- PART TWO -
- GHOSTS -
Chapter Twelve
✭
I tried to move, tried to run. But even without Dad's arms around me, I couldn't make my legs move. Couldn't make anything move. I choked, "Dad —"
"I know," Dad's breathless, pulling me to my feet, and it's only then my body obeys. "We need to —"
"What, leaving so soon?" Rumlow called, still casually sauntering closer, his boots falling with an arrogant heaviness. His batons crackled and I winced at the sound, my skin tingling at a forgotten memory. Up close, I could see the extent of his gear, how well-armed he was. Gun strapped to his shoulder, what looked like grenades attached to his belt. Not dissimilar to how the Winter Soldier operated, but Rumlow didn't have the same grace— the gear was bulky instead of streamlined, he couldn't carry as much as a super soldier, and what he did have still weighed him down enough to have a noticeable effect. "The party hasn't even started yet!"
Super soldier or not, though, Rumlow was still a walking arsenal.
"Not a party you want to start, pal," Dad snapped back, his voice strained, the barest attempt at a warning. A veneer of mercy, almost, something he rarely gives. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
The street wasn't particularly wide, just two lanes in either direction. Parked cars made it even narrower. And Bucky Barnes was even deadlier up close than he was looking down a scope.
How did Rumlow think he'd win in this fight? Then again, it seemed he hadn't planned on Dad being here.
"I do, actually," Rumlow sneered. "We've always known who you are, Soldat."
Dad tensed, hands tightening around my arms as he pulled me back. "HYDRA."
His surprise would've taken me aback if I wasn't so terrified.
Rumlow, too, paused. A tilt of his head, the glitter of eyes beneath that mask. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Dad carefully sidled in front of me so I was blocked from view. There was a knife in his hand. I didn't see where it came from. "You're gonna have to give me a hint."
"Rumlow?" He said, and when that didn't garner a response, he continued to yell at increasing volume, belying his rage. "Brock Rumlow! I was there every minute you were in America! I saw everything you were and weren't! I am HYDRA and HYDRA is me! You were the greatest thing we ever made and you failed us!"
"Do you know this guy?" Dad asked under his breath, and I could only give a tight nod in response. Couldn't even be sure Dad saw it until he said, "Run."
And I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I knew right away what Dad's plan was, to engage and give me enough time to get away. But when Rumlow charged, my feet remained planted to the ground, cemented there as Dad took him head on. Watching in mute horror as Dad took an electric blow through his metal arm, that grunt of pain, before pushing through it.
Rumlow saw the knife coming and blocked it with his forearm — just barely. He shook with the effort against superior strength. A second punch knocked him back but Rumlow managed to stay on his feet.
It gave Dad long enough to look back and do a double take at the sight of me still there. "Mia, run!"
His tone was desperate, confused, and I wanted to scream at him, I'm trying! How hard my heart pounded watching them fight, watching those cars burn as I tried to will my feet into action, for my legs to move, for my body to turn away and do everything to listen to my instincts. Screaming at me to get away.
But I couldn't.
I couldn't.
"She can't!" Rumlow practically sang, parrying Dad's knife when he came at him again. It skittered away, close to my feet. A baton jabbed into Dad's ribcage, the smell of burnt clothing. A blow to match his words: "She'll only do what she's told!"
My breath froze in my chest, heart stopping. No.
Rumlow's voice dripped with malice. "Attack."
No, please.
But my body wasn't my own. Dad's back was to me, wide open. In my hand, his knife. Still warm from his grip. Raised to strike.
Dad turned around just in time.
His open palm slammed into my chest, pushing me back. It wasn't as strong as it could be, almost soft in a way, not meant to hurt. But strong enough for me, for a super soldier.
And while Dad was distracted, Rumlow struck again. Blow to the knee, trying to bring him down. It almost worked, Dad's leg buckling, but he didn't drop all the way. Brought his arm up to blow my following blow, the knife coming down on his head. "Mia, stop!"
"I'm sorry," I could only sob. Blood dripped down my face. My knuckles white around the hilt, trying to pull back, to halt the force of my attack. My limbs shook, but it was not enough.
There was no way around it. Dad didn't have a choice.
Rumlow was smart, I had to give him that. Using me to fight his battles for him. He, a normal, weak man, would never last against a super soldier. Against the Soldat. I didn't want to be his winning edge.
