XLI. Bucky

The jar of olives is halfway to the basket when I hear it.

A high-pitched screech erupts from the overhead speakers—sharp, piercing, like feedback from a broken mic turned up way too loud. I flinch, teeth grinding at the noise, but it's more annoying than painful. Sam winces across the aisle, holding a box of cereal. "Damn," he mutters. "That's gonna be stuck in my head all day."

Then I hear it—a soft thud.

I turn fast, heart already climbing up my throat.

Emris is on her knees.

Her hands pressed to her temples. Shoulders shaking. Her mouth is open, but no sound is coming out. Not at first. Then she chokes on a breath, and suddenly it's screaming. A horrible, raw sound that doesn't belong in a place this quiet, this normal. People freeze. Someone drops a bag of apples. A toddler starts crying.

But I only see her.

"Emris!" I bolt toward her. Sam's already rushing in too.

She's trembling like a live wire, fingers clawing into her skull like she's trying to dig something out of it. Her body jerks once, then again. Her head slams against the shelf behind her—glass jars rattle and one crashes to the floor. Pasta sauce blooms like blood on tile.

"Hey—hey, what's going on?" Sam kneels beside her, hands hovering, unsure where to touch.

I don't answer. I can't. Because suddenly, over the intercom, a voice crackles through the static.

Calm. Controlled. Familiar in a way that turns my stomach to ice.

"Okhota nachinayetsya, zmeya"

The words slide through me like a knife.

I know what they are before they're translated. Don't need subtitles.

The hunt begins, Serpent.

My heart stops. Just for a second. Because I know what that is. I know what that means. That's not a message. It's a command.

"Shit," I breathe.

I reach for her—too late.

Her whole body stills. The shaking stops. The noise dies. Silence slams down like a curtain. Her hands drop.

She lifts her head.

And her eyes...

They're not hers.

No recognition. No confusion. Just cold. Empty. Waiting for orders.

"Emris?" Sam says cautiously.

She moves.

One second she's kneeling. The next—she lunges.

Her elbow crashes into Sam's throat before he can blink. He goes sprawling onto the floor, gasping and coughing, a cereal box skidding beside him like debris from a car crash.

She pivots toward me, quick and precise. Her stance is perfect. Too perfect. No hesitation. No soul.

Everything inside me screams. I know this. I was this.

She's gone.

"Emris, don't—"

She strikes.

I block, barely, my vibranium arm deflecting a vicious jab meant for my ribs. The impact rattles all the way up to my shoulder socket. She's fast. Too fast. She's not holding back.

Her foot sweeps low. I jump. She adjusts instantly, spinning and going for my neck. I catch her wrist—she flips and drives her heel toward my jaw. I duck, shove her back.

"Come on," I hiss through clenched teeth. "Fight it."

She doesn't respond. Just launches again.

I can't go full strength. I know what she's capable of. I know what I'm capable of. But she's not pulling punches. She's trying to kill me.

Her fingers graze my face—I recoil, instinctively avoiding eye contact. One second of connection and she could turn my brain inside out. I've seen it. I've felt it.

She feints right. I fall for it. Her boot slams into my ribs, and I stumble into the shelves. Cans topple, thunder to the ground.

People scream. I hear the scuffle of civilians fleeing down the aisle. A manager is yelling something. None of it matters.

I grab her arm again—twist, and slam her into the cereal shelf. It buckles behind her. She snarls, twisting like a snake, and tries to headbutt me. I duck. Her leg curls around mine and yanks.

I hit the floor hard.

She's on top of me in a blink, hand rising toward my face.

No, no, no—

I roll, kick up, and throw her off.

We land opposite each other, chests heaving.

She doesn't even blink. Just comes again.

This time, I brace. Let her hit me. Absorb the blow on my left side, and drive forward with my weight. I slam her back against the wall, forearm across her throat. She thrashes—god, she's strong. Her breathing's ragged, chest heaving, but her eyes are flat. Mechanical.

"I don't wanna hurt you," I grit out. "Don't make me."

