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Earth, New York
An Abandoned Warehouse in Queens
Peter landed on the ground about ten feet from the old warehouse and strode boldly to the door. That in itself was unusual; he’d normally dawdle about in front for a bit while he worked up the courage to go in. But this time he had something more important to handle.
Even so, as he pushed the massive doors aside, he couldn’t help but stop to make sure the coast was clear. Nothing jumped out at him, but that was of limited reassurance. No matter how hard he tried he could not anticipate what she’d have set up. Sighing in resignation he turned and closed the door.
“Rome?” he called out, using the handle he’d been given. Of course, there was no answer. She loved to set the scene. Not that it was necessary; she scared him despite his abilities. Not quaking in his boots fear, either; it was more like living with the knowledge that she could probably kill him if she wanted to.
“Rome, we don’t have time for this today,” he called out as he strode down a randomly picked side of the building.
“There’s never enough time,” her voice replied, echoing off of the girders. He stopped to listen. The echoes made it extremely hard to pin down her location, but not impossible. This time he was fairly certain that she was up on the catwalk at the other end of the building.
He kept moving in the direction he’d been headed, away from the source. Every time he’d managed to pin down her location it had been a trap. She wanted him up on the catwalk, which meant it was the last place he wanted to go.
He was just starting to feel good about his decision to not be baited when his danger sense kicked in. Even with his enhanced reflexes he was barely able to leap out of the way as a two-hundred-pound punching bag crashed to the ground.
He was still in the air when Black Widow seemed to materialize out of the darkness. She rammed her right elbow across Peter’s jaw, causing him to flip midair, and crash to the ground. He flipped back to his feet, webbing the area she’d been in; she was nowhere to be seen.
“You cannot rely solely on your abilities,” the voice proclaimed from the shadows. She was above him, but he wasn’t sure where.
“Rome, I have a message from Olympus,” he called out futilely. She’d drilled it into him that once a session had begun there was no stopping it. ‘You can’t just call time out when someone’s trying to kill you’ she’d said on more than one occasion.
In other words, he’d have to complete the trial first. He glanced around the cluttered warehouse. It was never the same twice. He figured Mr. Stark was helping her configure each new challenge. He was scanning mainly for his target. That, and traps. It was always a good idea to scan for those. Some of them hurt.
All he had to do was get to the ‘victim’ (usually an old mannequin of some sort) somewhere in the building and get it outside. He’d actually managed to rescue the ‘damsel in distress’ a couple of times; four if you weren’t picky about how many body parts the mannequin ended with. Barring that outcome, the scenario only concluded when the victim was dead. Tony swore he’d buy Peter a new car if he could actually capture Widow while saving the plastic hostage. He had the car picked out but-
-he flipped around at the snapping sound near him, webbing it instinctively. He reeled in a rat trap complete with freshly killed rat. Another rat was greedily eating the cheese that had been the former trap’s bait. Being New York rats, he figured the live one had pushed the now dead rat onto the trap to get the cheese.
He was fairly certain that Widow was feeding the rats to keep the population up in the warehouse. The rat trap was a new touch though. Remembering where he was, he flipped around, expecting an attack. None solidified this time. He supposed even Widow couldn’t time rats offing each other. He shook his head at his jumpiness and turned around just in time to see a stunner blast aimed for his head. He dove out of the way, only to be hit by a second bolt. For a brief instant he saw flashes of color and then he was out.
He started back awake reflecting that, if he got nothing else from this training, he’d still gain an immunity to stunner blasts. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking, he thought as he rubbed his temple. She knew he hated stunners. And she’d gone for his head again. Not that he was about to complain about it; she’d only ask if he planned on asking his opponents not to shoot him in the head.
He started to rise, but halted mid-way as he realized he wasn’t in the same part of the warehouse he’d been stunned in. Apparently, Widow was playing with the power setting on her stunners, again. He’d thought she’d had them on max gain.
“You must be aware of your surroundings at all times,” the voice said again. He did his best to scan his surroundings for her without actually moving. It would not have been the first time she’d rendered him unconscious in order to move him into a trap. Despite his heightened senses he couldn’t locate her, which wasn’t surprising. He still wasn’t sure how she made it to New York without being caught on a regular basis. He knew she wasn’t staying here.