As Dad rolled away, back to his feet, he went back for Rumlow, but I got in the way. Another slash of the knife, but he disarmed me easily — a move I saw coming a mile away.
Dad taught me. He knew what I could do, would do. I hoped it would be enough.
He batted me away, like a cat underfoot. I was just glad not to have a weapon in my hand — up until Rumlow tossed me a baton and my traitor hands caught it.
I came up behind him again, but this time Dad anticipated it. Had just taken a blow to the shoulder before cutting one of Rumlow's straps, a gun clattering to the ground — before turning out of the way just in time. I had too much momentum to withdraw in time, and my baton came down on Rumlow.
He let out a shocked grunt, trying to block the blow, but was a little too slow. Hit his arm instead of his baton, and knocked him back.
"Dumb bitch!" Rumlow let out a slew of other curses at me, but my body was already on the move, turning towards Dad again. Lunging forward, only for Dad to catch my swinging arm and toss me away again, just in time to intercept Rumlow's follow-up attack.
It was all I could do just to try and slow myself down, to take that second's pause, to look around, to resist whatever was controlling my body. In a few instances, I felt the cracks of it. I was awake, conscious, too much so — enough to feel that shake in my grip with the baton, how easy it was to let go when Dad threw me off his shoulders, a second longer to catch my breath before getting up again.
"I'm so sorry," Was all I could say when I managed to land a hit on Dad.
And he'd wince and shake it off and almost smile and say, "It's not your fault, monkey." Or "Nice hit!" Or "Getting too fast for your old man, now, huh?"
He was trying. Trying so hard to make light of this, to stop my crying, to make it not seem as bad as it was. But it really was bad. No, it was worse.
Rumlow could only sneer in disgust. "No wonder she's so soft, when you're coddling her all the time."
I kept waiting for the police to come. Kept my eyes out, hoping for the telltale flash of light. But I saw none. Why wasn't anyone coming? Why were all the traffic lights out?
It could've only been a few minutes since the van first exploded. This wasn't a great neighborhood, but still. Surely someone would've called for help, raised the alarm. You don't just go around exploding cars and get away with it.
And then I thought, no, the police can't come. They couldn't see Dad. He was a wanted fugitive. I didn't know what Rumlow wanted, if he wanted the police to get here or if he wanted to finish it before they did.
"Why are you doing this?" It was such a stupid question, so infantile, so naive. But they fell out of my mouth nonetheless, filled with impotent rage and fear.
"I'm not doing anything," Rumlow said, and I could hear the jeering smile behind his mask. He weaved around Dad for another strike, a flash of a knife. Gone. A gun. Bullet absorbed into Dad's metal hand, ripped away. "This is a grander design."
"What the hell does that mean?" Dad grunted. Took a blow to the face but it barely stunned him.
"You'll see," was all Rumlow would say, delighting in our ignorance. "You'll see!"
Again and again, Dad absorbed his strikes. Dodged mine or took the easy way out. He could've easily taken me down in a few quick moves, but Rumlow was too incessant to give him the time, his arsenal seemingly unending. Heavy armor to protect him from the worst of Dad's blows. But he was tiring. In the end, Dad would win, through sheer attrition.
And in the end, I was as much help as hindrance for Rumlow. I struck Dad only for him to duck and for the blow to catch Rumlow instead. Seeing how Dad deliberately placed himself in the middle, close enough to Rumlow so he couldn't get out of the way fast enough when I came in. A strong shoulder check, a kick to the ribs, elbow to the back.
It only made Rumlow angrier.
As the fight progressed, we got too close to the fire, spreading along the street, lighting up detritus and debris. Dad landed a solid kick to Rumlow's chest and sent him flying, tumbling towards the fire. Rumlow just barely managed to stop in time, yelping and scrambling away — the mask tumbling to the ground, and the harsh light of the flames lighting up his face, the spittle at the edges of his mouth.
"They'll see you for who you really are," He hissed, as he stumbled away from the fire. His eyes were wide and wild, almost spooked, breath coming out in heavy pants. "A weapon. A monster. They'll never stop hunting you. You were only ever safe with us."
Dad appeared unmoved as he stalked closer. I could see it as I reached for a fallen pistol, saw it in the slope of Dad's shoulders, ready to take the kill. This ended now. "If this is your idea of a recruitment speech, Rumlow —"
"It's Crossbones now!" Rumlow snarled, his cheeks pulling at the marbled, melted, scarred skin, pink and pale. One eye had gone white, blind, but it seemed to do little to hinder him. "I died the day you abandoned us!"
