Bucky steeled himself.

They wouldn't contain him so that meant he had to contain himself, and that thought had ignited a white-hot alarm from his head to his feet that did not dissipate in the hours that he waited for the transfer. He spent that time pacing, fighting a bone deep exhaustion and all of the aches that came with being trampled by super human strength.

He reached back in his mind for that framework he'd slipped in to after he'd dragged Steve out of the water. It was there, he knew it was. It was just…hard to find. But he could do this. He could keep himself together.

Never mind that he couldn't hold on to the names of the people around him. Never mind that the panic from waking up this time hadn't really switched off. Never mind that before, after Steve, he'd had the time and solitude to sort himself out. Never mind that his brain felt fuzzy in a way that dragged him back to a Nazi prison camp in 1945, and he had a migraine that wouldn't quit.

This was not like before.

But he could control himself. He could keep himself pulled in tight. He had to.

The door to the room opened and an imposing woman stepped in. "Do you remember who I am?" asked a woman who stepped in. She was tall and he hoped she was as capable as she seemed.

He didn't even try to remember. The information wasn't there. "No."

"I'm Ayo, head of security for the Kings Guard," she told him. "The Dora Milaje will be guarding you. If you try to run away, you will not be successful. King T'Challa has asked me not to hurt you and I will do my best. But if you lose control—"

"Kill me," he said bluntly.

Her head tilted slightly to the side. He held her gaze and they both gauged the honesty of the other.

Then she nodded once. "Come with me."

He followed her out, his eyes fixed ahead, arm wrapped around his chest. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't fight. He would follow his orders because he was not a monster. And if it came to it, he would let them take him down. Because there was a monster prowling inside him.

For the first time that he remembered, they stepped out of the Wakanda Medical Center, which was nestled in mountains and swathed in fog. It was evening time, and the sun was already tucked behind a peak, casting the center in shadow. Ayo led him across a wide courtyard that boasted the same opulent, modern décor as the rest of the facility – which made him feel shabby and obsolete as he shuffled along in his blood-stained hospital scrubs and bare feet.

He didn't know where they were heading but the train platform was not what he'd been expecting. It reminded him of too many things at once, but he chose to hone in on the subway train in Brooklyn. Except, this train was much more futuristic. He almost missed it approaching for how quiet it came rushing in. Curiosity got the better of him and he realized that there were no actual rails. The cars were hovering.

Focus on the fascinating. Only that.

"Where are we going?" The question slipped out before he could pull it back.

"To the very edge of Birnin Zana," the woman answered. When the train doors hissed open, she ushered him inside. In almost perfect unity, he saw four other armed women step inside at the doors on either side of his. The Dora Milaje, he assumed.

"What's at the edge?" he wondered, somewhat distracted by the way the warriors were watching him. They kept their distance but they also kept spears and it made him want to bolt.

Keep a lid on it, geezer…

"I have found a suitable place for you to stay and recover your senses," the woman told him.

He'd forgotten her name already but kept that to himself as he sat down.

The train moved fast but there was no bounce or grind to it – just a shooting speed that whisked them away from the mountains and out of the fog bank. Once out of the shadow of the mountain, a warm golden sunshine flooded the train car. He breathed it in.

He didn't recall arriving in Wakanda to begin with and wonder took his attention now as they wound through the capitol city. Towering skyscrapers, winding roads. The city looked to be woven from a fabric of very old and very new, organically flowing with the landscape. It was unlike anything he could remember. It felt alive.

Bucky would have ridden the train for hours if they'd let him. He'd almost managed to relax into the seat, gazing out at the world below that was so refreshingly different from anything that haunted at the edges of his mind. He almost got lost in the view, tracing roadways, the river, marveling at the track-less train as it shot perfectly through rings that kept it afloat. If he had been alone, he may have been able to enjoy it.

When they glided into a station, he'd lost track of how long the ride had been. Where they were now was not the vibrant city-center. They all stepped out onto a much less developed platform with far fewer buildings around them. It was twilight now, the last glow of sunshine kissing a dark sky. The roads here were cobbled with dusky bricks that glinted with flecks of Vibranium blue in the streetlights.

"Come, White Wolf," the woman ordered, striding out onto the road.

He scowled as he followed. "What did you call me?"

