, and the luxury helicopter on the roof.

"The Power Broker? Charity? You're joking," Nat had said in Paris.

"I'm not," Carter said, her tone flat. "The Power Broker trades weapons for leverage and this is no different. His auction is in the selling of weapons. The big-ticket item is a Faberge egg from the Amber Room — but it's strongly believed to be a placeholder for what everyone really wants."

Now it had been reclaimed, as the rest of the city had been, by both its native populace and the rich criminals who ran the island nation. Madripoor had once been a haven of pirates, and that hadn't changed much in the new millennium.

The estate was large enough to entertain its guest list, hundreds of only the richest and most influential people in Madripoor and beyond. Money, as they say, is the great equalizer in Madripoor.

"Considering what the Power Broker is, expect an army of guards and the best security one man can afford. We've never had a name or a face for the Power Broker, it's rare for him to publicly attend his own events. But he's not the reason we're here."

The security in black stood out from the colorful guests, the servers in white, the live band with their lights and sweet song. Bucky could hear the music even from his position, a quarter mile away on the rooftop of another building. He could see everything through his scope, shifting from one window to another.

"We're after what he's selling." Carter had said. "What Kerberos is likely going to buy. Intel says the egg is likely a placeholder for uranium. And we don't have to imagine what Kerberos would want to do with that."

And through one of those windows, Bucky could make out the explosion of glimmer and shine of the giant gold and enamel egg, protected by three inches of bullet-proof glass, under an array of lights set to dazzle, and surrounded by a small cadre of armed men.

"Our goal is to prevent Kerberos from acquiring the nuclear material, and preferably acquiring it ourselves before anyone else can get their hands on it, either. Kerberos is not our only enemy at this auction."

Steve and Carter arrived in one car, Wilson and Natalia in another. All four were dressed to the nines, the men in designer tuxedos of Italian fashion houses; Carter in a stunning sapphire gown, and Natalia in a curtain of luscious black silk, soft as butter.

"I have eyes on you, Pantheon," Bucky murmured into his mic, squinting through the scope, watching as they passed through security.

"Any sightings of Kerberos?" Steve's voice echoed in his ear. He walked arm-in-arm with Carter, who was doing a very convincing impression of a rich heiress. Only the keenest eyes could tell that she was CIA.

"Not yet," If Zemo were here, Bucky would have found him already. And he wouldn't have asked permission before taking the shot. Bucky kept his finger off the trigger until then. "No sightings of Luna either. Or Prometheus, not that any of us know what he looks like."

"How do we even know if Prometheus is a he?" Wilson asked, arm in arm with Natalia. "Could be a she."

"It's possible," Carter replied, as she and Steve grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server. "It's widely suspected the Power Broker is a legacy title. He's been a known entity for over three decades. He always attends his parties, but only undercover. So, remember boys, behave yourselves."

"Why us?" Steve laughed, chuckling into Carter's ear like they were flirting. Bucky frowned. Maybe it wasn't so fake. Maybe Steve got better at espionage than he realized.

"Because Venus is the only one I trust to know what she's doing." Carter replied with a truly uncharacteristic giggle.

"Thank you," Natalia hummed, preening in front of a reflective statue before pulling Wilson along. "The auction starts in thirty minutes, but the actual weapons are locked in a vault beneath the estate. Apollo and I will gain access."

"Juno and I will deal with the active players here," Steve replied. "If Kerberos or his agents are here, we'll intercept. Pluto, how does it look up there?"

"Quiet," Bucky murmured. Was he jealous he wasn't down there in a fancy suit himself? Maybe. "Save one of those little egg things from me, Jupiter. Starving."

"Sorry, buddy," Steve winced into his drink. "But you're the only one whose face is on the news right now."

"Just because these guys wouldn't call the police doesn't mean they wouldn't take full advantage of the Winter Soldier being here," Natalia added. "Not to mention, you wouldn't have made it through the metal detectors."

Bucky sighed. This was the best position for him anyways; far away and with a rifle in his hands. But he still hated the distance; the desire to wrap his fingers around Zemo's throat as soon as he had the chance.

Wilson and Natalia had already disappeared into the building in search of the vault. To arrive as guests was the best way to gain access to an otherwise impervious system; the only time when the Power Broker's estate was so open was during events like these. Bucky was still of the opinion he could've snuck in as a server. There was no security system he couldn't punch through or blow up.

But they were going for subtlety tonight.

Though it was winter in the southern hemisphere, Madripoor was still warm and humid. Their winters were only slightly less hot than their summers. At least at night Bucky wasn't cooking — he could see the sweat beading on the brows of the Power Broker's security guards, dressed in their suits over what must be a few layers of Kevlar. Rough.

"What are those bracelets they gave you?" Bucky asked, having noticed the entry procedure. Between passing through x-rays and swept for equipment, each guest that passed received what appeared to be a white bangle around their wrist.

"It's a part of their security feature," Carter replied, flipping her wrist back and forth to study the jewelry. "It can only be removed once the guests leave. If it's tampered with, it'll set off an alert. It's to keep us penned in where we're supposed to be, and mark anyone who doesn't belong."

"It clashes with my dress," Natalia said, with a pout in her voice. "And I'm pretty sure it has GPS. I think I can get it off without breaking any thumbs, at least."

"The servers aren't wearing any," Bucky added. Unless it was hidden up their white sleeves, he couldn't spot any with that same newfangled technology.

"They've probably already been screened," Carter replied. "The Power Broker reportedly only hires locals. Easier to bribe and control."

"Sounds like a real nice guy."

So far everything was going off without a hitch. Though Bucky had yet to spot Zemo, or anyone who might be the Power Broker, he did spot a few known criminals that he may or may not have encountered in the past. Would be a shame if they didn't make it out of the party alive…

But no, he had to hold back. Natalia and Wilson dumped their bracelets in a locked closet — leaving the guards to their own imagination.

With no sighting of Zemo, Bucky was taking second looks at everyone present. Maybe he was hiding behind a pair of large, obnoxious sunglasses, or a ridiculous costume. There was no shortage of extravagance here; the team looked practically underdressed in comparison. Steve and Carter's nominal covers were a pair of wealthy trust fund babies about to inherit their parents' respective empires in questionably ethical fields. Towing the line at criminal, while being unknown enough that they could casually introduce themselves without getting caught. The covers wouldn't hold under any scrutiny, but they didn't have to — they just had to survive the next few hours.

Bucky was busy focusing on the windows, as guests milled about the hall where all the artwork and fine jewelry were on display. Electronic screens facilitated the silent auction, maintaining much needed privacy. "Is that a Picasso?"

"Lost during the Spanish Civil War," Carter said. "Anyone bidding on it is also trying to buy defunct Russian security satellites."

"What would they do with those?"

"Gaining access to things they shouldn't," Was Natalia's reply. Bucky could neither see her or Wilson's actions, but he could overhear it. Metal plates being played with, shuffling between sweeping security cameras, the gurgle of a security guard being strangled. "It's expensive to dismantle an entire satellite array, not to mention difficult to control where they land. The Russians can't afford their technology, no matter how old, to end up in the hands of the enemy. So, it's easier to sell it off and hope that it falls out of the sky, burning up in the atmosphere ten years down the line."

"I suppose we're not gonna take any of these things out of play?"

"Unfortunately, our goal is only the target," Carter replied. "There's a lot here that I don't like. But nothing as bad as what Kerberos wants. The rest we can deal with at a future date."

And then the first problem occurred. Bucky noticed one of the latecomers in a sleek lavender McClaren, rolling up to the gates. It wasn't the flashiest car, if it can be believed, but the occupants that emerged immediately caught Bucky's attention. "Uh. We have visitors."

"Kerberos?" Steve asked, both alert and hopeful.

"No." Bucky followed the man through his scope as he passed through security without a hitch. Even without the cat suit, he recognized the man immediately. And they had no code word for this situation. "The King of Wakanda."

"Holy shit," Wilson said, which was followed by the crackle of electricity, like a circuit board being fried. What followed was the whooshing sound of a heavy metal door opening. "There's no way — he can't afford being seen here!"

"Can't he?" Natalia countered, through gritted teeth as she tried to force through something. "Allegiance with Ross fell through, the Accords conflict with Wakandan sovereignty, and everyone is dying to become Wakanda's new best friend in the hopes they can access Wakanda technology and resources. Do you know how many people here would fall over themselves for a sliver of pure vibranium? This King knows how to play politics."

"Is it politics?" Steve asked, as he and Carter maneuvered themselves to catch a glimpse of the King and his two escorts. Tall, beautiful women, utterly svelte in Wakandan haute couture and gold jewelry; but pretty arm candy the Dora Milaje were not. "Or is he here for the same thing we are?"

Bucky was of the same mindset. "Maybe he's following Kerberos as well."

"How would he catch wind of that?" Wilson asked. "Didn't Juno say he was out of their investigation?"

"He is," Carter grumbled, clearly displeased with this situation. "But either Wakanda has sudden interest in nuclear tech, or our King found a leak."

"Your bigger problem is not being seen," Bucky added. He had no doubt the King was here on his own quest for vengeance. Bucky had little knowledge of Wakandan technology, but he'd seen that suit the Black Panther wore, and could only imagine what else the country could produce. His being here was little surprise, the King could certainly manage it. But if Wakanda had vibranium and advanced technology, then something told Bucky they had little need for nuclear weapons. "He might be here for you."

Apparently, this had not occurred to any of them, judging by the disbelieving responses he got; but Bucky hadn't forgotten that the King tried very hard to kill him earlier this week. "Is it possible he's following us?"

"No way," Natalia said, immediately. Of them all, only she would know for sure. "We haven't discussed our information anywhere but in person, face to face. We had no bugs; we were never followed for very long. The King must have his sources elsewhere."

"What if he still thinks the Winter Soldier is active?" Wilson offered. "Maybe it was easy to assume a suddenly publicly known assassin would come to the biggest criminal auction event of the year? I mean, it's a good place to find things to kill people with."

Bucky hated to say it, but Wilson had a point. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't get an invite after all."

He followed the King's progress through the party; as expected, he was a surprise and very popular guest. Everyone who was anyone rushed for their chance to greet the king, to introduce themselves, to voice their support for the Wakandan cause (whatever that was). Steve and Carter were safe in the meantime; the King was the only one here who could burn them, and they were in no rush to join the queue. "Keep us updated on what he's doing, Pluto. Still no sign of Kerberos?"

"Nothing," Bucky said, doing another quick scan of the area. The King's arrival had been a big to-do, a distraction, and all the players he'd been keeping tabs on had moved much further than he thought. "Wait, I see something."

It was a glimpse, a flicker out of the corner of his vision. Third floor up, where there had been limited activity — presumably the Power Broker's private quarters — a small group of people had passed by a window. He'd only been able to make out an entourage of heavy-booted guards, and the sweep of a long coat. "Third floor activity. I don't know what it was."

"Can't get up there without getting rid of our bracelets," Carter said, frowning down in annoyance. "Probably in a part of the estate we don't have a visual on."

"Think we can draw them out?" Steve asked.

"We can definitely try —" Carter began, only to be interrupted by Natalia.

"The vault's empty!"

"What?" The other three said at once, startled.

"It's empty! It's not here!" Wilson hissed, unleashing a short stream of curses. "Zemo must have already bought it."

"That doesn't make sense! The auction is still going," Carter said from her position, still in the auction room, her head swiveling from side to side.

Bucky saw nothing noticeable either. "Kerberos isn't here. But the egg —"

"If it's a real Faberge from the lost Amber Room, then it's gotta be worth hundreds of millions." Wilson said. "People would sell out their own mother to get their hands on that."

"It doesn't matter. We're too late," Natalia groaned, and there came the snap of something like a broken heel. "Whatever the Power Broker was selling, it was already bought long before we got here. Got us locked in a vault for nothing!"

"You two okay, Venus?" Steve asked.

"The doors shut behind us. I can get out through the vent shaft, but Apollo —"

"Yeah, I don't think I'm fitting in there."

"Lost visual on the king," Bucky said, between their increasingly panicked exchange.

"Shit," Carter looked around to see the seats empty behind them. "Where were they last?"

"Heading upstairs." Bucky replied. "If the target was already bought, then Kerberos must already have it."

"Maybe he's still here," Carter gasped. It was almost hopeful, but there was a tone of dread. Zemo, here, with a weapon of mass destruction?

But Bucky wasn't so afraid. No one was crazy enough to use his just-bought weapon to destroy a gaggle of the world's worst criminals when Zemo obviously had much bigger targets in mind. Madripoor was a major city on the world's circuit, but it wasn't a major political enemy. It wasn't even a member of the UN.

"We'll keep looking, we can still find —"

"Find who, Captain?" came the deep, even tone of the King, his voice picked up on Steve and Carter's mics. Both whirled around to stare at the King. Bucky had his sights on the group, but there was nothing he could do. He had no desire to kill the King of Wakanda, but if this ended in a fight…

"Strange, to see you here, of all places," Bucky could overhear, while Natalia cursed on the other end. "And Agent Carter. Is this how CIA liaisons spend their vacation?"

"Juno, Jupiter, get out of there!" Natalia hissed. "You've been made!"

"Did you come alone?" The King asked. "Or am I to assume a set of crosshairs is already lining up to my head?"

"Shit," Bucky mumbled, averting his aim just a fraction.

"We're not your enemy, your Highness," Steve said, his voice low so they wouldn't be heard from the other guests. "I don't know why you're here, but I promise, we're after the same man —"

"The one who killed my father, yes," The King nodded. His Dora Milaje had reoriented themselves to stand at his back and side, standing between him and the windows, though their gazes swept around. They didn't know where Bucky was. He could still shoot through them, if he wanted to. Which he didn't. "According to everyone but a very few, that would be the Winter Soldier."

"I know you have no reason to believe me," Steve spoke in an undertone, and Bucky could just hear the earnesty, the desperation. "But please, you have to listen. It's not Barnes. But he's here, your father's killer, we know who he is, and we —"

"You mean Zemo?" The King asked, tilting his head.

Neither Steve nor Carter could convincingly hide their surprise. Steve stammered too long, and Carter interjected, "Where did you hear that name?"

But they would never get an answer.

The music hummed to a stop, the sign of an entrance. Bucky shifted his scope to follow everyone's heads as they turned to the left, following up to the second-floor balcony. It was an odd angle, but his heart skipped a beat when he recognized Zemo's face, surrounded by the fur of his mink-lined coat, and that stupid crown on his head. Bucky had definitely seen that before.

His voice was amplified by a speaker system, loud enough that even Bucky could hear it without the earpiece. "I need only a moment of your time, ladies and gentlemen. I only wish to extend my deepest gratitude and appreciation for your welcome and generosity, how wonderful it is to know my father and his father's old friends still remember them. To reunite old alliances, and also make a few new ones. And, of course, I cannot forget the hospitality of our illustrious host, the Power Broker, wherever he may be. Please know that I will forever be a devoted patron of your services. And, of course, I must beg forgiveness for what I am about to do next."

"Tell me you have the shot," Steve whispered.

"Not a good one." Bucky murmured. A low-hanging arch put the dome of Zemo's head just out of view, and the stone was too thick to shoot through. But he had a good angle on center mass, through that chest he held in his arms. "I can slow him down, though."

"Wait for my call." Steve said, as if Bucky had ever operated otherwise. He wanted to wait. Center mass wouldn't kill Zemo instantly, though the thought of watching the man bleed a slow, suffering death had its perks.

"As some of you know, I do not come without enemies, who have followed me here." Zemo continued, and set the black chest upon the table before him. "I'm sure you have all noticed his Grace, the King of Wakanda. He is no friend of mine. And of course, Captain America himself, who is certainly no friend of any of yours. So, in return for the kindness my friends have shown me, allow me to deliver in kind. May you witness the power of the Madbomb."

No sooner had Zemo uttered the name Captain America did Steve throw all caution to the wind and began rushing towards him, pushing through the crowd as they turned in shock, voices raising, some even pulling weapons (how those got through security, one may never know).

But none of them would act in time.

Not when the Madbomb went off.

Bucky didn't even know what it was when Zemo said it — and for a long moment, neither did anyone else, when Zemo withdrew a metal cylinder from the chest, glass encasing something green and glowing inside. A press of a button, and before Steve could ever reach the balcony, a sudden shrill filled the air.

It began as a low hum, and then erupted into a strange, subliminal shriek, like the sound of a CRT monitor idling, but so much worse — the crowd gasped and winced and covered their ears. But they were fine.

The servers were not.

Everyone dressed in white suddenly froze. Silver trays clattered to the ground, champagne flutes shattering into a million pieces of crystal. The Madbomb's shrill died almost as soon as it began, and all was silent.

And then a waiter screamed, and launched himself upon the nearest guest, his teeth clamping down onto the man's neck and ripping out his throat. Blood splattered onto the guest's wife, who let out a horrified scream as both men went down in a guttural cry.

"What the fuck?!" Carter gasped.

Bucky watched in dawning horror as all the servers — everyone not wearing a white bracelet, suddenly went haywire.

Two servers, both women, went tearing at each other, fingers clawing their faces apart. Another attacked a guest and took her down, only to be hauled off by two of the guards, who in turn were overwhelmed when several other staff members lunged onto their backs like feral animals.

All at once, the auction turned to pandemonium. Priceless artwork was knocked off pedestals and walls by a crazed staff, or otherwise by a fleeing panicked mass. The Madbomb had only affected the servers, but there was no rhyme or reason whom they attacked — no one was safe. Not even Steve, who was swiftly knocked back by the stampede created, hundreds of people rushing for what few exits there were. Someone threw a pedestal to break out a window and find escape that way.

"What's happening?" Natalia asked; Bucky had no idea what she could hear from her position, but he could only imagine how awful and confusing it must sound. "Is there a fire?"

"No fire!" Steve shouted, as he pulled off one waiter after another as they tried climbing up his shoulders. His suit was in tatters within moments. "Don't come up here!"

"The King! I lost him!" Carter said.

"He's gone," Was all Bucky could report. The King disappeared into the chaos, along with his Dora Milaje. He didn't spot any bodies amongst the carnage that resembled them. "I think he got away."

"Pluto, do you still have the shot?"

"I have him in my sights," Bucky said, lining up his crosshairs on Zemo's head. He stood above the chaos, that cylinder in his hands. Reveling as people screamed and blood spilled across the floor.

"Take the shot!" Steve shouted, trying to swim through the crowd of bodies, only to be pushed further and further back. He had to haul Carter out of there from the arms, lifting her off her feet as they tried to make an escape.

And Bucky would have pulled that trigger. If someone hadn't suddenly put herself between his shot and Zemo.

Mia.

She stood there, facing the window, looking directly at him. Like she knew exactly where he was. His crosshairs, right between her eyes.

Bucky's heart skipped a beat, and it was a horrible moment before he shifted his aim away from her. He nearly choked on the words: "She's here. M— Luna! With Kerberos. I can't make the shot."

Carter swore. "Venus, Apollo, do not leave the vault until after it's clear! I repeat, don't leave the vault! It's the safest place you can be right now."

"What the fuck is going on up there?!"

"You don't wanna know!" Steve shouted, as they managed to clamber up to the second balcony, above the melee. Some of the guests were watching in a mixture of awe, horror, some even in delight. The others, perhaps more present of mind or wiser to how bad this is, were trying to get the hell outta Dodge before they became the unwitting target of the crazed servers. "Pluto, do you see a way out? Pluto?"

But Bucky was too busy abandoning his position and hauling ass towards the estate to answer. He wasn't going to hide behind a scope, not when his daughter was within reach. Not when that bastard had her.

He hit the ground running, and covered that quarter mile spread between his post and the estate in under a minute. Earlier, he probably would've been gunned down before he ever reached the gates. But the security was quite occupied now, shooting down rabid servers who got too close, as well as other guards who hadn't been so lucky as to receive the protective bracelets. And that's before a few got overwhelmed and had their weapons stolen from them by a crazed staff hellbent on total destruction.

Bucky sprinted right through — across the garden, the courtyard, through the main hall where the worst of the bloodshed was, the floor absolutely slippery with it, right past a stunned Steve and Carter. He didn't hear their cries for him to stop. Didn't consider the kind of danger he was running straight for.

"Bucky! No!" Steve's shout echoed behind him. "You don't have —"

He didn't care. He knew where Zemo was going. The Power Broker had his own personal helipad; a sleek black helicopter already waiting for commandeering. Where else would that man go for an easy retreat?

He powered up those steps three at a time, but that still wasn't fast enough. The helicopter's rotors were already warming up as he reached the rooftop, whipping the air around him into a frenzy. And there, standing in the still-open bay doors, was Zemo in that ridiculous coat of his, coronet gleaming upon his brow and the Madbomb still humming in his hands.

Zemo saw him appear and smirked. "I'm sorry, old man, but you're too late! The war has already begun!"

Bucky didn't know what that meant. He didn't care. He ran straight for Zemo.

Zemo laughed at the sight, the sound drowned out by the helicopter as it began to rise. But Bucky could still make it. He knew he could. Even with Mia standing right there, he could keep her down long enough to kill Zemo. Even if it meant taking down the entire helicopter, if he had to.

He'd never make it that far.

Zemo, perhaps realizing that Bucky might actually close the distance and jump for the helicopter, raised the Madbomb once more. Bucky felt a moment of panic, but didn't stop. If the Madbomb meant he'd kill Zemo all the harder, then fine. But then Mia…

Bucky felt the sonic screech before he heard it. A low rise of pain in his ears that quickly crescendoed — unlike anything he'd felt before. Though he stumbled, Bucky didn't stop.

The helicopter was only a dozen feet in the air, drifting away from the rooftop but not so far away he couldn't make the leap.

At least, not until someone tackled him.

It came from his right, Bucky never saw him coming. Just a flash of black, a shadow, arms wrapping around him in a full-on tackle before the both of them went careening off the side of the building.

"No!"

As if in slow motion, Bucky watched as the helicopter slipped away, farther and farther as he fell. As he crashed into the ground below, the helicopter rose ever higher and higher.

The impact wasn't as bad as it could've been. The estate's extensive gardens meant for expensive decorative shrubs that, while quite delicate, softened what would otherwise have been a bruising fall. Bucky was stunned only momentarily, before he shot back to his feet.

Only to find himself unsteady, and still hearing the terrified screams of the Power Broker's party-turned-massacre. Bucky's ears ached, head still ringing with the sound of the Madbomb. He was on the other side of the estate now, away from the rest of the team.

Leaving only him and the King of Wakanda, standing there, staring at each other. Both men panting, wide-eyed and shaken.

Swiping a leaf from his ruined suit, the King spoke first. "There is much I wish to discuss, James Barnes."

I had hoped to post this before the holidays were over, but have some Mia and Peter celebrating Hanukkah (:

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Eight

✭

It was all Bucky could do not to immediately attack.

Didn't care that this man was king. Didn't care Bucky was accused of killing this man's father, not to mention countless others. Only that he got between Bucky and Mia and from tearing Zemo's head from his shoulders.

He was already preparing to lunge when Steve came charging down, helter-skelter, leaping over hedges and dropping down the hill. "Bucky, wait! Don't kill him!"

"Mia might be here right now if it weren't for him!" he shouted back, bile on his tongue.

That helicopter was long gone, the sound of it already swallowed up by the oncoming storm. There was the smell of ozone, of lightning, mixing in with the rising stench of blood carried on the wind. The chaos of the party had since dwindled to a cold, eerie silence. The Power Broker's once great estate, now a haunted, desolate place.

"You would be dead right now if it weren't for me," The King retorted, raising his wrist to show the white bangle. "Without this, he would have turned you into one of those… things."

Of course, after the fact, Bucky had no doubt the Madbomb would've killed him — but he was too embarrassed to admit that he had been so foolish in the heat of the moment. It didn't matter. Nothing else had mattered. "I'd take my chances."

Out of breath, Steve finally dropped to the ground behind Bucky. He was missing his suit jacket and tie, and the shirt beneath was torn at the shoulder, blood all over his collar. "King T'Challa, we're not —"

"And kill your daughter, and yourself, in the process?" The king cut him off, and Bucky reconsidered the idea of attacking him again.

"And what, you don't want that? We're the ones responsible," Bucky threw out his arms. It was almost a certainty that if he hadn't planted that bomb, then it must have been Mia. And he already had a terrible feeling in his gut on who was the culprit. "You'd get your justice either way."

"That is not the justice I seek," King T'Challa's glare was as cold as Bucky's, meeting him ice for ice. "I have since come to understand that neither you nor your daughter were acting under your own willpower. Unless I'm mistaken?"

Bucky exchanged a look with Steve, who looked as startled as he felt. Steve said, "How did you know that?"

"I recently acquired information from a friendly source," The King replied. His suit, a fine black material that had a strange purple shine to it, almost metallic, reflected a near-invisible pattern only when light was cast directly on it. Through his scope, Bucky had noticed it, and now with his own eyes could make out the geometric pattern, resembling the panther-headed crest of the Wakandan royal family. The fabric was in remarkably good shape after tackling Bucky off a building. "I was inclined to believe them."

"Who?" Bucky asked, baffled. Who was out there that knew these things? Moreover, who knew that the King of Wakanda would trust them? The only people who knew were in the Raft, Bucky figured, and the King would have mentioned who it was specifically. But the timing felt… off.

Behind him, Natalia, Wilson, and Carter were scrambling to join them from the palace, hindered by their fine clothes, tossing aside shoes and purses. On the other half of the wall, two of the Dora Milaje appeared, the King's entourage. All standing together in that little pavilion, Bucky thought they made quite the strange little party. He felt a little underdressed, the only one in heavy boots, pants now ripped at the knees, and a canvas jacket. And unshaven besides.

"Please tell me we're on the same side," Natalia huffed, cheeks flushed as she caught her breath. Both she and Wilson were covered in a sheen of sweat, likely the exertion of having to escape the vault. Her lovely coiffed hair, ruined; her black dress, ripped up the leg. "What we saw in the ballroom, was that —"

"Zemo," one of the Dora Milaje responded. She seemed the senior of the two, geometric tattoos on her scalp, and a prominent gold necklace. "He activated the Madbomb. That seemed to be his target all along."

"We thought it was nuclear material," Carter said.

"So did we," the King frowned, studying the white bracelet for a moment. "But it appears we have both miscalculated his goals. This is only another phase in his plans. Do you have insight into what his next step would be?"

"What, like we're on the same team now?" Wilson snorted in disbelief. "I seem to recall you trying to kill us the last time we met."

"Then allow me to apologize." The King gave a slight bow, a deferential nod of his head. "I didn't know then what I know now. I have strong reason to suspect Zemo was playing us all for fools. My father was a mere pawn in his game, a sacrificial lion in order to gain infamy. He thinks our family shall be a footnote in history. I intend to prove him otherwise."

The tension in the air eased ever so slightly, though Bucky was the last to lower his hackles (after a pointed nudge from Steve). Maybe the King saw the correlation as well; a hundred years ago, it had been Franz Ferdinand. Now it was the old King of Wakanda. The lynchpin to another World War.

With reluctance, he sighed. "The enemy of my enemy. I guess. What led you here?"

"The same way you did," The King replied, and gestured to one of the Dora Milaje. "Okoye has been keeping track of our own intelligence resources."

"I suppose it shouldn't surprise me to know Wakanda has field operatives," Carter said, folding her arms over her blood-splattered dress. It was difficult to say if she was disapproving or impressed. "How long has Wakanda had a spy network?"

"As long as any other country," The King said with a shrug. "We have always kept ourselves aware of world politics, even if we did not participate. You needn't worry yourself, Agent Carter. We have plausible deniability in anything you might question."

"Well, now I'm a little jealous," Natalia had that small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm surprised you didn't send one of your agents instead. You took a lot of risk coming here, your Highness. We'll be lucky if none of us are associated with this mess. Madripoor already doesn't have a great human rights' record."

"I know, but it was a risk worth taking," T'Challa said, casting his eyes about what remained of the Avengers. "I don't have to tell you just what I myself am capable of."

"We could use your help," Steve said. "That is, if you're offering."

"I am," The King nodded. "I've heard many things about this team of yours, Captain. These Avengers. Both good and bad. And I'm willing to see the good. With a man like Ross, who pursues glory instead of justice, hampering the capture of Zemo, I believe it's in our mutual interest for a temporary alliance."

"Only temporary?" Bucky asked. What happened when it ended?

"For now," Was all the King chose to say. "After this is over, we might revisit the topic. At the moment, I recommend we retreat to my ship before the media arrives, yes? We may still have a chance at following Zemo's trail, wherever it may lead."

✭✭✭

The Madbomb hummed quietly in the corner.

It wasn't quite a nuclear warhead, but it was close. It would be the next phase in modern warfare. Zemo knew how terrified everyone was of another world war. But they were afraid of the wrong things.

"That was way too close," Crossbones growled, his voice picked up by the headsets. Otherwise, the thrumming of the helicopter blades would have drowned him out. "The Avengers are back on our scent again. Even with your new toy, we don't have the kind of power to fend them off."

"For now," Zemo replied coolly. Perhaps Rumlow had a right to be worried; he still bore the scars of his last encounter with the team, such as they were. "But you underestimate the weapons I have now required. To call them toys is a gross underreaction to what we witnessed."

"Fucked up is what it is," Crossbones said, swaying as he hung onto the handle from the ceiling. "You made a lot of enemies in Madripoor."

"They're no concern of yours," Zemo said. Soon enough, all those degenerate criminals and thieves will be dead. And the world will be all the richer for it.

"Still not sure if it was worth the price."

"I don't pay you for your opinions, Crossbones," Zemo sighed, adjusting his gloves. The mercenary was used to being in charge, so he couldn't blame the man entirely. But it was getting annoying. "Remember your loyalties. Remember our cause. Trust that I know what I'm doing."

Crossbones scowled out the window. "They could've killed us all."

Outside, the ocean stretched on and on, the twilight casting an eerie silver-blue glow across the flickering expanse. It took several transfers between different aircrafts to get this far, refueling would have taken too long; but they were almost to their next destination. Zemo could hardly sleep with the excitement of it all.

Aside from the massacre at the Power Broker's estate, Zemo's entourage were largely untouched. He was still dressed in his finery, seeing as it hadn't been ruined, and the rest of his guard remained in their fatigues. Zemo thought the Soldatka had made her own fashion statement amidst the criminal socialites, with that red skull emblazoned on her chest. It's no Chanel, but Hugo Boss would have been proud.

"Doubtful." Zemo gestured to the girl standing next to him. "As long as she stands by my side, the Avengers wouldn't dare make any hasty decisions."

She had operated perfectly, of course. The Soldatka never hesitated to take a bullet if necessary. She, too, eyed the Madbomb, though her expression gave nothing away. Still, Zemo smiled at her. "Fearsome, isn't it?"

The girl's eyes flicked from the weapon to him, unblinking. A moment passed before she answered, her voice hoarse. "Yes."

Zemo tilted his head. "Do you know fear? Understand it? I would expect that to be eliminated with your protocol."

The Soldatka didn't answer, her stare unshakable. Zemo surmised he asked too difficult a question, and so rephrased. "Do you feel fear?"

"No."

"Then why do you consider the Madbomb fearsome?"

The girl considered, like a computer formulating a response. "The carnage. There's no warning. No defense. It's indiscriminate."

"So it is, so it is," Zemo smiled, pleased by her response. To Rumlow, he directed, "See? She understands. She sees it just as I do."

The man sneered. "She doesn't see anything. Not unless you command her to."

"Indeed," Zemo said, utterly serene. Rumlow seemed disgusted, as if this quality was not exactly what Zemo desired in the perfect soldier. To the Soldatka, he spoke again, "What would you consider the better weapon? The Madbomb, or a radioactive one?"

The Soldatka thought, then shrugged. "I don't know."

"Have you ever seen a nuclear explosion?"

"Only through video."

"Ah, but that's nothing compared to the real thing." Zemo said, closing his eyes. He could see it as if it were yesterday. "When I was twenty-eight, I witnessed my first atomic bomb explosion. It was three times the size of the bomb that razed Hiroshima. It was so powerful, so bright, that closing my eyes, covering them with my hands, did nothing. I could still see the black columns of my metacarpals."

The Soldatka watched him, and said nothing.

He raised his hands, fingers outstretched. Side by side with the other men in that bunker, those who would be less fortunate than him. "I hadn't known then what it would do to me. The amount of radiation I was unwittingly exposing myself to. Mankind did not yet know the true strength of nuclear energy. How it unravels your very DNA. Spreads disease and cancer impossible to cure. If it doesn't kill you, then time will. It is a patient beast."

"I didn't know at the time that my father had left me a great gift." Zemo continued. "His legacy, one meant to outlive him. The Americans' won that arms race. But my father made sure that our vengeance would outlast their short-lived advance. The world would catch up to nuclear power in time. We would have long lost that battle by that time. But he ensured the war could still be won."

He turned to the Soldatka and smiled once more, "As you well know, wars are fought with more than just soldiers."

"You…" The Soldatka struggled to speak where she was not bid to. Her brow furrowed. "You were… a soldier? Like…" she pointed vaguely to herself.

"No, not like you," Zemo said, barely restraining a sneer of disgust. "Not a super soldier. Not the base, violent creature both Shmidt and Erskine wanted to create. My father had far more sophisticated goals. I noticed the change in myself — that is, the lack of any — during the Seventies. It was a decade since my exposure and I hadn't aged significantly. And people so rarely notice it in themselves until they look at old photos."

He had none with him to demonstrate. Zemo wasn't a victim to nostalgia, absolutely not, he did not hold onto mementos. Only things of true value, like Barons' old coronet. A symbol of power.

"I had to remake myself, over and over again. Every decade or so. I first escaped to South America after the war. Gained a new name, and traveled through America for a time. Witnessed their golden age, the great prosperity made of my people's suffering. And how quickly it degenerated into the Sixties and Seventies. Embroiling themselves in pointless wars, feeding into the same oppressive machine they had once claimed to be against. So caught up in their own hypocrisy they didn't see the hydra growing right beneath their feet."

"I tended to that creature, best I could. Kept my influence subtle. A Von Zemo would've carried great weight around in that new HYDRA, but they grew too quickly, their ideals shifted with the changing era. I knew it would soon grow too big for its own good, and kept my distance. And for many decades, I allowed myself to believe that our original plans for the world might still be achieved. Until one day, some years ago, Captain America returned."

Zemo's jaw clenched instinctively just thinking about that man. He'd seen Captain Rogers in Madripoor — much like Zemo himself, the man had barely aged a day since Zemo last saw him in 1943. They were contemporaries, born within a few years of each other, though now Zemo looked at least a decade older. And he had seen so much more. Done so much more.

But it wasn't enough.

"An old wound had been reopened. It never healed, truly. Pierce had advised against my seeking justice, assured that we could turn Captain America into a tool for the very force he despised. Pierce was a sentimental man. He believed Rogers could be swayed to our side, given the right motivation. Americans," Zemo spat at the floor. "I shouldn't have wasted my time. Either way, he failed. And in his failure, the destruction of everything I had built in the last century, so much achieved with Rogers out of the way. Less than a decade in his return it all fell to pieces."

The irony did not escape him. Wherever Captain Rogers stepped, destruction came in his wake. The ideals of the Third Reich would never survive infancy so long as he walked this earth. And for there to be a Fourth, Rogers and all his allies must die. Zemo no longer believed conversion to be possible. Not in this day and age. The world and its views had been warped too much.

"You could imagine my surprise when I realized one of his old allies was still breathing as well. Sergeant James Barnes, the man who put a bullet in my father's head. Now he killed indiscriminately. How amusing to see he'd been just as active as I, but his record was far worse. And far easier to weaponize. And it came to me; to destroy Captain America, you must not use weapons. But his own friends. His family."

With that, Zemo opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. "And now, here we are, at the advent of the West's destruction. My father shall be at peace, and I shall once again resurrect HYDRA, reborn from its ashes. Raze this earth of all that's spoiled it, and place it into the hands of its proper caretakers. And I shall take the helm as its rightful leader."

Crossbones stared at him. "Wait, so you're — are you saying you're immortal?"

His disbelief was amusing, but Zemo could only shrug casually. "Perhaps. I'm almost a hundred years old, Rumlow, and I have yet to feel the ache in my bones, the weakness of muscle or mind. I maintain the youth and energy of a man in his prime, though lacking the unwieldy physicality of Rogers and his ilk. They will be an extinct species soon enough."

For the death of his father, Zemo could not tolerate the survival of any super soldier. The Soldatka had her use, but there would come a day where Zemo would have attained his seat of power, and would no longer have need of her. Even a good weapon must be retired at some point.

"And this gift you have," Crossbones said, and by his expression it was clear to see the gears turning in his head. "Do others have it?"

"I believe the Russians have developed their own serums, both of my design and of the super soldier," Zemo said, but it was of little bother to him. Russia was its own superpower to be sure, but it had only become so after Germany had fallen. And it too no longer had the strength and vivacity it once had during the Cold War. Second rate, as always. "But besides myself, no. It will take time to reverse engineer the serum from my DNA, but I have intentions to gift it to my most loyal followers, as well as my heirs, when I have them."

Though Zemo considered himself functionally immortal, he wasn't stupid. He still only had the strength of an average man, and a bullet to the head — or drowning, or suffocation, or any number of murder methods — could still kill him. He had to ensure his lineage; his power did not die should the worst come to pass.

But he knew what Rumlow was getting at. And though Zemo did not yet consider the man worthy of such a gift, it didn't hurt to string him along. "Rest assured, my dear friend, you shall receive your just reward when all is said and done."

Rumlow had seemed somewhat ill at ease the entire time Zemo was talking, but now he came to relax, a smug look on his face. "I know you got dibs on Captain America, but I'd like to put a bullet in one of their heads myself, if you don't mind."

"But of course." If nothing else, Zemo understood the desire for revenge. "Never let it be said that Baron von Zemo was an uncharitable man."

At last, the helicopter finally came to rest upon a rooftop, overlooking the city below. It was early morning, the sun not yet breaking across the horizon. The streets are still empty and dark against the purple-pink sky, the giant clock tower ringing the hour. Those same cobblestone streets and old buildings, still bearing the faint scars of the Blitz.

Madbomb in hand, Baron Helmut von Zemo stepped off the helicopter. Ready to deliver a reckoning upon London.

It's been long overdue.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Nine

✭

They were too late.

Steve could smell it before he saw it. Smoke. Thin at first, just a whiff, before the skies turned hazy and soon enough, they could make out the distinct trails as England appeared through the Atlantic haze.

Helicopters swarmed the air like buzzards over a carcass, swinging back and forth. Some were police, others were newscasters with cameras hanging between their skids, and still more were emergency evac.

Most of the smoke came from Buckingham Palace and Westminster. Through the dark smog, red and blue and yellow lights flashed in frenetic chaos. The streets were packed with vehicles, traffic at a complete standstill — a closer look would reveal that most of the vehicles had been abandoned in the chaos. The bridges were all completely impassable. Instead, the Thames had filled with watercraft — more police, as well as civilians, trying to cut through the mass.

Nat fiddled with the ship's unique equipment, trying to access local police dispatch. A flood of panicked and angry voices crackled through, all at once, speaking over each other. A few details were immediately made clear; an unknown number of dead and injured, but hospitals were already overwhelmed and some estimates were already in the triple digits. England was already on a nation-wide lockdown, with the rest of the UK quickly following suit. Flights grounded, trains stopped, absolute terror.

And no one knew how or why it had happened.

It was heartrending just to listen to. Nat switched to an earpiece to better focus the sound, and the cabin fell to silence once more.

The attack was recent — they may have missed Zemo by only a few hours. But he would've needed only a few minutes to cause this much damage and chaos.

The concrete, painted in blood.

Okoye, in the pilot's seat, glanced at her King. "Should we land?"

"If Zemo's gone, then don't think there's anything we can do for them," Sam answered, when the king was silent.

"I wasn't asking you," Okoye shot him a glare, spooking Sam.

Meanwhile, T'Challa remained standing, contemplating in silence as the invisible ship swung down lower to get a better view of the attack.

"I think he's right," he said at last. "If Zemo isn't here, then we would be wasting both time, and our unique capabilities. We must find Zemo before he does this again."

"Where?"

"Paris." Steve said, his voice breaking the sim from behind. Everyone turned to him in surprise. He cleared his throat and continued, "He's going to Paris. He's going after old Allied powers, right? Paris is the closest."

Across the channel, no more than an hour at most if they remained flying. With a nod, T'Challa approved the decision and Okoye piloted the ship away from the city, back towards the English Channel. They swayed gently back and forth as the ship rocked smoothly beneath them, the flying precise and efficient.

"Any news?" Sharon asked, turning to Natasha.

