Chapter 1
“C’mon, you know we can’t do this alone.” Sam said it as he leaned across the wall of the small jet. Bucky scoffed pointedly, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall to his right. Sam relented. “Buck, we need help. Steve’s dead, Natasha is dead, Tony’s dead, no one knows where the hell Bruce and Thor are, and Strange and Wanda are off doing wizard stuff.”
Bucky knew it too. He knew that they needed help with this issue, and that the two of them alone couldn’t stand up to the situation. He’d already asked enough of the Wakandans, so they were on their own with this.
“Fine,” grunted Bucky. He played with the sleeve of his jacket with one hand before standing up and moving over to the dashboard of the jet, which was flying on autopilot.
Sam watched the other man type in coordinates, flick a switch, and frown.
“Sam? How do I do this again?”
“I’ll help you. Gimme a sec.” Sam fiddled with the controls until a smooth voice with an Irish accent rang out in the jet:
“Changing course. We will land in approximately two hours and fourteen minutes,” said Friday. Tony’s AI still controlled the Quinjet.
“Thanks, Friday,” said Sam boredly. “I sure as hell hope you know where we’re going.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson. I have a built-in GPS,” said Friday sweetly. The plane dipped and shook slightly with turbulence, but Bucky and Sam remained seated, facing each other in the dim lighting.
Two hours and fourteen minutes later, Sam was fast asleep. Bucky had watched him sleep for a while before he began taking an inventory of the jet: guns, knives, and other deadly weapons were stored in a metal container next to the snack fridge, which was stocked with Mountain Dew, Coke, and turkey sandwiches. Bucky polished off another Coke as the jet set down finally in an expansive field. He stood with a grunt and moved towards Sam. That man could fall asleep anywhere, to the point where it impressed Bucky. Now, he nudged Sam’s arm noncommittally.
“Sam. Sammy. Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam.” Sam didn’t move, just snored loudly. Bucky leaned over so that his face was level with Sam’s and shouted “WAKE UP, BIRDMAN!”
Birdman sat up with a holler, knocking Bucky square in the jaw. “Oww! Fuck!” Bucky burst into laughter as he clutched his chin, nursing the bruise that was now developing on his jaw. Sam glared and sat up.
“Okay, well, you totally deserved that.”
“Okay, well, you wouldn’t wake up.” Bucky rolled his eyes as he said it and went to the fridge, tossing Sam a Mountain Dew. “Get some caffeine in you. We have a bit of a walk,” he stated.
The Quinjet had landed in a pretty field, dotted with flowering weeds and dappled with sunlight. A trail cut through the grass, and followed along shakily until it cut through a grove of spruce trees in the distance. Sam grabbed a duffel bag loaded with weapons as he and Bucky stepped out of the jet.
“This way. I think.” Bucky was pointing toward the grove in the distance. The two began walking through the field nonchalantly. If the trip had taken place under different circumstances, it would have been almost pleasant.
They walked for fifteen minutes until they came through the spruce grove and found themselves standing on the outskirts of a rundown town. The Main Street was small, and lined with stores, half of which seemed vacant and closed. A few locals milled the streets, but Sam and Bucky stuck out like sore thumbs. Sam was wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt with a Planet Hollywood graphic printed on it. Bucky was even more conspicuous: he wore a tight-fitting black shirt (per usual, and to Sam’s intense annoyance), a black leather jacket, and leather gloves. A baseball cap was tugged low over his eyes. Sam had a hood on too, slightly covering his face. Neither could run the risk of being recognized.
Eventually, Main Street ended and the pair found themselves standing in front of a more rural area, peppered with houses. Bucky led Sam down one of the streets, toward the very end where the street tapered off into another field. The house at the end of the street was dilapidated, to say the least. It had once been painted white, but years of dirt and grime had turned it to a more yellow color. The house was squat and one story tall, with a small garage hanging off the side. Pop music, slightly muted, blared through the layers of siding in the garage:
“Throw your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart, baby, bang it up…”
Sam stopped near the gravelly driveway. “Buck, get your notebook and write this down. Mitski.”
“What is a Mitski?” asked Bucky as he pulled out the notebook in which he wrote down pop culture references.
“You’ll see. Just look her up on Spotify. Your friend has good taste in music,” said Sam with a cheery grin. They came to the door and prepared to knock as the song ended in the garage.