Well, at least she wasn’t moving, or shooting him in the face with a high tech taser. He turned his attention to the rest of his environs. Directly in front of him was that accursed dummy, hanging over a bubbling cauldron, of all things, like cheese in a trap. This time the dummy had a couple of hundred-dollar bills pinned to its blouse.
The obvious thing for him to do would be to web the top of the cauldron and pull it over, spilling its contents where it couldn’t hurt the rich damsel in distress. He could then swing over to rescue her. Very heroic.
Which meant it was what Widow was trying to get him to do. Nor could he simply web the dummy itself. The only places not covered in cloth were her arms and head. He’d tried attaching his webs to her clothing once, but that had left him with a nude mannequin that was just anatomically correct enough to be embarrassing. Not that Widow’s comments about male teenagers hadn’t made the situation any better.
He could web the rope itself to pull her to safety, but he couldn’t take the chance that it was attached to a tension-based release. If so, as soon as he began pulling the tensioner would open and the victim would live up to its name. At least the dummy was secured with rope instead of a harness, meaning it wouldn’t have a quick disconnect. Then again, he could possibly have webbed a harness.
He took half a step forward, halting when he noticed a shift in the boards he was standing on. On closer inspection, it appeared that he was on a three-foot square pressure trap. He had no way of knowing what it would do, but based on previous sessions he guessed it would force him to act quickly once he moved. Probably it would drop the victim, but it could be anything. He rocked up and down slightly, testing the give of the device. From what he could tell it was as compacted as it would go.
He focused on the mannequin, following the rope up until he caught the slight gleam of a line coming off of it. Fishing line. He couldn’t see what it was connected to, but it was sure to be nasty.
For a moment he was tempted to simply web the hundred dollars off the blouse and let the dummy fall, or get shot, or crushed, or whatever deviousness Widow had in mind. Mr. Stark had impressed upon him the importance of timely delivery of this message at least three times in his brief trans-galactic call.
But he couldn’t do that. It would be admitting defeat. And besides, she’d only make him pay for it next time, no matter his excuse. It was a little scary how well she played the evil villain, really.
He started to get that itch that suggested he’d better act soon. He tried to tell himself he’d only spent a few moments pondering the situation despite how long it felt but it was of little consolation. If Widow got bored it would not go well for him.
That fishing line suggested that he had a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc to the right of the rope he could pull the mannequin without activating whatever it was attached to. But that left a very predictable path of movement. Considering that Widow had placed him here he figured following that path was probably suicide. Or maybe that was what she wanted him to think. Maybe she’d given him an obvious path, knowing that he’d take the alternate route. Or maybe she’d expected him to expect . . . ahg! A person could go crazy thinking this way.
“Screw it,” he muttered extending his right arm to point at a beam straight overhead and his left to another on that side. He webbed them both and pulled the strands together, causing the beam above to collapse. Then he took a precious moment to web the cracks of the small platform he’d been standing on and dove out of the way of the falling structural member.
The webbing in the cracks slowed the plate’s decompression just long enough for the beam to take his place. He snapped a couple of strands out to hold it and webbed another member, pulling himself up into a swing.
He was barely a quarter of the way through his arc when a bullet severed the strand. But that shot had required Widow to give herself away. Honing in on the sound he was able to pin her location to some shadows under a staircase on the second level of the complex warehouse. He quickly webbed the second-floor section and yanked himself towards it. While in the air he sent a web bolt at her right side and another to the staircase itself. As she dodged to her right he pulled on the staircase. This had the dual effect of sending him flying towards her and pulling the staircase down.
She immediately dove forward, bringing her stunners up at the end of the roll. He webbed a likely enough looking stanchion and gave it a quick tug, altering his course as he fired another bolt. The glob of goo hit her right stunner as she brought it in line with his new vector. The momentum of the hit carried her hand up to her face. The webbing kept it there. The impact, coupled with the lack of mobility sent her legs out from under her.
“Stop hitting yourself,” Peter muttered. “Whoa!” he added immediately after, as he dodged out of the way of a blindly aimed shot from her other wrist. After that one shot, she retrieved a knife from her boot to cut the webbing away. His time grew short.
