CHAPTER EIGHTEEN- December 2038
"Mom, seriously, you take anymore pictures of us my teeth are gonna fall out from strain," Tony walked towards Maria, motioning for her to give him the camera. His mom wasn't quite up-and-up on the technology of the 2030s, though he couldn't blame the woman; she was almost 90. "Alright, here we go. Three generations of Stark ladies. Hold the diploma a little higher, sweetie. Pep?"
Pepper gave him the eye.
"Nothing. You look perfect. Don't change." He snapped a few photos for safety. "Ok, great, you can take off that ridiculous hat now."
"Dad," Samantha whined, "it's graduation. I have to wear the cap."
"She's earned it," Pepper added.
"Where did Howie go?" Maria looked around to find her grandson. "He's been a while in the bathroom."
"Pops is probably taking forever in the handicap. Let me go check." Tony returned the antique Canon to his mother and headed towards the men's room on that side of the stadium. The long ceremony was tiring, even for the six-hundred plus students excited to hear their names called, and there was still a line for the toilets. Luckily, he didn't need to wait, for there came 12-year-old Howie rolling his grandfather Howard back to the group. "The ladies were asking about you two."
"Is it lunchtime yet? I'm starving," Howard Stark articulated as best he could through a partially paralyzed mouth. He'd had a stroke a few years ago.
"You hungry, too, kiddo?"
Howie gave a shy affirmative.
"Alright then, celebration lunch it is," Tony returned to the bench where the rest of his family gathered. Maria congratulated Pepper while they both looked on lovingly at Sam running up to her father.
"I didn't trip," she said with pride, "I was really nervous though."
Tony flung his arm around her, grasping his daughter's shoulder gently and kissing her temple just beneath the black cap. "You were great. The best walk I've ever seen. You should do runway."
"Shut up," Sam smiled.
"Whatever you want, sweetie." Tony flicked the tassel of her cap after he released shoulder. "But you're buying everybody lunch. Smartie-pants Harvard girl coming through," he yelled around to the family.
"Tony," Pepper chided this time, "give her a break. Let's go."
"I'll take Grandpa, dear," Maria told Howie and went off to their separate car.
"Dad," Sam begged, "I told you not to use the limo today. It's embarrassing."
A bodyguard rushed up to Tony, his wrist up to his mouth, muttering. "Sir, we have a situation." No sooner had Tony turned around but a unknown suit landed a hundred yards away, firing into the crowd. Another bulky, armored body loomed out of the shadow of the neighboring building. The laugh could be heard even that far away, deep and hollow. Bullets flew. Screams came from every direction. Tony turned back to his family, everyone but Sam was at or inside the car, but his daughter stood by the door, pushing her brother in the last few inches. Then a 30 caliber round pierced Sam's side. The force slammed her against the door, and her contorted body slumped to the ground.
Tony launched himself forward to slam his head against the top of the sleep bunk inside his spaceship. He was drenched in sweat, heart racing, drawing in heaving breaths.
"Sir," Friday called in concern, "I'm detecting abnormal radiation in this sector. May I suggest we take our next jump now? The charge is over 90% complete."
Tony could still feel the polyester of Sam's gown in his palm.
"Sure. When do we get into comms relay range?"
"Three more, Mr. Stark."
He felt the sickening lurch of the jump. Shit. The dreams were becoming as torturous as the plain speech of Drax, incessant chewing of Starlord, and muttering of Rocket. Tony thought the long journey back alone would be a welcome respite, but in fact, being alone with his mind was a poor substitute for real distraction.
He drank from a vacuum-sealed bag of recycled water. "Friday, go ahead and play Spinal Tap for me." As always, his AI did as he commanded. He could see the solar sails open across the porthole window, the faint golden glint reminding him of the emblem attached to Sam's cap tassel. The dreams, the illusions from Wanda, his own hopes: they were killing him slowly, intimately, alone in space. It's starting to feel like deja vu out here. The universe really knows how to turn it up to 11.