It was Bucky who first noticed what was wrong. The door was open slightly, unlocked. This didn’t seem like the kind of town where one left their door open. He quietly put out an arm to pause Sam, who looked at him with a frown. Bucky motioned to the door silently, and Sam nodded his understanding. They reached for their guns.
Sam stepped inside first, sweeping his gun around the dark house. Bucky followed him closely inside, and they split up, creeping through the rooms. Bucky went into the kitchen, checking behind the counter and around the table, gun still firmly held in his hands. Suddenly there was a familiar click behind him and he whirled around to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Said weapon was being held confidently by a twerp of a kid, no older than fifteen. She raised a finger to her lips and motioned for him to set down the gun. Bucky set it on the counter, keeping his hands raised calmly. He’d been in worse situations, and besides, he could see Sam creeping up behind them. His gun was trained on the girl, however, and that was certainly not good.
Bucky stared pointedly at Sam until the girl spoke, without turning around to see the other man. Her eyes narrowed as she said, “Don’t move or I shoot your friend.”
Behind the girl, Sam appeared calm. “Okay. I’m going to put down the weapon.”
Bucky was getting annoyed. “Can I talk?” he said slowly.
“Yeah. Tell me what the hell you are doing in my house, and maybe I won’t kill you.”
“Maggie. It’s me, Bucky. I got a haircut since you last saw me.”
The girl continued to stare coldly at him. She was short, with dark, shoulder length hair and grayish eyes. “You in the back, come around. Both of you sit at the table. Keep. Your. Hands. Up.”
Bucky and Sam moved accordingly, and sat at the table. Bucky began to speak again. “The last time I saw you was in Bucharest. You were with your mother.” When he mentioned the girl’s mother, she flinched slightly, but otherwise didn’t waver. Pressing forward, Bucky continued. “The last thing you said to me was ‘Try not to get yourself killed.’” He paused again, expectantly.
The girl relaxed her grip slightly, although she still had one foot forward defensively. Sam watched all this with utter confusion. He’d been expecting someone bigger, and, well, older than this child. He still kept his hands up as he shifted his gaze from the girl to his friend, who was watching her closely. Finally, the kid’s face brightened into a grin.
“Bucky! You got a haircut! You look good, I like it! Wow. How have you been, my dude?” She set the gun down on the counter sunnily and swept her arms around Bucky in a big hug. He looked pleasantly surprised, and returned her embrace.
“Okay- what the actual fuck is going on here?” said Sam loudly, with an air of utter bewilderment.
“Sorry, sorry,” laughed Bucky as he gently pulled out of the hug. “This is the kid I was telling you about.”
“Woah. No- no! You said person. Not kid.”
“Potato, potahto, Sam. This is Margret Hayes,” said Buck cheerfully.
Sam shook hands with the kid, who brightly said “Call me Maggie. Or call me Mad-eye, like he does.” She gestured plaintively at Bucky.
“Buck. Sidebar,” said Sam with a sideways glance at Maggie. The two crammed into a corner together so that their shoulders were touching. “How is that kid going to help us? I mean, I trust you and I trust your judgement, but this just doesn’t seem like a good call.” He said it with a distinct frown as he met Bucky’s eye.
Bucky grunted. “Let’s go out to the yard. She’ll show you.” He turned back to look at Maggie. “Mags, yard, please? And bring your gun, my friend Sam wants to see what you can do.”
The kid nodded and grabbed the semi-automatic off the countertop.
She showed them into the backyard. It was chilly outside; the grass was long and untended. Stray branches and weeds littered the yard and the field which stretched out behind the house, into the plains of Kansas. Bucky reached into a small bucket which sat next to the back door, and pulled out a golf ball. It was yellow and dirty. He tossed it up and down lethargically before yelling “Bullseye!” and hurling it into the distance with his metal arm. Before Sam could comprehend what was happening, the girl’s gun was up. She squinted briefly along the barrel before a shot fired - BANG! - and Maggie turned around to face them with a look of satisfaction.
“If you wanna go and find the ball, you’ll see a bullethole straight through it,” she said saucily, and cocked her gun again. This time, she reached into the bucket and hurled a golf ball into the distance herself. There was another gunshot, and the ball dropped from the sky with an eerie whistling sound.
Sam raised an eyebrow. He was, frankly, impressed. Astonished, even. He looked at Maggie Hayes with a measure of admiration before saying, “You’re in."