CHAPTER ELEVEN- July 2038

She already had an inkling of what to do; it would just take further genetic specialization. In her experimental testing of the properties of the Extremis virus, graciously gifted to her by a mysteriously supportive doctor, Sam had accidentally mutated the virus to only effect skin cells, the most ready available test material. Rather quickly in fact the virus had proliferated, and when repeatedly exposed to only one type of cell, became incapable of infecting a different type of cell. Now Sam Wilson needed neural repair and tissue regeneration; she needed living neurons to infect and study.

Gathering active samples of brain tissue to breed a specialized virus was her immediate problem. It was her most overtly acquired supply and could not be managed without in-person aid. However, Sam couldn't well detail her use of a controlled substance in a third floor, unlicensed laboratory, so she told the head of the hospital a half-truth: her use of organ donor brain tissue would be of great help in an Alzheimer's treatment. It was totally possible that would be an application years from now, but she had no intention of working that long before saving Big Sam. Some samples were too degraded for the virus to infect at all. Neural structure also required a very specific stimuli to maintain functionality. A host of other problems arose, leading Samantha to acquire even more equipment, none of which she cared to order or pick up covertly. There was no time. Mistress, ever efficient, still erased the digital records. At one point, Sam had so many samples going in her office that she moved the cold storage to her bedroom which was no longer used as a resting place anyway.

It was hours after the fact that Sam realized Cooper and Annie had yelled up good-bye to leave on their honeymoon. They'd be gone for three weeks cruising, site-seeing, backpacking, and finally visiting family. All Sam had replied with was "okay." The work felt painstakingly slow until Sam looked at the calendar; she'd only been focused on neural regeneration for a month, but she felt she was close.

One day—what was it, she thought, Tuesday? Oh damn, it's Friday— after finally having to go downstairs for more ground coffee, she realized she hadn't eaten in…maybe days… and started making herself some pasta, the very first thing she found in the pantry. She looked to her phone for the stream of live results Missy sent from each Extremis unit currently active. There were some promising specimens, along with at least two that required incineration. After food. Sam put down her phone and turned on the small kitchen monitor to the news.

King T'Challa stood on a podium welcoming King Namor of Atlantis to the United Nations. He offered kind words of people living together to protect each other, as he had opened his own technologically advanced nation to do decades ago. T'Challa was all honor and respect; Namor all suspicion and stoicism, the physical embodiment of the marble statue of David but with curiously slippery-looking clothes. The speech touted the storied history to their two ancient civilizations, Wakanda and Atlantis, and pledged support for peace between all nations of the planet, whether on land or in the sea.

Sam absently stirred the water, mesmerized and exhausted, drained of her highest functions. She kept watching until she was startled by the simultaneous sizzle of the over-boiling pot and doorbell. She dumped in the package of dry penne and ran to get the door.

"Oh, hey," she greeted Lucas, "come on in. I was just cooking."

Her boyfriend entered, hands deep in his pockets, snorting "you don't cook, Sam."

"Eh, pasta with sauce is food," she shrugged.

"We need to talk."

"What happened? You look…" Sam never knew what descriptors were appropriate to use in conversation: 'upset' usually incurred some backlash, 'tired' was just rude, 'unhappy' mostly referred to one's thinking face. Luckily, she didn't have to finish the thought.

"I got the fellowship, Sam."

She couldn't remember that context. "What fellowship?"

"I didn't tell you because I had said some things in front of you about your Dad that—"

"No one calls him that," she blurted. "He doesn't like it." Then she stitched together some of his meaning. "You applied for the Stark Fellowship? Since when…you don't like…why would you want his name anywhere near your work?"

"Look, I said some negative things about…Mr. Stark, and I thought I'd seem like a hypocrite if I took his money. But you can't deny it's my best opportunity to develop the technology—"

"So still applying for his money and resources is not hypocritical after a certain time passes or just if you don't mention it. Or is it not hypocritical while I don't know about it?"

"Sam, you're not listening."

"I am. That's all you've said so far." Her logic felt infallible, at least to her.

