Deep in the dark where the world ends

In front of our eyes, a small space

Everything that we do not see

Goes by

Pierre Reverdy, Shooting Star

4.

The smell of grilled chicken pulled her away from restless sleep.

Disoriented by her unfamiliar surroundings, she had rolled out of bed and recalled the events of the night. In a daze, Céline put on a clean green sweater and a pair of jeans borrowed from the wardrobe. She briefly entertained the thought of asking Zemo why the hell he owned so many women's clothes, but ultimately decided against it. It was hard enough prying anything from him, she might as well not waste it on trivial things.

Besides, if it was anything creepy, she preferred not to know.

She proceeded to the roomy living space, where the smell of chicken was mixed with hot spices. From across the kitchen island, Zemo was stirring a large pot of simmering stew. Paprikash, he had promised. Realizing how starved she was, Céline didn't linger on the fact that Zemo had indeed made breakfast and joined him promptly.

"Ah." He looked away from the stove. "Good afternoon."

Now that she had a view of the countertop, she could see that not only the assassin had prepared the Sokovian dish, but that he had also set an impressive table on the marble counter.

"Smells suspiciously good." She eyed the feast. "Is this a clever way to deliver bad news?"

"Why can't a man simply prepare breakfast without ulterior motives?"

She put one hand on her heart as if saying 'my bad'.

"I did have unpleasant things to talk about." He salted her plate before handing it to her. "It would be preferable for you to remain here for the time being."

Fork in hand, she eyed him cautiously.

"Define 'time being'." She took a bit of the chicken, careful as to not ask too much of her stomach.

"Indefinitely." He put down his own serving.

"As in more than two hours in a row?" she tried not to sound crossed, mollified by how good the food tasted. If Zemo was ever tired of crime, he could always try getting a culinary degree.

"It might not be… optimal." He answered smoothly. "But I would prefer knowing you here than somewhere where I have no mean to guarantee your safety." He took a bite before giving her a small smile.

So, Helmut Zemo was in charge of her safety.

Céline gave him the same blank look she was getting used to give whenever he was trying, and succeeding, at getting under her skin.

"Okay, but what about…" She struggled to find a reason that would prevent her from hiding.

She knew there wasn't much going on in her life, but realizing that nothing stopped her from vanishing made a feel oddly numb. "... I'll have to warn my boss, I guess."

"So I had gathered." He had the good grace of looking almost sheepish.

She put her fork away in resentment. She didn't feel like finishing her plate, after all.

"But we're not even sure I'm a target. Why would I be? I'm not even family and I haven't seen Malik in ages."

If she was a target, then… her thoughts went straight to Florent.

"I… will admit that last night's events may be retaliation for my looking into this situation." She gave him the look again. "Rest assured that the other youths and their benevolent caretaker are safe. I'd simply like for you to stay here so that it can be the same for you."

In a heartbeat, he had guessed where her mind had gone. The man was perceptive. She had a feeling he wasn't always using it with good intentions.

"You should use it to get some rest, Céline." He took a look at the rest of her, and seemed to think she ought to take some others things as well, like the food in her plate. He just had the good grace of not saying the words out loud.

She twisted her mouth in a grimace, annoyed at his inquisitive ways. So what if she had a shitty lifestyle? At least she hadn't gone berserk and fucked up a bunch of superheroes.

She sighed the barb away. She wasn't mad at Zemo for remarking on obvious things. She wasn't even sure he was really paying attention or if she was being an insecure mess.

Besides, Zemo rolling her false name into his Sokovian mouth had a way of grating on her without really knowing why.

Before she could think about stopping herself, the word was out of her mouth.

"Chris."

He looked at her questioningly.

"My name. It's Crystal. So, Chris." She pointed a finger in his direction. "Not that you've earned it."

She hated herself as much as she felt relieved. Now he was going to have a field day digging her up. Still, after nearly two years, it felt strange to hear it aloud.

Of all the shitty things to say…

Céline— Well, not Céline. Of course she remembered how it felt to be Chris, but then again, the experience that came with the name were not necessarily things she wanted to hold on to. So what about the person that came attached to it?

"Nevertheless, I am grateful for this gift." He punctuated his words with a deferential nod.

Unimpressed by his flourish, she scoffed on her way to the bay widow. "Don't be so extra."

The Eiffel Tower had not disappeared, bronze beams standing tall on the blue backdrop. It almost seemed to tease her now that she was practically on house arrest.

She braced herself for another round of sharp questioning.

"One thing puzzles me still." His husky voice reached her from the kitchen space.

She didn't look away from the crowd that came and went under the four metallic feet.

"I've been thinking about the attack last night. We were in the immediate path of the blast, yet none of us sustained any sort of lasting injuries."

She raised a brow at that. So much for the police interrogation.

"Speak for yourself," she declared casually. "I've ripped my favorite dress on my way down the ground." She made a show of appearing sorrowful.

"Did you, now?" He indulged in her obvious lie.

"Not really. But I thought I'd start leaving some hints here and there, in case you wanted to treat me to some nice things, baron-style."

A twinkle of humor lit his tea-colored eyes.

"You could just ask."

She tore herself away from the Tower, giving him a scandalized look.