She jerks her head forward—tries to bite me.

"Jesus, Emris—"

I shove harder. Her foot kicks out. Catches my shin. I stagger, but don't let go.

She writhes like she's trying to peel her own skin off. Limbs flailing, trying to twist free. Her fingers scrabble at my chest, my belt, my arm. One grabs the edge of my glove and tugs.

"Don't—!"

She nearly gets it. I wrench my hand back just in time.

Footsteps thunder behind me.

"Buck!" Steve's voice. "What the hell—"

"Don't touch her!" I bark. "She's not her!"

I can feel them closing in. Natasha beside him. Sam groaning on the floor behind me. I keep my weight on Emris, hold her pinned, barely.

Then she goes still.

Too still.

I make the mistake of glancing back, just for a second.

That's all the time it takes her.

Pain explodes through my groin.

I double over. A sound leaves my throat—half growl, half curse.

She's gone before I hit the ground.

I hear Steve shout. Natasha curses. Sam coughs out a "She's heading—shit, aisle nine!"

I push myself up, vision swimming. Breath burning in my lungs.

And all I can think is—

They said the words. They used her like they used me.

The hunt has begun.

And the Serpent is loose.

I hear Steve shout before I see it.

Then the crash.

By the time I whip around, she's already on him.

Emris launches like a damn missile—knees slamming into Steve's chest, her hands grabbing both sides of his head. Fingers splayed. Pressed to his temples.

"No!" I shout.

Too late.

His body locks—rigid as steel—then drops like a puppet whose strings were cut.

He hits the ground hard, eyes wide, mouth slack. Like he's staring through the ceiling. Through time. His shield clatters beside him, forgotten.

Natasha moves fast.

Faster than I've ever seen her.

She slams into Emris from the side, dragging her off Steve in a blur of black and red. They go tumbling down an aisle of bread and snack cakes—loaves exploding around them like confetti bombs. But it's not funny. It's war.

Emris doesn't grunt. Doesn't curse. Doesn't even breathe loud.

She's quiet. Focused. Her face a perfect mask of calm.

Not her. Not Emris.

I scramble to Sam, who's groaning as he props himself on an elbow.

"What the hell is happening?" he gasps, blinking hard.

"She's not in control." I grip his shoulder. "Someone's got her. Mind control. A trigger."

Sam stares at me. "Like—like you?"

I nod, throat tight.

We both look up.

Emris is winning.

She's on top of Natasha now, one leg pinned across her throat, the other elbowing her gut with brutal, mechanical precision. Natasha's face is almost purple. Her legs kick, trying to buck Emris off, but the Serpent doesn't budge. Her hands are reaching—slowly—toward Natasha's face.

Fingertips twitching.

Sam moves. "We gotta—!"

Steve appears first—back on his feet, dazed but standing. He lunges forward and grabs Emris from behind, locking his arms under hers in a bear hug. He yanks her off Natasha just in time. Natasha gasps, air rasping into her lungs like someone surfacing from drowning.

I rush in next, dropping low and wrapping my arms around Emris's legs. She thrashes violently—knees slamming, heels kicking—but I hold tight. My metal arm clamps down, anchoring her. Sam fumbles through the aisles—then grabs his bag.

"Blindfold!" I shout. "She can't make eye contact!"

He yanks out a long strip of fabric—his spare shirt—and rushes forward, tying it around her eyes, cinching it hard behind her head. She shrieks then, loud and shrill, and writhes like an animal caught in a trap.

Her hands claw at Steve's grip. She knows where his bare skin is. Even blind, her fingers seek skin like heat-seeking missiles.

"How do we stop her?" Sam yells, backing up, panting.

"I don't know," Steve grits, straining to hold her. "She's strong—"

"Snap her out of it!" Sam pleads. "There's gotta be a way!"

Natasha coughs behind us, wiping blood from her lip. Her face is pale. Eyes sharp. Calculating.

Her gaze flicks between me and Steve, like we're chess pieces. Like we're failing.

I feel it too.

