Winter of the White Wolf
Chapter 37 - Escape Velocity
Shuri was certainly more than capable of multitasking.
It was arguably her default modus operandi. She could be deep and present in conversation as she casually ran open-ended formulas and complex equations through the periphery of her mind.
Or perhaps it was the other way around?
Either way, she could do many things at once and not sacrifice or waste a moment of her attention. There were always things that needed solved, refined, improved.
That being as it was, she was finding it more than a little difficult to split her attention in so very many ways at once. Those things that called for her undivided attention were urgent, pressing. They could not be further from when she'd postulated on the existence of more robust sequential Artificial Intelligence equations while listening to her Brother's honored guests and paltry diplomats drone on endlessly about the latest politics. It had not even been a challenge to carry on entire conversations while calculating such things.
But this task before her required a very different mark of focus and concentration. One that forced her to push aside the immense guilt and acute responsibility that weighed upon her for what had happened.
Shuri stood among the sweet, billowing grass a short distance downhill from the apex of the Wakandan Design Center. She was tangentially aware that time was passing only by the movement of the clouds high in the sky above and shadows that rolled over them, though her attention remained on the seven revolving holographic displays open over her palm. With a flick of her fingers, she closed one window and opened another, eyeing charts of data for trends that might help the urgency of their cause.
Nearby, Ayo issued commands to a small group Dora Milaje that organized themselves atop Mount Bashenga while they awaited further orders. Ayo thought it best to have the first individuals the Soldier saw upon reaching the exit of the Design Center to be those he had the most history with: herself, Shuri, Yama, and Nomble. Just behind them was to be a smaller wave of Doras as support, and undoubtedly for Ayo: additional protection for her royal charge. Whether they spoke it aloud or not, Ayo showed decided preference to those that had met James previously, keeping them close by in what she assumed was an effort to ensure they were not over eager to mortally wound him unless it was absolutely necessary.
Beyond those clusters, a final, wide arc of Doras were to stand guard further away and would be tasked to slow or at least deter any attempts to escape down the mountain. The Dora Milaje were strong, fierce, immensely capable warriors, but Shuri did not miss that Ayo made it clear that if any of her charges found themselves facing off against the "White Male Patient" alone, they were to favor self-preservation rather than needlessly trading in their lives against him.
Shuri knew the admittance did not come easy for her. They were not trained to back down without cause.
The Doras were obedient without question, but many of them hadn't borne witness to an Event firsthand. Some had heard stories of the Winter Soldier, certainly. The Doras were not without their gossip chains. But as any web of rumors, it did not mean what they had heard was true or accurate. Nor did most take into account the shuttered will and complex history of the man underneath.
"Is he to be treated as a hostile, my Chief?" a Dora's voice behind Shuri inquired.
"He is to be treated as we would someone who is unwell and may be willing to harm others or themselves," Ayo specified, which Shuri noted wasn't exactly a clear direction. She couldn't blame her and saw no need to weigh in. Neither of them wanted to allow words to leave their lips that implied his life was less valuable than any one of theirs, though Shuri felt certain of where the nearby conversation was heading.
"Your priority is Princess Shuri's safety," Ayo specified, "If there comes a moment where you must choose, that is what you must choose."
Ah, there is was. The other inescapable burden that only made the guilt in her fester.
"And then?"
There was only a moment's hesitation before Ayo responded, "His hostage, Sam Wilson."
"Understood." The woman's voice paused considerately before asking, "Will it truly take this many to subdue but one man?"
"He has strength and stamina to rival that of the Black Panther, but far less restraint. I have sent word to our General as well, but Okoye is unlikely to arrive by the time he breaks way to the surface. We must assume those around us to be our only warriors for this stand we make."
Ayo continued to speak, and Shuri did what she could to tune some portion of it out, to focus, but she was finding it rather difficult when there was yet more significant data she did not yet understand pouring out from inside the Wakandan Design Center itself. Specifically: What in the Orisha's will was the Soldier doing as he stood facing a corner with his back to the best camera angles she had access to? Shuri muttered something under her breath and flicked to another view and back to the first one, which at least offered a partially-obscured view of the side of his stoic face.
It was obvious to her that the Soldier was working to at least partially obscure his motions, as if he remained aware of the cameras and those that sought to observe his movements. That being as it was, it was clear he saw fit to carefully take inventory of a few particular items on his person while Sam's limp form lay slumped against a nearby pillar. Shuri did what she could to watch both figures at once, though her attention was drawn to Sam to see if he still lived.
At first there was no visible movement at all where he lay. Shuri's breath caught in her throat and she felt her mind seize to a halt as she watched, prayed Sam still lived. Then a swell of hope caught at her trembling lips when she saw his chest slowly, almost imperceivably rise and fall.
