XLVIII. Emris

Darkness.

It folds around me, thick and wet, pressing into every inch of me like a second skin. I try to move, but something tugs at my wrists, at my ankles. Muffled sounds push against my ears—voices, maybe? No. Not voices. Just a steady thrum, low and relentless. The chemical stench of something sharp and artificial fills my lungs with every breath I drag in. Cloth grazes my face, damp, suffocating. My mind kicks and thrashes even if my body won't respond.

And then—

The darkness shatters.

I'm yanked backward, plunging headfirst into the depths of my own worst memories.

The steel table bites into my spine, freezing cold through the thin fabric of my shirt. Chains rattle as I shift—hands manacled above my head, ankles strapped tight. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a sound like flies trapped against glass.

Footsteps.

Sharp, deliberate. Each one a nail hammered into my skull.

Karpov stands over me, pristine in his gray uniform, eyes like dull knives. He smiles, a thin slice across his face, and sets a small case down beside me. Metal clinks inside it.

"Emris," he says, voice smooth, detached. "You know how this works."

I don't answer. I won't. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw throbs.

The first cut is deliberate—a slow, shallow slice along the inside of my forearm. I jolt against the restraints, hissing through my teeth. Blood wells up instantly, dark against pale skin.

"Who do you serve?" he asks.

I stare at the ceiling.

The second cut burns hotter. A line of fire across my ribs as he presses a heated rod against me, branding me with invisible scars. The smell—God, the smell—it's thick and nauseating, the stench of burnt flesh curling into my nose, burrowing into my lungs.

I bite down on my scream. It stays trapped in my chest, a howl tearing through me silently.

Cut. Burn. Cut. Burn.

Each question is sharper than the last, each refusal a trigger for more pain. He keeps the wounds precise, measured—enough to make me writhe, to make me bleed, but not enough to leave permanent marks. Black Lotus trained him well. They want me whole, still.

By the end of the session, my body is trembling, my skin slick with blood and sweat. I don't know if I'm shaking from the cold or the rage. Maybe both.

I close my eyes. Wish myself away.

They don't let me stay gone for long.

Rough hands grab me, dragging me off the table. My body is too weak to resist. They tie me to a chair now, thick rope biting into my skin. Across from me: a shallow basin of water, rippling under the harsh light.

The man holding the basin looks almost bored as he tips it forward.

Cold slams into my face, into my lungs.

I thrash against the rope as my mouth fills with water. Panic flares, primal and bright. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

Up.

Air tears into me, wet and ragged. A heartbeat. Maybe two.

Down.

The world drowns.

They do it over and over, fifteen times—though I lose count after the eighth. Each plunge strips away a little more of me. Each desperate gasp reminds me that survival is nothing but another weapon they'll use against me.

I want to fight. I want to claw their eyes out, scream defiance into their faces.

But my body is betraying me. My limbs are heavy, numb.

The last time they drag me up, my lungs refuse to work. Black spots bloom across my vision. I can feel myself slipping, my mind fracturing like cracked glass.

And then—

Oblivion.

Pain wakes me.

I am strapped upright now, arms and legs pinned. Something cold and sticky is pressed to my temples. Electrodes.

Karpov isn't here. No one is. Just the machines.

The first jolt hits like a punch to the skull.

My body convulses violently, teeth snapping together so hard I bite my own tongue. The coppery taste of blood floods my mouth.

The shocks keep coming, each one harsher than the last, each wave of pain scrambling my senses until I can barely tell where I end and the chair begins.

But worse—worse than the electricity—is the sound.

A high, keening frequency, pitched just above the range of normal hearing, drills into my mind. It shreds through my defenses like paper, ripping through my brain until I can feel blood trickling from my nose, maybe my ears too.

I scream. I know I do, but the scream doesn't sound like me.

It's primal. Animal.

They're trying to break more than my body now. They're trying to crush the part of me that still remembers who I am.

And it's working.

Silence.

I think, for a moment, that I've gone deaf. But no—the creak of leather, the hum of bad wiring in the walls—they're still there, faint and persistent.

No one comes in.

The room stays dark, the only light a weak, sickly glow from a bulb overhead.

And then—whispers.

At first, I think it's my imagination.

