Chapter Thirty-Five
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The farm sat neatly under a large tree, the nearest village nearly a mile away.

This was our third move in as many weeks. It occurred to me that our presence here was not exactly publicly acknowledged. Not entirely secret, either, but the average Wakandan civilian either didn't know, or didn't know why, two outsiders were here (three, if you counted Steve).

It made sense, I realized in hindsight. The King would not make his own people complicit in such secret, risky politics. Not when we (that is, Steve and Bucky) were wanted men. Wakanda had yet to establish any extradition policies with any allied countries, something I doubted T'Challa wanted to rush into when he was harboring fugitives and an American like Secretary Ross had some serious beef.

Though he never appeared upset by my jailbreak, T'Challa didn't exactly offer a tour of Birnin Zana, either. Nor were we ever out of sight of the palace guards.

Until now.

I wasn't so naive as to believe we weren't being monitored, but I had never lived in a rural area before — it appeared as though there was no one around for miles. The farm was maybe more of a homestead, with a small garden and small paddock to fence in the collection of goats and chickens. Beyond were wide open plains, more trees further out, and then the foothills to the snowy mountains. It was hot here but, as I discovered upon walking inside the thatched-roof house, not unbearable. It was actually quite cool inside, and something about the curvature of the clay walls had me suspecting they were built with a cooling air current in mind.

Our first day at the farm was the last day with Steve. He was heading out of Wakanda, with no sure time of when he'd be able to return. He didn't tell me too much. I imagined for the purpose of plausible deniability, but perhaps because he didn't want me involved anymore than I already was.

But I could guess, as he hugged me good-bye, where he was going. To break into the Raft. To get everyone free. To get some form of the Avengers in action again, under the nose of Ross and everyone else who wanted them behind bars.

It was quiet out here. Almost too quiet, aside from the sounds of nature. At night, I sometimes felt like I might go crazy, wondering if I was hearing things that weren't there. It could be bangs or thumps or the rustling that might be voices or footsteps. Sometimes, it was just a strange ringing in my ears, that ebbed and flowed with the ambient sound around me. It was almost maddening — enough to send me into fits of anxiety or even panic; uncontrollable breathing or sudden fits of crying.

Though that might just be the trauma.

But at least there were no Dora Milaje to witness it now. Less awkward.

Despite the location, the house had modern plumbing, a shower with hot water, clean water from the faucets. Cleaner than just about anything I've had in ages. It was only two rooms, but I found I liked being outside anyways — at night, sitting at the edge of a nearby pond, looking up at the stars.

Endless stars.

The silence would only be interrupted by the beeping of the kimoyo bracelet — a gift from Shuri. Wakandans didn't have smartphones, instead a strange device that basically performed all the tasks a cell phone could do. Mostly communication and GPS tracking, which is what swayed Dad into both of us wearing one. I could step out of his line of sight and he could still relax a little.

It also served as a texting platform. I was still exploring the functions of each individual bead, connected to each other by some kind of magnetic connection; one of the beads was near constantly beeping with messages from — who else — Shuri, wanting to know what it was like in the borderlands. If I missed the palace yet. Stop sending her accidental selfies (one bead was a camera, though which one I kept forgetting).

She texted me so frequently, day and night, that it even started to annoy Dad, with my bracelet flickering in the night. The messages appeared as a small hologram, and a similar light-construct keyboard to make replies. I preferred voice-to-text when I was outside. Almost like a real conversation. With how frequently Shuri and I messaged, I knew I was getting lonely.

Maybe she was lonely, too.

I could even access the internet with the kimoyo beads, and with all my hours to myself, I had nothing else to do but play with my new device. It was a little difficult moving around on the websites I was familiar with, but Shuri gave some tips. The Internet was how she interacted with the outside world. I made the fatal mistake of cluing her in on the Midtown Mysteries YouTube channel.

"You have a YouTube channel?" She had said over a call, absolutely delighted. "How have I not found this before now?"

"It's just a hobby," I had replied, embarrassed. The channel had something of a cult following, but till well below twenty-thousand followers. "It's mostly for the people I go to school with."

Shuri had been quiet for so long I thought she might have hung up on me. That I might have offended her somehow. But no — she'd stopped talking because else had started to watch.

"This is fascinating," Shuri said, her voice slightly muffled as if speaking to herself. "How did you guys come up with this?"

"I don't remember," I'm sure we had plenty of conversations about it, but I really only remembered what happened after we started. "It was MJ's idea."

"She's your best friend, hm?"

"Oh, yeah," I found myself pausing. I hadn't spoken to MJ since… "I haven't seen her since before all of this happened."

"You haven't contacted her yet?" Shuri sounded surprised. "Does she know you're okay?"

