Seventy Years
It was a quiet night when the first flickers of flames appeared.
A large building sat a few miles from the nearest town. Around it, there was a soft breeze pushing against the trees and bushes. The leaves swayed back and forth as some animals settled for the evening and others woke for their nightly prowl. It was almost silent, the buzzing of insects and the hoots from owls filling the nighttime void. The stars in the sky cast soft and cold light on the flora, gently illuminating the building itself.
It was a building that wasn't too large or too small. It looked like an abandoned facility. Locals in the town spoke of it being an abandoned testing site from World War II. No one bothered looking at it, choosing to forget blemishes in Germany's history.
That night, it may have appeared empty at first glance. There were no signs of life in the windows that overlooked the forest. There were cobwebs settled into the corners of the window frames, cracked paint on the bricks. The stone steps were beginning to crumble with the wear-and-tear they had been subjected to by weather through the decades.
A small flicker of flame could just barely be made out, nipping at the bottom of a window frame. With a blink of an eye, it may have appeared to be nothing more than a gentle sign of candlelight. In another blink of an eye, however, the flame erupted and grew far larger than the flame a candle could possess.
Flame upon flame seemed to appear and grow, whipping at the building. Bricks began to crumble and break apart with force. Window frames began to char as glass began to shatter and explode.
The flames became wild, growing not only in their number, but their size. Screams began to pierce the night air, unheard by any other living soul. It was haunting and piercing, and it somehow silenced the wilderness around it.
Through the flame and beginnings of rubble, a figure began to emerge. She was entirely unscathed as she walked forward, only realizing what had happened when she turned around. She ran a few yards from the building, stopping as she stared at the sight. Her breathing was ragged and heavy, unsure of what to do. Unsure of what she had just done. Her eyes fell to her hands, still glowing orange at the fingertips.
"Oh god," she muttered, feeling sick to her stomach.
Her breathing became shallow, her mind unfocused as she thought of what to do. The screams were still piercing, ringing in her ears. It was a sound she had never heard and had no desire to hear again.
She shook her hands, almost as if the orange would go away if she flapped them in the wind. She thought of how she could get rid of the fire, and in an instant, the tips of her fingers began to glow a bright, light blue. Placing her palms in front of herself, she took in the deepest breath that she could and watched as splatters of ice began to settle in patches on the brick.
The screams continued as nothing had been solved. Taking another breath, she willed the flames to disappear, from the pain causing the screams to go away. To her horror, she couldn't stop the flames or the screams. Feeling faint, she stumbled backwards. Turning on her heel, she made the choice to flee. It couldn't be long before she would reach the town.
She wasn't entirely certain that she was moving in the right direction. She didn't have her brother and his sense of direction... or rather his compass. She didn't have the men she trusted to work as a team to find shelter. She didn't have her husband to keep her company. To keep her grounded as she felt the panic rushing through her body.
Her sense of time was entirely skewed as she stumbled blindly down beaten paths. Reaching a road, paved and seemingly new, she followed it as long as she could go. Was she headed in the right direction?
The morning sun had risen over the horizon by the time she had finally stumbled onto the pavement of the town. There were people around, their days just beginning. Eyes fell on her as she stumbled through, her eyes darting from building to building. Should she ask for help? She had no money for food or for a room in the inn.
Her mind entirely unfocused, she wasn't even aware of the people that stopped and made the attempt to stop her. She wasn't sure if she could trust anyone in the town. Did they know about where she had come from? Did anyone recognize her? Where was she? She had only known about the town from the night she had arrived and from conversations she had overheard before.
"Are you okay?" a woman asked as she looked to her.
Relief coursed through her as she looked to the woman. The woman was English. Her accent filled her with a sense of safety, and that was something she had feared was long gone from her vocabulary.
"I've been lost," she admitted. "I'm just on my way to going home."
"I'm sorry," the woman's lips turned into a deep frown. "Let me help you. What's your name?"
Digging deep into her memory, she thought for a moment. She wasn't entirely sure she could share who she was. She didn't know where she was or what year it was. Thinking back to a time she did know, she thought of names that brought her comfort.
"Mary," she extended her hand to shake the stranger's hand. "Mary Louise Morgan."
"I'm Laura Barker," the woman introduced herself formally. The hair on the back of her neck stood at the name Laura. Hadn't that been the woman's name that convinced her to leave that night? "Mary? Are you alright."