"The royal family is safe," Nat reported, though she didn't look especially relieved. "They've been in Scotland for the past week. But Parliament was in session during the attack. Zemo must have timed it just so. They haven't counted all the dead yet, but there are at least a dozen confirmed deaths of Members, including the Prime Minister."

There was a small collective intake at that, the gravity of the situation — all the death — filling the small cabin.

Nat continued. "Zemo maximized his potential by targeting local police and emergency personnel, which is probably why it's so bad down there. Early reports say those who were taken by the Madbomb and survived have no recall of the event. So, as you can imagine — their response effort has been disorganized."

"And now civilians will be too scared to ask for help," Steve mused darkly. "When he's made them afraid of the people meant to help them."

"Sowing distrust in their own ranks," Sam added. He blinked, frowning at Bucky, who remained sitting in a far corner, bent forward, head down. "You've been quiet."

It seemed to take Bucky a second to realize he was being addressed. His head lifted a fraction. His tone was curt. "Got nothing to add."

"Really? Because my gut tells me we're about to get into the fight of our lives here," Sam pointed out, "Against Zemo and a weapon we have no defense against. Well, aside from these bracelets. You're the living weapon, got any ideas for how we're going to handle this?"

"Hey," Steve said immediately, stepping between them with a hand raised — Bucky was already bristling, and Sam's tone hadn't exactly been friendly. "Now's not the time —"

"If you've got a problem with me, Wilson, just say it," Bucky cut him off, rising to his feet in a manner that definitely had Steve worried. This ship wasn't big enough for a fight. Bucky threw out his hands, "You don't trust me, right? C'mon, let it out. It's not like you're going to hurt my feelings."

"Boys," Nat intoned, a warning carrying across the air. Watch it.

Sam cut a look towards Steve, a silent See? This is what I'm talking about expression. Then he returned Bucky's glare, folding his arms. "Alright, fine. We're all here because of you. Even if we stop Zemo, there's still more mess to clean up. What are we gonna do when Ross comes gunning for us after all this?"

Bucky scowled, looked away. The rest of the ship was silent, no one able to supply a solution at the moment.

It was Steve that said, "We'll cross that bridge when we get there, Sam. Ross isn't our problem right now — Zemo's the bigger threat. But I can promise you all — everyone here — I'm promising you, I'm not going to stand by and let Ross take advantage of the situation. Whatever happens, he's not taking us in. No punishment without a fair trial. No… no imprisonment either."

That got a collective look of surprise for him. Nat's eyebrows shot up. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Steve?"

"Steve…" Sharon shook her head. "That's a dangerous choice."

"But a bold one," T'Challa said, with a faint look of approval.

Even Bucky looked conflicted. "Don't put a target on your head because of me, Steve. If, in the end, they gotta put me in a cell for this all to go peacefully —"

"No," Steve said, so sharply it got a slight recoil out of Bucky. It even surprised himself, how vehement he sounded. Steve closed his eyes, then continued, "Look, I have no idea how this is going to go. But I'm not giving ground. Not with anyone. Ross isn't taking any of us in. If there's one thing I've learned after all this, there's no appeasing tyrants. You give an inch, and they'll take a mile. I won't settle for any false peace."

"You speak as though going to war," T'Challa said, stepping over to face Steve. He raised his chin slightly, giving Steve a long appraising look. "Against your own government."

"If that's what Ross represents," Steve shrugged. "Then… yeah."

"For a fugitive? For a king of another country?" T'Challa asked, raising an eyebrow. "You have jurisdiction because your government wills it. Everything you have — they can just as easily take it away if you no longer stand for them."

"I've never stood for the power," Steve replied, glancing about the room, then back to the king. "I've stood for the people. That's never changed."

"Even if it means the loss of the Avengers?"

Steve knew that would probably be the cost. The Avengers, as an officially sanctioned team, would be no more. They'd be vigilantes at best, criminals at worst. Having connections and government approval had given them a lot of leeway, a lot of gladhanding and posturing. And maybe there's a small part of Steve a little selfishly relieved at the idea of not having to kowtow to a dozen different bureaucracies anymore. He never enjoyed being America's little circus monkey.

"If it means I have to leave," Steve finally decided. It didn't have to be destroyed because of him, but he knew he certainly wouldn't be able to stay if that was what kept them aboveboard. "Then so be it."

"Well, let's not get too hasty," Natasha interjected, straightening in her seat. "I, for one, always preferred asking for forgiveness rather than permission."

"And really," Sam added, "The Avengers is more of an idea than an official thing. Just because certain people at certain desks don't want us around anymore doesn't mean we stop existing."

"I'm going to pretend I'm not present for this conversation right now," Sharon muttered under her breath, while pinching her brow.

Natasha made a face, frowning at her. "Do you even have plausible deniability at this point?"

"I'd rather not think about it."

"Steve." Bucky appeared at his side, a sullen shadow; head bowed, voice low. "You sure about this? I can't ask you to… to give up all of this. Not for me."

"It's not about you," Steve said, then realized how that might sound. He'd never claim to be a man without doubts, or regrets, but he'd always known where his heart lied. Sometimes the right choice was obvious — even if it wasn't always easy. "I mean, not just about you. It's… everything. Zemo picked you because of me. And Ross? He never really liked us to begin with. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

Someone was always going to come around, though Steve didn't know that it would be Thaddeus Ross specifically. But someone that wanted to control the Avengers, wanted to keep them in his pocket. A team, a weapon they could use at their discretion, for their own ulterior purposes. SHIELD tried to do something like that, and even with the best intentions at the head of it, there was still cancer growing underneath.

There was an argument for oversight, Steve knew. But he didn't think Ross was the right person to be making it.

Until then, better that the Avengers remained free, if fugitives, than under the control of the powers that be — powers Steve couldn't trust. The damage that could be wrought in that indeterminate timeframe; he didn't want to think about it.

Bucky remained quiet, eyes on the ground as he contemplated those words. Then, looking back at him, a single nod. No argument, no doubt at all. "Then I'm with you."

Sometimes, Steve envied his friend.

"A dangerous proposal." T'Challa said, but smiled. "But I like it. Okoye? Ayo?"

The two Dora Milaje shared a look that seemed to carry more meaning than Steve could interpret. A knowing, almost amused resignation in their expressions. Ayo, the younger woman with the silver gorget, said, "We trust your decision, your Highness."

"Wherever you go," Okoye added with no hesitation. "We shall follow."

"It seems we are all in agreement," T'Challa observed, hands behind his back. "Unless there are any final objections?"

No one in the cabin spoke; Steve looked around, gauging everyone's expressions, just in case there were any silent reservations. But Bucky seemed to be reassured, and Sharon — though looking tired — didn't appear conflicted. Nat, of course, seemed completely unbothered, and the Dora Milaje seemed at ease despite the battle they were no doubt heading into.

"Looks like it's unanimous," Steve finally looked at Sam, the last call. It seemed the vote had been cast.

"Well, then," Sam looked around, then back to Steve. He gave a small, devil-may-care smile. "Let's go to war."

✭✭✭

Paris was beautiful this time of year.

Though they had no doubt had heard about the news by now, the city was still operating as usual, though police cars were already being sent out on patrol in greater numbers. Perhaps the authorities had, as the team themselves predicted, they would be the next target.

They would be correct.

If only they hadn't played into Zemo's hands.

The average French citizen or tourist wasn't armed. But the police? So much more damage could be had if there were more officers in range.

But weapons or no weapons — the carnage would be glorious.

Steve prayed they'd get there in time.

Prior to leaving Madripoor, they had collected as many of those protective bracelets as they could. Steve didn't know how they'd be able to use them most effectively, but being that they were the only known defense against the Madbomb, it seemed wise to stockpile them. To keep themselves safe in what would no doubt be a terrifying attack. And hopefully save as many innocents as they could.

The bracelets fit over their various suits. They had changed on the way over, not wasting any time. Even Sharon still had an old SHIELD jumpsuit she'd brought along just for the occasion, pale white against the dark interior. Steve felt a strange weight on his shoulders, putting on the old stars and stripes, as it were. The once vibrant reds and whites had faded significantly, and even the blue had desaturated. Perhaps it was just the lighting.

Sam shrugged on his wing pack and Bucky had his pick of available weaponry; a little bit of everything, as he preferred. The leather jacket he now donned had enough little compartments, along with a belt and holster, to carry it all.

Natasha remained in her classic black catsuit, standing next to the more elaborately armored Dora Milaje in their reds and golds. Though Natasha often carried pistols, she also came armed with her electric batons. Considering what they might face, nonlethal methods were a critical element.

In due time, perhaps, the bracelet technology could be studied, reverse engineered, mass produced in order to provide more widespread protection until the Madbomb was destroyed. But such a possibility couldn't happen. Not yet, not anytime soon. T'Challa was confident his country's resources could accomplish this task; considered the matter as simplicity itself it seemed, but there was still no way to have it done immediately. No magic solution.

Just a stern reminder to keep one on. In fact, to wear at least two, just in case. The extras they stuffed in duffel bags. Sharon carried one, the Dora Milaje each carried another. Their priority was to protect as many people as possible, then get the rest away.

"From what I can guess by the recent attacks," Nat said as they flew over Paris. In the center of the cabin, a console illuminated a holographic map of the city. "The Madbomb has a range of about three hundred feet — no obstructions. Wilson and I had no bracelets when we were in the vault, but we also had a dozen feet of solid concrete separating us from Zemo, so that may be an element to consider. But chances are he's going to go for an outdoor attack. Best way to maximize casualties and make a quick escape."

"Zemo will have his own forces," Bucky added quietly. "Either mercenaries or HYDRA operatives. A small army."

"We will cut him off from his escape," T'Challa said. "Our radar will be able to pick up whatever aircraft he is using."

"If he's using an aircraft," Nat commented, screwing up her lips to one side. "He may also have ground transport ready. Either way, Wilson will have air cover. If you receive any damage to your bracelets, stay above three hundred feet."

"Or I'll turn into a flying zombie," Sam said wryly, arms crossed, but the joke didn't carry. "Noted."

"Our priority is to catch Zemo and separate him from the Madbomb." Sharon said, pulling up a holographic image of the weapon. It seemed almost alien in appearance, harmless even. "And destroy it immediately. It's not radioactive, and it only activates through a specific button activation. Its shell is made of solid steel and is immune to EMP effects, and it has several layers of insulation to protect its circuitry. But in the end… It's still circuitry. If we can crack the shell, we can throw it into water — but only after it's been compromised. Otherwise, the water might amplify its auditory effects."

"Give it to me and I can drop it," Sam offered. "After a certain height, water might as well be concrete."

"And the girl?" Ayo asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If Mia's there," Bucky's voice was sharp, quick, before anyone else could answer. "Don't engage her. If you can help it."

He paused, eyes focused on the map. "I'll take care of her."

No one offered any arguments to that.

Steve gave his friend a long look before nodding, "Everyone knows their job. Our priority is Zemo. The sooner we stop him, the better we can minimize any damage he can cause. Try to avoid hurting affected civilians if you can help it. Neutralize, but don't kill."

"HYDRA agents, on the other hand," Nat said perkily. "Give no quarter."

"That's a war crime," Sharon pointed out, shooting Natasha a pointed look. "But yeah. If they don't surrender…"

"We shall defend ourselves as necessary," T'Challa nodded in understanding.

"If I have a shot at Zemo," Bucky cut in. "I'm taking it."

"Uh, we might need him alive," Sam raised a finger. "You know, to clear your name?"

Bucky scowled, looking like he was about to protest. But after a look from Nat, who raised her eyebrows at him, Bucky relented, grumbling under his breath. "Fine. He lives to confess his crimes. But then I'm killing him."

"If given the chance, shouldn't you want him to stand trial?" T'Challa asked, with no small amount of interest as he glanced at Bucky, apparently asking him specifically. His tone was even, though Steve could hear a hidden weight; would the King see Zemo tried in Wakanda for his crimes?

The answer was curt. "No."

Steve could already imagine how many other nations would want to put Zemo to task, if and when he was finally detained. It would make the Nuremberg Trials look like child's play. The process would be lengthy, arduous, beleaguered even; Steve could appreciate the impatience of wanting to see justice done, and rendered as soon as possible.

Steve didn't think a simple killing would be true justice. Personally, he had felt it as some kind of cosmic injustice that Alexander Pierce never got the chance to stand trial, to face a jury of his peers — to be judged by the court of public opinion. For him to look his nation in the face and try to tell them how his efforts to cull his own fellow citizens was a means of protecting them; to face retribution. To realize he was wrong. It was never meant to be. Even now, Steve knew it was wishful thinking.

Steve also wasn't a father. And he wasn't going to tell Bucky he was wrong for the way he felt. For what he wanted to do.

If Zemo died today… Well, Steve wouldn't shed any tears over it.

"Keeping Zemo alive is ideal," Steve finally said, knowing the reality of these situations. Sometimes there was no opportunity to disarm an enemy. Sometimes, they refused to surrender, preferring to fight to their dying breath, or to kill themselves than take on the shame of capture. And Steve wasn't sure which way Zemo would lean. "But if we have no other choice — we'll put him down."

"I have something!" Okoye called from the pilot's seat.

On the map, a red spot bloomed. Steve recognized the spot — a circle, with a series of streets radiating out in a star-like shape. Place Charles de Gaulle.

L'Arc de Triomphe.

Of course, Steve thought. Zemo couldn't resist the symbolism.

The ship picked up speed, taking on an angle of attack that had everyone grabbing for support. As they flew, the rear gangway opened up into open air. Sam didn't hesitate, already running. Pulling down his goggles, he took a flying leap, dropping into open air above the gray-blue rooftops of Paris.

For a moment he seemed to hang in midair; floating, growing smaller and smaller with each passing milli-second — before the wings burst from his pack and caught wind. In a great shriek of air, the Falcon shot out of sight.

"Here we go," Nat murmured under her breath as the ship swung around, and the Arc came into view.

They were a hundred feet above the great marble arch and closing; Even with the wind rushing in, roaring in their ears and sweeping through their hair, Steve could hear it. That awful piercing screech.

The Madbomb.

All around the Arc, in the large circle of traffic, everything had stopped; vehicles screeching to a stop, colliding with each other, pedestrians scattering as metal crunched and horns blaring on and on. Directly around the arc, bodies were writhing; people clutching their ears. Others were already losing their minds, turning on each other. Some tried to run, but never made it off the sidewalk.

"There's civilians trapped atop the Arc!" Sharon called out, pointing to the group scrambling every which way atop what was once supposed to be a mere sightseeing tour. "We'll get them contained! Find Zemo!"

That would not be hard to do.

Over seventy years ago, the Nazi army marched beneath the Arc when they conquered Paris; a show of force, a traumatic victory. In the years that followed, Paris would be home to an unwanted authority, harboring a secret rebellion in its corners and catacombs. But what mattered was that the world had seen the City of Lights brought to its knees.

Zemo stood in the center of it, beneath the arc, holding the Madbomb while his men stood sentry beneath the four different archways. A horrible compass.

There was no more time to discuss strategy. No time to consider a sneak attack. Zemo had chosen his position well; there would be no catching him while his back was turned.

All there was to do was attack.

The Wakandan ship was invisible, but the interior was not. One of Zemo's men spotted the straight gaping hole in the sky and pointed it out; no sooner had the team jumped out were they fired upon.

Steve was first; shield up, protecting himself from the bullets and drawing as much firepower as he could so the others could exit safely; the Wakandan ship kept moving, Okoye deftly circulating around the Arc and depositing the rest of the team one by one; the next was T'Challa, his armor withstanding the bullets even better than Steve's shield. Sharon and Ayo onto the top of the Arc, with Natasha roping down the side. By that point, the ship was on the other side of the Arc, out of view; Steve didn't see where Bucky had landed.

The Madbomb's shriek was horrendous; it was all Steve could hear, even with the earpiece directly in his ear, he could barely understand what everyone else was saying. No doubt things were happening; but until the weapon was disabled, he just had to hope everyone was operating as planned.

The sound was nearly debilitating even without the bracelets; but even as Steve forced himself forward, one foot in front of the other, until he was walking, running, charging — each movement felt like pain, but it was better than losing his mind entirely.

"I've got incoming!" Sam's voice rang through the din, cutting through in the only words Steve could catch in the moment. "Helicopters with firepower. Definitely not a friendly!"

Steve glanced up, and saw Sam's agile form swooping between several helicopters that hovered above the scene. Distant gunfire echoed above. They were black, unmarked aircraft — had to be Zemo's as well. There were other helicopters already coming in from other directions, but painted in other colors, with what appeared to be news logos on the side.

With a sick feeling, Steve realized not only how expertly comprehensive Zemo had been, taking control of the area, but how wicked he was in maintaining it. To not only maximize the damage, but to prevent anyone from helping — or even reporting on the event — for as long as possible.

There were two dozen men, easy, guarding Zemo. He had not taken any chances with his defense, it appeared. A group of six had formed a wall and faced him, firing a united volley of bullets.

Steve hit them head-on.

The two he collided with directly flew back; the group broke apart like a line of bowling pins, shouting, weapons flying.

But Steve had no chance of approaching the Arc before a man in a tweed suit launched at him, teeth snapping at his throat.

The man's weight was nothing really; aside from his initial surprise, the panic, Steve had thrown the man off easily. But it nearly unbalanced him, and Steve had completely forgotten his earlier directive to be gentle with the crazed civilians. The man hit the ground hard, rolling, but got up like he sustained no injury at all — and ran off in a random direction, having already forgotten Steve was even there.

It occurred to him, briefly, that Zemo's guard wasn't here for them; no, they were to protect him from his own weapon. From the people he enraged, from attacking them. Steve watched as one of Zemo's men fired not at any of the Avengers, but at a group of rabid civilians who tried to get too close.

All around him, screaming.

Steve shook his head and soldiered on, his fist striking a HYDRA agent that tried to bum rush him. Another, to his right, tried to flank, but an expert toss of his shield that bounced off a statue (and maybe took off a bit of Napoleon's face), struck the agent from behind and took him down before he had a chance of reaching Steve.

He was on the west side; T'Challa took the north side. Steve thought he could hear Bucky on the other side, that click and whir of that metal arm beneath the cacophony.

And there, less than fifty feet away, stood Zemo, Madbomb in hand. Their eyes met across the space, and Zemo smiled.

Steve started to charge.

A bullet struck the marble near his ear. Steve didn't see where it had come from — the pavement was clear to his left, only the wide open street, the distant line of buildings.

"Sniper!" Steve called out, as he ducked around the corner behind cover. "West side!"

"It's Mia!" Bucky's voice rang through the comms, at the same time as the thought had occurred to Steve. "She's not here!"

Clever, he thought, for Zemo to put her on a distant point.

"I can go after her, Captain," T'Challa offered through the din of noise. "Her bullets will never harm me."

"No!" Bucky shouted before Steve had a chance to respond.

And Steve was inclined to agree, though for different reasons. Not because he thought only Bucky should handle her (which was partially true), but also: "No, we need you here. We have no control over this situation and — well, we know where she is. She's — she's safe over there."

Until they had the opportunity to send someone over,

"I see her!" Sam added, and Steve saw the winged shadow swooping across the ground, a distant shriek of wind overhead. "She's inside one of the buildings, I won't be able to reach her. But I can block her line of sight!"

That, apparently, meant striking the building's facade, causing it to crumble and drop over the window Mia must have been firing from.

It wouldn't stop her forever, but it would give them some breathing room.

"You look a little overwhelmed, Captain," a voice called over the din. Steve peered around the corner, feeling safe enough to do so now that Mia was no longer firing upon them. Zemo still stood in the same spot, utterly unflappable. He grinned at Steve, as if this were all a show. "

"You're surrounded!" Steve said, and he wasn't exactly wrong. Zemo's men were dwindling, through a combination of the Avengers and the maddened civilians. Even if Zemo tried to run, he was out in the open. The crashed cars all around them would prevent any escape in a vehicle. The entire city would already be on lockdown. "You have nowhere to go!"

"And yet I hold all the power!" Zemo replied, and there was some truth to that. As limited as his men were, the crazed people just kept coming.

Steve had to toss one off his back, then another. Like a horde of zombies from one of those movies he'd watched with the kids months ago, only somehow worse, and so much more frightening. It would have been so simple to just shoot at Zemo — which Bucky was certainly trying to do, one of the few with a gun — but the crowd of people was too thick. Steve wasn't sure where they were even coming from at first.

"I can't get a clear shot!" Bucky called. "There's too many of them! I can pull back, find a better vantage point —"

"No! We need crowd control!" Steve said, wincing as a woman's teeth came narrowly close to taking off his ear before he hit her with a tranquilizer. To his right, he spotted Natasha taking down a pair of civilians with taser discs. It looked painful, but the end result was less harmful than had they been allowed to continue. But even with their limited supply of non lethal tools, there was no way they could stop the onslaught.

Bucky took a chance, fired a bullet, but it winged off the shoulder of a civilian, who dropped feet away from a victorious Zemo, who laughed at the display.

"There's too many!" Natasha shouted. A thrown grenade that unleashed a stunning electrical coil took down a group of people, but still more took their place.

There had to be over a hundred people here now, raving to and fro. They attacked each other as much as they were attacking the Avengers, and Zemo's men. Most had already been here, tourists already here around the Arc. Others came from the surrounding vehicles.

A helicopter crashed down. Another. Alone, that would be terrifying, but amidst all this chaos, it barely registered on Steve's radar.

Above, Sharon reported they had the Arc roof contained, having distributed enough bracelets and rendered unconscious anyone else — but then an influx from the elevator caught her off guard.

Of course, how could he forget? The tunnel.

"They're coming from below!" Steve shouted, just as it occurred to him. He couldn't imagine how terrifying it must be, trapped below the street in a windowless tunnel. But whatever civilians were down there, their animal instincts to escape were only putting them in further danger. "Keep them from getting up here!"

The tunnel allowed safe and easy pedestrian egress across the great star-like intersection of the Place Charles De Gaulle. With such heavy traffic around the rotary, crosswalks weren't exactly feasible or particularly efficient, so people moved underground to get to the Arc. The tunnels weren't small, but with enough people, Steve imagined it could become packed and suffocating easily.

There was only one entrance to the street, at least. T'Challa directed Ayo to follow him as they raced down to cut off access. "Not everyone is affected down here, Captain! We'll neutralize what we can, send the rest away."

The other end of the tunnel was far enough away to remain unaffected by the Madbomb. A small mercy.

And Zemo wasn't done yet, either.

When Steve finally saw an opening, he charged again. Shield up, to knock away any maddened person, deciding just to use sheer force of strength to bum rush it, damn the consequences. At this point, Steve had to settle with bruising some people just for the chance to get this madness to stop.

"Steve, watch out!" Sam called overhead.

Zemo saw him coming. Turned, smiled, just as the grill of a massive vehicle burst through the crowd to his right and struck Steve head on.

The impact took him by surprise, knocking him — and a dozen other people who happened to be in the way — right off his feet.

Steve went flying across the pavement, colliding with something hard, metal, ringing like a gong. And very hot.

He rolled back to his feet before it could burn. That's when he realized — the flame. The memorial. The tomb.

Somewhere beneath him laid the body of the unknown soldier; a casualty of the First World War. The Great War, once. Whose to say which side the man had been on; long dead now, forever unidentified, the body represented much and more of the toll of war, and nameless dead that followed.

For all Steve knew, it could've been his own father beneath this Arc. The war that had taken the man away from him before Steve ever got to know him. The war that had changed his own life before Steve even realized it. Everything he had become, had been in the wake of this war.

The body beneath his feet.

Before him, the flame guttered. A flame that had burned uninterrupted for decades, now dimmed, askew, affected by the battle around it.

Turning, he gaped at the massive, tank-like truck that was so large and heavily-built it had plowed its way through the traffic rotary.

So that was how Zemo planned to escape.

Zemo must have known this wouldn't last forever. The rabid masses had become too thick, and he was down to half a dozen men, who closed ranks around him. They fired indiscriminately into the crowd, and suddenly it was all any of them could do to grab someone and pull them out of the line of fire, before being attacked themselves.

And perhaps Zemo saw the walls closing in. Sooner or later, they were bound to get lucky.

With Nat's help, Bucky managed to clamber up the outside of one of the arch's columns — each broad side had an elaborate statue depicting some great leader heralded by a Greek goddess — with just enough of a ledge and a high enough angle to provide a clear shot at Zemo. It was the only element of height they could achieve without leaving the arch completely.

At the same time, a bullet exploded the torso of the Roman emperor above Natasha's head, raining marble down on them. She cried out, lost her footing, and fell. Bucky's third shot went wide as he reached out to catch her before she landed into the roiling mass of bodies beneath her.

"She's back!" Natasha called. Dangling from Bucky's hand, she fired one of her pistols.

Zemo was trying to escape. But he wouldn't make it unscathed.

A bullet struck the head of one HYDRA agent. A second caught Zemo in the shoulder. The man grunted, reeled, stumbled.

The Madbomb went silent.

The sudden absence of sound rang through the air. Coupled with the sudden loss of the Madbomb's effect — all the affected civilians suddenly stopping, dropping, coming to a standstill — had a strange petrifying effect.

A second long shot pinged off Bucky's arm, the sparks causing him to flinch, and they both dropped to the ground. Nat rolled gracefully, and Bucky immediately rocked to his knees, a firing position, aiming fast. Not to kill, but close enough to ward off Mia's aim. His bullets landed near the window she fired from. Glass and limestone shattered, and the flash of her scope disappeared.

Bucky raised to his feet, looking like he was about to start running, to track her down.

But he seemed equally distracted by Zemo, who was right there, climbing into the tank truck, injured but alive.

And getting away.

"Stop him!" Steve tried charging again, but the HYDRA agent fired from an open window, forcing Steve to drop and take cover, shielding a hurt civilian lying on the pavement.

Bucky immediately whipped around and started firing, aiming for the tires. But they were thick, reinforced somehow, and the bullets didn't pierce the material as the truck's engine gunned and it started powering across the rotary.

Growing desperate, he pulled what appeared to be some kind of grenade from his belt. Damn the consequences, it seemed, anything to stop the vehicle. But the grenade, as it shot across the pavement, beneath the truck, exploded — and it kept going.

And then a streak of midnight — T'Challa racing on foot, running after the vehicle with superhuman speed, not unlike how he chased down Bucky on a motorcycle. Claws extended, the King launched himself and grappled onto the back of the vehicle.

But even the magnificent panther couldn't hang on forever. The truck plowing through the wall of cars threatened to knock him off, coupled with the HYDRA agent who appeared from the roof opening, firing directly upon him. Still T'Challa powered forward, growing farther away.

Far enough that Steve, from his position at the Arc, could see something dropping from a rooftop above, onto the top of the truck.

Mia.

He could not see the finer points of the interaction that followed — only a blur of motion.

Had he been close enough, Steve would have seen the way her appearance had startled T'Challa, how he had faltered in his attack of the gunman. Claws unsheathed, all he could do was close his fist in an aborted attack, what might have been a slashing strike was now a blunt one as Mia took the blow to the face, but remained on her feet.

Perhaps something in her boots allowed her better purchase atop the metal vehicle, because T'Challa could not knock her off, try as he might. He would have considered that some small victory, had he been able to take her down too, to fall off the vehicle with her, even if he had failed to catch Zemo. At least remove her from the man's possession.

But that was not to be.

No simple weapon could pierce T'Challa's armor. Not mere bullets, and not the knife she wielded. But the vibranium shield was a different matter.

It wouldn't cut or pierce him in any way a traditional weapon would. But it was vibranium nonetheless, and T'Challa could feel his armor giving under the force when she landed a blow across his arm and shoulder, the absorbing effects of vibranium impacting vibranium creating a painful aftershock across his bones.

Nothing broken, but his wrist ached from the initial blow that had almost knocked him off the truck when she appeared. If Mia brought the edge of the shield down hard enough, at just the right angle, she might be able to sever a limb.

His claws and blows rebounded uselessly off her shield, and T'Challa did not have the room to maneuver around her as he would have done initially. The streets of Paris were absolutely packed — traffic had come to a complete standstill for what appeared to be miles, abandoned vehicles everywhere — T'Challa was nearly knocked off again, before clinging to the side of the vehicle.

She brought the shield down across his clinging fingers. Only the armor kept T'Challa from losing them completely, but the pain was still extraordinary enough that he lost his grip, and fell to the pavement below, rolling across the tarmac.

By the time he got back to his feet, the truck was already whipping around a corner.

Mia's form standing atop, hair whipping in the wind.

"I can follow them!" Wilson said over the comms.

"Don't engage!" The Captain spoke quickly. "Just keep a trace! We'll catch up as soon as we can!"

"Roger that!"

Overhead, the winged form of the Falcon swooped overhead, a tip of his wing to acknowledge T'Challa.

T'Challa could have chased after them. But he knew the battle was lost. More importantly, he could not abandon what remained of their team.

As he raced on foot to return to the Arc, his ears were filled with an alarming call. The city was awfully quiet with all the frozen traffic, which made the growing roar of engines all the more noticeable to everyone around.

"What the hell is that?" Sharon called. "Did someone call reinforcements?"

"What's happening?" T'Challa asked, as the buildings whipped past him in a blur. Some terrible feeling told him that the fight wasn't over yet.

"I have reports of an incoming military force," Okoye said, and his eyes caught the flickering of the invisible ship rising above the rooftops once more. She had landed in order to aid with the battle, but now it seemed a third party had entered the scene. "They sound — American!"

"What?" A chorus of voices replied at once, alarmed.

And just as T'Challa came skidding to a stop beneath the Arc, he saw — the wall of cars screeching and grinding aside, or crushed beneath, the path of several great tanks — two from each street on the northern end of the Arc. Behind them, following in the path they cleared in their wake, a series of smaller, faster military vehicles rolled in, taking in what clear road they could. Sirens and klaxons rang out all around.

And above it all, a familiar voice called across the clearing, amplified a hundred times through speakers.

"This is the United States Army, under order of Secretary Ross, stand down!"

"Where the hell did he get tanks?!" Nat demanded, almost panicked, as they grouped together on the ground.

In the time that T'Challa was gone, Steve had taken control of the situation, getting the trapped civilians above to the ground floor, dragging the injured off the road, looking for anyone still alive among the bloodied pavement. There were a lot of dead here. Too much to count in one go. But there were still more alive and breathing.

"He must have been here this whole time," Sharon replied, her voice tense. There were scratches across her face, a torn shoulder from where someone had tried to wrench her arm from its socket. "Amassing resources. Maybe it was for Zemo, maybe for us, but he must have guessed there'd be another attack —"

"It definitely sounds like it's for us!" Bucky snapped.

"There's no way you guys can handle that kind of firepower," Sam called from above. "Do you want me to turn back?"

"No!" Bucky and Steve shouted at the same time. Steve continued, "Keep following Zemo! He's still our priority!"

"Suddenly the name 'Thunderbolt' Ross isn't quite so mysterious to me anymore," T'Challa remarked dryly. "I'm fascinated with how this man managed to attain his current position within your country, given his reputation."

"It's a long story," Sharon said with gritted teeth. "I don't know how he hopes to keep it up if he escalates the situation; France is going to be mad at a lot more than just Zemo after this if he keeps it up."

"We have firepower, my King," Okoye's voice hummed in their ears. "Should I provide covering fire?"

T'Challa hesitated before responding, appearing conflicted. Indeed, their small Wakandan ship could probably take on the small army of tanks. But at what cost? Steve didn't know what kind of barrage it could take, nor did he want to think about the ensuing damage and collateral damage it could cause if they decided to start firing upon the tanks.

At last, he said, "No. The damage potential is too great — too many innocent people could get hurt. Draw back, and we'll find you. We'll make our exit that way."

It appeared Ross did not see the ship; though its light-refracting panels rendered it virtually invisible, the engines could still be heard by the perceptive ear, and a sharp eye would be able to notice the way light and space seemed to bend oddly in the area around the ship. It may not hold its stealth position forever.

"Understood," Okoye replied, and the hum of its engines faded somewhere behind them.

"I repeat!" Ross ordered over the speaker system, his voice echoing from several different trucks whose sole purpose seemed to be carrying the equipment on them. "Surrender now! Come out with your hands up!"

"There's civilians here!" Steve shouted, waving his arms to indicate the huddled group. "Don't shoot!"

"Would he truly fire upon us?" T'Challa asked him in an undertone, leaning in. "Surely he is bluffing. He would not actually risk harming these innocent people."

"I don't know," Steve admitted, and he hated the sound of his voice. How uncertain his words were. How much he hated the truth, as much as he was unwilling to speak it. "But…I wouldn't put it past him."

Something deep down told him that Ross would find some way to justify whatever slaughter he might cause here. Acceptable casualties, if they refused to surrender. Maybe even pass off the harm to Zemo, who was already gone.

And getting further and further away by the minute.

"This is your last chance!" Ross' voice echoed through the air.

"Get the civilians to the underground tunnel," Steve spoke low into his earpiece. Short of just running across the street, the only safe way to evacuate them was to the tunnels below the Arc.

"On it," Sharon's response was immediate. She pulled back and gestured to those around them, urging everyone to stay low and follow her. But that was only those that could still move. There were still more that were injured, those that needed immediate medical aid.

Steve looked to the tanks that now surrounded the Arc. Then to Bucky. To everyone around him.

He was exhausted. His body ached, skin red and raw in places where he'd been attacked. Blood splattered across his suit in a morbid pattern. The others didn't look much better. Bucky's metal arm had a streak of soot and ash. Natasha was still catching her breath. T'Challa's suit appeared to have actually taken some damage, gloves flickering oddly.

But they did not waver.

His team, and the scared people, broken and bleeding and cowering behind the walls, confused and terrified.

Back to the team. "On ne passe pas."

None shall pass. They would hold the line. Together. To capitulate now would be to lose the battle, if not the war.

He watched, gut sinking, as the first tank level its cannon at them.

Right before a blast from the sky knocked it aside.

Steve looked up in shock.

A flying Iron Man suit — Tony? No, it couldn't be possible —

And it wasn't. Almost right away, Steve could tell the suit was too small, not Tony himself. It was silver, appearing unadorned, with a set of blue eyes and its arc reactor in a strange circular geometric pattern; like a series of small interlinked flowers or star shapes. It reminded Steve of a stained glass window, of a church rosette.

And Steve's mind couldn't compute, was this one of his drones? But Tony didn't have those anymore, he got rid of them, and besides, how would he even be able to operate one if he was still in the Raft…?

The suit landed, arms raised, and symmetrical repulsor blasts to either side struck Army jeeps on either side, blowing their engines.

Steve had barely opened his mouth to even exclaim in shock before a streak of silver flashed in front of him, so fast the slipstream ripped the air from his lungs. In a blink of an eye, it flashed across the Army line. In quick succession, all the wheeled vehicles suddenly dropped, their tires slashed inexplicably all at once. Alarmed shouts started to rise from the opposite end of the line.

Someone must have panicked. One of the tanks fired.

A cry rose up, screams — only to drop away, shocked, when the shell never landed.

Instead, it struck a glittering red wall that had suddenly appeared, as if by magic. The shell exploded harmlessly before it ever reached them.

Steve heard the distant clank of another tank loading a shell, only for a sudden beam of golden light to shear across the air — and everyone watched, with gaping mouths, as one by one the tank's cannons dropped to the ground, severed from their mounts. Each one crashed with a mighty crack of concrete beneath.

Ross' men responded quickly — abandoning their vehicles, jumping out with what firearms they had. But they barely had time to take formation before a skinny bright form swung across the rotary, whooping with unrestrained glee; and a dozen soldiers were suddenly empty-handed, in shock, as their weapons were ripped from their arms and strung up high from lampposts, on a series of webbing.

The other dozen, disarmed just as easily by that silver streak, slamming into them at full speed and stealing their weapons before they had time to blink.

A series of rifles clattered at Steve's feet, and when he looked up, Pietro was standing here; windswept pale hair, self-satisfied grin on his face.

Steve knew exactly what the kid was about to say right before he opened his mouth. "Don't."

The speedster hopped back, unable to contain his smugness. "Don't what? You didn't see that coming?"

Behind Steve, someone made a sound of annoyance. He didn't turn to look for who it was.

Before him, three forms dropped from the sky, on either side of the small Iron Man suit — the Scarlet Witch, a young caped Vision, and what could only be Spider-Man in a suit Steve had never seen before. Not the improvised pajamas he'd seen before, but a fresh, form-fitting suit, a masked face that did little to hide the excitement underneath.

Next to Quicksilver, the mask of the Iron Man suit slid up, revealing the slightly puffy-eyed face of Howie.

And in a voice slightly thickened by a waning cold, he said, "We're here to help."

All five of them, standing before the Avengers, fresh-faced and ready to fight.

A new set of heroes had arrived.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty

✭

Peter definitely thought he had lost his mind, recruiting himself and his friends into this fiasco. Thinking they, a bunch of kids with superpowers (and one powered suit) could do more than what the Avengers could. 

But he had nothing else to offer in this trying time. 

Even just a handful of them, but still. Captain America, Black Widow, Black Panther, the Falcon, and let’s not forget the Winter Soldier (Mia told him not to use that name, but what else could Peter call him besides Bucky? That’s not a superhero name, either) — all powerhouses in their own right. All totally awesome and badass with years, decades of experience against all of this little team combined. 

But it was too late now. He was already watching what was left of the Avengers running away. That agent of SHIELD lady, too, was also leaving them behind to help usher out the last of the civilians through the underground tunnel, leaving behind the five of them, an Arc pockmarked with bulletholes, blood-splattered pavement, and half an army building before them. 

“Are we actually planning to defeat Ross?” Howie’s voice echoed from his suit, sounding nervous. 

“I wouldn’t mind laying waste,” Wanda said, still hovering in the air alongside Vision. Her fingers sparkled with energy, and Peter swore he could make out strange sigils in the wisps of red. Mia called it magic, but he hadn’t really taken that seriously until now. Mutant magic, maybe…?

But no. “There’s no way we’re going to take down a whole army.”

In front of them, the Ross’ men were already regrouping, reinforcements pulling in on trucks and jeeps, with plenty more firearms and ammunition. It was going to turn Paris into an all out warfront, and he didn’t want that. Nor did the Parisians around him, he figured. 

“And I suppose you also have escape plan, spider boy?” Pietro asked lightly, with that shit-eating grin that got under Peter’s skin. He didn’t know how Mia could handle that guy and his big-ass ego. 

“I’m working on it,” he muttered.  Mia always knew what she was doing; Peter wondered how she did it all the time. She always had an escape plan. Knew all the exits. Looking around, Peter could make a few guesses, but he didn’t have the same instincts, and this wasn’t his city. He didn’t know where exactly to go, and the buildings weren’t nearly as high as he preferred in this part of Paris. 

And then there was the other part of him, the part he was currently smothering deep down, the part that wished he was going with Cap and Bucky to save Mia. 

But he’d already tried that, and his throat was still sore from Mia almost choking him to death. No. They were better equipped for her, as loathed as Peter was to admit it. He didn’t know how to stop her, not really, not when his own face, their lifelong bond, no longer had an influence on her brainwashing. 

That was the worst part, still clinging to Peter’s thoughts even as he scrambled for a plan. The fact he couldn’t help Mia, no matter how much he wanted to. It had to be someone else. And it probably wasn’t going to be pretty. It made him sick to his stomach. How did Captain America — Steve Rogers — handle it? He always looked so calm and collected all the time… Peter felt like he was at the end of his rope. 

“Okay, I’m not saying run,” Peter finally said, holding his hands up. “But a very strategic retreat.”

“We’re running away?” Howie asked, sounding horrified. “Like… cowards? ”

“No!” Peter insisted, though that was kinda exactly what he meant. With all of them looking at him like that, he was starting to feel defensive. “What, do you want to start another all out battle with Ross, on foreign territory, in the middle of a city? We can’t afford that. Mia can’t afford that! And it’ll only make him and his Accords look that much better, if this goes badly.”

“We will look like terrorists,” Wanda said grimly, reluctantly. Like she really wanted a little bloodshed, as a treat. “Maybe Ross will even blame the Madbomb on us.”

“Wow,” Peter said, a new horror unlocked. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“We buy the Avengers time,” Vision concluded at last, nodding as if this made total sense. “And then we flee. Our freedom is just as important as theirs.”

That was a good point that Peter hadn’t thought of, either. But yeah. “Exactly. I definitely don’t want to go to Super Jail in the ocean.”

“Then let us begin,” Wanda gestured a hand upwards, bringing up another wall of rippling red energy that deflected a wave of bullets that came their way. Looks like Ross’ reinforcements had finally arrived. 

To say Peter had a good time of it would be an overstatement. This wasn’t your usual bank robbery, your museum heist, your mob boss with an army of goons, or even  your occasional mad scientist — this was a literal war general (somehow Secretary of State…) with his own personal military fleet, operating on French soil. He was dodging way more firepower than usual, and this was a fight they were intentionally planning on losing. So, you know, not a great morale booster. 