"I voted for Rabid Cur but was outnumbered," she replied dryly, a sardonic smirk lifting her lips.

White Wolf. Winter Solider. He could see the similarities. A vicious pack hunter, meant to be with others but hunting alone, in the cold, a land that was not his own.

He let the thoughts entangle him while they ambled but couldn't help how he noticed that the other warriors were flanking him, far enough away that their spears would give them a ranged advantage. The street ahead was empty, the storefronts already shuttered. But he could hear the sounds of life beyond this street – bars and restaurants, the distant thumping of music, vehicles. Which meant that this street had been cleared for his passage.

Good.

They were taking this seriously.

The walk took them to an overgrown field, on the edge of the suburb, on the edge of the city, backed up against wilderness. The old wooden bleachers along the edges evoked 'athletic field' and he looked for any lines on the dry scrub grass that might tell him what kind of sport, with no luck. When they turned towards an outbuilding at the far end, his caution stepped up a notch. Was this meant to be a secluded prison? The kind you bury someone in when you don't want witnesses? Probably smart.

It was a single-story fieldhouse with a rusted tin roof. There was a name and logo painted in fading yellow and red across the concrete blocks. He couldn't read the language, but the logo depicted a gazelle and a flying soccer ball. The woman unlocked an old heavy padlock on the front double doors and stepped inside. He tried not to calculate how much of an advantage she'd have in a fight as he followed in after her. The others, he noticed, stationed themselves outside.

Inside, it was dusty and smelled forgotten but the furniture was orderly, and the floors were clean. She'd flicked on a light as she entered, and a sluggish ceiling fan began to turn. He spied an abandoned cleaning rag and bucket which told him someone had come to scrub a little before they arrived. The layout was simple. Either ends of the building were designated as locker rooms. The middle was wide open. A few old sofas were positioned to one side and a bed had been brought in on the other, with a table and chairs. The posters and old photographs on the walls told him that this had once been a community hub for local sports teams.

So not a prison then. There weren't even chains hanging from the rafters or a hastily erected cage in the middle. It was just… a fieldhouse.

"Here are some clothes and essentials for you," the woman told him, taking a bright green shopping bag from the table and thrusting it at him.

He stared at it. Then at her.

Her expression went flat. "Do you know who I am?"

Bucky swallowed. "No. Why am I here?"

She sighed through her nose. "I'm Ayo, of the Dora Milaje. Do you remember anything from the past few days?"

He nodded, waving off that concern. "Yeah, I know...I know I just woke back up. Names…" He made a face and shook his head, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "But why am I here?" Buck waved at the fieldhouse turned safehouse.

Ayo cocked an eyebrow. "Because King T'Challa—Do you remember him?"

He fidgeted. "…sure."

"King T'Challa is merciful. You should be contained in a cell but he asked for me to find you a place that was not a prison or a hospital or a hotel. There are no apartments or homes or schools nearby. This football field has been abandoned and that reduces the risk of an unexpected trigger. You will not be alone here; we will be watching you at all times. But…you will find some solitude," she explained. "It is safe for now."

"For now…Look, this is probably not the best idea—"

"Do not disappoint those who have faith in you, James Barnes," Ayo warned.

"No ma'am," he murmured back, looking down at the shopping bag. What people were foolish enough to have faith in him? Steve, for sure. But Rogers never did have much sense, so the stories went. Too much heart, not enough brains. Others? He remembered a battle in flashes and scenes, and it was fresh enough to frustrate him because he should remember it all. But there were others – folks who fought for him. It was a debt that felt insurmountable.

Bucky looked up to thank his warden, but she was gone. All alone then.

The bag was filled with clothes – things clean and new and bright. He looked for shoes and found a single pair of flipflops. It was a clear message – bright clothes, no running shoes. They wanted him to stay put, and not be able to blend in. He opted to stay barefoot.

A quick search of the locker rooms yielded restrooms and shower blocks with hot running water and more mirrors than he cared to look at. But the hot water was nice. As he cleaned off the grime, he fussed again with his metal stump, picking at the skin at the seam. Something was wrong there. He couldn't…quite… It was tiny. Poking out. It had to be. But he couldn't find it. It just nagged at him every time he moved. A constant un-scratchable itch.

Nothing there. They told him there was nothing there. It was all in his head.