"So, that's it, you've gone from international criminal to Sugar Daddy that quick?"

He made a show of entertaining the thought.

"It certainly sounds more enjoyable than a cell."

He didn't seem to mind her brazen comments, just like he hadn't really highlighted the strangeness of her presence in his mysterious, very important mission. To be perfectly honest it felt a little thrilling to trade quips with a dangerous man overlooking one of the most famous monument in Europe. All of this— The food, the view, her body not making her feel like it hated her thoroughly– it all filled a small space that longed to be playful and free.

Better enjoy it than get stuck with the truth.

"Now don't go all Fifty Shades of Grey on me, Baron." She waved a finger in his direction.

This earned her a genuine laugh in return. It was odd, the way you could easily banter with a convicted murderer.

She had evaded his questions, of course— or he had let her, who even knew at that point?— so she felt comfortable asking some questions of her own.

"By the way, I thought you were going to be in prison for a long time." She tried to keep her tone as casual as it could be, given the topic.

"Eight years is a pretty long time." He shot her a meaningful glance. "But It would appear I am still of use to some."

The way he phrased it made her think that there was indeed some sort of legitimacy behind his investigation. She also gathered that she wouldn't get much else for now, if ever, and dropped it. Ignorance might be easier, for now. For her and for Zemo.

Once she got enough of the view, Chris joined him once again on the other side of the kitchen island and drifted to lighter topics. There was a boy to find and paprikash to finish, after all.

"'You really a baron?" Zemo nodded.

"I am, although some of my assets have been either seized or split between neighboring countries." He replied matter-of-factly. "You told me you were in Novi Grad. Tell me, do you speak Sokovian?"

She glimpsed something like a sharp interest, yearning even, stirring in his tea-colored eyes.

"A little, enough to make conversation," she offered, remembering the words she had picked up during her long, arduous stay.

She heard the elation in Zemo's voice when he replied in flawless Sokovian.

"Good. Some things should not be forgotten."

She shook her head to agree, not knowing what to reply in any language.

They finished their meal quietly.

He disappeared later that night.

Chris emerged from the shower to find a small suitcase on her bed, placed in evidence over her cheap pile of bracelets and the St. Anastasia medal previously discarded on the covers. Discomfort seized her at the thought of Zemo strolling in her room, but she reminded herself that it was in fact his room. At least he hadn't picked up the piles of clothes scattered on the ground... Still, he could have knocked.

She grabbed the envelope sitting on top and spotted a few words written in an elegant handwriting.

"I did get the hint.

H."

Chuckling, she opened the small luggage to discover a thick bundle of cash nestled into it: 20s and 50s neatly pressed in even rows. Elated, Chris nipped any feeling of guilt at the thought of profiteering from Malik's fate; she already knew how she was using this, and why.

What good could a conscience do once we were done for?

The first few days, nothing really happened.

She had grown restless, tormented by the idea of staying within the same four walls for more than two hours. Granted, the place was a palace after the string of shitholes she had lived in. But a gilded cage was a cage still.

Zemo alternated by being away for hours at the time to monitoring a laptop and making phone calls to every foreign criminal under the sun. She made of point of not looking like she understood the rough conversations, taken aback by the venom and sheer coldness Zemo conveyed in any language. Such was the life of an evil genius, she guessed. At least this confirmed he was as legitimate as he could be in his pursuit of Malik.

There had been one particular call made from a bluish projection when she should have been fast asleep (it that case, it would have been useful to inform her twisting gut of that fact). She hadn't been able to decipher much from her half-closed door, only that a rather important man was being impatient with Zemo's progress— or lack thereof. Maybe it meant something sinister, maybe it meant nothing at all. She didn't have the energy to care for the time being.

Chris had chosen to focus on sleeping, at first. Nothing truly restful, only the kind of interrupted naps she was familiar with. Without a solid intake of alcohol or opiates, it was pretty hard to reach deeper sleep. Harder still was quitting her terrible lifestyle almost cold turkey, and her first days had been spent either heaving in the bathroom or agonizing under the covers.

There was no hole deep enough to hide away from this kind of biological retribution. Every sleepless night, every skipped meal, every nasty thing she had put into her had come back to knock her all at once; it almost made her cry in despair, to feel how badly her insides worked. She was 35 minus 5 years of existential bliss, and 30 wasn't old enough to feel yourself shrivel. It didn't matter to her body that her self-inflicted mistreatment was meant to keep something far worse at bay. Blood and cells couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be coerced, couldn't be deceived.

Each time she felt ripped apart she reminded herself that she was whole, chipped but alive, far better now than she'd been almost a year ago. But all she could perceive in these moments of acute pain was the life pulled from her, not what remained.

If Zemo had anything to say about her pitiful state, he didn't make it known. The man had made himself scarce since their chaotic meeting, and she was frankly too lost in her struggles to really notice his coming and going.

Once the purge of her body had quieted enough for her to function she had taken to explore, quickly realizing that Zemo didn't necessarily own the place; she had found some toys and more women's clothes. Nothing raunchy that suggested the baron had a penchant for orgies and the like, only casual wear and some hair products.