That knot in my stomach. That helplessness. That damn familiar ache of watching someone else live the nightmare I thought was over.

"We have to knock her out," I say, voice flat.

Steve hesitates. "There has to be another—"

"There isn't," I snap. "She's gone, Steve. It's the only way."

The muscles in Emris's back tighten. Her breathing is ragged, uneven, almost feral.

Steve adjusts his grip.

Too late.

She explodes into motion.

Her head jerks back—smashing Steve's nose. He curses, loosens just enough—and she slips one arm free.

I try to readjust. Too slow.

Her legs twist, lock around me. Like steel cables, they cinch my ribs and crush.

I gasp—the air knocked clean out of my lungs.

She reaches toward my face.

No—

WHAM.

A crack like a gunshot.

Natasha's fist slams a pistol into the side of Emris's head with ruthless precision. Her entire body jerks—twitches once—

And goes limp.

I collapse to the floor, gasping. My ribs are screaming. Steve falls beside me, clutching his nose. Sam leans over Emris, checking her pulse with shaking fingers.

Natasha crouches down, blood dripping from her chin, eyes wild.

"She's out," Sam says, voice hollow.

Silence.

Just the buzz of the broken intercom and the far-off sound of a store employee crying into a phone.

"She's out," I repeat quietly. Like if I say it enough, it'll undo the past five minutes.

But it won't.

We park with a sickening jolt.

Not from the car.

From the silence.

Steve doesn't say a word when he lifts her body out of the car, handing her to me. Sam looks like he wants to break something. His jaw flexes, hands in fists at his sides. I swear he hasn't blinked since we left the store.

Natasha's already moving, vanishing toward the house.

I carry Emris inside.

She's still unconscious. Still blindfolded. Her wrists are zip-tied and wrapped in a jacket to stop her from reaching anyone if she wakes up early. She doesn't twitch. Doesn't flinch.

But I do.

Every time the fabric over her eyes flutters in the breeze.

Every time I see her—like that.

Like me.

We set her down on the basement cot. Sam helps me ease her onto her side. He doesn't speak. Doesn't look at her. Just turns and walks out, heavy footsteps fading down the hallway like a slow echo of guilt.

I stay a little longer.

Watch her breathing. Steady. Soft. The opposite of what she was twenty minutes ago. My ribs still ache from the way she wrapped around me. Bruising from the inside out.

She didn't hesitate.

Neither did I.

But I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

I hear a door slam upstairs. Boots hitting the wood floor. A muffled grunt.

Then Natasha appears.

Dragging someone.

Male, bleeding from the temple, a rag shoved into his mouth. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Dressed like store security, but the bruises tell a different story.

She drags him down the basement steps like he's a bag of garbage. Cold, mechanical, and completely silent.

Her eyes are pure murder.

I step aside.

She kicks the guy's legs out and he collapses next to Emris's cot, landing hard. His shoulder hits the metal frame and Emris doesn't move. Not even a twitch.

"You think I didn't see it?" Natasha says to no one. "You standing there like a shadow, right before the intercom went live."

The man moans. Natasha doesn't care.

She yanks more rope from her backpack—fast, practiced motions, knuckles scraped, blood still on her collar. She ties him to the support post, not gently. Every knot is brutal. Final.

I watch her hands.

See the fury there.

Controlled. Weaponized. Reduced to reflexes and blood.

I rub a hand over my mouth, then up through my hair. My gloves are still on. I can't bring myself to take them off.

We leave the basement together, shutting the reinforced door behind us. There's a padlock on the outside. Sam added it earlier. I heard the click but couldn't look at it.

Emris and the agent—both locked inside.

I don't know which of them scares me more.

Steve's in the hallway, pacing. He stops when he sees us. His eyes are rimmed red. There's a crease between his brows like he's fighting back a headache—or a memory. Probably both.

"She hasn't woken up yet?" he asks.

"No," Natasha replies, crossing her arms.

"Good." His voice is low, almost hoarse. "Gives us time."

"For what?" Sam asks, appearing in the doorway with a water bottle in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. He doesn't seem to realize he's holding it.