Relief flooded through her like water: Praise Bast, he was still alive!
Her attention flicked back to the Soldier. His attention was not on Sam at his feet, but palm-sized objects in his hands.
Shuri's fingers flew over the menus on her Kimoyo Beads as she did what she could to try to draw out audio from any nearby feeds, but nothing rang through with enough force to be discernible. She cursed again, taking manual control of the nearest camera and prompting it to zoom in further. Why had they not installed lenses with better optical zoom? She forced herself to table the concern for another time and did her best to focus on what the digitally zoomed image could muster from such a distance.
The Soldier's face was masked in shadow as he swapped one pocketed item for another. Shuri remained unsure what he was searching for, or if he was searching at all. Part of her was quick to assume he was simply interested in deducing what items might have combat usage, but her instincts told her this was not the whole story. Not even close. While the holographic charts above her fingers relayed his current vitals, her eyes tried to draw out any sense or comparisons between scans she'd taken over the years with the last set of slightly more in-depth readings she'd managed while he was stepping through dream-like imagery less than a half-hour ago. Why didn't they match more closely with other scans she'd taken over the years?
What was different? Why?
Her attention shifted back to the Soldier. His movements were methodical. Intentioned. Carefully surveying first a phone then wallet with almost reverent regard. As he pulled items out and inspected pieces within the wallet, he placed them back where they came, as if he were showing awareness for the established status quo.
But why?
She tried to lean into the theory that this was perhaps not the Soldier, and that as Nomble observed: his intentions may be explained as reactionary rather than with dire intention. But they'd all seen so many sides of James over the years that it was difficult to sort out how these experiences all wove together, since often Events presented so very differently.
Her scientist's mind caught the usage of the term and she gently corrected herself: Some data before her presented as an Event, while other sections did not.
It made no sense.
He was clearly conscious, so he should have maintained full control. But what was this, then? What could it even be called? The last scan she'd managed in the lab didn't show this to be a waking dream either. If she hadn't seen the last half hour with her own eyes and had been handed unmarked scans to review, what would she have seen with her trained eyes?
She focused on that. On the purity of data.
She regarded the last reasonable scan she'd gotten of his brain: Infratentorial unremarkable. Midline comparable with prior scans showing increased sensory messages in isolated areas. Supratentoial… she squinted her nose at the scan and her eyes moved to regard specific lobes: Frontal, Parietal, Temporal… they showed the most changes from James' recent scans.
Her fingers alighted over her readouts as she flipped back through other scans, focusing on those areas, the ones surrounding personality characteristics and movement, identifying objects and spatial relationships, pain, memory, speech, sense of smell. Nothing was a close enough match, but certain scans from his early years in Wakanda and triggered Events showed fleeting similarities in those areas. Was his brain behaving as if its connections were artificially stunted?
It was almost… no she needed to find usable data to compare the scans to. This was not enough. Only mere postulations. Guesses would not do.
This would all have been so much easier back in her lab!
...She could of course not tell Ayo that, for that is precisely where she'd wanted Shuri to remain for her own safety.
So frustrating!
She was aware Ayo was speaking to someone else close by, but Shuri tried yet again to split her focus between the scans and the camera feeds in front of her, as if some combination might offer her clues that could stop this situation before them from spiralling further out of control.
Her scientific mind focused on specific details that were outliers from behaviors she'd seen James display any number of times when he'd been activated by code words.
The Soldier's movements were delicate. Calculated. Whether conscious or not, he was aware of his own strength, and had control over it enough not to crush the phone's casing or cards in his hands. He had shown similar restraint in his initial brawl if Nomble's observations were correct.
He exhibited interest in his appearance, and specifically the dog tags around his neck. Did that imply familiarity with such things, or was he contrasting it against his own expectations? He noted the beads around his wrist with only passing interest, as if he was content to keep them as they were. But why didn't he see fit to inspect them further? He was reactive to Ayo's statement of his full name, but did that mean he was aware at least subconsciously of his bond to that name?
She shook her head, putting aside the superfluity of thoughts because it felt like yet more questions and dead-ends and there was little time before they would confront him once more.
He showed no interest in speaking with them, but why?
Shuri waved a hand and remoted into one of the shared systems in her lab, tapping into the camera's security feed and using her fingers to rewind the timecode. It was not the first time she'd regarded the footage, but she tried to evaluate it with fresh eyes. With the idea that this was perhaps not the Soldier, as ridiculous as the claim seemed at first. She found the moment where Sam had been taken captive and she rewound feed further, focusing on identifying the key moment James suddenly became truly reactive. Her eyes searched for breadcrumbs, any hints or precursors at all, but found none.
