Winter of the White Wolf

Chapter 34 - Parallax

"His diodes just went offline," Shuri announced from a few feet behind Ayo as they hurried up the concealed emergency stairwell, "But the Kimoyo Beads are still transmitting his vitals and location."

Ayo didn't need to turn around to know that Shuri no-doubt already had a map of the Design Center projected above her wrist so they could continue to track James' progress through the deep, multi-tiered structure. The four of them moved at a quickened pace that respected the urgency of the matter and the fact that they had many stories of stairs yet to climb until they would arrive at the surface of Mount Basheng. "Where is he now?

"They are approaching the Propulsion Laboratory. He's sticking to the main hallways as we hoped, and the lock-down protocols are being affected in his wake. The elevators have been sealed off so that he does not gain access to the main shafts or other floors."

Things were bad enough without having to imagine what might happen if the Soldier were able to arm himself with any of their prototype designs. Ayo thanked Bast that none of Shuri's tinkering had been out on display in her lab. She did not want to think what might have happened if the Soldier laid claim to any unrestricted sonic emitters. It was Shuri's own forward-thinking that ensured that the Dora Milaje variation of their spears were coded to only respond to authorized users, but not all weapons had such contingencies.

The Princess's tone remained hot and frustrated at the situation before them, "If it wasn't for the fact he drew Sam with him, we would have many more viable options."

"Trapping the Soldier within locked glass while he holds another's life is too high a risk," Ayo agreed. The Soldier didn't act without reason, and while she didn't know why he'd chosen to take Sam as a hostage, she chose to believe that as long as he viewed it as a tactical advantage, there was a chance he would keep him alive. The moment that he was no longer useful, however...

"We should come out ahead of them at the surface if we keep this rate," Yama observed from a few steps behind Shuri.

Ayo's own leg ached, and she grimaced self-consciously at the thought that she might be slowing them down, but she pushed past the pain as she led them topside. It was not the first time the leg screamed at her. It had never been quite the same after the close call where the Soldier had nearly severed the back of her knee clean through with her own spear. Shuri'd repaired the damage so not even a scar remained from the horrific encounter, but her nerves remembered the distant memory.

She found herself wondering if the Soldier's recent disabling move had been done by chance, or if part of him remembered their past encounter as well.

She wasn't sure which was worse.

She had forgotten what it was like to look into eyes that did not know her as anything other than an obstacle to be cleared.

Ayo turned her attention back to the present and the set of tall, spiraling stairs they had yet to scale. A part of her thought to remark on the fact that Shuri felt the need to have her lab so deep in the mountain, but she thought better of her tongue. This was not the time, and Shuri carried enough guilt for what had drawn them to this course of action.

"I still do not understand what has happened or why," Shuri spoke aloud. Ayo appreciated the princess's candor, but hearing the admittance from Wakanda's brightest mind and Head of Science and Technological Development had a way of stroking old fears.

Shuri muttered into her readouts and the data, struggling to bear sense into the incident, "James should have been in control. Yet some data presents as an Event while other sections do not." Shuri's tone was set with impassioned annoyance at her own inability to make sense of the data before her, "It makes it impossible to know how best to help. If he'd only stayed in the lab…"

"I do not think he will return willingly," Ayo observed as they reached another floor marker. It would not be long until they reached the surface, and they still had little idea of what they might do to help diffuse the Soldier and rescue Sam.

Ayo did her best to focus on the task before them as she spoke up, "We will not have time to talk once we reach the surface, so if any of you feel you have bore witness to anything that might aid us, you do not need to hold your tongues for a better time to let your thoughts be known."

Her most reserved lieutenant was first to speak, "I do not think it is the Soldier, at least not entirely," Nomble volunteered. "It is only months for me since I glimpsed him, and what I saw was not the same cloth as before."

Ayo would hear her, "Not the Soldier? In what way?"

"For one, he did not treat us with lethal intent."

"Did you glimpse the same fight I did?" Ayo spoke in disbelief.

"I did," Nomble insisted, but her voice held firm in its resolve, "and I felt the force behind him, but it was not the same as with other times. It was as if he was reactive and mimicked what force he saw from us." She paused before adding in a quieter voice, "Seeing what we have seen, knowing what we know, do you think he truly fought with the intention we have seen him fight with before? Would either of us be walking now if he had?"

