Chapter Twenty-Two
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New Divide | Linkin Park

Higher and higher Howie soared, the entirety of Europe stretching out before him.

The launch probably would've given him whiplash if the suit hadn't provided neck support — as it was, it was not particularly thick, due to the collapsible nature given that it was all contained in two bulky but small vambraces. Howie had calculated how long it would take to fully arm itself — 5.6 seconds, give or take — and gave him just a hair's breadth of space for any mistakes.

Howie had been wearing those bracelets more out of habit than out of any actual need; but Mia had told him to always be prepared. And she was right. Howie didn't know what he'd be doing right now if he hadn't had his suit with him, if he hadn't decided to make it collapsible, portable on two cuffs. Tony had scoffed at the design concept, the smallest he could get his suits to fit was a briefcase. But Howie was both a lot smaller, and put in a lot less firepower.

It wasn't meant for combat. It wasn't even made for sustained flight, but what choice did Howie have, as he arched above the building, a dozen heads whipping back on the balcony to follow his ascent, and up and up over the city of Berlin, before flying west.

How wonderful, how small everything looked. Howie had never flown over a city before — his projects had always taken place above a forest in upstate New York, where he could maintain privacy and no interference. And seeing trees and mountains was one thing, but the streets, the cars, the people? So far away, so inconsequential, like a child's game.

How the horizon stretched out and out before him. The great dome of the sky expanding until Howie was looking out across what must be France and Belgium, Switzerland and the Alps. His HUD declared the continued increased height he was going, the flight patterns of nearby aircraft, and the connecting uplink to the satellites Tony used for communication. Howie hoped he could call everyone else before he reached the Atlantic, but as the dots ticked and ticked on, he got the sinking feeling that Ross had already taken down their global connectivity.

Which means he was in for a very long flight.

Howie tried to get his breathing back under control, not wanting to hyperventilate and pass out at twenty thousand feet. He had to focus, stick to the flight path, and hope he could make a local connection to either the Avengers Tower or the upstate facility before Ross' forces mobilized. It was mid-afternoon in Berlin, which meant it was around 9 AM in New York. Hopefully everyone was already awake.

FRIDAY had already mapped out a flight path on Howie's HUD. Tony was right about having an efficient cooling system, otherwise Howie's pretty sure his breath would've fogged up his visor by now. The helmet was more claustrophobic than he realized, but Howie was pleased to find he was already going at a pretty fast clip, and he hadn't even reached top speed yet. His flight suit was just that - a lightly armored set that was built for lightness and speed rather than combat, like any of Tony's suits. And Howie, with his smaller frame, made it even faster.

The Human Bullet, Tony had joked, when Howie had shown him the estimated flight speed projections.

Higher and higher he flew, nearly reaching peak velocity. Below, the Seine River snaked out through green mountains and dusky plains, all of France laid out before him, and then the Atlantic Ocean beyond. FRIDAY's path showed about two and a half hours of travel. It might be the fastest anyone has ever traveled around the world at this distance, but it still felt far too slow for Howie. But short of blasting himself into oblivion, he wasn't getting there any faster.

There was a weird ringing in his left ear; Howie was pretty sure that the hearing aid had blown out completely. His right ear was still fine, although it did make him a little disoriented.

But it was tolerable. Howie just had to focus on what FRIDAY was saying, both vocalized and text written out at the bottom of his HUD. Pay attention to his surroundings, the sky and the land and the sea, and the multiple diagnostics columns on either side of his display, and, of course, following the arcing line that marked the shortest distance from him to home. Easy peasy.

Then the jets appeared.

"We have incoming," FRIDAY reported, showing two red dots on a small circular map, a white dot at the center: himself. "French Air Force attempting to make radio contact. Shall I patch them through?"

"Uhh —" Howie made a face. His French was pretty rusty, and he doubted they'd be very friendly anyways. Either because they were on Ross' side, or because they were French. They probably wouldn't take Howie's misadventures as well as the Pope had.

Howie turned his head, and he could see to the left and the right, just behind him, flanked the two fighter jets. He could just make out the black helmets within the cockpits, pilots trying to figure out what they were looking at. Howie figured It wouldn't take them long to figure it out - aside from the fact he was silver (that is, unpainted titanium-alloy), the Iron Man was a recognizable figure, and Howie hadn't exactly strayed from the original design. What could he say? Classic never goes out of style.