Then, she had pondered about what to do next. Chris was now rich enough to ship herself out of Paris and its big mess. But a post-Blip world was in no way peaceful: every nation, every continent had trouble dealing with the return of three billion people, and the movement known as the Flag-Smashers was nowhere close to being dealt with. The GRC, the UN, any form of government under the sun was flip-flopping around what decisions to take. In truth, everyone was looking for a leader, or at least someone to place the blame on. Meanwhile, people had to go on.

Zemo did acknowledge her presence in what she had come to think of as a very Zemo way: the man… cooked. She knew nothing else; his habits, his whereabouts, his thoughts, not a single shred of personal life, only that when he was in a kitchen, she was in for a treat.

They made a routine out of it that never felt too comfortable or domestic. Zemo would just start tinkering with pots and pans until they sort of converged during meals. She happily joined in, hopeless when it came to mixing anything edible, and desperate to put food in her stomach that could stay there.

She didn't know if she was seeing things because she wanted to make them true: but the unhealthy halo of her brown skin dimmed, and she no longer felt like she could scatter on a particularly windy day.

But then she also knew she had traded her demons for other beasts.

It started with the nights, when laying down wasn't just because she had hammered herself into oblivion. It crept up to the day with the restlessness, the walls that seemed to choke her, closing in on her with the promise of obscurity. From skittish, she grew resentful, and from resentful she went to fully irritable.

Instead of ignoring her, Zemo quickly revealed to be the "rip the Band-Aid" kind of person.

One particularly quiet morning, he waited a total of seven minutes before dropping a simple yet efficient:

"Is there something wrong?"

At that point, it wasn't even "some" thing anymore.

Right now she was hungry, she was hot, the light was too much, the sight of food made her want to heave onto the kitchen island, and if he was rolling the 'r' of her name one more time with his stupid eastern accent she was going to bludgeon him with a spoon.

"No" she mumbled sourly, her hands refusing to stop their insane fidgeting.

"I couldn't help but notice…" he trailed meaningfully.

"I am sure your phenomenal deductive skills helped you, but going from a life of booze and happy pills to a full-on cloister isn't the greatest thing in the world." Her brittle voice had accomplished the miracle of not wavering until the end of her tirade.

"Ah." He put his scented tea away. "I was holding out hope that this place wasn't so dreadful as to make your stay uncomfortable."

For god's sake, did he always have to be so high-strung whenever he spoke?

"I'm sure the long-term benefits will outweigh your present discomfort." He added delicately.

And couldn't he curse every now and then?

"I can't drink, I can't get high and I can't get laid." She counted on her hand viciously. "I can't distract myself from the fact that Malik might be dead and that I could have given him more than a few shitty tips on how to draw purple alien assholes. What I can do is stay here imagining all the ways a kid that trusted me got carved up for the sin of being born with something he never asked for. I am way, way past discomfort and well onto 'you better have solid windows up there'" her voice had steadily gone higher with each phrase, until it bounced on the high walls.

In response, Zemo did that infuriating puppy head-lift he often favored whenever he was looking for something devastating to say.

"I'm doing my best to gather intelligence on superhuman trafficking. Paris is vast, and unfortunately, its underworld trade is… extensive."

This had the merit of taking her down a notch.

Unnerved by her wracked nerves and by Zemo's words, she rounded the kitchen island to reach the sink behind the baron. She let her hands run over the water and proceeded to soak her face until she felt she wasn't going to spontaneously combust anymore.

Once she felt a little steadier, she turned around to face her unlikely host.

"I'm not chewing your head out because I think you're not doing enough." She put one palm on the nape of her neck. "I'm just frustrated, that's all. You're the guy with the gun and the jacket and I'm just good at emptying your fridge."

Was Zemo shopping when she was out cold? Imagining the baron pushing a caddie lifted some of her angst.

"It's a pretty large fridge." He offered her the ghost of a smile. "I don't think you would want what comes with the gun and its accessories."

She smoothed the water pooling on her sternum.

"At least it prevents you from going ballistic over breakfast." She looked away at the admission. She was behaving like a hormonal teenager because she couldn't fuck herself up like she wanted to. Wonderful.

If it had been the whole truth to it, it would have been simpler. Pathetic, but simple. Truth was, staying here, scooped up and powerless, a familiar burn in her flesh… It drove her back to memories that she could no longer keep at bay.

Mercifully, Zemo's smooth voice called her back from it.

"I was in two high-security prisons in the span of eight years, and I have not stopped to ponder over my own needs in that time. I do believe I'm not immune to the throes of dissatisfaction."

Maybe it was the ache in her bones, or the roaring yearning for light, for life— but the way the man's Sokovian accent stretched his very last words made her breathe a little harder.

One look at him and it was clear he had noticed this.

"What did you do to keep sane, then?" she asked more quietly.

Embers moved in his tea-colored eyes.

"I would think about all the things I'd do once I would get out." This time she knew for sure she wasn't imagining the rumble in his accented voice.

The boundary she had grazed on her very first night materialized once more, thick and tangible under her feet. She no longer had the excuse of whiskey and fear, only the longing in her belly.

She crossed it.

"And did you get around to do it?" she prodded, her hands grabbing at the edge of the sink behind her back.

Zemo's eyes bore into her own as he took a slow, measured step.