But no. I know those voices.

"Monster," Tony says, his voice a low snarl. "You let them turn you into this."

"You betrayed us," Sam says, his voice bitter with disappointment. "You always were one of them."

I press my hands over my ears, but the voices are inside my head, crawling through my mind like worms.

I scream again, hoarse and broken. I scream until my throat feels raw, until the muscles in my neck seize up.

But the voices don't stop.

They don't stop.

They don't stop.

I curl into myself, rocking back and forth, trying to find a piece of me that they haven't tainted yet. A fragment. A sliver. Anything.

But it's gone.

I am hollow.

I am nothing.

A sharp noise pulls at me—something real, something outside the nightmare.

I twitch, limbs jerking against invisible restraints. The darkness shifts, flickering like a bad signal.

I hear faint voices—real ones this time. The steady hum of engines. The smell of leather and metal and air so clean it almost burns my nose.

The quinjet.

I'm still trapped, but not in the same hell.

Not yet awake.

Not yet free.

But close.

Close enough for the memories to bleed at the edges, dripping into the real world as I claw my way toward consciousness.

Bucky

The low hum of the engines rattles in my bones.

I sit stiff-backed on the Quinjet bench, hands clasped between my knees, head bowed. The air's thick with tension, heavy enough to choke on. Every vibration, every groan of metal feels too loud, too sharp.

Across from me, Emris sprawls across two seats, her body limp but restless. Sweatpants, a T-shirt—Nat changed her out of her dress after she passed out from whatever Nat used on that cloth. Practical. Clinical. No one said a word while we worked. Just moving, packing up supplies, checking over weapons. Steve flew us out of there before anyone could think twice.

Now we're airborne, and Emris won't stop moving.

She mumbles under her breath, words too slurred to understand. Fingers clawing at her arms, nails dragging over skin hard enough to leave angry red welts. Natasha sits closest, keeping a wary eye on her. Sam's up front but keeps glancing back, his jaw set tight. Steve's pretending to read a map, but he hasn't flipped the page once.

I stare at Emris's face.

She's somewhere else. Deep down, trapped.

And then she starts choking.

It's a wet, rattling sound, guttural and broken, like she's trying to suck in air and drowning at the same time.

Sam's out of his seat in an instant.

"Hey—hey, Emris—" He kneels beside her, hands gentle on her shoulders. "C'mon, wake up. You're okay. You're safe."

She thrashes, wild, limbs kicking out. Sam grunts as a knee slams into his chest.

"She's drowning," Natasha says, already moving. She grabs at Emris's wrists, trying to pin her arms to the seat.

"Easy," Sam mutters, ducking another flailing arm. "Easy, girl—"

Emris bucks harder, legs spasming. Sam strains to hold her down, muscles bunching in his arms, but she's stronger than she looks—even unconscious.

I tense, fists curling. Every instinct screams at me to move, to do something. But I stay frozen, every muscle locked.

Not my business. Not my place.

Emris thrashes again, a vicious jerk of her whole body. Natasha's ripped off her feet, stumbling back with a curse as Emris's elbow catches her in the ribs.

"Dammit—!"

"Buck, help them."

Steve's voice slices through the chaos, low and firm.

I curse under my breath.

Push up off the seat.

Two strides, and I'm there, grabbing Emris's shoulders. She fights me instinctively, nails scraping across my arm, legs kicking. I wrap both arms around her, pinning her against my chest. Her body's taut as a bowstring, heart hammering so fast it feels like it might tear itself apart.

"Easy," I mutter, tightening my grip. "You're not there anymore."

She gasps—a sharp, broken sound—and then suddenly goes limp, slumping hard into me.

For a second, it's over.

For a second, she breathes.

And then she screams.

It tears out of her like an explosion, raw and guttural, full of so much pain it punches straight through my defenses.

I flinch but don't let go.

The others freeze, stunned.

I know that sound.

I know it.

Flashbacks.

I've made those sounds myself.

Sam looks up at me, face twisted with helplessness.

"What the hell's happening?"

"You're not gonna wake her up," I say, voice flat. Grim.

The words taste bitter.

"She's in pain, man," Sam snaps. "We can't just sit here!"

