XCIV. The Serpent

I step into the main hall of the Black Lotus, the soles of my boots landing dead center on the insignia etched into the floor—two serpents coiled around a blade. The symbol used to mean something. Control. Purpose. Power.

Now it's just a mark beneath my feet.

The room explodes around me—sound, fire, metal. Bodies slam into walls. Fists fly. Guns crack. Shouts echo. I watch a Black Lotus agent crash through a column. A red-and-gold blur—Stark—dives from the rafters, blasting a group of agents off their feet. Steve Rogers swings his shield across the second-story balcony. Natasha slides beneath a cluster of soldiers, striking without mercy. And Barnes... I know he's here. I can't see him, but I feel him. Like a splinter in my chest.

I keep walking.

Slow. Controlled. Unshaken.

The chaos parts around me like smoke. Screams bounce off the stone, but they don't reach me. I hear everything and nothing. I am weightless inside my own body. Detached from it.

Eliminate the intruders.

Kill the Avengers.

Target every last one.

These are my orders.

I obey.

And then—

A gust of air. A metallic whrrr behind me. A shadow overhead.

"Emris!"

Wilson.

He lands hard in front of me, wings still spread, his eyes wide with disbelief. He's breathing fast, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, but there's no weapon raised. No immediate move to strike.

Mistake.

"Sam!" Steve's voice cuts through from above, sharp and alarmed. "Don't—!"

Too late.

I swing.

My fist connects with the side of Sam's jaw. His head snaps sideways from the impact and he stumbles, boots screeching across the marble. I follow—pivot, drive a hard kick into his ribs. He grunts, twisting with the blow, wings flaring instinctively to soften his fall as he crashes onto the ground.

Still—he doesn't hit back.

Instead, he scrambles upright, holding up one hand. Defensive. Guarded.

"Emris, stop. Listen to me," he says. His voice is breathless. Gentle. Familiar.

That shouldn't matter.

I rush him.

I slam my elbow toward his chest, but he blocks it just in time. I twist under his arm and drive a sharp jab into his side—feel bone beneath the strike. He winces but doesn't retaliate. My palm cuts upward into his chin. He stumbles back.

Why won't he fight?

My vision pulses red.

He ducks as I swing again. "You're not like this," he pants. "You're not this."

I grab the front of his suit and twist, yanking him forward to slam my forehead into his. His head rocks back and he sways, but even as blood trickles from his eyebrow, he still doesn't throw a punch.

"Target not responding with appropriate resistance," I murmur to my comms, emotionless.

"Because I'm not your target, Em," he says, voice strained. "I'm your friend."

I punch him again.

And again.

My fists are fast. Brutal. He barely manages to shield his face. I spin, heel aimed at his knee, but he jumps back just in time. My hand catches his wing harness and I drag him toward me, slamming my knee into his stomach. He groans, choking on the air that won't come.

He's not fighting back.

He still won't.

Why does that make it worse?

I grip the front of his suit, breathing hard—not from exhaustion, but fury. He looks up at me, dazed.

"Sam Wilson," I say flatly. "Threat level: irrelevant."

He laughs, a bitter huff through blood. "Yeah... that sounds like you. You. Not the version they made."

My fist freezes mid-swing.

Just for a second.

But a second is too long.

Hands grab my arms.

Tight grip. Familiar pressure.

Someone's behind me.

I know that hold.

Hands clamp down on me—hard.

One around each arm, a grip I know by instinct. Compact, precise, brutal. It's her.

Romanoff.

She doesn't say anything, but I feel her breath at my ear. Her balance is perfect. Her arms coil like wire around mine, muscles tensed for a takedown. Anyone else, I might hesitate. But not her.

I don't fight the grip.

I look up at the balcony.

I vanish.

The second I blink out, I feel her fingers claw at air.

The teleport tears through me like a ripcord—body unraveling and snapping back together all in the same breath. My bones feel suspended for a heartbeat, like gravity forgets me mid-jump. Air compresses in my lungs. The world reforms.