What was she missing?
She looped the first ten seconds, allowing it to play back as guilt rattled through her and she forced it aside to contend with later. She did not have time for such things now, not while they still lived and their futures hung precariously in the balance.
She tried to step into his mind and follow Nomble's inquiry, which resonated through her mind, calling for attention: What did the lab represent in that moment, specifically?
There were a trove of unsettling memories to be found buried there. Trials when James was not himself, and when they were forced to make him reactive with his permission so they might uncover the controls that wrapped themselves around his mind like a tightly veiled parasite. Those times were not without immense discomfort and pain, for much as they sought to work with gentle hands and as much kindness as possible, HYDRA had not been so concerned with what it might take to free the man they ensnared beneath their grasp.
Then Shuri saw it.
There was a moment in the playback where the Soldier glanced over his left shoulder and his vision remained there for just a moment before his intentions appeared to shift. She originally thought it was because he'd spotted Nomble movements off-screen, but by the angle, it was not that at all.
He'd spotted the cryogenics chamber!
"What if instead of simply seeking a destination, he sought to escape from the lab. From what the lab represents?" Nomble's query rang through her mind.
"He thinks we are HYDRA," Shuri concluded aloud. Her focus flickered to the multitude of projected charts, graphs, and video feeds, as if this critical clue might offer new insight into the data nestled within them as well. In her periphery she saw nearby heads pivot and turn her way.
"HYDRA?" This was Ayo. Her tone spoke to the ludicrousness of the claim, that the people of Wakanda of all places, could have ever been involved in such atrocities, such unspeakable widespread horrors.
Shuri nodded quickly, pointing to the Soldier's locator, which had begun to move again. Her words flowed out of her with the urgency of a hummingbird's wings, "I suspect he recognized the significance of the cryogenic chamber. It would be why he sought escape above all else, and now paints us with a brush that marks us as his captors. As his aggressors. For we stood idly by in the same laboratory, and Sam as well."
Ayo stepped towards Shuri, and she did not miss the slight limp in her left leg as she did. Wakanda's Chief of Security frowned as she drew over the new information and spared a moment to follow the Soldier's location as he grew ever-closer to the building's main exit, "Then his mind perhaps leans on a time after his initial escape. If you are right, it will be difficult to find reason with him if he believes us to have ill intentions. He would have little reason to trust us."
"He believes our intentions are to reclaim him and return him to a state other than his own," Shuri observed.
"He is not wrong," Ayo noted. Shuri did not even need to bear witness to her face to know the somber expression no doubt cast over it.
"He is not wrong," Shuri agreed, troubled, "If we act against his wishes, we are only playing further into his fears. His trust will be broken."
"Is it not already?"
"I do not know," Shuri admitted, "He shows curiosity for his belongings, for his name, I think. James' curiosity." She caught the corner of Ayo's mouth reflexively twitch at her chosen use of his proper name. Was it fair for them to continue to refer to this man as the Soldier when it seemed clear to her it was not one in the same, even in its most basic form? There was power in names, and were they not doing them all a disservice to view the man before them through such a narrow lens? "We have answers to his questions, if he would hear us."
"How do we convince him we are not his enemies when he does not know us?"
"We must hope some part of him will see reason."
"And if he does not?" Ayo spoke aloud, "What then?"
Shuri looked back to the video feed, where the man dragged Sam forward, leaving behind a tell-tale trail of crimson blood in his wake, "Then for his own good," Shuri's voice lowered, admitting to the painful reality they faced before them, "we must subdue him and reclaim him like the monsters he believes us to be."
Shallow awareness was accompanied by a potent intermingling of pain and pressure surrounding Sam's body like a vise. The sensation was so all-encompassing, so stifling, that he initially fought the urge to even open his eyes.
Well, until curiosity got the best of him.
With more than a little effort, he squinted open his puffy eyes to find he was being carried forward like someone strapped him to the front of a steadily-moving train. The metal arm that supported him was wrapped firmly under his ribcage, and that arm, that one, single arm supported all of his weight without even straining.
To say 'everything hurt' would have been a vast understatement. He'd certainly taken some punches over the years, and it wasn't as if he was a complete stranger to being inside a hospital ward a time or two. But even in those cases, there was a logical progression that led him to ending up there. He wasn't just standing around, exchanging a few words with a stranger with his friend's face and then suddenly having his hands mangled and face-parts rearranged in a single swing like a damn Mr. Potato Head doll.
