CVII. Emris

The air feels heavier after a funeral. Like grief has mass — something thick that fills the lungs, coating everything in a muted film. The compound is too quiet now. No arguments. No laughter. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional creak of metal contracting with the cold.

I stand by the window overlooking the trees, arms crossed, staring out at the bruised sky. It's threatening rain, and for once, I hope it follows through. The world looks like it needs to cry as much as we do.

The wind shifts, brushing through the branches, and for a second, I see Vormir again — that cliff, that impossible, endless fall. Natasha's hair bright against the storm, her smile before she let go. My stomach twists, a cold knot tightening beneath my ribs. I blink, but the image clings like static behind my eyelids.

The Soul Stone still burns in my memory — its light wasn't like any other. It wasn't warmth. It was exposure, a truth that stripped everything bare. I can still feel its pulse against my palm, heavy and alive, like it knew exactly what it cost to exist. Sometimes, when I close my hand, I swear I still feel the echo of its heartbeat.

Footsteps sound down the corridor — steady, deliberate. I don't need to look to know it's Steve. His presence hums with that quiet, controlled pain I've come to recognize. When he walks by, I finally glance over. His shoulders are rigid, jaw tight, his mask of composure almost flawless. Almost.

For half a heartbeat, our eyes meet. His crack first. A flicker of grief ghosts across his face, something raw and unguarded, before he swallows it down. He nods once — a silent acknowledgment — and keeps walking. I don't stop him. Neither of us could handle what would happen if we started talking about it.

Everyone's grief looks different. Thor's barricaded himself somewhere, alternating between guilt and whiskey. Tony hasn't left the lab — he's trying to outwork the ache, tinkering with something because if he stops moving, he'll have to feel it. Rocket's short-tempered, snapping at anyone who breathes too loud. And Clint... Clint hasn't said a single word since the funeral. His silence feels louder than anything else.

I rest a hand against the cold glass, watching the treeline blur with the first drops of rain. It patters softly, almost rhythmic — the kind of sound that could lull someone to sleep if their head wasn't full of ghosts.

Nat wouldn't forgive me if I gave up now. She'd punch me in the ribs and tell me to stop moping, that the mission's not over. She believed in me—in all of us—even when we didn't. I can't waste that. Not her. Not the sacrifice.

I close my eyes and whisper under my breath, "You better be watching, Romanoff. Because if I screw this up, it's on you." My voice cracks halfway through, but I don't care.

Somewhere deeper in the compound, a metallic clang echoes — sharp and distinct. Tony. Probably throwing a wrench or dismantling another prototype in that manic way he does when grief's got its claws in him.

The sound pulls me back, forces me to breathe again. My reflection in the glass looks foreign — dark hair a mess, eyes hollowed, posture too still. I barely recognize the person staring back.

I push away from the window and turn toward the hallway. The rain outside grows heavier, drumming against the walls, syncing with the steady thud of my heartbeat. There's work to do. There's always work to do.

And even if the world feels colder without her, I'll keep fighting. For Nat. For all of them. For whatever's left of me.

The metallic echo rings again, sharper this time. Tony's voice follows, muffled but alive. The sound steadies me — a reminder that the fight isn't over yet.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The lab hums like a living thing. Every screen glows, every machine breathes heat and tension. Sparks flicker off metal like fireflies. The air tastes like ozone — sharp and electric, heavy with the kind of silence that only happens when everyone knows they're building something that shouldn't exist.

Tony's at the center of it all. His hands move fast, precise, guided by instinct and grief. He doesn't look up once, eyes locked on the half-formed gauntlet spread open on the table like a mechanical heart. FRIDAY's voice hums softly through the speakers, crisp and calm: "Nanotech integration at eighty-seven percent, sir."

"Yeah, yeah, I see it," Tony mutters, adjusting something microscopic with trembling fingers. "Stabilize the arc transitions before they overload the chamber. I'm not trying to blow up the compound. Again."

