Chapter 9

Total quiet. Red tendrils swirl, grasping their tender arms around a glowing object at its core. Glass shatters and then the explosion. The silence is broken. Millions of lives crack at their core and are torn to a heavenly place. Screams fill the air in a resounding wail. All is chaos. The broken lay on white pallets, warm blood melting into the fabric. A brown face fills the screen, imperfections close and sweat spread in little dots on their skin.

I shut the computer. It's too much, and my insides twist. Poor Wanda.

Scrolling through the slew of articles on the ipad does little to help.

Was it Barnes?

Have the Avengers Abandoned us?

Hide your kids: Wanda Maximoff may be loose

These people have no idea what they are talking about.

I hadn't expected this tide of words and lies to overflow my screen. It was simple curiosity that drove me to look up "The Avengers". I hoped any blanks may be filled in. All I have found are burns.

Despite my better judgement, I look up Tony Stark. I want to see what these people are saying of him. I don't even bother looking up Steve. Its obvious what they would say.

I scroll through several articles on the civil war, where Tony is now, his work with the government, and gossip on his relationship with business mogul Pepper Potts. The screen lights up with so many scribbles that they begin to blur before my eyes.

After a while, I reach articles from weeks ago. One particular column talks of a convention where Stark had given away millions in grants to young genius'. I let out a scoff. This man- the one who tore the Avengers apart from the inside out- could be generous? What a good facade.

I click on it just to mock. I merely skim over the words until there is a clear picture of a white room. Funiture it blunt and everything is made from the same white material. Stark stands in front of it, with arms spread open before him. In his fingers dangling thick frame glasses. My interest sparks. I read:

Mr. Stark exhibited his own pet project at the convention: BARF. These simple looking glasses actually tap into the hippocampus to help redo traumatic memories. A 611 million dollar project, few people would be willing to fund it unless the now billionaire did it himself. The epitome of his message is showed through these glasses: Even if you're broke, you can now make anything you fancy!

I immediately stop reading. It takes me a whole minute to entirely process the excitement. With a jump/gasp, I run out of one of the smaller rec rooms where I had been sitting (there are several computers and electronics for entertainment). My legs don't know what to do with all the energy and excitement running through me, so an odd skip and run commences.

"Steve!" I gasp. "Look at this." He is sitting at the desk in his room, and I place my tablet on the counter top. I point to the section. When Steve sees Stark, he stiffens, as if expecting anything to do with Stark must be trouble.

His eyes scan the page hurriedly. When we finishes, Steve asks, "So, what?"

"This Steve! This!" I point to the glasses on Stark's face. "Those glasses accesses the hippocampus to hyjak traumatic memories. This could be just what Bucky needs!" I try to stay calm, but I can tell exuberance just leaks from my voice.

Steve stares at Starks picture. He says slowly, "I don't think Stark would just lend us those."

I know Tony and Steve had their fight, but that metal arm must be proof that Stark still cares for the team. While I'm still uncertain if he's a jerk or not, I don't know him or his motivations. If he gave us those spectacles, I would definitely know then that he must not be a bad guy.

"Let me ask him. For you," I say. "Stark may feel less pressure if it's me who asked, but I would still be representing the team. Maybe it might be better to hear of Bucky's condition from someone who isn't prejudice. No offense," I add.

Gradually, Steve stands. With hands on the table, I can tell he is deeply in thought. "Do you really think it could work?" He must be repressing any hope.

"It could. The only thing is, it may not help permanently. What Bucky needs is long term. Those glasses will only be faking a memory, or so I think. I don't know if Bucky is going to respond well to me asking him questions about his past without crumbling or becoming uncooperative. So, to move on, this may be the only option."

Steve sighs. "Ok. It's worth a try. Call Stark, but if he says no, then we don't ask again. If he says yes, then we don't tell Bucky. Got it?" He looks me straight in the eye.

I say with conviction I never knew I had inside me, "Yes."

/

The floor under me is so smooth that I want to reach down and pet it. Maybe it will help calm me. I realize I left the door open and close the partial glass, sheen door. It closes without a noise. Then I quickly sit near the large glass window, plopping onto the smooth, white floor.

The phone is also glossy in my hand. It's a simple looking phone, but is evidently one of Wakanda's fine pieces of technology: it is untraceable. I suck in a breath, going over the points I want to make, then turn on the phone. There is only one contact: Tony Stark. Like ripping off a bandage, I press the green button as quick as possible. But something won't let me press the phone to my ear. I hear the ring dialing.

My stomach is a nervous mess. What is he going to be like? What is he going to say? I normally don't like making phone calls anyway (plight of an Introvert), and this phone call is triple, or quadruple, more serious. It keeps dialing.

Finally, I hear a sharp voice say, "Stark."

"Uh, um." How wonderfully worded. "This is Ella Walin. I'm calling on behalf of Steve Roger's and his team." A short huff escapes my lips. I talked!

I hear a quick intake of breath and then Stark's sassy voice say away from the phone, "I'm sorry, someone's trying to sell me more bikini magazines, and I really need to get my name off their potential subscribers list. I'll be back in ten."

For a minute I don't hear anything. Then Tony's voice says in a rapid, but sharp, whisper, "Why are you calling? Did something happen?" Genuine concern is evident in his tone.

"No! I mean, no." I give a small cough. Stay cool. Stay cool. "I am Mr. Barnes therapist. There was an article I read that said you made something called BARF. Do you remember that?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?" His sharp voice pierces my ear. "Wait. How do I know you aren't some reporter?" Starks tone turns accusing, after getting over the worry of a potential disaster filling his ears.

"I know what Bucky did to your parents." That shuts him up.

It feels a little harsh, but this isn't the time to chat.