And I'm standing right behind Steve Rogers.

He's positioned at the top of the balcony, scanning the fight like a general from his perch. His back is turned.

He doesn't hear me coming.

Sam is looking around below, confused as to where I've gone.

"What the fuck—!" he starts to yell below, voice strained, but then someone grabs his arm, dragging him back into a fight. I ignore him.

Target: Captain America.

I raise the gun in my hand and smash it into the back of Steve's head.

He stumbles forward, grunting, but doesn't fall. He whips around, shield already raised.

I lunge.

He drops low, tries to sweep my legs out from under me—but I leap over the arc of his leg, pivot in the air, and kick him square in the jaw with the heel of my boot. The impact sends him stumbling back. I land light. Balanced.

He hits the ground. Bounces back up just as fast.

I swing again. He catches my wrist this time.

His eyes lock on mine. They're wide for a moment—not with anger, but regret.

He doesn't say it, but I see it in the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils.

He still thinks I'm in here somewhere.

Mistake.

I go for a roundhouse kick. He ducks under it. Grabs my leg mid-swing and hurls me.

My body lifts from the floor. The railing rushes up behind me—then vanishes beneath.

I'm flying.

No—falling.

Wind rips past my ears. My spine arches against the drop. I see the floor of the atrium below, the insignia spiraling up at me. My hair lashes around my face.

"Steve!" someone shouts.

"Emris—!" another voice breaks through.

That voice—

His voice.

It cuts through the fog like a wire pulled taut across my thoughts. Everything inside me twists—a tether yanking from deep in my chest, latching onto something I thought was gone.

Bucky.

My heart stutters.

No.

No.

Stay on mission.

The floor is close. Too close.

I turn my head and look at a new spot.

I blink—

Teleport.

The fall dissolves. For a half-second I exist in a smear of color and static, like my atoms haven't settled yet.

Then I land, crouched, boots skidding across the stone.

Back on the floor.

I don't look up yet.

But I feel the change in the air.

I'm not alone down here.

I rise from the crouch slowly.

The floor beneath me still buzzes faintly from the teleport—residual static, humming under my boots. The insignia glints in the center of the atrium, soaked in shadow and blood.

And then I feel him.

The way the air shifts, ever so slightly.

He steps into my peripheral. Slow. Cautious. Like I'm a wounded animal and he's trying not to spook me.

"Emris," he says gently, hands raised halfway. "Snap out of it."

I tilt my head at him, robotic. Empty.

His voice scrapes something raw inside my chest. The cadence, the warmth, the ache.

He takes another step toward me.

"Don't do this," he says. "Come back to me, baby."

My fingers twitch. That word—baby. My breath hitches.

I hate how much it almost gets through.

So I move.

I lunge at him, fast.

My fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood blooms from his lip instantly.

He doesn't hit back.

He just blocks, catching my next swing with his metal hand. I twist and elbow him in the ribs. He grunts, stepping back, but still doesn't strike me.

"You don't want this," he says through gritted teeth. "You're not this."

I sweep his legs. He jumps over it.

I punch toward his face again. He ducks.

"Dragunov did something to you. I get it. But this isn't you, Em. This isn't the woman I—"

I kick him in the stomach before he can finish the sentence. He stumbles back a few feet, coughing—but still won't raise his fists to strike.

Every move I make is intended to kill. Throat. Ribs. Temple. Heart.

Every move he makes is meant to stop me without hurting me.

He knows how I fight. He taught me parts of it.

But I know how he fights too. And I'm faster. More brutal now.

I spin low and sweep his legs again. This time I catch him.

He hits the ground hard, but rolls before I can stomp down on him. Comes back up to one knee, panting. Blood trickles from the side of his head now, and his right eye is starting to swell.

"Come on, baby," he says again, almost a whisper.

My hand trembles.

I don't like that. I need control.

So I throw a dagger at his chest.

He twists just in time—barely missing it—but the blade slices a line down his bicep. Blood soaks through the fabric.

"Still holding back?" I sneer, my voice flat, mechanical.

