The first thing T'challa did upon returning to his palace, was to separate me from Bucky, the first friend I'd made within his walls. The second, was an attempt to placate my already shredded nerves. Bucky kept me calm and distracted, the solitude of being locked in my room, even if it was with a full-fledged buffet lining one wall, was threatening to drive me mad.
I paced the length of the dining table that had been brought in for T'challa's "honored guest." I no longer felt like that; this place was beginning to feel more and more like a carefully disguised prison. It was isolated and well-fortified in ways I had originally deemed worthy of keeping predators out, but maybe it kept some in as well.
In my wait for anyone with information to grace me with a visit, I devoured the entire plate of sausages and half of the bread assortment. When the carved double doors of my room finally did open, it was only to reveal Zaire, King T'challa's personal body guard, not that the deadly panther needed one. She looked as agitated as I felt, one bad pitch away from breaking the bat over her knee and calling off the whole game, though she was no less presentable than normal, with her killer heels and lethal lipstick.
I pulled at the drawstrings of Sam's hoodie, which he had not reclaimed before his departure, and wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to appear docile. My insides were a swirling storm waiting to be let loose, but I kept the reigns pulled tight. I could not afford to lose control again. So long as I kept my breath even, kept the air around me precariously still and calm, everything would be alright.
"So, what's the verdict? You gonna lock me up in a psych ward? Let Sally loose on me with scalpels and ice picks?"
"The King had made arrangements for you to be moved to a more suitable location. There are too many people here, people he is sworn to protect, for you to be kept. He trusts that with training you will become stable, but until that point you cannot be permitted to remain," Zaire spoke with a voice as unyielding as vibranium. There was no room for me to debate, only for me to accept.
"What about Bucky? Where am I going? Does Cap know? Does Sam?"
"The discovery made about the juxtaposition between your genes and Barnes' will require him to remain present. Dr. Sally has high hopes that the chemicals in your system will serve as a reversal of what was done to him by Hydra forces all those years ago. As for your accommodations, you will be moved into trusted hands. A close friend of the Captain, Clint Barton. He has with him another individual of unique abilities that we feel will be better equipped to train you. The Captain is out of contact at the moment along with all his companions. Will there be anything else?"
My jaw a bear trap—once opened I was afraid it would come back to bite me in the ass. Still, I had to know. "Could you inquire about my father? Before, when Menzel was here, or when I saw her, she said something about him being ill. I need to know if that is true."
Zaire' shaved head tilted to the side, dark brow knotting as her calculating eyes assessed me. Her hands, folded with diligent care behind her back came to rest tensely at her sides. "I thought you knew," she said.
"Evidently not. That would be why I'm asking. What's wrong with him? Is it something that can be treated? If he is sick, then can I see him before I'm shipped off to superhero boot camp?"
"Haven, your father is dead. He died three weeks ago."
The food I'd consumed in agitated boredom, threatened to resurface. I sat down on the tiles chilled by the dutifully working air conditioner. My chest throbbed dully like she'd just placed a well-aimed kick to it. Something resembling alarm flashed in her midnight eyes and she pressed a button on her phone. She squatted down, getting on eye level with me. She was afraid I would lose it again, that I would take down this whole palace with me in a self-deprecating whirlwind. But everything was at a perfect standstill. My lungs didn't even burn, though I'd yet to breathe since she began her sentence with that pitying tone.
The door was so well oiled, and T'challa so light-footed that no sound indicated him entering the room. The shift in the atmosphere told me, though. He must have been who she contacted via her phone. I was having a hard time deciphering who protected who. Maybe it was a mutual partnership.
Dead.
My easily distractible mind couldn't stop replaying that word. Denial was my specialty, but if it was a river as some people claimed, then I would surely drown.
T'challa squatted down beside Zaire, tapping her shoulder in a silent tag-in. She stood and strode over to the corner of the room where a watchful eye was easiest and an intervention was at the ready.
"Stand up," he instructed, his voice a low purr of ease. If he was worried about my mental state he didn't show it. Then again, the King was more than skilled at handling affairs of state by now.
My glare down was not enough to return feeling to my sprawled legs. Perhaps I was the dead one. If I didn't breathe soon, I certainly would be. So, Menzel wasn't completely full of shit. If I had taken the serum of my own volition, my dad is one of the two people in this world I would do it for. But I was too late; he was dead. My last week with Menzel was kind of fuzzy because of the trauma endured, but I should not be able to forget something that vital. He was my dad. My dad was dead.
The luxurious room, I'd once adored now only held bland background colors and images. The fragrance of food did not turn my insides or cause my stomach to growl. Everything not essential was shut out. T'challa and Zaire were just hiccups in the still sea I'd created to surround me. The plush carpet that felt like a lover's tender kiss on my feet the first time I'd felt it was nonexistent now. Blinders were in place and the only thing I saw was my last memory of my father—of his dopey grin and ridiculous drunken rhetoric.
I rose like a zombie from its grave; I had about as many emotions as the walking dead might. My purpose was set. Before I'd been a leaf in the wind, letting others carry me about deciding my fate. Now, I was the oncoming storm. Hasina was right. This position was optimal for thought and control.