He shook away the cobwebs in his brain and snagged the shopping bag of clothes, digging through for something to wear. At the bottom of the bag was something he did not expect to find: one of his journals. Bucky quickly donned a pair of soft pants and sat on the edge of the bed, holding the journal with a near reverence. Even in the muddle of his mind, he knew what this was. He remembered its purpose. But he wasn't sure he was quite ready to read it yet.

He set it down on the bed and triple checked the doors and windows, making sure they were locked. If nothing could startle him, it would be better for everyone involved. Only then did Bucky pull a blanket and pillow off the bed, settling himself on the cool tiled floor.

Sleep came late, and fitfully, but it came all the same.

The smell of gun oil and metal and hordes of unwashed prisoners wafted through the munitions factory.

He couldn't breathe, could barely walk. Wracking coughs shuddered his ribcage as he tried to focus. Just focus. Look at what's in front of you. Assemble the munitions. Push the cart. Keep your feet moving. Be a good little prisoner of war—

A collision sent him into a pile of artillery shells that went spilling out all over the ground. The guards were yelling at him, and he hacked at the phlegm in his lungs as he tried to apologize. But snark oozed around the apology, and nobody was fooled by his mewling whimper. Even in his illness, he was defiant.

CRACK.

A shell came down heavy on his back, snapping bone. And again. And again. The taskmaster was ruthlessly eager to put him in his place. He was helpless. Hopeless. Weak.

He collapsed onto the floor, trying to huddle into a ball, feeling the dirt and grit beneath his cheek. And then the world skipped faster around him, tumbling downward. The beating made him useless. They came for him then and he watched in a daze, lights passing him by. The experiments. The pain, clawing at his insides, changing him from guts on out. The electricity to his brain.

32557038. 32557038. 32557038.

The numbers danced staccato around his lips, dodging the ragged screams that thuggishly trumpeted from his lungs.

And then. And then.

The scenes skipped faster, blurring into sepia postcards from his past. The train. The fall. The ice. The arm. The pain. The blood. The deaths…

So many deaths. And the world exploded into color around him. The jungle. The city. A people who did not know him laying dead at his feet around him. Innocent people. So much blood, all over him. The nameless woman was yelling at him. "Rabid Cur!"

Bucky snapped awake with a soft huff through the nose.

He sat up. Froze there. Took a breath.

It was dark and quiet. The blanket was tangled around him, drenched in sweat. He kicked it away as he drew himself back into the present with a scrubbed hand down his face, letting out another shuddering breath.

There would be no more sleeping tonight.

He rolled onto his feet and snatched his journal from the bed, shuffling to the table. A nice fountain pen that wasn't his had been clipped onto the front cover. Bucky flipped through the pages and his features pulled into a frown. The dates told him it was his most recent one. Which meant that someone had gone through his stack of notebooks and looked at his memories and dreams. And probably still had them all. It was a quiet violation that made him squirm from the possibilities.

But that wasn't a problem he could solve now.

He flipped to the next clean page, avoiding skimming his own handwriting, and put the pen to paper. Paused. And realized he had no idea what the date was. But he was almost certain of the year so he put that down with some question marks and began to write.

Recording his nightmares was painful, but necessary. It was like sucking the venom out of a wound in the hopes that he could get it all before it inflicted a darkness that he could not survive. He got lost in this ritual now, letting the words flow out of him in fragmented sentences and vivid word pictures. The details saturated in his conscious mind, pooling there before he released them with the ink.

THUD THUD THUD!

The sound jerked him out of his memory and Bucky flinched upright, eyes wide.

THUD THUD THUD! came the sound again.

The door. Someone was knocking.

Buck scowled over at the door and realized then that there was sunshine coming in the window. He rose in one smooth motion and lingered near the door, analyzing.

"White Wolf, are you awake?" came the woman's voice. "I have brought you some breakfast.

He swore under his breath. What was her name again? He opened the door. "Ilo," he tried.

"Ayo," she countered with an arched eyebrow. But then her expression shifted to horror. "What have you done?"

Bucky put on a thin smile. "I'm fine," he said automatically. But then he looked down, tracing her eyeline and he cursed again. Tacky old blood trailed down his left side and smeared across his bare abdomen. The sting of it finally registered and he peered at his metal stump to find shallow gouges in his skin.

