Chapter Thirty-Three
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The Woods | The White Buffalo

It took them several hours to find me again.

The time between jumping out of the window, to the sound of approaching familiar voices — was a blurry one. The only thing I could remember clearly was shock and regret immediately after slamming my body through a glass window. It might have been reinforced, and I had no idea how far up as I was — until I was falling.

It was only about twenty or thirty feet, nothing crazy, but still enough to take my breath away, to land in a hard roll before launching to my feet and taking off again.

I couldn't remember how I got from there, to up a large deciduous tree of some species I couldn't identify — with thick branches and an oddly ribbed bark that made it easy to climb. The thick green foliage was what drew me to it, perhaps; small leaves but in thick bunches that, at a level above the natural line of sight, would render me virtually invisible.

It was only when I looked up and out did I see the great palace, its two towers, bridged together with circling stepped floors around it, roofed in grass — the same grass that had stained my feet and softened my landing earlier. Perhaps quarter-mile away now, though I felt as though I were still in the city proper, surrounded by smaller, residential housing and a market street nearby. The tree I was in stood in a small shaded glade, a little park perhaps, secluded and quiet with only the distant sound of voices and city noise to fill my head.

From here, I could better see the surrounding geography; how the city was nestled in a river valley, surrounded by massive mountain peaks on either side, so large that their green plans turned to white ice at the top, even though it felt like summer. The air was humid though not oppressively so, with a cool breeze rustling the leaves my hair was now tangled in.

To my left, I heard a faint buzzing; a beehive, I realized, as I looked over and saw the next hanging from a large branch of the same tree I was in; ten feet away, it was perhaps a little too close for comfort for a surprise bee hive. Certainly I wouldn't have gotten so close on a whim if I hadn't known (and was in a better mental state). But the danger of the bees had not clicked in for me to the shadows I was still running away from, in my head. I watched, feeling as if I were outside of myself, as the bees flew to and fro from their nest.

About half a dozen buzzed around me, curious, wary. I remained absolutely still, even as one landed on my hand, its tiny antennae flicking as it skittered across the top of my knuckles. Another one landed on my arm, on my knee. If they thought me a threat, they would have stung me by now, I thought distantly. And certainly more would be swarming by now, a cloud of death to scare away the threat to their hive.

But the bees did not sting me and I did not move or get closer. I just watched as the bees flew off, landed again, flew away, another returned. Just going about their business, perhaps, and treating me as just a statue in the tree. I found myself mildly fascinated as I studied them; the bees were larger than the ones at home, oddly fluffy around their thorax with broad wings, big black eyes that glittered faintly in the dappled sunlight; their striped bodies were a fascinating blue-purple with a metallic sheen, and a large dot at the top center, vaguely heart-shaped, or perhaps a spade. Unlike any bee I'd ever seen before. Quite cute. I idly wondered what their honey tasted like.

The children found me first.

Perhaps word of a giant white teenager running around was spread far enough for people to start looking. Perhaps I wasn't as blended in as I thought, up in the tree; below, children had appeared, maybe eight to ten years old, playing with a soccer ball — though not a soccer ball I'd ever seen before. It appeared to be made partly of metal, and seemed to glow and hover, bouncing back of its own will if it was kicked too far or over a fence. I watched them play for a while, nervous but not yet afraid until the ball rolled too close to the tree, came to a stop, and a little girl ran over to fetch it. When she looked up, she saw me.

She jumped back with a small gasp, clearly startled, then pointed up and said something in her native tongue. It drew the other children to her side, half a dozen wide-eyed faces peering up at me through the clutch of branches. I didn't know how much they could see through the thick canopy, but clearly they knew I was there. I shifted slightly, and that must have startled them, because they all jumped back, scattering like a flock of birds.

But they returned. Again and again. I could hear them whispering beyond some bushes they were hiding behind, their attempts to spy on me clumsy and adorable. One particularly brave boy dared to step out, creeping towards the tree as though I couldn't see him. He got right up to the trunk, touched it, looked up — our gazes met — and he gasped and ran back again.