He sprinted to the edge of that walkway before webbing into the air on an arc that led to the right of the victim. He almost immediately loosed a web to the left, changing his arc just as a disruptor bolt crackled over his shoulder. A light tug on the strand adjusted his trajectory to a vertical beam just to the left of the intended victim. He landed on both feet before pushing off to intersect the rope at the trip line’s attach point.
He also gave himself enough rotation to put him into a spin along the vertical axis. As widow came into view, he fired off two web bolts in her general direction, without bothering to see if they hit. Instead he followed his rotation around to the rope. He webbed beams on either side of himself to stabilize his flight and yanked himself towards his goal. Another bolt passed just behind him.
While in the air, he fired a no look shot at where he perceived the disruptor blasts to have originated from before catching the rope. It began to swing, creating slack in the trip wire. He reached up and ripped the line out of the rope before sliding down to where the hostage was.
“Don’t worry ma’am,” he intoned as he worked at the knot “I’ll save you.” He managed to unknot the rope and tucked her/it under one arm before swinging them towards a nearby set of windows. Once through he used the strand to slow their drop down, landing quite softly on the dock opposite his entrance.
“There you are, all safe and sound, ma’am,” he said in as deep a voice as he could muster.
“Safe and sound?” he responded in the shrill voice of an older woman. He took the dummy’s hand and began hitting himself over the head with it. “We could have been killed. I think I have whiplash. My lawyers will hear about this!”
“Are you about done?” Widow asked from the open doorway.
“Almost,” Peter replied, plucking the two hundred dollars off of the mannequin’s blouse. He then nudged it into the river.
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?” she asked.
Peter shrugged. “She was going to sue,” he explained casually. “By the way, that’s a nice look,” he added. She’d managed to cut most of the strand that had hit her away but there was still a little on her arm and in her hair. “Now you’re a real black widow,” he stated.
She shook her head slightly, trying not to grin. That would only encourage the brat. “Do you know how much a mannequin costs?” she asked instead.
“Now that’s awfully racist of you,” he replied. “Members of my generation consider all life priceless, not just that of Homo-Sapiens. And we certainly don’t put a dollar value on those of the species Mannequin Sapiens.”
“Pick it up,” she ordered with a sigh.
“Rodger,” Peter said, snapping a jaunty salute before turning around. His voice switched to a southern drawl as he said “Today on Deadliest Catch, we’re attempting to snag us the elusive Caucasian Mannequin. Well I’ll be, there’s one right there,” he added as he webbed its head. “Let’s see if we can’t reel this one in. But ya gotta be careful. These are fighters,” he announced before making a reeling noise and tugging on the strand.
The head of the mannequin popped out of the water and into his hand. “Oh, oops,” he said, dropping the accent and frantically webbing the mannequin. This time he came up with a blouse. “That’s not right,” he declared, trying to web the mannequin again. But by this time the current had taken it far enough away that the distance plus the bobbing motion was making it difficult to line up a shot.
“Peter,” Widow said from behind him.
“Well, it’s not like you’ve never destroyed any of them,” he replied, sounding just a touch defensive.
“Sit down,” she said, indicating the edge of the pier. She then strode past him and took her own advice. He sat hesitantly next to her, giving her a nervous glance. That glance had nothing to do with the normal reason a teenage male might be nervous about sitting next to a beautiful woman. Not that he hadn’t started these sessions out with those fantasies, of course. But it’s hard to be attracted to someone who specializes in sneak attacks and traps. At least when they’re all aimed at you. It was enough to give him a persecution complex.
She stared across the water to the waning sun. “People like us rarely get the chance to just see simple things like a sun setting,” she said eventually before falling silent again. He wasn’t sure what she saw in that view, but he was certain it wasn’t the view itself. He was smart enough to keep the silence, so they watched it together.
“You are improving,” she told him eventually.
He didn’t know what to say. He’d never actually gotten a compliment from her before. “Thanks,” he said eventually, sounding somewhat embarrassed.
“You are improving,” she repeated “but I have concerns.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m concerned because every encounter with an enemy leaves you that much more vulnerable. The more you fight, the quicker they will figure out your patterns: how you fight, how you think, how you’re vulnerable. They will eventually know you better than I do, better than even you do.”
“So, what?” he asked. “Is this your way of telling me I should start killing them?” It was clear from his tone what he thought of that idea.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’d prefer you to not make the mistakes I’ve made,” she explained. “Killing is . . . the ultimate power over another,” she said slowly. “It’s intoxicating, and addictive. And the worst part is that sometimes it’s necessary.” She fell silent again.