"I'm afraid the list was so long, I may have missed an item or two." his husky voice lowered to almost nothing.

Two steps between them became one.

"Such as?" she encouraged, feeling the heat of his body as he drew near.

Now that he was so close, she found herself wedged against the sink and his body.

"Such as…" He repeated, and for a moment, his eyes lost focus.

He stretched a finger to catch the water pearling under her chin, and she had to fight the urge to lean in. His hand rose to her face, slowly, and Chris had to try long and hard to keep her stare from wandering. With bated heart her eyes traveled from his unsteady gaze to the palm of his naked hand, watching it outstretch over her jaw as if to cradle it.

There, his fingers were so close to her bronze skin she felt the ghost of their touch trailing on her cheek, rising higher and higher until they brushed the loose strand of obsidian hair obscuring her brow.

Zemo's gaze lingered on her forehead, where his hand halted.

"I might tell you, one day, if I wasn't afraid to scare you away." His voice was still a soft rumble when he traced a line on the smooth, unmarred skin.

His touch send her mind racing.

"I'm not easily scared." She retorted, inhaling the peppermint air.

"So I've seen." He almost seemed regretful, then.

In the blink of an eye, Zemo shifted back to his usual poise.

"It's not every day to you meet civilians that aren't fazed by a gunfight or a convicted murderer." His eyes turned solid once more.

Blindsided by the sudden turn their conversation had taken, she searched the baron's face. He only turned away and left in direction of the table on the other side of the kitchen island, leaving her to look at the space he had occupied so... intently a mere second ago.

"I forgot to ask you if you were hurt by our misadventure, but I see that you were spared by any lasting wound." He drawled on as if she had hallucinated their close encounter.

She put her hand on her forehead, where a long gash had been. It had faded to nothing in the couple of days she had been here, the same way her bruises had vanished.

Chris was still grappling with the sudden change when Zemo addressed her from the other side of the room. Had she said something, done something? Or was he just an absolute lunatic that enjoyed blue-balling people so brilliantly?

"If you are still restless, you might accompany me today. I'm confident I've found a trail that might lead to our vanished boy." He adjusted the fur-trimmed collar smoothly. "You must promise to follow my lead, however."

Still ruffled, Chris resigned to go with the flow of this irritating man.

"I've been doing nothing but that, haven't I?" She couldn't quite keep a tinge of disappointment from showing.

As usual, his sly look gave away nothing.

Tailing people was a fucking bore.

Initially, she had been elated to get out for the sake of seeing something else that the same four walls, but then she had remembered that following Zemo meant getting back into a confined space with the man. After their rather close encounter, it rattled her to feel his shoulder so close to hers. It didn't seem to faze him particularly, but then again, nothing really seemed to.

Now they had parked in front of a rather inconspicuous warehouse, watching a flow of crates getting in and out through tall plastic curtains. Zemo had said nothing about the whys or the hows, and Chris had been too sulky to ask: she could now see they had progressed to a very mature way to communicate.

Uncharacteristically, Zemo had been quiet for this agonizingly long hour. She liked to think that he was mourning the great kitchen action he had chosen to pass on, and even if it was probably not the case, it made her resist the urge to spark a conversation herself.

Thus, she stayed miserably silent.

Was she bothered by the silence? Not really. Did she simply feel too awkward to speak first? That was already a bit more likely.

Mercifully, his lordship caved in after a while:

"Earlier, you said that Malik had not chosen to be the way he was." Zemo's voice rung in the car, business as usual.

"Because chances are he never did." She slumped further in her seat. "Ever heard about the outbreak of enhanced people a couple of years ago? Something about the fish." she kept her tone detached.

"So you believe Malik has gone through a similar, unwanted change, and that he likely doesn't know or want to use it to his own end?"

She couldn't help but scoff. Zemo was talking about a thirteen-year old that cared more about watching anime than global world domination.

"Powers are certainly not power."

Her jab was meant to be vague, but any chance to talk about his superhuman obsession drew Zemo in.

"Go on, please."

Chris couldn't help but to sigh, her eyes set on the windshield and beyond.

"I have found, my dear baron, that the men who have none of these wondrous abilities are often the ones who hunger for it the most." Her words dripped in contempt.

"I feel you have more to say about this." His words had taken on the gentle tone of someone who might plead, if asked.

Chris tried her best to school her features when she answered.

"I might tell you, one day. If I wasn't afraid to scare you away." she threw his own words back with added spite.

A wry look rippled on Zemo's features; he was probably not too used to get a taste of his own medicine. But the rare pleasure of having the last laugh couldn't quite manage to take her away from the soft, pleading eyes that kept looking at her in her mind.

"Chances are Malik is what anybody in his situation would be: lost, confused, and scared shitless." She hugged her denim jacket, bracing herself for an unpleasant sort of conversation. "What will you do to the kids once we find them?"

Zemo side-stepped the question.

"'when' and not 'if'. I find your optimism refreshing."

This time she found the courage to twist until her upper-body was facing her unlikely driver.

"If someone wanted them because they're gifted, then they cannot be dead just yet. They are… precious, to some." Apprehension made her pause, this cold feeling that reached from behind every time she danced near it.