Steve exhales. "To figure out what they did to her. And if they'll try again."

"They will," Natasha mutters. "This wasn't a warning. It was a test run."

I lean against the wall, arms crossed. Try to stop thinking.

But it keeps coming back.

The noise she made when the frequency hit. The way her eyes changed. That was the worst part. That blank, unreachable stare. The kind I used to see in mirrors I was too scared to break.

And now it's her.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

Sam taps the knife against the bottle, then stops and puts it on the windowsill. Like he just realized he looked unhinged.

Steve rubs his temples. Natasha checks the locks. I stay still. Afraid that if I move, the memory will come with me.

Ross is gonna hear about this. Hell, the world might. A blackout in a grocery store? An injured civilian from flying soup cans and shrapnel? We weren't subtle. We didn't have time to be.

And worse—

If they pulled this off once...

They're nearby.

They're watching.

The basement door creaks.

We file in, slow and silent.

The first thing I notice is the smell. Not blood. Not sweat. Fear.

Then the body.

The agent is slumped in the corner, neck twisted at an angle that turns my stomach. Eyes wide open, glassy, like he saw it coming and couldn't stop it. Rope still around his wrists, but it didn't save him.

Didn't save any of us.

Emris is pacing. Barefoot. Hands twitching like she doesn't know what to do with them. Her boots are on the floor, untied. She's muttering under her breath—too fast, too jagged to follow. Her hair clings to her face like she's been sweating, but it's cold down here.

When she sees us, she flinches.

Then straightens.

Then laughs.

"I warned you," she spits, eyes darting between the four of us. "I said—they will come for me. I said it. I remember saying it."

Steve steps forward. "We didn't know they'd trigger you. We thought we had time—"

"There is no time!" she snaps. "Do you think they wait? You think Black Lotus sends little calendar invites for psychological breakdowns?"

She stops pacing. Stares down at the body like it's mocking her.

"I didn't even touch him. Not until after. But he was here. In the room. Whispering to me. God, it was so loud."

I swallow hard. My vibranium hand curls into a fist.

"How long has it been since you slept?" I ask.

She doesn't look at me.

Just keeps talking.

"They say sleep is weakness. You know that? You sleep, you die. You let your guard down, you get replaced. That's how they train you. You sleep and someone kills you. I haven't—" she pauses, biting her lip so hard I think she draws blood. "I haven't slept in four days."

Sam lets out a low whistle. "Jesus, Em."

I did know.

I just didn't want to admit it.

The late nights. The red-rimmed eyes. The way she flinched when someone touched her shoulder. I thought she'd say something. I thought she'd tell someone.

But that's the thing, isn't it?

I should've remembered she was trained not to.

Steve glances at the body. "We'll leave it behind."

"Really?" Sam raises an eyebrow. "You sure? Might make a good 'don't mess with us' Christmas card."

Natasha doesn't react. She moves toward Emris, slow. Controlled. Like she's approaching a live wire.

"Emris," she says, voice low. "Look at me."

"No."

"It's over. You're safe now. That man can't hurt you."

"You don't know that!" Emris whirls, shoving Natasha's hand away. "You don't know anything! You brought him here—into this place—and now they know. They know."

"Who?" Steve asks gently.

Emris breathes hard through her nose. "Dragunov. The second he learns he lost contact with this one, he'll send others. They'll be here. They'll kill you. They'll kill me. You think this is over?" She laughs again, bitter and broken. "It hasn't even started."

"You're not going anywhere," Steve says. "We'll protect you."

She shakes her head. "No, you won't. You'll die for nothing."

"Emris—" Natasha starts again.

"I have to leave," she says, louder. "I have to. You don't get it. I'm not safe to be around. This—" she jabs a thumb toward the body. "This is proof. I didn't mean to. I didn't even feel it. One second he was whispering—next second he was—gone."

Her voice breaks on that word.

Gone.

I take a step forward, but Sam gets there first.

He doesn't touch her. Just stands close enough to make her feel it. Grounding.