"They're ordering you to land immediately," FRIDAY informed him, her Irish brogue as calm as ever. "They are in contact with Interpol, and they're enforcing the Accords. It does not appear they can be reasoned with."

Howie didn't doubt it. He wasn't going to make political negotiations over the phones with some pilots who're just doing their jobs. This was way over their payroll; Howie wasn't going to win no matter what he said. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Well," FRIDAY paused for a moment. "You could outrun them."

"Outrun them?" Howie was agog. That was so horribly illegal and dangerous. "Can we even do that?"

"Of course. Your power unit has enough energy left to take you to Canada," FRIDAY said. "These two Mirage 2000s can reach a maximum speed of Mach 2 and can travel as far as 1500 kilometers when fully equipped — but they are unlikely to follow you the entire way before being called back."

"You're saying I should bluff them?" Howie said, incredulous. He didn't want to play chicken with a couple of angry fighter pilots who would definitely start shooting at him. The small arc reactor hummed warm against his chest; the only thing he couldn't fit into his cuffs, and had to slap onto his chest when he needed it to anchor the entire suit.

"I'm suggesting you start wasting their fuel." FRIDAY responded lightly. "And perhaps sooner rather than later."

Howie had to take a few deep breaths, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the jets adjusted formation. They were going to attack.

He closed his eyes, steeling his nerves. Howie could give up now, he knew. Start descending, make for the French beaches before he flew past. But he couldn't. He couldn't give up.

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to give his flight suit a real test.

And with that, Howie nosedived.

The response from the fighter jets was immediate, banking hard to either side before dropping. Howie's stomach launched into his throat with the sudden drop, the incredible velocity at which he was moving.

His attitude indicator blitzed, going bright red, flashing a warning, but Howie knew what he was doing. Mostly.

Right now, Howie was just focusing on not panicking, as the earth rushed up to greet him. The sandy French coast and crystalline waters.

Howie didn't want to kill these pilots, of course, as he pulled up hard out of that nosedive at hundred meters to spare (descending at a rate of seven-hundred-sixty-one kilometers per hour, nearing the speed of sound). A hairpin turn, only when he was sure that the fighter jets were close enough to use caution — slowing down right before Howie took off in a major burst of speed. With their large aircraft, their metal wings shuddering to recover that lost momentum.

He kept telling himself to remember to breathe, even as his brain smashed against his skull and he prayed he didn't inadvertently throw himself into G-LOC. Howie was well-versed in all the wonders of flight - and the dangers. With the advancement of aircraft, it was all too easy to get a little overconfident and forget they were all still beholden to the laws of physics.

The edges of his vision started to gray, which told Howie he was treading that dangerous line. So he lowered the angle of his ascent, dropping speed only slightly — Howie had a decent head start now, zipping over the Atlantic.

Although Howie couldn't necessarily hear the jets giving chase, he could practically feel the vibrations in the air. Their engines, their almost-corporeal lethal intent. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did Howie have to dodge incoming fire.

His HUB had flashed in warning seconds before and Howie had even less time to react. His heart practically launched in his chest and Howie banked hard, left and down as flashes of gunfire shot past him.

A round pinged against his shoulder — a graze, as close as it gets before it actually hurt. The impact sent painful vibrations down his arm and back, but not bad enough he couldn't think through it. Howie had decent armor, but this wasn't combat-ready. The armor was more to protect from impact and accident; not entirely bullet-proof, and certainly not front the kind of rounds shot from a fighter jet.

Definitely can't let that happen again.

"You appear to have antagonized them," FRIDAY said helpfully.

"Hadn't noticed!" Howie muttered through gritted teeth, having to keep himself from squeezing his eyes shut out of sheer terror as he serpinetined left and right, up and down. Trying to render himself as an impossible target to shoot as possible. All Howie could think of were those wild rabbits that lived in the forest, that raced in such unpredictable patterns that no predator could catch them.

The Atlantic flashed beneath him, a glittering surface of rippling, rock-solid sapphire. Howie tried not to think of what would happen if the worst were to happen and he had to crash land in there. Would those chasing him even try to rescue what's left?

Or would they leave him there to sink to the bottom of the ocean?

Another round of fire — Howie now pulled up higher and higher into the atmosphere, as if that might somehow help him escape a bad end into the ocean. He dared to look behind him, over his shoulder. At the two jets giving chase, and the now impossibly-small coast of Europe, so far away now.

It had only been a few minutes, if that. Had he really traveled so far in such a short amount of time?