If that wasn't enough it was altogether disconcerting that he couldn't see much of his nose and his mouth tasted of an acrid mix of blood and bile. He didn't know if he'd thrown up, but he wouldn't have been surprised, either. It was taking everything in him to keep from coughing and giving his awareness away to his captor.
Sam kept his eyes lidded because one: they were swollen and it was just too damn bright, two: his nerves were screaming at him that unconsciousness was a preferable option to the alternative, and three: he appreciated the fleeting moments of not having a hand wrapped around his throat.
"I know you're awake," Elsa's Evil Brother breathed low and threatening from just behind his right ear.
The sound of that voice, that tone set goosebumps straight up his spine like a spider scurrying beneath his T-shirt.
Goddamn Super Soldiers and their goddamn super senses.
He gave up the ghost and let out the cough he'd been holding in, because he rather liked things like breathing and unhindered airways. It didn't clear out the steady trickle of blood down the back of his windpipe, but he swallowed hard, hoping it might stifle the awful sensation that made him feel like he was slowly drowning in his own fluids.
He wanted to say something smart, but the pain and blood loss negotiated it wasn't a bright idea under the circumstances. The last time he'd gone with his gut over his head, he'd been walloped in the face for trying to squeeze out a single drop of anything close to emotion in the person wearing Bucky's face.
At least he had something close to anger. Anger was an emotion? Right. He didn't have a damn clue why it was directed at him, though, but he could work with that. He could respect that. Maybe he remembered to back when they two of them exchanged gunfire ten damn years ago when Not-Bucky was functioning as a murder puppet on HYDRA's payroll?
God, why was his life so weird?
"Can you walk?" Johnny 5 growled.
Thanks, I'm doing great. Really appreciate the loose teeth, asshole. "I'm not sure," Sam grumbled, trying to watch his tone so it didn't drip to being accusatory, "Feeling faint and my vision's blurry." He coughed again, dribbling blood onto himself, onto one of those few "fancy" shirts he owned, he noted. He debated saying the next part, but it wouldn't matter much if he kept choking on the blood draining from what was left of his nose. "Can I at least try to put a stop to some of the bleeding? I'm having trouble breathing. We both know I'm not exactly a flight risk, here."
Initially, the Soldier didn't show any sign he'd even heard his plea, but after they reached the far end of the lobby, his predator's prowl slowed and came to a stop. Sam found himself lowered to the ground and promptly swiveled around so his back was leaning into a nearby corner like a discarded mannequin.
Not-Bucky saw fit to reposition himself so he was standing directly in front of him, a wall of grim muscle preventing any hope of escape, not that Sam had any desire to prove otherwise. He was brave, not suicidal. He'd already played a stupid game, and won a fistful of retribution for a prize. He was certain he wouldn't survive another go around.
"Two minutes," the man with his Partner's face clarified.
The truth of the matter was: Sam couldn't see much. His eyelids felt like marshmallows. Like he'd gotten stung by a swarm of angry yellow jackets that'd left him for dead. Credit to the radiating pain and sharpness in his nose, he was fairly certain the cartilage and probably the nasal bones had been shattered and forced back into one or both airways. "I'm putting my hands up now, nice and slow," Sam stated nice and softly, using the same calming tone he would if he were trying to negotiate with a jumpy stray. He hated how close it felt to when he'd watched Sarah rehearse with his nephews on how to deal with over-eager police. That primal fear of being at the solemn mercy of someone in authority wasn't something you grew out of even when you were a grown-ass man.
He'd just have never imagined a world where he needed to take that same slow, careful pace to prevent potentially riling up the man in front of him.
Not-Bucky didn't say a word, didn't move a muscle, but Sam thought it best to avoid meeting his eyes. He didn't think he had it in him, besides. All of this was just too much. As time droned on and that same man ignored all his repeated attempts to reach out, to connect, to be woken up so he could come back into himself, there was a part of Sam that dreaded the possibility that maybe something had gone so wrong, so terrible, that they might not be able to be put back the way things were.
And that fear shook him to his core. Ungrounded him in a way he hadn't thought possible.
After all Bucky'd been though: Was this to be all that remained?
Some Wakandan vacation, huh?
Sam pushed away the fatalist thoughts and squinted, turning his attention to his hands. He got a pretty good look at those dark, twisted mittens of his as he raised each of them close to his face. It was more difficult than it should have been to try and discern if one was less damaged than the other based on the dark purple bruising and cruel misalignment of the bones along each finger. The breaks went all the way through to the center of his palms, and it was all he could do to keep from howling when he felt a cough coming and instinctively put one clawed hand up to politely cover his mouth.