"Before the Blip, they were rumors of experiments in Eastern Europe. A whole fucked-up market for enhanced… parts…" she refused to go on, unable to say or remember more.

Zemo gave her a small nod.

"You're well-informed."

She snorted derisively.

"Meaning what? Only convicted barons get to be street-smart?"

The assassin sprawled his legs under the dashboard before giving her his reply.

"Far from it. I'm just trying to grasp the identity of the person I'm working with. How does a relief responder and youth educator without a past fit into the bigger picture?" he wondered aloud.

"She's just here for the wine and the company."

He chose to ignore the very obvious sarcasm in her voice.

"So, the indulging kind. While there is nothing wrong with a little selfishness, I find that you may not be as self-centered as you present yourself to be."

Chris couldn't fault him for being relentless. Her name and motives weren't enough; Zemo needed to know everything about the people in his orbit. Well, to the risk of disappointing a murderous control-freak, she wasn't going to open up to him when she could barely think, least of all feel properly about what the hell she was doing and being.

"Listen. We both have a past and it's pretty obvious it's a shitty one. So I won't pry too much into yours and you won't psychoanalyze me to pass the time."

For the very first time since she had met Zemo, Chris allowed herself to be entirely blunt with the man.

They faced each other, her defiant gaze against his unrelenting eyes.

Sudden shouts broke their staring contest.

Drawn by the sound of voices, Chris looked around to spot a couple of black cars that had converged on the depot. She could suddenly grasp that Zemo had chosen their hiding spot to make their surveillance easier without being exposed by sentries and the likes.

Two cars were now unloading a swarm of armed men, assault weapons in hands. Her eyes returned to Zemo, already on the verge of exiting the car. He drew the guns from the holsters attached to his sides and proceeded to load a magazine in each.

Cold panic grasped at her mind.

"Are you going to tell me to stay put?" she asked sharply.

Chris didn't know if she wanted to stay here in silence, counting down the long minutes until his return, if he returned. He seemed capable enough, but what was he going to do in there?

"I know better than to ask you that." Panic seized her as she thought he was going to aim at her, but he simply pointed the handle of one 9mm. "Do you know how to use one of these?"

She stared at the pistol, throat tightening at the sight of the grey Baretta model.

She knew how they were used; knew the sound of them, what they could do to flesh and organs. Just like that, any prospect of finding her missing boy turned to ashes in her mouth.

"I don't like to."

Still, she grabbed the semi-automatic and released the safety catch.

She let the cold feel of the aluminum rest on her palm, finger straight and off the trigger. It still felt wrong to hold a small piece of death in her hands. Hadn't she trained these same hands to mend the very wounds she prepared to inflict? She had never stopped to resent the small and idiotic design of bullets, how easier it had been to inflict harm with a pistol that it had been for her to mend the holes it left on a body. It had made better EMTs than her angry.

Céline didn't know what using it would do to her, but the bitter taste on her tongue didn't distract her from the fact that the alternative had become unbearable.

There had been more to this life. She had used to do things, things that didn't always work buthad tried to, and now that an occasion presented itself— dangerous, foolhardy— it felt impossible get back to fearful lethargy. Zemo, damn him, had given her the knowledge of this feeling back into her body, the agency of risking something, of having something to lose.

"They call themselves the 'faucheurs'." He brushed her knees to access the glove box, retrieving square boxes printed with Cyrillic letters. "Their business thrive on trading weapons to Eastern Europe and back."

He didn't specify what kind.

"We are only here for recon. If you see Malik, or anyone else, you must remain calm." He looked at her intently.

His eyes searched for something as they seized her; reassurance, perhaps, that she wouldn't be a burden or a danger to themselves. The voice in her mind started to question the decisions of this man who had picked her up from a seedy night club, inebriated and high, the same man who had seen her sleepwalk for days and rebuffed her advances only a couple of hours ago. Why would he give a gun to such a fuck-up, in his mind? The same question that plagued her as of late popped back.

What was Baron Zemo playing at?

"Stay quiet, keep close and remain unseen." He exited the car promptly.

She had nothing smart to answer to that.

"Zhivy búdem, ne umrem" she muttered for herself.

This is what her blond soldier had used to say when the chatter died down in the mess tent; the coy smile hadn't concealed the way he had plied these words with hope, a half-prayer on the Ukrainian wind.

You can only die if you lived first.

Zemo had easily reached the insides of the warehouse with quiet, measured steps.

Chris was trying, and failing to do the same.

Stealth was not as simple has the covert expert made it seem: for one, he wasn't under constant threat of banging his head and limbs on beams, crates, or the millions of noisy obstacles that littered vast, creepy industrial depots.

Her slightly more clumsy self may not have been the best at infiltrating bad guys' lair, but she could still pride herself on good memory; she comforted herself with the knowledge that Zemo had mentioned his past in the Sokovian Army, thus it felt okay for him to be so annoyingly good at creeping around. And looking at the way he was now scanning the room and clutching his guns, she doubted he only ever been a simple soldier.

A shiver ran down her spine. This whole situation was way more than she had bargained for. But hadn't she known what sort of man she was entwined with? She could have ran the first time she had heard his name. She could have escaped once the 5000 bucks in her pocket. There had been no locks on the flat. She had checked.

