Shattered Trurths
The world felt like it had tilted on its axis. The fight was over, but the weight of what had just happened pressed down on them with an unbearable force. The four of them—Steve, Celeste, Natasha, and Sam—had been taken into custody, their hands restrained as they sat in the back of an armored vehicle. The only sound was the hum of the tires against the pavement and their ragged breathing.
Celeste’s arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed her, and the gash across her stomach burned, but she barely registered the pain. Her mind was trapped in the moment when the Winter Soldier’s mask had come off. When she had seen Bucky’s face. When Steve had called his name, and the only response was that cold, empty voice: Who the hell is Bucky?
Steve sat motionless beside her, his entire frame tense as though he was trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. His breathing was controlled, but Celeste could see the tremor in his fingers where they rested against his knees. He had been through hell before—lost Bucky once before—and now, it had happened all over again.
Natasha was unusually quiet, her head tilted against the cold interior of the van. She was bleeding too, the gunshot wound in her shoulder forcing her into stillness. Sam, though, was restless. His eyes flickered between the guards in the front, his mind clearly working through every possible escape plan.
“This doesn’t look good,” Sam muttered under his breath.
“No,” Celeste murmured, voice hollow. “It doesn’t.”
Then, suddenly, the vehicle lurched violently to one side.
Gunfire erupted outside, and before any of them could react, the entire truck was tilting, metal groaning as it flipped over and skidded along the pavement. Celeste braced herself as she was thrown sideways, crashing into Steve’s shoulder as gravity twisted around them.
When the world finally stopped spinning, alarms were blaring, red emergency lights flickering inside the overturned vehicle. A deep voice cut through the chaos.
“Get them out.”
The doors were wrenched open, and standing outside was none other than Brock Rumlow, flanked by Hydra operatives. His smirk was vicious, his eyes cold as he surveyed them like prey.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Guess we finally caught ourselves some big fish.”
Celeste’s fingers twitched, the urge to summon a weapon out of light surging through her veins, but she bit it down. They were outnumbered, injured, and unarmed. Recklessness wouldn’t help them now.
Steve locked eyes with Rumlow, his jaw clenched. “You won’t get away with this.”
Rumlow only laughed. “Oh, Captain,” he said mockingly. “We already have.”
Before any of them could respond, more agents moved in, dragging them out of the wreckage. Celeste gritted her teeth as rough hands pulled her to her feet, but she didn’t struggle. Not yet.
Because something told her the worst was still yet to come.