"Right, well, I've been given a stipend and would move to DC. That's the main facility hosting my department of research. And I've been given a contract that pays for me and others to be relocated…"

"Oh?" Sam's brain went in several different directions all at once.

"And I've decided to take my mother."

"Right," Sam replied automatically. She started to think about those other directions her mind had jumped towards and bit her lip. "Wait."

"I can set my mom up with a nice condo where she can retire and not have to worry about anything. I can't pass that up."

"Wait. Did you dangle being my boyfriend in front of my father to get this thing?" That instant anger sparked in her gut again. "When did you apply?"

"Um," but Lucas couldn't answer the question without looking guilty. "It's the leading facility for my field of research—"

"Your field?" Sam spat. She had to sit down, but she shook all the same. Then something else occurred to her. "Wait, what's my field, Lucas?"

"What?" He seemed baffled that they weren't talking about him for once. He stammered, scratching his head in what looked like painful thought. "You don't even go here officially. You…I don't know, dabble in stuff."

"You've asked me about the Avengers. You've asked me what little I know about my father. You've talked to me and my father about your research, but you don't know what I do and have never asked."

"I mean, you're not serious about any study, are you? You don't have to be. You're a Stark."

"And you never needed to know anything about me personally, did you? You just needed to get to Tony…"

"No, that's not how it started. We dated before—"

"Half a date," Sam bellowed. "We went on half a date before you knew who I was, and, oh, didn't you call back fast the next day…how convenient you could get into a Stark's pants? Hop, skip, and a bed away from the Stark payroll!"

"Sam," Lucas tried to start but stopped in exasperation. "My work is everything to me."

But Sam wasn't close to done yet. "You knew exactly who I was, how old I was, how uninvolved in their world I actually am, and you knew," she added particular venom to this one, "I had never been 'involved' with anyone before."

"To be fair, I thought you felt like this wasn't going to last, too. I was waiting for you to tell me it was over."

Sam stood in the middle of the living room, a wooden spoon in her hand and her sleep shorts on, unable to process that kind of illogical stupidity.

"You no longer wanted to be near me, but you kept calling to talk about your research and having me over to your apartment and being my date to a wedding and talking to my father…because you thought that I would stop caring. What the ever-loving fu—"

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"You…" Sam suddenly stopped. It made perfect sense. This mediocre, self-centered, Twenter boy who never bothered to ask Sam anything about her real interests and work stood there poised to have the upper hand in an emotional argument…encounter? Breakup? That was the reality. Sam was being broken up with, to her face, for the first time. Tony had quietly handed her off. Sam Wilson had faded into the shadows. Clint had convinced her Harvard was for her own good. Now Lucas Sommerson stood there telling her this was what she wanted, that it was for the best, that she was really meant for something bigger, better. Sam couldn't argue with him there. So she did the one thing she always stopped herself from doing in front of Lucas: Sam put his brain to shame.

"Your power supply is off because you don't account for the limitations of space-safe materials required to minimize fire and exposure degradation. You don't even attempt to alter the orientation and possible decentralization of your unit because you probably want it to be a box labeled 'Sommerson Stasis' or something ridiculous like that, but if you go to Stark Industries, nothing you create or have created is now your intellectual property. I pity you, honestly. If none of this occurred to you before…there's not much hope that you'll live up to the fellowship expectations." For added salt in the wound, Sam warned, "your mom shouldn't quit her day job."

"Alright…" Lucas mumbled, stuck on some shocking revelation early in her rant and unable to listen further. "I'm gonna go."

"You do that," Sam regurgitated gratefully.

Lucas cocked an eyebrow but made no reply. Sam didn't remember him leaving or how long she stood there before the sizzling pops of her food boiling over brought her back. She returned to the kitchen on autopilot, shaking in her inability to process…what? That he didn't want her? That she hadn't seen this coming? That she didn't feel the emotions she thought she would? Sadness, yes, but sad for wasting valuable time attempting a physical connection when she could have been working. Anger, yes, but angry for her father's interference when perhaps, as Sam Barton, Lucas would have loved her more. Frustration, yes, but frustrated by her lack of understanding of human behavior when she was smart enough to run circles around them all.