As he swung around the Arc, doing his best to disarm and disable soldiers, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of political impact this would have. Not with the Accords specifically, but the various populations. The French, obviously, he kinda hoped they wouldn’t hate le Spider-Man after this. And as for the folks back home? Peter could only expect the worst. But sometimes, people surprised him, and he hoped that would be the case after this. 

He watched in awe as Scarlet Witch crushed metal vehicles into tin cans; as Vision phased right through a tank and dragged out all its occupants with it; Quicksilver plucking bullets right out of the air before they could ever land. The three of them alone were so incredibly powerful that even with their limited experience, Peter had no doubt that they could totally take on this force and maybe even win, if they put their minds to it.

And then there was Iron Lad (Iron Vitruvius, as Howie insisted, was probably not gonna catch on if left up to the news media) was swooping in and out, drawing fire and, what Peter would later see, dropping small bombs?? For a kid who didn’t like to hurt people, Howie was really into his explosives. Little electric taser thingies that blasted at the soldiers’ feet and knocked them down; and what may or may not have been an EMP bomb that immediately cut out Ross’ megaphone from hell. 

It was so tempting. So tempting to swoop back in and give the command, to keep going, to win — but Peter resisted. For one, he already knew it was a bad idea. Two, further back in his mind, he thought it a little presumptive of himself to be giving commands. They recruited him , and he was definitely not the strongest or the fastest of the ground. He couldn’t even fly. Wanda could turn him into spaghetti if she really wanted to, Peter thought. 

They had no leader. Just a collective agreement, which was probably better than most new teams. The fact that they hadn’t gotten into a spat in all of this was practically a miracle, though there were a few times Peter really just wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off of Pietro’s face. Violently. He chalked it up to just the stress of their current situation. If it weren’t life or death, Peter didn’t find the speedster half so irritating. Most of the time.

What made it work? He didn’t know. Maybe their one, simple goal in getting Mia back (and slightly smaller, but no less important desire of not getting arrested). 

Maybe some of them had the same idea, this rush of morale, the sense that victory was nigh. Peter may have even suspected it was Wanda’s psychic influence on them, but it was Quicksilver who paused long enough to announce, “Look, they retreat!”

He pointed, and sure enough, what remaining vehicles that were still operating were reversing; men still on their feet turning back. Wherever Ross was, he wasn’t making any loud proclamations anymore. Pietro grinned savagely, “We got them!”

“Then let us teach them a lesson,” Wanda returned with a wicked smile of her own, her eyes sparkling red. 

Peter cursed under his breath. Of course, as soon as he thought about it, the situation jinxed itself. The team was no longer on the same page anymore. He swooped back as fast as he could, hoping he wasn’t too late. 

“No!” Peter called out, just as Vision pulled back. He really hoped the android would have his back on this one. “That’s not the plan!” 

“The plan didn’t account for us winning!” Wanda retorted.

“Now is our chance to flee!” Vision called, his voice pitched with anxiety. He flew in fast, catching Pietro just as he took a step into superspeed. Pietro lurched, gasping in shock; unable to tear himself out of a vibranium, he nearly got whipped back into the ground by his own momentum.

“Hey!” Pietro snarled, trying to wriggle himself free. “Let go! Let me do this!”

“We can take them!” Wanda bared her teeth, her fists hidden beneath red orbs of increasing size. “Ross thinks he can challenge us! Imprison us! It is his incompetence that brought us here! That put Mia in the hands of Zemo!”

“You will only prove him and his supporters correct!” Vision pleaded, raising up a hand towards her. Just telling her to stop, as far as Peter could tell, no powers. “We cannot meet our enemies with the same evil they deliver to us! We must be better than them!”

“I don’t want to be better —!” Quicksilver began.

“We’re not hunting them down!” Peter jumped down beside Vision. “They’re already running! Vision’s right, how will that make us look, attacking unarmed humans?”

Peter knew the Maximoff twins were vindictive. Angry, hurt, traumatized. Like Mia, but as she had once told Peter, they had it worse than her. But he hadn’t accounted for this. Of course, too late, now he could see that they likely saw Ross as no better than HYDRA or the KGB, the people who had captured and imprisoned and experimented on them for years. And they were right to be suspicious that it might happen again under an American authority. 

But that didn’t mean they should do to Ross what they did to Baron von Strucker. 

“But he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to us!” Wanda snapped. 

“It’s a war crime!” Peter begged, wringing his hands. “We can’t do that to people!”

“We’ve done worse!” Pietro pointed out, which was probably, painfully, true. 

And then Vision spoke, in that same strange even tone of his. Never once did he ever yell, no matter how tense the situation, like now, where he gently asked them: “What would Mia do?”

For whatever reason, that seemed to give the twins pause. Just enough, Peter hoped. He didn’t want to stay here long enough for Ross to consider regrouping and launching another attack; or for French police to get here and get the wrong idea about them. They had to leave . 

Wanda grit her teeth and Pietro was breathing hard, taut under Vision’s grip. The way they shared looks, Peter was once more convinced they were having some kind of telepathic conversation the rest of them weren’t included in. 

Then, before any of them could come to a conclusion, there came a sudden boom, followed by a sharp, distant cry. They all spun around in alarm. Peter’s blood went cold at the sight of a trail of smoke, Howie falling from the sky after something — a rocket? a missile? — had struck him. 

Vision had released Pietro in surprise. It was only when they saw Howie falling did Peter see the flash out of the corner of his eye, glanced over, and saw that Pietro was no longer on the ground anymore. His wispy glowing slipstream trailed behind him, making a beeline straight towards Howie as he fell a hundred feet to the pavement. 

Pietro had calculated Howie’s trajectory just right — catching the small armored suit before he could crash to the ground. But Pietro only broke the fall, not strong enough to prevent it completely. 

They both landed hard; but not as bad as it could’ve been. Peter didn’t realize he was shouting Howie’s name until he heard it in Wanda’s voice, and realized they were all calling out, running, flying, to their side.

Pietro had already recovered, helping Howie up to a sitting position. The silver armor was now scuffed and covered in black scorch marks, but thankfully Peter didn’t see any exposed skin. But that was all he could be thankful for. Through his helmet, Howie was wheezing badly, and one arm clutched the other, curling up on himself in clear pain. 

His throat clenched. 

Peter tried not to notice the onlookers as they huddled around together; blocking their view as Howie’s face mask flipped up and revealed a blanched face. “Howie! Are you okay?”

“I think so? I didn’t see… the rocket…” He tried speaking but his voice was weak, and immediately started coughing. He gestured weakly with his good hand, Hurts. 

“What hurts, Howie?” Wanda dropped down to her knees, while Vision’s hands swept over his right side, and then through his side. Peter had to clamp down on the growing upset in his stomach. 

“It appears he’s broken a few ribs,” Vision replied in his stead. “And his left radius bone. Clean, no bleeding. But he needs a hospital.”’

They exchanged pained looks. There would be no hounding victory, and no joyous flight home. 

“I’ll be okay,” Howie insisted, his voice hoarse. But quickly proved that he wasn’t, barely able to stand up in his suit, and unable to fly properly without using either of his arms or proper form control. Vision elected to carry him instead, insisting it was nothing, but between their soothings, no one could look each other in the eye. 

No one said it, and Peter didn’t need Wanda’s telepathy to know they were all thinking it. This was their fault. Howie got hurt because none of them were paying attention; no one had his back while they were arguing with each other, and some asshole got in a lucky shot while Howie was performing crowd control.

Even as they took off towards the nearest hospital, Peter couldn’t help but feel this had been a terrible loss on their part. Another loss, even worse than the fight with Mia, because they failed one of their own teammates. He failed. 

Again and again. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-One

✭

Nothing but the cold wasteland of Siberia below.

Zemo looked down, eyeing the bunker as they began their descent. It was almost perfectly blended in its surroundings, entrance burrowed into a hillside where it would not be seen from above. The intense snowfall hid what might have been the opening of the missile silo, along with decades of abandonment. Who could say if any of it was still operable anymore.

But this was the location. The coordinates matched what the Winter Soldier told him.

They made landing, and Zemo's boots crunched on the frozen ground — centuries of winter rendering the earth solid with ice. He turned to the pilot; Georges Batroc, a reliable mercenary with his little brigade, had been essential in Zemo's overall plan. The notorious pirate had a fleet of stolen vehicles and aircraft at his disposal.

"Stay here, out of sight." Zemo told him. "I'll return when it's done. When you see Captain America, don't engage. It's all part of the plan."

Batroc grunted, what appeared to be an acknowledgement. He did not look Zemo in the eyes.

"Good," Zemo didn't have time for the whims of moody Frenchmen. With a jerk of his chin, he ordered the rest of his men to follow. Between the four aircraft, Zemo had what remained of his personal guard, who hadn't been killed in London and Paris, now escorted him and the Soldatka into the derelict Soviet bunker.

"Is this it?" Rumlow asked as he met Zemo's pace. His breath clouded in front of his face, frozen winds whipping at their cheeks and coats.

"It is," Zemo said. Years and years of work, subterfuge, and sabotage. Working his hands to the bone, to sit and watch the world turn like paint drying. So slowly, waiting for the masterpiece to finally set in its place. He smiled to himself. "I know you're anxious, Rumlow. And yes, before you ask — I will give you what you ask for."

The man's eyes fixed on him, an inner light like dancing flame. He couldn't hide his glee. "You mean it?"

"Of course," Zemo intoned, as the shadow of the bunker loomed over them. Old gray metal, white with frost and red with rust. Old Cyrillic words were once painted on the doors, a yellow diamond warning sign that had both long since lost their meaning. Rumlow's men rushed to work the bulkhead doors open, screeching on ancient hinges. "I am a man of my word. All that you and I have worked for, Rumlow, it ends here."

Doors yawned open, revealing an impenetrable darkness within. It was only slightly freezing within than without - the biting wind only able to reach so far inside. The entryway, as it were, was just large enough to hold a vehicle — tall ceilings and stairways and catwalks that led off in many directions beneath the earth. An entire compound hidden beneath the snow. Weak yellow-green light flickered from ancient industrial bulbs.

Rumlow sent off what was left of his engineers to get the electricity working. But Zemo could already feel the power buzzing somewhere below; this place wasn't without power. They wouldn't risk it.

But it's more convenient to wait for the elevator to work.

The old creaking thing did not invite passengers, but Zemo was unafraid as he stepped onto the platform, the Soldatka at his side, a pale-eyed shadow. Rumlow was more hesitant as he joined them.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Rumlow asked.

Zemo did not deign to answer that question.

They descended.

Darkness swallowed them. Intermittent lighting indicated how many levels they passed on the way down. Somewhere after ten, just after their ears popped, did the elevator finally reach the bottom.

The temperature had dropped significantly, but there was something else beneath the chill. A sound. A humming.

It wasn't clear what it was at first; they stepped out, a low mist hovering across the floor, hiding the dust and dirt beneath. A small hallway lead out into the giant cavern. The silo.

"Here it is," Zemo gestured. "HYDRA's dirty little secret."

"It's—" Rumlow came to a stop, gaping at the sight. "Those aren't warheads. They can't be. They're too small."

In the center of the circular platform, a raised dais with several stairways up, sat not a giant missile containing world-destroying nuclear material — but a small circle of standing columns. Glass and metal, with a distinct tube shape. Not unlike a small submarine, perhaps, or a capsule.

Eight in all.

"You were not HYDRA's first attempt to recreate Zola's formula." Zemo said to the Soldatka as they stepped up onto the large dais. Massive cords and tubes laid all over the floor, powering the cryo-chambers. A distant light from above illuminated the area, casting deep shadows across the space. His hand brushed across the upper half of one glass panel. Faint blue light emanated from within, and there — a sleeping face. "Just their first successful attempt. These ones — all rejects, for one reason or another. Temperamental issues, I believe. Uncontrollable. Weapons of mass destruction, turned into rabid animals."

The Soldatka said nothing as she followed. Her eyes cast up the large frozen columns, like a terrible monument to some mechanical god.

A quick look around revealed a control panel at the southern end of the dais. For each chamber, a button for each chamber, and a large red switch to activate all at once. Zemo flicked it, pleased to find it still worked.

All around them emerged the sound of an engine whirring to life. One by one, each of the chambers began decompressing, emitting freezing mist into the air. A minute, before the first door cracked open, and an unsteady foot stepped onto the dais.

"I've always wondered how a true super soldier would fare against this lot," Zemo said. He turned and smiled at Rumlow. "I suggest you take refuge in the observation room, Rumlow. This next part will be messy."

And with that, he stepped off the dais, leaving the Soldatka in the center, as eight figures emerged from their chambers.

✭✭✭

"We can hold them off," Wanda Maximoff said, her voice calm against the klaxons filling the air. "As long as you need."

Five kids. Five sorta kids. Two who were technically legal adults (but still looked like children), one who hid his age behind a mask, a two-year-old android who could change his appearance at will, and Howie, who was not old enough to drink alcohol even in his home country.

Who had just decimated the front line of Ross' vanguard.

Bucky had to admit, he was a little impressed.

"I can't ask you to do that," Steve said, at once appearing both relieved and stern. Like a man who couldn't decide whether he was proud or worried.

"Well, it's a good thing we're not asking, then," Pietro replied, with a flick of his head. Always the cocky one. Bucky was starting to see where Mia got it from.

Was it fucked up to rely on kids for this? Yes. But what choice did they have? Bucky was already stepping back behind the line, turning to run. And Steve would soon be at his heels.

The Wakandan ship was waiting. This time, Zemo wasn't getting away.

And Ross wouldn't be following.

There was no time for discussions. Carter elected to stay to help with the injured, as did Natalia. One part of Bucky wished she followed, the other part was relieved; where they were going next, he wanted her to have no part in it.

Too risky. Too dangerous.

Even for her.

They were in the air before Ross had time to realize what had happened to his tanks. They spotted Sam during lift-off; in the distance, returning and banking to the left. "I followed them as long as I could, Cap! Heading due east, it looks like. Wish I could say where — I'm almost out of juice. Didn't want to crash land into someone's farm."

Steve sighed, bracing himself against the ship's console. "Thanks, Sam, stay safe,"

"We'll handle Ross, don't worry. Keep us updated."

"Will do."

As soon as the line of communication ended, Bucky spoke up. "I know where they're going."

Steve and the King looked at him simultaneously. "You do?"

"Yes." Bucky's voice was low. It had taken him up until now to remember just what it was Zemo wanted the Winter Soldier for. Hours and hours he had wracked his brain desperately, wondering what was so important that he had to lose Mia for it. And now, finally, it clicked. "I've been there before. An old Soviet bunker. Abandoned in the Seventies. They… they tried to make more of me."

The others exchanged wary looks. It was Okoye who broke that eerie silence first. "Other Winter Soldiers? Different from your child?"

"Yes," Bucky nodded, and might've laughed at the idea she was suggesting if it didn't hurt so much. "The Russians picked who they thought were their best and brightest soldiers and agents. Ones who were already trained, already loyal. Figured the transition would be easier than it had been with me. And for some of them, the serum took. But it came at a price."

"The psychological component," T'Challa surmised.

"Uh, yeah, you can call it that," Bucky smirked to himself, studying the floor. He could still remember it. The screams. Those wild eyes. Animals rattling in their cages. "It wasn't like they were using modern scientific technique. Small sample size. No control group. All already a little… messed up in the head." Bucky wasn't sure what made each individual pass the qualification tests, but he could guess. "They all liked killing, even before they got the serum."

"And so they created monsters," Steve guessed, folding his arms across his test. "Zemo is after that serum?"

"No," Bucky said. "He's after the soldiers."

"What?" T'Challa bristled in alarm. "They're not dead?"

"They were put on ice," Bucky shook his head, leaning against the outer wall. "Old Soviet trick. They never like to throw anything away if they think they can salvage something from it. Figured they can go back to them if a cure was found. Or just… leave them to rot. Not like they can get out, anyways."

"How many were left?" Steve asked.

"Eight," Bucky said, though he wasn't sure. He was fairly certain, from the hazy memories he could recall. A circle of cryo-chambers, locking each one down one by one. "There's a chance they might have died in stasis. Happens sometimes. But… they're super soldiers. Odds are they'd still be viable."

Another silence fell over the ship, as they took in this information. The grim reality; eight crazed super soldiers. A small army. Zemo wouldn't even need his Madbomb.

No question as to why Zemo would want to divert his path of wanton destruction for a pit stop in Russia. Likely to regain strength in numbers after Paris, and what better way to do that than with more super soldiers? No country had the proper defenses for that sort of thing.

Grey skies stretched onward.

It was only a few hours, a few hours to think and ponder and prepare. Bucky could only hazard a guess as to what would await them. Aside from the super soldier rejects, there was Zemo's little army and whatever mercenary troops he hired. And Mia, of course. The silo, he believed, was decommissioned, with no actual nuclear weaponry inside. The best place to put your failed science experiments and forget about them forever. He doubted most current Russian officials even knew about it anymore.

So much time had passed. Mia, trapped somewhere a mile below the surface. Bucky couldn't let himself wonder. Couldn't contemplate the possibilities or he'll go crazy on this ship.

"Hey," Steve appeared at his side, as they gazed out the window below, out onto the desolate landscape. "We'll make it through this. We always do."

It was easy to believe in such things when it was coming out of Steve's mouth. Just had a way of saying them that made it sound like simple truth. A fact. Reality itself.

It reminded him of a different time. "The last time we did something like this — was it Germany?"

"The Alps."

"Right," Bucky nodded vaguely. He could remember the mountains, the snow, the train. "I always hated that moment, right before we jumped out of a plane or off a cliff. Its like that coaster on Coney Island all over again. Every time."

"Every time?" Steve shot him a startled look, faintly amused. "No way. You were stone cold the whole time."

"On the outside, maybe," Bucky grinned, partially to himself. "Especially if there was a girl there. Couldn't follow your example, throwing up after the coaster."

"You know, Buck, I'm really glad you're remembering things now," Steve sighed, shaking his head with resigned humor. "But there are some things I'd like to forget. You know?"

"What was the name of your date again?" Bucky pondered for a moment, wanting to feel like a boy again, just a stupid kid with no problems but girls and school and rent at the end of the week. "Dorothy?"

"Dottie." Steve closed his eyes. "She took a shine to you."

"Yeah, well, she couldn't see what she had," Bucky nudged Steve's side. Sometimes he, too, was just that tiny shrimp of a kid who could never hold a date to save his life. Still in there somewhere. Still the same man. "You can do better than her now."

"God, I hope so," Steve laughed to himself. "If I can't do better now than I could at sixteen, then I'm doomed."

"You and me both," Bucky said, a sad smile of nostalgia. "That's how it always goes. Just you and me left standing."

"To the end of the line." Steve said.

"To the end of the line."

And then — they arrived.

It was nearing the end of the day, but hard to tell with the cloudy skies and growing snowstorm. Ayo picked up other aircraft, grounded, on her scanners, but they could be avoided. Steve intended to drop the sky and make a run for it.

"Stay in the air," T'Challa told the Dora Milaje. "We may need an immediate escape."

It was a fair assessment.

T'Challa did not say what he himself would do, but Bucky personally didn't care, as long as the King stayed out of their way. For their safety, and Mia's.

Okoye flew low, the ship still invisible, and they dropped twenty feet to the ground below, and took off running. They couldn't identify who the heat signatures within the small fleet of helicopters were, but best guess was that Zemo wasn't on them. Not yet.

If his forces saw the two, they didn't attack. The bunker loomed before them.

The doors were already open.

There was no other entrance. If there had been, Bucky would have suggested it by now, would have preferred a stealthy infiltration to even the odds. They'd be outnumbered, which was a real problem for a super soldier. Bucky vaguely remembered old war propaganda, how one super soldier was worth an entire legion of men. A one-man army.

Now they were going against eight.

Something neither of them had ever done before.

They walked in, stepping slowly. No one in the main foyer, as it were; though their traces were there. Prints in the snow, crates of supplies. The scent of humans still in the air, fresh.

An open elevator, inviting them in.

"I don't usually say this, but," Steve began as they slowly scanned the area, before his gaze landed back on the elevator. "This feels like a trap."

"Of course it's a trap," Bucky replied darkly. They had the anti-Madbomb bracelets just in case, but he doubted it would be much use in an underground bunker full of thick concrete. "He knew we'd follow. It's probably booby-trapped. Good thing there's stairs."

Steve, who had just been about to step onto the platform, reeled back. "Jeez, why didn't you say so before?"

The stairs were by far the longer way to reach the base of the bunker, but far safer and quieter. It spiraled around the outer wall of the silo, down and down and down, with doors at every level that traced off elsewhere. But Bucky didn't believe Zemo had any reason to explore further than what was directly beneath them.

Steve went down first, shield up, with Bucky at the rear, rifle at the ready. Short bursts for close combat, as what surely awaited them will be.

It got colder and colder, their breaths clouding in front of their faces. Ears pricked for any sound. But aside from the errant creak, rattle of old pipe, or drop of liquid, there was no sound. No sound at all. Like the place had been abandoned, just as it was before. This was not the air of a place that had just unleashed its secret quarry.

"This doesn't feel right," Steve murmured as they passed yet another empty doorway.

"I know," Bucky agreed. A trap, they could expect. But total silence? It was unnerving. Something felt wrong in a way he couldn't interpret.

But what else could they do than remain on alert? An eye out for every shadow. They were too deep now to try contacting T'Challa or the ship; their comm links just fizzled in their ears. Nothing but white noise.

They were all alone.

And so they forged onward.

A low mist crept up the steps as they approached the base level. Bucky's ears had popped some time ago, and he knew they were close now. They definitely should be hearing something by this point. Smelling something. And he did — something new.

Blood.

"That's not good," Steve muttered as they stepped into the mist. It covered the ground like a murky swamp at dusk, a pale blue in the faint lighting, churned up at their movements before settling again. The faintest touch of extra moisture in the air.

Bucky knew what it meant before they turned the corner and saw it. "They're out."

All the cryo-chambers were open. Doors hinged up, interiors empty.

No one to be seen.

They changed positions immediately, back to back. Shadows everywhere, darkness creeping in where the dais didn't touch. Too many hiding places. The failed experiments were no doubt lying in wait until they got into position.

The smell of blood was even stronger now.

"Someone's died," Bucky said, almost instinctively. Beneath the mist, he could feel it sticking to his boots. Puddles of it, all over the place. And a scent that strong? "There's too much blood, its—"

No sooner had he said that did Steve trip on something.

"Whoa!" Steve recoiled when the mist billowed at his stumbling, and pulled away to reveal a large dark mass sprawled across the floor.

A pool of blood around him.

Steve threw Bucky a look of alarm. "Is that one of them?"

Numbly, Bucky nodded. He'd never heard the heartbeat. "He's dead."

And when they looked back towards the dais, now at a new angle, they could see he wasn't the only one.

The mist didn't rise up as far as the elevated platform. Four others were immediately visible, red so thick it splattered black against the glass and metal of the cryo-chambers and across the floors.

With the sense that there was a chilling lack of survivors now, they moved more freely, quickly, checking each body in turn as they stepped onto the dais. Not a single pulse beat anymore. Turning a body over, Bucky faintly recognized the face, frozen in an expression of shock. A knife wound to their chest, puncturing their heart.

An expert move. A killing blow. Quick, immediate, no chance of recovery. They'd be dead within minutes, even less.

The kind of kill he'd make.

"Who did this?" Steve asked, as he dropped the body of another, who appeared to have lost both eyes to a blade. He frowned at Bucky, a line forming between his eyes. "Mia?"

It was the only answer that made sense. As Bucky scanned the room, heart pounding, he could make out a few other limp forms lying in the mist below. Fearing the worst, he ran over to check each one. None were Mia.

"All eight accounted for," He told Steve across the room, a little breathless now. It was hard to tell how the scene played out, but it appeared that the last ones to die were the most injured, skin ripped and torn. Their own hands were covered in blood. Bucky's mouth went dry. "She couldn't have fought them all by herself. She's not strong enough— there-there's too many—"

Eight for the two of them would've been a tall order. Just Mia? Just Mia and her few years of experience? Just Mia and whatever weapons Zemo felt merciful enough to give her?

"Maybe she's okay," Steve offered, though he hardly sounded convinced himself. He looked about helplessly, but there was no sign of her. Bucky saw a bloody handprint here or there, small enough to be hers, but no sign of Mia. "Maybe Zemo wants her still alive."

Bucky supremely doubted that. Zemo hated them. Hated everything she was and was not. He wouldn't go out of his way to save her life.

"Why would he do this?" Steve seemed beside himself in shock, surveying the area. "If he wanted to use these people, why would Zemo let her kill them…?"

Bucky had no answer for that.

Then a soft sound, just behind him. The faintest whisper, like the rubbing of fabric, a soft exhale.

A heartbeat.

Bucky spun around.

There, against the far wall. Half hidden in shadow and mist, he could just make out her crumpled form. Slumped back, head resting against an exposed pipe, eyes closed. Blonde curls come loose, the ends caked in blood and sticking to her face.

"Mia!"

He rushed to her side, dropping to one knee. Hands shaking as he cupped her face, turned it towards the light. Her eyelashes flickered, revealing one sclera to have turned red with blood. A gash at her hairline seeped blood down her face.

Steve's footsteps were close behind, but Bucky wasn't listening to whatever Steve was saying, trying to rouse Mia. She was still alive! But it didn't take long for Bucky to count her injuries — what remained of her gear was ripped and torn. A knee cut open. Knuckles bleeding and raw. Bruises around her throat and arms, along with an array of lesions. Bucky was fairly certain her dominant wrist was broken, with its odd angle and swelling, as well as several ribs. Her breath wheezed in and out painfully. A broken nose guessing from the blood. Pulling back one eyelid, then another, revealed pupils of different sizes.

A hand on his shoulder, Steve's voice seeping into his thoughts. "… Bucky? Buck! We have to move her now. Get her out before —"

"Before what, Captain?" A voice echoed, followed by a laugh. "I'm afraid it's the end of the line."

Both of them whipped their heads around, caught off guard as a large form stepped out of the mist. Bucky recognized that voice instantly, right before that skeletal mask appeared under the light.

Rumlow.

No sooner had he looked away, did Mia finally move. Bucky didn't pay heed at first, a split second he'd regret.

Before he had time to look back at Mia, her fist punched his side, a formidable blow.

Bucky gasped at the sudden sharp pain, and looked down to see her withdrawing the bloody knife from his chest.

The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and Bucky recoiled instinctively. Scrambling back away from her, and the knife in her hand. Bucky didn't have time to call her name. Mia's eyes were wide open now, fully alert — but it wasn't her.

She wasn't there.

A clang of metal distracted Bucky, looking back to see Steve charging Rumlow head-on, taking a round of bullets against his shield before blocking a physical strike. Something that should have knocked Rumlow off his feet.

But there he was, standing toe-to-toe against Captain America.

Shit.

A rustle. Bucky looked around again. Mia was gone.

Double shit.

Pressing a hand to his side, trying to put pressure on a wound that was already seeping too much blood, Bucky stumbled to his feet. His thoughts reeled, panicking, and that's before he saw pops of light from above. More gunfire, from what remained of Zemo's men.

Bucky slung his rifle around, leveling it up above his head. Bam, bam. Two down in short order.

A shadow flickered to his side.

Mia burst from the mists, knife in hand. She came from his blind spot, striking Bucky from behind, and disappearing into the misty shadows again before he could follow her trace. By the time Bucky realized she'd cut into his back and severed the strap of his rifle, she was already gone.

He tried chasing after her, but running through the spot she had vanished into revealed nothing. Bucky's heart pounded in his ears, and between Rumlow throwing Steve across the dais and Zemo's men taking potshots at them, he couldn't hear any sound Mia might be making, anything that would give away her position.

Bastards.

"Mia!" He called into the shadows, but knew it would get no response. But she was here. She was alive. Somehow, she was still moving, still fighting.

A voice responded, but it wasn't hers.

"Did you really think I would let those abominations live?"

Zemo.

Bucky looked up, but it was only the speakers his voice emanated from. But he had to be close by. Bucky knew this place. Knew where Zemo could be speaking from.

It was unclear who the man was monologuing to specifically, as Steve was too busy fending off Rumlow's blows to respond. Nevertheless, Zemo went on, "It was you that killed my father, and your kind that destroyed our legacy, our empire. So long as a super soldier exists, there can be no peace. The serum was made as a blessing to the worthy, but I see now that it can just as easily be used on degenerates. All of you have fouled it to a point beyond redemption. The only option left is to burn it all and salt the ground behind it."

Steve shouted something, but it was drowned out by more gunfire, and the sound of him smashing Rumlow's head through the glass of one cryo-chamber.

"Besides," Zemo said, with the sound of a smile. "I already am the ubermensch worth keeping."

Too hurt to engage him directly as she had with the rejects. She was too injured, and she knew that. Bucky thought fast, trying to think of what he would do in her position. What he would've taught her.

More gunmen across the silo, further up. Steve was pinned, shielding from the bullets while Rumlow kicked him in the face. No time to think. Bucky raised his rifle once more and fired.

Again the shadow struck — this time right in front of him. Mia came in fast; Bucky had closed one eye to peer down his scope, and it was from that side she emerged, striking him across the face and throwing his arm off. The last bullet missed its target.

Bucky hissed in pain. The blow stung, the blade had sliced across his cheek and narrowly missed his eye. It had unbalanced him as well, and Bucky tried to whip around fast enough to catch her, but Mia slipped out from right beneath his fingers, into the shadows again.

"Such a tenacious creature," Zemo laughed, and Bucky knew then he was watching. "She'll fight to the death, you know. I activated her self-termination protocol. As soon as she's finished the task of eliminating you, she'll destroy herself. Or die trying. And thus, the end of the Age of Heroes."

Stick to the shadows. Keep utterly silent. Never stop moving. Strike only when the target wasn't looking. Never risk more injury than she had to.

The only advantage she'd have against a larger, stronger opponent was the element of surprise.

Bucky didn't know how he'd get around her self-termination protocol yet. His best option was to render her unconscious and bring her back before she could fulfill it.

But it was hardly a foolproof idea.

All he wanted was to find Zemo and put a bullet in his head.

The observation room.

It was here, somewhere. A glass panel, heavily reinforced, to watch a missile launch.

Bucky paused his growing panic just long enough to scan the walls. Zemo was wise to keep the inside light off, but it didn't render him invisible.

There.

Bucky turned once, and fired, directly ahead.

The bullet struck glass. Above him, the speakers crackled with the sound of a flinch, possibly a dropped receiver.

And just like clockwork, Mia reappeared.

This time, Bucky almost had her.

He turned just in time to raise his arm, open hand to catch her. But maybe she saw it coming — the knife came up and under, and Bucky seized in terrible pain as the tip of her blade met where metal prosthetic and skin were sewn together, just under his armpit.

Bucky cried out in pain, jerking his arm back instinctively to protect the wounded area, and Mia vanished once more.

No more monologuing, Zemo was probably already running. But there was no way to chase after him — not with Mia here, and not with Rumlow making shit worse. He and Steve had torn the dais apart, glass shards everywhere. And that's when Bucky decided where his priorities lied. Which problem to solve first.

He shot Rumlow.

In the back. Right above his hip. Dirty, merciless, not at all sporting. But this was war and Bucky was sick of this shit — just lets Mia dart by with her knife, flinching as it dug into his shoulder before disappearing again — but just kept walking towards the dais, firing another shot into the back of Rumlow's leg, and watching him drop tone knee.

Super soldier or not — Rumlow wasn't bulletproof.

The man screamed in pain, and Steve stepped back, as if already conceding the fight won. He gave a short nod to Bucky, and maybe Bucky should've just done that sooner. But Zemo had timed it all so well. He knew exactly how to distract them both.

"Shoulda done that in New York," Bucky spat. If Rumlow hadn't put a gun in Mia's hand, had put it to her head, he would've been dead a long time ago. "How stupid are you, huh? Crossbones? He already marked you a dead man."

Rumlow, mask off, gritted teeth, tried to haul himself back up to his feet, one leg dragging behind. "Fuck you. He gave me what I wanted. He's a man of his word."

Steve shared a look with Bucky. As Bucky knocked Rumlow's feet out from beneath him, Steve asked, "You took that serum, didn't you?"

"Of course I did! I had to even the playing field!" Rumlow snarled, and spat blood at their feet. "This is war, remember? I don't care how much it hurts, HYDRA needs a real soldier, a real —"

"What, a patriot?" Bucky asked, throwing a hand up. "You signed your own death warrant, dumbass."

Rumlow blinked, grimacing in confusion. "What? That serum won't kill me. I haven't lost my mind, see?"

Bucky didn't need to see Steve's expression to know that was debatable. Indeed, Rumlow's disposition seemed no different than before. But that wasn't the point they were trying to make.

"Zemo wants the death of all super soldiers." Steve told him. "Mia won't stop until we're all dead."

"And now," Bucky said, grabbing the back of Rumlow's head to wrench it backwards, look him in the eye. "That includes you."

And he got to watch, live and in person, as the truth started to set in. Eyes widening, mottled skin paling in shock, horror. "No. No, he wouldn't —!"

"Wouldn't what?" Bucky snapped, and let go of Rumlow with a powerful slam of forehead against metal. Rumlow slumped to the ground, groaning. "Kill you? You're replaceable!"

They were all replaceable. That's how the best weapons were made.

"But she —" Rumlow now scanned the room, eyes wide with panic. "She wouldn't attack me, I'm her superior, it's in her protocol —"

Steve cocked his head. "Is it? Is it still?"

Rumlow had no answer. He struggled to rise again, but clearly was having trouble contending with the truth. With the fate his great leader had left him to, for the simple desire of being a super soldier. Like his old childhood hero.

"You have to kill her," Rumlow finally said, a new light in his eyes, looking up at them with a combination of rage and desperation. "You have to! She won't stop, she'll —"

Plink-plink!

Something flew through the air and bounced across the dais. A metal disc, slightly magnetic, no bigger than a baseball. Red light blinking. Bucky's heart skipped a beat.

"Grenade!"

Bucky threw himself back, landing hard on his side just before the explosion went off.

The explosion rocked the ground and echoed painfully off the hollow walls of the silo, rocketing all the way up back to the surface. Old rust rained down from the ancient catwalks. The wave heat had almost been welcome in the pervasive cold of the Siberian bunker. What remained was the smell of smoke, burnt cloth and skin in its wake.

Bucky had landed on the side Mia stabbed, which he had momentarily forgotten in all the adrenaline-fueled action, and was now painfully reminded just how badly she had wounded him. Getting up again wasn't so easy this time.

Breathing definitely hurt now. A wheeze he couldn't ignore. Using his metal arm in any way sent spikes of pain down his shoulder, neck, and back. But Bucky could still get up and see that Steve was still standing, still okay, if covered in a bit of soot.

Rumlow, already injured, hadn't been able to get away.

And now he wasn't moving at all.

"Buck!" Steve ran to his side when Bucky was a bit too slow in getting back to his feet. "God, you look awful."

"Not lookin' so great yourself, champ," Bucky grumbled, as he took Steve's offered hand and hobbled back to his feet. Steve didn't look as bad, he supposed, but Rumlow had done a number on him. Beat-up face and ripped up sleeves and that was after Paris. He had a bad cut bleeding on just the outer corner of his eye, and more from his chin. "It's done now. We gotta —" he winced as he straightened. "Gotta head out before Zemo gets too far."

"Just take a breather, we're not alone here," Steve offered, letting go of Bucky as soon as he could stand on his own. Sans shield, Steve was looking pretty naked. Must have dropped it after the grenade.

Bucky had dropped the rifle in the panic of the grenade, and without the strap it had been left behind, destroyed by the explosion. Bucky wasn't terribly bothered. He had two smaller sidearms on him, and he could probably find another rifle in here somewhere.

But looking around, it was clear the fight was over. Rumlow was dead, or as close to it as he could get. Bucky didn't particularly care to check, aside from putting another bullet in his head to make sure. What was left of Zemo's men had either died or fled with him.

It was very quiet now.

Too quiet.

"He won't get away," Steve assured him, as if he could read Bucky's thoughts. He walked over to wear the vibranium shield laid near some coiled piping. He bent down, paused, hand outstretched. "Wait, this isn't my —"

The shadow struck.

This wasn't a knife strike. The flash of light against red-blue-white before she struck Steve full across the face with his own shield. A blow so powerful, enhanced by vibranium, straight knocking Steve off his feet and throwing him several feet across the floor.

Bucky couldn't close the distance fast enough. "No! Stop!"

Steve, rendered nearly unconscious by the blow, too slow to recover in time.

Mia, lunging at him, pinning Steve down, raising his shield over her head.

And he wondered.

He wondered if she would still listen, if the words were right.

It's my order, do you understand? Bucky could hear his own voice, far away. An echo of a memory. I'm superior to him, so it's me you listen to.

"Stop!" Bucky shouted. And then, in a surge of panic, horror, and absolute cold certainty: "Будет!"

His voice came out sharp, strong, unforgiving.

The voice of the Winter Soldier.

Ready to bring that shield edge down into Steve's neck, Mia froze.

Her eyes, wide in shock, looked up at Bucky, as if seeing him for the first time.

An emotion.

Fear.

"Disengage!" Bucky commanded in Russian. He didn't know if it was the language itself key to this ruse, but whatever it was, it was working. She believed it. She heard the Winter Soldier. Mia lowered the shield, scrambled off of Steve, away from him.

Her breath wheezed with exertion. Her movements were uneven, heavily favoring one side now, trying to hide it as she grimaced, straightening as much as she could. Bucky tried not to think about the blood seeping into his gear, how heavy it felt now. How cold his fingers were, how lightheaded he felt.

"Bucky —" Steve began, coughing a little, but Bucky didn't look at him, didn't take his eyes off Mia, just brushed him off with an errant wave of his hand. Mia couldn't be distracted, couldn't be allowed to think of anything else than whatever order he was about to give her.

"Your orders?" He asked, stepping closer. Mia was still armed. Steve's shield in one hand. Knife sheathed. Probably other things he couldn't immediately spot right now. He had to get it all off her.

"Eliminate all super soldiers." She replied instantly, without hesitation. That film falling back over her eyes, a stillness, a soldier at attention. "Including myself."

"Nyet."

She blinked in surprise. "But the Baron—"

"He is not a Baron. He lied to you." Bucky didn't know if this would work. If the Soldatka could even conceptualize that kind of deception, if it even mattered in her programming. "He infiltrated your protocol. He turned you against your true purpose. Against me."

"But my orders —" she started again. A computer unable to resolve this equation.

"To kill every super soldier," Bucky repeated. He knew the tone to keep. Even, cold, not quite angry but not quite calm either. "Would you kill me?"

"No!" She gasped, and there it was again, that fear, that horror, the terrible reality of betraying the integral hierarchy in her protocol. And maybe, just maybe, some true loyalty beneath.

"But I am a super soldier." Bucky replied, and he knew the logic would break her. "You cannot fulfill your objective while letting me live."

There was a reason Pierce had always been so careful with his commands, to never let them conflict. Never put the Soldat in a position to make any significant choice or interpretation. There could be none.

Because that's when the protocol started to fall apart.

Mia's eyes turned glassy, pleading unto him. Her voice, so small. A child, lost at sea. "…What do I do?"

"Your orders have been revoked. Drop your weapons." And he watched as Mia slowly put down the shield. He could hear Steve moving behind him, and prayed to whatever god that was listening right now that he wasn't about to do something stupid. Now was not the time to interfere. Not when Mia was putting down one pistol, then another. A small collection of grenades. Throwing knives. A stiletto from her boot.

And then, at last, the knife. A simple combat knife, straight on both sides before ending on a small curved edge with a slight hook. Nasty to look at but nothing special. Not poisoned. Not enhanced in any way.

It was all she needed.

And she hesitated, eyes unfocused. The protocol, ticking.

Bucky held out a hand, trying to keep it from shaking. His voice, from trembling. "Give me the knife."

It took her a second too long for her eyes to refocus, to look at him. Bucky took another step closer. "Give me the knife, Mia."

Her eyes widened. Bucky knew he fucked up. It just slipped out. She wouldn't respond to her own name.

The trance, broken.

Bucky had feared Mia would turn the blade on him as she had earlier. Instead, a flick of her hand, and the blade turned inward, and she thrust it towards her chest.

"No!" Bucky launched at her.

He grabbed her wrist, just as Steve swept up from behind, arms wrapping around Mia's midsection in a classic tackling action. All three went down.

Mia screamed.

But the knife never pierced her skin.

Bucky ripped it away, wincing at the crack her wrist made at the sound. She'd just been holding onto it too hard — he wasn't thinking. Too scared to think of what would happen if he hadn't been strong enough.