“You’re the same age I was the first time I killed,” she continued. “I don’t want you to have to deal with that yet. I don’t think you’re ready for it; I certainly wasn’t. But you need to be aware of that danger. Patterns of behavior are a luxury you can’t afford. That’s the point of all this,” she finished up with a wave at the warehouse. After that she fell silent again, watching the sun set.
Peter followed suite but he wasn’t really seeing that view at all. He couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. He tried to picture killing someone, as she had. He just couldn’t do it. Perhaps that was for the best.
“What was the message?” she asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.
“Message?” he replied, squinting in confusion.
“When you entered the warehouse, you said you had a message,” she reminded him patiently.
“Oh that,” he replied. “It’s really silly,” he added. “It was probably just some sort of test.”
“You didn’t seem to think so when you thought it would get you out of training,” she said pointedly.
“Yeah, because I thought it would keep me from getting my ass kicked” he replied. “Besides, it’s embarrassing,” he added. He’d felt ridiculous enough when Mr. Stark had insisted he repeat the message back over the phone. He was sure telling someone else would not improve the feeling.
“Peter,” Widow replied, fixing him with a glare. “What was the message?” she asked again, sternly.
Parker sighed. “Dogs barking, can’t fly without umbrella,” he parroted, feeling just as silly as he’d expected.
“Say that again,” she said, suddenly intent.
“Dogs barking, can’t fly without umbrella,” he repeated, slightly louder.
Concern colored her face almost instantly. She stood up, with him following quickly. “And you’re just telling me this now?” she snapped.
“Well I was busy getting my ass kicked,” he said defensively. “And then you shot me in the face . . . again. You know what that does to my memory.”
“What else did he say?” she asked.
“Just a list of numbers,” he said as he reeled them off.
“That’s in Wakanda,” Widow said, more to herself than to anyone else. “In thirty hours,” she added as she turned and began walking briskly away.
“Wait,” Peter called from behind her “what’s in thirty hours?”
“The rest of your training is on hold,” she called over her shoulder.
“Wait that’s it? What’s in Wakanda?” he asked incredulously.
“Go home, Peter,” she said as she rounded the corner. He rushed after her, but when he came around the corner she was gone.
“You know you’re supposed to tip when you get a telegram right?” he called out in frustration. When were they going to stop treating him like a kid? Wasn’t the whole point of these little rendezvous supposed to be to prepare him for just this occasion? And she’d said he was improving. And, most importantly, how did she keep disappearing on someone with heightened senses?
He didn’t know, but he was going to find out. If Mr. Stark was involving Captain Rogers in this then it had to be big. His voice took on a game show host quality as he said “These answers and more can be yours with the right computer intrusion skills.” Then he launched himself into the air. It would take at least thirty minutes to get home. That gave Widow a thirty-minute head start.
>>
Earth
Kingdom of Wakanda
Bulhe Mental Health Facility
“I must object, my king,” Okoye stated quietly as she and T’Challa watched the man they’d come to see through a one-way mirror. On the other side Sergeant Barnes sat patiently, waiting for his next counseling session. “There are too many uncertainties on the table already,” she concluded in a voice just above a whisper
“I am aware of your concerns Okoye,” T’Challa replied calmly.
“This is not the time for you to be taking unnecessary risks,” she persisted. “Never have the eyes of the other nations of this world been so focused on us. Never have our people been so unsure of what tomorrow might bring. The number of people attempting to cross our borders alone increases with the day. And with the Border Tribe in prison we are more vulnerable than ever. We need you here.” The days since the unveiling of Wakanda had been hard on her. Her husband had been jailed. Her people were fearful. And she was having to spend much more time analyzing the threat of other nations. W’Kabi might have been a traitor, but he was right in one respect. The nations of the planet were catching up technologically. Wakanda was a small country. If the countries of the world banded against them it would not survive.
“What? You don’t like how M’Baku’s people have handled it?” T’Challa asked, baiting her.