"Charge at 28%," Friday automated, "time to full charge is 932.4 hours."
#####
For once there were too many problems to solve. First, Sam's skin versus her body: a little late to be struggling with that now. Second, her skin versus her vibranium-infused skin: a fascinating foray into the capabilities of material and genetic integration. Third, Sam Wilson's memory loss: she needed more details. Fourth, Captain Barnes' arm: just a thought experiment currently.
A thought experiment maybe, but a blessed distraction from my own shit. Sam headed down to Bucky's hut, covered from head to toe in the African 'winter' which this morning emanated a balmy 16 degrees celsius. No one stared as if she was overdressed for once. Her dark hair felt like fire in the sunlight on the walk over, having grown a few inches since the great fallout. Sam mused that she certainly looked more like the son her father had always wanted.
About a hundred yards away from the hut, Samantha saw the field outside of the goat pen, covered in a thin blue vale of dancing light. The projection, with sheer Steve Rogers standing at one corner and Falcon in the center, spread out between a triangle of stakes producing the image, and beside Steve stood Bucky atop a circular disc which projected his form onto the team's lawn at headquarters. It would be significantly colder in New York now, and much earlier too. Birds flew in and out of the top of the projection high in the air.
"I'm freezing my nuts off out here," Sam could faintly here Falcon's voice. "Let's get on with this."
"I'm comfortable," Bucky shrugged. Sam walked around the projection out of habit, even though she wouldn't disturb anything or even be seen by anyone other than Bucky, who took no notice of her. "Let's run through it one more time."
"I'd rather go to sleep, asshole. It's midnight," Falcon's voice was clearer now, the audio being transmitted directionally from the rim of Bucky's platform.
"Well, I've been up all night for you, so one more time," Bucky said, looking only vaguely amused instead of insulted.
Steve signaled for Falcon to try the maneuver again. Sam Wilson made a face of concentration. His EXO-7 had been adapted with a neural control so that if his limbs were damaged, he could still fly. Getting the hang of commanding a suit with just your mind was tricky for anyone; Falcon had it worse. The gaps in memory were distracting as he began to think of his moves, similar to maneuvers he could only half-recall from decades past. Wilson huffed in frustration. "I better not launch into space."
"I've got secondary control," Steve assured, gesturing to his visor piece, "just try."
Falcon's wings spread out without his arms moving, the composite appendages flung down with the force to lift him, and continued until Falcon was about nine meters off the ground. Then only one lifted at a time and his flight became too imbalanced to maintain. Falcon plummeted out of the projected field with Steve rushing to follow him. The crash sound resonated from behind Bucky, but they could see nothing. Captain Barnes finally looked over to Samantha, but only asked his comms, "everybody ok?"
The birds flying overhead in New York squawked in alarm. More of them arrived as digital blue blips.
"Dammit, man, this is stupid. Get back over here, and I will knock your ass back into the '60s!"
"You've just gotta practice your concentration," Bucky drawled, crossing his arms across his chest, "and, technically, try for the '40s."
"Stop messing with me, man. When I say I need a break, I need a damn break!"
There was a scuffling noise before anything made it into the projection. "Sam, calm down." Steve's muffled voice struggled to get out, "you're supposed to be helping, Buck."
Someone landed a solid blow, based on the hollow sound of smacking skin, before it was Falcon who rushed back into the digital blue air. "I'm done," he yelled, and from behind him came a fluttering mass of birds, a kamikaze group that dove towards the platform with a violent speed.
"What the hell," Captain Barnes yelled. Not one bird touched Falcon, who did not flinch, but immediately after diving out of the projection the sound of slashing and pings against a vibranium surface, Cap's shield, rang out. The projection couldn't show enough definition in Sam Wilson's expression to tell how much control he was exerting. This was new, by the look on Bucky's face, a behavior of his friend he had never seen.