Mia screamed and writhed in Steve's arms, who rolled her away out of reach from any potential weapon. She kicked and scratched and threw back her skull in a mighty head butt that broke Steve's nose, but still he didn't let go. Bucky worked fast to frisk her over for any remaining weapons (none), before grabbing her flailing arms and pinning them to her chest as gently as he could, trying to calm her down, speaking words he couldn't hear, as she broke down into sobs, tears stained with blood streaming down her face.

"It's okay it's okay it's okay —" Bucky just kept repeating the words, a crazed mantra, as if enough times would make it true. "It's over now, it's over, I promise —"

She didn't struggle for long. Mia had already been weak to begin with, as she panted and gasped for air. For a second, he worried Steve was accidentally suffocating her — which he knew, deep down, Steve would never be stupid enough to do — only for Steve to release her, to back off, to help cradle her head off the floor, as Mia stopped fighting, as her blood smeared across the floor and all her injuries finally caught up to her.

Breath, rattling in her throat, blood on her lips.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, before her eyes fell shut and her body went limp.

✭✭✭

Zemo could no longer hear the fighting anymore.

He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. All he knew was that the fighting was done, and he had no reason to stay any longer. The business was taken care of. All threats to his Fourth Reich, eliminated.

Rumlow. Zemo sneered to himself, shaking his head. The man just had to insist. Couldn't let it go, despite Zemo's tirades against the matter. Couldn't see that youth of the body and youth of the mind were far more valuable than sheer strength and fortitude.

"Fool," Zemo grumbled to himself. Good help was so hard to find.

Batroc's helicopters awaited as expected. Batroc himself stood in the open doorway of the main vehicle, and he did not shift as Zemo made to levy himself onto the aircraft. Startled at the silent rebuke, Zemo fell back on one foot and snapped, "Move!"

Batroc glared down at him. "What happened in Paris?"

The question took him off guard. "What do you mean? It went exactly as planned. More or less. The Madbomb was damaged but it will still be of use —"

"This isn't about your infernal weapon!" Batroc snapped. "The attack! You said you would destroy their power structure!"

"How else to terrify them?" Zemo had no idea where this was coming from. It was as the Second World War went. The French were so horrified by the progress and slaughter of the Third Reich army that they capitulated almost instantly after the Wehrmacht had crossed the Reine. This time it would be no different. The French would do anything to spare the lives of their valuable citizens. "That is what I'm doing, fool!"

"Non! You've slain my fellow countrymen in a war you've already lost!" Batroc snarled, throwing up a hand in disgust.

"Damn you! You're just a wretched pirate, don't pretend you have honor now!"

"I will not take payment in their blood!" Batroc said, his expression unmoved as the blades above him began swinging to life. Zemo let out a cry as Batroc slammed his boot into his chest and sent Zemo to the ground. "And now you will die here, as your own countrymen did, trying to conquer something that was never yours."

And with that, the helicopter began to rise, Batroc spitting down at him. "Bon voyage, lèche-cul."

By the time Zemo got to his feet, the helicopters were long out of reach.

This was it, then.

A great leader, abandoned to his fate. Perhaps all the super soldiers were dead. Zemo still had some loyal followers left. Still had the Madbomb, though damaged and without a way to repair it.

He could still regroup.

He turned. There, not fifteen feet away, stood the Black Panther.

"Ah." Zemo pushed a smile on his face, as if he had not just endured abject humiliation at the hands of a criminal. "Your Highness."

Chapter Text

[ PART FOUR : WOLF FATHER ]

Chapter Thirty-Two

✭

Slow, painful steps onto the snow.

Mia in his arms, hanging limply, loose curls trailing in the bitter wind as they finally breathed fresh air again. But it was a cold relief, a thin balm against the growing pain in his side, the bubbling in his chest, the growing exhaustion seeping into every limb. But nothing felt as bad as when he looked down at Mia, seeing her injuries and feeling them as if they were his own.

How he wished they were his own.

Steve had offered to carry Mia instead, being the less injured of the two. But Bucky had refused. On principle. It's just — it's just how it is. He just wanted to hold her again, even in this terrible way.

A wretched pietà, stepping bloody into the blinding white light of the tundra.

The King's ship laid ahead, standing atop a low hill. T'Challa was already waiting for them.

He did not ask how they were when they approached. Just took one look at Mia and said, "We have the medical bunk prepared. It will keep her stable until we reach our destination."

Bucky didn't even ask where that would be, just followed the King's pointed finger. Ayo, the junior of the Dora Milaje, stood over a bench on the far left side of the hull — a fold-out cot that had not been there before, Bucky thought. Already she was tapping at an extended display panel, and nodded to Bucky. "Put her down here. We'll have her hooked up, and the machine will keep measure of her vitals."

It seemed like magic, the way it worked. The rim of the cot glowed dimly, but upon sensing Mia's weight, as he gently laid her down, it brightened; Ayo helped fix an oxygen mask to Mia's face, an oximeter and some kind of IV to her finger and wrist. The heads-up display responded almost instantly, and Bucky's heart sank further at the readings it gave.

"Ribs ten to twelve on her left side and eleven on her right have been fractured," Ayo read out from the Wakandan script, though the display also showed a small visual diagram of a human body. So much was highlighted in red. "A broken nose. Fractured radius and several metacarpals on her left hand. A large hematoma at the back of her head, but there appears to be no damage to the inner cranium, brain activity present; she appears to have several puncture wounds and significant blood loss…"

Ayo's voice continued on, Bucky hearing her words but unable to focus on them anymore. How was his baby ever going to come back from this?

Then, a hand on his shoulder. Ayo, looking directly at him, dark eyes suddenly anchoring him to reality. "You need help, too. The second bay can assess that wound on your side."

Yes, Bucky supposed he should get that checked out before he bled to death. He staggered back to his feet, his own body starting to resist his movements; slowing down, wanting to rest, to heal. But this wouldn't take care of itself on its own. Mia got him pretty good back there. It would be a long, painful death without medical attention.

Steve came around to help Bucky up, pulling an arm around his shoulder; Bucky still felt a little ridiculous, but he was in no state to complain. His only desire was to keep Mia in his line of sight at all times — even now, he couldn't tear his eyes away as Steve walked him over, and only an unexpected flicker out of the corner of his eye managed to pull at his paternal instinct for danger.

And there, hunched down in the far corner of the ship, just out of sight — was Zemo.

"Ah," Zemo said, when their eyes met. He had been silent until this moment, but even now the smarm didn't leave his voice. "I suppose Rumlow didn't make it? Oh well. Two out of four dead is acceptable."

Bucky didn't even think. Zemo hadn't even finished his last sentence when Bucky was already pulling the pistol from his hip, already calculating that short distance from muzzle to forehead.

Steve felt the movement right before he saw — he jerked hard, trying to twist Bucky away, throw off his shot. "Wait, no —!"

The gun fired. But not before a dark hand enclosed the muzzle of his pistol, and the bullet impacted harmlessly into the palm of T'Challa's glove.

The King gazed at him, stern but even. "Not yet, Barnes. We must have our justice, first."

"Justice?!" Bucky spat, the word leaving him like a sucker punch to the gut. His breathing was fast and uneven, the adrenaline kicking back up again, sluggish and painful. "He's a fucking Nazi! The only justice he deserves is a bullet—!"

"Do not mistake my stay of execution for mercy," T'Challa cut him off, and his tone was colder than Bucky had ever heard it. "Do not think I do not want to avenge my father as much as you your daughter. Zemo has hurt countless lives. But he will not escape this time, as he had so many years ago. The eyes of the world will be upon him. And they will be his judge."

That was only a small assurance on Bucky's part. But the promise of some future trial didn't negate the extremely close and present danger to them right now. "You don't understand — he has our trigger phrase. Mine and Mia's. If he speaks, if we hear it, then it's going to happen all over again!"

Steve added, "Keeping him on the same ship as Buck and Mia is too dangerous, your highness. It's not just a threat to them. It's everyone on board."

For a moment, all Bucky could think of is the damage Zemo could do, on this little ship, with two super soldiers at his beck and call. "He can't live."

"No," T'Challa lifted his chin slightly, taking this into consideration. He cast a glance at Zemo. "You're right, he is too dangerous. But we have no other ships, and we cannot leave him behind."

"You'll never be rid of me, Soldier," Zemo grinned at this, at Bucky. "Even now, I'm more useful alive than dead. One day they will all know fear as you do. Zhelaniye —"

Bucky seized at the first word; Longing. Jaw clenching, stomach dropping. His hand shook, gripping the pistol, blood pounding as he sought to aim again.

But Ayo beat him to it.

"Enough!" She snapped, before swiping the base of her spear at Zemo. He had only begun enunciating the second word when it struck him across the face.

Then she turned, and noticed all of them staring at her in silent alarm. The woman winced slightly, chagrined. "I apologize. He would not shut up."

"It's… fine." T'Challa said at last, raising a hand to gesture his forgiveness. He looked at Bucky. "Is this a suitable solution?"

Bucky glared at Zemo's slumped form. "As long as he stays that way."

"We'll find something to gag him with," T'Challa nodded. "Until he is safely separated from all of you. In the meantime — please. Allow the medbay to help you."

At last, at last Bucky could finally rest a little. Steve helped him sit onto the second bed, silently but pointedly taking the pistol from him. Bucky didn't complain. If he wanted to kill Zemo, he didn't need anything but his own two hands to do it. His own teeth, if necessary.

Now Bucky couldn't decide where to keep his attention focused. Not when the greatest danger to Mia was sitting less than fifteen feet away from her. Alive. Breathing. In one piece.

How easy it would be to kill Zemo now. He'd never even wake up.

Ayo insisted he lie down for the diagnostics scan to work optimally. Bucky didn't think he needed some super fancy computer to tell him what's wrong, but maybe that was just the exhaustion talking. He didn't know. Maybe he didn't even care anymore.

Would it be too much to ask if they dropped Zemo out the back door, over the Atlantic Ocean?

Only when Steve was satisfied that Bucky was done trying to kill people, did he finally turn to address the King with another important matter. "What about the Madbomb?"

"Here," Okoye's voice rang out, as she appeared on the gangway. Bucky hadn't even noticed she wasn't in her usual pilot's seat; now she stood, with the glass-and-metal machine in her hands. "One of the mercenaries dumped it over a frozen ridge. Perhaps they thought to absolve themselves."

The Madbomb's inner green mainframe was still humming, but off tune. There was a large dent on one side and a crack in the glass on the other, where Bucky had gotten in a lucky shot. The interior looked a little damaged, but the audio system still seemed to be functional.

Okoye dropped it unceremoniously to the floor. Then, before either Bucky or Steve could suggest what to do with it, Ayo stepped up, whipped out her spear in a near twirl, and slammed its vibranium point through the heart of the Madbomb.

It flickered once, then died.

"I am taking no chances," T'Challa finally answered, once the deed was done. "That is my promise to you. This weapon will never be used again. Nor its technology, if I can help it. The madness ends now."

✭✭✭

Though told to rest, Bucky did not sleep once, not for a minute.

His attention shifted between Zemo and Mia the entire trip. As promised, Zemo was securely gagged, which he had the honor of waking up to later, with further threats of unconsciousness if he didn't hunker down and be quiet. He didn't look so smug anymore, with a broken jaw and muzzled like a dog.

So Bucky could devote a little more attention to Mia, who remained comatose on the bed across from him. During the initial take-off, her arm had dropped, hanging limply over the edge. All Bucky wanted to do was to reach out and take her hand, but the distance was too great between them. And with internal bleeding, Steve insisted he did not move unless he had to.

Bucky didn't know how long their flight lasted. He was vaguely aware of the sunlight changing, day to night to day again. He forgot to ask where they were going, but it had gone long enough that he knew they weren't in Europe or Asia anymore.

It wasn't until they landed, nearly fourteen hours later, did Bucky finally figure it out. When the gangplank lowered and a waft of warm, humid heat rolled inside, someone remarking on a warm winter day — ah. Wakanda.

Of course.

Bucky had no complaints. He only watched, carefully and without blinking, as Zemo was the first to be hauled off the ship. Bucky didn't see where they were taking them, or where they had even landed specifically. But at some point, between a small army of medics arriving onboard to carry him and Mia out did Bucky's subconscious finally allow him a chance to rest, and he blacked out.

Only for a few hours, long enough to be disoriented when he woke in a new environment. A very clean, very sterile room, with a window overlooking a city he'd never seen before, and attached to machines that didn't seem to belong to a hospital so much as one of those science fiction movies he'd seen before. A nurse stood over him in a shiny white coat and braided hair tied neatly back, tapping at her tablet, and smiled when she noticed him awake. She spoke in a language he didn't understand, but in a gentle, reassuring tone, before walking out.

There was a brief period between unconsciousness and full cognizance, where Bucky was too dazed and confused to fully realize what was going on. Then as the information clicked in his brain, each detail falling into place as his eyes and ears picked up each new piece, did the last couple hours return to him, and realizing he didn't know where Mia was.

The EKG machine started to beep erratically as Bucky tried to rise out of his bed, accidentally pulling at the IVs in his good arm, a sharp new burning in his side. It took all of a few seconds, between his sudden panic, shouting words he himself couldn't make sense of, to the nurse and several aides rushing back into the room, trying to push him back onto the bed. He didn't even realize they were speaking English, or that they knew exactly what he was talking about, until the nurse forcefully pinched his chin in her hand and jerked his head to the right — pointing at the other bed, against the opposite wall.

There, lied Mia. Eyes closed, with a new oxygen mask and IV drip feeding her a blood transfusion and nutrients. Stripped of that wretched black gear Zemo had equipped her with, now dressed in a thin white hospital gown of a strange shimmery material; her face cleaned of all the blood, fresh bandages on all her open wounds, and an active monitor reading a live feed of her vitals. All green, all even.

"She's right there," The woman told him, firm but gentle. "She is safe, she is stable. Captain Rogers insisted you two remain together. You can go to her when you're better — after we fix the new stitches we just gave you."

His heart rate plummeted back to normal, and Bucky slumped back into his pillow, panting with relief. Wincing now, as he felt the growing warm, the spread of blood as they pulled apart the fresh bandage at his side. Looking down at it made him feel ill, so Bucky refocused his attention on Mia. Safe. Alive.

"Steve," was all Bucky could mutter, barely enough energy to form a question. "Where's Steve?"

"Captain Rogers is with the King and Queen Mother," The nurse told him; she gave the impression of being the one in charge here, directing the subordinates in repairing the work he just ruined. "They will visit with you shortly. I'm sure there will be much to discuss. You should save your strength for then."

She was probably correct in that judgment, not that Bucky had the mental bandwidth to really comprehend it. The last week — no, the last few months, were finally catching up to him. Days of running on empty, living on the edge, never able to relax even for a moment. It wasn't just his body worn down, but his mind, too. How easy it was, how tempting, to just close his eyes and slip back into oblivion.

He didn't even ask where they were, exactly. Presumably Wakanda's capital city, not that Bucky could recall what that was in his current state. But safe. That's all that mattered. Safe, where Ross couldn't get to them, where Zemo was appropriately caged like the monster he was.

The time it took for his stitches to heal well enough to leave the bed was a short one; thanks to that trusty super healing, Bucky was able to get out of bed by nightfall, which had numerous benefits aside from being able to reach Mia; the bathroom, being the other one.

It was easier to sleep, to eat, to focus on recovery in the following days. Steve did not visit for the first day, or the second. Or as far as Bucky knew, since he spent most of it unconscious and catching up on what felt like a year's worth of sleep. Eventually someone left a tablet on his bedside table, so he could access the news. Least to say, it wasn't surprising that Steve would be too busy to be playing caregiver right now.

But eventually, he did come. The morning of the third day, catching Bucky a little after he'd woken up.

Bucky had woken to the sound of beating drums, and had looked out the window to the streets below; the Wakandan capital city was a magnificent place, with gleaming skyscrapers draping with greenery and streets alive with people and markets; now it was decorated, and the people dressed in white, dancing in the streets. It appeared to be a kind of parade, a celebration? One that Bucky couldn't fathom. It wasn't until the main procession marshed through, not until he saw King T'Challa, with his family, dressed in pale ornamental gowns, escorting a coffin down out of sight, did he finally understand.

The funeral. Of course. They could only hold it after T'Challa had officially returned.

"You're looking better," Steve's voice pulled his attention from the window. He had appeared in the doorway, framed by a beam of warm sunlight. He wasn't in his soldier blues anymore, now dressed in more casual clothing, a little stylish, clearly on loan from the Wakandans. Pants and a fancy buttoned shirt he'd never wear otherwise. "How's Mia?"

"Better, I think," Bucky mumbled, still groggy with sleep. Within minutes of waking, he'd gone from his bedside to Mia's, which had become his daily routine. He cast another glance at her; Mia hadn't shifted since they first got here. "Hasn't woken yet. They say she will, soon, on her own time."

"That's good," Steve replied, and came around, grabbing a rolling stool to sit next to him. "Have you seen the news yet?"

"Some," Bucky said, before admitting, "To be honest, I haven't been keeping up. It's… too much right now. Figured you'd give me the highlights. The stuff that matters."

Steve nodded, inhaling deeply through his nose before diving in. "It's a doozy, that's for sure. Ross is still on the warpath; Sam and Sharon got arrested. The kids escaped scot-free, not that I'm surprised. So did Nat; I haven't been able to get into contact with her, but she's on their Most Wanted list. Ross is basically running the show now, saying he's got the Avengers either under arrest or on the run. Pretending those new heroes in Paris never happened. He doesn't know we're here. T'Challa has plans to offer Zemo up to the international community as a way of clearing your name. That is, Mia's. The world deserves to know who's behind the attacks."

"Is it really clearing our names?" Bucky asked, after a moment, frowning. "He used her to plant the bomb. She shot those people in Switzerland."

"T'Challa doesn't know exactly what kind of deal he'll be able to secure for you two," Steve could only shake his head. "Depends on what the UN is willing to compromise with. But they'll definitely want Zemo. And your immunity is non-negotiable. I made that clear, and we're on the same page. In the meantime, the King and his family have welcomed us as honored guests. You can stay here as long as you need. With a few caveats."

"Like…?"

"No weapons," Steve continued. "You — and Mia — will have to remain unarmed as long as you stay here. The Queen insisted. That includes our shields."

Bucky wasn't too surprised by that. Or upset by it. "Fine by me. I don't want to pick up another gun for a long time." Then he paused to think about it. If they took Steve's shield… "What about my arm?"

"Different case," Steve said, glancing down at Bucky's vibranium prosthetic. "They know what it's made of, but as long as you don't attack anyone, they're willing to let you keep it."

"Well, that's kind of them," Bucky laughed, but there was no humor behind it. He had a feeling that dismantling his arm would be more trouble than it was worth, for all the vibranium that was used in its structure. Not all of it was made of the valuable metal, just the outer plates and inner scaffolding. The rest was wires and gears and other, more delicate hardware that would be a pain in the ass to take apart. The Soviets built that thing to last. "Are they reclaiming the shields?"

"Don't know yet," Steve shrugged. He looked a little wistful, and Bucky suspected Mia might be disappointed by the loss, as well — but in the grand scheme of things, the shields were acceptable as collateral damage. Better to lose the shields than to lose Mia. "We'll see. In the meantime, our only job here is to behave ourselves. Now that the T'Challa has returned, they have a mourning period for King T'Chaka."

"And then?"

Steve shrugged. "We get back to work."

"Getting everyone out of the Raft…" Bucky knew exactly what that meant. It was a daunting task. And something he wasn't sure he could do. "Steve, you know I always have your back. But this time? I don't think…"

Bucky hung his head, embarrassed and maybe even a little ashamed. In any other situation, he wouldn't hesitate to follow Steve into danger.

But.

But that was before.

"I know." A hand rested on his arm. Bucky lifted his head, meeting Steve's gaze as he continued, "I'm not asking you to help. Not in that way. Your job right now is helping Mia. That's my assignment for you."

This time, Bucky laughed for real. "Oh, my assignment? That's what you're calling it now?"

"Sure, if it makes you feel better." Steve chuckled, throwing up his hands. "And if anyone asks, that's what I'll say. You're on special assignment. And don't worry about the others, I'll figure something out. I'll get everyone off the Raft, one way or another."

"It won't be easy," Bucky warned him.

"No," Steve grinned, rolling his eyes. "But when is it ever?"

And for a moment, just a moment, everything felt like it was going to be okay. Like it was normal, like they were boys again, shooting the shit. Only for Steve to look to Mia, and say, "You don't have to stay at her side forever, you know. If you need to do anything, go outside, I can stay here. If anything happens, I'll let you know."

But that wasn't an option.

"It has to be me," Bucky's smile faded as he shook his head. "When — if — she wakes up. It has to be me, the first one she sees. Just in case."

Just in case it wasn't Mia. Just in case the Soldatka was still operating, in case the protocol wasn't fully broken. There was no telling what state she would be in, how cognizant she would be. How hostile. The only person Bucky trusted to handle that kind of situation was himself.

"Alright, if that's what you want," Steve relented easily, though Bucky didn't fail to notice the concern he failed to hide. He wasn't that slick. "But if you need anything —"

"I'll let you know," Bucky finished the phrase easily. His hand, which had been holding Mia's this whole time, brushed her knuckles with an anxious energy.

The one thing Bucky really wanted, Steve couldn't give him.

But it was nice, not to be alone for a little while. Three days was enough time trapped with his own thoughts. Steve stayed at his side all day that day, keeping him company, getting them food. He'd already had a taste for Wakandan cuisine, once Bucky felt hungry enough to eat something besides bread and crackers. They ate a lot of fish here, and a kind of meat he's never had before. Root vegetables, tree fruit, and spices that tasted both strange and delightful together.

It was well past sunset when they received another visitor.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you two." A low voice broke the silence.

Steve had just started to doze off at Mia's bedside, while Bucky had heard the approaching footsteps and had gently nudged him back awake. He jolted now, both surprised to see the King standing in the doorway. T'Challa was still wearing the white mourning robes from the funeral that morning, though he had since taken off the elaborate headdress and heavier accoutrement. Instead, in his hands, he carried the star-spangled shield.

"Your highness," Steve was the first to react, rising to his feet almost immediately. Bucky was slower to move, remaining seated and hoping it wasn't too rude given his condition. He didn't want to let go of Mia's hand. "Is there something you need?"

"I only wished a chance to speak with you," T'Challa said, with a nod in Bucky's direction. "And to offer my sympathies. I never got to ask about your daughter."

"She's doin' okay," Bucky winced at his own gruffness, not really sure of the appropriate response. Or the giant elephant in the room. "And I'm sorry, too. About… your father."

"He's at peace now," T'Challa bowed his head solemnly. "And now I can finally address our unfinished business, Captain Rogers. I have put much consideration into your offer."

Steve looked a little wary. There was a reason T'Challa had come bearing the shield, but neither jumped to any conclusions. "And?"

"I have decided on a counter-offer," T'Challa said, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. "You may keep your shields, and in return, I will join your Avengers, and help you rebuild it."

Steve and Bucky shared equal looks of surprise. Steve looked back at the King, looking at a loss for a moment. "Well, I'm not sure I'd call that a counter offer. No offense, your highness. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me."

“I know I am not what you expected,” T’Challa replied, looking a little amused. “Nor do I want you to take this offer at face value. My council did not want me to return these shields to you, and if you had been any other kind of man, Rogers, I think I would have agreed with them. Vibranium is one of our most precious resources, and while it has been a target of theft, I have discovered a bit of our old history. That my grandfather once gifted the Allies a small morsel of Vibranium as a show of our support against the Axis powers. I’m sure he thought you would have turned it into a weapon of mass destruction… but a shield? Well, I think he would have been pleased with that. The second piece was stolen, then taken again, and I find it so curious to be forged in the exact same fashion.”

“With that in mind,” T’Challa continued, “I return the shield with the same intentions as my grandfather had; I hope it may be the start of healing the rift Wakanda has with the rest of the world.”

“You know, I always wondered why Stark chose a shield of all things, too,” Steve admitted with a soft chuckle. “I think he doubted himself. The simplicity of it. But it means a lot more than that now. I wish I could say the intentions were just as pure as the super soldier serum.”

“And I never questioned the provenance of your power, either,” T’Challa said. “The serum was ill-begotten and created by men that sought to conquer and destroy. You have turned it into something else, something greater. And it is why I trust you — and your young friend — with them now.”

“Are you…” Steve began, ignoring the pointed look Bucky shot at him. Looking a gift horse in the mouth, as always. “Are you sure?”

T’Challa considered the question for a moment before answering. “I admit, I once saw you as a symbol of your country’s global domination and militarism, the egoism of men like Ross.” T’Challa chuckled wryly. “But now I understand that you represent not your government, but your people. And of those that I’ve met, I am glad for it.”

With that, he held out the star-spangled shield. “I return them to you now, untouched; not as the stolen resource of our country, but as an olive branch; a symbol of our friendship, and my hope that we might work together to build something better than our forefathers left it. All I ask is that you do not alter the shields; do not sell them, melt down the metal, or change their function. I see no flaw in their current design.”

“Neither do I,” Steve said readily, though he was a little slow to accept the shield, pausing slightly before raising his arms. He received the shield with a near reverence, or perhaps a nostalgic fondness. Running a hand through the now-worn paint, the underlying metal remained scratchless. “I’ve been through a lot with this shield. I wish I could say I wasn’t attached, but…”

“The tools of our trade hold great meaning for us,” T’Challa said, smiling. “I expect no less. It is better that as a soldier you carry this shield to protect others, than find a lesser weapon to replace it.”

“If only it could fix everything.” 

“Nothing is ever so simple,” T’Challa shook his head. “With that said, I must add that I cannot offer a true alliance to America, as you do not represent your statesmen and politicians, or their will. Nor should you, in my opinion.  But I can promise, both as King of Wakanda — and as your friend — to never harm any of your fellow citizens, the common man you protect.”

“That’s all I’d ever ask of you,” Steve replied, as he slid the shield back onto his arm, testing its weight. It appeared unchanged since he had surrendered it last. “And I promise you the same. The Avengers, all of them, even if they aren’t here right now. We help everyone, not just our own.”

Bucky did not think his words were needed here, but sensing the formality of the exchange was complete, he felt it was safe to finally add his own two cents. “Steve probably said it better than I did — but you have my word, too. Thank you, for your hospitality. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay what you’ve done for me.”

“Ah, don’t thank me yet,” T’Challa said, with a smile that had Bucky a little surprised. “There is more I have to offer. After I explained your psychological situation to our head doctor, she believes she might have a solution. It’s experimental, but it would be permanent. More effective than anything we might do to Zemo.”

“What? How?” Bucky asked, furrowing his brow. What could possibly be a better solution than killing Zemo?

“To rid you of your protocol.” T’Challa shrugged, as if it were the simplest answer in the world. “A cure.”

✭✭✭

A week passed, and Bucky remained at her side.

She was healing, that much he could tell. Slowly, but surely, as the redness of her injuries turned pink, as the dark bruises faded to yellow.

And still she slept.

Steve made a point to visit at least once a day when he and the King weren't planning their infiltration of the Raft. Still no word from Natalia, but Bucky was certain she would make it out on her own just fine, she was just waiting for the right moment to contact them. Doubtless Ross was hot on her heels wherever she went.

Nat could take care of herself.

Only Mia remained.

He knew it would tickle her, to read the headline he had open, the mayor of New York rebuffing Ross' attempt to deputize the entire city populace to arrest Spider-Man on sight. The announcement was so unpopular that the mayor's statement only came after the follow-up news of thousands of false reports, the least of which included a flash mob of people dressed as Spider-Man in Times Square, a moment that instantly went viral online.

Ross was a joke on the Internet, and as far as Bucky understood it, that was the perma-death of dignity.

If only she'd open her eyes.

Bucky didn't know what would happen if she didn't. And even if she did, what could he offer her besides refuge in a foreign country, far away from home? That the man who kidnapped her, tried to destroy her, was still alive in a cell somewhere? Still had her trigger phrase in his head? An uncertain promise of freedom that may not even come to fruition? A world that now sought to hunt her down, a crazed army general with a grudge against superheroes, an international court that might want to drag her out onto the world stage, a lifetime of imprisonment or worse — what kind of world was that to wake up to?

But it was still better than not waking up at all.

He could take care of it. Bucky didn't know how, but he would. That was his job as her father. He'd figure this out so she wouldn't have to. Cure or no cure, he'll get her home safe and sound. A normal life was still possible for Mia, even if it wasn't for him. Bucky had started to accept he may never be able to go home. May never live a small, quiet life as he wanted to.

As long as Mia could have it, though? Bucky could accept that fate.

Doctors said the comatose could hear you talking to them, something Bucky wasn't sure was true. But in that week he's said everything he could, just in case. Just in case something went horribly wrong and Mia never woke up to hear those words. It did make him feel better, just a little. Maybe that's why the doctors tell people that. Less therapy needed afterwards.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles, the broken skin already mending. He watched her fingers, her eyelids, for any sign of movement. A few times her fingers had twitched, but it was only dreams, the doctors said. Brain activity. A good sign.

It just felt like false hope.

Now and then, he squeezed her hand, sometimes when his inner thoughts got too much. Sometimes just hoping she'd squeeze back.

So when the clock struck a little after midnight, Bucky had decided to call it quits. To go back to bed and start his vigil again in the morning. As much as he hated it, he needed his rest, too.

He set her hand back under the bed cover to keep warm, and got up to take a shower.

Bucky's injuries were far enough along he no longer had to worry about getting the sutures wet, though he obviously couldn't scrub very hard. Definitely couldn't strain himself. But hot water felt good, steam to clear his head, soothe himself into a sleeping mindset. As much as he could get when all these beds felt like they'd swallow him whole.

When he stepped back out in a fresh set of linens, Bucky noticed Mia's hand had fallen over the side of the bed.

He knew he hadn't left her that way. Bucky may be getting drowsy and dazed with the monotony of his days here, but he wasn't losing his mind. Clearly he hadn't tucked her in well enough, and chided himself for his lack of care. Not that it would hurt Mia any, but still. The principle of it all.

This time, as he went over to tuck her arm back in, Bucky carefully laid it across Mia's stomach. Won't slide off this time. But as he carefully set her hand over her midsection, her other hand rested on his, fingers brushing the metal inquisitively. Bucky almost jerked away in surprise, contained only by the instinct not to hurt her.

She's moving.

Bucky's thoughts were going a mile a minute, studying her hand, trying to interpret it. Curious? Hostile? Heart pounding, he looked at her face.

A soft sigh left her nose. An intake of breath.

Mia opened her eyes.

She saw him.

"Dad."

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Three

✭

Sunlight falling through late spring tree branches, park grass dappled and warm.

Passing through a crowd.

A hand grabbing her arm. 

Gentle, at first. So gentle she almost doesn’t flinch, not fast enough, not before the words were whispered in her ear.

“бунтарь, Колумбия, Пустой…”

She gasped, recoiled, but his grip only tightened. Speaking faster. The words alone were enough to make her freeze, her heart skip, her mind panic. 

She couldn’t move.

“девяносто, баюкать, марионетка…”

She could never move fast enough. 

She raised her free hand but another caught it before she could strike the man who had caught her. A young face, one she didn’t recognize. His accent wasn’t Russian, the words clearly not natural on his tongue. But he pronounced them correctly, efficiently, quickly enough to be effective without mistake. 

“Sem, начало, ледник…”

Already, the color of the world was fading away. A choking gasp, smothered by the sound of the outdoors, the city around them. Just a man talking to a girl, standing still, quiet, unassuming and not drawing any attention to themselves. No one ever looked her way long enough to notice the panic in her face, not when he spun her around so she was facing a tree. No one to see the tears in her eyes, the choking of her voice as a cry for help died in her throat. 

“завод.”

Everything went quiet. All thought ebbing away. Panic, horror, helplessness, melting away. The man finally let her go, and she did not move. Her eyes dried and her throat hurt but she couldn’t remember why.

“Ready to comply, soldier?” asked that voice she did not recognize.

“Da.”

“Hm,” was her only reply. Unimpressed? Contemplative. An unreadable face. He looked very normal, now that she had the time to appraise her new authority. Dark pants, nylon jacket, sunglasses. Blended right in, but he did not belong here. 

“Walk with me,” Is all he said, as he began to move. “Say nothing. Only nod your head if you understand me. Your mission is to become invisible in a crowd. You will avoid any and all cameras. Give me your phone.”

She did as ordered, falling in step while handing over her device. It looked unfamiliar and she knew she should not have it. She had no need of a communication device so sophisticated. 

The man continued walking at an easy pace, unhurried, hands in pockets. They drew no second glances as he led her to the street, where an unmarked vehicle waited at the curb, its engine idling. He opened the door and ordered, “Get in.”

She did as she was told, sliding into the cool dark confines of the SUV’s cabin. The two back seat rows faced each other, and the man sat opposite her, studying her face as the door closed and the car rolled back into traffic. 

It was quiet for a long minute. This was a test, she thought idly, but did not know of what, nor did she think to question what or why. It simply was. 

At length, the man said, “You will obey my commands and only mine. I am activating your Manifest Destiny protocol. Do you know what that is?”

She opened her mouth to answer, before remembering his previous order and stopping herself. Did she know? She did not remember. She could not recall the specifics. At last, she could only shake her head. 

The man smirked, apparently amused. “Very well. I am assuming all control of your programming. For the next seventy-two hours, you will be under my command, and you will perform to optimum standards. I don’t ask for much. Not this time. I merely need you to accompany on a little trip, to perform a small task. Nothing a monkey couldn’t do. And you will do as your told and not speak a single word in our time together. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good,” He smiled, leaned back comfortably in his seat. “Put on your seatbelt. It will be a while before we reach the airport.”

A private jet waited for them on the tarmac. The car drove right up to it. Any security she would have worried about before was completely negated.

The rich did not have to worry about such trivial matters.

Her new authority did not address her again for some time. He spoke to his driver, he took a phone call, he pulled a suitcase from the back of the vehicle as they exited. Only a brief command to walk behind him from now on, unless otherwise ordered.

Easy enough. Beneath the surface, she was on edge. She did not know when the pain would come. Only that it would. 

A man waited for them at the top of the steps to the aircraft. This man, she did recognize. And he recognized her, upper lip curling into a sneer. “Fletcher.”

She did not recognize that name, and only stared back at him blankly. Why did Rumlow call her that?

His face was burned badly, extending back into his hairline and down his shoulders and arms. She could not remember how he had that. The last time she had seen him, he had been whole. 

When she did not respond, Rumlow shifted uncomfortably. “Does it have to be her?”

“A problem, Crossbones?” The man asked pleasantly, pulling off a pair of leather gloves she had not noticed him wearing until now. He glanced over his shoulder at her, a dismissive look. “For my purposes? She will do.”

Rumlow reluctantly stepped back to let them both in, but followed quickly with his complaints. “But the Winter Soldier —”

“Is inaccessible to me, Rumlow,” The man replied cooly, taking stock of the private jet’s interior. He gestured for her to take the small seat against the wall, while he took the lounge in the center of the plane. Rumlow remained standing, arms folded, as the man continued to explain, “I thought you of all people would understand! This is personal. Using her will hurt them more than anything I could do to the Americans, physically or mentally. Is that not the sweetest revenge?”

Rumlow glanced at her uncertainly. “How will you do it? Leave her body for them to find?”

“Oh, nothing so infantile,” the man replied with an eyeroll, and pressing a button on the table next to him, unlocked a hidden compartment beneath the top, in which a glass of freshly poured liquor appeared. He picked it up elegantly, swirled the contents for a moment, took a sip. “I play the long game, Rumlow. I am going to make them all suffer, for what they’ve done to me and my people. 

The jet began to taxi onto the runway, engines warming up. 

“You must be patient,” the man counseled his underling. “Personal matters aside, we are united by a greater cause. And we will not fail.”

It was early morning in Vienna. 

The sun had yet to rise, and her internal clock said it was only a few hours, between the time difference and the traveling. The city was still asleep aside from a few vehicles.

The pain had yet to come. 

All she had noticed so far was a growing hunger in her stomach; she had watched her new authority and his people eat and drink several meals thus far, and nothing was offered to her. She did not ask. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. If she was meant to eat, it would be provided to her. And she already knew, after experience, that it would be some time yet before her body started feeling the negative effects of lack of nutrients and calories.

Surely that had already been accounted for. That is why she must wait.

From the jet they passed into a utility van, in which she was made to remove some of her clothes and put on new ones. “New” being the operative word, the clothes were old, dingy, and much too big on her. It was padded out by a false bodysuit and a woman with a small toolbox applied prosthetics to her face, as well as a short dark wig that itched terribly. It took over an hour, and she felt strange and sweaty afterwards, but the final part she was given a large duffel bag, and ordered to place it into the building across the street. She must remain unseen, undetected.

She was shown a map of the building’s internal layout. The man guided her through a specific route. “Follow this path and place the bag beneath this section in the boiler room. It will remain unseen and the heat of the room will prevent the bag from being detected by any external scans. Do not worry about the temperature affecting the contents, the bag is lined with a protective airtight material. Your only concern is entering and leaving without incident. This should not be difficult for you.”

She did not argue this fact, simply memorized her entry and exit pathways. It was simple enough. She didn’t even have to kill anyone. The path already accounted for the timing of any security personnel on staff.

“Rumlow will engineer a distraction that should draw any attention,” The man continued. “But if you must eliminate a witness, do it silently. No weapons. Hide the body and we will dispose of it later. Do not remove any of your clothes or leave behind any evidence. Keep your gloves on at all times.”

The gloves were also too big, a thick material unsuitable for the season. But she did not question it, only flexing her hands in anticipation.

The back doors open. “Now go.”

She did as she was told.

Entering the building was so horribly simple that she wondered what the catch was. There was always a catch. A plan never survived first contact. She couldn’t remember where she heard that from. 

She had been given a keycard to access the service doorway in the back of the building. Many cameras, but with patience she ducked or dodged them, keeping her back to walls and listening for any early workers coming in, or late workers heading out. No one. The sky was still dark, just turning the faintest purple on the horizon.

After slipping inside, she moved silently across tiled, windowless corridors. She only had to go down a flight of steps to reach the boiler room, deeper underground. These rooms were all utility down here, storage for random officewear, abandoned material, filing cabinets, and a server room. That was by far the most vulnerable point, she thought, but she was not asked to go in there, to sabotage or steal anything.

Merely to place this bag and leave again. She did not understand its purpose, the seeming harmlessness of it, nor why she specifically was tasked with something any regular operative could perform, and with less oppressive a disguise. By far the worst part of this experience was feeling weighed down by heavy clothing and the feeling of wax and plastic glued to her face. Horrible, disgusting feeling she never had to deal with before. She was not made for infiltration like this. She was not a Widow. 

And yet, here she was. Finding the boiler room, feeling the warmth, wondering if it might compromise the prosthetics on her face. Heat and humidity surely would not be kind on such a thing. 

She found the hiding spot as directed, a set of pipes set low to the ground. The duffel bag slid beneath them easily, its black fabric blending perfectly into the shadows. Unless someone were to drop down low and look in this direction specifically, it would not be seen. 

For what?

She did not know. She could not ask.

It was only upon leaving did she notice a flaw in the escape route.

A camera. She didn’t notice it until too late, already passing through its perimeter and noticing it over her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat, but it was too late. Did they know of it? How had she missed it? 

Already, she was terrified of the fallout of her oversight in another flawless, easy, stupidly simple operation. Now, surely, the pain will come.

She did not get caught. That is not what the Soldat taught her.

In the back of her mind, a voice whispered at her that there was still time to run, to flee the consequences of her failure. The entire time, as her feet made the circuitous route out the door at the other side of the building, through an unlocked window, and into another alleyway. Tracing her way around the back of several more buildings, crossing streets, before finally rounding her way back to the utility van, which had parked in a new position in another part of the city.

Though she was ordered not to speak, she could not deny a full response when she re-entered the vehicle a half hour later and was asked to debrief on what had happened.

She confessed immediately, and tensed, waiting for the punishment.

It did not come.

“Good,” was all the man said, smiling faintly. “One camera should be enough.”

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

The question came out unbidden, and she bit her tongue, flinching this time. The man looked at her askance before replying, “You are disguised for a reason. Your identity is safe, I assure you. You are far too useful for me to lose you now. You follow my orders; rest assured that I have taken every element into account.”

She did not understand, and could not make herself ask for further clarification. She didn’t need it. She wasn’t supposed to.

Her stomach grumbled.

“When is our next flight out?” The man asked idly to the man in the passenger seat. 

“Eighteen hours.” the other replied. 

“Good, no rush then,” The man smiled back at her. “I have other business to attend to in this city. Besides, can’t make it look too suspicious, can we? Sit back and rest, little soldier. Your task here is done.”