“It is not about what I like or don’t like, T’Challa,” she replied. “They are neither trained nor prepared to defend our borders. And I don’t trust M’Baku,” she added. “He respects you. He’ll follow you. But if you are not here, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“You worry too much Okoye,” T’Challa chided her. He tried for a light tone but it came out brooding. Not for her fears, for he did not share them. It’s hard to keep the mood light when you’re about to do something awful. He could tell himself all he wanted that it was the right thing to do, but that knowledge was of no comfort. Nothing could change the fact that, if he succeeded, he would rob this man of something. And he’d already had so much taken from him. The thought was enough to sicken T’Challa.
“Is it not enough that we harbor and aid these people?” Okoye asked, breaking into his thoughts. “You have been more than generous with them. But you do not owe them anything.” She knew she was overstepping her bounds. He was her king. She was his general. It was her job to carry out his commands. But the thought of what might happen scared her.
“We all owe them,” he replied quietly. “Wakanda is why they must hide, and so I will hide them.”
“Let us consider what happens when the United Nations discovers this,” she stated. “You will lose everything you have been working for.”
“Or we will gain everything,” T’Challa replied, giving her a meaningful look. He really should have ended this conversation by now. It was far from new, and yet nothing new had been said. He understood her fear for his people. In truth he shared it. But he also understood that they could not let fear make their decisions any longer.
“I implore you one last time,” she said “let me do this.”
“You are our greatest warrior, general,” T’Challa replied “but I have fought him. Should this work I am the only one with a chance of surviving.” She didn’t respond, instead going back to examining the American sitting in the overly large room. It was a complete circle three stories tall and twenty meters wide. It had a little creek running through its flowered floor. It had a very Japanese feel to it. The subject of his observation was sitting on a bench carved from the root of the massive tree spiraling up through the center, perfectly still. He seemed almost serene.
T’Challa gave a signal to the surveillance dot in the room. A moment later a door on the opposing wall of the room opened up, admitting his sister Shuri. She strode with her usual energetic gate to the center of the room.
“Hello Bucky,” Shuri greeted him warmly.
“Hello Shuri,” Bucky replied, holding out his new metal arm. “Do I have you to thank for this?” he asked.
“You could have at least waited to replace his arm until after,” Okoye complained back in the observation room.
“It must seem real,” T’Challa said pointedly, as he watched the interplay. Of all the people involved in this she was the only one who seemed completely composed about it. Actually, she’d said they were crazy to worry.
“Mostly,” Shuri replied. “I did get some ideas from Tony, though.”
“Tony Stark?” Sergeant Barnes clarified, sounding concerned.
“I am not sure how I feel about that man either,” Okoye said at the mention of Stark. She would follow her king anywhere, but she was having a harder time adjusting to his new approach to the world than she would have believed possible. It came out as nitpicking.
“It made sense to collaborate with him,” T’Challa replied slightly defensively. “He was already working on similar projects. And it’s good for Shuri to have a friend that can keep up with her.”
“He is playing a dangerous game with his leaders that could expose us all,” Okoye objected. “Besides,” she added “he is a foreign arms developer. Giving him access to our knowledge was a mistake.”
“According to Shuri he was pretty close to our level technologically already,” T’Challa pointed out. “And the exchange was far from one way. Shuri came back with a dozen new ideas.” Okoye didn’t respond. Inside the room Shuri was winding down on her excited detailing of the advancements Stark had recommended.
“I hope you removed the detonator,” Barnes replied dryly as she finished, examining the arm as though it had become a snake. “For the explosives,” he explained as he noticed her confused look.
“There are no explosives in your arm,” she assured him. “Why would anyone design a prosthetic limb with explosives?” she asked. Bucky opened his mouth to respond, then changed his mind and closed it. For some reason he was hesitant to destroy the image of someone she respected.
“It’s just a joke,” he said, looking away to try and hide the lie. He was a terrible liar.
“Anyway, I don’t know where Doctor Bahyi is,” she said as she finally worked her way around to the point of this exercise “but my brother would like a word with you if that’s all right.”
“That is my cue,” T’Challa said, stepping back from the window and heading for the door. “Remember,” he added, pausing as his hand encompassed the door knob “no matter what happens, do nothing. This must play out.”
“My king . . .” Okoye said suddenly, concern filling her voice.
“I will be fine,” T’Challa replied with as close to a carefree grin as he could manage. It lasted only a moment before his face smoothed back to impassivity and he opened the door.