"…oh." He looked at his fingernails and the dried dark blood caked there. "Oh, uh…"

"Sit down," she was hissing at him, pushing into the fieldhouse and setting a breakfast tray on the table. "You must stop this scratching or you will do permanent damage."

Bucky made a face, ignoring her chastising in favor of finding the damp towel from the night before. He pressed the musty terrycloth against his side and scrubbed at the blood. It was there – the ever present something, pressing back against his sanity.

"I must have scratched it when I was sleeping," he offered, lamely. It's not real. It's not there.

Ayo was glaring at him as if this were a personal affront to her attempted caregiving. "Let me see—"

"I'm fine," Bucky repeated, shying away from her. He tossed the towel to the floor and hunted for a shirt. As he shrugged one over his head, he saw her peering at the journal on the table, her brows still knit together in a frown. He hurried over and snatched it away. "Thank you for the breakfast."

Ayo watched him for a beat before thumbing one of her beads, pulling up some kind of screen that he couldn't begin to understand. "I'm going to have Dr. Akello come—"

"That's not necessary."

"I think it is very necessary," she snapped.

"Why? Because I have a scratch or because you caught a glance at my murder diary? That's private, by the way," Bucky grumbled. "Just don't…I was an assassin…I have—I-I'm fine."

"You are not fine."

He let out an unamused hmmm as he sat down and finished tugging on his shirt. "What's for breakfast?"

"…Sergeant Barnes, I—"

"Bucky," he mumbled, forcing his eyes to take in the objects on the tray. A kettle. A basket covered with a napkin.

"I'm not calling you that," Ayo insisted.

That jerked him out of his thoughts for a moment. "What?"

"I am not calling you that name. That is a child's name," Ayo said calmly as she sat down opposite him. She adjusted two mugs on the tray, spooning some sugar into one.

"…That's…my name. What's wrong with Bucky?" He scowled at her.

"It sounds foolish. Bahk-EE," she enunciated, obnoxiously letting her accent skew the syllables.

"Well sure, when you sound like a goat when you say it…" The zing flew out of his mouth before he realized what it was and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, chewing on his lip as he gave his head a shake. "I'm… Sorry. I'm sorry, ma'am."

A chortle came out of the woman sitting across the table and Bucky peered at her with a wince. She was smirking at him.

"At least we agree that your name sounds like a kid," she snorted. "I trust you will come to accept the real reason why one day."

He stared at her a moment before a tentative smile lifted up his features, only just. "Fine, how about Barnes? Drop the Sergeant. I haven't been a Sergeant in a long time."

"Of course. Would you have a cup of chai with me, Barnes?"

Bucky wasn't hungry but he wasn't about to make the situation more of a nightmare than it already was so he nodded. Ayo poured steaming hot milky tea into two orange mugs. These were not the finery of the palace and that was comforting. These were faded, garish milk glass mugs that looked like something his mother would have. Real cups from a real home, not Vibranium rimmed fine bone china or something stupidly ritzy. The tea itself was heavily spiced and not something he would have chosen for himself but it was creamy and warm and sweet and those things wrapped around him like a blanket.

Bucky curled his hand around the mug and closed his eyes, taking a deliberate slow breath.

"Here is some fresh bread," Ayo was saying, passing a slab of warm bread with golden yellow butter smeared across the top.

Bucky set his tea down to take it. He stared at it, emotion suddenly creeping up on him. This was a very simple breakfast. It wasn't optimized for a super soldier on mission. It wasn't hastily eaten in a place where no one knew his name. There was friendly company here. He did not have to cover his tracks, or look for someone following him.

This was novel. And it shouldn't have been.

His side ached.

Bucky set the bread down on the table, suddenly not sure he could eat it.

"Ok," he said softly. "I'll go see the doctor."

"Very well. I will make the arrangements." A pause. "Bahk-ee."

A real smile swept over him for a few moments. And he managed to meet her gaze with an unserious scowl and nodded. "Thanks…"

For all the peace of that morning, Ayo was worried. And it felt as though all of her fears were confirmed. He wasn't stable. He was hallucinating, forgetful, and maiming his own body. These were all bad signs. And she said as much to the others on the conference call.

"He should be in a locked room, not a locker room," Ayo hissed.

"You were the one who chose his location," Shuri pointed out, her voice coming across the beads around Ayo's wrist.