"Never from you," he says. "Never against you."

I launch myself at him again.

He blocks every hit, barely. His knuckles are scraped raw. I land a hard palm to his sternum and send him crashing into the column behind him. He groans, but stands again.

"You're still in there. I know you are."

"No," I say.

He's close now. Close enough for me to see the fine lines at the corner of his eyes. The sweat on his brow. The pain behind his stubborn defiance.

I grab his face—fingers clamping onto his cheeks, forcing him to meet my eyes.

"Emris," he pleads, barely louder than a breath.

But it's too late.

I dive in.

Shoving past the surface of his mind—through the static and the chaos and the panic—and drag him into the memory.

The one he's never seen.

Never remembered.

I'm back there. Years ago. Smaller. Raw.

On my knees.

My shoulders burn from strain—hands bound behind my back with rough wire. Skin flayed open at the wrists, dried blood crusted in the dips of my elbows. My cheek is swollen from where someone backhanded me. My knees ache on the cold cement, and my pulse echoes through the room like a ticking clock.

The training room is silent.

Except for the quiet hum of overhead lights. And my heartbeat. Always my heartbeat. Loud. Alive. Too alive.

I taste copper.

I taste failure.

The door hisses open with a hydraulic sigh.

Two soldiers step in, faces hidden behind thick masks. Boots strike the concrete like gunshots. I brace myself—expecting more pain, another lecture about weakness.

But it isn't them I need to fear.

Between them walks him.

The Winter Soldier.

He moves like liquid steel. Like violence wearing a human mask. Long hair frames his face in tangled sheets. His jaw is tight. His shoulders wide. His expression—blank.

And yet...

There's something in his eyes.

Not recognition.

But reflection.

A familiarity in the hollowness. A silent scream tucked behind those irises.

I know that look.

I've worn it.

He doesn't hesitate. No hesitation at all.

He steps forward like he's been sent to kill me.

Like I'm just another target on a list.

Before I can even flinch, his hand shoots out, grabs me by the collar, and throws me.

My back slams into the concrete wall with a crunch. My vision whites out. I think I hear a rib crack, but I can't be sure—too much pain already in my bones to tell what's new and what's leftover.

The breath leaves me in a sharp, broken cough. I slump, gasping, blinking through the stars.

I barely get time to inhale before he's on me again.

He grabs me by the front of my suit—hauls me upright like I weigh nothing. His face still doesn't change.

Then his hand drops to his belt.

And pulls the knife.

A long, matte blade. No shine. No emotion.

Just purpose.

He presses the flat edge against my hip—then slices.

Downward.

A clean, brutal line from the crest of my hip to the top of my thigh.

Not deep enough to kill.

Just enough to make me scream.

But I don't.

I won't.

The pain flares hot and immediate, blood sliding down my leg in a slick ribbon. I taste bile. My knees buckle. But I don't fall.

He lifts me again.

This time—by my throat.

His metal hand closes around my neck, the cool metal stinging hot skin.

I claw at his wrist. My legs kick. My lips open, but no air comes.

My lungs burn. My vision swirls. A high-pitched scream rings through my skull, my brain fighting for oxygen. My body wants to shut down.

But I don't.

Because I still have one weapon left.

I look into his eyes.

And reach into him.

His mind is colder than the blade.

An iron vault.

Numbers. Orders. Screams. Repetition. Death.

It slams into me like a wall—but I push deeper.

And there—hidden behind the horror, behind the screaming code and shattered memories—

A shard.

A tiny, trembling shard of him.

Not the Soldier. Not the weapon.

But the man.

It's barely there. But I cling to it with everything I have.

I wrap my mind around it like a lifeline.

And I whisper:

You don't want to hurt me. Let go.

His hand loosens.

The pressure on my throat vanishes.

My boots hit the floor. I collapse forward, coughing violently, clawing for breath. But I still see him.

Frozen.

Still.

Not confused.

Just... not attacking.

The soldiers behind him yell. One barks orders into a comm. Another reaches for the kill-switch trigger.