Rocket's perched on the edge of the console, one paw buried in a mess of wires. "You're already running hot," he grumbles. "The gamma feedback's unstable. You try channelin' six freakin' cosmic nukes through this thing, you're gonna end up with green soup and a crater."

"Noted," Tony shoots back without missing a beat. "Why don't you grab me the converter instead of narrating?"

"Why don't you grab it yourself, metal man?" Rocket snaps, but he hops down anyway, muttering something about "reckless Earthlings with death wishes."

Bruce leans over the gauntlet, thick fingers surprisingly careful as he checks readings on a holographic display. "Power levels are off the charts. We need a controlled chamber before activation — just in case."

"Banner," Tony says, tone flat but fond, "there's no such thing as 'just in case' anymore."

From the corner, Thor shifts his weight. He's half in shadow, bottle dangling from his hand, eyes distant but sharp. The smell of ale lingers around him — bitter and burned. He hasn't shaved in days. "It should be me," he says suddenly, voice low but firm. "The lightning, the power — I can handle it."

Tony doesn't even glance up. "You can barely handle standing."

Thor's jaw clenches. "You think I don't remember what I did? What I didn't do?" His voice breaks on the last word, but he recovers fast, straightening his shoulders. "I failed. Let me do this. Let me fix it."

The room freezes for half a second. The only sound is the hum of the machines and the faint whine of the gauntlet's systems coming online.

Steve stands at the far end, arms crossed, expression tight but steady. "We don't even know what this thing will do to whoever wears it," he says quietly. "We can't risk it until we know."

Thor glares, but doesn't move. The argument fizzles out like a dying spark, the weight of everything pressing down again.

I lean against the wall, arms folded, watching them all. The light from the gauntlet dances across their faces — orange and gold, flickering like a heartbeat. My pulse syncs with it, whether I want it to or not. There's something about that glow that makes my stomach twist. Familiar. Wrong.

My chest tightens, a phantom ache curling through my nerves. Power never comes without a price.

Tony's voice cuts through my thoughts. "FRIDAY, initiate power flow."

The gauntlet responds instantly. Light ripples through its frame, veins of molten red and gold pulsing outward, filling the room with a deep, resonant thrum. The glow intensifies until it's almost blinding, forcing everyone to squint.

"Whoa, whoa!" Rocket barks, covering his face. "Dial it back! That thing's alive!"

Tony grins faintly, the first hint of it in days. "That's the idea."

The hum deepens, steady now — a heartbeat. A dangerous, mesmerizing rhythm. The stones aren't even embedded yet, but the gauntlet already feels conscious, aware. Like it's waiting for something. Or someone.

Bruce's eyes flicker over the readings. "Energy containment is... holding. Barely."

Tony exhales. "Then it's working."

"Working," Rocket repeats dryly, "isn't the same as not killing us all."

The floor vibrates slightly beneath my boots. The light crawls up the table, painting the lab in molten hues — red against the steel, gold on Tony's armor plates, blue across Rocket's fur. It's beautiful in a way that feels almost cruel.

I realize my hands are shaking. I press them flat against the wall, grounding myself. The energy bleeding off that thing feels alive in the air, prickling against my skin. Every nerve screams caution. Every instinct tells me to destroy it.

Tony steps back, chest heaving with quiet exhaustion. "Alright," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. "Let's finish this."

The gauntlet pulses once more, brighter this time, the light flaring up like a sunrise breaking through smoke.

For a heartbeat, I swear it looks back at me.

The lab feels smaller now. The gauntlet sits in the center of the table — glowing, humming, alive. Its light spills over the walls like molten sun, crawling up metal beams and fractured reflections on the glass. Everyone stares at it, no one breathing. The sound it makes is almost like whispering — low, steady, patient. Waiting.

Thor moves first. He steps forward, shoulders squared, jaw tight. His hand twitches around the handle of Stormbreaker, knuckles white. "I'll do it," he says suddenly. The words come out rough, scraping, like they've been dragged through fire.