"Has he been aggressive to anyone?" T'Challa pressed.

"No, but he was screaming and muttering for hours in the night. If he wanders in his sleep—"

"The Dora Milaje will be there to turn him back," her King insisted.

She chewed back the snide remark that wanted to come out, holding her respect instead.

"How badly did he hurt himself?" This from Dr. Akello.

"He seemed to have stopped bleeding by the time that I arrived, but I don't know how deep the wounds are," Ayo explained. "But he agreed he should speak to you. I believe he is hallucinating this injury under his skin that is causing him to scratch."

"I don't know that an anti-psychotic would help him given the serum, but we could try at a low dose to start…" the doctor theorized. "I'll be on my way shortly."

"We are working as quickly as we can to repair the halo," Shuri assured her. "I will send for him as soon as it is ready."

"Understood."

"And Ayo, try not to scare him too much…" T'Challa said with a smirk.

"I will do my best, my King," Ayo assured him, her face stoic.

This was a safe place.

This wasn't Hydra. This wasn't Siberia. Nobody was going to fry his brain and make him do anything evil.

This was safe.

But something new had been brewing in Bucky's belly all morning, keeping him from resting like he promised he was going to do before the doctor arrived.

They had his words.

It hadn't hit him before but now he remembered the doctors face. He remembered all too clearly why he hadn't had a normal breakfast in decades.

Bucky was pacing in the fieldhouse, which suddenly felt too small and too stuffy. He didn't dare go outside.

Of course, the king meant well. The woman meant well. But the rest? How many had been in the room when he woke up? There was at least the poor nurse whose neck he almost broke.

Bucky closed his eyes, his features drawn in as he reached for the memories from only, what, a day ago? Two days? The film in his head was patchy, half-frozen, and dosed in cortisol, but he could hear voices and see faces. He didn't know their names, but he counted them. Three, four…five others? He didn't know if they were trustworthy too.

There was a deep drop in his stomach as he thought about it. This had already happened. He'd already been in a place that was supposed to be secure. Someone broke in. He could see the man's face and it was blurry. This was what caused Steve to bring him here.

"Barnes…" came the woman's cautious tone.

He pulled in a sharp breath and looked over at the door. It was wide open. He hadn't heard her come in.

Bucky's eyes flicked out the open door into the abandoned field, as if he could spot any danger lurking there; someone with a red book, waiting to spring out and cripple him.

"Sergeant Barnes, are you alright?" the woman pressed, moving closer.

Buck stepped back as she came in, his whole body going tight. The itch under his arm throbbed. "It's not safe," he managed.

"I will make it safe," she insisted. "Do you remember who I am?"

He shook his head.

"I am Ayo. Do you remember where you are?" she pressed.

Bucky looked around, reaching for the answer. It came after a beat. "Wakanda."

He couldn't look her in the eye. She was going to try and lock him up. She didn't think he was safe. And he wasn't. But that's where someone would sneak in. He needed to leave. It was hot outside, but not too hot for his bare feet if he ditched the flipflops and started running. But which way? The city would have better resources but there was no way a white American would be able to blend in. The jungle then…

"Yes, Wakanda," Ayo continued. "And Dr. Akello is on his way now to examine you—stop scratching at your wounds!"

Buck balled his hand into a fist, scowling fiercely. A deep twinge shot through his shoulders, and he started pacing again. "They have the words," he blurted.

"What words?"

"My words. The medical staff," he growled, his expression fell flat. What if she knew them too? What if she was a part of this. What was her name again…?

"Only five of them," she said softly.

"…what?" He paused his pacing and glanced over at her, eyes darting in quick furtive movements.

"Captain Rogers only allowed Princess Shuri to have the first five words. He was also concerned about a rogue operative," she explained. "It was what you agreed on when you arrived."

Bucky looked back down at the floor, processing that. It was hard to tell if she was lying or not. How would he even know? Hydra operatives were trained to lie well. He was only trained to kill, not spy.

"…Does Steve...Does he know I'm awake?" Bucky ventured. He trusted Steve. He only trusted Steve.

She softened at that. "I don't know. But I can find out. Will you allow Dr. Akello to come here and examine you?"

"Only if I can talk to Steve," he insisted. The more he thought about it, the more he needed the tether to reality. He needed his best friend.

"And if we cannot access him?"