The second time, another girl approached, much in the same manner of the boy, tip-toeing to the tree, pausing stockstill as if she'd been spotted, before darting to the trunk to tap it, looking up at me, and running away with an excited cry.

After the third or fourth time, I realized they were making a game of it. Their yelps sounded more like laughter, and their whispers became giggles. I couldn't speak, my body still shaking slightly, hands knotted tight around the branches supporting me, my jaw as if wired shut; I didn't know if they could understand me even if I could speak.

What did they think of me? Were they afraid of me? Judging by their smiles and laughter, their little game which had now transformed into depositing different objects at the base of the tree, indicated that they were not. It started with small, colorful rocks, a brightly colored flower, a little beaded bracelet, a forsaken flip-flop.

One of the girls approached with their soccer ball, holding it up with both hands and letting it flicker blue and purple in the sunlight, as if trying to coax me down. "Uyafuna ukudlala nathi?"

A boy brought what looked like a fruit, appearing akin to an apple with a yellow-tan rind, also holding it up to me in his hand. Far too far out of reach for either of us to stretch. To indicate its edibility, the boy took a bite out of the fruit, then offered it back up again. The girl scowled and smacked him on the arm, perhaps chastising him for the rudeness of offering bitten fruit. The boy protested, shrugging his shoulders.

Apparently, they caused enough of a commotion to draw the attention of some adults. A woman wandered over, partially obscured by tree leaves, asking something loudly but with a short laugh, not yet seeing me. But that changed quickly, as all the children started chattering at once, a set of arms rising and pointing in unison, directly at me.

The woman looked up and jolted, and with a sweeping gesture of her arms, shooed away the children. They protested, but her tone brooked no argument, and they shuffled away, looking back forlornly at the tree.

It wasn't long afterwards until the king arrived.

He came on foot, and I recognized the sound of his voice, and Dad's, and Steve's — apparently in the midst of some kind of argument, though too far away for me to make out clearly; the ground dropped off to a lower level of the city, a set of stairs rising just some fifty feet away, where I saw them emerge.

Their voices got lower as they got closer; for a second, I wondered why. But given that their immediate presence didn't impress upon me the urge to get out of the tree — maybe they already thought not to spook me.

A part of me wanted to, really. But the other part, the part in control, refused to move my body. I felt safe up in the tree, untouchable, lost in the grandness of the city. Even as, after a short discussion, the King quietly scaled the tree.

He recoiled slightly at the sight of the bee's nest, before settling gingerly in the fork of two branches nearby, fixing me with a quizzical look. "The bees don't scare you, eh?"

I stared at him, and shook my head.

"Really? Well, I suppose you don't have these at home," T'Challa said, chuckling slightly. "Their sting is quite painful. Children are taught to leave them alone."

After a moment, I forced myself to speak. My voice croaked: "They're nice. They just want to be left alone."

"Ah," The King nodded slowly, and I could feel him watching me, even as I averted my gaze. He was silent for a long moment. "Is that why you hid up here? To be alone?"

I nodded. Looking down, I noticed the gaggle of kids had returned, though at a distance — peering curiously from the street, between the legs of adults that had gathered in curiosity. "I didn't scare them, did I?"

"Who?" T'Challa asked, then looked down and laughed a little. "Oh, the children? No, I would say they're more disappointed than anything else. I'm sure they'd like to meet you, if you want to come down."

But I shook my head. There was a reason why the kids couldn't get me down themselves; it was best I stayed up here, out of reach. Where I couldn't hurt anyone. I tucked my chin into my arm and reminded myself how to breathe.

"You have nothing to fear here, Mia," T'Challa spoke softly, leaning in slightly. After a pause, he added, "and I must apologize for my sister's behavior. I had warned her not to confront you. But she doesn't understand what happened. I couldn't tell her everything, and she — well, she is a scientist, she hunts for her own answers. I would give her the whole truth, if not for the possibility of harming you and your father further."