FRIDAY still had the flight plan up on his HUD, which Howie wasn't strictly following anymore — but he tried not to stray too far from the guided path as he bobbed and swerved.

Still the jets pursued, still they didn't let up. One let off his rockets — heat-seeking missiles, much to Howie's consternation.

He had no flares to set off, so had to resort to trickery. Thankfully, Howie had speed on his side, so much so that he could arc straight up — up, and up, and around until he was behind the jets, the missile following him like a very loyal golden retriever.

Alarmed, the pilots broke away, trying to get away from Howie. He stuck close to the one that hadn't fired at him — unsure why, maybe because he just felt like being a little shit. Mutually assured destruction and all that.

Howie had no fire capability of his own, so using theirs against them was his only recourse. He flew side-by-side to the cockpit, giving a little wave. All he could see of the pilot was a black helmet and face mask, quickly swiveling back and forth in a clear panic.

It would've been funny if he wasn't twenty meters of total annihilation, dogging his tail, but whatever.

Thankfully, Howie managed to outpace the missile — it had only so much fuel to make its strike, and eventually fizzled out, tumbling out of alignment and exploding. And flying this close to the second jet meant the first one wouldn't dare fire at him.

A temporary solution. But not a tenable one.

The second jet kept trying to shake him off, as if Howie were a very persistent spider attached to his wing. The pilot ultimately broke away by cutting almost all speed completely, dropping back hard. And Howie didn't follow, not when it meant he could finally get away.

But it did open him up to more missiles.

This time, the pilots maintained distance, far enough away that Howie couldn't turn around without giving the missile ample time to catch up to him.

It appeared as a flashing red arrow on his HUD, radiating lines as it got closer and closer. Howie didn't know how he was still breathing, but he was suddenly very aware of his pounding heartbeat as he once more began evasive maneuvers.

The heat of his mini arc reactor hummed warm against his chest — the only thing keeping Howie warm as everything just got colder and colder. He'd never flown this high before, or this fast. He wasn't wearing his usual thermal bodysuit with down lining. Just his regular clothes instead. Not ideal.

But Howie couldn't drop to a lower atmosphere just yet — not while trying to outlast another missile. He had less momentum this time, however, and had to resort to trickery when it got too close.

Howie had only seen the maneuver done in movies and simulations, but what the hell, he was probably going to die anyways — when the missile was close enough, Howie dropped speed.

His stomach dropped, heart skipping a beat, as he lifted up his chest and flipped over the missile backwards. Saw the flash of metal beneath him, the little red light flashing. Then his thrusters kicked in again and he shot off, just as the missile sensed his proximity and exploded.

Howie definitely felt the heat that time, far too close for comfort. When he checked his HUD again, he was dismayed to find that he had gone far off course from the flight path.

But the fight wasn't over yet.

Ahead, Howie could see clouds on the horizon — thick and dark, a rumbling maelstrom over the ocean. Perfect.

The flight path diverted around it, but Howie knew it was his only chance. "FRIDAY, chart me a course through the storm."

"Master Stark, I can't recommend that," FRIDAY said, her voice pitched with apprehension. He always hated when she used that term; Howie was pretty sure Tony did that as a joke, like they were a pair of noblemen or something. "I detect electrical storm activity in that cloud front. You're in a flying suit of metal, if you're struck —"

"The arc reactor can take it, can't it?" Howie interrupted, glancing once more behind him to see the fighter jets still on his tail. "Passenger jets fly through storms all the time."

"Your reactor may be able to absorb it." FRIDAY agreed reluctantly. "But it may also overload your systems as well. You will also have to contend with turbulent winds, they'll be highly unpredictable, especially for small aircraft. It may cause you to crash."

But Howie considered himself much safer and more stable in his little suit than he would in a jet, with wings that caught every gust of wind.

The storm loomed closer.

The jets dropped back slightly.

Howie bit his lip, hoping they'd retreat completely. But as he dropped lower to meet the storm, so did they. Howie wondered if they'd just fly over it. Hopefully the storm would disrupt their radar at the very least.

And then it was too late to turn back.

The first gust of wind hit Howie like a freight train, followed by a sudden onslaught of rain. The world went dark in an instant, and before Howie could figure out his next move, he was tossed to the left, to the right — to and fro like a little boat caught at sea.

Water streamed down his visor in a never-ending onslaught. Between the thick, dark grey clouds, which were completely indiscernible from the black raging seas below, Howie was almost completely lost. He couldn't even tell if he was right side up or upside down. He cried out as another gust tossed him into a loop-de-loop, and Howie finally got an idea of how low to the surface he was when his foot caught against the top of a wave.