"So, when do I leave?" I asked.
An uncertain glanced passed between T'challa and Zaire. "It is a great distance. My personal jet will fly you. No government can track it, not even my own. Whenever you feel well enough to travel, you may go."
"Tonight," Zaire clipped.
"Tonight," I agreed. The sooner I got away from the watchful eyes of the King's court, the sooner I could put my plan into action.
A nod of somewhat hesitant approval came from the dark skinned man. "Very well. I will make the arrangements." With a polite excuse, he left the room.
Zaire's hardened onyx eyes were fixed on me. I returned the gaze with the dead weight in my chest where my heart used to beat away vibrantly. She was not afraid of me. She didn't pity me. She would kick my ass if it came down to it. So, I would keep her on my side for now. I would play the obedient pet.
"You're not okay," she stated.
"No," I admitted. I would show her only this card; the rest of my hand would remain pressed flush to my chest. "But may I have the room anyway?"
"I'll be outside."
The door slammed shut behind Zaire's powerful presence. Pivoting on my heel, I strode toward my wardrobe to pack my meager assortment of personal items. I would go to this Clint Barton's. He and the other super were in hiding, so their security would be minimal—anything to detract from attention. Their containment I could shake. Menzel may be running from Cap, but I was still her subject. I was still the only person who could help her further her research. And she was the only one who could help me bring my dad back. If Genysis could give me everlasting life, then surely it could be altered enough to restore it.
What my farewell party lacked in people, it made up for in extravagance. King T'challa's jet was something straight out of the royal vault with its sleek black wings and sharp lines made it appear as if there were no bolts holding it in place. It looked like the metal had simply grown into this formation. Only the lulling rotation of the engines told me it was a working plane. T'challa introduced the pilot, subtly stressing that the man, though elderly and with more liver spot than trees in the jungle, could literally eject me from the plane should I become a problem. Zaire was not present at my departure.
As T'challa turned to give the pilot further last minute instructions, a voice came from behind me.
"Thought you could sneak off?"
Bucky stood at the edge of the landing strip with a blinking bracelet on his wrist, probably monitoring his vitals. He could roam at his own will, though there was probably something in there that could drop him like a bag of bricks if the need arose.
"Didn't want your ugly mug to be the last thing I saw here," I teased.
He padded over, gnawing at his inner cheek. Today he wore only a white tank top, revealing the missing appendage on his left. The metal was capped off with some sort of black cover. Bucky was fully aware of his disability being out in the open, but he still forced himself closer. "Can I tell you something?"
"We're probably not going to see each other again, so go for it."
His right hand reached out, catching at my palm, running his calloused thumb over the smooth surface. A dry wind that did nothing to relieve the oppressive heat, snagged at his long hair, tugging locks free from his carefully constructed bun. They fell into eyes that mirrored the coloring of the cloudless sky above. "I knew you. Before I woke up, I mean. I didn't know who you were exactly, but I saw you unconscious on that table and it felt familiar somehow."
"Well, I did watch you sleep for a little bit, so…"
"That's fucking creepy, Haven. What the hell?" he laughed lightly then noticed my own smile didn't remotely reach my eyes.
"Haven," Bucky tugged harshly on my arm as his dropped his voice to a murmur so that not even the cat ears of the King could hear over the jet turbines. "I know it's hard to let someone you love go. And I can see that you're about to something really reckless because of what happened to your dad. I've been there. It doesn't end well."
"Thanks Jiminy Cricket." I stood on my tiptoes to kiss his scruffy beard gently. "Reckless is kind of my thing, though." Bucky was the only one who didn't make a list of pros and cons when it came to me; he just cared. Sure, T'challa and Zaire cared, and I'm sure Cap and Sam did as well, but to them I was a series of calculated risks. They watched over me because they knew if they did not someone far worse would.
"Just got my conscience back. Can't blame me for trying to make use of it." He said almost shyly.
"Come visit once you get that noggin of yours sorted out. Okay?"
"Deal," he promised. "Which, means you have to stay out of trouble until I get there."
I tugged my hand from his grasp begrudgingly. I really would miss Bucky Barnes. But even he could not talk me down. So with an extra weight on my shoulders, I strode up the steps into the cabin of the plane. A loudspeaker with a gravelly voice ordered me to take my seat and fasten my seatbelt. There was a white leather chair beside a window that I quickly moved to claim. Bucky stood with his hands stuffed into his white pants. His pale feet stood out starkly against the black pavement. He ignored the air traffic controller trying to usher him away to a safety zone and instead kept those steady eyes trained on my window. They were open, vulnerable, nothing like the assassin I was warned of. I wondered if his control was as precarious as my own. My breaking point had flown past faster than a speeding bullet; what was his?
As the plane rose from the ground with a low hum, I turned my eyes forward. There was no looking back now—no going back.
So, Haven is definitaly going through a dark time. Do you guys think she will endure it or give in? What do you want her to do?-Aside from Bucky;)