"I understand," I murmured. Those were not his secrets to tell; and, perhaps, not ones to risk getting out on accident. "It's hard to explain. She probably wouldn't understand, anyways."

"Ah, I wouldn't go that far," T'Challa smiled wryly. "I believe my sister is fully capable of understanding challenging, complex concepts — she knows them better than myself in some aspects. But if she wants to is another matter. I can give her more details, with your permission. All I ask you is to give Shuri some grace, as my hope is you will receive the same in turn. This is a difficult time, and you are both suffering."

I frowned to myself, letting those words sink in. After a moment, I glanced at him. "But so are you."

"Yes, but I am King," T'Challa nodded, and I couldn't help but notice how carefully he expressed himself, controlling his facial muscles, body language. He rested lithe and easy in the tree, like the great feline of his namesake. Showing only comfort and ease and lack of tension, probably for my benefit. But just like his sister, he'd lost his father, too. "I cannot afford the mistakes my sister can make. I will grieve in my own time. And preferably with less collateral damage, you might say."

"And your mother?"

"She has it worst of all, I think," T'Challa acknowledged with a dip of his head. "I cannot imagine her grief, or the strength she must have to carry it and still comfort us in turn. She is angry, too. Not at you. I don't think so, at least. She is still Queen Mother. If I show little, she will show none. It's best not to assume anything with her. But she will keep Shuri in line, that I can promise."

I could still recall with distinct clarity the Princess' face when her mother caught her — that universal oh shit expression, the shock and dread that every kid knew well. Not even a Princess was exempted from that experience. It almost would've been funny if not for the current state I was in.

The thought of facing either of them again was enough to keep my feet planted on the branch beneath me.

"Did you know this species of bees feeds exclusively on the flowers of the medlar tree?" T'Challa asked, his voice drawing me back out of my reverie. He pointed to the next, then to a cluster of small trees below, bearing the same fruit the boy had offered me earlier. "Scientifically they are known as Euglossa infausta, but here we call them medlar bees for that reason; they're found only in Wakanda. So exclusive is their diet that their honey tastes almost exactly like the fruit. The bees are the tree's primary pollinator, and we cultivate them, both for food and to keep the bees alive. Without them, we would lose a great number of our medlar trees."

"One can't survive without the other," I mused quietly.

"Indeed," T'Challa nodded sagely. "They are sometimes misunderstood, they're a wild species resistant to domestication and frequent predation means they're violent in defense of their hive. But they are only animals, and they only wish to survive; and their survival is an integral part of our ecosystem. It has taken many generations for us to learn how to live and grow alongside nature, rather than trying to conquer it."

"I see it," I said, lifting my fingers slightly from the branch, as if to point, but it was only a faint gesture. "In this city. The windmills and the solar panels and… and natural materials. And the bees. I…I like it."

"I thought you might appreciate that," T'Challa gave me a half-smile. After a moment, he added, "I know I cannot force you to come down. But when you do, there is something I want to give to you, and your father. When you're ready."

I shot him a baffled look. "What is it?"

My first thought was my shield, but technically it had already been returned to me, even if I hadn't physically received it yet. And if that was what T'Challa meant, I figured he would've said so. And yet, he shook his head, saying with a half smile, "You'll have to come down to find out."

With that, he began descending the tree again, as agile as a wildcat, and careful not to disturb the branch from which the bee's nest hung. I watched him go, thoughts churning.

What could there be left to give us?

~ o ~

The King was clever. Eventually the fear would ebb, and my curiosity would get the better of me, in the end.

The jungle canopy swept past below, green leaves shining gold in the sunset.

I was not told where we were going. Maybe I would've caught it, had I not spent the first twenty minutes after coming down the tree getting new cuts and scrapes patched up. But from what I could tell, we were being flown to some remote location outside the capital city — as I later learned was called Birnin Zana — on a small aircraft that glided through the air on near-silent wings.

The Dora Milaje piloted at the King's guidance. Dad was with me. So was the Princess and her mother. I didn't know why, but I kept my distance, as much as I could on the small craft, strictly avoiding eye contact.