Howie cursed and fought against the wind to gain altitude. It was like trying to fly through a slurry, thick molasses that had a violent mind of its own. Howie was no longer in control — it was all he could do to stay in the air and pray that the winds would take him where he needed to go.

Only his HUD told him he was moving in the right direction; FRIDAY mapped his current flight pattern, and all Howie could make out of it was a terribly hilarious squiggly line, like a child had drawn across a sheet of paper.

"FRIDAY, can you tell if they're still following me?"

"My sensors can't read through the storm," FRIDAY reported, much to Howie's worry. "It is just as likely that they can no longer track you. My last reading indicates that they did not follow you in."

"Good," At least, Howie hoped that was good. The map indicated that the maelstrom continued on for several dozen miles, a horrendous storm he didn't envy anyone to endure.

On and on it went, with Howie being tossed like a rag doll amidst the wind and rain. He understood now while sailors both feared and revered the sea and storm as gods. Even in the modern age they were completely indomitable, and survival would be a combination of great skill and pure chance.

A flash of lightning struck out, an incredible blast of light that almost sent Howie directly into the sea again. It was so close that the following crash of thunder hit almost immediately, hammering at his eardrums. For a split second, the entire world was illuminated, and Howie was able to see the pattern of clouds, thick and roiling, colliding into each other. The waves of the sea, rising several stories high, white caps frothing in the gale.

And then darkness fell again, another buffet of wind hitting Howie in the back and thrusting him downwards, up again, veering far to the right. He was terrified out of his mind, but a distant thought told him that someone like Mia might've enjoyed this, in her own scary way. The thrill, the adrenaline, the sheer power of nature, flying so close to death they could high-five each other on the way past.

On and on it went. Narrowly avoiding trees of light, the cresting waves reaching up to snatch him out of the air. Howie had no idea how much time had passed. Minutes, an hour? There's a clock on his HUD, not that he had the time to read it, or think to ask FRIDAY.

The flight path remained clear, bright orange against the startling darkness. It was still daytime, but he might as well be lost in the middle of the night.

And then, just as suddenly as it appeared — the storm was gone.

Howie hadn't noticed at first, the way the world began to lighten. Not until he was completely out did the rain finally stop, did the wind finally retreat. Flying was no longer a fight for his life, but once more a pleasant gliding through the air.

The suit wasn't completely waterproof (a design flaw to reconsider later); parts of Howie were soaked, and he was shivering hard, breathing fast, his fingers and toes completely numb. FRIDAY detected his lowered body temperature and activated a few systems to warm up the armor. It wouldn't dry him out, but at least it'll get the blood flowing again.

Howie was so tossed up and turned around that he was only aware of the fact that he was still alive, and still following the flight path — completely forgetting his previous concern. But when he flipped around to look behind him, Howie saw nothing, no one else in the sky.

The fighter jets were long gone.

"I detect no other aircraft in the vicinity." FRIDAY reported, much to his relief. "I suggest maintaining low altitudes from this point onwards, so you'll face no interference returning to the States."

She didn't have to tell Howie twice.

Finally, finally, as he hit the coast, he could finally make a local connection to New York. But there was a problem. There was always another problem.

"Ross is on the lookout for any communication made by Avengers personnel or liaisons." FRIDAY informed him. "All nearby radars are on high alert to intercept any potential messages, encrypted or otherwise."

Which meant that no matter what Howie sent, Ross will get it too, maybe he'll even get it first and stop it from reaching the Avengers compound. But there was one signal he couldn't block completely. "Send the emergency distress beacon!"

"Right away, Master Stark."

It was the best he could do, maybe a twenty-minute warning before he was finally able to land in that forested compound; Wanda, Pietro, and Vision already outside, ready to greet him. Small ant-sized dots, growing very big very fast.

"Howie! We got your beacon," Vision was the first to reach him, gliding off the ground. "What happened? You said you wouldn't attempt a trans-Atlantic flight without me —"

"Are you okay?" Wanda demanded at the same time. "Where's Stark? Why are you alone?"

"Did they really catch the Winter Soldier?" Pietro also said, all three trying to speak over each other. "Is it— is it him again?"

There's no way Howie could answer them all at once. Out of breath, heart pounding, damp, half frozen to death, completely deaf in one ear and partially in the other, Howie came to stumbled landing, not even fully standing on his two feet before trying to pull off his helmet and talk with his hands at the same time. "Guys — they're coming — Ross — the Avengers —"

His hands couldn't move fast enough and Howie doubted his mouth was making much sense either, unable to hear himself speak very well.