That’s it? She couldn’t believe it. They came all this way, just for her to make a surreptitious delivery. She hoped she would get to eat now.

She would be wrong.

It was raining when they returned to the States.

Her throat had long since dried out, and it was all she could do not to pull her head back and open her mouth to the sky, to drink in whatever water that might fall onto her tongue. The Soldat would not begrudge her that.

But the Soldat was not here. She did not know where he was. She began to worry. 

She was not very good at operating without him. She still remembered the Widow that had blocked her line of shot. 

But perhaps it was finally coming to a close. Perhaps she could rest now, and when she was called upon again, the Soldat would be there. Perhaps that was the true test, a simple task to prove she could do at least something alone without ruining the mission. The man did not speak to her for nearly the entire twelve hours after the mission was completed, nor on the flight back. 

Just as she was ordered, she had sat in the back of that van for eighteen hours, as still and silent as a statue. Unmoving, unwavering, staring at the opposite wall in total silence as the sky grew bright, as the interior warmed, grew hot, cooled again, moved from place to place without any acknowledgement from the driver. The man left and returned again at several intervals.  At several points, she could smell food, and tried not to salivate. Fight back the animalistic urge to lunge and scarf down that food for herself.

The Soldat would not approve of such behavior.

She must find her own food. But she was not given leave to, and she had nothing extra on her person to eat. At least they removed all pieces of the disguise, and her face felt like her own again. She never did get to see what she looked like with the disguise on.

She probably wouldn’t like it.

The rain pattered on her head between the jet and the sedan that waited for them on the tarmac. The man shoved her inside, less politely now. “Our time together is not done, little soldier.”

He spoke to her without looking at her while in the vehicle, as it drove off. Looking at his phone, almost in complete disinterest, as he gave his next orders. “In twenty minutes, you are going to step out of this car and forget everything that ever happened in the last seventy-two hours. You will make your way home, and you will continue your mundane life as it was before. And when I return, you will not run from me, you will not fight me, and we will return right where we left off. Understand?”

She nodded silently. 

The rain pattered the windshield, and as it came to a stop on a bridge, she realized something as she stepped out into the cold night air. 

The man had never given her a name.

He found her again at the football game.

She never saw it coming.

“Only a quick one this time,” he promised, after activating her protocol and guiding her away from the food stand. The hunger and thirst she had experienced moments before, on the bridge, had suddenly vanished. She didn’t feel weak or shaky anymore, though the trace of fear had returned. What now?

There was still no sign of the Soldat. 

When was the last time she saw him? The memory returned. Aboard the helicarrier. Trying to kill Captain America. And she’d been injured — injuries she no longer had — before he threw her off.

“Phone,” the man held out his hand, and she handed it over without question. Watched as he popped out the battery to the flip phone, before handing it back. “Don’t turn it back. Now listen very carefully,”

He gripped her arm tightly, squeezing to emphasize the following words: “On June 18th, at fifteen-hundred hours, you will make an excuse to use the bathroom and leave whatever premises you are in. Wherever you are, you will make your way to the abandoned depot on the Hudson River and await further instructions. You will do all of this as discretely and silently as possible. You will disable your phone and lose any trace. No one must be allowed to follow you or know where you are. Understood?”

She nodded once and the man smiled. “Good. I’m going to walk away now, and when I do, I want you to head in the opposite direction. You will leave the stadium and do so by avoiding all cameras. You will find Rumlow behind an abandoned laundromat several blocks from here, and he will have some questions for you. Answer wrongly and you will be punished. Nothing that will last when you deactivate again three hours from this exact moment.” 

She did as she was told. 

Rumlow was indeed waiting at the arranged spot, pacing anxiously, looking like he’d rather not be there. In the darkness, his scars were hidden, but the electric baton crackled and glowed. 

His questions were standard. A full debrief of that day over the Potomac. What had happened. Why she had failed. How did she survive? 

No matter how truthfully she answered (she had no directive or capability to lie), she took a blow. Holding out her arms so Rumlow could press the metal baton and send a course of electricity up and down her arms. It made her knees tremble, her lip bleed in the biting to prevent any sound. It was not the worst pain she had ever felt, but she had the impression Rumlow had frustrations he wanted to take out on whatever target was available.

One detail in particular he had trouble grappling with: “The Soldat threw you out? Why?”

“I don’t know,” She answered, as if she hadn’t already been thinking about it for the past hour. Her words stammer in her mouth, “I-I was injured. A burden. Got in the way. Captain America said we —”

I can’t believe I never saw it before.

The Soldatka paused, her voice catching at the memory.

She looks just like you.

“What?” Rumlow demanded, prodding her with his baton again. A little zap. “What did he say?”

She’s yours. She’s your kid.

The Soldatka’s throat went dry. “He said he knew us. Me.”

Your father. He’d never hurt you . 

Her mind skipped and raced, startled at the recall. She didn’t understand then. She remembered the thick fog of pain and denial in that moment, so recent it only felt like a month ago. Even less. Her father her father her father.

What did it mean, to have a father?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Rumlow’s harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, please. That guy’s always got something sentimental to say. Didn’t work, did it? Your old man still tried to kill you.”

Old man . Was that another term for a father? The Soldatka reminded herself to breathe, even as her fingers went cold with the truth. She hadn’t even asked, and yet her question was confirmed. Terror began to rise up at the edges of her mind again. “He was only following orders.”

Rumlow snorted as he paced back and forth in front of her. “Oh yeah, I know all about that. Winter Soldier’s got an interesting way of ‘following orders’ when he doesn’t like them. Some of his handlers thought he was just stupid, you know, too many mind-wipes and your brain turns to soup. But Pierce had the right idea of it. The Winter Soldier wasn’t a zombie. Not completely anyway. Give a computer too many commands and it starts finding loopholes and making errors. He wanted to find loopholes, when it came to you. It distracted him. It made him weak .”

Another jab of the baton and she gasped, dropping down to one knee. “If we bring him back to heel, we’ll make sure to fix that. And if not, we’ll kill him.”

And as the Soldatka kneeled there, catching her breath, Rumlow hissed in her ear, “Either way, you’re never gonna take another order from him again. Remember, your loyalty isn’t to the Winter Soldier. You’re loyal to HYDRA. To the Baron. Don’t forget that.”

He straightened, and the Soldatka wondered if that was true. Did he have the ability to overwrite her command settings like that? Did the man — the Baron? — allow for it? She didn’t think so. She didn’t feel any change take effect. Just a new fear. And perhaps… anger. He did not get to tell her what to do. He had no authority.

And, more prominently, more confidently: Rumlow couldn’t kill the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier could never die. This she knew for certain. He was unstoppable.

Rumlow checked his watch and sighed. “Well, time’s almost up. I gotta go. Stay here until you deactivate.”

And so she did, staring at the empty alleyway he disappeared into, and wondering if the Winter Soldier was truly her father.

A train. 

That is the unfortunate location of her reactivation. 

She did not know where she was — only that she was in a small bathroom, the train rocking around her, rumbling smoothly along its tracks. She was aware she was not alone in this cabin and that she had to leave again without being seen.

The Winter Soldier.

A memory of him came unbidden. Not from her own collection of memories, but… from Amelia. From only seconds ago, she realizes, of him sitting opposite her in the train. Maybe only twenty feet away, if that. 

If anyone could follow her, it would be him. 

But no, she couldn’t allow that. The Baron had disallowed it, and she was afraid of disappointing him. She did not know how long it had been since their last meeting, but she was now wearing a ridiculous blue dress that did not allow for the usual amount of weapons she’d like to carry upon her person. Just one knife, hidden in the bodice. Pitiful.

She looked around. There was only one exit. The door, which she could not leave from again without being seen by the Winter Soldier — who, regardless of his own state of mind, likely would immediately tell if the Soldatka had been activated or not — which was not an option. Her only other methods would be through the small window, which looked to be a tight squeeze. But she saw no other way.

How much time did she have before the Winter Soldier became curious and came to check on her? Not long. Five minutes? Ten at most. He would not be lax with her, not after two times she had already been activated and Amelia’s absence would not doubt have been noted. He would not like that. He did not like it when she was sent off alone without him.

But she must. She had to.

The Soldatka eyed the window. It was not meant to be open all the way, but it was just wide enough she could probably squeeze her shoulders through (the widest part of her body) with only a few skin cells lost. The real problem is was where she would go after that.

The train was still moving with no sign of stopping soon. She could not wait for a station anyways. She had to get to the Hudson River.

Looking out the window, the Soldatka was surprised to see she might be there already. Hm. 

Then it was now or never. 

Angling her head, she was able to see a curve in the tracks up ahead. The train began to slow to account for it, and she knew this was her chance. The window was on the outside of the curve, and the Winter Soldier — father father father — sat on the inside, meaning he was unlike to see it unless he was already looking.

She took a breath. Heaved the window open. Wind rushed in and she flinched at the burst, before shoving her way through. Her shoulders and arms scraped along either side of the window, banging her head and pulling at her hair, which was not in its usual braid. For a moment she was afraid she got stuck at her biceps pinned to her sides, but an extra kick and she was through.

A bar on the outside of the train gave her a good handhold to grab, giving her the time to shut the window again. Just in case.

Skirt whipping around her legs, the Soldatka had no particular concern for propriety when she was judging the steep embackment rushing below her. It went by in a blur, but at the bottom seemed to be a small stream, and for whatever reason that felt comforting.

Kicking off the side of the train, the Soldatka let go.

Curling into a ball, she did her best to soften the impact. Rough gravel slammed into her left shoulder and she kept her arms tight around her head as her body tumbled helter-skelter through rocks and dirt and grass. For a terrified couple seconds, the Soldatka felt like she was picking up momentum, and releasing her limbs to try to slow herself only resulting in skinned hands and knees. She already lost both her shoes, not that they would’ve served her much anyways.

At last, she came to a mighty splashdown into the small muddy stream at the bottom, gasping and panting. By the time she looked up again, the train was already long gone, its rumbling wheels already growing fainter and fainter. 

Time to move. 

She was a little wobbly getting to her feet, but the Soldatka determined she was relatively unharmed aside from some scrapes and bruises and a ruined dress. All in all, a successful escape.

It took her three hours to reach the abandoned train depot, and not once did she have a tail.

No one knew where she was. 

The Baron had not given an indication of where to meet him once there, only that she was to arrive and await instructions. The depot was several acres large along the edges of the river, which meant some mindless wandering on bare feet until she heard a rumbling, looked up, and saw a helicopter hovering above.

She waited as it descended. From it, the Baron stepped out, his long coat flapping in the wind of the slowing rotors, and she approached. 

She was starting to get hungry at this point, but pushed the sensation aside.

“A little worse for wear, hm?” The Baron asked. She didn’t know how to answer that, and he didn’t seem interested in one. Without explanation, he reached out towards her, plucked something from behind her ear. She caught a glimpse of a small disc before it was crushed in his palm and cast aside on the ground, before he gestured for her to enter. 

It was only after they were both seated and the helicopter began to rise again did the Soldatka notice the red book in his lap.

A black star embossed on its cover.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. She’d seen it before. She knew she had. But where….?

The Baron noticed her attention and smiled. He lifted the book and asked, “Look familiar? I imagine so. But this is not for you.  Not yet, anyways. You don’t have the answers I need, but you will lead me to them. It will be very soon now.”

He continued, “When you are returned to your caretakers, you will have twelve hours to find the Winter Soldier before you reactivate again. This time he will follow you, and you will encounter Rumlow in the streets of New York. It is important that the Winter Soldier is caught on camera. You will do your best to avoid it. Understand?’

She nodded. Echoes of Rumlow’s threats came back to her. He was not here now, so she did not fear him overhearing as she spoke, “Will Rumlow kill him?”

The Baron laughed. “No, but I’m sure he wants to. And it's important that they try.”

“Is this why you have called me here?” The Soldatka dared to ask. “You could not order this of me before?”

“The Presence dictates that use of Manifest Destiny protocol should be limited to one command at a time,” The Baron shrugged. “Between overriding the requirement of your trigger phrase to reactivate you remotely, and having you remember those orders without me present to repeat them — it is too complicated for your protocol to log more than a since instance at a time. It is not perfect, I’m afraid, and I would rather not risk you confusing one scheduled assignment for another. Thus precludes our frequent meetings. But I like to make use of them — if, for nothing else, to sow discord amongst your caretakers. Too many cooks in the kitchen as they might say. Another argument for autocracy.”

She did not follow his meaning but decided not to ask for further clarification. Instead, she said, “What will I do now?” 

“You will remain my pleasant companion for the rest of this trip. I think twenty-four hours will be enough to rattle them. The arrangements have already been made, so all that’s left is for you to return home and set the lure for the Soldat. Then, I imagine, it may be some time before we see each other again. But it will happen, I promise.” He gave her an evaluating look. “It must be terribly difficult for you, to operate alone like this. Unnatural.”

The Soldatka opened her mouth, changed her mind, and simply nodded.

The Baron smiled faintly. “You remain loyal to the Winter Soldier, aren’t you? Why?”

She wasn’t sure what kind of answer he was looking for. After the treatment with Rumlow, she could not be sure it was the truth the Baron wanted. But it was all she had. “Because he trained me. If he did not want me, he could easily kill me. But I am still here. I live because I am still useful.”

“Astute,” The Baron raised his eyebrows. “Pure functionality at its finest. But that is not loyalty, my little soldier.”

Because he is my father. He would never hurt me. But she could not say that, because she knew the reasoning was flawed. The Winter Soldier was her father, but he did not know that. And even if he had, he had still hurt her either way. Not as badly as some have, but still. His mentorship had not come without pain and suffering. He had been as cold and unforgiving as his namesake.

At her extended, confused silence, the Baron sighed and continued, “It’s a flaw in your programming. You will form an emotional bond even when your protocol denies it — something about the way how emotions are tied to memory, and you must keep some amount of memory in order to function properly as the weapon you were designed to me. Nothing you can do about it, I’m afraid, and I lack the equipment to recalibrate you. Perhaps another time. But it shouldn’t be a hindrance for now.”

A flaw in the system. Of course. She knew it was wrong; the Winter Soldier had thrown her off the helicarrier. He had given her no means of survival then. By all rights, she should be dead by his hand. Why should she feel beholden to him? She shouldn’t.

But she couldn’t shake it. It was irrational, illogical. She was a machine. She should rid herself of this loyalty by any means necessary.

She just didn’t know how.

She just wanted to know.

“Do you hate him?” She asked, catching the Baron by surprise.

He blinked at her, appearing to decide if he was happy with her speaking out of turn or not, before relaxing. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because Rumlow wants him dead.” The Soldatka thought of her next words carefully. “And even though you won’t let him kill the Soldat, he is still your target. Is it because he failed HYDRA? Can he not be fixed?”

“No,” the Baron shook his head, and then clarified. “It has nothing to do with his failure as a weapon. In fact, I much prefer him as his intended state, the Winter Soldier. It seems a most fascinating weapon. But there was a time before… he did many things before you were born, little soldier. Many things I cannot forgive. Him and Captain America both. They are a disease that must be ripped out.”

Him and Captain America? The Soldatka could not think of two people more unalike; the Soldat tried to kill the Captain! They were enemies! Her voice was very quiet. “I thought he was always that way. The Winter Soldier.”

The way the Baron laughed made her feel silly and stupid. “No, of course not. Neither were you, Soldatka. Though he has been the Winter Soldier for several lifetimes longer than he has been anyone else, that time before was very significant indeed, as short as it was.”

“What did he do?” 

“He killed someone,” The Baron replied, and the Soldatka felt a swirl of frustration at the obvious answer. He seemed to know it, too, by his amused expression. “Someone very important to me. And for that, this age of super soldiers will come to an end very soon.”

She understood that meaning well enough.

They were in the air for another hour before finally landing somewhere outside of New York City, somewhere on Long Island, she thought. Some old air field that looked like it hadn’t been used in some time, covered in overgrown weeds and dilapidated buildings. 

“Walk home,” he told her from the cabin of the helicopter. “Shut down when you find your father. Reactivate in twelve hours. I will see you soon, Soldatka.”

Perhaps the Soldatka was relieved that the Baron had released her once more without incident. The third time she had come away from this without blood on her hands. 

It felt like a growing thunderhead above her, ready to strike. The center cannot hold. 

There were no windows down here. 

She awoke suddenly, her face wet for reasons she could not remember. Her body was stiff and frozen, and deep in pain. She tried to move only to find her muscles working against her. Immediately panic began to surge, before she realized who she was with.

Next to her, the Baron, red book in one hand. A gun in the other. Pressed against her head. 

In front of her, in some strange glass prison, the Winter Soldier.

Looking right at her. 

Screaming.

She had never seen such powerful, violent emotion on him before, and it struck her still even without the painful jolts sparkling through her body. The Soldat looked utterly deranged, metal fist smashing against the glass as the rest of his body remained constrained against a thick metal chair, reinforced for a super soldier. And still, he was breaking free.

And then the gun was in her hand, and she was holding it to her own head.

The Winter Soldier, who had just stepped from containment, froze in his tracks. 

An unexpected reaction. Her chest hurt. Her eyes hurt. She felt pain but didn’t know where it came from. The Baron and the Winter Soldier spoke words she didn’t understand. Of course the Baron didn’t want James Barnes. Of what use could he be?

Next to her, the Baron spoke words she had never heard before.

Longing… Rusted… furnace…

They seemed to have an effect on the Winter Soldier who, she realized belatedly. Was not him. Not yet. 

But soon.

Her heart pulsed with anticipation.

Daybreak. Seventeen.

Begging. The Winter Soldier was begging for the Baron to stop. She felt she was choking on air watching him, hating it, hating him, wanting it to stop, too — but for different reasons. Stop fighting it. Just give in. 

It hurt just to watch. 

Benign. Nine.

“I’m sorry,” he was speaking to her now, choked words in English, against the overwhelming force of the Winter Soldier’s activation. “Mia, I’m so sorry.”

She did not know what he was apologizing for and yet — her stomach lurched just the same. For a brief moment, the Soldatka could almost see it. Sunset over a beach. A loaf of bread wrapped in tinfoil. A set of dogtags clutched in her hand. 

A metal hand reaching out to catch her.

Homecoming. One. 

“It’s going to be okay,” The Winter Soldier said, and every word sounded like it hurt coming out. “I promise, I won’t let anything happen to —”

Freightcar. 

He stopped speaking. Stopped moving. His eyes closed, then opened again, and all was still. 

“You can put down the gun,” the Baron said, and so she did. The Winter Soldier watched her hand the whole way down. “He will obey, won’t you, Soldat?”

“Da.” He said, and the Soldatka felt more sure than ever it was him again, speaking in Russian, their shared language. They had not seen each other since the helicarrier. She had so many questions. So much to debrief.

She did not know why a tear had slipped from her eye, but it had all the same.

“I have some questions for you,” The Baron continued easily. “I hope that won’t be a problem?”

As if the Winter Soldier had not just seen him command the Soldatka, a gun to her head. The gun still in front of her right now. They all understood the dynamics implicitly. He met her eyes again, but the Soldatka did not know how to communicate that she did not want to do that again. She did not like following the Barons orders, even if it did bring the Winter Soldier back to her. 

“Nyet,” The Winter Soldier said, and still speaking in Russian, asked, “Why is she here?”

“The Soldatka?” the Baron smiled, a hand resting on her head. “She is my insurance. Your last performance report said you had become unpredictable. I prefer you otherwise. She does not obey your orders anymore, only mine, so don’t try anything. Now, there is a specific date I wish for you to recall…”

It was of a mission many years ago, before she was born, perhaps. The details of which were rather mundane, in her opinion. Engineering a car crash, murdering the occupants, stealing the material they carried with them. Simple job. But the Baron seemed very keen on this information. And the location of a bunker in Russia. 

He must have his reasons.

The Soldatka didn’t care, because she just wanted this to end. She had not been able to move an inch this entire time, keenly aware that if the Soldat behaved out of line, she would be punished for it. It had never been this way, she thought, why had the structure changed? Why was the Baron operating them this way? It was unnecessary when he was the one to activate them both.

But at last, the questioning was over, and she was so ready to stand up and move and finally have a chance to speak —

“Stay here,” the Baron told the Winter Soldier, even as he gestured for her to get up. Her legs ached but the pain from earlier had dissipated. “Buy us time to make our leave. Escape if you can. But if you’re caught, well… You will not see the Soldatka again. Understand?”

The two of them exchanged looks. The Winter Soldier eyed her for a long moment, and there was something like surprise in his expression. Confusion, maybe. 

He had, after all, thrown her off the helicarrier in what must have felt like only yesterday. And she was still alive.

At length, the Winter Soldier finally nodded. He did not look away from her. “Understood.”

The Baron snapped the book shut and slipped into the shadows. 

The Soldatka hesitated, just slightly, before following. She thought the Winter Soldier might try to stop her, that he might move or speak or — do something — but he didn’t. Only his head turned, following her until she, too, had left the room. 

She felt strangely ill, leaving him behind, following the Baron up the ringing metal steps to the surface world.

Ahead of her, the Baron said, “And now, my little soldier, the real work begins.”

The Winter Soldier never returned.

She hoped he would, but when she was left to shoot down those targets at the embassy alone, the Soldatka knew he was not coming back. Maybe he had been caught. Possibly even killed (though she doubted this). But she knew she was on her own now. 

He could not save her from the Baron.

And she did not know how to escape. 

Her protocol writhed at any thought of defying authority. She had no other person to obey; if the Winter Soldier were here, then it would be different. But he had not come, so she had no other recourse but to do as she was told. 

At least the sniper job had been easy. She did not need anything more than a spotter to help her find her targets. It was so easy, the distance so close, she might’ve even been able to do it alone, if instructed, but the Baron did not trust her abilities enough for that. The targets were like sitting ducks, out in the open.

She was not given any reason for their deaths, nor did she ask. She wanted to keep her head down, as she was starting to sense that the Baron hated her as much much as he hated the Winter Soldier. And she did not want him to kill her, too.

It was the little things. Rumlow was obvious in his hatred, but it was the Baron who did not give her direction to eat. In fact, he seemed to take pleasure in eating in front of her, when hours and days began to stretch between her meals. And then what she was given were scraps, not even the high-caloric energy bars or IV transfusions she was used to from before. They had not been tasty, but at least they were nutritious. Now she was lucky to devour bread crusts. 

The Baron, too, did not seem particularly concerned that the Winter Soldier had not been able to reconnect with them. If anything, it seemed to amuse him. He watched the news, and she could stand there and watch as the world blamed the Winter Soldier for a bomb he did not set, for acts he did not commit. 

Acts she was committing instead. 

She did not understand the true scope of it, but she understood. The Winter Soldier was his enemy. And the Baron would want him dead.

She did not ask this, but she knew, deep down. That was the only way this could end. 

And she feared that she would be the one assigned to kill him.

She feared she would not be strong enough. 

When the superheroes came, it was a nice distraction from her thoughts.

They behaved as though she could recognize them. If she could, those memories were not hers, and they were erased by the Baron. She could not recall anything about them, even as they begged and choked her name while she tried to squeeze the life out of one of them. A boy with nice brown eyes and who looked in no way a serious threat.

Not even the boy who moved so fast as to blur, or the girl with red at her fingertips. A flash of recognition, perhaps. Cold, damp darkness. Yes, she remembered. They were made to fight each other. To prove who was stronger. 

They had come back, it seemed, for vengeance. She supposed she did not blame them. 

Still, they had trespassed, and she had her orders.

They were spared the fate of being killed by her when she was thrown out a window.

By that point, it was better to simply escape before the Baron left her behind. As much as she feared him, the Soldatka did not want to be left outnumbered with foes who can and were stronger than her, if applied correctly. 

This time, the Baron was furious. Gone was his polite facade, and when she reported she had failed to kill any of them, he had struck her. “Imbecile! How can you not kill mere children? But no matter. You’ll have another opportunity soon enough.”

She was not looking forward to it.

She knew the Winter Soldier was at the gala, though she could not see him.

The Baron’s men had identified the Avengers as soon as they entered the party. And the Wakandan King, too, an independent party perhaps. The Soldatka did not like seeing him again after he had handled her in Europe. He was strong, stronger than he looked, and fast. And his bodyguards all had vibranium weapons, which was even less comforting. But the Baron held only contempt for them. 

“Savages playing at royalty,” The Baron told her dismissively. “Stay at my side.”

He didn’t need to say why. The Soldat may not be at the gala directly below them, but he had to be stationed nearby, with a sniper rifle, ready to fire as soon as he had the shot. And unlike the Soldatka, he did not need a spotter to help him.

The Baron was careful to remain behind solid walls, though privately the Soldatka knew that would not actually help him if the Winter Soldier actually knew where he was standing. But she kept that information to herself. If he didn’t ask, then she was not breaking protocol if she did not reveal it to him. Just in case.

But orders were clear. When pandemonium reigned, and the Baron made his public appearance, the Soldatka knew that was the best opening the Winter Soldier could have. 

She saw the distance flash of light reflecting on the glass of a scope. She stood in front of the Baron, and waited.

Just as the Winter Soldier could kill a target through a wall, so too through another body. Had it really been him, he would not have hesitated to send a bullet through her body to kill the Baron. If he was really careful, he might even be able to do it without killing her, too. 

But no bullet came. 

The lens flashed once, then disappeared. Before she could stop herself, the Soldatka said, “He’s coming.” 

Behind her, the Baron cursed under his breath. “Too eager by half, that man.”

The Madbomb provided excellent cover, and there was reason to believe the Winter Soldier didn’t have the same protective band as some of the guests below. But that might not stop a man as determined as him; it would only make him more destructive.

Luckily, they reached the helicopter in time. 

She saw him, only for a moment. Running straight towards them, even as the Baron held the Madbomb in his hands, as it vibrated its vile frequencies. She saw the Winter Soldier get too close — falter, flinch, before another tackled him down. 

Relief. Dismay. He had been so close. 

“A shame,” the Baron tutted. “I would’ve liked to see what madness does to a man like that…”

The street was dark.

She recognized the signs, green and white. The voices, the noise, the buildings around her. She's been here before. Maybe not this exact location, but the city itself — familiar, somehow. She couldn't remember when.

A wretched place, Zemo had sneered, disgusted by the rundown homes around him. Perhaps once it had been a thriving community, full of lush trees and well-trimmed townhouses. Now it was filled with litter, stray cats, and old beat-up vehicles. They approached one brownstone in particular, an old bike tucked out of sight behind the doorway, locked against the iron guardrail. There was a light inside. Soft noise from a TV playing. Voices.

People.

"Take the big one." Zemo had ordered. "I'll take care of the rest."

The big one. She hoped that would be obvious.

They hadn't come alone. Rumlow waited in the black car behind them, engine running for a quick getaway.

This shouldn't take long.

Zemo knocked politely on the door. There was a rustle inside, words exchanged, a shuffle of footsteps.

An old woman opened the door. Though wrinkles lined her dark skin, she still carried an air of beauty around her, black hair swept back, just starting to gray — eyes peering through lenses, confused as she opened the door a crack. "Can I help you?"

Suspicious. People like them didn't show up at night to doors like this.

Zemo only smiled politely. "Is this the home of a Mr. Isaiah Bradley?"

"I — yes, who are you?" The woman frowned, adjusting her glasses. "Do you know him?"

Behind her, an old man called, "Who is it, Faith?"

"Not personally," Zemo smiled, then raised his gun. "But I heard he carried an interesting shield."

The woman gasped, and attempted to slam the door shut. But Zemo only stepped aside. I stepped forward. Kicked the door down in one easy motion. The woman was already crying out, running into the kitchen. Directly across the doorway, in the living room just inside the door, a massive shadow was rising to his feet, a column of muscle and fury.

The big one.

"Who the hell —?" the man roared, and took a bullet straight to the chest.

Despite his orders, Zemo had not let her attack first, seeming to have fired his gun on sheer instinct. Perhaps surprised by how big the old man was. How much age had not affected him.

How much the bullet did little to put him down.

From above came a rush of footsteps, a door being swung open.

The old man grunted, stumbled back, but caught himself against a side table and rose again. A rose of blood bloomed across his chest, pitifully small against the broad shoulders. To the left came the sound of a phone being dialed, and Zemo whipped around, firing off another shot. The woman yelped, landline phone dropping to the floor. Zemo had shot through where it was attached to the wall.

Line dead.

The old man rushed towards them.

I intercepted.

He did not seem to expect that, pulling back slightly, just in time to avoid my blade. His fist came around my arm, hand so large it wrapped around my wrist completely. I ducked, twisting around his side and pulled my arm free with the new angle. He turned to follow, swinging his fist. The ceramic lamp he carried smashed against my skull.

A commotion as someone came flying down the staircase. "Grandpa! Grandma!"

A boy. Zemo did not say there would be a boy here.

Perhaps he saw that his grandfather had me well in hand, because he darted into the kitchen instead.

I could not see what happened next.

Not when the old man grabbed me, still dazed, and threw me out the window.

A crash of glass and timber, so loud it almost overshadowed the bang the flash the gunshot.

The woman screaming again.

I landed better than I might have. The grass was soft outside, aside from the broken glass digging into my skin.

By the time I got up, Zemo was already racing out of the house. His face pale, smelling of gunpowder and blood.

The job, finished.

The Baron never explained the meaning of that encounter. She could only hope she had done well enough to escape his ire.

She was getting so hungry. 

England was their next stop, and she had very little to do then. Stay by the Baron and escort him out of the city as the madness unfolded. The Avengers had yet to catch up, so there was very little to do except take down the errant civilian or police officer that had gotten too close, frothing with madness.

It was Paris that would be more difficult.

That was where the Baron wanted more of a show. The Avengers would appear this time, he was sure, or at least the ones that remained. Captain America and his little band of criminals. This time, he had her posted in a building facing the Arc de Triomphe. Rifle in hand. One of his men provided spotter duty, though his Russian wasn’t very good.

Not that she would have any trouble picking out her targets when they arrived.

Superheroes had a tendency to wear bright or unusual outfits that made them stand out from a crowd of civilians — especially when they were behaving normally and the civilians were crazed with madness. But the wildness of the fight made it difficult to track her targets and… and the Winter Soldier was there. She knew as soon as she fired the first shot, he would know it was her, and he would be coming. 

Still, the command was given, and she fired. The bullet missed, and those cold eyes immediately swung in her direction. The Soldatka’s heart skipped a beat, scared, excited, hopeful — but one of his comrades stopped the Winter Soldier, and then the Falcon laid an attack that destroyed the buildings facade. It crumbled down on top of them. The Soldatka was able to scramble out of the way in time, her spotter was not so lucky. 

She raced for a new position, not wishing to admit defeat when the Baron was still waging war. He would know if she had given up too soon. 

Finding a new position, the Soldatka did her best to choose her own shots, but she could not make herself target the Winter Soldier — their biggest threat by far — and instead chose something akin to warning shots, trying to protect the Baron as best she could. As much as she didn’t want to.

As easy as it could’ve been, to slide the barrel of her rifle over a couple centimeters. A single itchy finger and the authority of her protocol would be gone. 

But her muscles froze against her rebel thoughts, and a painful spasm wracked her body. She couldn’t do it. Protocol did not allow it.

She was also distinctly concerned that the Avengers knew her exact location, but did not target her. Only the Falcon was really able to return fire anyways, but if they really wanted her eliminated, they had not tried.

And then the Baron was fleeing. 

That was not good.

As soon as the command was given through her earpiece, the Soldatka abandoned her post and leapt out the window, making her way to the escaping truck as quickly as possible. She made it just as the driver hit the gas, climbing up the front of the truck before it could roll over her instead.

She met the Black Panther atop the vehicle. He seemed just as surprised to see her there. 

She had no rifle now, not that it would serve her in close quarters. But her shield did, only to find its vibranium material met harmlessly with whatever his suit was made out of it. It did not break or harm her shield in any way, but the Black Panther did not give way, either, even when her attacks should have surely severed his fingers from his hand.

He was strong, like a super soldier, she thought. She could meet him blow for blow but only just, and his suit was clearly bullet proof. She didn’t know how to kill him, even if she could. 

Her best choice was just to knock him off the vehicle, before the Baron got angry with her.

Thankfully, that was a bit more feasible, thanks to the unpredictable driving of the truck beneath their feet. Her boots were magnetic. His were not. 

Soon enough, the Black Panther was gone, and they were racing out of the city. 

“We’re almost to the end now.”

The Baron’s words held such promise, as the great metal doors to the Russian bunker creaked open before them.

Beyond them, a terrible darkness.

The Soldatka said nothing. Exhaustion had set into her bones after Paris, deep and unrelenting. Her stomach now felt like a yawning cavern, hollowing her out, but still the Baron did not provide food nor direct her to find sustenance. The most she got was a sip of water, and that felt like a long time ago.

She really hoped this was the end, too.

As they stepped inside the frozen interior, the air still and musty, the Baron continued to speak, stepping idly around his men as they worked to restore the facility to some sort of power. The elevator hummed to life. “I want you to know it’s been a pleasure working with you, my little soldier. Despite everything I’ve heard, you yourself have shown little flaws in your actions these past couple months. Had it not been for the matter of your birth, I would’ve enjoyed keeping you on for a while longer.”

All the Soldatka heard was that her time with him was coming to an end. It could not come soon enough. Just something to eat…

Down, down they went. The elevator creaked and rattled, and Rumlow shifted uncomfortably at the sound. He didn’t look any different than before, but the Baron had said he, too, had become a super soldier just as he wished. The Soldatka didn’t understand why.

As they descended, the Baron said, “As of this moment, Soldatka, I am enacting your self-destruct protocol. Kill every super soldier down there left standing first. I want a nice clean ending to all of this. Understand?”

The Soldatka felt dizzy. “Yes.”

Eight men and women. 

Hungry. Staving. Mad with bloodlust.

But there was no Madbomb here to compel them.

They just wanted her dead.

Cold mist covered the ground.

Pale, pale blue in the darkness, so pale it seemed to emanate an eerie glow. It swept up in puffs and swirls with every step. It surged back in curling waves, sweeping out with every thrust, giving way to every drop of blood.

Her body moved of its own accord.

Eyes watching, in dispassionate observance, as her fist broke orbital bone. As her knife sunk down into spine. Feeling nothing and everything as blow after blow landed upon her body.

They were bigger. They were stronger. They screamed with glee and rage and freedom.

Ice frosted on her lip where blood had coagulated. Each breath pierced her lungs. Something hurt, something burned.

Somewhere, deep down, the tiny animal in her heart was scared.

She was badly outnumbered. She had been given her orders, and she had no choice but to obey. Eliminate all targets. Either until they or she was dead.

In total, she was not meant to survive.

But survival was what she was built for. These men and women, they were little more than caged beasts. They saw nothing but something to kill and tear open and feast upon. There was no stopping them, no controlling them.

They scratched at her face. Fist after fist landed against her chest.

Something broke inside her. She lost count how much. It didn't matter. The pain didn't matter, so long as she could ignore it, so long as it didn't slow her down. Each painful breath, each stumbling step, so long as that killing blow landed.

Her only advantage were her weapons. Her targets had nothing but their rage and their hands. And vicious, they were.

Blood splashed against cement and metal, so deep it seemed a grisly black in the blue hued light. Something struck her in the back of the head, and she toppled off the dais.

Cold concrete met her below. Hard and unwelcoming, a gravity so strong it was almost impossible to resist. The world swam around her, eyes unfocused in the swirling mist, invisible lights flashing in her retinas, a ringing in her ears. Something hot slipping down the back of her neck and down her collar.

And she knew, that animal deep down — they were killing her.

But she still slid her hands beneath her, and pushed up.

The world shifted, uneven and swaying beneath her feet. One side of her body felt heavier than the other, and the men that remained came at her too fast, blurring as they moved.

Her knife dripped with blood. Her knuckles split. Rust in her mouth.

And she threw herself back at them.

Knife point slamming up beneath the chin. A kick to her knee. Knife into the offending foot. Shield taking another blow, not the boot to the face.

Hands around her throat. Fists into gut, chest, face. At a certain point, its hard to tell who was hurting who. For every blow she landed, she earned twice, thrice, sevenfold in return.

And still, they fell. One by one by one.

Until there was no one left.

No one but her.

The last body hit the floor. And there was silence. Nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Her heart pounding in her ears. Scanning the room desperately, searching for any enemy in the shadows. But she had counted. All eight were dead.

She had accomplished her mission.

The only one left to die — herself.

And it would happen. She could feel it. Something punctured, something bleeding. Her head ached and pounded and swam. It was difficult to stand upright anymore, and she stumbled against a far wall, sliding down. Catching her breath. Hand to her side came away wet with blood.

She coughed, and that too came up red. But still, it felt good. To have succeeded in her mission. There was nothing left now. No more orders. No more commands. Just to wait.

Waiting.

Waiting to die.

It wouldn't be long now.

It was easy to close her eyes, and fall into oblivion.

A soft voice, stirring her awake.

No. No. This shouldn’t be happening. Her self-destruct protocol - it was so close. 

Nothing could get in the way of that.

But then, something did. She opened her eyes. 

The Soldat. Cupping her face. Calling her back from the depths.

He was here. He was alive.

He’d come for her.

He was a super soldier.

She couldn’t die. Not yet.

✭✭✭

"Easy, easy!" His hands held me down as I tried to escape the shadows at the edge of my vision. "It's just me, monkey, it's just me. There's no one else here! You're safe now."

The shadows, echoes of memories, started to fade. All that was left was my racing heart, my thoughts racing even as I swayed in my lightheadedness. Somehow I managed to get to a sitting position and Dad had my wrist in a vice grip, keeping me from ripping out my IV.

Tears were already streaming down my face, though it hadn't yet occurred to me why I wanted to cry. The emotions dragged behind, only the fear present in the moment.

"Where — where am I?" My voice scraped hoarse and dry from my throat as I looked around, uncomprehending at the room we were in, unlike any hospital I'd ever seen.

"Wakanda, we're in Wakanda, we're safe," Dad still had a hold of me, and it was then I finally looked at him, saw him, saw how terrible he looked. That gaunt mess, the bags under his eyes, first the superficial things; then the rest, the healing cuts and bruises, the bandaging that peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt. "Zemo's in prison. The Madbomb is destroyed.

"The Madbomb?" I asked, taken aback. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. And then the details started to slip in. Like a punch to the gut, all the air escaped me, and I slumped forward into his arms. My voice, muffled by Dad's shirt. "It's over?"

"Yeah, monkey," his arms came around me, gentle, so gentle. Like I was a porcelain statue, hugging so carefully, like I might shatter if he held on too tightly. "It's over. I'll make sure of it this time."

There was an underlying edge to his voice, some deeper meaning that I was too exhausted to dive into, to understand. All I knew was that he meant it; whatever he was going to do, he'd do it. No room for failure. I hugged him tighter, one arm — discovering, belatedly, that the other was in a cast. I vaguely remembered a powerful hand snapping my wrist.

"Everyone else?" I asked, wincing at the vague image of Steve, broken and bleeding, lying beneath me. Raising a shield over my head. Ready to kill him.

"They're okay," Dad said, then hesitated. "Well, mostly. No one's dead. No one you need to worry about."

At once a relief, and at the same time, the sense that wasn't entirely true. But if I had hurt someone, if they had died, I couldn't believe that Dad would attempt to hide it and pretend everything was okay. Let me believe in a lie, even for a little while.

An ache started to build behind my eyes, a growing exhaustion, even as I pulled back. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel him watching me closely, carefully. Probably searching for any sign that something wasn't right. That the Soldatka might still be there.

At length, Dad finally asked, "How much do you remember?"

I pulled away, head falling back against my pillow. Lying still there, for a moment, it was hard to breathe, but when I could finally look at him again, I was able to speak.

"All of it."

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Four

✭

Darkness gave way to light.

Cold, to warmth.

Silence, to sound.

But the color never came back.

For the first couple days of consciousness, the world seemed stripped and empty and devoid of some element I couldn't decipher. Not right away.

Not when Dad was there. Not when Steve was still alive. That alone had rested two of the biggest, immediate worries that had occurred to me within minutes of waking up, and realizing what had happened.

They were okay. So were the other Avengers, and my friends and family. Maybe not all in ideal positions, perhaps. But alive. And relatively safe.

Better than what would have happened if Zemo had won.

The Wakandan hospital, or clinic, or wherever I was — in its stark cleanliness and smooth organic lines, was both haven and containment. It had been jarring to wake up in a completely alien space. Getting my diagnosis from unfamiliar but kind faces, who must have known who I was that entire time, but in those initial hazy days all I could think about was how lucky I'd been to have such a caring and competent team looking after me.

Not once did anyone bring up what had actually happened.

The world fell back into place. But the color never seeped in.