When we finally landed, the sun had set, the sky a deep purple hue, thousands of stars twinkling. Nearby sat a lake surrounded by nothing but trees and shrubs, mountains in the distance. The air was filled with the sound of wild nightlife, clicking bugs, croaking frogs, and trills and rustles of animals unseen. There was nothing here, as far as I could see, beyond a small fire that was already burning by the time we landed, a small group of people already gathered to greet the King as we landed.

"Not a bad spot to die," Dad said, in what might've been a joke (though the tone didn't quite reach his eyes).

Nevertheless, T'Challa laughed as he led the way towards the fire. "I promise I have nothing but your best interests, James Barnes. You will appreciate my desire for isolation soon enough."

No sooner had the light of the flames illuminated his features did T'Challa withdraw something from inside his coat. Small, thin, rectangular, I didn't immediately recognize what it was until the fire revealed the red leather, the black star embossed on the cover.

The Glass Presence.

Immediately, Dad tensed beside me, taking a half step forward. Already reaching out, before catching himself, eyes wide as his gaze flicked between book and King. His voice went low. "Where did you get that?"

"Zemo," T'Challa replied easily. At Dad's hesitation, he extended the book out towards him. "Please, take it. Zemo still had it during my last interrogation. He did not relinquish easily. I can personally guarantee that it has not been seen or opened by anyone else since I took possession of it. I know of its purpose, and that is enough."

Dad needed no further offer; and if he hadn't, I would've taken it instead. The book looked so small in Dad's hands, and he pulled it closer, carefully opening the cover in a way no one, not even me, could peer over his shoulder to read it. But it must have been the authentic article, because he snapped it shut almost immediately. A long moment, then, "…Thank you."

"I felt greatly obliged, given all that has occurred," T'Challa nodded his head. "It was only right that it was returned to you, to do with as you wish. Though, I suspect you'd want it destroyed. Hence the fire."

Dad was silent for a moment, his face pale in the firelight. Metal gears and phalanges groaning ever so slightly into the cover. I myself felt stricken, leaning forward slightly, compelled to say something but unsure of what.

"I must add," T'Challa added. "After I took it, Zemo attempted to compel me to read its contents. No doubt he thought he could corrupt me, or persuade me to use whatever secrets it keeps. He was not successful with me. But he will no doubt attempt similar negotiations in the future, even after he's lost it. The rumor of the Glass Presence alone is not without power."

"I understand." Bucky replied quietly. There was another meaning there behind his words. Something left unsaid.

With that, he raised his arm to throw the book into the fire.

"Wait!" I caught his wrist, startling both men. Their wide eyes on me, I blurted, "I want to read it!"

Dad stared at me, horrified. "Mia —!"

"Please!" I said, already knowing how crazy I sounded. But I knew if I would never get another chance like this. "I just want to look inside. Just to… just to see. To understand. And then! Then I'll throw it into the fire. I promise."

I sure as hell didn't want to keep it, and doubted any of its contents would convince me otherwise. But that book contained — a part of me, even if it wasn't about me, I knew. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that damn book.

It was an instruction manual to my entire existence.

The two men exchanged looks, and T'Challa just shrugged "As I said, it belongs to you now. It's your choice, if you believe it safe enough."

Dad frowned, confliction warring across his features. He looked back at me. "Mia, this book is dangerous. I don't even know everything that's inside. It might — it could hurt you."

"Not more than I already am," I countered. "Would it activate my protocol if I read it?"

Dad hesitated. "No. I don't think you're in this."

"You don't think?"

"The last time I saw this was before you were born," He told me, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his arm. Extending it towards me. "Until a week ago."

And in the back of my mind, I realized his true fear. Dad didn't want me to know that much about him. The parts even he himself didn't know. And the protocol trigger. Even if he already knew mine.

I wondered where Zemo got it.

Dad stared at me, silent, his expression betraying nothing but concern. His eyes searched mine before he finally let go of the book, dropping it in my hands. "If you're sure, then. But you have to burn it when you're done. You have to."