They both knew Zemo hadn't needed them to keep her here.

Did she really care if some French kid was shipped-off to Eastern Europe? The answer had always been a painful yes. Of course she cared, because she knew him; and she would have cared if she had never seen his face or heard his voice. She cared to right this wrong, to wipe her ledger clean, to save someone because this was the decent thing to do. She cared so much that it had made her crash at a killer's place. It had made her do things she had sworn never, ever to do again. She had strayed away from a safe, dull life and gone back into action on that single-minded fixation. Terrified to lose it all back, she had still went, and she had done so willingly.

Yet throughout this whole trip she hadn't considered the possibility of Malik not being here; of the boy being truly lost, vanished in a world that would swallow him and forget him wholly. Even now she didn't feel strong enough to entertain the possibility. He had to be alive in order to be saved, and that was it.

A violent grip jerked her away from her spot.

Her first instinct wasn't to scream or piss herself, even if they both came close second; but something leathery was already pressed on her lips, and emptying her bladder wouldn't do much against the strong body pressed against her back. So instead of breaking apart at the unbearable restraint, one deep elbow kick crashed into the attacker's rib.

She felt her arm make contact with bone but didn't stick around to ponder its effect; she used the sagging of the hold around her arms as her cue and rammed the back of her head backward.

This time, her assailant let out a deep bellow of pain.

She jumped, more than she dodged, away from immediate danger. Annoyance flooded her when her eyes fell on the gun she was still clutching— anger at herself for being dumb enough to forget about the literal weapon she had felt so squeamish about. She made up for her oversight by aiming it when she spun around.

A burly thug was sprawled on the floor, head sticky with the fountain of blood that erupted from his nose. He let out a pitiful whine and she could only stare at the man as he writhed on the floor, her mind absent.

Zemo chose this instant to come back into view.

Heart pumping, she still had enough presence of mind to note that the assassin didn't seem too rattled by her scuffle, didn't seem bothered at all that terror was beckoning her to fall to the floor and sob raggedly. Where had he been for the precious ten seconds in which a fucking gangster had gotten the drop on her?

A terrible feeling rose in her chest.

"Did— did you just use me as bait?"she blurted out, stunned.

The auburn-haired man was busy launching a vicious boot into the thug's head, insuring he wouldn't be conscious anytime soon. He took the time to remove the assault weapon from his shoulder and pat his upper-body carefully before dropping a measured reply.

"Would it make you feel better if I said no?"

This time the shudder in her back had nothing to do with fear.

"No, what would make me feel better is if you hadn't used me as fucking bait"

He waved at her dismissively and in that moment she knew that, before they were through, she would try and punch him at least once.

Chris was about to explain where exactly he could shove his finger along with the whole arm attached to it when a soft, chiming sound blanketed her surroundings.

Apprehension fell on her.

"Do you…?" She didn't have to go on.

As their eyes met, horror widened in Zemo's eyes.

She didn't know what was more terrifying; his cool and composed features now twisted by fear, or the cold air that started to escape her breath.

Not again.

Just like before, a layer frost materialized on the concrete floor. This time however, terrible sound of explosions followed with a host of ashen rain invading the high-ceilings, shadows of flame dancing between the pillars. She spun around in the hope of spying Malik, but whatever the nature of his power truly was, he didn't need to see them in order to torment their senses.

A lucid shred of her mind ascertained that he was probably not doing anything to them, and that his new-found ability was only running wild. Was he a telepath projecting illusions? Or was he revealing emotions, memories fed by other people around? None of these theories changed the fact that they were caught in a nightmare of their own making.

As soon as the cold manifested, it disappeared in a heartbeat.

Reeling, Chris wasn't able to find any trace of the hallucination. She weighed the pros and cons of explaining the manifestation to Zemo, but then she would have to come clean about her omission: she had known about Malik. And If Zemo knew of this lie, he would waste no time unravelling the others. Betraying the cold-blooded assassin still couldn't smother the mad hope swelling in her chest: Malik was alive and near.

She turned to her partner-in-crime, at a loss of what to do and say.

Zemo chose this moment to strike and leaped to her, sweeping them in two light motions to an obscured corner of the building.

With the henchman, there had been no warning; one moment she had been distracted by her own musings, and the next her body had taken over with all the brute force she could muster. And while the close-encounter hadn't lasted more than a few seconds, the abrupt scuffle had only left her with a solid rush of adrenaline.

This time left her with the familiar ache of vulnerability.

Zemo's arms weren't nearly as rough, a lighter grip than the guard's hard stranglehold. Now that he was facing her, she understood he had done so as a way to quietly move them behind tall crates; his keener senses had detected movement ahead of them. It all made perfect sense for him to guide her away from harm and it also highlighted that right now, there was nothing to be afraid of when it came to the perilous man.

So why did she feel like screaming her head off?

Because she had plenty of time to observe the cold eyes checking the warehouse around them, and how the space she was wedged into was impossible to leave without Zemo letting her go.

Realization sunk in and promptly consumed her.

Dotted stars soon devoured the corners of her vision as spun her eyes worriedly. Zemo sensed the rigidness of her arms under his fingers, and shushed her without looking back. He was still spying on their surroundings, making sense of the scene they had witnessed.