But he doesn't move.

Not until one of them steps forward and says the Russian code.

Then he blinks.

Turns.

Follows.

I snap out of the memory.

Release him.

Let him have it.

Let him remember.

Bucky stares at me, unblinking, like I've just burned a hole through his chest.

His mouth parts. But nothing comes out.

His knees hit the floor with a dull, defeated thud.

His eyes lost in the memory.

And I just step back.

No triumph.

No rage.

Just silence.

Mission still in motion.

There's a shift in the air behind me.

Too slow.

Too predictable.

The second I feel the weight of a body slam into my back, I twist my head to the side. Glimpse blond hair. Blue suit.

Rogers.

He grabs me in a textbook grapple, pinning my arms down at my sides, tackling with brute force like I'm still some rookie to overpower.

I'm not.

I vanish.

The second before his grip tightens, I disappear into air, teleporting with a crack of energy—and reappear behind him.

His back is exposed.

Too exposed.

Tactical error.

I draw my dagger in a blur and drive it straight into his side. Just under the ribs. The point slides through muscle like paper. He shouts, staggers sideways—but I'm already moving, ripping the blade free.

I spin and drive it into his thigh.

Another yell.

He crumples halfway, groaning, trying to catch himself against the wall.

His shield's on the floor somewhere behind us.

I shove my boot into his spine and kick.

Hard.

He crashes forward, groaning as he hits the floor face-first, the sound wet and ugly. Something cracks—his nose, maybe. Maybe more.

I don't care.

He's down.

I turn and spot my gun, lying discarded a few feet away—still intact. I start toward it.

Target: neutralized.

But just as my hand reaches for the grip, the world lurches.

My feet leave the ground.

Wind roars past my ears.

Metal fingers close around my waist and lift me clean off the floor like I weigh nothing.

Everything tilts—room spinning, bodies shrinking beneath me.

I twist, ready to fight—ready to teleport again—but the face that meets mine stops me cold.

Red and gold.

Glowing eyes. Smooth faceplate.

Stark.

Iron Man.

Tony.

Dad?

No.

"Come on, Kid," he says, his voice distorted slightly through the speakers. Gentle. Almost... tired. "You know this isn't you."

My fingers twitch toward the blade still in my hand.

But I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Not enough to stop me.

But enough to shake me.

The room below still rages—gunfire, screams, chaos.

But all I see is the floor.

All I hear is his voice.

"You know this isn't you."

Something about it hits wrong.

Like a memory trying to form.

Like a lock picking itself open from the inside.

I stare at the floor. At Natasha still fighting off two agents. At Steve crawling for his shield. At Sam rising slowly, blood on his temple. At Bucky, still on one knee, head bowed.

I see all of them.

But I don't feel anything.

And yet—I do.

And that's the problem.

I spot her the second I look down.

Natasha.

Still moving like a ghost through a battlefield. Fast. Efficient. Controlled chaos wrapped in red hair and blood.

I teleport.

Tony's grip slips from around me in a hiss of air and displaced gravity—and I slam into the ground directly in front of her, boots cracking tile, fists already curling.

Her head snaps up.

"Emris." Her voice is low. Serious. But not afraid. "You don't wanna do this."

She's wrong.

I smile.

Then I lunge.

Our bodies collide with violent rhythm. She ducks my first jab, but my elbow catches her shoulder as I spin, and she grunts, blocking with one forearm and countering with a palm to my sternum.

I stagger back a step—but I don't fall.

I never fall.

I swing again, faster, aiming for her ribs. She twists, grabs my arm mid-strike, and pivots her weight to flip me over her shoulder—but I land hard and roll, popping back up instantly.

She's on me again.

Punch. Block. Grapple. Kick. Our limbs blur.

She doesn't pull punches.

Neither do I.

Her fist connects with my jaw, sharp and punishing, snapping my head sideways. Blood coats my tongue. I smile wider.

She hates that.

I slam my knee into her thigh, aiming to crumple her leg. She grits through it, grabs the front of my suit and headbutts me.