“Well,” Bucky was saying as the door opened “I could hardly refuse my host, now could I?”
“Hello Sergeant Barns,” T’Challa greeted warmly as he walked to where the man was seated with his hand out. Except he wasn’t seated anymore. T’Challa had barely started moving when the American stood at what they called ‘attention’. It seemed natural to him.
“King T’Challa,” Barnes responded, accepting the king’s offer to shake. He’d been there long enough to know it was not a greeting native to Wakanda, which meant the king had chosen to honor his customs.
“How are you, Sergeant?” T’Challa inquired, holding the shake for a moment before releasing the other man’s hand.
“They say I’m doing better,” Bucky replied with a little shrug.
“Please,” T’Challa said, indicating the sergeant’s recently vacated chair with his hand as he sat in the chair opposite. “So, they say you are doing better?” he prompted, sounding unconvinced. “I believe the words given to me were ‘remarkable recovery’, and ‘ready to be reintegrated into society’,” T’Challa added.
“They tell me that too,” Bucky replied uncomfortably.
“But you are not so sure?” T’Challa asked him.
“I . . . it’s complicated,” Bucky tried to explain. But how does one explain their fear of having their mind hijacked at any moment?
T’Challa sympathized. He couldn’t guess at the horrors the man across from him had endured, and he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to if he could. What had happened to him was probably the most invasive, pernicious violation of a person he’d ever heard of. It made rape seem almost affectionate; a rape of the mind.
“The male African elephant is forced out of its herd upon reaching adulthood. One can guess that it does not wish to go, but it is given no choice. It is comfortable, and so must be forced out,” T’Challa explained at what seemed to be random. In truth he was stalling. He knew he was stalling. He knew the best thing to do would be to just get this over with, that the longer he delayed the more he’d hate it.
“So, what; I’m a juvenile elephant?” Bucky replied, sounding slightly amused.
“You are comfortable,” T’Challa corrected him. “Unfortunately, men such as us are not destined for comfort,” he added sadly.
“So, it’s time for me to go?” Bucky asked.
“I am sorry Sergeant Barnes,” T’Challa apologized.
“Sorry?” Bucky replied. “You’ve been more than generous with your help, with everything. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“That is not what I meant,” T’Challa said, still stalling. What was wrong with him? He knew the value of this. He knew its importance to everyone.
“Then what?” Bucky asked, confused. Up till now the conversation had followed a simple track. He’d been able to tell immediately that the king was bothered by something. But it wasn’t exactly like he was one of his confidants. He was just a reclamation project the king had worked on, like taking in a malnourished dog.
“Longing,” T’Challa intoned in Russian, finally getting to it.
“What?” Bucky asked again, certain he’d misheard the patriarch.
“Rusted,” the king continued.
“No,” Bucky gasped, unable to believe what was happening. Already he could feel those words tugging at him. Testing the bars holding the monster Hydra had hidden within him.
“Furnace,” T’Challa continued, as Bucky lurched to the ground in front of his bench.
“Stop it,” Bucky pleaded, unable to believe they’d betray him like this. These people had been so good to him. They’d taken him in, helped him. And now he was realizing that all they’d ever wanted was the monster.
“Daybreak,” T’Challa intoned. Realizing that this was truly happening Bucky yelled a banshee howl of anger and charged the king. T’Challa quickly stood, hooked his left leg behind the leg of his chair and whipped the sitting device at the sergeant’s legs. Bucky tripped, crashing through the chair.
“Seventeen,” T’Challa said just as the sergeant ripped two legs off of the splintered chair and resumed his interrupted charge. T’Challa backpedaled, avoiding the improvised kali sticks.
“Benign,” T’Challa said, thinking that at the moment Bucky was anything but. He narrowly dodged a viscous swipe from one of the sticks and began working his way back to the center of the tree.
“Nine,” he continued, managing to disarm Bucky of one of his clubs before the enraged sergeant could brain him with it. He held it in a guard position and began blocking Bucky’s attacks. He didn’t strike back, or even attempt to disarm the other stick. As long as Bucky was focused on their improvised sword fighting, he could control the engagement.
“Homecoming,” T’Challa continued, just as Bucky switched his remaining club to his organic hand and drew T’Challa’s block with an overhead strike. He followed that up with a metal fist to the chest that sent the king flying into the tree.