The fresh wave of pain that seared through him was surreal. It was enough that he was worried he was liable to spend those two precious minutes of his just standing around trying not to scream, hurl up his insides, or pass out. But somewhere in there, he found the small miracle that a single thumb and forefinger were working well enough to be useful in surveying the broken landscape of his face.
With gentle, but not probing pressure, he ran his fingers over his lumpy, misshapen skin, taking note of the spots where the flesh was open and oozing, and more than one location where the feel of slick muscle and bone were apparent beneath his swollen fingertips. His nose and the orbital under his left eye was clearly broken, and the top of his jaw was shattered and pushed in, like someone'd seen fit to reshape his face wholesale. He thought about feeling for his teeth, but decided he just didn't want to know the damage.
There was… a lot of blood. The bulk of which seemed to be coming from the spot his nose was supposed to be. By the taste of things and the steady trickle that kept making him want to suppress another cough, the rest of it was draining directly into his throat.
He tried to ignore the cruel blue eyes that stayed focused on him as he tried to figure out what could be done to slow the bleeding so he didn't just bleed out right here now. He was already way past the point of feeling faint. It was becoming an outright struggle just to stay conscious.
Before Sam could even sort himself out to consider what he had on-hand in the way of makeshift medical supplies, the same asshole that gave him the damn injury in the first place had the sheer nerve to run his mouth all calm and helpful-like, "You're supposed to lean forward and squeeze the bridge to stop the bleeding."
Now first.
First off.
The fuck did he just say?
Really?
Robocop here was giving out free medical advice now?
Sam's tongue wanted to clip in with something smart, but he pushed that instinct down. Deep down. Back to that sunken place. It'd feel good to snap back at him, ask him where that solemn bridge of his nose even was these days now that the other man had seen fit to turn his face into some sort of crushed nesting doll, but it wasn't going to do him a lick of good. He just had to pretend it was some well-meaning idiot out on the field chirping in with his two-cents like Sam hadn't had years of training for this shit.
He opened his mouth to say something, and he closed it again as he leaned forward, cringed, and used his two remotely passable fingers to tighten around the bridge of his nose.
He didn't do it because the Soldier was right, he did it because that's what he was planning on doing anyway.
Asshole.
He kept doing that damn staring thing, though. Holy shit was it annoying.
The pain and the silence was killing him so he channeled that Wilson family need for small-talk to cut through the tension, "Where'd you learn this?"
He honestly hadn't expected an answer, but he was damned if he didn't hear Doctor Robotnik himself reply, "In a book."
Goddamn it, Sam's head, his hands, throat, face, back of his head. Hell: his whole body hurt too much for this shit. He read books too? This guy?
The absolute Hell?
They went back to that uncomfortable silence where Sam was verging on asking things that made for risky inquiries of the 'I don't want to get pummeled' variety, so he swallowed them down and focused on pinching his nose and wondering which of those stupid questions might slip out if he wasn't being careful.
The other guy broke the silence for him, "Were you working for them the whole time?"
Sam blinked, trying his best to follow, "Look, my head's killing me and I don't want to get punched again, so you're going to have to be more specific than that."
"HYDRA," the syllables were low and threatening in the Soldier's throat.
Sam couldn't help it: His eyes flicked up and met those icy blue orbs in front of him. For a moment, he swore could see it there, a flicker of genuine emotion in his expression. Wasn't that who this asshole worked for? "I'm not sure what you're getting at, but I don't work for HYDRA. Never have." He debated saying the next part out loud, he really did, but part of him had to know, "Do you remember us fighting or something? Is that what this is about?"
That got the smallest reaction out of him. Not an 'I'm about to finish the job,' sort of reaction, but something more subtle. Personal. Like he was chewing through Sam's words like a mouthful of gristle.
The Soldier didn't acknowledge the question, not directly, but he saw fit to counter it with one of his own, "Who gave you your mission?"
"Like I told you, I'm not on a mission now." Sam paused, "Or do you mean back when we fought?" He was doing his best to keep his nerves about him as he traded words with the goddamn Winter Soldier and tried to get clarity without overstepping, "When we traded fire and you tore off one of my wings?"
Was that too accusatory? Possibly.
Damn his stupid mouth.
The Soldier didn't answer, but he also didn't react. Was that a 'yes?' Sam went with brazen honesty, because at least if it didn't save him, he could keep the story straight with the pounding in his head, "If that's when you mean, it was Steve's play or close enough. The goal was to take out the helicarriers when we learned HYDRA had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and planned to turn them against anyone that stood in their way, or might've in the future. Project Insight, HYDRA called it. They wanted to kill millions of innocent people. Our goal was to stop them before they could." He paused, adding, "That was ten years ago. I didn't work for HYDRA then. And I certainly don't now."