My vision blurs from the impact, stars streaking across my sight—but I don't let go.

I twist with the momentum, drag her down to the ground with me, both of us hitting the floor in a snarl of limbs.

We roll.

Fists pound flesh.

She grabs a chunk of my hair—rips my head back—tries to choke me with her forearm, legs locking around my ribs.

I dig my thumb into the soft tissue beneath her arm.

She yelps. Releases.

I surge up, slam her shoulders into the ground, mount her with all my weight, and drive my fist into her stomach once, twice, again.

She chokes on breath but kicks upward, launching us both sideways.

I catch myself with one hand before I slam into a concrete column.

Everything aches. The inside of my mouth tastes like copper and ash.

But I'm still smiling.

We circle each other now, both panting. Bloody. Bruised. Natasha wipes blood from her lip with the back of her hand.

"That all you got?" I rasp.

Her mouth tightens.

Then she lunges again.

We clash.

Knees. Elbows. I feel cartilage shift under one strike, but I'm not sure whose. The world narrows to motion, to blood, to grunts and breath and skin hitting skin.

We both go down again.

I hit the floor on top of her this time, momentum crushing her beneath me.

This time I'm faster.

I slam my knee down onto her throat and press hard. Her eyes flare wide. She thrashes. Grabs at my arms. Her face starts to turn red from the pressure. Her boots scrape the ground, trying to gain leverage.

But I'm not Emris right now.

I'm the Serpent.

And there's nothing inside me that wants to stop.

Her hands scramble at my shoulders, her lips mouthing something—I don't register what.

The code is louder in my head than her voice.

Crush the threat.

Kill.

And then—

"Emris!"

That voice.

It crashes through my mind like a dropped match in dry grass.

Familiar.

Worn.

Him.

Barnes.

His voice cuts cleaner than any blade.

For half a second—half a second—everything stalls.

My vision blurs at the edges. My knee still presses against Natasha's neck, but my pressure slips.

I falter.

Not visibly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But I feel it.

I feel the hesitation like a splinter lodged under skin.

A flicker.

A crack.

And Natasha doesn't miss it.

She bucks upward with all her strength, twisting like a coiled spring. Her leg hooks around my waist, her hand shoves against my shoulder.

In a flash, we're flipped.

Now I'm the one with my back to the cold floor.

And her weight is on top of me.

Everything shifts again.

And I blink—once.

Still the Serpent.

But something inside me is beginning to shake.

Fabric tightens around my eyes.

I snarl beneath it, the world swallowed whole by darkness. My limbs buck, thrashing against the weight pinning me. I claw toward the knot, but a hand catches my wrist, firm and fast.

Then that weight lifts.

Natasha.

I hear her boots scrape back—probably circling, waiting for my next move.

I reach for the blindfold again.

But I don't get the chance to pull it off.

Because suddenly—arms.

Arms wrap around me from behind.

I freeze.

Whoever it is presses me against their chest, pinning my flailing body with practiced precision. Their grip isn't painful—but it holds. Like they've done this before. Like they know me.

"Let me go," I growl, thrashing harder.

Then it hits me.

Scent.

Leather.

Woodsy.

And something sweeter beneath it—faint, but unforgettable.

Cinnamon.

My breath catches.

My muscles falter.

That scent lives in the seams of memory I can't access right now. I know it. I feel it.

And then—

"Em."

His voice.

Bucky.

Not a shout. Not a command.

A whisper.

Close.

Too close.

Like he's speaking straight to whatever's still buried inside me. The part that remembers warm hands on my ribs. Whispered nothings against my throat. A shared bed in a safe house neither of us wanted to leave.

"Come back to me, baby."

The words land soft.

And something inside me shudders.

For a moment, it's like the war around us dissolves. Like the distant screams and gunfire and metal-on-metal clashes all fade into background static.

I feel his chest against my back, the thrum of his heartbeat through his ribcage.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

My body—on instinct—stills.

Not because I'm under control.