"I'll make sure it sticks this time." Dad's metal fist had just closed around Rumlow's throat.
"Not if you want to keep her alive, you won't." Rumlow didn't even try to fight it, just stood there and grinned. His eyes swept to me. Dad paused, and followed his gaze.
Maybe he realized I wasn't attacking him anymore. Maybe he wondered why I had gone silent. It could've been any number of things, but the fact remained that I had a gun in my hand. Pointed to my own head. Finger trembling around the trigger, fighting hard, so hard, not to twitch. Tears streamed down my face in the effort to fight it.
"Mia!"
"Dad, I can't —" The words sounded strangled, and all I could see was the bright fire burning my eyes, blurry through the tears, the vague shapes of Rumlow and Dad before me. Dad's outstretched hand, too far away. The cold muzzle of the gun pressed to my temple.
"Mia, don't!"
"She'll do it," Rumlow smirked, so self-satisfied. "It's what she's programmed to do. Kill me and she's dead, Barnes." And then he raised his voice, sickeningly sweet, "Isn't that right, sweetheart? If he lays another finger on me, would you kindly put a bullet in your head?"
I couldn't say anything, a lump in my throat, my heart pounding faster and faster. Seeing my fear reflected in Dad's face, the horror, the dismay. There was no real choice in this.
Dad stumbled, fighting between two instincts, killing Rumlow and stopping me. The hesitation was enough to have Rumlow laughing with glee. "You've gone soft, haven't you! HYDRA never would've tolerated this weakness. The mission always came first, remember? If you kill me, it ends now. She's just collateral. She was never the priority. The sooner you remember, the better."
Dad swung a furious look at him, and for a moment I swore he was going to snap Rumlow's neck. But instead, he lets go. Metal fingers unclamping with a reluctant jerk. I expected Dad to at least punch Rumlow or something, but no, not even that. Even Rumlow seemed aware of it, took great satisfaction in watching the great Winter Soldier brought low, rendered harmless, pulling away like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs. He grinned, "Go on now. Go save your precious little bitch. Cherish it, Barnes. Because you're running out of time."
His words followed Dad, taunting, as he ran to me. That horrible second where our eyes met and both shared the same fear — of Rumlow calling out the order anyways, and I'd pull the trigger. Then a blink, to let Dad know I trusted him, that I wanted this to be over.
A hesitation, only for a moment. Then the gun was ripped from my hands, one arm wrapping around me and pulling me in close. At the same time, his other arm whipped around, gun in hand, aimed at Rumlow.
But he was gone.
All that remained was a crackling fire, an empty street. I hadn't even seen where Rumlow had gone. In the moment, I didn't care. Dad could hunt him down if he wanted, but my legs no longer had the strength to keep me upright.
"It's okay! It's okay!" Dad kept me up, supporting me as I buried my face into his shoulder and started to sob. "It's over, now, it's over."
My body ached with the exhaustion of the fight; I had little more than bruises, Dad tried so hard to keep from hurting me, but I had no choice but to put my all into it.
And I knew, as my arms wrapped around him, fingers clawing into Dad's coat, that I had my body back.
We just stood there for a moment, Dad letting me cry. A hand patting my head, trying to soothe me. But there wasn't enough time. "Mia, we can't stay here."
I knew that. Between my breathless sobs and blood pounding in my ears, I could hear the distant sirens, getting closer. What took them so long?
"Mia," Dad gave me a squeeze, then pulled away, and I was surprised to find I could stand on my own. My face, flushed with emotion, shame, unable to look him in the eye. "We have to go. Can you run?"
He was asking now. Because I hadn't done it before. Couldn't. But I could nod, choke out a few words, this time just because I was emotional and not in the grips of protocol. My legs shook beneath me as Dad led me away, at a walk first, and then breaking into a run. Quickly, thankfully, confidence returned to my body, a control I could trust in myself.
For now.
~o~
Dad did not lead me back to his apartment.
Instead, he took me to a small hovel of a place, an abandoned tenement building with boarded up windows and floors with partially collapsed levels. It was a squatter's place, although there were none currently here. An ancient TV tucked into the corner of a back room on one of the upper floors, an old twin mattress on the floor, barely big enough for an adult. The same room had a radiator, which Dad popped open to reveal a backpack inside.
When he tossed it to me, I said, "You've planned for this."
"I plan for everything."