Tony looks up, expression unreadable. "You'll what?"

"I'll put it on," Thor says. "I'll bring them back."

Steve's posture changes immediately — quiet but defensive, like he's preparing to intercept a storm. "Thor—"

"No." Thor slams a fist against the table, the sound echoing through the lab. The gauntlet rattles slightly from the impact. "I'm the strongest here. I can take it."

Tony straightens, arms crossing over his chest. "This isn't about strength. This is about control. You're not in any state to—"

"I am in a state," Thor snaps, his voice trembling now. "A state of knowing exactly what I've done. What I failed to do." His eyes flicker, glassy and wild. "You all think I don't see it when you look at me. The pity. The disgust. I missed his head. I let him win. Don't take this from me too."

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut through steel.

Steve steps forward slowly, palms open. "No one blames you."

"Don't lie to me, Rogers!" Thor roars. Lightning crackles faintly at his fingertips, tiny flashes of white sparking across his knuckles. "You do. You all do. You look at me and see failure. Worthless. Broken." His voice breaks then, raw and shaking. "Let me fix it. Let me do something good."

Tony's jaw tightens. The air feels heavier now, charged and dangerous. "You've done enough, Thor. It's okay, let someone else do this."

The words hang in the air like a gunshot.

Thor freezes. His chest rises and falls hard. For a second, I think he's going to swing. Instead, he exhales — one long, ragged breath that sounds almost like a sob.

"You think I'm useless," he mutters. "A drunk. A joke."

"No," Steve says quietly. "We think you're hurting."

Thor laughs, hollow. "Hurting doesn't matter. Fixing does." He takes another step toward the gauntlet, but Tony blocks him, sliding between them with a hard glare.

"Back off," Tony warns.

"Stark—"

"No. Not this time." Tony's voice is ice. "You think dying fixes what you did? It doesn't. It just leaves more people behind."

The room vibrates with tension, a living pulse between them. I can feel it crawling under my skin — anger, grief, guilt — all tangled into one suffocating knot. Thor's shoulders quake, his grip on Stormbreaker trembling.

I can see it in him — the desperation, the self-loathing. He's not thinking about saving the world. He's thinking about punishment. About finally paying for all the ghosts clawing at his mind.

Steve moves again, slow and careful. "Thor, listen to me. We don't know what this thing will do. We can't risk you."

"Risk me?" Thor growls. "You risked me when you let me live."

That stops everyone cold. Even Rocket lowers his tools.

I can't breathe for a second. The emotion in his voice hits like a punch. I see it all — the flash of lightning across his face, the veins standing out in his neck, his lips pressed tight to hold in the pain.

Then Bruce steps forward. Calm. Steady. Hands up, as if diffusing a bomb.

"It's mostly gamma radiation, right?" His voice cuts through the tension like water over fire. "It's got to be me."

Everyone turns.

Bruce looks at the gauntlet like it's calling to him. "It's dangerous for anyone else. I mean... look at me." He gives a humorless little laugh, shoulders sagging. "It's like I was made for this."

Tony frowns, searching his face. "Banner—"

"I can take it." Bruce's tone sharpens. "It's what I'm built for."

Thor shakes his head. "You'll die."

Bruce shrugs faintly. "We all could. But at least this makes sense."

The room is dead silent again. Only the gauntlet hums, its light flickering like breath.

My stomach twists. Something's wrong. I can feel it deep in my chest — that same crawling sensation I got before everything went wrong on Vormir. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It's too quiet. Too easy.

Bruce's hand hovers above the gauntlet, green skin reflecting the molten light. His eyes glint with determination, and beneath it — something else. Resignation.

"Banner," Tony warns again, softer now. "We don't even know if this'll work."

Bruce nods. "Then let's find out."

He steps closer, the glow from the gauntlet painting his face gold.

I take a slow breath, trying to fight the dread coiling in my chest. My instincts scream at me to stop him, to do something, but I can't move.