"Hm?" she snapped back at once. "Oh, yes. I'm fine. I'm just a bit hungry and tired. That's all."
Laura gave her a kind smile, offering her arm and tilting her head gently in the direction of a small restaurant. She took it, shallow breaths coming from her lips as she forced herself to trust a stranger yet again.
Leading her inside the restaurant, the smell of the food alone caused her stomach to grumble. Allowing herself to smile, she continued to follow Laura.
Glancing at a paper on their way past a stand, she caught a glimpse of the date. 10/05/2015. It was May 2015. Quickly thinking through the math, she swallowed harshly to hide her shock from the outside world. Seventy years. She had been gone from the outside world for seventy years. The thought made her sick.
And yet, she swallowed her shock, turned to the woman willing to help her, and went for her first nice meal and night of sleep in seventy years.
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No one had ever told Steve Rogers what had happened to his sister. In large part, none of the world truly knew what had happened to Allison Barnes. The Howling Commandos had never spoken about how she had seemingly become another person after the apparent deaths of her brother and her husband.
Steve and the rest of the world only knew that in the Smithsonian, there sketchpads that had belonged to Steve and Bucky Barnes, Allie's scripts of Shakespeare's plays, along with her books, and Allie's uniforms and dresses. Even with those items living there, however, there were still secrets that Commandos and Steve kept private. Not a soul allowed Allie's reputation to falter over the years.
It was a cloudy evening when Steve sat in a chair at the Avenger's Compound. As the wind howled outside, he sat and looked through a folder he had come to look at almost once a day. It was of Allie, and as he looked at the documents, the words "Missing in Action" were stamped in a bright red just below a photo of her. Guilt rippled through him as his thoughts flew around his mind of what could have possibly happened to her.
He remembered the day that he had gone in the ice vividly. He remembered the way he had left Peggy behind. That same guilt ate at him. Had he been more concerned about a woman he loved than the woman he had grown up with? He knew that she had stepped away, allowing a private moment for himself and Peggy on the radio, but she had been his sister. She had only lost her husband a month prior, and then he had made the choice to go in the ice.
In the time since he had been out of the ice, he'd learned of how she had become an inspirational image for women and girls in the years following the war. When he had visited the Smithsonian, he had seen just how much research had been done on her, the respect she had been shown in her assumed death was evident to all. He missed her, more than he realized he ever could, but he was proud of her.
The sound of shoes clicking against the floor alerted Steve to someone joining him. As he looked up, he saw his friend Natasha Romanoff walking over. Her eyes dropped to the file, and a soft smile pulled on her lips as she looked back to him.
"You seem to be looking at that file more and more lately," her gaze was soft, her words gentle and careful.
"I've just been thinking about her, that's all," he gave a small shake of his head, placing the file on the table in front of him. "You know, I've had this file longer than the one about Buck, but somehow, this is harder to realize."
"So, this is about Barnes?" she took a seat in a chair beside him. Taking the file from the tabletop, she opened it and looked at the picture of Allie.
He frowned, lifting his hand and rubbing his temples. With a small sigh, he looked to his friend. "It's hard not to think about her knowing that he's alive. She had to live thinking he had died twice. The first time? We all found each other again. The second time? After I went down in the ice? She was completely alone."
"I see," Nat glanced at him with a knowing tug at the corner of her lips. "It's about you too."
"It's hard not think about it," Steve admitted.
The two fell into a silence. Natasha didn't seem to have the words to make him feel better, and he wasn't so sure that he would be able to feel better about it. He thought for a moment and sat back in his seat.
"Alright, what really brought you in here?" he asked with a raised brow.
Natasha looked over to him, thinking for a moment before she placed the file back on the table. Taking her phone out and passing it to him, she sighed and pressed play on a video. "Here. I thought you might want to see the news."
On the screen, a video of a fire in Europe played. It wasn't the first unexplained fire that had happened in the last few months. It wasn't even the second or the third. It wasn't even the first overall fire. There had been a number of the fires present where crimes had been taking place. Almost as if stopping them before they could go further.
The Avengers had been keeping records of what was taking place, each fire causing concern. With each fire, there were often traces of ice on the buildings as well. As the video of the latest fire played, Natasha glanced from the phone to his expression.
"It's from a few days ago," she sighed.