There was a tightness in Dad's voice, one that scared me. "What are we gonna do?"
Dad paused, as he dug up some dusty water bottles from the same broken radiator. "I don't know. But we can't stay here. And we can't go home. You were right, monkey. They know how to find us."
On the one hand, I was relieved someone finally believed me. But the relief was short lived, and I could only just make myself drink when Dad pushed a water bottle into my hands.
"I'm gonna be right back," Dad said, and before I could ask what, he was pushing a gun into my hand. The same gun I had before. I almost recoiled, but Dad took my hand, put it around the handle. "Mia, don't — just hold onto this. Anyone that comes through that door that isn't me, you shoot them, understand?"
I nodded, not knowing what else to do, not wanting to hold the gun that I had held to my head not twenty minutes ago. I didn't even realize Dad had kept it. But of course, he would. A weapon was a weapon. And I had nothing else to protect myself with.
"I won't be gone long," Dad said, kissed the top of my head, and then he was gone. I just stared after him, my mouth dry. Forgot to ask where. Probably back to the apartment.
I curled up on the mattress, feeling the start of a panic attack creeping at the edges of my mind. I didn't want to have another breakdown, not right now. Not when Dad wasn't here, and not when he was. I wouldn't be of any help that way. Still, a few sobs came out intermittently, and I just focused on trying to keep my breathing slow and even. There was a remote nearby and I was surprised to find that the TV actually worked, although it had terrible reception. I had to play with its antennas before I could pick up any channels.
It was just something to do, something to distract myself with. It was still night outside, the occasional police siren ringing by. I froze in fear until it passed, before allowing myself to relax a little. Kept an eye on the door. Fearing whatever shadow might fall through it.
If Rumlow would be there again.
I winced as I settled back down on the mattress, letting a news channel play out its late-night commercials. Rumlow had gotten me on my side with one of those damn batons, and when I lifted my shirt, I discovered an array of red, fern-like scarring across my abdomen.
Just like what I'd found on my arms, after the football game.
Sick to my stomach, I dropped the hem of my shirt and brought my knees to my chest, hugging myself tightly. Fighting with my nausea, closing my eyes and just trying to listen to the inane nonsense selling coming from the TV. Its speakers crackled weakly, the volume low so as not to disturb anyone that might be in here, or give me away. But just loud enough to distract me. To think about anything else.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. An hour. I was starting to get worried about where Dad was, what he was doing, if he got caught. Was Rumlow still following us? He wouldn't dare attack Dad alone. Wouldn't stand a chance. Did he have back up somewhere?
I kept replaying the fight in my head. Rumlow had said something, a grander plan. Like he wasn't alone, wasn't at the head of this. I believed that much. Believed he wasn't smart enough, clever enough to pull this off on his own. There had to be more, someone else. Another head of HYDRA? Some surviving element that we missed? I didn't know. I just knew that whatever it was, they were behind whatever was going on with me.
At least I had that one answer. At least it wasn't just all in my head. My own mind unraveling, acting against me. At least I broke free in the end. But what good would that do me if they kept finding me in the end. What were they using me for?
A floorboard creaked. In an instant, my hand was on the gun, pointing it at the door — just as Dad crept in. He raised his hands and it took me a moment to lower, heart pounding. "Sorry."
"You're fine, monkey," Dad sat down next to me, mattress squeaking pitifully. He dropped a heavy bag at his feet. One, a backpack I recognized from his apartment, the one with the notebooks. The other, much larger, round like a drum.
"You got my shield?" I asked, stunned. I didn't remember Aunt May bringing that over. "Wait, you went to my place? Did they see you?"
"No, they were asleep," Dad shook his head. "Made sure not to wake them, but I — I knew you'd feel safer with it."
That much was true. I hugged the canvas bag to my chest, felt the solid metal beneath it, gently curved. I didn't want to need it. But it would be so much worse without it. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the worst-case scenario. As tempting as it was.
And then Dad was turning up the volume.
I opened my eyes, and found myself watching a familiar scene on the TV. Its screen had occasional flashes of snow, but it was easy enough to recognize the exploded van. The security footage of a ruined street, and two figures running away. An anchorwoman reporting on the scene, the place lit up with dozens of vehicles. Police, FBI. Text scrolling at the bottom.
MANHUNT FOR THE WINTER SOLDIER.