I saw very little of Wakanda, not being able to leave the room. Mostly due to my own physical weakness, but I was glad for the window, to at least feel like I wasn't trapped in a cage. The city beyond the glass was utterly beautiful, almost otherworldly, with architecture I'd never seen before, flying ships and rail cars and rooftops overflowing with greenery, a river running through the center of the metropolis. Like an oasis people can only dream about. Right there, just out of reach.

A part of me yearned to be out there. The other part was glad to stay in bed. To stay in hospital pajamas in soft, breathable fabric, even if the smell of antiseptic stung my nose. Some things never changed.

Dad never left my side. All I knew was this room, and him, there at my bedside every night. Even if he had his own bed not twenty feet away, there he was. Slumped over in his chair, leaning against the bed frame but not on it, so as not o crowd what little room I had — I probably would've hated it if I was in any other mental state.

The only thing that made it unbearable was my own sleeplessness, and the knowledge that I couldn't hide it from Dad. My heartbeat would give me away every time, no matter how much I faked it. I knew he could tell.

But Dad never said a thing.

He refused to tell me how he got hurt, which only confirmed my theory that I was the one that did it — before I could remember exactly what happened. The memories didn't come instantly, nor did they arrive in sequential order. Mostly in random, painful snippets, out of context, bizarre and terrifying. But if I forced myself to concentrate, to remember the last thing that happened, remember in reverse order… it started to piece itself together.

It hurt less, not to try.

It all came so vividly. So helplessly. If I let myself think on it for too long, I was afraid I'd lose myself to it entirely. And my grip on reality already felt so tenuous to begin with.

To look myself in the mirror, to see my blood-filled sclera and bruises around my neck. I was healing, slowly but surely, yet the signs remained, a reminder of everything I had done. And had been done to me.

The only visitor I received was Steve — everyone else was either in prison or deftly avoiding the authorities, it seemed. Steve looked a little better than Dad; better than I remembered him, at least. There was a weariness to his smile when he walked in, seeing me awake. "Heard the good news. We really gotta stop meeting like this, kid."

I laughed despite myself — weakly, it hurt. Dad threw him a look; he'd somehow managed to look more exhausted now than when I first woke up. "Don't do that, she's still healing."

Steve threw up his hands as he sat down opposite Dad, stool sliding beneath him. "My bad, my bad. Thought I'd lighten the mood. Anyways, I'm here to hold down the fort like I promised. So you can take that shower you were complaining about earlier."

"I wasn't complaining," Dad grumbled under his breath, now looking like he didn't want to take that shower at all. Then he cut a suspicious look between us, as if something had just occurred to him. "If that was an injoke, I want to know what it is."

"Only after you take a shower," I said. I was in no position to be bargaining, but I was feeling well enough to try today. "Besides, you're starting to smell."

"Gee, thanks," Dad rolled his eyes, but it was good natured, and there was no hiding that smile. That comment he'd make when he'd be out of earshot, saying, That's the first time she's laughed. With a melodramatic flick of a hand, he got up and retreated, "Don't spare my feelings or anything."

"Wash that hair!" Steve called after him, and laughed at the middle finger he received. To me, he said, "He's been doing a lot better since you woke up."

"You came around before?" I asked, surprised.

"Every day. You were unconscious, or asleep." Steve said, with a shrug. "Buck would kill me if I tried to wake you. But he needs his breaks, too."

I nodded; while I couldn't get much sleep at night, the insomnia double-backed in the form of fits of sleep during the daytime, and a general exhaustion I couldn't shake. Usually for a few hours at a time, interspersed by meals and bathroom trips. The first day I could barely walk on my own. The trip to the en suite bath left me winded. And no matter the time, day or night, Dad would be there to help me. Despite my lack of sleep, I was fairly certain he was getting even less rest than I was.

“Here, before I forget,” Steve pulled something from his pocket. Small, wooden, I almost didn’t recognize it when he dropped it into my hand. “Found it at that apartment in Bucharest. Figured you might want it back.”

The carved bee. Something Dad had been working on during those long hours of travel, with nothing but a knife and block of wood to work with. It had been one of the few sentimental pieces I’d been able to carry with me, small enough that it didn’t hinder the limited amount I could carry. 

I’d left so much behind.

”Thank you,” I mumbled, closing my fist around the bee, clutching it to my chest. “Did you… did Dad tell you about t-the family?”

It had been one of the first things I’d told Dad about, when I first woke up. In such a panic, wondering what I had done, if anyone knew. I’d been in New York City. Not even Dad seemed to know all of Zemo’s travels before they caught up with him in Madripoor. So now I had to know for sure.

“Yes,” Steve nodded. His expression was grim, but he reached out to place a hand over mine. “They’re alive, Mia. All of them. I had to ask a pretty big favor out of Sharon, but she checked it out for me. The Bradley’s are safe. They don’t know who attacked them.”

“But someone was shot —” I hadn’t seen it, only heard. Only smelled. That look in Zemo’s eyes, that grim satisfaction.

“Their grandson was hurt, but he’ll pull through,” Steve replied, before I could work myself up into another panic. “He’s in the hospital, but he’s stable. Doctors expect a full recovery. He was lucky.”

Lucky.

He’d been lucky.

He’d have to be, if I had been there. I swallowed thickly, wondering what else there was to ask, to do. I was helpless here. Also in a hospital. I didn’t know how bad the boy was hurt, but I hoped Steve was right.

New York. Right in New York. In my own backyard.

”Do you know why Zemo targeted them?” I asked at last.

Steve hesitated, then said, “I met him. Isaiah Bradley. He’s… like us, Mia. We had a lot to talk about.”

“What?” I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. But then, it made sense. Why else would Zemo target an elderly couple in a rundown neighborhood, if they weren’t anything but some offense to his greater goal? Another super soldier threatening his dream. “But — how?”

”It’s a long story, but let’s just say I’m not the only Captain America still kicking,” Steve smiled wryly, running a hand through his hair and sitting back. “When I found out, I had to see for myself. Bit of a risk, but… they needed answers as much as I did.”

”So… they know,” I said slowly. “About me.”

“To a certain extent. I did the best I could to explain why you… what happened to you. That you’re a victim, too. I can’t say how much they believed it, but they seemed to understand you weren’t on the level with Zemo.” Seeing the expression on my face, Steve added softly, “I don’t want you to worry about going back home, Mia. You haven’t made any new enemies.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I decided to take the win where I could, and be glad no one was dead by my hand. Or because I had helped a Nazi.

Bradley. The name echoed in my head. I couldn’t remember the exact address of their home, a part of my earlier panic when first telling the story. But I was sure if I saw the house again, I would know it.

Steve seemed so set on reassuring me, but so vague on everything else, I could sense further prodding would get me nowhere. He wouldn’t fuel my curiosity, not when he knew what I was capable of.  So instead, I elected to change the topic. 

"How have you been, then?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "You… don't look as bad."

"Yeah, well, you roughed up your old man pretty bad back there," Steve said, half a smile before it suddenly vanished. As if remembering himself, he coughed, cleared his throat, and continued, "Er, well, you know. He had my back. I would've been a lot worse without him."

"Dad said Rumlow is dead."

"Yeah," Steve said, and the look he fixed me with, wary and searching, made me wonder if he knew I knew. "You don't have to worry about him anymore."

"I hope so," I said. After my grenade blew up in his face.

As far as the things I remembered went, that had been the only highlight to the whole morbid affair.

What stood out to me more was the obvious elephant in the room and how badly Steve was dancing around it. I wondered what else he and Dad talked about; maybe Dad asked Steve not to mention or discuss anything I was directly involved in. Anything I could remember.

"And Zemo?" I asked, deciding to let that matter lie for now. It wasn't like I really wanted to share my experience with anyone right now. At least, not with Steve. "Any updates?"

"T'Challa's been interrogating him," Steve replied, and at my confused expression, he added, "Right, the King. He'll probably be around again eventually. He's been handling Zemo personally. Part of our deal; we don't want any other parties interacting with him if we don't have to. Too dangerous. There will be a trial eventually, but he's not going anywhere in the meantime. Did Buck tell you about our guest rules?"

"No weapons, no violence," I shrugged, blinking sluggishly. The guidelines for us keeping hospitality were neither outrageous nor uncomfortable, really. "No arguments from me."

"Didn't think there'd be an issue but just wanted to make sure," Steve replied with a small smile. "You'll get your shield back, too, eventually."

"Okay," I knew I didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, maybe not even grateful. It wasn't that I didn't want it back; that shield had some good memories, as well as bad. But right now it wouldn't serve me much at all in any way. I was in no rush to get it back. "I'm sorry."

The words blurted out before I could think of why I was saying it. I already knew why. I already knew I wanted to say it — just didn't know when. Just said it when I had nothing left to say.

Steve blinked, and shook his head. Glanced away for a moment, before saying, "We've had this conversation before, Mia. After DC. I knew less then than I do now, but my response is still the same: I'm not angry at you. I don't blame you for anything that happened. Zemo was always a time bomb; he was just waiting for the right moment to go off."

I vaguely recalled one of Zemo's many soliloquies; ruminating on the decades he spent building his little empire, all the time and the effort. How he finally got to put it in motion when Captain America suddenly returned. How it had been both a surprise, and something like destiny.

I wondered what Zemo thought of it now. Did it still feel like destiny, locked in a cage?

"We're working on dismantling whatever system he's built, his supporters," Steve continued as I slipped into a reverie. "And working on a way of breaking everyone out of the Raft. T'Challa is an Avenger now, I should add; I think I can safely say we got off pretty lucky."

Lucky wasn't the half of it. But I didn't argue the point. I was about to say something, but movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.

A silhouette, half hidden behind the doorway, a pair of dark eyes watching us. A girl, I thought, judging by her slight frame, a teenager, maybe a little younger than me. Hard to tell at this distance. Steve, noticing my distraction, glanced over his shoulder, and then back at me.

"That's the Princess," Steve told me, lowering his voice just a tad. "She's usually in her lab, but I've seen her lurking around here from time to time."

That might have been underselling it, in my opinion. When I next looked up, the girl was gone, but I'd see her again out of the corner of my eye some hours later, peering in again when me and Dad were sharing dinner.

Dad's back was to the door, but even though he couldn't see her, he still said, "You don't see her."

"What?" I blinked at him, and once more, when I looked back, she was gone again.

"Don't approach her," was all Dad said. "She lost her father."

"Oh," I said, ducking my head. That was the roundabout way to say that I'd killed him.

I could still recall the day of the bombing, clearly and in sharp color. The only time when my memory felt reliable and stitched together was before the Soldatka. Running through the streets of Bucharest. Even now, I still didn't quite understand how it had happened, or what role I had played. But Dad had confirmed to me earlier in the week that before Berlin, one of Zemo's little trips had been to Vienna, months before the UN council had taken place. That the false image of Dad planting that bomb, had actually been me in disguise.

I couldn't remember that far back yet. But if it was true, I wasn't entirely surprised.

Little wonder now why the daughter of the late Wakandan king was doing a little stalking. I'd probably do the same thing in her position.

But that didn't mean I wanted to confront her. Speak to her in any way. Sometimes it was hard just talking to Dad, about the things we both knew what happened, both understood why it went the way it did. He understood. And it still hurt too much.

So I did as Dad advised and pretended I didn't notice her. Give her no reason to confront me. Even with all the time I had, I still had no idea what I'd say to the Princess.

She didn't wait for me to come up with something first.

While the princess may not have escaped my notice, she was still clever in her timing; waiting until both Dad and Steve were gone, both called to some meeting with the King. The only reason Dad even went at all was me insisting I'd be fine on my own for a couple hours. His constant hovering was starting to aggravate me, to the point where I only found privacy in the bathroom. So it was nice to just breathe and be alone in the moment, for a little while.

Until she appeared.

I heard her approach, while I was fiddling with the tablet given to me, trying to figure out the unfamiliar OS system. The first couple moments, I thought maybe she was just curious, maybe thought I hadn't noticed and wanted a closer look. But then she was stepping into the room, getting closer and closer until she was ten feet from my bed and impossible to ignore further.

Just standing there, waiting for me to acknowledge her.

Dad did not give me instructions for this scenario. Wasn't like I had any place to hide. So, very reluctantly, very slowly, I looked up. Our gazes met.

The Princess wore a pale sheath dress, largely unadorned except for a pair of earrings she wore, braided hair coiled atop her head. On the face of it, she did not immediately appear royal, not in her dress; but the way she carried herself, upright, shoulders back, head high — a combination of self-confidence and probably some etiquette training. English wasn't her first language as indicated by her accent, but she spoke sharply and with precise diction, the same kind of austerity one would expect from any royalty.

That and, of course, the pair of Dora Milaje that followed her everywhere, just out of sight. Their heightened heartbeats matched mine; this was unusual, unexpected, but they hadn't intervened, so I had to hope this wouldn't get bad.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other, neither saying a word.

The Princess broke the silence first. "You're the girl my brother saved."

I waited for a question, but there was none. So I nodded.

"Your father is the Winter Soldier."

Again, I nodded.

"You fought my brother in Paris," She said, again all statements. Rhetorical. Facts. "You killed those soldiers in the bunker."

Once more, I dipped my chin, and idly wondered if I should avert my gaze or hold hers. If there was some royal etiquette involved, the Princess did not feel the need to tell me.

Her expression was indecipherable; carefully neutral, cold, yet something gleamed in her eyes, some kind of intensity, a desire for something. For… information? For a confrontation?

"And were you there," She asked, the first question of the lot. "In Vienna? That day the bomb went off?"

My brow furrowed slightly. I already knew where she was going with this, but this was not how I thought she'd lead into this. "No."

Apparently, this was not the answer the Princess expected, either. She frowned, and stepped closer, with a kind of momentum that had me flinching back a little. But the Princess either didn't notice or didn't care as she closed the distance, saying, "While my brother was off chasing murderers, I could only sit here and cry and wait and wonder. I filled my time with forensics, going over and over the sequence of events, again and again. How did my father die. The placement of the bomb, its composition and manufacturing. All the flaws in security that allowed all this to happen to begin with. And not once did I find anything about you. Only about your father."

I didn't know what evidence she had, what she had looked at. I could hazard a guess why my actual name and face was left out of it. "It was a trap for my dad. And for Captain America. Zemo wants them dead."

The Princess fixed me with a piercing look. "What do you remember?"

The question had my chest squeezing. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

When I didn't answer, the Princess forged onward. "Because in all my calculations, even with you added to the equation, it doesn't make sense. Did you build the bomb?"

I swallowed. "No."

"Did you set it off?"

"N-no." My voice started to shake a little. My fingers going cold.

"Then why were you there?" She demanded, leaning in closer. "The bomb was planted months in advance, yes?

"Yes, but I-I don't know—" I began; it wasn't like Zemo divulged all of his intentions to me.

"How can you not know?!" She snapped, her hand hitting the metal bed frame so hard it rang. I jolted, the sound reverberating in my ears. "You're the only one left!"

"He didn't tell me!"

"So you do remember," The Princess said, glaring at me. "You just won't tell me."

My heart pounded in my chest, as I scrambled to think back, to recall the moment Zemo pushed the small box in my hands. The aching, the smells, the cold sweat dripping down my back. "He just gave me the bomb! He told me where to put it! And I did it! I didn't have a choice!"

"Yes, yes, I know about that!" The Princess rolled her eyes, flicking a hand as if to dismiss an annoying fly. "You were somehow coerced into obedience, whatever that means. Do not think that absolves you. Zemo put you in disguise — to frame your father, right?"

The Princess stared at me, unblinking, perhaps waiting for any sign of deception. I clenched my fists to stop them from shaking, my teeth clenched. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he killed Zemo's father!" I threw out my hands. Hell knows Zemo wouldn't shut up about it, avenging his father like it was some noble deed; like he was Hamlet, some tragic hero burdened with great purpose, the way he kept monologuing.

"No, not that!" The Princess huffed, shaking her head in annoyance. "Why you?"

To emphasize her point, she jabbed me in the chest. "He could've done that himself. He could've sent anyone, he could've disguised himself and it would've been more convincing, less video editing, to make himself appear as your father. But no — Zemo made you do it. He put the bomb in your hands. Wanted to kill my father, through you."

It was getting harder to breathe. My thoughts spun, wondering just as the Princess was, why me. Why me why me why me. I couldn't summon the will to speak, so caught up in it.

"And now my brother thinks you're worth protecting, for reasons he won't tell me." The Princess leaned in, until our faces were inches apart. "Why. You."

"I don't know!" My words came out too sharp, too high-pitched, betraying my own fear. The Princess had my back against the wall, literally, as I tried in vain to put distance between us. Trapped. Cornered. Nowhere to go. I didn't trust what my hands might do next, my breath coming out fast and uneven. "P-Please, leave me alone!"

"Leave?" The Princess gaped, offended. "This is my home, you are the unwanted one here —!"

"SHURI." A voice boomed across the walls. At once, the blood drained from the Princess' face, as she whipped around at the regal figure of who could only be the Queen, her mother, in the doorway, glaring at both of us.

Only to watch as I, now with the Princess' gaze off me, flew off the bed, kicking up the sheets in my wake. Didn't even feel it as the IV was yanked from my arm. Several voices shouted at once, but no one was fast enough to stop me from escaping through the only route that remained.

Out the window, and into the air.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Five

✭

It took them several hours to find me again.

The time between jumping out of the window, to the sound of approaching familiar voices — was a blurry one. The only thing I could remember clearly was shock and regret immediately after slamming my body through a glass window. It might have been reinforced, and I had no idea how far up as I was — until I was falling.

It was only about twenty or thirty feet, nothing crazy, but still enough to take my breath away, to land in a hard roll before launching to my feet and taking off again.

I couldn't remember how I got from there, to up a large deciduous tree of some species I couldn't identify — with thick branches and an oddly ribbed bark that made it easy to climb. The thick green foliage was what drew me to it, perhaps; small leaves but in thick bunches that, at a level above the natural line of sight, would render me virtually invisible.

It was only when I looked up and out did I see the great palace, its two towers, bridged together with circling stepped floors around it, roofed in grass — the same grass that had stained my feet and softened my landing earlier. Perhaps quarter-mile away now, though I felt as though I were still in the city proper, surrounded by smaller, residential housing and a market street nearby. The tree I was in stood in a small shaded glade, a little park perhaps, secluded and quiet with only the distant sound of voices and city noise to fill my head.

From here, I could better see the surrounding geography; how the city was nestled in a river valley, surrounded by massive mountain peaks on either side, so large that their green plans turned to white ice at the top, even though it felt like summer. The air was humid though not oppressively so, with a cool breeze rustling the leaves my hair was now tangled in.

To my left, I heard a faint buzzing; a beehive, I realized, as I looked over and saw the next hanging from a large branch of the same tree I was in; ten feet away, it was perhaps a little too close for comfort for a surprise bee hive. Certainly I wouldn't have gotten so close on a whim if I hadn't known (and was in a better mental state). But the danger of the bees had not clicked in for me to the shadows I was still running away from, in my head. I watched, feeling as if I were outside of myself, as the bees flew to and fro from their nest.

About half a dozen buzzed around me, curious, wary. I remained absolutely still, even as one landed on my hand, its tiny antennae flicking as it skittered across the top of my knuckles. Another one landed on my arm, on my knee. If they thought me a threat, they would have stung me by now, I thought distantly. And certainly more would be swarming by now, a cloud of death to scare away the threat to their hive.

But the bees did not sting me and I did not move or get closer. I just watched as the bees flew off, landed again, flew away, another returned. Just going about their business, perhaps, and treating me as just a statue in the tree. I found myself mildly fascinated as I studied them; the bees were larger than the ones at home, oddly fluffy around their thorax with broad wings, big black eyes that glittered faintly in the dappled sunlight; their striped bodies were a fascinating blue-purple with a metallic sheen, and a large dot at the top center, vaguely heart-shaped, or perhaps a spade. Unlike any bee I'd ever seen before. Quite cute. I idly wondered what their honey tasted like.

The children found me first.

Perhaps word of a giant white teenager running around was spread far enough for people to start looking. Perhaps I wasn't as blended in as I thought, up in the tree; below, children had appeared, maybe eight to ten years old, playing with a soccer ball — though not a soccer ball I'd ever seen before. It appeared to be made partly of metal, and seemed to glow and hover, bouncing back of its own will if it was kicked too far or over a fence. I watched them play for a while, nervous but not yet afraid until the ball rolled too close to the tree, came to a stop, and a little girl ran over to fetch it. When she looked up, she saw me.

She jumped back with a small gasp, clearly startled, then pointed up and said something in her native tongue. It drew the other children to her side, half a dozen wide-eyed faces peering up at me through the clutch of branches. I didn't know how much they could see through the thick canopy, but clearly they knew I was there. I shifted slightly, and that must have startled them, because they all jumped back, scattering like a flock of birds.

But they returned. Again and again. I could hear them whispering beyond some bushes they were hiding behind, their attempts to spy on me clumsy and adorable. One particularly brave boy dared to step out, creeping towards the tree as though I couldn't see him. He got right up to the trunk, touched it, looked up — our gazes met — and he gasped and ran back again.

The second time, another girl approached, much in the same manner of the boy, tip-toeing to the tree, pausing stockstill as if she'd been spotted, before darting to the trunk to tap it, looking up at me, and running away with an excited cry.

After the third or fourth time, I realized they were making a game of it. Their yelps sounded more like laughter, and their whispers became giggles. I couldn't speak, my body still shaking slightly, hands knotted tight around the branches supporting me, my jaw as if wired shut; I didn't know if they could understand me even if I could speak.

What did they think of me? Were they afraid of me? Judging by their smiles and laughter, their little game which had now transformed into depositing different objects at the base of the tree, indicated that they were not. It started with small, colorful rocks, a brightly colored flower, a little beaded bracelet, a forsaken flip-flop.

One of the girls approached with their soccer ball, holding it up with both hands and letting it flicker blue and purple in the sunlight, as if trying to coax me down. "Uyafuna ukudlala nathi?"

A boy brought what looked like a fruit, appearing akin to an apple with a yellow-tan rind, also holding it up to me in his hand. Far too far out of reach for either of us to stretch. To indicate its edibility, the boy took a bite out of the fruit, then offered it back up again. The girl scowled and smacked him on the arm, perhaps chastising him for the rudeness of offering bitten fruit. The boy protested, shrugging his shoulders.

Apparently, they caused enough of a commotion to draw the attention of some adults. A woman wandered over, partially obscured by tree leaves, asking something loudly but with a short laugh, not yet seeing me. But that changed quickly, as all the children started chattering at once, a set of arms rising and pointing in unison, directly at me.

The woman looked up and jolted, and with a sweeping gesture of her arms, shooed away the children. They protested, but her tone brooked no argument, and they shuffled away, looking back forlornly at the tree.

It wasn't long afterwards until the king arrived.

He came on foot, and I recognized the sound of his voice, and Dad's, and Steve's — apparently in the midst of some kind of argument, though too far away for me to make out clearly; the ground dropped off to a lower level of the city, a set of stairs rising just some fifty feet away, where I saw them emerge.

Their voices got lower as they got closer; for a second, I wondered why. But given that their immediate presence didn't impress upon me the urge to get out of the tree — maybe they already thought not to spook me.

A part of me wanted to, really. But the other part, the part in control, refused to move my body. I felt safe up in the tree, untouchable, lost in the grandness of the city. Even as, after a short discussion, the King quietly scaled the tree.

He recoiled slightly at the sight of the bee's nest, before settling gingerly in the fork of two branches nearby, fixing me with a quizzical look. "The bees don't scare you, eh?"

I stared at him, and shook my head.

"Really? Well, I suppose you don't have these at home," T'Challa said, chuckling slightly. "Their sting is quite painful. Children are taught to respect them."

After a moment, I forced myself to speak. My voice croaked: "They're nice. They just want to be left alone."

"Ah," The King nodded slowly, and I could feel him watching me, even as I averted my gaze. He was silent for a long moment. "Is that why you hid up here? To be alone?"

I nodded. Looking down, I noticed the gaggle of kids had returned, though at a distance — peering curiously from the street, between the legs of adults that had gathered in curiosity. "I didn't scare them, did I?"

"Who?" T'Challa asked, then looked down and laughed a little. "Oh, the children? No, I would say they're more disappointed than anything else. I'm sure they'd like to meet you, if you want to come down."

But I shook my head. There was a reason why the kids couldn't get me down themselves; it was best I stayed up here, out of reach. Where I couldn't hurt anyone. I tucked my chin into my arm and reminded myself how to breathe.

"You have nothing to fear here, Mia," T'Challa spoke softly, leaning in slightly. After a pause, he added, "and I must apologize for my sister's behavior. I had warned her not to confront you. But she doesn't understand what happened. I couldn't tell her everything, and she — well, she is a scientist, she hunts for her own answers. I would give her the whole truth, if not for the possibility of harming you and your father further."

"I understand," I murmured. Those were not his secrets to tell; and, perhaps, not ones to risk getting out on accident. "It's hard to explain. She probably wouldn't understand, anyways."

"Ah, I wouldn't go that far," T'Challa smiled wryly. "I believe my sister is fully capable of understanding challenging, complex concepts — she knows them better than myself in some aspects. But if she wants to is another matter. I can give her more details, with your permission. All I ask you is to give Shuri some grace, as my hope is you will receive the same in turn. This is a difficult time, and you are both suffering."

I frowned to myself, letting those words sink in. After a moment, I glanced at him. "But so are you."

"Yes, but I am King," T'Challa nodded, and I couldn't help but notice how carefully he expressed himself, controlling his facial muscles, body language. He rested lithe and easy in the tree, like the great feline of his namesake. Showing only comfort and ease and lack of tension, probably for my benefit. But just like his sister, he'd lost his father, too. "I cannot afford the mistakes my sister can make. I will grieve in my own time. And preferably with less collateral damage, you might say."

"And your mother?"

"She has it worst of all, I think," T'Challa acknowledged with a dip of his head. "I cannot imagine her grief, or the strength she must have to carry it and still comfort us in turn. She is angry, too. Not at you. I don't think so, at least. She is still Queen Mother. If I show little, she will show none. It's best not to assume anything with her. But she will keep Shuri in line, that I can promise."

I could still recall with distinct clarity the Princess' face when her mother caught her — that universal oh shit expression, the shock and dread that every kid knew well. Not even a Princess was exempted from that experience. It almost would've been funny if not for the current state I was in.

The thought of facing either of them again was enough to keep my feet planted on the branch beneath me.

"Did you know this species of bees feeds exclusively on the flowers of the medlar tree?" T'Challa asked, his voice drawing me back out of my reverie. He pointed to the next, then to a cluster of small trees below, bearing the same fruit the boy had offered me earlier. "Scientifically they are known as Euglossa infausta, but here we call them medlar bees for that reason; they're found only in Wakanda. So exclusive is their diet that their honey tastes almost exactly like the fruit. The bees are the tree's primary pollinator, and we cultivate them, both for food and to keep the bees alive. Without them, we would lose a great number of our medlar trees."

"One can't survive without the other," I mused quietly.

"Indeed," T'Challa nodded sagely. "They are sometimes misunderstood, they're a wild species resistant to domestication and frequent predation means they're violent in defense of their hive. But they are only animals, and they only wish to survive; and their survival is an integral part of our ecosystem. It has taken many generations for us to learn how to live and grow alongside nature, rather than trying to conquer it."

"I see it," I said, lifting my fingers slightly from the branch, as if to point, but it was only a faint gesture. "In this city. The windmills and the solar panels and… and natural materials. And the bees. I…I like it."

"I thought you might appreciate that," T'Challa gave me a half-smile. After a moment, he added, "I know I cannot force you to come down. But when you do, there is something I want to give to you, and your father. When you're ready."

I shot him a baffled look. "What is it?"

My first thought was my shield, but technically it had already been returned to me, even if I hadn't physically received it yet. And if that was what T'Challa meant, I figured he would've said so. And yet, he shook his head, saying with a half smile, "You'll have to come down to find out."

With that, he began descending the tree again, as agile as a wildcat, and careful not to disturb the branch from which the bee's nest hung. I watched him go, thoughts churning.

What could there be left to give us?

✭✭✭

The King was clever. Eventually the fear would ebb, and my curiosity would get the better of me, in the end.

The jungle canopy swept past below, green leaves shining gold in the sunset.

I was not told where we were going. Maybe I would've caught it, had I not spent the first twenty minutes after coming down the tree getting new cuts and scrapes patched up. But from what I could tell, we were being flown to some remote location outside the capital city — as I later learned was called Birnin Zana — on a small aircraft that glided through the air on near-silent wings.

The Dora Milaje piloted at the King's guidance. Dad was with me. So was the Princess and her mother. I didn't know why, but I kept my distance, as much as I could on the small craft, strictly avoiding eye contact.

When we finally landed, the sun had set, the sky a deep purple hue, thousands of stars twinkling. Nearby sat a lake surrounded by nothing but trees and shrubs, mountains in the distance. The air was filled with the sound of wild nightlife, clicking bugs, croaking frogs, and trills and rustles of animals unseen. There was nothing here, as far as I could see, beyond a small fire that was already burning by the time we landed, a small group of people already gathered to greet the King as we landed.

"Not a bad spot to die," Dad said, in what might've been a joke (though the tone didn't quite reach his eyes).

Nevertheless, T'Challa laughed as he led the way towards the fire. "I promise I have nothing but your best interests, James Barnes. You will appreciate my desire for isolation soon enough."

No sooner had the light of the flames illuminated his features did T'Challa withdraw something from inside his coat. Small, thin, rectangular, I didn't immediately recognize what it was until the fire revealed the red leather, the black star embossed on the cover.

The Glass Presence.

Immediately, Dad tensed beside me, taking a half step forward. Already reaching out, before catching himself, eyes wide as his gaze flicked between book and King. His voice went low. "Where did you get that?"

"Zemo," T'Challa replied easily. At Dad's hesitation, he extended the book out towards him. "Please, take it. Zemo still had it during my last interrogation. He did not relinquish easily. I can personally guarantee that it has not been seen or opened by anyone else since I took possession of it. I know of its purpose, and that is enough."

Dad needed no further offer; and if he hadn't, I would've taken it instead. The book looked so small in Dad's hands, and he pulled it closer, carefully opening the cover in a way no one, not even me, could peer over his shoulder to read it. But it must have been the authentic article, because he snapped it shut almost immediately. A long moment, then, "…Thank you."

"I felt greatly obliged, given all that has occurred," T'Challa nodded his head. "It was only right that it was returned to you, to do with as you wish. Though, I suspect you'd want it destroyed. Hence the fire."

Dad was silent for a moment, his face pale in the firelight. Metal gears and phalanges groaning ever so slightly into the cover. I myself felt stricken, leaning forward slightly, compelled to say something but unsure of what.

"I must add," T'Challa added. "After I took it, Zemo attempted to compel me to read its contents. No doubt he thought he could corrupt me, or persuade me to use whatever secrets it keeps. He was not successful with me. But he will no doubt attempt similar negotiations in the future, even after he's lost it. The rumor of the Glass Presence alone is not without power."

"I understand." Bucky replied quietly. There was another meaning there behind his words. Something left unsaid.

With that, he raised his arm to throw the book into the fire.

"Wait!" I caught his wrist, startling both men. Their wide eyes on me, I blurted, "I want to read it!"

Dad stared at me, horrified. "Mia —!"

"Please!" I said, already knowing how crazy I sounded. But I knew if I would never get another chance like this. "I just want to look inside. Just to… just to see. To understand. And then! Then I'll throw it into the fire. I promise."

I sure as hell didn't want to keep it, and doubted any of its contents would convince me otherwise. But that book contained — a part of me, even if it wasn't about me, I knew. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that damn book.

It was an instruction manual to my entire existence.

The two men exchanged looks, and T'Challa just shrugged "As I said, it belongs to you now. It's your choice, if you believe it safe enough."

Dad frowned, confliction warring across his features. He looked back at me. "Mia, this book is dangerous. I don't even know everything that's inside. It might — it could hurt you."

"Not more than I already am," I countered. "Would it activate my protocol if I read it?"

Dad hesitated. "No. I don't think you're in this."

"You don't think?"

"The last time I saw this was before you were born," He told me, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his arm. Extending it towards me. "Until a week ago."

And in the back of my mind, I realized his true fear. Dad didn't want me to know that much about him. The parts even he himself didn't know. And the protocol trigger. Even if he already knew mine.

I wondered where Zemo got it.

Dad stared at me, silent, his expression betraying nothing but concern. His eyes searched mine before he finally let go of the book, dropping it in my hands. "If you're sure, then. But you have to burn it when you're done. You have to."

"I know, I will," I said, pressing the book to my chest, as if it were as personal and private as my own diary. "I promise."

"There's something else I'd like to discuss with you," T'Challa said to my father, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Not about this. But just as important, I think. Safeguarding your future."

I wanted to ask what that was about, but I had the Glass Presence, and they were already walking away; Dad giving me one last wary look, as if I might take off into the jungle book in hand. He'd tell me later, anyways. And I knew I didn't want to read this book with an audience.

The adults gathered together in a circle by the lake; the King, the Queenmother, Bucky, and the Dora Milaje. They spoke in low tones, far enough away that I couldn't understand them above the crackling of the fire. I looked around and took a seat in front of the flames; the ground was sandy but dry, a fallen log serving as an improvised bench.

I set the Glass Presence in my lap. And I opened it.

The first thing I noticed was that it was largely written in German — the rest, seemingly, in Russian; ancient penmanship decades old, the ink already starting to fade a little. Some of it was in block writing, other elements in cursive. Cursive Russian especially gave me a headache. But I wasn't going to let my own dyslexia stop me from what I wanted; even if it might be ill-advised.

On the blank page within, I realized someone had left an inscription.

An account of my magnum opus. Dr. Arnim Zola.

My heart skipped a beat. This wasn't just a manual. They were notes. A journal, as any scientist would keep, of their experiments, progress, and results.

And then I turned the page.

The first entry was post-dated 1945.

Subject was acquired from an alpine valley. Critical health, though stable. What remains of his left arm below the shoulder must be amputated before we can continue. My superiors do not think him viable, but I insisted that even such grievous loss is not insurmountable.

His arm can be replaced.

4 February, 1945

Surgery was successful. The remains of the arm have been removed, and the first elements of the prosthetic have been implanted. Patient is awake and in pain, but still delirious. No doubt his brain is recoiling at the mechanical neural pathways, alien as they are to the human mind. But the body has not rejected it, and thus our work continues.

On it went, showing detailed descriptions, hand drawn schematics, clippings and small photographs. The metal arm being constructed. Close-up images of skin grafted to metal. Personal asides complaining of Russian imprisonment and lack of resources.

The brainwashing process.

It got harder to read.

13 August, 1945.

The subject is still resisting, even after six months of conditioning. But I can see he is starting to break down. Lack of human connection, sunlight, and sleep is the most effective way to destroy a man's will to live. To fight. We have taken advanced measures to ensure he does not escape. He does not yet understand what has happened to him; he does not remember our first experimentation last year, in the labor camp. He did not remember me at first, either.

Fascinating.

Aside from Captain America, he remains the only successful super soldier experiment (we do not discuss Herr Schmidt). No physical deformations. His mind remains intact. No instability. Perfection. His body adapted perfectly to the arm. He carries it as if he were born with it.

The problem remains in keeping him contained when none of us are so gifted. Anesthetics and tranquilizers only work for a certain time - like a drug addict, a dose is no longer adequate for the same effect, and must be increased. Unlike an addict, he very quickly becomes immune to the effects entirely. The longest one has been effective is about a week. Injection, ingestion, and aerosol have been attempted, with no noticeable difference in effect. We have begun our attempts at using poisons, but those appear to be even less useful; he can taste it, no matter the substance, and will refuse to eat if he suspects his food has been tampered with.

Starvation is more effective. Strict containment within his cell. The super soldier requires more calories than the average human.

He must eat. He has to.

Or he will die.

23 October, 1945.

Subject is weakening. After expressing a desire to kill himself, rather than be of any use to us, he has made multiple attempts to end his life; thus, twenty-four hour restraints are required. It has been a learning experience; we have disabled his arm in the meantime, and have begun force-feeding a basic concentration of proteins and carbohydrates…

30 November, 1946.

He has stopped fighting.

It has been almost two years. But I believe we have finally brought him to heel. He no longer attempts to kill us or himself. He eats what he is given without pause or question. He no longer shouts obscenities or rails against his confines. He no longer repeats that silly mantra under his breath.

Truly, his conditioning started long ago. Now, the real work begins.

I have my canvas, now to wipe it clean. My superiors wanted a lobotomy, but I do not want a brainless shell of a creature, unable to operate at all. Idiots. He still needs the organ in one piece. So we have built a new device, a machine based on the theory of electrotherapy; charged shocks directed at specific points of the brain in order to erase thought and memory. Prior test subjects have shown proven effects. Now I wonder how it will work on the mind and body of a super soldier…

It is necessary. There are still trace elements of resistance. One of the Russians found an improvised knife hidden in the subject's cell. We must guarantee total obedience and docility before we may continue.

As long as he remembers the man he once was, he will never truly belong to us.

19 April, 1947.

Programming is complete. We will begin cryo tests shortly. After each awakening, the subject must first be activated as soon as possible, to minimize any chance of independent thought to form. Though he no longer retains his core memories, the subject can lose ground if left to his own devices for too long.

We have already settled on a phrase to use. My superiors insisted on Russian being the dominant programming language, much to my distaste, but nevertheless. It should remain effective. The code is very specific and must be spoken, within audible distance of the subject, to completion in order for the activation to be successful. It is best he remained restrained until such a time that his activation is confirmed.

Желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. Товарный вагон.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.

And thus emerges the Winter Soldier.

A drop of water stained the page, the old ink hydrating and pooling liquid again. I started slightly, before wiping at my face.

I hadn't realized I started crying.

And, in a sudden fit of rage, I ripped the page from the binding, and threw it into the flames.

The others I had just read soon followed, a small chunk torn from the book. I watched, with blurred vision, as those wicked words were burned away, turned to nothing but ash and smoke.

And still I read on, and with each page I finished, it went into the fire. I read descriptions and took in images of things I never wanted to see again; horrible acts and terrible photos that would be burned into my mind forever.

And still I did not stop.

I could see now why Dad did not want to read this. Why, if he did not remember, he did not want to. And the only reason I could bear to read this was because it didn't happen to me — these weren't my memories. A level of distance and separation that just barely gave me the space to breathe and forge onwards.

After the seventies, Arnim Zola was replaced by a Russian doctor, whose name I did not care to remember at this point. He was probably already dead by now, given the dates. The page that inscribed the Winter Soldier's trigger phrase went up in flames, as well as instructions on how to change and update his protocol. Noted flaws in the programming. The beginning of the cryo-freezing process, functional immortality.

Decades and decades of writing, contained in one small book. Being that it was mostly a recording of experiments and results, a logging of operational information, there wasn't much on what the Winter Soldier actually did. No talk of his missions, his targets, only observations on injuries, healings, responses to different treatments, if any.

It all went into the fire.

The passages started to trickle, becoming less and less frequent as the years wore on and the journal was used less for record keeping and more for its current purpose as a guidebook, needing few further additions.

Until the end, when I turned a page, and saw two pictures, side by side. A top-down view of a body lying on an operating table. One small and frail, one large and healthy.

The same girl.

"Is that you?" A voice startled me.

I slapped the book closed with a gasp, swinging my head around to stare at the Princess sitting next to me; as if she had appeared out of nowhere, though as my mind caught up, I realized she must have been sitting there for some time now. I had been so engrossed in the Glass Presence, I had not noticed.

She looked back at me, wincing slightly. A far less aggressive response than the last time we spoke to each other. "Sorry, I — I didn't mean to scare you." She grimaced. "Please don't tell my mother."

I blinked at her. "You didn't mind so much last time."

She looked away, the flames reflecting in her dark eyes. "My brother told me to apologize for that."

I watched her for a moment longer, hackles still up, suspicious. She wasn't so close as to touch me, but definitely close enough that had she been leaning over, she would've been able to see the pictures. My throat went dry, before I said, "...I'm sorry, too. For… for your father."

The Princess glanced back at me, something flickering in those eyes of hers, and it wasn't the flames. "My brother says you are not responsible. Even though you were there. He did not tell me everything, that first time."

"How much do you know now?" I asked, my tone still guarded. I couldn't be sure what exactly T'Challa told his sister, or how he put it. A story told second or third-hand could have strayed wildly from the truth.

"Enough, I think," The Princess gave a sharp nod, lifting her chin up a bit. "Enough to answer my question. My initial hypothesis was correct. Zemo did not actually need you."

I couldn't remember what the question was exactly, or how that answered it. I'd rather not think too much about what happened earlier today. "And your conclusion?"