"I-I'm sure she does," I said, knowing that Peter probably would've told her. Right? I found my gut twisting with uncertainty. What would Peter tell MJ, and Ned, and everyone else about me? The ones who couldn't know the whole truth? "I just haven't gotten around to it yet."

I knew I could. I had access to my email now, to messengers and social media that I never really used before, but could now if I had to. But I didn't. And this time, I didn't even have the excuse of not trusting social media to justify it.

I was just… afraid.

"I'll see her soon anyways," I said before Shuri could make any other remark that would hammer in the guilt even further. "When I go back to school."

School. Senior year at Midtown would start in two and a half weeks. I knew by then, physically, I'd be okay. I was pretty sure that was the timeline Dad was going by, how long I'd stay here with him. Like a regular summer vacation.

Just a little more fucked up.

"But you are talking to your friends, right?" Shuri asked. "Our communications are very secure, if that's what you're worried about. I promise, your information is safe."

"Thank you," I said, but couldn't tell her why that wasn't what stopped me. "I just… I haven't figured out what I wanted to say, yet."

"What about that other woman?" Shuri asked. "The one Captain Rogers found. Romanova?"

"She's somewhere in Norway, I think," I replied. "Dad talks to her more than I do."

There was a very short, but very significant silence following that. "Oh…?"

I could almost hear her fighting back a giggle. "Not like that!" When I heard her snort over the line, I rolled my eyes to myself. "Okay, probably like that. I'm not gonna ask."

I knew for a fact that Dad did not care for electronic communication. But I knew he was talking to people, too. I saw the way his bracelet lit up sometimes, and it definitely wasn't me. I assumed it was Steve, but then, what if it wasn't? The way he smiled sometimes, at messages I couldn't see, gave me a different impression.

But I was not curious enough to ask. My text history with Nat was pretty sparse, just a few messages every few days. Checking in on me. On us. I had the sense she didn't always trust whatever answers Dad was giving her, and was double checking with me.

I did cave and explain it a little to Shuri, so she'd have a little context. It all seemed very amusing to her, judging by her laughter. "Oh, that's nothing. I'd take that over being in the same room as T'Challa and Nakia."

"Nakia?"

Shuri's voice lowered conspiratorially. "His ex."

"Ohhh…"

"Very pretty. Very competent. Way out of his league."

"He's a King!"

"He's lucky to be King," Shuri snorted. "Lord M'Baku almost kicked his ass during the trial. But Nakia is too cool for a couple of grown ass men smashing their heads off each other. She has bigger dreams than being any man's queen."

There was a great tone of reverence in Shuri's voice, and she sounded sincere. "You wouldn't want to be Queen?"

"It'd be a waste of my talents," Shuri sniffed, though I wasn't entirely convinced. "Besides, I'm not the oldest, and if I were Queen, it would mean my brother and mother are dead. So no, I don't want it."

I didn't offer any further arguments to that. The emotional factor was enough, I wouldn't want to lose anyone for any kind of title.

The kingship trial, to test the worthiness of the Black Panther, had been televised for all those who could not attend. Beforehand, Shuri had told me it was really just a fluffed up ceremony where she had to wear a stupid corset; no one had challenged an heir-king in five generations, so they had all assumed it would go the same way. Each of the tribes arriving to honor the royal family and swear allegiance once more with nothing more than a celebratory fanfare. Up until the Jabari clan made its first appearance in decades, to directly challenge T'Challa. By the time I'd watched it, I'd already known he'd brought Lord M'Baku to yield, but watching still had me white-knuckling my fists waiting for the turnout.

I didn't understand what gave T'Challa his powers, only that it was something to be given and taken away. Not something he was born with. Something he earned. Something reserved for Wakandan royalty. I had asked Shuri if she had whatever her brother had, and all I got was laughter in return.

But with or without his power, T'Challa was a competent fighter — worthy of the throne without the superpowers it awarded him.

But I was okay not to be where all the action was. I was done. I was tired.

I was happy to have my life reduced to this small corner of the world. Waking up every morning to feed the goats with chickens running between my legs; find the eggs laid everywhere but inside their own hutch. Swimming in the pond and baking on the hot rocks in the sun.

Children from the nearby village occasionally came out this way to play. Lots of wide open fields and a neat little pond, why not? I did my best to keep my distance, unsure of what they thought of me or my dad. They saw me, of course. I couldn't hide inside forever. Neither could Dad.

One time, I was up the tree when Dad was tilling the soft earth. He was easily seen from the pond, where the kids played and splashed. One pointed and whisper-yelled to the others, "Khangela! Ingcuka emhlophe!"