"Big Sam, stop," Samantha, panicked, jumped in front of Bucky on the platform. "It's Little Sam. Do you remember me?" The fluttering died immediately, and Falcon's focus shifted to her. The streaming blue figure slowly approached her. Bucky instinctively wrapped an arm in front of her, but she kept talking. "You taught me how to bluff in cards. You taught me to watch the sky. You said that could tell me everything I needed to know—"
He was directly in front of her now. Any closer and the projector would have cut off his nose. "You said you would make it right," Falcon whispered to Sam Stark. She startled slightly: he remembered. He knew she woke him. Wilson wore no goggles in the night, and though they appeared as a shaded blue, she could imagine his dark eyes piercing hers. Within a second, however, he broke into a smile, brushing grass from his arms. "Sorry, Cap, but what have I told you about wrinkling the suit. It's a crime to look this good, but it also requires," his gaze darted up to Bucky, "sleep."
Falcon popped up finger guns at the two men, winked, and turned to go inside.
Steve walked back into to field of vision, mostly covered in small scratches. "I think we're done here, Buck. We'll talk tomorrow," Cap finished, nodding a goodnight towards the platform, adding, "Ms. Stark," and switching off the visor in his hand. The projection shut off in turn.
Bucky relaxed his arm and stepped off the platform finally. Samantha hadn't noticed that she'd actually stepped up to be pressed against him on the small disc beneath them. It felt as if her heart had just restarted.
"I'm not sure what you thought you were accomplishing, but I suppose you did cut Wilson short in," Bucky stopped while he rubbed his temple, "whatever that was."
Ornithotelepathy? Or at least it looked like he communicated with the birds. Control them maybe? Her mind spun with possibilities and she forgot to respond to the man walking towards his hut. Perhaps that ability transposed itself onto the damaged neurons that formerly held some motorfunctional memory.
"Did you need something Ms. Stark?" Bucky barked, repeating Steve's formality with irritation.
"I came to talk about your arm," she finally replied.
Bucky let loose a forced laugh. "Yeah, well, not now," he blurted, "give me a damn break, people." Although his exhaustion was evident, Sam felt attacked by his bitterness.
As always, her curiosity, her very existence warranted an apology. The dismissals from every person in her life were so constant that Sam simply decided to answer all her questions on her own. She did it in grade school; she did it instead of college; she did it here in Wakanda. Why not live her whole life relying solely on her own imagination and ingenuity? "You should go sleep," she replied quietly.
"Very observant," he grumbled, "genius, Stark." He nodded a curt goodnight back to her before shutting the door.
It was barely 8:30 in the morning, and it seemed that Sam had already received her quota of human interaction for the day.
As she passed the projection pad where Bucky had stood, she heard Natasha's voice come up briefly. "—But interrogation is more of an indoor sport, and Thor isn't exactly tactful. He electrocuted him," Agent Romanoff strangled her words in frustration. "Now we have to go to Hong Kong to figure out where they sent these tainted pills—" Then Nat was too far away from the device to be heard.
Sam's hair absorbed the last of its weekly sunshine as she hustled back up the hill towards the tower. She shamed herself for thinking her twenty questions would be welcome by Captain America…or Cap Two? She'd have to stick to calling him Captain Barnes for safety. She'd have to stick to her own projects for safety. Missy would have to remain her only help, her only friend in the world. In a few days, that friendship became six years old, one of her longest by far, hands-down the most consistent.
She returned to her room to graft part of her chest, resigned in the knowledge that operation would carry her into the new year without really having to count more days alone. Sixteen hours later and she was only done with a quarter of her torso, but she had to find some more scrap vibranium from the bone yard to finish. If she thought the feet were bad, Sam should have waited until the skin over the ribs was complete to qualify 'the worst of it.' When she opened her door, however, there sat a cup of coffee on the floor with a paper tucked underneath. The coffee was stone-cold, but the note made her heart lift just a little.
I was rude and I'm sorry. Steve says I'm a grumpy old fart. We can talk when I get back.
Merry Christmas,
JBarnes
P.S. It's spiked.
Sam was somewhat comforted by the scribbled, childish handwriting, and she savored her liquored coffee with a renewed excitement before her nutrient bath.