Ayo read the dark implication in her words and spared a moment's glance over her shoulder to Nomble. Her lieutenant's memories of their times they fought together against the fallout of the code words and the fail safes were five years fresher than her own, and she trusted her observations. She did not know what to make of them, but she trusted them.

"But why?"

"I do not know." Nomble admitted, "But the Soldier does not run," she observed factually, "Would not have run then, when the odds favored him."

Part of Ayo wanted to defend the honor of she and her lieutenants, but she was not fool enough to feel confident in her resolve in that moment. Nomble did not speak these words lightly, and she did not do it to belittle herself or her commander. She spoke the words because she knew them to be true.

"He was trained not to leave witnesses," Shuri spoke as if by agreement, "Why now?"

"He either means to leave us alive," Yama observed from behind them, "Or he means to prepare for a second strike. We must not assume that his only goal is to escape or that his plan has but one prong."

Ayo frowned, but nodded agreement, "I have already sent word ahead of us to ensure the Dragon Fliers and other jets as our own are cleared from the tarmac. I do not know if he is capable of piloting them or using their tactical arrays, but I do not seek to tempt him." Ayo turned her attention to Shuri, "Beyond the support of the other Dora, what other options do you see ahead of us?"

"Not any that strike with confidence," the princess admitted, "But I am still thinking. It may come down to brute force and the sonic burst emitters in your spears, because most of what I had on-hand would not be terribly useful against the Soldier when he still retains a hostage. The potential disables I have devised are limited, brief distractions, but they might buy us the time we need to get Sam to safety."

Shuri continued to speak aloud as they continued up the endless flight of stairs, "The surest option is also the one I am also most cautious about. Using an EMP bead this close to the Design Center and our technology is not only risky, but it will cripple his arm as well as the shoulder coupling, which would require further surgery to repair. We should only consider it as a last, well-coordinated option, but it is an option if the situation calls for it."

"I know we wish not to speak of it, but that is not the last option," Ayo's own voice was grim, but she could not let this remain unspoken between them, "In the past, we have been able to rely on code words to subdue the Soldier, but we have seen they have no effect on him now. I do not wish us to have to choose between trading one life for another, but we cannot feign it is not a possibility. If you feel it necessary to wound him, even gravely to prevent him from taking a life, you must not hesitate."

"Do you fear the other Dora will be too...eager?" Nomble asked, her voice quiet.

"I think they will look to us for guidance," Ayo offered with as much honesty as she could, "and if and when Okoye arrives, we must rely on her clear vision. We cannot let our own hopes cloud our actions, for they will determine many lives today besides our own."

Ayo became aware that Shuri remained silent, and she spared a glance behind her to the princess. Her head was initially downcast, but she met Ayo's eyes and she could see the pain there, the shame, the unease and resounding sense of responsibility for what had happened. "Do not blame yourself. You did not know," Ayo reassured her.

Shuri responded by simply sighing, as if she was unwilling to let go of the burden she laid at her own feet, "I fear we must chance to think further ahead. Without being able to leverage words, we are not only unable to subdue, but moreover we have no way to reset the sequence."

"We know this," Ayo spoke, but she felt she was still missing the crux of Shuri's message.

"We do not know what transpires with his mind," Shuri clarified, "We have no way to push him back to where he was, and we have no way of knowing if he will come into himself or not." Her voice was strained with palpable worry that Ayo wasn't used to hearing from her longtime charge, whose tenacious mind was not inclined to surrender. "If we simply treat him as a wild animal and drag him back to the lab against his wishes, we will likely wound any possibility of reaching him, if such a possibility exists at all."

Ayo felt something deep within her tighten, "What are you saying beneath?" she pressed, "What is the true depth of your worry?"

Shuri's anxious eyes met her own, bearing witness to a frightful possibility Ayo had not yet let allowed herself consider, "That I cannot be sure this is the only James we may know from here forward, and no other."