The Soldier's expression remained painfully neutral, but his blue eyes were probing as they evaluated him for chinks in the armor of his story. There was a lot Sam wanted to say, a whole second heaping of things, but if he was learning things one step at a time here, it was that he had to tread nice and careful. He still didn't understand near-enough about what was going on in the other man's head, and what topics the figure in front of him considered forbidden fruit.
But, you know what? If the bionic staring machine was going to continue to inquire about his allegiance for god knows what reason, Sam figured it couldn't hurt to make his stance on the topic abundantly clear for all the good it would do him, "Far as I'm concerned, HYDRA are a bunch of righteous assholes who have hurt a lot of people over the years, including one of my best friends."
He wanted to say Bucky's name. To just put it out there in the open like blowing on a dandelion's cotton, but those blue eyes of his were dangerous, predatory. Everything in Sam was hurting something fierce, so he tried to put force into saying it with his eyes instead.
The Soldier didn't say anything. But he didn't strike him again either. He just stood there with that same creepy, stolen face of his, and just….watched.
The soldier remained uncertain what to make of Sam Wilson, but he permitted him enough time to tear off the seam of his sleeve and stuff the shredded strips of fabric into his nostrils like makeshift gauze. By his own calculations, appearing with a conscious hostage remained preferable over the alternative. If these people believed Sam to be dead, they might not hesitate to fire upon them.
That would be less than optimal.
Like his lack of pockets. It still made no sense to him why he would have been dressed without consideration for accounting for potential contingencies. Even his prior handlers knew the value of having medical supplies readily available for field operations.
Not that he would have necessarily offered Sam any of his own supplies had he had them on-hand.
Sam should have come better prepared.
When Sam'd gotten himself in order, he'd turned around and put his arms to his sides, obediently waiting for further instruction. He didn't struggle or resist as the soldier crossed an arm over his chest and laid it over his far shoulder, and he was sufficiently compliant when ordered to, "Get moving."
The soldier's mind sought to sort out the clever play that his hostage was trying to get him to believe, but he did what he could to push the investigation and further questions aside for a later time. They were quickly approaching the exit to the building, and he couldn't afford to allow his focus to falter.
He slid along the right wall with Sam shielded in front of him as he approached the glass doors ahead. His first realization that anything was wrong was the sheer amount of warm light pouring in from outside, and the fact that the view was not obscured by the foundations of nearby buildings. For the first twenty feet or so, there were dark grey tiles, but beyond that? There was simply grass. Not patches of tended ornamental grass: a sweeping vista of tall grass, rocks, and open air for as far as he could see.
And he didn't have any clue what to make of it.
"Where are we?" he growled.
Sam's voice was stuffy, muffled by the blood-soaked cloth in his nostrils, "Wakanda, like I said. Design Center. Mount...crap. I don't remember. Might've began with a-"
The soldier tightened his grip just enough to stop the man from talking. None of this was useful information to him. This wasn't what he was expecting to see outside. It would require adjustments to his working plan. Improvisation.
He couldn't get a good look on what was on either side, but he could see a mass of rocks and shrubbery a distance off beyond the facility to his left. It would make sufficient cover, but the distance between the outer doors and the nearest trees was separated by open landscape. There were undoubtedly snipers on the roof waiting for him to lean into that option.
Insufficient.
Between the exit and that thick forest of bushes and trees were three organized formations of those tribal women. The furthest row stood in an evenly-spaced arc while they held those spears of theirs at their sides like statues. He counted nine of them. They were too far apart to be able to converge on him if he ran fast enough. Though none of them held visible firearms, something in him felt certain the spears were capable of ballistics, but he did not understand why he felt so conclusive of that fact.
Was their clothing also absent of pockets? Surreal.
Closest to him, about twenty-five feet away, were the four figures he recognized from the lab, but strangely: they sat cross legged on the ground with no weapons visible. The one who shouted Russian at him, the one called 'Ayo' from the phone's contact list sat closest to him, while the two in matching clothing and armored plates sat a few feet back diagonally to either side. Another five feet further back, directly behind Ayo, sat the one the contact list called 'Shuri.' She was dressed differently from any of the figures he saw outside, clad in spotted geometric patterns of white and purple with no visible armor. The soldier concluded this was an important observation, especially when there were another six seated figures wrapped around her in an almost protective, secondary arc. None of them appeared to have any weapons, though the soldier knew this to be a ploy. Those closest saw him. Watched him.
"What are they doing?" the soldier pressured his hostage.
"I have no honest idea. Maybe they want to talk?"
More talk. More attempts at manipulation.