Vision had to catch Howie in order to effectively slow his momentum. "Wait, what are you trying to say? What about Ross?"

"What happened to the Avengers?" Pietro demanded. "Did the Winter Soldier really set that bomb?"

But Howie was getting too overwhelmed, struggling to breathe. Was probably this close to breaking down into helpless tears.

It was Wanda who managed to get straight to the point, her voice speaking directly into his head. Show me.

That was easy enough — the last twenty-four hours easily flit through his head, all there for Wanda to see in it's entirely. From Howie's perspective at least. Howie didn't know if she also relayed this mental information to the other two, but it gave him enough time to gather his thoughts into one succinct goal.

"— Go! We have to go!"

~o~

The warehouse was quiet.

Dark, barren, boarded up windows. And a very convenient vice strong enough to pin a vibranium arm in place until its owner calmed down.

It was a solid hour, after their hectic escape and finding this "safehouse" (although Steve very much doubted it would stay safe for long), and after getting him locked down, for Bucky to finally start acting like himself again. The protocol had already been broken by the time they pulled out of the river, but that didn't mean Bucky was out of the woods yet. He was shaking, constantly trying to get away, and speaking completely incoherently. Steve wanted to help him, but Bucky was in no state to be running off as a loose cannon, completely out of his head.

Just being near him had Bucky out of sorts, so he and Sam kept watch from a nearby room, just out of sight. Sam kept shaking his head to himself, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept them to himself. Steve wanted to ask, but he had a feeling he wouldn't like it. Besides, if Sam wanted him to know, he wouldn't hesitate to tell Steve like it is.

So, they waited. Watched and listened as Bucky strained against the vice, groaning and shouting without much sense; like waiting for an upset child to tire himself out into a much-needed nap.

And in the meantime, Steve worried. Worried about the team, about what kind of shitshow they just left behind. Ross must really be on the warpath now. Probably arrested the entire team; wondered idly about the Wakandan king and where he would stand in all of this. About poor Howie, caught in the middle of it all. The kid wasn't a criminal. Didn't deserve to be treated like one, especially as an adult.

But there was nothing Steve could do about that right now. He couldn't fix any of that — not yet, at least. Right now, he was just doing what he could. Recovering, recuperating, regrouping. Once he had Bucky back, they'll come up with a plan,

At last, the other room grew quiet. Sam peeked around the corner, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like he passed out."

Steve got up, doubtful. He could still hear Bucky's heart, beating too fast to be considered a resting rate. No way he was asleep. "I'll check up on him. You hang back."

Sam scoffed. "Don't have to tell me twice."

Yet he still followed (a healthy few feet behind), as Steve gingerly stepped into the room, back into Bucky's line of sight. The man twitched immediately upon notice; body bent over at a sharp angle, Bucky was practically on his knees, neck and shoulder straining silently against the vice. But not as much as before.

"Do you remember me?" Steve asked, stomach clenching at what might be the answer.

Bucky was silent for a long time, pale eyes hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. But Steve knew Bucky was watching him. Carefully, like an animal caught in a trap, evaluating the threat.

Then: "Your mother's name was Sarah."

Like a gut punch. Steve came to a sudden stop, blinking in surprise. Bucky hadn't remembered his mother, last they'd seen of each other.

"You used to stuff your shoes with old newspaper to keep warm," Bucky added, and this time Steve couldn't fight a smile. For a split second, they were boys again, ribbing each other over their own special cases of poverty.

But that was a long time ago. "Do you remember where we are? Who you are?"

Bucky have a pained nod, grimacing. "Y-yes, I remember. Ross. The cell. Germany. I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —"

"I know," Steve didn't need an apology. Not from Bucky, not for this. "It wasn't your fault. We just need to know what happened."

Bucky blinked up at him, eyes wide with dismay. "Didn't you see?"

Steve and Sam shared a look. Sam cut Bucky a hard look, "We didn't see anything. The power went out. By the time we got down there, the doc was gone and you were out."

"And Mia?" Bucky asked, looking between the two of them, desperate, hopeful, terrified. He opened his mouth as if to inquire further, but the question died in his throat. He read Steve and Sam's expression immediately. Accurately.

Metal hand curled into a fist, straining against the vice. Gritted teeth. "Where is Mia?"