“One,” T’Challa intoned forcibly as he righted himself. He was beginning to regret not letting Shuri install a kill switch in the sergeant’s shiny new limb for this. His arguments against had seemed very convincing at the time. They were decidedly less so now.
Bucky screamed in response to that last statement and threw his weapon at T’Challa in a fit of rage. He knew what was coming, how close he was to losing himself. He could feel the monster’s eagerness. The key was in the lock. It had but to be turned. He had to end this now.
Bucky charged T’Challa, but as he reached his target the African king leapt twenty feet into the air, out of immediate reach. “Freight Car,” he intoned from his position in the branches.
It took a moment, but the sergeant’s demeanor shifted. The rage seemed to evaporate like pipe smoke in the wind. It was replaced with a calm lethality. He stood up, back straight, arms calmly at his sides, and waited. The Winter Soldier had returned.
T’Challa jumped down from the tree to stand warily in front of the man. When his presence provoked no response, he said “Good morning soldier” continuing in flawless Russian.
There was a slight pause. “Ready to comply,” the Winter Soldier replied, also in Russian, with that measured voice that maintained itself just above a whisper and just below the freezing point of water.
“I have a mission for you,” T’Challa said. “Assassination,” he added, pulling a picture out of his pants pocket and showing it to him. A picture of Steve Rogers.
The Winter Soldier looked at the picture, then directly at T’Challa. But his eyes weren’t the dull eyes of a slave. There was a spark there. A spark their owner was clearly trying to hide. And it was a spark of rage. The king had just enough time to realize the activation sequence had failed before Bucky punched him into the nearest wall.
T’Challa wasn’t quite sure how he’d been taken so much by surprise. He’d known this was a possibility. He thought he’d prepared for it. But somehow the sergeant had gotten through his guard anyway. Perhaps he’d been too busy condemning himself to see it.
He’d have liked to say he was pleased it hadn’t worked, but at the moment all he could think of was how much that had hurt. His chest felt as if it had been hit with an anvil. His back didn’t feel much better. And his eyes were having trouble focusing.
He blinked to clear them just in time to see Bucky standing in front of him. He tried to activate his suit, suddenly very grateful that Okoye had insisted he bring it. But Barnes’s hands closed around his throat like an electric press before it could enclose him.
The suit kept trying to wedge its way under the fingers, but there simply wasn’t room. The king tried to pry his hands away but they would not budge.
“Sergeant,” T’Challa called out hoarsely to no avail. T’Challa kicked Barnes in the shin bone. When Barnes didn’t react, he kicked him again, harder. That got a response, but probably not the one the king had hoped for. Instead of releasing him, or backing away, Bucky jerked T’Challa’s body in an arc that ended abruptly where it met the ground.
T’Challa struck out in response, jabbing Barnes in the ribs, first once, then over and over with increasing desperation. But the maddened sergeant would not budge. It suddenly occurred to T’Challa that he might actually die here, in the grips of a beneficiary. A beneficiary that had every right to kill him. Was that why his defenses had been so ineffective?
Despite the horrible lethality of the situation he couldn’t help but chuckle at the many ironies involved in the situation. It came out as a rasping gasp but it didn’t matter. His words to Okoye came floating back to him.
He’d known how protective of him she was. He’d been worried that she would jump to intercede too early. So, he’d ordered her not to under any circumstances. More than that though, he’d made her swear on her oath of allegiance that she would not interfere. He’d been so certain he could fend the sergeant off long enough to talk him down. He’d never even considered that one quick shot could be enough to end the fight before he could craft it to his not death.
“Bucky, stop!” Steve Rogers yelled from the open door T’Challa had passed through to begin this debacle. T’Challa’s eyes flew open as the new voice entered the fray. He was suddenly very grateful that he hadn’t made Steve swear on a Bible that he wouldn’t interfere. But it turned out that even that act of defiance was inadequate reason to get the angered sergeant to let up.
“Bucky!” Rogers repeated before taking three leaping strides to where the sergeant was busily committing regicide. He placed an arm on Barnes’s organic forearm, finally getting a reaction from his friend. Unfortunately, that reaction did not include loosening the rather antagonized sergeant’s grip.
“He wanted me to kill you,” Bucky ground out without taking his eyes off of T’Challa.