"Who is the woman in white and purple?"
"Shuri."
"Who is she?" he growled. He would not repeat the question a third time.
He felt the man beneath his grip shift, as if he was deliberating how to respond. The soldier made the decision easier on him and squeezed.
"-Princess! Wakandan Princess,-" Sam choked out before the vibranium arm around his throat loosened. His hostage started coughing again, splattering a fine mist of bloody droplets on the nearby glass.
Royalty?
Potentially useful.
The soldier narrowed his eyes and breathed in, deliberating on his next tactical move while he slipped his free hand into the pocket with Sam's belongings and drew out his cell phone. He felt the weight of it in his hand, the smooth rectangular shape as he eyed the distance between the exit and Ayo's forehead. He watched the grass blow gently outside. It wouldn't be difficult to account for the wind direction, he'd just have to make sure she didn't see it coming, because there was enough distance she might be able to dodge it. Perhaps he could lure her closer? Either way, he was confident he'd be able to land the throw and remove the lingering threat of her poisonous words from the equation.
But that would leave him with just one cell phone until he secured a better weapon.
Timing would be critical.
He pressed closer to the glass doors so he could try and see around either side of the exit. There wasn't great visibility, but based on the second set of reflections he could see in the glass, there didn't appear to be anyone waiting just out of sight around the nearest corners.
They were undoubtedly there, though, just further back.
Directly to his left was a steep drop-off that fell back into the center of the facility. To his far right, beyond the tiled platform, appeared to be a short span of rocky terrain that led to the edge of the supposed mountain Sam claimed they were on.
He debated on how to proceed. He felt certain returning back into the research facility would prove futile, but it was unclear how many of the figures outside might be handlers beyond the one called Ayo. He gripped the smooth shape of the phone in his hand and narrowed his eyes as he ordered his hostage ahead, "We're going to walk forward through the right door. You're going to open it when we get close."
"My hands are broken, man. I don't think I-"
"I don't care what you use. Your face will suffice if you can't figure out a better option."
The man in front of him whimpered, "You don't need to threaten me, I'm trying to work with y-"
The soldier tightened his grip on the man's throat again and he watched as both of his hands went up in a sign of surrender.
Good.
With slow, measured steps, he moved the two of them forward, making sure to leverage Sam as a shield facing the nearest group of four seated figures. Sure enough, his hostage figured out a way to prop the door open with his elbows, and the soldier let the two of them stand in the doorway in case they needed to make a hasty escape. He was certain he heard the scuffle of movement from a ways behind him, but the sounds didn't draw closer.
Undoubtedly, they intended to flank and surround him.
He regarded the seated figures intently, trying to deduce their plan. He was fairly certain it was to lure him out of the complex into a false sense of security.
When no one said anything, the soldier saw fit to speak. His eyes stayed focused on the woman closest to him, Ayo, the handler, "If you say a single word, he dies."
An expression he couldn't parse fell over her face as she regarded him, and he didn't miss the exchanges the women nearby made with one another. But Ayo's vision didn't waver. She stayed focused on him, set her jaw, and nodded once.
The woman positioned directly behind her, the one dressed in white and purples, the one called 'Shuri,' was the first to speak. Her voice was rhythmic, but her expression was tense beneath the calm facade. He could see it in her throat and how she held her shoulders, "We mean you no harm. What do you want?"
They wanted to feign interest in negotiation?
He deliberated how he wished to answer the question. He was certain it was all a ploy, that he couldn't believe a word she spoke. Still... perhaps there might be a way to get useful information from her in the meantime? "How long was I in a deep freeze?"
Shuri blinked, but wasted no time in answering, "You were in partial cryo yesterday for a little over two hours."
"And before that?"
She considered his question, "I would have to look up the date, but around five years and nine months ago? It would have been another partial freeze when we worked to remove some of HYDRA's residual programming from you. We are not HYDRA, nor allies of theirs."
He didn't believe that for a moment.
"We're your friends, Buck," the hostage beneath his arm whispered softly before the soldier swiftly tightened his grip again and he felt Sam's body tense in response.
So set on manipulating him.
He didn't believe that either, but the motion caused a number of those tribal women beyond Shuri to flinch and grip the silver cylinders in their hands more tightly.
Interesting. Those must be their concealed weapons.
"What do you wish us to do?" Shuri spoke as she met his eyes.
He knew exactly what he wanted, but he wasn't about to tell her that.
He no longer wanted to talk, to play into this little game of theirs, so he tried to focus on his senses. Something wasn't right, and he knew it. He was certain this was a setup of some kind to lure him into a false sense of security. But what was their ultimate play?