"What do you want to do?" I bite back. "Shock her awake? Throw water in her face? Drag her further under?"

Sam's mouth works but no words come out.

Natasha crouches nearby, watching with sharp, shuttered eyes. Waiting. Measuring.

"We wait it out," I say, quieter now. "That's all we can do."

Sam scrubs a hand over his face, frustration leaking out in every twitch of his muscles.

"Jesus."

Emris sobs once—a sharp, choked sound—and curls tighter against me. Her fingers knot into my shirt, clutching like a drowning woman clinging to a scrap of wood.

I just hold on.

Silent. Steady.

Every instinct is screaming at me to fix this, to do something, but there's no fixing it. No shortcut through the hell she's trapped in.

I know.

God, I know.

The Quinjet hums around us, indifferent. The world outside shrinks to the sound of Emris gasping, twitching, breaking apart in my arms.

None of us speak.

None of us breathe.

We just wait.

And hope like hell she comes back.

She finally calms down, and I lay her back down onto the seats, walking back to my seat.

One second it's dead quiet.

The next, Emris explodes.

She shoots up with a guttural snarl, legs coiling like a spring. Her foot lashes out and catches Sam square in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards with a grunt.

"Whoa—!" Sam hits the floor hard, skidding into the storage crates.

Emris stands.

Blank-eyed.

Silent.

Every muscle in her body primed to kill.

The thousand-yard stare is worse than any scream. Worse than any sob.

She's not here.

"Emris—" Sam tries, hands raised in surrender.

She lunges.

A brutal kick snaps out—Sam barely dodges, the heel grazing his ribs. He hisses through his teeth, circling her slowly.

"Don't make me hurt you, Em—"

She doesn't hear him.

Or maybe she does. Doesn't care.

Natasha moves in, quick and sharp, tackling Emris around the waist.

They crash to the floor in a tangled, thrashing mess.

Elbows, knees, fists—flashes of movement too fast to track.

Nat's trying to pin her without hurting her. Emris isn't holding back.

A savage twist and Emris has Nat on her back, one knee driving hard into her throat. Natasha's face flushes red, teeth gritted.

"Dammit," I mutter, moving.

I'm on them in two strides.

Grab Emris around the torso, hauling her off before she crushes Nat's windpipe.

She reacts instantly—writhing like a wildcat, clawing at my arms, nails digging deep enough to draw blood. She even tries to scratch at my vibranium one.

She kicks out, catches my shin. I grunt but hold on, tightening my grip, trapping her arms against her sides.

I wrestle her back against my chest, both of us stumbling.

I hate her, the thought rips through me, savage and blood-hot, a reminder. I hate her.

But my arms stay locked. Protecting. Containing. Keeping her from hurting herself.

Because underneath it all...

She's just scared.

"Easy," I rasp, voice low, right against her ear.

She thrashes harder.

Teeth snapping, desperate.

"You're not her," I whisper, feeling her tremble in my grip. "You're not what they made you."

A shudder tears through her.

For a split second, her body goes rigid.

"Wake up, Emris."

I feel her breathing hitch, stutter.

Then, finally—finally—she sags against me.

Dead weight.

Barely breathing.

Her head turns slightly, just enough that I catch the ghost of a whisper against my jaw:

"Put me down, James."

My throat tightens.

I ease her down slowly, crouching until she's sitting on the floor, arms loose at her sides.

Sam approaches cautiously, one hand extended.

"Em—"

She flinches before he even touches her. A violent recoil, like a wounded animal.

Sam stops cold, jaw clenching.

Emris keeps her head down, dark hair falling over her face.

A tiny, broken voice slips out:

"Sorry."

She pushes herself upright on shaking legs and stumbles back to her seat.

Sits hard.

Folds in on herself.

Silence crashes down like a hammer.

Steve stands frozen near the cockpit, watching.

Natasha presses a hand to her throat, coughing quietly, eyes never leaving Emris.

Sam leans back against the wall, arms crossed, worry etched deep into every line of his face.

We all trade looks.

No words.

None needed.

The Quinjet hums low around us, steady and familiar.

I glance sideways.

Emris sits slumped against the wall, hands loose in her lap.