She wanted to tell him, explain him how and why, but the words scrambled around in her mind. Half of her was confined into a tight space in the dark and the other one struggled to get out. Was she out of Malik's nightmare? Or had she replaced one bloodcurdling memory for another?

Now the wild fear she knew so well roared free, making her clutch the gun in her hand and entertain the thought of pulling its trigger. Would this startle him enough to let her pass? No, this would expose them to the thugs a few feet away. Instead, she tried to jerk her wrists away from his long hands. His were not going to loosen with a carefully-aimed blow aimed at his ribs, but panic made her twist her arms harder to fight them off.

She tried to tell him to fuck off, to please please just let her go but the words had stuck in her throat: instead she itched a ragged breath. The crates were so damn close and about to crush her—

Finally, his dark eyes landed back on her.

Zemo barely had time to lean his head sideways before a flicker of comprehension crossed his features. As he did so, his hand decided to yank one of her wrist. Chris yelped, oblivious to her pride in this thick shroud of panic. Why was he pulling her closer when all she wanted was to get away from him? Her vision had shrunk to a small window that could only make out the white of his trimmed coat, and she choked under the tightening distortion.

He kept his hold on her without relenting, jabbing her free hand on his coat in order for her fingers to make contact with the soft fur. At that point, she couldn't care less about any of his antics: she wanted out, out of this tight space that made her lose her mind so completely.

But Zemo didn't seem eager to sidestep and let her pass; instead he closed the gap between them despite her coughed-up protest, blocking what little vision remained to engulf her with his frame.

This time all of her shook.

"Listen." His breath tickled her ear.

How could she explain that there was absolutely nothing she could hear that would prevent her from losing it, because the claustrophobia that seized her didn't care about anything but to make her believe she was being swallowed whole?

This was New York and the dead megalithic aliens that reeked of death and sulfurized blood;

This was Novi Grad under the rubble with that girl that had been so, so afraid and wouldn't let go of her mother's hand;

This was Vienna burning, Kiev, Budapest, and everywhere she had gone post-combat, away from the fights and knee-deep into human tragedy.

She had known no high more powerful than helping out: going in, patching up, doing good. No powers, no kicks or punches. Nothing but her stupid hands and the acute sense of blood flowing into the human body. She had loved all of it, even when it broke her heart, especially when it ached because it remind her of life.

Until it had happened to her.

She closed her pearled eyes shut.

He still didn't let go of her arm. She could feel her forehead bump against the crook of his chin, soft ripples each time he swallowed his Adam's apple. With every ragged breath she bobbed against his neck, drowning in a shadow of her own making.

Her heart was racing but the echo of Zemo's was perfectly still, his breath so even she could use it as a slow tempo. One, Two. One, Two…

She focused harder on that steadying lull until all she could sense was his heartbeat reverberating into her back. That, or this was her own cardiac arrest unraveling. Either way, the fear receded slowly.

"Up ahead." He murmured, and locked as they were it might have been a shout.

Carefully, she craned her neck to look between the plastic crates. She ignored the edges engulfing her vision, straining her knuckles on Zemo's soothing heartbeat.

Head pounding, she listened on.

She heard a booming voice, French and angry, against two other sets yelling in a rougher language. Serbian, Czech? She could only make out a few, familiar words.

They were arguing over the price of something. Something that had been harder to secure. The French mobster refused to deliver the cargo and demanded a higher price. The others… they were harder to make out. But they didn't think their product could have been that hard, or strong to get. She understood the world "reduced", something small or too little to really trouble the Faucheurs. Probably not small, though.

Too young.

Her fearful eyes rose to meet Zemo's.

Understanding flew between them.

"Stay put." He mouthed, lifting the hand that clutched his burgundy sweater.

"What are you…" her words fell on deaf ears.

He went on, covering her voice with his low accent.

"Wait for a few minutes. If I'm not back then, assume I won't be."

"Okay, but—"panic rose from her chest. He was not going to get himself killed and leave her stranded. Hadn't he talked about recon only?

His peppermint breath brushed the tip of her nose, so close to her face she could have bumped his. His built against hers— What had felt like a terrible pressure was now a steadying crutch she was unwilling to part with.

"The keys to the car are under the seat. Do not scratch the paint." He stressed that part like he hadn't suggested he could very well die in a few minutes.

"The apartment should still be safe. Use the phone you know about and call Ross. He will make you proceed to the next step." His gloved hand reached for a purple cloth in the folds of his long jacket.

"Wait, goddammit just wait—" he took a step away to put on a mask.

In that moment he was gone in more ways than one: when he turned to face her, Zemo's face had disappeared under the thick fabric of a menacing hood. Only his eyes remained, hard and still under the seams.

"Now stay here and don't reveal yourself." His free hand landed on top of her head. His push was gentle, but he didn't relent until her body lowered to the floor. For one very awkward second she kneeled in front of him, inappropriate thoughts invading an already distressed mind.

She made a conscious effort to look at him above his belt, taking in the sight of Zemo's masked head. Gone was the smooth, well-spoken Sokovian baron; in his stead stood a faceless soldier holding a gun in cold familiarity. It didn't take away from the charisma he had, but it turned it into a far more ominous pull.