"I know, I will," I said, pressing the book to my chest, as if it were as personal and private as my own diary. "I promise."

"There's something else I'd like to discuss with you," T'Challa said to my father, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Not about this. But just as important, I think. Safeguarding your future."

I wanted to ask what that was about, but I had the Glass Presence, and they were already walking away; Dad giving me one last wary look, as if I might take off into the jungle book in hand. He'd tell me later, anyways. And I knew I didn't want to read this book with an audience.

The adults gathered together in a circle by the lake; the King, the Queenmother, Bucky, and the Dora Milaje. They spoke in low tones, far enough away that I couldn't understand them above the crackling of the fire. I looked around and took a seat in front of the flames; the ground was sandy but dry, a fallen log serving as an improvised bench.

I set the Glass Presence in my lap. And I opened it.

The first thing I noticed was that it was largely written in German — the rest, seemingly, in Russian; ancient penmanship decades old, the ink already starting to fade a little. Some of it was in block writing, other elements in cursive. Cursive Russian especially gave me a headache. But I wasn't going to let my own dyslexia stop me from what I wanted; even if it might be ill-advised.

On the blank page within, I realized someone had left an inscription.

An account of my magnum opus. Dr. Arnim Zola.

My heart skipped a beat. This wasn't just a manual. They were notes. A journal, as any scientist would keep, of their experiments, progress, and results.

And then I turned the page.

The first entry was post-dated 1945.

Subject was acquired from an alpine valley. Critical health, though stable. What remains of his left arm below the shoulder must be amputated before we can continue. My superiors do not think him viable, but I insisted that even such grievous loss is not insurmountable.

His arm can be replaced.

4 February, 1945

Surgery was successful. The remains of the arm have been removed, and the first elements of the prosthetic have been implanted. Patient is awake and in pain, but still delirious. No doubt his brain is recoiling at the mechanical neural pathways, alien as they are to the human mind. But the body has not rejected it, and thus our work continues.

On it went, showing detailed descriptions, hand drawn schematics, clippings and small photographs. The metal arm being constructed. Close-up images of skin grafted to metal. Personal asides complaining of Russian imprisonment and lack of resources.

The brainwashing process.

It got harder to read.

13 August, 1945.

The subject is still resisting, even after six months of conditioning. But I can see he is starting to break down. Lack of human connection, sunlight, and sleep is the most effective way to destroy a man's will to live. To fight. We have taken advanced measures to ensure he does not escape. He does not yet understand what has happened to him; he does not remember our first experimentation last year, in the labor camp. He did not remember me at first, either.

Fascinating.

Aside from Captain America, he remains the only successful super soldier experiment (we do not discuss Herr Schmidt). No physical deformations. His mind remains intact. No instability. Perfection. His body adapted perfectly to the arm. He carries it as if he were born with it.

The problem remains in keeping him contained when none of us are so gifted. Anesthetics and tranquilizers only work for a certain time - like a drug addict, a dose is no longer adequate for the same effect, and must be increased. Unlike an addict, he very quickly becomes immune to the effects entirely. The longest one has been effective is about a week. Injection, ingestion, and aerosol have been attempted, with no noticeable difference in effect. We have begun our attempts at using poisons, but those appear to be even less useful; he can taste it, no matter the substance, and will refuse to eat if he suspects his food has been tampered with.

Starvation is more effective. Strict containment within his cell. The super soldier requires more calories than the average human.

He must eat. He has to.

Or he will die.

23 October, 1945.

Subject is weakening. After expressing a desire to kill himself, rather than be of any use to us, he has made multiple attempts to end his life; thus, twenty-four hour restraints are required. It has been a learning experience; we have disabled his arm in the meantime, and have begun force-feeding a basic concentration of proteins and carbohydrates…

30 November, 1946.

He has stopped fighting.

It has been almost two years. But I believe we have finally brought him to heel. He no longer attempts to kill us or himself. He eats what he is given without pause or question. He no longer shouts obscenities or rails against his confines. He no longer repeats that silly mantra under his breath.