Being hauled through the Wakandan Design Center as a hostage was stressful for any number of reasons: the predatory gait of their death-march towards the surface, the vibranium arm tight and businesslike around his throat, and the subtle worry that one wrong move, one accidental contact from his scrambling feet against Bucky's shins or a misplaced comment might end his life before he'd even had suitable time to even process the end was nigh. One minute he could be breathing, the next, he'd have his neck snapped sideways like an unsuspecting chicken.

If worst came to worst, he reasoned, because that was about all he was capable of doing at the moment, at least Shuri'd find a way to contact Sarah to let her know what happened.

He just hoped she'd have the decency to lie about the particulars.

Sam had certainly been on any number of live-ops rescue missions over the years, but it'd been awhile since he'd been in the hot-seat, himself. The last time was probably back in the military when he used to run through hostage training drills where participants were forced to take turns being on the business end of drills with live ammunition. Even then, a long list of procedures guided the process from start to finish.

For one: nine times out of ten, the captors were framed as some manner of armed terrorist, which placed the goal of the operation as freeing the hostage, with little concern of taking the captors alive.

Apparently learning how to differentiate between taking a shot at an armed combatant versus a hostage was deemed mandatory training, while training for the nuances of being a hostage or crisis negotiator was framed as an elective. That said a lot to Sam about certain priorities, especially since sometimes the role of the "negotiator" was simply to help line up a clean shot for one of their own snipers.

That being as it was, he knew what to expect if he was back home. That was part of the problem.

It was why his nerves were jumpy every moment they turned a corner, because part of him was half-expecting to hear a shot ring through the hall and drop the man behind him like a sack of sweet potatoes.

But here in Wakanda? He didn't have a clue what their standard procedure was for this sort of thing, especially in a case like this where Bucky'd not only taken a hostage, but hurt some of their own people. Bucky was supposed to be in control. It wasn't like they'd taken the time to step through a possible hostage situation between the Winter Soldier, the Dora Milaje, and Captain America's damn-near useless doppelganger.

So as Sam was marched through the heart of the Wakandan Design Group and all of its technological marvels, he found himself looking into those glass-lined rooms where Doras stood guard like poised statues in front of wide-eyed scientists. Ayo must've called-ahead, because the trained soldier watched, but didn't intervene. Sam hoped, prayed that no one might decide it was high-time to be a hero, because he didn't want one or both of them to end up dead for their enthusiasm.

He wasn't sure exactly what he was hoping for, though. He supposed he was still trying to place his bets on getting through to Bucky somehow, because he'd had a firsthand glimpse of what the Soldier was capable of, and he could live the rest of his life without seeing another single drop of that. While he wanted to believe a troop of Dora Milaje would be able to take him in a fair fight, being the warm body caught in the middle of that mess was not only immensely unappealing, but he had the feeling he'd end up being wielded like the human equivalent of a pincushion if the business end of those spears got too close.

Not only that, but just because the Doras aimed to subdue Bucky, that didn't mean that the man behind him would get with the program, because he clearly had no qualms with killing even if it was simply more convenient than the alternative.

"Hey, I -" Sam started up another round of trying to get through to Bucky, but before he got any further, the metal arm adjusted and tightened around his throat.

That voice, the one that was Bucky but not commanded, "Stop. Talking."

Sam frowned. He kept hoping, praying there was some way to get through to him. That's how Steve'd said it'd been, right? Sam'd try to slip in his name now and then, but it didn't seem to be doing any good at all. Maybe there was a step to the dance of remembering he was missing, like getting a good look at each other face-to-face? The prospect of that was more than a little unsettling, though. Part of him wished he'd taken the time to ask Steve more about this stuff, but then, why would he have needed to pry when the assumption was that all was well-and-good, the past behind them, and Bucky was a cured, free man?

More than that: for not the first time in the last ten minutes, Sam wished, really wished he could just give Steve a call and see if he could talk Bucky down. Hell: He hadn't even gotten around to removing his name from his contacts list, because somehow that made the loss even more final than it already was.

The harsh reality of the situation he found himself in was all-sorts of awful and out of his depth. He didn't have a clue how any of this worked, but if Bucky didn't recognize him, the Wakandans, or even his own damn name… if the only way to sort out whatever was going on in Bucky's head was going to take a wake-up heart-to-heart with someone he knew prior to his tenure with HYDRA and their murder brigade, oh Lord have mercy: they were in for a mess of trouble.