His feet disappeared behind crates.

For the first three seconds she stayed crouched, her loud breathing the only sound bouncing against the crates.

Then the shooting started.

One, two, three bullets flew before the first alarm, and two others after that. Then the heavier crack of assault weapons thundered around, a near-constant thumping that flashed in the obscurity of the warehouse.

Chris cowered behind the plastic containers.

She had heard bullets and dying before, but she had been too young and stupidly brave. And god she missed the dumb risks and the recklessness of it all. Now she only had this fear deeply stitched to her bones, the ghost of what could be done to a body when someone wanted it to hurt badly enough.

The firing intensified, heavy machine guns more pronounced than the lighter firearm.

She put her hands on the back of her neck and pressed against the missing skin, a promise put into flesh.

Had she done everything she had sworn to do in the clutches of hell? Not just the trivial things brought on by isolation like good food and sight-seeing or enjoying life little moments. Shards of thoughts flashed about the real hope her mind had been able to hold on to. Had she escaped in order to stand up for something? Had she fought back every single person that had been responsible for the Pit and its madness? What had she done, truly, with her second chance at life? The same things, she thought over the sound of crates exploding. The same things she had suffered in her cell.

She had waited, and feared, and waited.

She had waited for the days to stretch out. Waited for her body to get better, waited for the world to spin around and take away the burden she made no true effort to kick out.

She had waited for Avengers to storm the tundra bunker like they had done so in so many other lairs of misery, had waited for a psychopath in a purple mask to whisk her away from her troubles in desolated streets. She had waited, except when she hadn't, and that day in Kiev she had left the only person here for her and told herself it was for the best.

And now she was waiting in the same fear she could never quite escape from.

It was a quiet, silly ache, really. To understand that she belonged to the beatings that had made her weak and dizzy. These bruises had healed, but their memory had stayed. Instead of turning her into a hardened sadist, it would forever hang over her head— but did it really have to be this way?

Chris removed the hands placed on the nape of her neck to look at them intently.

She had one thing now she didn't have then. And she could stay hidden and worry about it never coming back, or she could be stupid and brave again. Both were dangerous, the second was easier, but only one would feel like living.

Picking stupid felt great.

What didn't feel too great was jumping over the crate and immediately taking in the desolation of the warehouse; half a dozen goons laid on the floor in various states of disarray. Chris didn't need a second more to spot the black coat of Zemo, still shooting at the remaining crew of Ukrainians traffickers who had taken cover on the other side of the concrete pillars. Judging from their position they had fallen back, and now it seemed they were still plenty of them to resist the Sokovian madman.

Movement in the rafters made her lift her head up.

Two mobsters were circling back on the steel bridge overlooking the ground floor. Zemo, still gunning in front of him, wasn't aware of the men as they aimed their heavy machine guns on his position. She dug her heels and aimed for the closest one and pressed the trigger without hitting her mark. The click of the empty barrel rung the same moment the snipers above spotted her far from the center of the main room. They yelled at each other in their eastern language, and she took her cue to drop the useless weapon and ran as soon as they raised their own.

She could have ducked and covered back behind the crates that had been a cloistered prison. Instead she raced to Zemo's back a few feet away. In the same moment she shouted, he spun around to the sound of death from above.

Nothing came to her.

Nothing raged or hurt, nothing broke at all.

Instead she realized the mountain she had been fighting for a year was nothing more than a flight of stairs, a single step. And that the only thing that had been hard was the step she hadn't taken.

One moment, Zemo was on the path to a volley of bullets.

And for a moment longer she was Céline, she was no one, she was a ghost that held on.

And everything she had ever been afraid of— none of it mattered because Zemo was going to die riddled with holes.

And she had seen enough enemies, enough friends fall to know she couldn't watch it happen to someone with a face, someone who had a life, an answer for everything and a stupid coat, with murder in his eyes and who was known.

So when the next moment came, she remembered herself.

By the time she was standing behind Zemo, the projectiles bent on ending his life had wrecked itself in a million pieces, leaving powder and debris that flew around the assassin left untouched. The shape of the invisible wall appeared around them like a sheet of air cradling the two of them, the field shimmering in a soft blue haze.

Chris' hair twirled under the sheer force of the barrier that stood between her and the bullets. She dug her heels on the concrete floor, felt it crack under the shift. She moved and the projectiles moved with her, steered away by the slender hand she threw on the side. Her back connected with Zemo's torso, protecting him from the shockwave that send the henchmen flying in the opposite direction.

Beyond the noise of metal exploding, machine guns breaking, shouts and screams of terror and confusion, the only sound she truly registered was the sharp intake of breath Zemo spilled on her neck.

Before anyone could react to what had happened, shots aimed at the pipeline gave way to a second explosion, igniting the gas into a ball of inferno.

And unlike the bullets, this blaze became her blaze as the wellspring in her body anchored the yellow flames to every fiber of her being. Fire was a web of fragments dancing with heat, and she felt every pebble of energy mesh when she reached for them.

She only had to raise a flat palm for the fire to freeze into place, warmth licking at her darkened skin. A twist of her wrist, a cut of her joined fingers; the flames vanished.

It didn't feel hard, didn't feel powerful.

It only felt right.