They all ducked down, as if spotted by wild animal. Ducking around a pile rocks, peering out again. Another girl gasped and said, "Uyinyani!"

I didn't know what they were saying; I was only beginning to learn Wakandan thanks to Shuri's provided lessons. But it was slow, and I could only understand some basic terms. Dad, for his part, pointedly ignored the kids, not looking up even once even though they were obviously talking about him less than three hundred feet away.

They hadn't seen me, otherwise I'm sure they'd have more to say. As it was, a distant voice shouted at them, echoing across the plains, and the kids scattered — running back to a distant figure, perhaps one of their mothers, shouting all the way.

"Ingcuka emhlophe! Ingcuka emhlophe!"

I'd have to ask Shuri about it later, and keep my fingers crossed it wasn't Wakandan curse words.

That was far less concerning than whatever Dad was doing, leaving in the middle of the night, when he thought I was asleep.

The first couple times, I probably was. It was only when I'd woken from a sudden nightmare, and found the house completely empty, the yard too, did I realize he was well and truly gone.

But he had returned in a few hours; just as he could read my location through my bracelet, so could I his — and Dad was only a few miles away, not moving. And then he was back within a few hours, when I was already drifting off to sleep again. I assumed, in the morning, that he'd gotten one of those restless moments, like I did, and needed to get out of the house.

Until I realized it was happening almost every night. Same time, same place. I was tempted to follow him, but then thought better of it. Some instinct was telling me not to intrude; because the plains were so flat here, I could see where he was, those few miles out. A small outcropping of rocks near where I thought a river was, the dim glow of what must be a campfire illuminating the spot.

So this time I decided to wait.

When Dad passed through the doorway, he froze when he saw me. Just a second's pause, ther jerk of his head, but enough to indicate his surprise.

"You're awake?" He blinked. Though the place was dark, all the lights off at night, I knew he could see me just as well as I could see him in the dimness.

"Where were you?" I asked at the same time.

Dad didn't pause this time — just didn't answer, as he looked over his shoulder, out the door, then back at me again. He closed it before any of the night bugs could fly in. Only when he sat on the couch across from me did he finally speak. "Remember when I told you that there might be a way to get rid of the protocol?"

"Yeah?" I asked, shifting forward a bit. Admittedly, I was relieved he hadn't tried to lie or hide it from me, but I had forgotten about the protocol thing entirely until now. "Is that… is that what you were doing?"

"Yes," Dad said, then caught himself. His silver fist gleamed softly in the dimness, fist opening and closing, opening again, palm up. He looked down to study it. "At least, I hope so. It's too soon to tell right now if the deprogramming is working, or if it's even possible."

"What are you doing, exactly?"

He cut me a look across the space, just a little suspicious. "I'd tell you, but I don't want you to try experimenting on your own."

I pouted. "Can I come with you next time, then?"

"No." His answer was quick, neat, and absolutely final. There was no sharpness or urgency there, no intent of harm; nevertheless, I flinched a little, surprised by how resolute Dad sounded. Seeing this, he grimaced slightly, and ran a hand through the hair that hung in his face. "I'm sorry, it's not — it's not about you, Mia. I just, I can't risk… if it doesn't work, or if it somehow goes wrong, and the Winter Soldier is triggered — you can't be there. I don't want you to be."

"But —" It was hard to argue against something like that. Even though deep down I knew the Winter Soldier would never kill me on a mere whim, the thought of facing him again was still terrifying. "I want it gone, too."

My voice sounded pathetically small, shoulders wilting. Sounding like a child that didn't want to get left out at a birthday party.

"I know, I know, monkey," He came over to my side, an arm wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me in. "I want that for you, too. More than anything. But not until I know for sure it works. So I'm going first."

The logic was sound, I supposed, even if it wasn't exactly the answer I wanted. I let my head fall against his shoulder, mumbling, "Guess that makes sense…"

A silence passed, before I thought to ask, "Who's helping you?"

"One of the Dora Milaje," Dad replied. "Ayo. You've met her. She has a background in psychology. And she can keep me down, for a little while at least, if anything goes wrong."

"Hm," I had to think and remember which one was Ayo. "Why at night?"

"More privacy. Less likely for a random civilian to find us."

"A random civilian?" I asked, lifting my chin up slightly. "Or me?"

Dad laughed a little. "A little bit of both, maybe. But I didn't want to go to far from you. If something happens, you know you can call me. Doesn't matter what we're in the middle of. I'll come right away."

"I know," I mumbled, yet it was reassuring to hear it nonetheless. There was no telling what I'd think in the middle of a panic attack or some other daze, having to take the extra consideration if I was causing more problems by interrupting his… therapy, or something. The sort of thing a panic attack can't account for. "How long will it take?"