Sam slid the cork pot rest over and slammed the ruined pasta down, not realizing her fingers were still under the pot. She ripped her burning hand away and grabbed for pained her fingers, but was still tangled enough around the handle to tip the pot forward off the counter. The contents drenched her legs, splashing everywhere.

She could smell the flesh before she felt the pain. She sucked in her breath, trying not to scream. She held her unburned arm over her mouth and pressed it there to muffle the noise. The pool on the floor still scalded her feet, and Sam fell backwards. The landing made her bite into her arm and bend her burned knees, pulling weak and aching skin. She bit down harder, tasting blood mixed with the tears streaming down her face. She could feel everything; she couldn't cover her scream anymore.

Even though her mouth opened, only a strangled howl came out. The screaming did not help the pain, so Sam grabbed a leg of the kitchen table and pulled, hard, to heave herself out of the bowling puddle. The table screeched across the floor a few inches with her weight. She pulled up her torso to lean against the leg. Sam closed her eyes. Even her eyes burned with smoke and steam and salty tears.

When she dared to open them, she really saw—boiling water and penne pooled under her heels, spattered crimson marks down her legs speckled with blistering skin, bleeding fingers on one hand, and a vivid, bloody bite mark above her ugly brown bike scar. She looked at her shorter leg, and for more reasons than pain, Sam screamed.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, crying, but when she finally moved, the puddle of water felt cool. Each movement was excruciating. Her phone still sat face down on the table. She began to dial 911 but couldn't bring herself to press 'call.' She wouldn't give Lucas the satisfaction of knowing he'd upset her. No one could know how weak she was. She couldn't call Laura or Clint and put them through the hospital again. She couldn't stand to see Natasha's disapproving face. No one should have to lie for her anymore…

…but there was no way she could face Tony. What would she even say?

Yeah, I've almost died before. I was bullied. I stole. I broke a bunch of bones. My growth was permanently stunted. I have no skills and no formal, recognized education. Your daughter is basically Quasimodo. So, like, pick me up in fifteen?

Sam had slowly dragged her way to the front door, then it hit her. This was her opportunity, her only shot. She turned to climb, stair by stair, on two burned feet, bending two burned knees, dripping blood from her fingers, and shaking. If it didn't work, she'd just have to live like this as her punishment. She could think of nothing else by the time she made it to her room.

Sam grabbed the syringe, needle and two vials at the front of her cooler. She grabbed a cable from the drawer and plugged one end into her computer tower.

"Okay, Missy," Sam panted.

"Yes, Ms. Stark?"

"Use Port D's auxiliary attachment to compile data. Label all files under 'test subjec—" She sucked in air harshly, sliding the monitoring glove over her burnt and crushed fingers. "—'Test subject one,' subcategory 'dermis' and—" From her slippery fingers, Sam dropped the second vial which burst as it hit the floor. So much for the nerve-dampening agent. Now, she'd feel everything.

"Yeah, no additional subcategory. Ready, Missy?"

"Running data capture now."

Sam eyed the other vial. Now or never. Afraid of ruining her last chance from slick fingers, Sam filled the syringe with as much of the virus as possible, desperate to control her breath and her twitching hand. She only had 72ml to dose the entire surface of her skin. She tried to focus on how spread out she could manage and how specific she could be at depressing the plunger. She'd still have to eyeball each injection. Shock was settling in. Sam started on her shins, the farthest and hardest to reach area. She managed approximately 10ml each, so she repeated this on each thigh, once in each arm, and the remainder in her torso.

It felt like sitting in a hot tub with the blazing sun beating down. Her skin warmed, crawled, and burned like she was trapped under covers she couldn't remove. Then her outsides caught ablaze, or might as well have, like skin drying out as you stand too close the fire pit, tight and raw.

Before darkness enveloped her completely, she heard Missy ask "is everything alright, Samantha?" It was the first time Missy had ever used her proper name. That made one entity on Earth concerned for Sam Stark.

End of Part I