"Hey," he says, calm. "You're not the only one who's been used like a weapon."

"I'm not like you." Her voice is sharp, but she doesn't move. "You have control. You didn't wake up one day with a new mission carved into your skull."

I flinch.

She doesn't even realize what she's said.

Sam just nods, slow. "Okay. So maybe you aren't like me. But running? That's not the move."

She meets his gaze. It's the most human thing she's done since she woke up.

And for a second—

Just a second—

She looks scared.

Not furious. Not blank. Not lost.

Just scared.

Steve exhales, nodding at me. "Come on."

I follow him up the stairs. We don't speak. There's nothing to say.

Not yet.

But as I shut the door behind us, I glance back.

Emris is still standing there.

Next to the body.

The light flickers overhead.

And I wonder, not for the first time—

If I'm looking at her future.

Or mine.

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

Sam carries her.

One arm beneath her knees, the other across her back. Emris is limp in his hold, head pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers twitch every few seconds—little spasms like her body doesn't understand it's safe now. Or maybe it knows better.

We move in silence. No one says a word. Not about the dead agent still cooling in the basement. Not about the way she broke down. Not about how close we came to losing her.

Just footsteps on wooden stairs and the soft hiss of snow brushing against the windows.

Natasha's already ahead of us, unlocking the ramp to the Quinjet. Steve's at the navigation screen, fingers flying over controls like it's muscle memory—which it is. He doesn't ask where we're going. He just inputs coordinates for Nantes, France.

Another safe house. Another temporary shelter.

Another place to pretend we're not falling apart.

Sam steps inside and lays Emris down gently on the stretcher in the rear. Her boots are still off. Someone must've slipped them off her in the basement. Her feet are pale. Her face is turned toward the wall, lips parted like she might speak in her sleep—but nothing comes out.

I strap myself in across from her.

Natasha takes the seat by the rear hatch. Arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised I don't hear teeth cracking. She hasn't said a single word since Emris screamed at her. Since she snapped the Black Lotus agent's neck like it weighed nothing.

And maybe it did.

Maybe to her, everything weighs nothing now.

The Quinjet rumbles beneath us. A low mechanical hum, building like a warning.

Steve's voice cuts through the cabin. "Engines ready. Lifting off."

The floor shifts under us, and the view through the windows tilts skyward. Snow whips past the glass, caught in the turbines. A dust storm of white and gray that almost feels peaceful, until you remember why we're flying through it.

I glance at Sam.

He's buckled in next to her now. Not looking at anyone. Head leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. But his eyes are open.

Watching.

Always watching.

Not guard duty.

Just... waiting for her to wake up.

The Quinjet climbs higher. The clouds swallow us whole.

I rest my elbows on my knees, watching her sleep.

If you can call it that.

Her brows twitch. A muscle in her jaw clenches, unclenches. One hand curls into a fist.

I wonder what she's seeing behind her eyes.

Is she dreaming of the basement? The dead man? Dragunov's voice in her head?

Or something worse?

I should say something. To Steve. To Nat. To someone.

But the words stay lodged in my throat, too heavy to lift.

Instead, I stare at her hands.

I remember the way they pressed to Steve's temples like a weapon. How fast he dropped. I remember the way she fought Natasha—no hesitation, no holding back. Just rage and training and fear spun into something lethal.

I remember her voice. Cracked. Wild.

"They'll come. They'll kill you. They'll come for me."

And the worst part?

She wasn't wrong.

I shift in my seat, jaw tight.

I want to believe this was the worst of it. That we'll land in France and she'll wake up and everything will be fine.

But I know better.

This is Black Lotus. Hydra. The Red Room. This is everything she ran from clawing its way back into her mind.

And I don't know who she's going to be when she wakes up.

I don't know if she'll even remember us.

Or worse—if she'll remember and it won't matter.

The Quinjet hums steady. Lights flicker soft across the ceiling. Outside, the sky is a sheet of storm-cloud gray, blank and cold.

No one looks back.

We don't need to.

The past is already coming with us.