I continue, trying to get back on topic. "Those glasses could help Bucky make a quick recovery. They could save him. I want to know if there is any way you could send them to Romania, and I could pick them up."

Tony doesn't speak for a few moments. "Why would I do anything for Barnes? He killed my parents."

Seriously? "You sent him that arm?! Why would you send that if you hated him?"

Stark sputters. "That doesn't matter. It was just lying around with some of my iron man suits…. It doesn't matter! The point is, that man killed my parents, and if he has 'issues' now because of it, then I don't give a d*mn!"

This is ridiculous. I pretty sure Stark just has those glasses just lying around. Also, I can read people. Stark sure as heck wouldn't have sent that arm if he didn't care. Something inside him probably wants to be mad. He cares (I hope) to much to be furious, though.

"Look, I understand. But you and I both know that it wasn't his fault. You don't have to send the glasses, fine. Just know that this man is suffering just as much as you are over your parents death."

Tony is about to interrupt when I say passionately, "Yes, they are your parents, but he has to live with two dozen deaths on his head!"

Those words tear themselves from my lips and bounce around the room. I come back to this white room from my dark place of fury. Everything goes from passion, to reality, in a blink of an eye. My tongue taste bitter and my words settle into the room with a stale echo.

"I have killed just as many!" Stark erupts, in anguish. I startle back, not expecting the outburst.

I am about to ask him to elaborate, despite it being somewhat off topic. The temptation to help someone with their problems almost overwhelms me. Stark, although, sighs before I get a chance to say anything.

"Fine. I'll send them. But you owe me a few million dollars." I sigh in relief and jubilation. He pauses. "Why did you call and not Steve?"

"I wanted to ask. I won't be biased."

I hear Stark mumble sarcastically, "Yeah, doesn't sound like you're biased at all."

"When can I get it?" I ask eagerly, deciding to ignore that last comment. For some reason it made me uncomfortable.

"I guess I can send it tomorrow. You kind of interrupted me during an important meeting. So, I think I've done enough favors for you for now." Tony says sarcastically.

Sarcasm= pain. Stark must be leaking grief. If there is something I know from years of psychology, it's that people blame themselves. They will try to push their hurt on someone else, but it always reverts to feeding that beast inside: insecurity and guilt. With it also, suicidal thoughts. Thoughts of not being good enough.

Everything that happened during that Civil War could be blamed on someone else. Yet, they blame themselves. Don't think I haven't seen it a thousand times. Stark probably had it the worse. I read what happened. It's not hard to imagine Stark being angry and then blaming himself for how it turned out.

"Thank you." Sincerity latches onto those words and carries through the phone. I press into the cell. "Please know that they are all doing ok. Your friends are ok." I want to sear in that point. "They don't blame you for anything, believe me. Take care of yourself, you deserve it."

Silence on the other end. Then the phone clicks. He hung up.

/

I crack open the door. A bang rings through my ears.

Quickly grabbing a some headphones, I walk past three dividers and come onto Steve and Bucky. Steve is re-cocking a gun.

We stand in the compounds shooting range. This place really does have everything. Steve holds the gun up, and shoots it at the paper person across the room. Bucky looks on. Right near the heart, the bullet pierces the paper.

This is phase two of getting Bucky to confront his past: guns. Sniper rifles, to be more exact. Steve and I decided not to go that far today, though. Just a normal hand-gun.

Bucky stares at the gun in Steve's hand, and reaches out with his hand to pick it up. Bucky is trying to suppress the shaking in his palm. It's going to be difficult for him to shoot with only one hand, but the point of this isn't perfection, it's trying to realise his past and not tuck it away.

The gun wobbles in his sweaty hand, trying to point at the center target, but never settling in one place. I can see the small pores of Bucky's cheeks filling with sweat. It makes him look sick. Like a fever is trying to break from his body.

He readjusts the gun in his hand, and clears his throat in a grunting noise.

A shot rings through the air. Then another. Then another. Three more.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

So many, and so sudden. My mouth is open, and I can hear the shots despite my headphones. I stare at Bucky's face. His blue eyes have gone fuzzy, staring into nowhere. The gun remains pointed in the air, pointed towards the paper, and Bucky's arm is locked in that position.

"Bucky?" Steve takes the gun from his hand, and tries to get Bucky's attention. Bucky sinks to the ground, slowly crumbling to his knees, where he stays sitting. His face remains frozen.

"He's having a flashback!" I yell, going over to Bucky's now shaking form. I gently slap his face. I hold his clenched jaw and dewy face in my hands. In a gentle voice, I say, "Bucky, look around you. It's ok." He remains looking straight in front of me, although, with unseeing eyes.

Then I feel his hand push me away. Well, more like he raises them and I have to back up or get hit in the face. He stands to his full height, lengthening his arm until the gun is pointing straight at my head.

Oh my G…

"Bucky.." My voice cracks. I don't know what he is imagining but it can't be good. The cold metal jabs into my head as Bucky presses the gun farther into my skull.

"Ella!" Steve yells. Grabbing me away from the gun, and kicking it out of Bucky's hand, Steve saves me from where I was petrified. Hands in the air, and Bucky's whole body trembling, his finger mimics pulling the trigger.

That's when he snaps out of it. Bucky falls to the ground gasping and convulsing. Despite Steve's resistance and shocked face, I run over to Bucky. Tears stream down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Роза. I'm sorry," He mumbles in a hoarse whisper.

Those beautiful crystal eyes ooze sadness, and I put my shaking hand on his head. I gently stroke his soft but tangled hair, albeit feeling self conscious.

Bucky looks at me. "I'm sorry," He mumbles again.

"It's ok," I say in a whisper. My words are sticky in the air.

We really need those glasses.