Bucky cast her a tight-lipped half-smirk that wasn't amused. He didn't put words to the answer, but she didn't need them. If he had to, he would leave. And they would have to fight him to stop it.

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"No," he answered honestly.

It was her turn to smirk. "Stay here in your room and I will come for you when we find Captain Rogers."

She didn't come back for another few hours, if he had to guess. But he didn't know for sure because he didn't have a watch. All he had was a guess based on how tired he was from pacing. Now that the anxiety spigot was wide open, he couldn't settle.

When the knock came though, he was ready for it, fully tuned in to his surroundings.

"It's Ayo," came the woman's voice through the door. "I have a call for you."

Bucky yanked the door open and Ayo was there. She held a large black bead in her hand, extended out to him.

He frowned but took it.

"Keep it on an open palm," she told him. Then stepped off to the side, out of sight.

He did as instructed and rolled it onto his palm, not sure what was supposed to happen. Then a blue image appeared.

"Steve!"

His friend shot him a wide smile. "Hey Buck. You doing ok?"

"Not exactly," he admitted with a wince. "Look, don't take this the wrong way…How do I know it's you?"

Steve hesitated but only for a moment. "Your sister Becca, she made you rescue a kitten for her once. Do you remember? You named it Alpine. Do you remember what color it was?"

Bucky closed his eyes and tried to throw his mind back. He couldn't see his sisters. He could hear them. Could hear…Becca. Begging. The kitten was scrawny and starving and stuck up a tree. Steve had already tried and failed to rescue it.

"White. It was a white kitten," He mumbled. Relief washed over him and he sat heavily in the chair.

"Yeah, that's right. It's me, Buck. Sorry, I can't be there right now. We're kind of in a tight spot. They told me you're having a rough time though."

"Steve, I can't do this," Bucky ground out.

"Sure you can, pal," Steve assured him. "Listen, you're not gonna be triggered over there. I didn't' give them the whole list. They told me you're struggling to remember what happened. Try to think back. We were talking about it on that balcony. It was raining. They just finished working on your arm and you were complaining—"

"—about that stupid sock," Bucky finished, his voice far away as he pictured the scene. "The one they put on the stump. Because it looked stupid." The memory took on flesh – smells and sounds. He'd been nervous but trying to be brave in front of Steve.

"It wasn't that stupid," Steve said with a chuckle.

"You weren't the one wearing it, buddy," Bucky grumbled.

"You watched me write the words," Steve continued. "Just the five of them. King T'Challa assured me they wouldn't keep any copies."

"Do you trust him?"

"Yeah, I do. He owes you, Buck. He's not gonna hurt you," Steve insisted.

"Nobody owes me anything—"

"Look, the point is that you're safe there, Buck. We made sure they couldn't turn on the Winter Soldier. Just hang in there." Steve gave him that soft reassuring smile of his, the one that could make anybody feel better.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a surge of emotion again. The soothing balm of familiarity, here in a quiet place, where he had the time to absorb it, was almost too much.

"Hey, they got any good food over there?" Steve was asking, trying to keep things light.

"Uh…yeah. I guess." Bucky choked back the thickness in his throat. "I had tea for breakfast. With spices. Probably…probably something my grandmother would like…" Was that true? It felt true, but he didn't have a picture to go with the statement.

"She did love her tea," Steve affirmed. "Hey, you remember when we used to take your grandads old flask and fill it with tea and pretend it was whiskey?"

Bucky tried to grasp the memory, but it slipped past him. "…That sounds like something your mom woulda hated."

Steve laughed. "Oh yeah, she tanned my hide."

Bucky chuckled but it slid into a shuddering sigh.

There was a sound of commotion on the other end of the line. Someone was shouting Steve's name, a voice he vaguely remembered.

"Hey, Buck—"

"You gotta run," he finished.

"I gotta run. I'll make it over to Wakanda as soon as I can. Don't do anything stupid without me."

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you," Bucky said automatically, somewhat confused with how smoothly that fell out of his mouth.

Steve flashed him a grin. And then the picture disappeared.

Bucky's hand closed over the big black bead and his eyes slid shut. He played the conversation over a few times, letting Steve's words anchor him.

"Are you ready, White Wolf?" came Ayo's tentative tone.

He looked over at her and nodded. "...As ready as I'll ever be..."

TBC