"I don't know. It's just one of those things. We'll know when we'll know."

I supposed that meant when the protocol trigger didn't work anymore. But the timeline wasn't looking so good for me. "What's going to happen if its not done and school starts?"

"Then you'll go to school," Dad said simply, and at the start I made, he added, "You're safe for now, Mia. You can't miss school, not when I don't know how long this is going to take. I know its hard, but the threat is contained, and —"

"And what if its not?" I asked, a little too sharply. He was talking about Zemo, but we both knew the man's imprisonment here wasn't permanent, not if the UN had anything to say about it.

"Then…" Dad said at last, his voice soft and cold. "I'll take care of it."

I didn't ask what he meant by that.

"When — if — the deprogramming works," he continued, in a different tone. "Then you'll get it, too, Mia. As little waiting as possible. But it won't be easy. I can tell you that right now."

"I don't care," I said, almost a whisper as I nestled back into his side. "Anything is better than that again."

And Dad offered no disagreements.

And for a little while, it seemed okay. Dad wouldn't tell me what they did, no matter how hard I pressed. He really thought I might try something on my own. And I didn't think I would, but hard to say if I didn't have a starting platform to work from. Which definitely seemed to be Dad's working theory.

I wished I knew what kind of timeline I had to look forward to. I really didn't want to go back to school with the protocol still stuck in my head, even if history has shown it's never been a true danger. Not yet, anyways. But after this summer, after weeks of confusion and madness and almost killing my own friends, I didn't know if I could trust myself anymore.

How could I walk back into school without feeling like a ticking time bomb again? How could anyone else?

Still, I thought I had a chance, maybe I could develop a convincing argument to stay in Wakanda until I, too, was deprogrammed. I supposed if I just had a really bad meltdown, that might do the trick, but I'd rather not actually put myself through that, and I didn't lack the scruples to fake it, either.

In the end, I'd never have a choice anyways.

One night, Dad came home earlier than expected in the night. It had caught me by surprise, not even back to dozing yet when he'd walked inside, looking unsettled.

"What's wrong?" I asked, voice raspy with sleep.

"I don't know," Dad moved gingerly, like a spooked animal. His head tilting this way and that, by degrees, as if trying to listen for something, or shake a thought from his head. "Ayo didn't show tonight. She didn't tell me anything had changed but — I think something's wrong. She's never missed a night before."

The whole day before this point had been odd. Wakanda had its own new channels, but they had been surprisingly quiet, not even the usual mundane updates like local events, and Birnin Zana had been entirely silent. It could've been chalked up to just a slow day, and but now it felt off to me, too.

"I haven't gotten anything from Shuri today," I added, now that it had occurred to me. Unusual, in that ever since I got the bracelet, a day hadn't gone by without at least some message from her.

The knowledge was quickly pulling me out of my sleepiness, even as Dad was now pacing the perimeter of the house interior, checking windows, and pulling open the secret compartment in the floor. Though my body craved sleep, I suddenly found myself wide awake, ears ringing as I strained to listen to the emptiness of the rural night. The rustle of wind, the soft ripple of water, croaking of frogs and trills of night creatures…

Nothing unusual.

Only the faintest pad of feet on earth, getting closer.

"Someone's coming." I said, voice low. Dad tensed, straightening, as he listened too.

I was pretty sure it was only one person; I didn't hear aircraft, not even the stealth fighters Wakanda had. None nearby, at least; there was only one set of footsteps, moving quickly but quietly, in a half crouch judging by the pace. Someone who knew how to move quietly, a professional, I thought, who could only do their best not to be seen in the wide open plains that surrounded the house.

Then, with a jerk of his head, he whispered, "Go to the back window."

I nodded without question, slipping into my shoes and grabbing my backpack as I went. Even now, we still kept bags ready in case we had to run. I just didn't think it would happen now, of all times. But the back window, the furthest point from the front door, was big enough for me to jump through while Dad intercepted whatever was coming here.

Perhaps it was a sign that they were making for our door. Anyone who wanted to sneak up on us would've known better than that, if they knew what they were dealing with.

I was crouched under the window sill, ready to haul out of the house, just as Dad opened the door.

On the other side stood a woman, her hand upraised to knock. Swathed in a dark green robe, she seemed momentarily taken aback at being expected; her dark eyes, intense, flicked between the two of us, Dad in front of her, me in the back.

"Good, you're both up," she said. Her voice was low, even though there wasn't anyone else around here for miles. "There isn't much time."

"What's going on?" Bucky demanded. One hand on the door, the other holding a knife just behind his back.

"The King is dead." The woman said, her voice cracking slightly on the last word. But then she seemed to steel herself, holding out an arm behind her. "Come with me if you want to live."