He says he's made for this.

But something about it feels like a lie.

The world narrows to the sound of machinery. The gauntlet sits on the table, glowing with the force of suns, its hum deepening into something primal — a low growl that vibrates through the floor. Everyone moves with purpose now, unspoken understanding passing between us like static.

Tony's voice cuts through the air, sharp and precise. "FRIDAY, initiate Barn-Door Protocol."

"Barn-Door Protocol engaged," the AI replies.

The compound shudders. Massive plates of metal slam shut around the windows, sealing us in. The roar of reinforced doors locking into place echoes like thunder. For a moment, it feels like we're being buried alive — caged in steel with a god's weapon about to detonate in the center of the room.

Tony taps his chest. His armor folds over him in a sleek wave, metal whispering against metal until the faceplate seals. He glances back at me — eyes hidden, voice steady. "Behind me, kid."

I obey, though my pulse pounds in my ears. The shield deploys from his arm with a techbological snap, curving around us like a shell. The air tastes charged — hot, metallic, ready to explode.

Steve raises his shield in defense. "Everyone stand clear."

Thor tightens his grip on Stormbreaker. "Let's get this over with." His voice trembles despite the bravado.

And then Bruce steps forward.

His massive green hand reaches for the gauntlet. The glow reflects in his eyes — not awe, not fear, something between surrender and defiance. The metal flexes as he fits it around his fingers, each click deafening.

The second it locks into place, the room erupts.

A scream of power surges through the air. The gauntlet flares white-hot, and Bruce's roar echoes against the reinforced walls. The hum becomes a roar — energy writhing, alive, feral. Sparks rain down from the ceiling. The smell of ozone and burning flesh hits me like a slap.

Thor shouts, "Take it off!"

Steve yells back, "Stay focused!"

"Banner!" Tony barks, his hand still braced on my shoulder, pushing me back even as he leans forward. "Talk to me!"

Bruce's knees hit the floor, the ground shaking under his weight. The veins in his arm pulse with light — red, yellow, blue, green, violet — every color bleeding through him at once. Smoke rises from his skin. His teeth grind audibly, eyes squeezed shut in agony.

"Get it off him!" Thor roars again, trying to step forward.

Tony blocks him. "He's got this! Don't touch it!"

I can't stay still. My instincts flare so violently it's like static in my bloodstream. The energy pouring from the gauntlet isn't just raw — it's wrong. It's twisting, alive, screaming through the air like it's reaching for something. I feel it scraping against my mind, trying to claw its way in.

I take a step forward, hand half-raised. "I can stabilize him—"

Tony's grip on me tightens. "No."

"I can help—"

"Emris, no!" His voice cracks through the chaos, hard enough to stop me cold.

I freeze. Every instinct in me rebels, but I stay still. My nails dig into my palms as Bruce's roar turns into a strangled growl. He's fighting the infinity inside him, and it's winning.

The light builds. It's too bright now — blinding, searing. I squint, vision fracturing. My heart slams against my ribs. The hum grows higher, sharper — like the air itself is screaming.

"Banner, breathe!" Tony shouts.

Steve's voice follows, steady but strained. "Bruce, hold on. You're almost there."

Thor grips his axe tighter, ready to charge. "He's killing himself!"

"Don't you dare touch him!" Tony yells back.

The noise peaks — unbearable, shaking the entire room. Then Bruce's voice, guttural and low: "I'm... okay."

He isn't. I know he isn't. Every instinct I have is screaming. The back of my neck prickles; a cold wave rushes through me despite the blistering heat. Something about the air feels heavier — dense, wrong.

But there's no time.

Bruce lifts his burned, trembling hand. Every light in the lab bends toward him — drawn into that single moment, that single breath.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

SNAP.

The sound is almost delicate — small, final.

And then silence.

The gauntlet falls from his hand with a dull, heavy clunk.

Bruce crumples, smoke rising from his arm, skin charred and splitting. The energy vanishes, but the echoes stay — ringing through my skull like thunder in a canyon.