The Princess looked at me, folding her hands in her lap as she straightened a little. Official, confident. "Zemo's primary goal was to cause as much destruction as possible. Physical destruction with the bomb, of course. But also mental and emotional destruction. He killed my father one way. He intended to kill your father in the other way."

Her eyes drew up, and I followed her gaze to the group of adults in the distance, now kneeling on the ground, still in deep discussion. I could recognize Dad's silhouette, by bulk and lanky hair, the gleam of moonlight on metal. The Princess added, "I think Zemo was very close to succeeding."

The Glass Presence felt like a block of hot lead in my hand. My voice barely a whisper. "Yeah, that passes peer review."

The air between us was silent for a long minute, just the sound of crackling fire to accompany us. It was starting to dim despite my frequent feeding of it, and the Princess leaned over to feed another log into the pit. She dropped the piece of wood, and a plume of sparks flew into the air. "My father used to tell me stories on nights like this, when the sky was clear. He said the stars were our ancestors, and they would always be there, watching us from above. When I was a child, I used to look up and wonder which ones were my uncle, my grandparents. Now," she raised her face to the sky, squinting into the darkness obscured by campfire smoke. "I wonder which one is him."

I, too, looked up, and saw a pattern of stars I didn't recognize. The Milky Way was there, but nothing else familiar. In the southern hemisphere, it was all different. "I don't know these stars. Where I'm from, you can barely see them at night, even with a clear sky."

"That's a shame," The Princess said, lowering her face back to the fire. Her gaze, far away. "I know stars are just balls of gas and fire, base elements in constant fusion, millions upon billions of lightyears away. They cannot possibly be the spirits of my ancestors. But…"

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hugging herself. "It still brings me comfort sometimes."

Then she looked over at the book in my lap. "Is that what my brother gave you? He's been carrying it with him the whole day. Wouldn't let me see it."

"Yes," I said, and failed to elaborate. I couldn't even begin trying to describe what this was. Or what it meant.

The Princess waited, and when I did not continue, she said, "My brother said you were not acting of your own willpower. That you were not being coerced, but… controlled. Is that why?"

My gaze remained fixed on that black star. "It's how."

"Oh." The Princess frowned, tilting her head slightly. "I see."

The fire crackled.

"You're in there, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Your father doesn't know that," The Princess surmised, raising her eyebrows at me. "And I doubt he would have let you read it if he'd known."

The brightness of the flames burned into my eyes.

Daring to open the book again, I took another look at those old photographs. Me, before and after the exposure to Vita radiation. Unconscious or almost so. Tubes and IV's and hastily scrawled notes about health and viability. I was careful this time, not to let the Princess see, as I ripped them out and threw them into the flames.

There were only about ten more pages of me, squeezed into the back end of the book. A hasty addition, unexpected, but just as readily recorded. Shorter, because they only had me for two years.

A list of words.

Бунтарь. Колумбия. Пустой.

Rebel. Columbia. Hollow…

I ripped the page away just as my fingers started to tinkle, and threw the crumpled ball into the flames. The rest of the pages soon followed, and then finally, the cover — an empty shell of leather and board, ripped stitches and glue from the binding, flopping empty, useless, harmless into the fire.

I didn't take my eyes away as tongues of flame licked its sides, the leather cracking and curling away as if it could escape, the board beneath smoking and fizzlin, red and black burning into one until there was nothing left.

Nothing left at all.

"I'll tell him," I said, as the pile of ash crumbled into the coals. "Eventually."

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Six

✭

“I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to make me feel better,” Howie groused as Peter adjusted the pillow behind his head. 

Howie was laid back on the couch in Aunt May’s house; she was already making popcorn in the kitchen. Peter was doing his best impression of a mother hen while Howie was incapacitated on his left side; broken arm, broken rips, and a very bruised shoulder. But all in all looking in pretty good spirits for someone who got shot out of the sky. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter held up his hands and backed off. Howie had elected his place to stay for the next few days while Tony Stark fielded the mad world of legal fees and international court; from what Peter could understand it, the only Avenger who could buy his freedom back, or at least convince a panel of judges that the Accords didn’t apply to him, if not stop it completely. 

The rest of the Avengers? In the wind, as far as Peter knew. Captain America was persona non grata as far as the current administration was concerned, and was currently polling  heavy losses in approval. For better or worse, the American people loved the Avengers, and hated the Accords. Advocacy groups and famous celebrities were popping up everywhere as spokespeople, online and in real world protests. That was what dominated the TV channels as Howie flipped through them with a bored expression. 

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Peter asked, for what may have been the millionth time that afternoon. Never say that a Parker was a bad host, if not an annoying one. 

Howie threw him an aggrieved look and signed something Peter decided not to translate. “Hey! That’s not nice. You want a lemonade or something. My aunt’s not gonna let you off that couch unless you gotta use the bathroom, so fair warning.”

The boy pouted and kept flicking through channels. At last, he stopped on one playing a cut of an Indiana Jones movie. At last he mumbled, “Lemonade sounds nice.”

It was humid back at home, and Peter could tell Howie was probably a little hot inside their house, with its limited air conditioning. It was much better than outside, but certainly not the modern comforts of a state-of-the-art Avengers facility or anything. Or an old-ass TV that did not offer intuitive buttons on its remote control to activate the subtitles. 

It was actually a gorgeous day outside if not for the heat wave, and Peter wondered what normal kids were doing out in the city today. Not nursing wounds and fretting about international politics, probably. Maybe going to the pool, or the beach, or out getting ice cream… oh, ice cream! “It’s not gelato, but we got some vanilla ice cream if you want some, too.” 

That got a more enthusiastic response, so off Peter went to fetch his new young feudal lord his snackies. 

“How’s he doing?” Aunt May asked in an undertone, shaking out the popcorn bag into a bowl and adding some powder mix, the kind to make it taste like the movie theater stuff.

“Like your average angsty thirteen year old,” Peter remarked lightly. “Who hates being coddled by anyone not his mom.”

“Ah, of course, I remember that age,” Aunt May nodded in deep wisdom. Then she looked at him. “And you, Peter?”

“Oh, you know,” Peter chuckled nervously, not expecting this to turn on him. “I’ll be back to my old self in no time.” 

He cringed. Wow. That came out even worse than he thought; Aunt May raised a skeptical eyebrow to let him know for sure. But she didn’t cross her arms and lecture him. She just reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, Peter. There’s no rush, you’ve got nothing to prove.”

Oh, but he did. 

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, and bit his lip. He wanted to tell her so much. Wanted to tell her everything. That he was there when Howie got hurt. That this was his fault. That he was Spider-Man and that’s why he managed to stay out of sight while Interpol was trying to track him down while she was stuck in custody. And of course, Aunt May covered for him in that plausible deniability way, but still — she didn’t have to do that. She shouldn’t have to. 

Luckily, he healed fast enough that he only looked slightly scruffy when they had reunited in France, before the flight home. Turns out when you piss off the French, the wheels of bureaucracy move just a little bit faster — at least in this instance. Maybe not so much for Tony Stark. But it definitely wasn’t going so great for Ross, trying to maintain America’s first and longest foreign ally after mobilizing US forces in their city without their permission.

Going so well for that guy.

But yeah. Lots going through his mind right now. Lots he could say to Aunt May. Just confess it all right here, right now.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Peter finally said, “I’m just… tired. I hope…” his throat clenched with a sudden wave of emotion that he had to swallow. “That Mia will come home soon.” 

“She will,” Aunt May squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Mia will come back. This isn’t forever. This is just for now.”

Peter sighed and decided not to say anything else. He couldn’t. Didn’t trust himself, as he gathered the lemonade and ice cream bowl and brought it back to the living room, where Howie was playing with the TV’s sound level with one hand on the remote, his other hand fiddling with a hearing aid. He gladly received the bowl of ice cream directly, and for a while they sat in silence, watching the movie. They had it on DVD somewhere, but there was something about the censored curse words and TV cutting that felt oddly fitting for the moment. Like they weren’t both living edited lives to make themselves more suitable for public viewing. Howie, vanished from the news entirely except for a strange story about an injury while in Europe; Peter, the totally normal teen boy who got wrapped up in some legal matter, also in Europe, and came back a-okay, nothing to see here, no sir. 

In fact, as far as any of his friends were concerned, Peter and Howie were not direct friends, but friends through Mia, and he was doing this as a favor. Because Peter was definitely not in the habit of playing sleepover with the children of billionaires. At least, not since middle school. 

Beside him, Howie cleared his throat. Not to speak, but to get Peter’s attention, and when he had it, Howie signed, Don’t tell Mia how I broke my arm. 

“What? Why?”

Because it’s embarrassing! Howie struggled to use both hands with one arm in a sling, but the emphasis was caught well enough. Peter got the feeling he was only using sign language because he didn’t want Aunt May to overhear. 

“ It’s not embarrassing!” Peter protested, only to be met with an eyeroll. “No, come on! How is it embarrassing? You’re the victim here! Everyone loves a victim.”

That was apparently not a convincing argument for Howie, who huffed in annoyance while signing, Because it makes me look stupid! I should’ve seen it coming! My auto-detection worked just fine, I just wasn’t paying attention! I had plenty of time to deploy flares but —

Peter waved a hand to interrupt him, “No, no, Mia’s not gonna care about any of that, okay? She’s just gonna be glad you’re okay. We all are.”

Just don’t tell her, okay? Howie asked, now with a pleading expression. Or let me be the one to tell it. I’ll probably still be in a cast anyways when she gets back.

It was only going to be a couple more weeks. That’s what Steve said in his last phone call with Aunt May (who still refused to speak with Bucky directly). All Peter knew for sure was that Mia was in Wakanda and that she was healing and herself again. Negotiating her return home was still up to King T’Challa and whatever was going on with the UN and Interpol, stuff that wasn’t on the news or in any official document, probably. 

But she’ll be home. 

She always returned home.

“Fine, fine,” Peter relented, shaking his head. Far be it from him to gossip, when Howie was perfectly capable of speaking for himself. “But you better fess up the first time she sees you again. I’m not going to cover for any lie you tell her.”

Howie scowled slightly, but finally nodded in agreement. 

“Lying to who?” Aunt May asked as she returned with the complete bowl of popcorn and some napkins for them all. 

“No one,” Peter said too quickly, earning a wince from Howie, who hadn’t been able to answer fast enough. He pretended not to notice. “I mean, just about how he got his arm broken. Gotta come up with a cooler reason than a being in the backseat of a car crash.”

That was the running news story as far as the public was concerned. Howie definitely wasn’t involving himself in an international incident and just so happened to have been caught in a car crash instead, to explain his injuries. Peter doubted the story would hold water for long, but it should last until Tony Stark got his name cleared and custody restored, and maybe then Howie could have his official coming out party.

Or, you know. However you wanna call it. Hard to deny that the new tiny Iron Man suit wasn’t also the appropriately tiny son of the adult Iron Man. Peter wondered if Tony Stark had considered what a public superhero persona would be like for a kid hero. 

Just another reason to keep his own secret from Aunt May. 

“Oh, well, of course,” Aunt May said, throwing a knowing look at Howie, who flushed up to his ears. “Can’t have Mia thinking you’re not cool anymore. We all know how her opinions are more important than just telling the truth.”

“Not like that,” Howie mumbled, stuffing some popcorn into his mouth to stall for a better answer. “Just…want things to go back to normal, I guess.”

“Don’t we all,” Aunt May mused, with a look to Peter that he didn’t understand. When Peter didn’t respond, she sighed and said, “Someday, boys. Just give it time.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Seven

✭

The new rooms were airier and built with stronger glass.

I couldn't decide if I liked more windows or less; the view here was better, yet on bad days, felt too exposing. It was also a private apartment now, separate but connected to Dad's via an interior door. I liked the privacy more than he did; Dad couldn't make it a single night, as I discovered the hard way.

I had been fast asleep when he snuck in, and thus didn't know he'd been sleeping on the floor at the foot of my bed when I accidentally stepped on him the following morning.

Despite my foot nearly busting open his stitches again, Dad didn't drop the habit. And I didn't ask him to. He probably still remembered all too well how I had managed to disappear from a moving train without anyone's notice; there was no such thing as a truly secure place after that event.

And that was besides the comfort his presence gave me, when nightmares chased me in my sleep.

It was certainly a strange sight for the nurses when they came in to check on me, and found Dad curled up on his side on the floor, pretending he wasn't in pain.

"Njengotata wengcuka," one woman said to the other, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

They were both fighting smiles as they helped Bucky to his feet, before checking on my busted knee and flashing my pupils. I had a few cuts and bruises left from my little jailbreak, but nothing serious, not as bad as the strain I put on my knee, which was only just coming out of its post-shattering pain. I still walked with a slight limp, however.

I hadn't told him yet what I had read in the Glass Presence, and Dad hadn't asked. I figured he wouldn't, but I also suspected he didn't realize how much was in there. That I was in there. And that, I thought, he'd want to know. I just hadn't figured out a way to bring it up yet.

And that was besides everything else that I had read. The stuff about him in there that I didn't think he knew about, either. More than I ever thought I'd find, or want to know.

Engraved indelibly into my mind.

Yet there was progress, I thought. No more incidents in the following week, trying to adjust to some new normal, trying to get myself accustomed. And some things never changed; Dad had offered to braid my hair, and I had let him, and for a little while everything felt normal again.

I didn't expect to see Shuri again so soon; though it felt like we had made some sort of peace that night at the fire pit, I knew better than to think she'd keep seeking me out.

But I was a little wrong.

Just after the nurses were leaving our morning check-in, the Princess appeared in the doorway.

"I require your presence," The Princess said, hands behind her back and bouncing slightly on her feet. Though her expression was impassive, she seemed possessed of an excited energy. She spoke directly to me, and when I didn't immediately jump to my feet, she added wryly, "I'm sure your father can take care of himself for an hour or two."

I heard Dad snort behind me, but he offered no protests. I shot him a look, before looking back at Shuri. Her demeanor had changed considerably since our first encounter, but a part of me was still wary.

The other part of me was getting cabin fever.

And I was curious. Killing the cat and all, but I gave Dad a questioning look and he merely nodded his assent. I was surprised how easily he relented, considering how he wouldn't let me out of his sight since the moment we got here.

With a huff, I shifted myself out of bed, testing the weight on my knee before determining it okay to walk on. All my experience from extended hospital stays said that too much bed-rest would hurt more than it helped; at a certain point, the injured muscles needed gentle stretching and exercise in order to get stronger before a sometimes-permanent weakness set in. And with my accelerated healing factor, that exercise factor had to come in sooner rather than later. I didn't know if I could end up with a permanent injury, less severe than the permanent loss of a body part. But I'd rather not take the chance.

Slippered feet moved quietly across cool flooring. The slippers were a little small for me, but soft, and I followed Shuri out of the room. She turned on her heel and bopped away ahead; as I stepped out the door, I noticed one of the Dora Milaje waiting outside; not one of Shuri's escorts, as the woman instead turned inside after we had left.

I watched her over my shoulder, frowning slightly as I overheard her and my dad's voices in low conversation. But I was already too far away, and Shuri was not slowing down.

She was nearly a head shorter than me, but I had decided not to be that much younger. Only a year, maybe two — and perhaps enough of a royal ego to make up what she lacked in height.

She was dressed in white again, but now in a more streamlined, tailored dress and, I noticed, close-toed shoes. Chunky soles, but more functional than fashionable, I thought. The metal beads glittered in the braids coiled atop her head, and though she lacked excessive ornamentation, there was no doubt as to her status in these halls.

My clothes were, in comparison, much less fancy. They hung on me loosely, partly due to my changing weight, and partly because I'd finally gotten out of hospital gowns and wanted the extra movement — slightly baggy joggers and a loose black shirt with a distressed gray insignia emblazoned across the chest, giving me the impression that it was a borrowed rock band t-shirt. Maybe even Shuri's, I wondered. It was too short, or perhaps cropped on purpose — I hadn't worn it before today, otherwise I might have reconsidered, because if I raised my arms too high it revealed my bare midriff.

But in the meantime, it would do. Nothing too tight that might restrict blood flow to healing injuries.

The palace was a maze of halls and corridors, cut of dark stone polished so smooth it almost looked like metal. We went down several sets of stairs and an elevator. On the whole, the journey took nearly fifteen minutes, once the underground tram was accounted for — a ride so smooth and silent it felt like we weren't moving at all until it started to brake again. Our way was made mostly in silence, but only felt truly awkward when we were standing in the elevator chamber with the two Dora Milaje that followed Shuri. The close quarters made them, and their vibranium spears, especially prominent in my peripheral vision. I still recalled very clearly what it was like to be struck by one.

"They don't usually accompany me everywhere," Shuri said, as if she knew what I was thinking. Before us, the elevator's panel blinked another number down. "They just don't trust you. Nothing personal."

I closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled. That much I could've figured out for myself, but there was something in Shuri's casual, self-satisfied tone that demanded a little jab of my own. "Huh. I thought it was because your mother didn't trust you."

Shuri jolted slightly, taken aback, before throwing her head back in a bark of laughter. "Ha! You have no idea."

Behind us, the Dora Milaje shared an aside glance.

When the elevator opened (after my ears popped), we walked out into clean white halls with walls of blue screens. Music rolled in, a surprisingly upbeat sound that wouldn't have been entirely out of place in a club, perhaps. Or perhaps Tony's workshop.

Shuri led around a corner, and opened her arms up to reveal the tall room that lay beyond. "Welcome to my lab!"

It was several floors of partly open space, with the far wall revealing a long window spanning the entire height of the laboratory, opening out into what looked like a mining cavern, glowing faintly in the darkness. But what was far more interesting was what laid before us, as Shuri nearly skipped down the ramp towards the first level below.

There were a multitude of tables and workspaces, machines and lab technicians, wearing the same white material that Shuri was; she gestured to an array of suited mannequins, dressed in what appeared to be different versions of the Black Panther suit. "Ignore those, they're ideas for my brother he hasn't seen yet. Haven't worked out all the kinks…"

Instead, she walked me through an array of different stations and items; a majority of them made of vibranium, it seemed. Some of them were general devices, but more than a few were weapons, little grenades and soundless shoes.

It was all very cool, I had to admit, though I wasn't entirely sure why Shuri brought me here. To show off, I supposed, as I came to understand that she spent a lot of time here.

"This isn't just a hobby," she explained to me. "It's my job. My official title is Royal Engineer. Or something to that effect, everyone still calls me Princess. But I'm very good at it. All the latest technology in Wakanda? My designs. The Jabari Tribe wish they had someone like me up in those freezing mountains…"

"You made all this?" I asked, looking around. There had to be more than a hundred projects here, and that wasn't including what I could remember seeing in Birnin Zana, in my brief scamper through its streets. I remembered the hover trams, the holographic bracelets, lights like glowing tattoos painted on building walls.

"Of course!" Shuri grinned, none too humble to announce it. "But that's not all I wanted to show you."

She gestured for me to follow, and on another level below, she brought me to a table, with a very familiar object laying on top.

My shield.

"I've taken the liberty to clean it," Shuri explained as she walked around the table, gesturing to the shield, angled on a small easel. It gleamed under the light, pure vibranium utterly unblemished even after everything it had been through. "All that ugly paint, I didn't think it suited you."

I stared at it for a moment, remembering what Dad told me. "It's not like Steve's shield. This one came from stolen metal."

"I'm aware," Shuri smiled that little smile, like she was hiding something behind her back. She bounced on her toes. "But you stole it back, yes?"

My lips screwed up to one side as I thought about it, and shrugged. "I'm sure the original thieves see it that way."

"Well, there is a common proverb we have here in Wakanda," Shuri said, leaning in with a widening smile, like she was sharing a secret. "'He who steals from a thief has earned a hundred pardons.' I think that applies here, no?"

I found myself smiling hesitantly. I rather liked that saying. Quite a bit. "I'll take your word for it, Princess."

"Good," Shuri sighed. "T'Challa already said you could have it back. Besides, it hardly compares to the massive amount of Vibranium Klaue stole, that Ultron stole from him, that was eventually turned into an android, whose quasi-human consciousness that would make it ethically difficult to reacquire. Anyways! This bit is yours. But I can give it a new paint job if you like. Something more modern, perhaps?"

With that, she pulled up some holographs of different designs, in different colors and patterns, but all with a distinct geometric style that seemed iconic to Wakandan culture. When I failed to express any interest, Shuri frowned and asked, "Hmm, I'll keep working on it, then. Did the red star have significant meaning to you?"

Without thinking, my hand went up to cover my left shoulder, rubbing the skin beneath my sleeve. "Yeah. For the shield, it started out unrelated to me. An undercoat, I think. But for me, it's different. I didn't have a choice either way."

Pulling up my sleeve, I showed her the tattoo. Shuri stared at it for a moment, her eyebrows raising as my meaning caught on. "Ah. I see. Well, now you do have a choice. No rush, obviously. Have you thought of adding to it?"

"Adding to what?" I asked, confused, looking down at the shield.

But Shuri pointed at my arm instead. "Your tattoo. Adding more to your arm. Or removing it entirely. We have the technology for that, too. Very clean."

I had thought of removing it, briefly, now and then. But every time, I'd come to the same conclusion of keeping it, for the same reason I had when Aldrich Killian asked me about it years ago. I wasn't going to hide what happened to me.

But adding to it…? I hadn't considered that before.

(Not the least of which because it would be ridiculously expensive at home, with money I did not have to throw around on that sort of thing).

Still, I was intrigued by the idea, and tucked it away for future consideration.

"I'm keeping it," I told her at length, dropping my hand back to my side. "But thank you. I'll think about it."

Shuri blinked at me, a slight frown pulling her brow, that had me afraid I'd insulted her somehow. Until she said, "There are dozens of powerful men across the world that would salivate for this plain disk. And here you are, not even reaching for it, even though it's been yours for the past several years." She tilted her head. "You don't miss it?"

Her question took me off guard. "I-I do! I just… I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

I licked my lips, wondering how to phrase this. "I don't know if I want it back."

Shuri, hands planted on the table, held my gaze until I had to look away. After a moment, she said, "It's not just about the history, is it?"

"No," I said. "I just — I don't know if I can go back to that. To… being a hero. Or whatever I was before."

Now Shuri looked truly surprised, shaking her head in disbelief. "But what about the team? Who will lead them?"

It was my turn to be confused now. "Team? What team?"

"Your team!" Shuri exclaimed, gesturing sharply to me, and when I failed to produce any understanding, she huffed and grabbed a tablet. A few moments, while she drew something up, before passing it to me. "That team! Those are your friends, right?"

I took the tablet, frowning as I turned it over. On the screen was a digital copy of TIME magazine, the latest edition. On the cover was a photograph, captured low to the ground, a scene filled with smoke, debris, and framed by the boots of army soldiers. In the midfield, centered in the image, was a tight group of people. For a moment, it resembled the Avengers, but their smaller and slimmer profiles belied younger people.

A smaller Iron Man suit. A red-and-green caped android hovering in the air, side by side with Scarlet Witch in her signature red, hands aglow as her hair whipped in the air. Spider-Man in a city he didn't belong in, crouched low on the ground, while Quicksilver was the only one slightly out of focus, caught mid step, his face and limbs blurred with movement so fast even a high-quality camera couldn't catch still.

And in great bold letters across the bottom of the frame, read:

THE YOUNG AVENGERS?

It finally dawned on me, just a little.

I looked up at Shuri, training my expression to remain neutral. "This is not my team. I'm not even in the picture."

"Maybe not, but you could be," Shuri insisted, and there was a strange intensity in her dark eyes. She was smiling, for some reason. Excited by this, as if she were a fan.

"I tried to kill them," I pointed out. "And I probably would have if T'Challa hadn't been there to stop me. I was never a part of this team."

I didn't want to pull up the memory, or have to explain it to Shuri in detail in case she didn't believe me. That event, among all of them, gave me the worst nightmares. Wondering what would've happened if the Soldatka had won.

Shuri scowled, pressing her lips together in frustration. "Yes, but they came together because of you. To rescue you, right?"

"Sure," I said with a meager shrug. "Not that they would've been successful."

Zemo would've assured that I killed them first. Or myself. No matter what.

"I haven't seen any of them since," I added, just as Shuri opened her mouth again to argue with me. "Not since the Alps. I don't even know what they think about me now. Even if they did let me on this team again, would they really let me lead after what I did?"

I didn't even know if they'd talk to me after this. If Peter would even look at me after everything that happened. I still had no idea how the hell he got to Europe, this picture of him in Paris was by far the most extraordinary image of Spider-Man I'd ever seen. In the back of my mind, I knew Peter must be kicking himself, wishing he had taken this picture. His boss would've paid a fortune for it.

"Maybe!" Shuri threw up her hands. She dropped them again, sighing. "I don't blame you for wanting to step back. Recovery is important, I know, I know. But I believe they exist right now because of you. So don't… don't give up on the idea, hm? You can use your gifts for good. This shield included."

It occurred to me that this was all quite a kindness Shuri was offering me, a level that I didn't think I had earned yet. Maybe this was her usual personality, but a part of me suspected it was something else.

I studied her for a long moment, long enough that the silence hung. Shuri held my gaze, until she started to shift awkwardly, getting uncomfortable, glancing to the side then back again.

Only then, with a flat look, did I finally say, "You want to be a part of this team, don't you?"

"No!" Shuri's eyes widened, her cheeks darkening with a flush. She inhaled, puffing up her chest, before deflating again. "I really really really want to be on the team. And you are my only way in."

I couldn't help but laugh, but it only made the princess more flustered. She clenched her fists to her side, sounding indignant as she added, "T'Challa already gave me permission! He thinks it's okay, even if my mother… doesn't. But so long as you agree, then there's nothing to worry about!"

But that wasn't my concern at all (though it was quite interesting that the King had both already considered it, and had agreed…). I just gaped at her and asked, "Why? Why do you even want to be a part of this team?"

"Why not?" Shuri shot back. "My brother got to join the Avengers, why can't I? I'm smarter than him, I have my own equipment, you've seen all that. And I can make more, too! I want to do what he does. And I want to see the world! See the things he's seen. And more! Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be trapped in this country, this city, this room, your entire life?"

It wasn't that I didn't find her unconvincing. In fact, that told me more than enough why Shuri wanted to be on the team. But that didn't mean I thought it was a good idea. "You don't know anyone on the team, or how you'll get along with them. You don't even like me."

She made a face. "I never said that."

"Well, you really didn't like me a week ago."

"Yes, yes, I know," Shuri rolled her eyes, as if annoyed at the reminder of how she provoked me into jumping out a window. She tapped the tips of her fingers together. "That wasn't my… best moment. I don't know you, and you don't know me, either. And I know I have no actual experience. But I thought — well, since you're here, I could try. Prove myself somehow. Though I would prefer not to fight you."

Prove herself? Well, that certainly explained the showing off of her lab and projects; what I realized now as a not-so-subtle presentation of her skills and assets as a potential team member. With, of course, the offering of a redesigned shield to earn my personal favor.

I shifted on my feet, feeling a little off-balance. Like I'd just walked into a job interview, not realizing I was hiring.

"I wouldn't ask you to," I said finally, shaking my head. I didn't want to fight anyone, not unless I had to. And definitely not Shuri. "And… what you have here, it really is impressive, your highness. But I don't think I'm the person you think I am. I don't have the power to get you on the team even if they let me join. If it even still exists. They'll have to learn to trust you, too."

That was, unfortunately, not the right thing to say. Shuri slammed her palms to the table again, thrilled. "I'll earn it!"

I blinked at her, still unsure she actually understood what she wanted to sign up for. "You know, if I'm really the leader of this thing, as you say — that means you'd have to listen to me when we're working together. Like you listen to your brother."

That was the best comparison I could make, I figured, already guessing how Shuri might feel about that. As typical with sibling relationships, I suspected that would be a hard pill to swallow; Shuri seemed displeased but tried to hide it, shaking her head and smiling, "A small price to pay as your second-in-command."

"Whoa, my what?" I caught myself before I could laugh again, but I couldn't force back the smile, waving a hand back and forth. The Princess sure had a set of vibranium balls. "Well, aside from the fact that there are no official rankings as far as I know, you expect the rest of the team to listen to you, too?"

"They would," Shuri said, a feline smile that spoke of self-assured confidence. "If you told them to."

I narrowed my eyes, making a face. "Unfortunately, Princess, the team isn't going to be much like your throne room. Things don't just happen because I say it happens. If I'm allowed to say it at all."

And that's not to say I already had an idea of who'd be my second-in-command. If that was ever a thing. But I knew who I trusted most.

"That's alright," Shuri finally surrendered with a casual shrug, so it didn't feel like surrender at all. "There's enough time for that. But if and when you return — you'll ask them, right?"

She looked at me, bold and upright, with only a thinly-veiled imploring behind her eyes. At last, I sighed, folding my arms across my chest. "Sure, fine, I'll ask. That's the best I can do. But no promises. I… I have no idea what it's going to be like when I get back home."

Between the indeterminate timeframe and Secretary Ross' unrelenting hunt for any heroes, adult or otherwise, I couldn't even say if my friends, team or not, would still be out of his clutches. A lot could happen.

"So long as you do," Shuri replied with a smile, and with a primness that seemed more performance than nature, she placed her hands together and walked towards the next table down the line. "There are more things I'd like to show you anyways. I think I have some electrified daggers you might be interested in."

I stood there, resolute. There was no way I was letting Shuri bribe her way into my good graces. She said she wanted to earn it, and I was willing to see it through, whether I had that authority or not.

Still, I couldn't help but glance at her out of the corner of my eyes. "Electrified, you say?"

art by me:)

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Eight

✭

The farm sat neatly under a large tree, the nearest village nearly a mile away.

This was our third move in as many weeks. It occurred to me that our presence here was not exactly publicly acknowledged. Not entirely secret, either, but the average Wakandan civilian either didn't know, or didn't know why, two outsiders were here (three, if you counted Steve).

It made sense, I realized in hindsight. The King would not make his own people complicit in such secret, risky politics. Not when we (that is, Steve and Bucky) were wanted men. Wakanda had yet to establish any extradition policies with any allied countries, something I doubted T'Challa wanted to rush into when he was harboring fugitives and an American like Secretary Ross had some serious beef.

Though he never appeared upset by my jailbreak, T'Challa didn't exactly offer a tour of Birnin Zana, either. Nor were we ever out of sight of the palace guards.

Until now.

I wasn't so naive as to believe we weren't being monitored, but I had never lived in a rural area before — it appeared as though there was no one around for miles. The farm was maybe more of a homestead, with a small garden and small paddock to fence in the collection of goats and chickens. Beyond were wide open plains, more trees further out, and then the foothills to the snowy mountains. It was hot here but, as I discovered upon walking inside the thatched-roof house, not unbearable. It was actually quite cool inside, and something about the curvature of the clay walls had me suspecting they were built with a cooling air current in mind.

Our first day at the farm was the last day with Steve. He was heading out of Wakanda, with no sure time of when he'd be able to return. He didn't tell me too much. I imagined for the purpose of plausible deniability, but perhaps because he didn't want me involved anymore than I already was.

But I could guess, as he hugged me good-bye, where he was going. To break into the Raft. To get everyone free. To get some form of the Avengers in action again, under the nose of Ross and everyone else who wanted them behind bars.

It was quiet out here. Almost too quiet, aside from the sounds of nature. At night, I sometimes felt like I might go crazy, wondering if I was hearing things that weren't there. It could be bangs or thumps or the rustling that might be voices or footsteps. Sometimes, it was just a strange ringing in my ears, that ebbed and flowed with the ambient sound around me. It was almost maddening — enough to send me into fits of anxiety or even panic; uncontrollable breathing or sudden fits of crying.

Though that might just be the trauma.

But at least there were no Dora Milaje to witness it now. Less awkward.

Despite the location, the house had modern plumbing, a shower with hot water, clean water from the faucets. Cleaner than just about anything I've had in ages. It was only two rooms, but I found I liked being outside anyways — at night, sitting at the edge of a nearby pond, looking up at the stars.

Endless stars.

The silence would only be interrupted by the beeping of the kimoyo bracelet — a gift from Shuri. Wakandans didn't have smartphones, instead a strange device that basically performed all the tasks a cell phone could do. Mostly communication and GPS tracking, which is what swayed Dad into both of us wearing one. I could step out of his line of sight and he could still relax a little.

It also served as a texting platform. I was still exploring the functions of each individual bead, connected to each other by some kind of magnetic connection; one of the beads was near constantly beeping with messages from — who else — Shuri, wanting to know what it was like in the borderlands. If I missed the palace yet. Stop sending her accidental selfies (one bead was a camera, though which one I kept forgetting).

She texted me so frequently, day and night, that it even started to annoy Dad, with my bracelet flickering in the night. The messages appeared as a small hologram, and a similar light-construct keyboard to make replies. I preferred voice-to-text when I was outside. Almost like a real conversation. With how frequently Shuri and I messaged, I knew I was getting lonely.

Maybe she was lonely, too.

I could even access the internet with the kimoyo beads, and with all my hours to myself, I had nothing else to do but play with my new device. It was a little difficult moving around on the websites I was familiar with, but Shuri gave some tips. The Internet was how she interacted with the outside world. I made the fatal mistake of cluing her in on the Midtown Mysteries YouTube channel.

"You have a YouTube channel?" She had said over a call, absolutely delighted. "How have I not found this before now?"

"It's just a hobby," I had replied, embarrassed. The channel had something of a cult following, but till well below twenty-thousand followers. "It's mostly for the people I go to school with."

Shuri had been quiet for so long I thought she might have hung up on me. That I might have offended her somehow. But no — she'd stopped talking because else had started to watch.

"This is fascinating," Shuri said, her voice slightly muffled as if speaking to herself. "How did you guys come up with this?"

"I don't remember," I'm sure we had plenty of conversations about it, but I really only remembered what happened after we started. "It was MJ's idea."

"She's your best friend, hm?"

"Oh, yeah," I found myself pausing. I hadn't spoken to MJ since… "I haven't seen her since before all of this happened."

"You haven't contacted her yet?" Shuri sounded surprised. "Does she know you're okay?"

"I-I'm sure she does," I said, knowing that Peter probably would've told her. Right? I found my gut twisting with uncertainty. What would Peter tell MJ, and Ned, and everyone else about me? The ones who couldn't know the whole truth? "I just haven't gotten around to it yet."

I knew I could. I had access to my email now, to messengers and social media that I never really used before, but could now if I had to. But I didn't. And this time, I didn't even have the excuse of not trusting social media to justify it.

I was just… afraid.

"I'll see her soon anyways," I said before Shuri could make any other remark that would hammer in the guilt even further. "When I go back to school."

School. Senior year at Midtown would start in two and a half weeks. I knew by then, physically, I'd be okay. I was pretty sure that was the timeline Dad was going by, how long I'd stay here with him. Like a regular summer vacation.

Just a little more fucked up.

"But you are talking to your friends, right?" Shuri asked. "Our communications are very secure, if that's what you're worried about. I promise, your information is safe."

"Thank you," I said, but couldn't tell her why that wasn't what stopped me. "I just… I haven't figured out what I wanted to say, yet."

"What about that other woman?" Shuri asked. "The one Captain Rogers found. Romanova?"

"She's somewhere in Norway, I think," I replied. "Dad talks to her more than I do."

There was a very short, but very significant silence following that. "Oh…?"

I could almost hear her fighting back a giggle. "Not like that!" When I heard her snort over the line, I rolled my eyes to myself. "Okay, probably like that. I'm not gonna ask."

I knew for a fact that Dad did not care for electronic communication. But I knew he was talking to people, too. I saw the way his bracelet lit up sometimes, and it definitely wasn't me. I assumed it was Steve, but then, what if it wasn't? The way he smiled sometimes, at messages I couldn't see, gave me a different impression.

But I was not curious enough to ask. My text history with Nat was pretty sparse, just a few messages every few days. Checking in on me. On us. I had the sense she didn't always trust whatever answers Dad was giving her, and was double checking with me.

I did cave and explain it a little to Shuri, so she'd have a little context. It all seemed very amusing to her, judging by her laughter. "Oh, that's nothing. I'd take that over being in the same room as T'Challa and Nakia."

"Nakia?"

Shuri's voice lowered conspiratorially. "His ex."

"Ohhh…"

"Very pretty. Very competent. Way out of his league."

"He's a King!"

"He's lucky to be King," Shuri snorted. "Lord M'Baku almost kicked his ass during the trial. But Nakia is too cool for a couple of grown ass men smashing their heads off each other. She has bigger dreams than being any man's queen."

There was a great tone of reverence in Shuri's voice, and she sounded sincere. "You wouldn't want to be Queen?"

"It'd be a waste of my talents," Shuri sniffed, though I wasn't entirely convinced. "Besides, I'm not the oldest, and if I were Queen, it would mean my brother and mother are dead. So no, I don't want it."

I didn't offer any further arguments to that. The emotional factor was enough, I wouldn't want to lose anyone for any kind of title.

The kingship trial, to test the worthiness of the Black Panther, had been televised for all those who could not attend. Beforehand, Shuri had told me it was really just a fluffed up ceremony where she had to wear a stupid corset; no one had challenged an heir-king in five generations, so they had all assumed it would go the same way. Each of the tribes arriving to honor the royal family and swear allegiance once more with nothing more than a celebratory fanfare. Up until the Jabari clan made its first appearance in decades, to directly challenge T'Challa. By the time I'd watched it, I'd already known he'd brought Lord M'Baku to yield, but watching still had me white-knuckling my fists waiting for the turnout.

I didn't understand what gave T'Challa his powers, only that it was something to be given and taken away. Not something he was born with. Something he earned. Something reserved for Wakandan royalty. I had asked Shuri if she had whatever her brother had, and all I got was laughter in return.

But with or without his power, T'Challa was a competent fighter — worthy of the throne without the superpowers it awarded him.

But I was okay not to be where all the action was. I was done. I was tired.

I was happy to have my life reduced to this small corner of the world. Waking up every morning to feed the goats with chickens running between my legs; find the eggs laid everywhere but inside their own hutch. Swimming in the pond and baking on the hot rocks in the sun.

Children from the nearby village occasionally came out this way to play. Lots of wide open fields and a neat little pond, why not? I did my best to keep my distance, unsure of what they thought of me or my dad. They saw me, of course. I couldn't hide inside forever. Neither could Dad.

One time, I was up the tree when Dad was tilling the soft earth. He was easily seen from the pond, where the kids played and splashed. One pointed and whisper-yelled to the others, "Khangela! Ingcuka emhlophe!"

They all ducked down, as if spotted by wild animal. Ducking around a pile rocks, peering out again. Another girl gasped and said, "Uyinyani!"

I didn't know what they were saying; I was only beginning to learn Wakandan thanks to Shuri's provided lessons. But it was slow, and I could only understand some basic terms. Dad, for his part, pointedly ignored the kids, not looking up even once even though they were obviously talking about him less than three hundred feet away.

They hadn't seen me, otherwise I'm sure they'd have more to say. As it was, a distant voice shouted at them, echoing across the plains, and the kids scattered — running back to a distant figure, perhaps one of their mothers, shouting all the way.

"Ingcuka emhlophe! Ingcuka emhlophe!"

I'd have to ask Shuri about it later, and keep my fingers crossed it wasn't Wakandan curse words.

That was far less concerning than whatever Dad was doing, leaving in the middle of the night, when he thought I was asleep.

The first couple times, I probably was. It was only when I'd woken from a sudden nightmare, and found the house completely empty, the yard too, did I realize he was well and truly gone.

But he had returned in a few hours; just as he could read my location through my bracelet, so could I his — and Dad was only a few miles away, not moving. And then he was back within a few hours, when I was already drifting off to sleep again. I assumed, in the morning, that he'd gotten one of those restless moments, like I did, and needed to get out of the house.

Until I realized it was happening almost every night. Same time, same place. I was tempted to follow him, but then thought better of it. Some instinct was telling me not to intrude; because the plains were so flat here, I could see where he was, those few miles out. A small outcropping of rocks near where I thought a river was, the dim glow of what must be a campfire illuminating the spot.

So this time I decided to wait.

When Dad passed through the doorway, he froze when he saw me. Just a second's pause, ther jerk of his head, but enough to indicate his surprise.

"You're awake?" He blinked. Though the place was dark, all the lights off at night, I knew he could see me just as well as I could see him in the dimness.

"Where were you?" I asked at the same time.

Dad didn't pause this time — just didn't answer, as he looked over his shoulder, out the door, then back at me again. He closed it before any of the night bugs could fly in. Only when he sat on the couch across from me did he finally speak. "Remember when I told you that there might be a way to get rid of the protocol?"

"Yeah?" I asked, shifting forward a bit. Admittedly, I was relieved he hadn't tried to lie or hide it from me, but I had forgotten about the protocol thing entirely until now. "Is that… is that what you were doing?"