Dad cursed under his breath. The news continued to play out, although I couldn't hear the words they were saying. My ears filled with a distant, incessant ringing, as I watched the security footage paused, reversed, played over and over again. Zoomed in, blown up. Dad's face. Bucky Barnes.
"If you see either of these two, please call the authorities immediately, discreetly. The FBI urge not to engage, the Winter Soldier and his partner are highly volatile and should be presumed armed and dangerous at all times. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross has called for a national emergency…"
It wasn't even over before Dad was up, packing what little we had. My breath came out too fast, seeing my own face there. They hadn't identified me yet, but it wouldn't take long. By morning, everyone will know.
I didn't even hear Dad until the TV suddenly shut off, and felt his hand shaking my shoulder. "Mia, Mia, we need to go. We need to leave now."
I didn't question it, just grabbed my stuff, my water bottle, and followed him out the door. In an instant, it was as if all my aches and pains were gone, replaced by new adrenalin. New fear. "What are we gonna do? Where are we going?"
"Away from here." He said without looking back, heading down the stairs.
It was a non-answer, and I wondered if Dad even knew. If he was just making it up as he went along. That didn't make me feel much better. We weren't alone here, we didn't have to just take off like this. "But we can get help, can't we? I mean, we can call Steve, he can explain —"
"No!" Dad turned suddenly in the stairwell, so fast I almost ran into him. He saw my look of alarm and took a deep breath to steady himself. "N-no, Mia, we can't do that. Whoever is doing this to you, they won't be stopped by the Avengers. And Steve, he isn't — he's not enough. I can't put him —" Dad shook his head, jaw clenching in frustration, regret. "It's too big. Maybe he can help. But not in a way we can use right now. The only way this stops is if we become ghosts, understand?"
And there was a terrible sense to that. I knew no matter where I went, so long as I stayed in New York, I wasn't safe. Not from Ross, not from the police, not from HYDRA. We had to leave. Had to disappear.
It was the only way to keep everyone else safe.
Ross would come knocking on everyone's door. I knew that. But it was better if my friends and family had nothing to hide behind those doors. Weren't hiding me. The less they knew the better. Not even Steve would be above reproach. I didn't even want to imagine what effect this would have on the Accords.
This was for the best.
But as we entered the street, my gut clenched with guilt. "Dad, wait —" he stopped again so suddenly it scared me, but still, he listened, "I have to call May."
He grimaced. "Mia, we can't —"
"No, you don't understand!" I insisted, holding up my hands, begging for just a little patience. "I made her a promise, okay? That if something like this happened, I'd let her know. That I'm not coming home. I just need — I need to find a pay phone."
Dad stared at me for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Conflicted, worried, anxious all at once. Then he nodded. "Okay. But we have to make it fast."
The nearest pay phone was a block down, a ramshackle booth covered in graffiti. But the machine still worked, and Dad spared me a few quarters.
The line rang. And rang.
Pick up the phone, I begged. Pick up pick up pick up.
But she didn't pick up. It was three in the morning, and May kept her cellphone muted at night. I could've called the landline, but didn't want to risk Peter answering instead. Or both of them at once. That would've been too hard. He'd try to get involved. Not to mention, I didn't have the time to dig up some more coins and try again. So, when it went to May's voice box, I had to swallow my tears and try to speak.
"Hi, May, it's me," I said, wondering what May would think, seeing a strange number had left her a message when she woke. "I'm, uh — well, if you haven't seen the news yet, I'm — its really bad, May, I'm so sorry." I swallowed, voice thickening with emotion. "I didn't mean for it to happen. But I have to go. I don't know where, but I'm gonna be safe."
I glanced at Dad, who stood guard out of the booth. His head turned to glance at me, brow furrowing. Catching every word. I decided not to mention him. May would already know. Just focus on what she needed to know. "I'm not hurt, I'm okay, but I'm just — I'm going to be gone for a while. I don't know how long. But I love you, okay? And tell Peter I love him, too."
I paused, my mouth opening to say more, but I didn't know what. A mechanical voice informed me I had a few seconds left. With nothing left, I blurted, "Please stay safe. I'm going to be okay. Love you. Bye."
It sounded lame even before it came out of my mouth. But then I was slamming the phone onto the hook and stumbling out of the booth. I wanted to run. Run fast and far and wide. Run away from the horrible guilt and grief and sadness that threatened to overwhelm me at any moment.
Dad took my hand. A gentle squeeze, a tug to guide me along. Our footsteps made no sounds as we took off.
Shadows, vanishing into the night.