"Banner!" Tony drops the shield and rushes forward. Steve follows, voice breaking. "Get it off him—Clint, move!"

Clint darts in, kicking the gauntlet away. It skids across the floor, glowing faintly like an ember dying out.

Thor kneels beside Bruce, his voice shaking. "Is it done? Did it work?"

Bruce wheezes, barely conscious. "Did... we do it?"

I just stand there, frozen, chest tight, lungs refusing to work.

My head spins from the light, from the sound, from the gut-deep certainty that something isn't right. The wrongness hasn't gone. If anything, it's stronger.

Tony's still shouting for help, Steve's checking Bruce's pulse, Thor's muttering prayers — and all I can hear is the faint echo of that snap.

Quiet. Final.

And beneath it... something else. A distant rumble. Like the world holding its breath before it breaks.

The air feels different the second Bruce's body slumps forward.

A silence ripples through the lab — jagged and disbelieving, like the world itself is holding its breath. The light fades from the gauntlet, leaving the scent of scorched metal and ozone. For a moment, no one moves.

Then Scott lets out a sharp exhale, stepping forward, eyes darting around. "Did we—?" He gestures vaguely, hands trembling. "Did it work?"

FRIDAY's voice cuts through the quiet: "Energy discharge complete. Life-sign readings... increasing."

My pulse stutters. The air feels lighter, warmer somehow. A breeze pushes through the cracked windows, carrying sunlight we haven't seen in years.

Scott turns toward it, squinting like he's afraid to believe. "Guys..." His voice breaks on a laugh. "Guys, I think it worked."

Clint's phone buzzes. Loud in the silence. Everyone freezes as he fumbles for it, blinking down at the screen like it's something sacred. Then—

"Laura?" His voice is hoarse, disbelieving. "Baby—"

He chokes on the word. Tears slip down his cheeks as he laughs, breathless.

Something swells in my chest, too sharp to name. Hope — fragile, trembling, foreign. I press a hand against my ribs, trying to steady it.

I think of Wakanda.

The morning mist over the cliffs. The way Bucky used to smile — soft, half-asleep, beard brushing against my temple. I can almost feel him, like a heartbeat echoing across time. Maybe he's waking up right now. Confused, maybe cursing the light. But alive.

For the first time in years, I let myself imagine it — the weight in my chest easing, the static in my mind quieting.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's small at first — a prickle against my skin. Then stronger. That same electric static from Vormir crawls under my skin again, cold and wrong. The hairs on my arms rise. My instincts flare, screaming even before my mind catches up.

"Wait." My voice comes out raw. I turn toward the window, light spilling through too bright, too sharp. "Something's—"

The shadow passes overhead. Massive. Blotting out the sun.

"—coming," I whisper.

Scott turns just as the sky cracks open.

A deafening roar.

The explosion hits — a shockwave tearing through the compound like a thunderclap from hell. Glass shatters, metal screams. I'm thrown back hard, the air sucked from my lungs. My ears ring; everything is light and heat and pressure.

I hit the floor, vision spinning. The roof caves, dust raining down like ash. Somewhere, someone's yelling — Steve, maybe Tony — but it's drowned in the chaos.

I taste blood. The sunlight is gone. All that's left is smoke and the echo of that wrongness still crawling beneath my skin.

And in the silence that follows the blast, one thought cuts through the noise —

He's alive.

But so is the war.

The world splits open.

The blast doesn't stop — it keeps coming, a storm of fire and metal tearing through the compound. I barely register Tony shouting before the floor lurches under us. Concrete groans. Beams twist. The ceiling buckles like it's breathing its last breath.

"Get down!" Steve's voice cuts through the roar, but there's nowhere to go.

The ground disappears.

I fall.

It's not graceful — it's a violent, spinning descent through smoke and debris. My body slams against something hard — metal, concrete, I can't tell. The air's full of dust and sparks. Gravity claws me downward, my stomach dropping as the world turns inside out.