Truly, his conditioning started long ago. Now, the real work begins.

I have my canvas, now to wipe it clean. My superiors wanted a lobotomy, but I do not want a brainless shell of a creature, unable to operate at all. Idiots. He still needs the organ in one piece. So we have built a new device, a machine based on the theory of electrotherapy; charged shocks directed at specific points of the brain in order to erase thought and memory. Prior test subjects have shown proven effects. Now I wonder how it will work on the mind and body of a super soldier…

It is necessary. There are still trace elements of resistance. One of the Russians found an improvised knife hidden in the subject's cell. We must guarantee total obedience and docility before we may continue.

As long as he remembers the man he once was, he will never truly belong to us.

19 April, 1947.

Programming is complete. We will begin cryo tests shortly. After each awakening, the subject must first be activated as soon as possible, to minimize any chance of independent thought to form. Though he no longer retains his core memories, the subject can lose ground if left to his own devices for too long.

We have already settled on a phrase to use. My superiors insisted on Russian being the dominant programming language, much to my distaste, but nevertheless. It should remain effective. The code is very specific and must be spoken, within audible distance of the subject, to completion in order for the activation to be successful. It is best he remained restrained until such a time that his activation is confirmed.

Желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. Товарный вагон.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.

And thus emerges the Winter Soldier.

A drop of water stained the page, the old ink hydrating and pooling liquid again. I started slightly, before wiping at my face.

I hadn't realized I started crying.

And, in a sudden fit of rage, I ripped the page from the binding, and threw it into the flames.

The others I had just read soon followed, a small chunk torn from the book. I watched, with blurred vision, as those wicked words were burned away, turned to nothing but ash and smoke.

And still I read on, and with each page I finished, it went into the fire. I read descriptions and took in images of things I never wanted to see again; horrible acts and terrible photos that would be burned into my mind forever.

And still I did not stop.

I could see now why Dad did not want to read this. Why, if he did not remember, he did not want to. And the only reason I could bear to read this was because it didn't happen to me — these weren't my memories. A level of distance and separation that just barely gave me the space to breathe and forge onwards.

After the seventies, Arnim Zola was replaced by a Russian doctor, whose name I did not care to remember at this point. He was probably already dead by now, given the dates. The page that inscribed the Winter Soldier's trigger phrase went up in flames, as well as instructions on how to change and update his protocol. Noted flaws in the programming. The beginning of the cryo-freezing process, functional immortality.

Decades and decades of writing, contained in one small book. Being that it was mostly a recording of experiments and results, a logging of operational information, there wasn't much on what the Winter Soldier actually did. No talk of his missions, his targets, only observations on injuries, healings, responses to different treatments, if any.

It all went into the fire.

The passages started to trickle, becoming less and less frequent as the years wore on and the journal was used less for record keeping and more for its current purpose as a guidebook, needing few further additions.

Until the end, when I turned a page, and saw two pictures, side by side. A top-down view of a body lying on an operating table. One small and frail, one large and healthy.

The same girl.

"Is that you?" A voice startled me.

I slapped the book closed with a gasp, swinging my head around to stare at the Princess sitting next to me; as if she had appeared out of nowhere, though as my mind caught up, I realized she must have been sitting there for some time now. I had been so engrossed in the Glass Presence, I had not noticed.

She looked back at me, wincing slightly. A far less aggressive response than the last time we spoke to each other. "Sorry, I — I didn't mean to scare you." She grimaced. "Please don't tell my mother."

I blinked at her. "You didn't mind so much last time."

She looked away, the flames reflecting in her dark eyes. "My brother told me to apologize for that."

I watched her for a moment longer, hackles still up, suspicious. She wasn't so close as to touch me, but definitely close enough that had she been leaning over, she would've been able to see the pictures. My throat went dry, before I said, "...I'm sorry, too. For… for your father."

The Princess glanced back at me, something flickering in those eyes of hers, and it wasn't the flames. "My brother says you are not responsible. Even though you were there. He did not tell me everything, that first time."