He rotated his head slightly, taking count of the tribal women again, watching for anything out of order. Any telling movement. When he saw nothing, he sought to draw out their plan by feigning as if he meant to consider snapping his hostage's neck.
He leaned into the motion, pulling his arm back in what he hoped was a convincing gesture, and as he did, he watched Shuri's fingers shift.
There it was. Their Plan.
The tell was quick but effective. And while he couldn't calculate the exact position of the hidden instrument, he could just barely make out the change in pitch as it drew nearer.
He was ready.
The soldier's instincts flared, and all the distractions, all the questions fell away as he listened to his senses and leaned into every ounce of his training.
He became force incarnate.
The cell phone was already hurtling towards the nearest group of four women by the time his invisible opponent fired. Acting on instinct alone, the soldier snapped his hand back: expertly catching the bead-like orb midair and sending it back in the direction from which it came in the blink of an eye. The impact was instantaneous, sparking a blast of bright blue lighting across a cloaked, mechanical form no larger than a kite that shuttered in midair and became visible as it crashed into the rocky terrain below, exploding on impact.
There was yelling in a language he couldn't quite make out, and a flurry of motion as the tribal women nearby churned into motion.
The soldier had already snatched up Sam in one arm and sprinted forward as he glanced to take inventory if the phone had met its intended mark. He was unsurprised to find that the travel distance meant that Ayo had managed to throw herself between she and her Princess, but he was surprised that the phone had not cut deeply into either of their flesh. It was as if the phone had struck their leathered armor and splintered from the impact. Not only that, but Shuri was no longer wearing the white and purple outfit she'd had on only moments before, but was instead clad in a black bodysuit of some sort.
He didn't have an explanation for that.
The soldier didn't have time to consider further details as he watched some of the tribal women summon their spears and turn them in his direction as they got to their feet and adjusted their positions to bulk up their ranks between he and the Princess.
Good. His feign was working.
They were not yet aware that she wasn't his actual target.
Voices called out from all around him, seeking to disorient and distract him from his solemn purpose, from his mission, but he was able to ignore them.
All but one.
"Ilya horyas men carë úvië ná i carë lúmenen yan me ná antaina!" one of the warrior women with a tattooed face nearest to him yelled out, as if for his attention. He spared a moment to glance back her way, confused at the meaning behind the words, no less the mother tongue that spoke it.
Even still, even with the battle waging before him, his mind momentarily sought to parse her solemn expression and the words that translated to the phrase: 'All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.'
Where had he heard it before?
Was it something from a book he'd read?
The soldier tossed the thought aside as he feigned a turn towards the distant treeline and quickly changed direction so he could pivot closer to the inside edge of the central shaft of the facility. Sam Wilson apparently thought it was his grand moment for a hero play, so he bore down a foot to try to force the two of them to stumble. When that proved unsuccessful, he aimed for a solid kick to the shins, which bounced easily off the soldier's legs without slowing him a single step. His hostage twisted fiercely with a renewed vigor that might have actually been impressive if the soldier wasn't able to shut it down with one quick, but pointed squeeze of the man's shattered hands. The motion produced an audible cacophony of pain.
Sam Wilson howled, momentarily surrendering the fight and going rigid at just the precise instant the soldier was hoping for. With calculated precision, he took inventory of his velocity in relation to the travel distance of his stride, and used all of his momentum and the leverage of one well-planted foot to launch himself diagonally across the hole…
...directly towards the inner opening of the Propulsion Laboratory four stories down.
Author's Remarks:
...So *that* went well.
I'm not sure what you might've been expecting, but I suspect it wasn't quite *that.* ;)
Yama *did* warn that she thought the Soldier's plan did not have but one prong...
While I'm sorry Sam is injured, I will admit that his inner dialogue while he was stepping through this scene was vivid as anything to me. Him using humor to try to hold himself together in this awful situation feels very valid to me, especially since he knows it's a bad move to stress-banter out loud with the "other" guy.
The section in Sam PoV around that "Robocop" line is one of my favorite little bits of humor I've written thus far. Just Sam being utterly flabbergasted that the freaking Winter Soldier is offering him legit medical advice.
To quote one Sam Wilson: "He's out of line, but he's right."
After one exceptionally long and arduous week, it was thrilling to *finally* get to write these scenes, which have lived rent-free in my head for *months.*
Also Nomble's attempt to get through to Bucky: ;_;
As always: Thank you so much for all your comments, kudos, and kind words of support on this ongoing story. I hope you're enjoying some of these unexpected twists and turns along the way. :)
I can't wait for you to see what the soldier has planned next…! Thank you again for all your encouragement on this massive project!