For just a moment, Sam caught sight of their combined shadow against the glass and he forced himself to look away, to look through the glass rather than let his eyes focus on the recognizable figures walking in cruel tandem. Something about the shimmering shadow reminded him how Bucky had once thought about adding the Winter Soldier to that list of his. The one written up for avenging, for amends, for closure.

This certainly wasn't what either of them had in mind back when they were taking turns drinking home brewed lemonade back in Delacroix. He missed the simplicity of that memory. The smell of the cornbread and leftover barbecue, not the salty taste of his own sweat dripping into the corner of his mouth.

The continued death-march was all-kinds of awful, and the Soldier was making a point of pivoting him back and forth like a ragdoll to put him between any of the distant Doras on the other side of the glass. The best Sam could do was to go with the motion and try to keep his feet up underneath him as they moved.

He was doing his best to stay vigilant, and when the Soldier's pace shifted, Sam searched his instincts to reason out the sudden change. The Soldier's movements became slower, more cautious, calculating, as if he was taking additional time to carefully observe what was within the surrounding rooms.

It was the pace of an assassin taking inventory.

The rooms on either side were wide and deep, with cavernous sculpted ceilings that housed all manner of test ships and the plethora of intricate parts that went into them.

The Propulsion Laboratory.

Sam hadn't been lying when he'd told the Soldier this was a research center and not a military base, but if you took a good, long look into that room, it certainly blurred the implied differences between the two.

Slick monotone drones hovered in midair a distance away, stilled by obvious intent. Nearby, robust clawed "helper" machines used for heavy lifting and assembly waited patiently for their next command. At first Sam didn't see the figures, but pockets of scientists stood motionless in the furthest reaches of the room as if they were trying to blend into the surrounding scenery.

There were vacuum-formed molds, something that looked like a truck-sized 3D printer, and in the far corner, an indoor firing range spread out beyond an assortment of what looked a hell of a lot like mounted weaponry.

The man behind him didn't need to say a damn word for Sam to imagine him thinking 'I thought you said they didn't have an Armory…'

The silence in the air was deafening.

The only sound was their asynchronous footsteps. Their breathing. The subtle jingle of Bucky's dog tags around the Soldier's neck, and the scrape of his own tags against Bucky's metal arm. It was like they were screaming.

Once they were past the last set of glass windows, Sam was forcefully directed into an adjoining hallway. There was no one else in sight, and the lack of any friendly eyes made him incredibly aware of how isolated he truly was.

It had all the feeling of being drawn into a dark alley in the wrong part of town.

A low voice a few inches from his ear broke the strained silence, "Is he here too?"

Sam almost jumped at the voice, but he got his nerves about him as quickly as he could, "Who?" he worried what was coming next, because if it was... it could be the point of no return.

"Your mission," Not-Bucky's voice was cold, "Is he in this facility too?"

Shit.

Not even a heartbeat later, the man clutching his throat added, "I can tell if you're lying."

Now one: Could Bucky actually do that? Because if that was a real honest-to-god thing, it would mean he should take note of some very particularly incriminating conversations they'd had in the past. And two: If he had some super-lie-detector jazz going on in that serumed brain of his, it meant Sam wouldn't be liable to figure out a way to let him down easy, because the truth of all this was truly stranger than fiction.

He decided to be a coward and buy himself a few more seconds among the living.

"I'm being straight with you. I'm not on a mission and I genuinely don't know what mission you're talking about." That would pass HYDRA's living lie-detector, right? He wasn't sure, but he had a gues-

The Soldier's voice was flat, pointed, "Steve Rogers."

Oh Shit. This asshole remembered Steve? There went that whole premise.

Wait, did he, though? Or was that a mission objective too?

...But why would the Soldier think Steve was Sam's mission?

This brain stuff was way over his pay grade. He really should have been paying more attention to Shuri and her-

The arm around him tightened: Oh right, he'd been asked a question by Murder McGee. The best he could manage was a factual, if high-pitched, "Steve's not here."

Please don't let the next question be-

"Where is he?"