"Is there any apparent motive?" he frowned.
"Not on this one," she admitted.
Steve let out a low sigh, handing her the phone. The fires hadn't been the only threat that they had been tracking, but the mystery of how no one seemed to be around when they happened did place a weight on his shoulders.
"Has the media caught on to this one?" he frowned.
"Not the way we have," she admitted. "But it's only a matter of time before we have to get involved though. I'd imagine Homeland Security wouldn't be too happy about this happening over here too."
"Well, find out what you can about it," Steve instructed her. "Maybe it's nothing more than—"
"Than what, Steve? A pyromaniac?" she scoffed. "Steve, there's already been no sign of it being someone starting these fires with a match. It could be something a lot more serious."
"And what do you think it could be?" he frowned at her.
"I'm just saying, with powers like Wanda's out there, you don't know what else we could be facing," she suggested with a small shrug. "We could be looking at another enhanced person."
"And do you think Hydra could have been behind it?"
"That's not what I said," she argued with a frown. "I just think that we have to be careful about being dismissive about the idea. I'll do more research, but I think it could be more serious than some kid committing random acts of arson."
Steve sat there for a moment. Looking at Nat, he frowned and looked back at the file of his sister. He had been out of the ice for almost four years. Bucky had been on the run for the past year. In just those short amounts of time, he had seen more than he could have ever imagined when he was young. He gave a small nod and swallowed harshly.
"See what you can find," he instructed. "We'll go from there. If it's serious enough, we'll bring the recruits in."
"Your call, Cap," she nodded and stood, walking out of the room and leaving him to be alone.
Sitting forward, Steve put his head in his hands. He knew he shouldn't continue to let it fester, but every once in a while, it did. His guilt weighed on his shoulders as he thought of his sister and of Sokovia and of the newest string of fires.
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"My name is Allison Barnes," she said the words to herself as she stared into the reflection of her own eyes. "My name is Allison."
A wave of nausea coursed over her. Turning on the sink's tap, she splashed cool water in her face. It had been a few months since Allie had fled the first building that she burned. She had only ever known it as "The Lab"; a place filled with experiments and continued combat training. She barely remembered her time there. Many of the memories she continued to work through were blocked through a thick hazy fog.
The woman who had first helped her, Laura Barker, was a decent help to her as she found her footing. The moment she had papers under the name Mary Louise Morgan, Allie had slipped away to find her footing. A part of her felt guilty at leaving Laura behind without a word, but the haunting memory of the "Laura" that she had met in that bar pricked at the back of her mind.
Wiping at the water that dripped from her face, she promised herself that she remembered who she was. In spite of everything, she was Allison. She was just a different than she once was.
Before she had left that bar on Bucky's birthday, she had been part of a respected team. She hadn't been anything special. She was a nurse and a Howling Commando. She knew how to fight and fire a weapon. She knew how to patch a man up and how to take care of a team when it was needed.
Now, she had abilities she never could have imagined as a young woman in the 1940s. After all, who could have imagined someone who was able to create flames with their fingertips? Who could have imagined someone who was able to create ice in the blink of an eye?
A part of her was still nervous about her powers. She may have even feared them a bit. Enough of her, however, decided to use them and learn to control them. She did so through defending those she believed needed it. She had stopped a few attackers, a few petty criminals here and there.
If she wasn't going to defend someone who was in need, she was off desperately trying to find answers about what had happened to Hydra. She found a few old facilities, including one or two that the Howling Commandos had destroyed. She burned the remains and sights to the ground when she found nothing more than what she already knew. Something in her didn't care how it was perceived by the public. Her anger felt vindicated when she did it.
The problem was when she would return home. She would be stuck with herself and her mind. It was like a penance to pay as she could recall every detail of what had taken place. That evening was no exception.
She left the bathroom, finding herself pacing back and forth as she thought. Her heart raced against her chest as she remembered that morning. She had stopped a man from mugging another. She had done something good, hadn't she?
And then she remembered the look on the man's face that she had helped. He was terrified of her. She hadn't shown her face, always keeping it covered in fear of being discovered. She had taken a step forward to ask if he was alright. Instead, he yelled for her get away from him and he had taken off.
Grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair, Allie hastily made her way out of the flat. She would go to the marketplace. She would buy groceries. She would make dinner. She would be normal. That would help her forget about the morning, wouldn't it?