Not because the mission is over.

But because his voice feels like the first breath after drowning.

Warm.

Human.

Real.

Safe. Like, I don't have to fight anymore.

"Come on," he murmurs again. "You're okay. You're okay, Em. I got you."

My breathing slows. My fists unclench.

I don't know what's happening.

Why his voice cuts through the fog.

But I stop fighting.

For just a second—I stop.

I rest the back of my head against his collarbone. Blindfold tight across my face. His hands firm, but kind.

It would be so easy to stay here.

So easy to let go.

And then—

"Ne zabud' svoi prikazy, zmeya." (Don't forget your orders, snake.)

The intercom crackles.

And everything burns.

The voice.

Dragunov.

His command slides through my bloodstream like poison. It pulses through every nerve like fire catching on dry leaves.

I inhale.

And everything inside me clicks back into place.

I remember what I'm supposed to do.

I remember the mission.

Kill the Avengers.

I jerk forward—violently.

My head snaps back, the back of my skull cracking hard against Bucky's face. He grunts, and I feel him flinch.

I twist, planting my boot into his shin with all the force I can muster.

He stumbles. Loosens his hold.

And I slip free.

My hand yanks the blindfold off, vision flooding back in a blur of chaos and red light.

Target reacquired.

The mission resumes.

My hand reaches instinctively for my gun where it's still strapped to my thigh. My fingers wrap around the grip. Cold metal. Comfort. Control.

I raise it. Aim it at Bucky.

But I never fire.

Something slams into the side of my skull. Hard.

The impact is like lightning—sharp, bright, hot—splitting my thoughts in two. The world tilts violently. A sickening crunch echoes in my ears, or maybe that's inside my head. My vision blurs. Blood trickles down the side of my face, warm and wet, carving paths through the grime on my cheek.

I sway on my feet, knees threatening to buckle.

Through the haze, I see Bucky. He's staring at me, eyes wide, lips parted.

Not at me.

At something—someone—behind me.

His expression twists. Betrayal. Anger.

I follow his gaze with my body, but my footing slips. Gravity wins.

I fall.

But I don't hit the ground.

Arms catch me.

A voice: soft, low, broken. "I got you."

Bucky.

No.

I shove him. It takes all my strength, but I do it. He stumbles back. I stagger to my feet, blinking blood from my lashes. My gun—it's still somewhere—

There.

On the ground, a few feet away.

I stumble toward it, everything swaying. Red smears across my eyes like a curtain of warpaint.

"Emris," someone says. Too close. Too loud.

I flinch. Can't tell who it is.

They're surrounding me now.

Shapes, shadows—blurs of blue and red and gold.

Steve's shield glints. Natasha crouches, ready to spring. Sam's voice is a dull drumbeat. Tony's arc reactor hums, steady, alive. Bucky just watches me, something unreadable in his eyes.

I wipe the blood away. Try to focus.

It only smears.

It's everywhere.

Everything spins.

"Back off," I growl, even though it comes out more like a breath. I try to reach for the gun again. My body moves in slow motion, like it's no longer mine.

Another step—too fast.

My knees buckle.

The world rushes up to meet me—

But before I hit the ground, I feel hands. Strong. Familiar.

One warm. One cold.

He's holding me again.

His arms wrap around me like a net catching a falling blade.

I don't fight this time. I can't.

I just hang there, limp in his grip. My head rests against the crook of his shoulder. I feel the warmth of his skin under one arm. The cold press of metal under the other.

"Jesus Christ," Tony says somewhere nearby. "What the fuck, Rogers?"

"She had the gun," Steve mutters. "I reacted."

"You hit her with the goddamn shield," Natasha snaps. "She wasn't even steady."

"She could've shot Bucky."

"She's not herself, Steve." Sam's voice. Angry. Disappointed.

Bucky's hold tightens around me. I feel his jaw move as he speaks.

"Let's just get her out of here."

My head is pounding.

I feel the blood dripping from my head.

His voice is the last thing I feel.

And then—

Nothing.