“No, he didn’t,” Steve replied. “We just needed to know if you were good to go,” he added, finally getting the sergeant to break his gaze.
“What?” Bucky asked, confused.
“Bucky, let him go,” Steve said in a deeper voice, a command voice. “That’s an order sergeant!” he snapped when Bucky hesitated. Finally, almost against his will, he released the prone monarch. T’Challa gasped a deep breath, before erupting in a fit of coughing. Steve helped the king into a sitting position against the nearby wall while Bucky processed the sudden shift of events. The door opened again admitting Okoye and Shuri into the room. They rushed to check on their somewhat deflated monarch.
“Yes, I can see there was nothing to worry about,” Okoye said stonily standing over him. Despite his throat T’Challa grinned as his own words of comfort came back to haunt him.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Barnes said finally.
“I assure you . . . this will be the only time,” T’Challa got out between ever decreasing breaths. After a few more he was actually breathing normally again. “For what it’s worth, Sergeant Barnes,” he added, in a more normal tone “I am very grateful that you passed this test. Of course, I will be even more grateful when my throat does not feel as if it was recently sporting a rock python choker, I assure you,” he added self-deprecatingly.
“I . . .” Bucky started before pausing. He’d almost said he was sorry for the injury he’d caused; it was pure reflex. But he wasn’t sorry. He was still angry. “I’m glad it didn’t work too,” he said instead. T’Challa nodded his understanding of both messages but otherwise said nothing.
“What the hell was this about?” Bucky asked a moment later, still mad.
“It was a test,” Rogers restated, confused by Bucky’s lack of comprehension.
“And I am curious as to which idiot thought it up,” Barnes replied shortly, adding a slight grin to soften the statement. “But you said you needed to see if I was ‘good to go’. What was so important that you’d risk releasing the winter soldier for?”
“Oh, that,” Rogers replied, embarrassed. “Stark called.”
“Oh,” was all Bucky said. “Bad?” he asked a moment later.
“You have no idea,” Steve replied, adding a softening grin of his own.
“Well are you going to tell me?” Bucky asked rhetorically.
“According to Stark we’re dealing with a powerful being intent on murdering half of the galaxy in one stroke,” Steve explained.
Bucky mulled that over for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, standing up “if that’s all then I’d say our good friend Mr. Stark is getting a bit alarmist in his old age.”
Steve grinned. “Maybe so,” he admitted. “Tony managed to beam an encrypted packet to one of his prepared safe spots, so we know as much as he does.”
“Really?” Bucky asked with a grin, alluding to Stark’s vast intellect. He was in way too good a mood for someone receiving such dire news, particularly when that news came with a recruitment offer. He knew that. But he couldn’t do anything about it. And . . . he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It had been a long time since he’d felt this good. Since he’d been him.
Steve’s grin this time was equal parts humor and humored. He could only imagine what it would be like to finally have evidence that you were free of a dark alter ego. And normally he’d indulge that release indefinitely. But they had a mission, and not much time to prepare.
“I’m sorry Bucky, but we don’t have much time,” he explained. “For security reasons Tony sent the location of the information cache via a couple of couriers. We’ve got a full briefing ready in the next room”
“Right,” Barnes said, finally coming down from his high just a little bit. “So how much is not much time?” he asked.
“If Tony can keep to his schedule, he should reenter the solar system in six hours,” Steve said while leading him to the door.
“Wait,” Bucky said, coming up short as those words registered “did you say reentered?” he asked with a boyish wonder.
“Who said the daydreams of twelve-year-olds were flights of fantasy?” Steve asked with a grin as they continued. The memory of their pre-teen selves swearing that pact to make it to the moon shortly after reading ‘From the Earth to the Moon’ brought a warm glow to his chest despite the circumstances. Or perhaps it was because he was finally really reunited with his friend from so long ago.
“Reentered,” Barnes repeated to himself as he followed his friend out.
T’Challa followed at a distance, flanked by Okoye and Shuri. Apparently, he was only allowed one stupid act a day, king or no. Shuri was silent. Technically, so was Okoye, but her prior passionate protest was a palpable presence despite that omission. It would not be long before it was voiced again, he knew.
“Not now Okoye,” he commanded before following the other two men. She followed, clearly not satisfied, and just as clearly following his order over silent protest. It wouldn’t last, he knew.