If anyone asked her how she felt after each time she had gone after petty criminals or those she felt were wrong, she would say she felt as if she had done something right. After all, despite her not having the authority to act the way she did, she was stopping further pain... wasn't she?
And that was always the thought that reminded her of the screams. She could still hear them rattling in her mind. She would do her best to shut her eyes tightly, scrunch up her face, furrow her brows, anything to forget, but she always remembered.
She walked to the shops, saying her greetings to the people she had come to know as she lived there. She passed by a cafe she enjoyed going to on the weekends. She passed by a bookshop she frequented, stopping herself from going inside when she knew she would rather be in her flat sooner rather than later.
There were televisions on in different shops that she passed. The doors to the shops were set open, the sounds of the news broadcasts filtering out into the streets. Allie paused for a moment in her curiosity.
On one screen, there was footage of her latest escapade. No one ever knew that it was her, of course. She was anonymous and quick. Whether it was a petty criminal or an old Hydra facility, she left her mark but never her name. For the few months she had been out in the world, she had acted out anger, fear, for a sense of control.
Frowning at the screen as they continued to speculate about a "serial arsonist", she turned her attention to another screen across the way. Footage of Sokovia was planning once more. She couldn't tell how many times she had heard that country's name. She wasn't sure she had ever heard of it before the coverage began. She had gathered bits and pieces of the story from the news, writing notes in a journal she kept at her flat.
On the screen, The Avengers were shown in snippets of footage before the anchors began to debate. She was always pulled to one member of that team. Steve. There was a part of her that had been overjoyed when she realized that he was alive. There was a part of her that was scared to try and contact him after everything she had done. And there was a part of her that didn't know if she wanted to see him. She was angry at him, almost feeling as though he chose to leave her behind.
Shaking off the thought and ignoring the constant bombardment of news coverage as she walked through the shops, she did just as she had set to do. She picked her fruits and her vegetables. She picked desserts and drinks. For a moment, her shopping did distract her from what she had done that day.
It all came crashing down on her once more when she settled at the table to eat. She pushed her food around the plate, taking far too long to eat as she heard the screams pricking at the back of her mind once more.
Allie made the mistake of turning on the television in an attempt to distract herself. Instead, the first channel she had turned to was the news covering the footage of the fires she had started once more. Frustrated, she turned the television right back off and threw the remote at a chair.
Covering her face with her hands, she screamed with her mouth closed. Turning to the kitchen, she got up and grabbed a bottle of wine. She poured herself a glass, finishing it quickly and pouring another. Could it help her forget? She knew the answer was no. If she finished the bottle, it was just another to add to her collection. It wouldn't have even been the first bottle of wine she had finished that week.
Her frustration pumped through her like a fire. She knew that she was doing what she believed was right, but she knew that there were things she did because it felt good. And memories of her life before she ever had her powers would creep in and she would feel guilt. She didn't know if she was still the same woman. Could she even be the same as she was? She didn't ponder the question for long before she finished another glass of the wine.
Attempting to settle into bed for the night, she found herself tossing and turning. Steve came to mind over and over again. She wasn't sure why it was, but the feeling she needed to go and find him grew in her mind and in her heart.
With a restless sigh, she threw her blanket off of herself and hastily threw open the closet door. She pulled out a travel bag, stuffing it with whatever she may need. She went to the bathroom and filled it essentials. She went to her living room and packed her pens and paper, the journals she had written her notes in.
She placed it on the couch cushions, slumping into a chair and thinking. Was it crazy to have waited as long as she did? Should she have gone the moment she knew that he was alive? Or was it wise? How would he feel about her arrival? Her mind was like a flowing river of thoughts before she finally resolved to return to the bedroom and sleep.
In the morning, she made the choice to leave at once. She didn't care how difficult it was to find passage back home. She would pay it. She looked around the room as she realized that she wasn't sure if she would return. Shutting the bedroom door, she walked into the kitchen. Looking to the counters and table, she noticed the empty bourbon and whiskey bottles that littered the surfaces. Grimacing, she walked over and hastily threw them in the bin.
Taking a deep breath, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. She took in a breath and grabbed the bag she had left on the couch the night before. Placing it over her shoulder, she opened the front door and glanced back one last time. She swallowed, shutting the door and locking it.
She didn't know what she would do when she got there, but one thing was for sure: she was going to see her brother once more.