"Yes," Dad said, then caught himself. His silver fist gleamed softly in the dimness, fist opening and closing, opening again, palm up. He looked down to study it. "At least, I hope so. It's too soon to tell right now if the deprogramming is working, or if it's even possible."

"What are you doing, exactly?"

He cut me a look across the space, just a little suspicious. "I'd tell you, but I don't want you to try experimenting on your own."

I pouted. "Can I come with you next time, then?"

"No." His answer was quick, neat, and absolutely final. There was no sharpness or urgency there, no intent of harm; nevertheless, I flinched a little, surprised by how resolute Dad sounded. Seeing this, he grimaced slightly, and ran a hand through the hair that hung in his face. "I'm sorry, it's not — it's not about you, Mia. I just, I can't risk… if it doesn't work, or if it somehow goes wrong, and the Winter Soldier is triggered — you can't be there. I don't want you to be."

"But —" It was hard to argue against something like that. Even though deep down I knew the Winter Soldier would never kill me on a mere whim, the thought of facing him again was still terrifying. "I want it gone, too."

My voice sounded pathetically small, shoulders wilting. Sounding like a child that didn't want to get left out at a birthday party.

"I know, I know, monkey," He came over to my side, an arm wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me in. "I want that for you, too. More than anything. But not until I know for sure it works. So I'm going first."

The logic was sound, I supposed, even if it wasn't exactly the answer I wanted. I let my head fall against his shoulder, mumbling, "Guess that makes sense…"

A silence passed, before I thought to ask, "Who's helping you?"

"One of the Dora Milaje," Dad replied. "Ayo. You've met her. She has a background in psychology. And she can keep me down, for a little while at least, if anything goes wrong."

"Hm," I had to think and remember which one was Ayo. "Why at night?"

"More privacy. Less likely for a random civilian to find us."

"A random civilian?" I asked, lifting my chin up slightly. "Or me?"

Dad laughed a little. "A little bit of both, maybe. But I didn't want to go to far from you. If something happens, you know you can call me. Doesn't matter what we're in the middle of. I'll come right away."

"I know," I mumbled, yet it was reassuring to hear it nonetheless. There was no telling what I'd think in the middle of a panic attack or some other daze, having to take the extra consideration if I was causing more problems by interrupting his… therapy, or something. The sort of thing a panic attack can't account for. "How long will it take?"

"I don't know. It's just one of those things. We'll know when we'll know."

I supposed that meant when the protocol trigger didn't work anymore. But the timeline wasn't looking so good for me. "What's going to happen if its not done and school starts?"

"Then you'll go to school," Dad said simply, and at the start I made, he added, "You're safe for now, Mia. You can't miss school, not when I don't know how long this is going to take. I know its hard, but the threat is contained, and —"

"And what if its not?" I asked, a little too sharply. He was talking about Zemo, but we both knew the man's imprisonment here wasn't permanent, not if the UN had anything to say about it.

"Then…" Dad said at last, his voice soft and cold. "I'll take care of it."

I didn't ask what he meant by that.

"When — if — the deprogramming works," he continued, in a different tone. "Then you'll get it, too, Mia. As little waiting as possible. But it won't be easy. I can tell you that right now."

"I don't care," I said, almost a whisper as I nestled back into his side. "Anything is better than that again."

And Dad offered no disagreements.

And for a little while, it seemed okay. Dad wouldn't tell me what they did, no matter how hard I pressed. He really thought I might try something on my own. And I didn't think I would, but hard to say if I didn't have a starting platform to work from. Which definitely seemed to be Dad's working theory.

I wished I knew what kind of timeline I had to look forward to. I really didn't want to go back to school with the protocol still stuck in my head, even if history has shown it's never been a true danger. Not yet, anyways. But after this summer, after weeks of confusion and madness and almost killing my own friends, I didn't know if I could trust myself anymore.

How could I walk back into school without feeling like a ticking time bomb again? How could anyone else?

Still, I thought I had a chance, maybe I could develop a convincing argument to stay in Wakanda until I, too, was deprogrammed. I supposed if I just had a really bad meltdown, that might do the trick, but I'd rather not actually put myself through that, and I didn't lack the scruples to fake it, either.

In the end, I'd never have a choice anyways.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirty-Nine

✭

She woke in a cold sweat. 

Looking around, she did not recognize her surroundings. A bed curtained by netting. Cool wind rustling through open windows, thin walls and the sound of crickets and rustling plants outside. Night time. Remote region. Small abode. 

Her hands ran up and down her body, but found only tender ridges of new scars — no open wounds. No broken bones. 

She was fine. She was alive. 

How was she still alive?

The Soldatka tried to recall her last memories. It was hazy, fragmented, as all her memories were. She had to force herself to concentrate, put the puzzle pieces together. The bunker. The missile silo. Eight dead super soldiers. Captain America. Rumlow.

The Winter Soldier.

He stopped her. Stopped her from killing them. Killing herself.

Where was she now? 

Slowly, very slowly, she rose from her bed. The floorboards creaked slightly beneath her feet, but everything was cool and quiet. She was barefoot and wearing loose linen clothes, but found a knife reliably under her pillow. Good. She wasn’t defenseless. 

Creeping out of her room, she surveyed the main living area of the house she was in. Single floor, some kind of thatched roof, but thick and sturdy, too. The rustic nature belied the expert structure built with natural materials. The main space had a couch and entertainment system, though she did not recognize the type of power outlets used. In fact, she saw none at all. Where was she? Where did the electricity come from?

For there was certainly electricity, as judged by the ceiling fan slowly rotating above. It hummed softly, and she could also hear the faint thrum of electricity that coursed through the house. There was a small kitchen, another bedroom, and a bathroom. That was it. 

She inspected the other bedroom more closely. It looked lived in, which meant someone else lived here with her. A man, by the smell. The Winter Soldier?

She was certain it was him. She checked the usual spots, but did not find any weapons. Which was unusual. All she found was the knife she already had. But the smell of him, that was the same. Despite the lack of equipment, the Soldatka was sure; Yes. It was him. He was still alive, too.

But where was he?

A nearby clock with glowing numbers told her it was almost midnight. A glance out the window. Nothing but grassy fields and mountains in the distance. In the other direction, the soft glow of lights on the horizon, where a city lay. Brighter, a couple flickering lights of what might be a town or a village about ten miles away. She heard no traffic, no people, nothing but bugs and the trills of night animals. A brilliant moonless night filled with millions of stars. 

Very far from civilization. 

The Soldatka looked around again, evaluating. No cameras. No security features to lock her in or out. The front and back doors looked easy to break, if need be. And the place looked lived in. Comfortable. Almost… cozy. Her clothes actually fit her. Her stomach felt full. Her skin was clean and washed. 

Did she… want to be here?

Were they safe? 

Before she could figure out the nature of this place, the Soldatka heard voices, footsteps crunching in grass. She froze, looked around. There wasn’t much space to hide besides her bedroom, as it were, and that felt too obvious. And then it was too late, and she could only step back further into the kitchen, into the shadow as two silhouettes appeared at the front door, talking quietly but amiably. 

“... thank you, again…”

“...can thank me when it is successful…”

The door opened, and the Winter Soldier walked in. Not wearing armor or any sort of tactical gear. Just loose shirt and trousers that were, at best, suitable for movement and little else. 

He took a step in, then froze when he spotted her in the darkness. Relaxed again, and laughed tiredly, “Jesus, kid, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing up so late?”

Not the Soldat. 

James Barnes.

Her hand tightened on the knife. 

The other figure, a tall dark-skinned woman with deepset eyes and sharp cheekbones, stood further back. The Soldatka did not recognize her, but she did know a vibranium spear when she saw one.

The Soldatka knew she should’ve said something. But to what purpose? To put him at ease? To deceive him? She didn’t know how to do that. Or why. She could only whisper, “Кто это?”

“Who is she?” The Winter Soldier— no, not him, he doesn’t know me — James Barnes blinked, frowned, glanced behind him then back at her. “Ayo? You know her, Mia.”

“Is something wrong?” The woman intoned at a distance. 

“I don’t —” he began, took another step forward. She took a step back in response, turning herself to the side, too late. He looked down, and must have seen the glint of the knife. His eyes widened, looked back up to meet her gaze. “Mia, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Between one moment and the next, before she could even answer him, it seemed James Barnes had already gotten his answer. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his hands. “Whoa, hey! Hey, it’s okay. No one’s here to hurt you, alright? Ayo’s a friend.”

The Soldatka had eased into a combative stance without even realizing it, the knife held aloft just so behind her. The lights were still off in the house, but she could clearly make out the gleam of metal on his arm, soft light reflected in his eyes. Far more expressive, more alive, than she had ever known them. 

“Mia?” James Barnes asked, and when she did not respond to it, he tried again, “Look, I think I know what’s going on, okay, it’s happened to me, too. Did you —did you have a nightmare? Is that what happened?”

She paused to think about it. What had happened in the moments before she woke? She’d been dreaming about… the Russian bunker. She felt cold and scared and alone. Woke up struggling to breathe. Yes. Yes, she supposed that was a nightmare…

A sound behind her. The Soldatka whipped around, startled to suddenly find a silhouette at the back door — no, inside — and reacted instinctively. She made to lunge, and the woman brought up her spear in defense, but she had no need.

“Mia, no!”

Before the Soldatka could even take another step closer, a powerful set of arms came up around her and looped around her elbows, yanking her arms back in a wrestling lock that immediately immobilized her. She gasped and shrieked and writhed, but the knife had fallen from her hand in jolt of pain and James Barnes easily lifted her feet off the ground, pulling her back and turning her away from the intruder. 

“Stop it, Mia, stop fighting!” He urged, begged, as they came down onto the floor. “I know you’re scared, but you have to stay calm and listen to me!”

“Я не Миа!" She tried to kick away from him, but found little purchase, and her shoulders screamed in protest when she tried to pull away from the armlock. She wasn't Mia. That name meant nothing to her.

“I-I know that,” He stammered, and grunted when she managed to elbow him in the gut. “Listen to me! Zemo is captured. Rumlow is dead. We got you out of that bunker and you’re in Wakanda now. You’re safe and no one’s going to find us out here. I’ve got you, alright, we’ll figure this out —”

“I don’t want you,” she snapped, still in Russian, her voice already wet with tears. “I want to talk to him!”

This seemed to surprise both him and the woman, who had lowered her spear once it was clear that the Soldatka was properly immobilized. The woman asked, “You wish to speak to the Winter Soldier?”

“Da!”

“You can’t,” Barnes sighed heavily after a moment, with a weight she could almost feel herself. “I’m sorry, kid. I can’t let that happen.”

“But— but I have to talk to him!”

He sounded baffled. “What? Why?” 

“Because,” the Soldatka's voice cracked and she shook with the sobs she struggled to smother. “Because he doesn’t know he’s my father.”

“Oh, monkey,” James Barnes exhaled weakly, like a man who’d been gut-punched. His head came to rest on hers. “He knows. I promise you, he already knows.”

“H-he does?” she hiccuped, then coughed, her chest hurting with the effort. “How long has he known?”

“I think he found out the same time you did,” James Barnes began, then stopped, seeming to contemplate, murmuring something under his breath. “No, no… it was right before. It was Pierce. Pierce had said something. He was taunting me. Him. Then he erased it from our mind. Some kind of sick joke.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and something about that was comforting, in a sick way. That he had not known the entire time. For some reason that made it easier. “How do you know what he remembers?”

“Because we share memories,” James Barnes said. “I’m remembering more now, with the deprogramming. Mia remembers what you went through, too.”

The Soldatka frowned to herself. “I don’t remember any of her memories.”

“That’s because of the protocol. It breaks when you start to remember.” 

She bit her lip, trying not to let more tears slip. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! Why was Amelia allowed to remember and she could not? Her voice was hoarse. “What is deprogramming?”

James Barnes didn’t answer. Instead, Ayo did — she had come to kneel on the kitchen floor across from them, watching silently this entire time. Now she spoke, her voice calm and even. “The deprogramming will remove the activation sequence from his mind. He will never become the Winter Soldier again.”

The Soldatka went very still, which had James Barnes freezing, too, alert. She whispered, “You’re killing him? Are you going to kill me, too?”

James Barnes seemed to choke on his words. “N-no, monkey, we’re not —” 

“We don’t know what will happen,” Ayo interrupted, gently but firmly. Her expression was a kind of grim compassion. “This is a level of psychological manipulation we’ve barely explored as a human race. Our goal is to protect your father from ever being controlled by evil men ever again. And you. So men like Baron von Zemo can never hurt you.”

The Soldatka struggled to comprehend her words. What it meant. Even she didn’t know what would happen. 

Her own voice was tiny now. Terrified. “I don’t want to die.” 

Ayo opened her mouth, but this time it was Barnes’ turn to interrupt her.  His voice was firm now, “I won’t let that happen. You’re not going to die. You… you and Mia are both important to me.”

Somewhere between these words his armlock had slipped away, and now he had her in a tight embrace, hugging her to his chest.

Ayo, meanwhile, had tilted her head in growing interest. “You do not consider yourself to be Mia?” 

The Soldatka shook her head, her throat too thick to speak. 

“You see yourself as a separate person, then,” Ayo concluded, and at another nod, she looked to Barnes, “It may be the Winter Soldier experiences something similar. If he does not have your memories, then he may believe himself to be a separate consciousness sharing a body.”

James Barnes was silent for a moment. “Sure feels that way sometimes. Is that what you think is going on?”

“Its only a theory,” Ayo shrugged. “But one to consider as we continue. Personally, I think you are both the same person, and always have been; you have just been…decontextualized. Stripped away to this small part of yourself to function as a weapon. So separated you feel as if you are another person entirely. But James has been able to recall things as the Winter Soldier, and vice versa. So I would not consider it death. Perhaps see it as…reunification.”

“Make us whole again,” James Barnes intoned. Then, he chuckled to himself, but it didn’t seem to have much humor in it. “Warts and all.”

“What will happen to me?” the Soldatka whispered. 

“Hopefully, you will no longer be cut off from the world,” Ayo offered, a soft smile. “Your experiences and Amelia’s will merge as two halves into one. Both awake at the same time, but it will feel as one.”

“I won’t be the same.” 

“Neither of you will be,” Ayo pointed out. “But you will remember. And you will be remembered. And so will the Winter Soldier.”

That put her at ease somewhat, her body starting to crumple in on itself with relief and misery, giving into the soothing of a man who was and was not the father she wanted. 

“I just want him to know who I am,” the Soldatka murmured, to no one in particular.

“He will, monkey, he will,” James Barnes said, and then asked, “You know I have to ask you this. Do you have any orders?”

She paused, then shook her head. 

“Really? Nothing at all?” James Barnes sounded skeptical. “Your last order was to kill me, then yourself. You’re telling me that doesn’t stand anymore?”

“The Soldat struck it down,” she replied dully. She still remembered the way they’d faced off, how he challenged the logic of the Baron’s commands, right before she’d been taken down. “I-I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“I see,” he said, and slowly, very slowly, he began to loosen his hold on her. “I guess that means you’re not going to listen to me, huh?” 

The Soldatka sagged against him, resting on her knees. She did not have the fight left in her anymore. She had no energy left to figure out what her protocol would dictate in this moment. “I’d have to think about it.”

That made him laugh, and for a moment, she could see it — candles on a cake. Popcorn in front of a movie. His voice as her hands were on the wheel of a car. She never learned how to drive. James Barnes, teaching her…

He was her father. She could feel the memories more than see them. The warmth. The joy. The contentment. 

No fear. No trepidation. No anxiety of one wrong move, of being judged or watched or evaluated. How did she know his name? She couldn’t remember ever learning it…

Her memories. 

“Maybe we should try going back to bed,” he offered, perhaps purposefully phrased not to sound like an order. “See what happens in the morning,”

The Soldatka already knew. She would forget. She would fall asleep and someone else would wake up. But… it would be herself. If they were the same person, then she would still be herself. She tried to take comfort in it. 

And she did feel tired, as loathed as she was to admit it. Fighting against her own father had worn her out. “I will try.”

Her bed was quite comfortable, actually. Perhaps the best the Soldatka had ever slept in. It was easy to drift off, though she was keenly aware of James Barnes sitting at her bedside while she began to doze.

He would be there the entire night, perhaps.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty

✭

Time with Ayo became more frequent, almost every night now. Dad never told me why, but a part of me suspected something happened. Maybe one of their sessions went bad. Maybe the Winter Soldier came out. Whatever it was, it meant more nights falling asleep alone, and hoping nothing happened.

One night, Dad came home earlier than expected in the night. It had caught me by surprise, not even back to dozing yet when he'd walked inside, looking unsettled.

"What's wrong?" I asked, voice raspy with sleep.

"I don't know," Dad moved gingerly, like a spooked animal. His head tilting this way and that, by degrees, as if trying to listen for something, or shake a thought from his head. "Ayo didn't show tonight. She didn't tell me anything had changed but — I think something's wrong. She's never missed a night before."

The whole day before this point had been odd. Wakanda had its own new channels, but they had been surprisingly quiet, not even the usual mundane updates like local events, and Birnin Zana had been entirely silent. It could've been chalked up to just a slow day, and but now it felt off to me, too.

"I haven't gotten anything from Shuri today," I added, now that it had occurred to me. Unusual, in that ever since I got the bracelet, a day hadn't gone by without at least some message from her.

The knowledge was quickly pulling me out of my sleepiness, even as Dad was now pacing the perimeter of the house interior, checking windows, and pulling open the secret compartment in the floor. Though my body craved sleep, I suddenly found myself wide awake, ears ringing as I strained to listen to the emptiness of the rural night. The rustle of wind, the soft ripple of water, croaking of frogs and trills of night creatures…

Nothing unusual.

Only the faintest pad of feet on earth, getting closer.

"Someone's coming." I said, voice low. Dad tensed, straightening, as he listened too.

I was pretty sure it was only one person; I didn't hear aircraft, not even the stealth fighters Wakanda had. None nearby, at least; there was only one set of footsteps, moving quickly but quietly, in a half crouch judging by the pace. Someone who knew how to move quietly, a professional, I thought, who could only do their best not to be seen in the wide open plains that surrounded the house.

Then, with a jerk of his head, he whispered, "Go to the back window."

I nodded without question, slipping into my shoes and grabbing my backpack as I went. Even now, we still kept bags ready in case we had to run. I just didn't think it would happen now, of all times. But the back window, the furthest point from the front door, was big enough for me to jump through while Dad intercepted whatever was coming here.

Perhaps it was a sign that they were making for our door. Anyone who wanted to sneak up on us would've known better than that, if they knew what they were dealing with.

I was crouched under the window sill, ready to haul out of the house, just as Dad opened the door.

On the other side stood a woman, her hand upraised to knock. Swathed in a dark green robe, she seemed momentarily taken aback at being expected; her dark eyes, intense, flicked between the two of us, Dad in front of her, me in the back.

"Good, you're both up," she said. Her voice was low, even though there wasn't anyone else around here for miles. "There isn't much time."

"What's going on?" Bucky demanded. One hand on the door, the other holding a knife just behind his back.

"The King is dead." The woman said, her voice cracking slightly on the last word. But then she seemed to steel herself, holding out an arm behind her. "Come with me if you want to live."

✭✭✭

The only place left to go were the mountains.

I had originally thought Nakia, the woman who had found us, had done so via aircraft. That had not been the case. Land vehicles weren't especially common when you were a spy for the royal family, but that was the situation now. Harder to track. Faster on foot.

But not in the narrow mountain passes.

We had reconnected with Queen Ramonda and Princess Shuri on the way — and some short white guy I'd never seen before, who was definitely not Wakandan either. No idea why he was here, but I would be lying if I said I was relieved to see it wasn't Zemo.

Nakia and the Queen took the lead of the journey, walking and talking quietly with each other, the stranger close behind them and listening in, occasionally trying to add his own thoughts, but ineffective.

I kept pace with Shuri, who hiked all hunched up in a blanket she clutched to her shoulders. Her expression was blank, hollow. For a long time, we didn't speak after first meeting.

Not until we had reached the mountains, and the cold seemed to invite conversation.

She shivered in the increasing drop in temperature, and I pulled off my own blanket to add it on top of her own. Shuri jolted slightly at my touch, looking around as if forgetting where she was.

"Sorry," I said, wincing a little. I hated making people jump unintentionally.

"N-no, it's fine, thank you," She mumbled. "This is just… you know… the worst thing that's ever happened to us, I suppose."

I didn't have to guess or summarize the course of events that had happened. Nakia had filled us in on the way. The outsider, the challenge, the fate of T'Challa. It seemed bizarre, sudden, unlikely. Could he really be dead…?

Shuri didn't need a reminder. "How did you escape?"

"Nakia," Shuri said, jerking her chin forward. "The night he took the throne. There was little time, I didn't think — I never thought he'd have so much support."

"From whom, the other tribes?" I asked, and at Shuri's quick nodding, I added, "What about the Dora Milaje?"

"They— they did nothing. I… I never thought they would abandon me," Shuri said at last, her voice hollow and gaze distant. "The Dora Milaje were always there, I can see them in my earliest memories. Always there. Watching, protecting me. I always thought it was so annoying, and I used to wish they'd leave me alone," she laughed to herself, but it was without humor. "And then they did — and I realized just how much I took for granted. Their loyalty. My safety."

She was silent for a long moment. Her voice was a whisper. "I've never felt so small before. Just a stupid, scared little girl without an army of bodyguards."

"I'm sorry," I said. Deep down, I knew exactly what she felt. That earth shattering realization that everything you believed to be true was, in fact, only temporary and conditional. That in the end, the only person you can trust is yourself.

"And to think I was stupid enough to think they liked me!" Shuri continued, voice rising with self-reproach, maybe even contempt. And then, sadness, her shoulders hunching up. "I thought — I thought they were my friends. But I understand now. They don't serve me. They never served me. Not me, not my mother, not even the Queen. The Dora Milaje are sworn only to the King. My father, my brother — and now… this outsider."

"Who is he?"

"He calls himself Killmonger," Shuri said, before shaking herself over, as if trying to shrug off a bad memory. "He's my… my cousin, I think. The son of my father's brother. I don't know how. He died before I was born…But his real name is N'Jadaka."

She murmurs the name almost as if it were a secret, or a curse.

"And he wasn't lying?" I asked.

"No, he had proof," Shuri shook her head again. "He had his father's ring. That would've been hard enough to duplicate. But he also had the tattoo. It had his name. Marks him as a Wakandan War Dog, a sleeper agent, the only way to identify them out in the field. That would've been impossible to fake. His father would've had to have done that to him."

"His birth name is Erik Stevens," A voice said, followed by heavy warmth falling over my shoulders, and a shadow passing behind us. I looked up, surprised. Forgot Dad had been behind us, bringing up the rear. He must have been listening the whole time. "American. Killmonger was a name he earned during his time with the Navy SEALs, and one he kept since. He got recruited into JSOC — CIA —" he added, at our questioning looks. "A ghost unit. Specializes in going off grid, assassinations and destabilizing governments."

"How do you know this?" Shuri demanded, her brows coming down.

"He was on HYDRA's radar," Dad replied simply. "He was on a lot of radars. Especially when he went rogue and vanished completely. HYDRA probably thought they could use him. And the CIA, well," he glanced up at the strange man ahead. "They haven't had a full night's sleep since."

The short man, as if sensing someone walking over his grave, glanced over his shoulder. He jolted when his gaze met Bucky's, blood draining from his face, and quickly looked back around again.

"So he's done this before," I surmised. Assassinations. Destabilizing. Exactly what he's done here in Wakanda.

"He's never assumed power before," Dad replied. He cast a long look between us. "He'll kill you both as soon as he gets the chance."

That didn't bother me as much as I thought it would, but Shuri looked distinctly shaken.

"I tried to save my projects, or destroy them, before I left," She said, shoulders slumping. "But there wasn't time. And I just know he's using them, sending them off to his agents, outsiders, all over the world… Who knows what he'll do with them."

"You did what you could," I told her, and glanced up again. "You saved that guy. Whoever he is."

"Everett Ross," she told me, and at my look, she added, "Unrelated to your Secretary Ross. My brother pulled him from South Korea."

"CIA," Dad added.

Probably explained why Everett Ross looked like he shit his pants when he spotted Dad.

"Yes," Shuri said with a slow nod. "Better him than Zemo, I figured. I don't know if Killmonger has found him yet. But I don't particularly like his chances."

"Hm," Dad grumbled behind us. At my look, he avoided my gaze. "It's nothing. Let's just say there's a reason why HYDRA never succeeded in recruiting him."

"Oh? Interesting." Shuri blinked, taking that under consideration. Then, she glanced at me. "But you shouldn't speak so quickly. I did manage to save something."

From beneath the bulk of her blankets, she withdrew a gleam of metal. I nearly gasped, and Shuri cast a rare smile in this gloom at my reaction. "I thought you'd appreciate it. Besides, I didn't want Killmonger to make a message out of it."

"Thank you," I said, perhaps more touched than I realized. Of course, the shield had been on the back of my mind, but in the grand scheme of things I wasn't too worried about. One simple shield in a workshop filled with wonders? But I found myself relieved nonetheless. A little less naked.

Shuri had a look on her face, a knowing expression, as I slipped the harness around my back again. I frowned at her. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," She smiled faintly. "I wondered if your decision was based on circumstance, that's all."

Before I could ask her what she meant, Dad nudged me in the back. Just so, I had heard something, a faint rustling, the shifting of snow in the rocks around us. Then, before any of us could react, fur-coated warriors appeared from the darkness.

The Jabari Tribe had found us.

✭✭✭

The throne room looked out over a cliffside, the great expanse of Wakanda beyond, swathed in night and stars. In the distance, the city of Birnin Zana gleamed like a necklace of diamonds along the great river.

"I'm sure he'll make it," I told Shuri, as we sat there, watching the moon drift behind clouds. "Nakia had that… that plant. That'll save him. Right?"

"Theoretically," Shuri whispered, her shoulders sagging in a sigh. Her fists opened and closed in her lap. "Either way, there's nothing I can do to help him. And even if he does survive, how will we fight? We have no army. Killmonger has swayed most of the tribes in his favor. Aside from the Jabari, at least. And they won't help us, even if they'll hide us."

"It's lonely, in the mountains," I pointed out. The Jabari home city was built directly into the mountains, within the rock itself. Far away and remote from the rest of the country, in an environment so different from everyone else. It was disheartening but not exactly surprising that Lord M'Baku had denied his forces to what remained of the royal family.

He had come off as hostile. initially, or at least brusque. I couldn't tell if it was an act or not, but the resentment was certainly real enough. But he did not seem taken by Killmonger's cause, anymore than he had with the royal family's at least. But loyal — or indignant — enough to not to sell them out immediately.

Somehow, Lord M'Baku had taken one look at us and knew who we were immediately. "Ah, the White Wolf! I've heard of you. A great warrior, hm? Great enough for the King to hide among his own people. An outsider! Yet fails to entreat the Jabari Tribe, one of his own. Interesting."

He was less effusive with Agent Ross; at least we had entertained him a little, so there was that.

"I know," Shuri mumbled. "I don't know why my father just… neglected the Jabari Tribe. Felt they were too… different. Never reached out. And now I suffer for it. Like we are suffering for his other mistakes. How does it go, in your language?"

It took me a moment to realize what she meant. "The sins of the father."

"Yes, yes," Shuri nodded, closing her eyes, and her hand fell over mind. Her grip was warm and tight. "We daughters pay for those sins."

And then, behind us, a muffled cry that sounded like Queen Ramonda. A rush of footsteps. Nakia sweeping out, her green robe flapping out behind her.

Her eyes, wide in the darkness. "He's awake!"

✭✭✭

"It is time for you to leave."

"What?" I gaped, but T'Challa's expression didn't waver. Our voices echoed softly in the small hangar that opened out into the mountains, cold evening air drifting in even with the bay doors closed.

"It's not safe for you here, not anymore," he continued. Though the heart-shaped plant had saved his life and rendered him more-than human again, the King still stood with a slight lean to one side, favoring a healing injury. He winced. "I'm ashamed to be such a terrible host, I know. I made a promise, but circumstances have forced my hand. You are in more danger here than anywhere else."

"But you're not going?" I asked, shooting a look at Dad, who stood off to the side, like an unwilling participant in an intervention.

"It's… safer for me here," Dad said, and didn't sound entirely convinced himself. "The moment I step a foot outside these borders, Ross will be on me like fleas on a dog. Besides…. I can help. More than you can."

He didn't mean it as an insult, I knew, but it was in that blunt way of his. Deep down, I knew he was right. Wakanda didn't exactly feel safe to me anymore, or at least, not in the same way it used to. Now there was danger in every corner once more.

That still left logistics, as I glanced at the lone aircraft being prepared behind me. "And you think I'm going to fly that out of here myself."

Dad snorted. "No."

"Agent Ross will pilot," TChalla informed me. "Due to his status as an intelligence officer, I thought it wise he leave, too, before he can be compromised. I've been told he's an accomplished airman before he joined the CIA. He should be suitable for the task."

Said CIA agent, sitting in the background, gave a little wave. "Hi."

"You'll fly to Switzerland," T'Challa continued, pacing with a slight limp. "From there, American agents will escort you back to New York. That, we've agreed, is the safest place for you, Mia. I'm sorry. I know you don't like this. I wish things could be different."

"So I don't get a say in the matter?" I threw up my hands.

Again, Dad spoke. "No."

I threw him a look. I didn't doubt for one second that he wanted me out of the country as fast as possible. What I did doubt was everything else. "You trust him?" I asked, pointing at Ross.

The other man straightened slightly, indignant as he tugged at his jacket. He came to his feet and told me, "I assure you, Miss Fletcher, I will get you home as safe as possible. I've got over thirty thousand miles under my belt. I can fly this thing."

"So could I," I said, not the least bit sure if that was true. But I could probably figure it out, given some time. Still, I rose to my feet to emphasize those words, and found myself looming over the shorter man.

Ross swallowed and took a slight step back. Even I had overestimated my size compared to him. Ross was middle-aged and of medium stature, absolutely average in every way. He had the air of an overly-harangued desk jockey. Perfect for an undercover CIA agent. But not so much when it came to me.

I glanced at Dad again, and even he looked doubtful, shooting his own look at T'Challa, but said nothing.

"You both need to leave, for your safety," Was all the King said. He studied Ross for a moment, before adding, "Perhaps some coffee, first. Keep you on your toes, hm? After the sun sets, you take off."

That gave me about an hour to do my good-byes and pack my things, neither of which would take very long to do. Shuri, despite her brother's protests, was absolutely getting involved in whatever upcoming fight they had planned. Her workshop sat above the largest Vibranium mine, the greatest resource after the river, and closest to Birnin Zana. It would be directly under Killmonger's control, and she wanted it back.

"Of course I'd want you fighting beside me," she said, my one vote of confidence as she arranged shapes across a holographic map. Battle plans. "I've read the reports. You've gone toe to toe with the Dora Milaje. They do not forget their opponents easily. And I would've liked to see that shield in action."

"I'm sure you would," I said dryly. I had come to suspect she wanted me to take it back, as an indication of what it took for me to wield it. Of course, when I had asked her, she denied it. "I suppose you're glad your brother isn't making you come with me."

"Shh!" Shuri froze, eyes widening as she looked this way and that, before slapping my arm in annoyance. "Don't say that where he might hear you! I don't want him to get any ideas! Or my mother, for that matter."

At her slap, a chorus of tiny giggles rang out behind us. We both turned, only a little surprised, to see a gaggle of children peering around an archway. Trying to be stealthy, if there weren't five of them. They giggled even harder and tried to hide away when spotted.

"The Princess!" One whispered. "It's really her!"

"Oh, she's so pretty!"

"Who's the white one? She looks sick!"

"Shh, that's rude!"

"She's not sick, she's just like that!" Another replied, before lowering his register. "Ngumntwana wengcuka."

"There's that word again," I said, certain I've heard the phrase, or a part of it, before. "What does it mean?"

Shuri shot me a look, a barely contained smile. Ever since her brother was revived, her mood had improved immensely, and I felt that cheekish humor rising back again. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about it."

Well, now I was definitely going to worry about it the way she was saying that. I tried to hide it as best I could. "What? What does it mean?"

The children were still giggling and whispering behind us, more comments on our appearances. Shuri's cool clothes, my shield, our various hair types and styles. Shuri finally made a shooing gesture at them, partly playful, and the children scattered. Then, turning to me again, she said, "There's a few different meanings. Wolf Child or Wolf-Pup is a direct translation, but in Wakandan colloquially it means," She snickered, "Baby Wolf."

I stared at her. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"A little!"

"You are not calling me that," I said, and then added, "In front of your brother."

"But it's funny!"

"It is not."

✭✭✭

I said my good-byes to Dad last.

I stood on the gangplank of the Wakandan airship. Small but powerful, enough to take us to Europe. I wondered if Agent Ross really could pilot it like he said he could.

I wondered if I could overpower him. If that was a nice thing to do.

Dad approached me slowly.

"I know you're mad at me." He said.

"I'm not mad," I said, and had to resist the urge to stomp my foot like a small child. It was a close thing. I inhaled deeply, about to find words to argue, before reconsidering it. "I'm just… I don't know. Disappointed. I don't want to fight. I just don't want to leave. Can't I stay here, with the Jabari?"

But Dad shook his head. "Housing the royal family will make Lord M'Baku enough of a target. Besides, you don't have anything to worry about on the outside. Not the same way I do, at least. Ross — the scary one — he won't come after you. I'm the one he wants."

Somehow, I wasn't entirely convinced Thunderbolt Ross wouldn't take his shot at me if he thought it could get him closer to Dad.

"Besides," He added, with a half-smile as he leaned in slightly, a conspiratorial sparkle in his eye. "I heard there's a new team that needs a leader."

"Oh, not you too," I grumbled, but I had to admit, it was nice coming from Dad. He knew my friends, most of them, at least. Then I threw him a knowing look, "Like you'd ever give me permission to cause trouble."

"Absolutely not," He replied immediately, stern; just as I thought. An arm came around my shoulder, half a hug, half teasing. "But I know you. I know you miss them. And they miss you. Go home, Mia. I'll be okay. I promise."

"And you'll let me know, then?" I asked, trying to blink away the sudden burning in my eyes. "If it works?"

Dad looked down at me, his expression solemn at first, a flicker in his eyes. A hope he didn't want to give me too much of. "Of course. You'll be the first to know." He tapped his wrist, marking the same bracelet I wore. Our mode of communication, more secure than any device I'd find in America. Or anywhere else for that matter. "When this is over, I'll contact you. Not before. You know how it goes."

"I do." I murmured. For all intents and purposes, we had to go radio silent with each other, to maintain security. With Killmonger on the throne, any digital communication may be monitored. Even if it's Shuri's encryption.

Especially if it's Shuri's encryption.

"All aboard!" Ross called, imitating a train conductor as he walked back out from inside the airship. He looked cocky at first, before losing his gumption at the sight of us. Probably realizing that kind of attitude wasn't a great look for a man escorting a father's child. He coughed, cleared his throat, and approached the man he'd only ever known as the Winter Soldier with an outstretched hand. It trembled slightly. "I'll get her home safe, I promise. Sir."

Dad looked him up and down slowly. Eyebrows raising higher and higher on his head, before finally accepting the handshake, if only briefly. Whatever thought he had, whatever judgment he made of this man, his capabilities, Dad kept to himself. "For both our sake's, I hope you do."

Ross swallowed, smiled painfully, before ducking back into the hull again. Dad called after him, "Don't let her bully you too much."

Then, to me. "Don't bully him, Mia."

"What?" I gaped, affronted. "I wasn't going to do anything!"

"Better not be," he muttered, and kissed the top of my head, speaking into my hair. "Bust your ass if I find you snuck back in."

I knew he didn't actually mean it. I also knew if anyone caught me, it would be my own father. "I wasn't thinking it, I promise."

I had been thinking about it, a little. But had already determined that it wouldn't be my best course of action.

There had been a lot for me to think about, these past twenty four hours. Everything I had endured this past month. The life I was bound to return to. Everything left unsaid in between. I found myself at a loss for words, knowing I should tell Dad, knowing we needed that discussion — but too afraid.

But if I waited too long, it would only be worse. And maybe, just maybe, there wouldn't be another chance to say it.

I hugged him, suddenly, both arms wrapped around Dad's neck. It took him by surprise, the way his weight shifted back. But he recovered quickly, arms wrapping around me. His metal half gentler than the flesh, creating an uneven but familiar pressure. "Hey, it's okay. Nothing's gonna happen to me."

"I know," I whispered into his shoulder. I was a little worried, sure, but in the end I didn't think this would be the final resting place of the Winter Soldier. He was still way too scary for that, in my opinion. "I'm going to miss you."

It would be our first time apart in weeks.

My first time home, without him.

Not having that place anymore.

I closed my eyes, and I could see those pages burning in the fire.

"I was in it," I whispered, before I could stop myself. "I was in the book."

The words rush out of me so fast I wasn't sure if he could understand, much less hear the way my voice muffled against his jacket. But the way Dad froze beneath me, I knew he had. He hadn't been expecting it. Immediately, I already regretted saying it, and knew there was no chance to recover, not as Ross called behind us, time for take-off.

I pulled back, mouth dry, wishing I could take it back. Dad's expression had changed again, something I couldn't read. The expression I've only seen a few times before; when he'd set his mind to something.

When he made the choice to kill.

I wilted. "I'm sorry. I should've told you before."

"No." Dad's voice was short, but quiet. He paused, shook his head, and gave me a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, you're fine, Monkey. Now go. Be safe."

I was surprised, baffled even, so much so that I did as he said without question, turning on my heel and walking onto the aircraft as its engines heated up. Dad remained in the hangar, watching as we took off, and giving one short wave before we disappeared into the clouds.

Gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Forty-One

✭

Agent Everett Ross thought he was doing a pretty good job so far.

All things considered, it could've been much worse. What with his spine basically in pieces only a few days before, Everett thought himself a very lucky man indeed. He shouldn't even be walking, much less flying the super high tech Wakandan stealth fighter.

By far state of the art — or, perhaps, ahead of its time, at the forefront of technology, verging on future possibilities he couldn't even imagine yet. Even by SHIELD standards. Everett had always wanted to fly a repulsor-powered craft — and this was way better.

The Wakandan pilot controls were unlike any equipment he's used before, standard or non-standard. It was in its own class entirely, using some strange touch-control orbs, reminding him of not unlike the roller balls in computer mice of days gone by. It was so smooth, so intuitive, so unreal, that Everett felt as though he were playing a video game rather than experiencing real life.

They glided over the Wakandan mountaintops, North Africa in the distance, the faint haze of the Sahara on the edge of the horizon line.

Princess Shuri had given him a basic rundown of flight controls and procedures; how to activate radar, how to use stealth features, how to contact various ATC stations in order to guarantee safe passage to Switzerland.

Considering what happened in Geneva, Everett was surprised they had opened their airports again so soon.

Everett's biggest worry was if they would let him land given his current passenger on board.

He glanced nervously to his right. Ever since take-off, Mia (that is the only name he was given) hadn't said a word. Hours passed in total silence — aside from Everett speaking into the radio to establish contact and schedule a landing.

It went seamlessly, which just made Everett more nervous, wondering what this Mia was thinking. Everett did his best to make some light conversation. With a giant super soldier, the teenaged daughter of the Winter Soldier.

They probably shared some common ground, right?

"So," Everett started as the Mediterranean appeared before them, feeling its appearance lent itself to a sort of safety. "Looking forward to going home?"

Technically, he already knew the answer to that. He'd witnessed the argument she had with her father, and the King of Wakanda. But still. Small talk.

The girl sat in the copilot's seat, one knee up and slouched back in disinterest — just shrugged. "I guess."

"You guess?" Everett couldn't help but chuckle, thought it sounded a little anxious. "What, you don't miss sleeping in your own bed again? I know I do. Miss my Starbucks like nobody's business."

Mia did not answer.

Everett glanced at her and swallowed. His throat felt dry — he didn't know why. He's been in worse situations than this. Far more dire, immediately life-threatening. He's flown more dangerous and complicated missions than this. He's been shot at, ambushed, blown up on multiple occasions.

And still, this girl put him on edge.

Everett had to chalk it up to some old instinct — very old. Some ancient animal sense that he was in the presence of a predator. Just one that wasn't interested in him. Yet.

He was starting to get why people like Thunderbolt Ross (is that why she was so cold to him? They had no relation!) wanted her captured so badly.

Still, Everett was not beyond believing that she was probably still just a kid. Just a scared kid who wanted to go home and have a normal life. Isn't that what most teens wanted? To be normal?

"So," he started again, finding a second wind of confidence. "You're American."