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Sam wasn't trying to play coy, wasn't meaning to delay, he just had no actual answer to that that he could give that would make any damn sense given the circumstances. What was he supposed to say? "Hey? So it sounds like HYDRA might've sent you on a mission to kill Steve Rogers. Wouldn't be the first time, right? But anyway: you're in luck because it's 2024 and a few months back, he pulled some time-travel shenanigans, got all old and wrinkly, and is already gone! You don't need to worry your little cyborg brain another minute because it's your lucky day: the mission conveniently completed itself!"

But before Sam could start to wrangle his words about him and wring out the nonsense that was running through his nerves like a basket full of field mice, the Soldier turned on him. One moment Sam's head was cradled in the nook of an unyielding vibranium elbow, and the next, that same hand grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against a nearby wall without a drop of pomp and circumstance. His feet dangled helplessly a few inches above the tile like a flesh and blood marionette with tangled strings.

That metal hand crushed down on his windpipe, forcing any hope of a breath out of him as those vibranium fingers spoke without words that the Soldier wasn't playing. Sam's own hands reflexively clawed at the black and gold plates, as if somehow that would do a damn thing.

"I said." Bucky-not-Bucky repeated, "Where is he?"

Now up until this point, Sam hadn't gotten to get a real good look at Bucky, and frankly? He'd been just dandy with that. It was easier to simply try to disassociate whatever the hell was happening if he tried to imagine it was someone else marching him through the halls, someone else threatening his life, someone else trouncing two top-tier Dora Milaje without breaking a sweat like it was no big thing.

But as that hand tightened around his neck and the Soldier stared into him with Bucky's blue eyes, he felt part of him unravel at the sight. At the wrongness on bold display in front of him.

It was like there was nothing there. There wasn't hate. Anger. It was like someone had taken Bucky's face and wiped it clear of everything except that annoying-ass stare he used to do, and even then: the old stare usually had a layer of quiet annoyance to it. This expression didn't even have that. He just saw the assassin. How he held his body tall and firm like a riled grizzly bear, like a living weapon.

Because that's what he was.

That's what HYDRA had molded him into.

The next thing Sam knew, his limbs started instinctively flailing. It wasn't meant to be a fighting moment, it was his body's way of screaming out that it could only spend a fraction longer without drawing in some oxygen before things started to shut down entirely.

Sam was so focused on those blue eyes across from his that he didn't even realize what was happening when the Soldier briefly adjusted the pressure of the vibranium hand around his neck and leaned in to use his free hand to pin down Sam's own hands that were still scrambling against the unyielding black and gold metal. For a split second, he thought maybe the move was simply to still his fingers, like someone seeing fit to quiet an anxious leg or nervous, drumming fingers.

But a moment later, it felt like someone had shoved both his hands into a trash compactor and flipped a switch.

He didn't just yell, he howled as an audible crackle and pop filled the air just inches below his chin. It felt like every precious bone in his hands was being crushed together in unison.

"Where is he?" The Soldier with Bucky's voice repeated in the same unnervingly calm tone. The one that transcended even the need for veiled threats.

"He died," Sam managed to choke the words he'd never had the courage to admit out loud. He was certain there were tears at the corner of his eyes from the unbearable pain in his hands, his throat, the back of his head, and something deep inside of him that had imagined a lot of ways he might go, but never this.

Everything had somehow led to this horrific finale of his life. It wasn't a firefight or falling from the air. It was to be one where the last thing he saw was his Partner's brainwashed face bearing down on him without a care in the world. Without an emotion to speak of.

Empty.

Sam used the last of his energy to softly whimper two words with the final breath of air he had in his burning lungs, "~-...in…-~-...2023...-~"

Something shifted cold behind the icy blue eyes of the man in front of him.

Author's Remarks:

It's taken the better part of 30 chapters to get deep into the action, but oh, it feels good to have arrived! Are you in for an adventure? Because I am!

Random Detail - The reason we've seen Ayo shift her weight now and then while she was standing in prior chapters is actually due to the old knee injury she received from the Soldier years ago, where he basically nearly divested her of said leg.

As always, thank you so much for the comments, questions, discussions, kudos, and kind words of support. It means *so* much and helps keep me energized for this multi-pronged writing adventure and the journey ahead of us.

Written to "Emergency Protocol" by Marcus Warner.