Then — impact.

Pain explodes up my spine. My head cracks against rubble. Air leaves my lungs in a ragged gasp. Everything goes black for a moment, then grey. My ears ring so loud it's like I'm underwater.

I try to move, but my legs don't. A weight presses down from the waist, crushing, suffocating. I blink through the haze — a steel beam, jagged and half-buried, pinning me in place. The edges bite into my thigh.

"Shit..." My voice barely makes a sound.

Somewhere above, the compound is screaming — explosions, collapsing walls, alarms wailing in chaos. The air tastes like smoke and iron. Then I hear it — rushing water.

At first it's a trickle. Then it grows — a steady hiss becoming a roar. Cold water seeps over my boots, climbing inch by inch. The compound's flooding.

My comm crackles. "—mayday, mayday! We're on the lower level!" Rocket's voice, panicked and raw. "We're drowning down here! Does anybody copy?"

Then, "Emris? Kid, where are you?" Tony shouts into the comms.

Static swallows the words. I fumble for my earpiece, coughing. "T-Tony..." My throat burns. "I'm... stuck. Under rubble..."

No response. Just static. Then silence.

The water's up a little higher now, freezing and fast. My body trembles, every inhale shallow and uneven. I press my palms against the beam, trying to shift it, but my arms shake too hard. My strength flickers like a dying fuse.

Focus, Emris. You've survived worse.

But my mind won't listen. Everything feels slow — heavy. My vision blurs around the edges. The sound of water fills the space like a heartbeat, steady, endless.

I force my hand to move, dragging it up to the side of my head where warm blood's dripping down my temple. My fingers come back slick.

The room tilts. My eyes flutter. The cold's seeping into my bones now, dragging me under inch by inch.

I try to think of something else. Anything else.

And he comes to me.

Bucky — standing barefoot in the kitchen of our cabin, hair a mess, coffee steaming in his hand. His laugh — low, quiet, the kind that rumbles more than it sounds. The scent of him — cedar and cinnamon, the way his thumb used to trace the inside of my wrist when he thought I wasn't paying attention.

I hold onto that. Cling to it.

"When I wake up..." My voice is barely a breath. "He'll be here."

The water rises higher. My vision swims.

I blink — and for a second, I swear I see him.

Not memory. Not dream. Standing in the haze, reaching toward me through the dark.

"Em..."

His voice — soft, strained, achingly familiar.

Then the world tips sideways. The water rushes over my chest, swallowing the sound, swallowing everything.

And I let go.

My eyelids flutter.

And then—

A faint buzz in my ear.

"Hey, Cap... can you hear me?"

My heart stutters.

"Cap, it's Sam. Can you hear me?"

For a split second, I think I'm dreaming. But no—his voice is real. Rough. Alive.

"Sam..." I whisper, barely audible. My pulse spikes, a flicker of life sparking through the numbness.

There's another crackle of static—then his voice again, clear this time.

"On your left."

My breath catches.

Hope slams into me like a second heartbeat. The fog lifts just enough for me to see the cracks of light above, the shifting debris, the water creeping closer.

He's back. They're back.

And that means the fight isn't over.

I grit my teeth, adrenaline burning through the fog, and push against the rubble with everything I have left. My body screams in protest, but I don't care. Not now.

"Come on..." I whisper through gritted teeth, muscles trembling. "Not yet."

The comm crackles again in my ear, faint voices bleeding through—shouts, explosions, life.

I'm not alone.

I won't die here.

Not when he's out there. Not when Sam's voice means everything's about to change.

I drag one arm free, fingers clawing for purchase in the wet concrete, forcing myself upright an inch at a time. My body shakes violently, blood running down my temple, but I don't stop.

Because I know that voice.

And I know what comes next.

The words echo again, clear and sharp through the static—Sam Wilson, alive, defiant:

"On your left."

And I open my eyes wide, gasping in air like a promise.

The fight has just begun.