"How much do you know now?" I asked, my tone still guarded. I couldn't be sure what exactly T'Challa told his sister, or how he put it. A story told second or third-hand could have strayed wildly from the truth.

"Enough, I think," The Princess gave a sharp nod, lifting her chin up a bit. "Enough to answer my question. My initial hypothesis was correct. Zemo did not actually need you."

I couldn't remember what the question was exactly, or how that answered it. I'd rather not think too much about what happened earlier today. "And your conclusion?"

The Princess looked at me, folding her hands in her lap as she straightened a little. Official, confident. "Zemo's primary goal was to cause as much destruction as possible. Physical destruction with the bomb, of course. But also mental and emotional destruction. He killed my father one way. He intended to kill your father in the other way."

Her eyes drew up, and I followed her gaze to the group of adults in the distance, now kneeling on the ground, still in deep discussion. I could recognize Dad's silhouette, by bulk and lanky hair, the gleam of moonlight on metal. The Princess added, "I think Zemo was very close to succeeding."

The Glass Presence felt like a block of hot lead in my hand. My voice barely a whisper. "Yeah, that passes peer review."

The air between us was silent for a long minute, just the sound of crackling fire to accompany us. It was starting to dim despite my frequent feeding of it, and the Princess leaned over to feed another log into the pit. She dropped the piece of wood, and a plume of sparks flew into the air. "My father used to tell me stories on nights like this, when the sky was clear. He said the stars were our ancestors, and they would always be there, watching us from above. When I was a child, I used to look up and wonder which ones were my uncle, my grandparents. Now," she raised her face to the sky, squinting into the darkness obscured by campfire smoke. "I wonder which one is him."

I, too, looked up, and saw a pattern of stars I didn't recognize. The Milky Way was there, but nothing else familiar. In the southern hemisphere, it was all different. "I don't know these stars. Where I'm from, you can barely see them at night, even with a clear sky."

"That's a shame," The Princess said, lowering her face back to the fire. Her gaze, far away. "I know stars are just balls of gas and fire, base elements in constant fusion, millions upon billions of lightyears away. They cannot possibly be the spirits of my ancestors. But…"

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hugging herself. "It still brings me comfort sometimes."

Then she looked over at the book in my lap. "Is that what my brother gave you? He's been carrying it with him the whole day. Wouldn't let me see it."

"Yes," I said, and failed to elaborate. I couldn't even begin trying to describe what this was. Or what it meant.

The Princess waited, and when I did not continue, she said, "My brother said you were not acting of your own willpower. That you were not being coerced, but… controlled. Is that why?"

My gaze remained fixed on that black star. "It's how."

"Oh." The Princess frowned, tilting her head slightly. "I see."

The fire crackled.

"You're in there, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Your father doesn't know that," The Princess surmised, raising her eyebrows at me. "And I doubt he would have let you read it if he'd known."

The brightness of the flames burned into my eyes.

Daring to open the book again, I took another look at those old photographs. Me, before and after the exposure to Vita radiation. Unconscious or almost so. Tubes and IV's and hastily scrawled notes about health and viability. I was careful this time, not to let the Princess see, as I ripped them out and threw them into the flames.

There were only about ten more pages of me, squeezed into the back end of the book. A hasty addition, unexpected, but just as readily recorded. Shorter, because they only had me for two years.

A list of words.

Бунтарь. Колумбия. Пустой.

Rebel. Columbia. Hollow…

I ripped the page away just as my fingers started to tinkle, and threw the crumpled ball into the flames. The rest of the pages soon followed, and then finally, the cover — an empty shell of leather and board, ripped stitches and glue from the binding, flopping empty, useless, harmless into the fire.

I didn't take my eyes away as tongues of flame licked its sides, the leather cracking and curling away as if it could escape, the board beneath smoking and fizzlin, red and black burning into one until there was nothing left.

Nothing left at all.

"I'll tell him," I said, as the pile of ash crumbled into the coals. "Eventually."