Eyes wide, but unfocused, staring through the metal walls like she isn't even here.

I clench my jaw and look away.

Can't fix it.

Can't fix her.

Outside the cockpit windows, red dust and scrubby brush stretch as far as I can see.

Nothing but isolation and open sky.

Broome, Australia.

Steve maneuvers the Quinjet low, engines whining as he skims just above the cracked earth.

A battered-looking building comes into view—a squat thing, all sun-bleached wood and rusted tin roof, half swallowed by the desert.

Steve lands smooth, barely a bump.

The second the landing gear locks, I'm unstrapping.

Sam beats me to the hatch, punching the release button hard enough it beeps in protest.

Hot, dry air punches into the cabin, thick with dust and heat.

We spill out, boots crunching on the red dirt.

Weapons slung loose.

Every one of us on edge.

Natasha sweeps the perimeter in a glance, hand brushing the pistol at her hip.

Sam rotates his shoulders, muttering something under his breath about "hellholes" and "heatstroke."

Steve walks straight to the house, posture stiff.

Emris follows last, dragging her feet a little, eyes flickering constantly.

Exits.

Cover points.

Threats.

She's back in soldier mode.

Automatic.

Mechanical.

The safehouse is barely a house at all.

Three rooms.

A battered staircase that looks like it'll collapse if you breathe wrong.

A sad excuse for a kitchen with a cracked sink.

Two battered couches in the living room, one missing a leg and propped up by a cinder block.

Dust clings to everything.

The kind of dust that's so baked in you'd need a blowtorch to clean it.

Sam scopes it out first, makes a face, and immediately calls upstairs.

"I'm taking the attic. Nobody follow me unless you wanna watch me sweat to death."

He vanishes up the stairs before anyone can argue.

Natasha drifts toward the back bedroom without a word.

Steve hesitates—then follows her.

Not subtle.

Not even trying to be.

Sam catches it as he clomps up the last few stairs.

He looks down, eyebrows shooting up in amusement, but he doesn't say anything.

Just smirks to himself and disappears into the attic.

I turn back toward Emris.

She would usually be grinning from Nat and Steve's "secret" relationship.

Instead, she stands frozen in the middle of the room, expression blank.

Her gaze drags across everything—

The couch.

The broken stairs.

The front door, the windows, the weak spots in the walls.

Cataloging threats.

Escape routes.

Kill zones.

I know that look too well.

I wore it for years.

A sharp pang cuts through my chest before I can shove it down.

She doesn't move.

Doesn't even blink.

The house settles into an uneasy silence.

No orders barked.

No plans made.

Just the low groan of wood under the weight of old secrets.

I sling my duffel onto my shoulder and glance around.

Only one room left.

And Emris standing in front of it, arms crossed tight over her chest like she's bracing for a punch.

She glares at me, sharp and cold.

"What, Barnes?" she snaps.

I grunt.

Say nothing.

There's nothing to say.

She rolls her eyes, all venom and exhaustion, and stomps inside.

I follow, dragging my boots across the warped floorboards.

The room's barely bigger than a closet.

One bed, creaky and too narrow for even one of us to sleep comfortably.

One ratty couch that looks like it's already lost a war.

Emris mutters under her breath, "Not happening."

I throw my bag down near the couch with a thud.

"I don't like beds anyway," I mutter, settling into the space like a kicked dog.

Emris hesitates a second longer, shoulders tight, then drops her bag heavily by the door.

The sound of it hitting the floor feels too loud.

She stays there, head bowed.

Hands trembling just enough that anyone who didn't know what to look for would miss it.

I don't miss it.

"It's not like we'll be here for long," she says, voice flat, empty.

"They'll find me. They always do."

The words bleed out of her like an old wound torn open.

No anger.

No fear.

Just cold certainty.

I shift my weight, metal fingers tapping against my thigh.

I want to say something.

Anything.

But what the hell could I say?

No, they won't?

You're safe?

We both know that's a lie.

So I just stand there.

Watching her.

Feeling the hollow gnaw at my insides.

She doesn't look at me.

Doesn't need to.

The room feels too small, too thin, like the walls are closing in.

And still—

still—

I don't move.

Because she's not the only one waiting for the monsters to find her again.