LXI. Emris

The wind tastes like smoke.

It curls through the abandoned ranch like it knows what's coming, dragging ash and dust across the cracked earth, rustling the edges of broken fences and shattered glass. I shift my weight, boot grinding against gravel, every muscle pulled taut. My heartbeat drums in my ears, deafening in the silence.

Nataly lands in front of us like death wearing silk.

No sound, no stumble. Just a slow, eerie descent, her boots whispering against the ground as she straightens. Her coat flutters around her like wings, wind catching the edges. She tilts her head slightly, lips twitching with something almost like amusement. Calm. Serene. Like the bodies she's about to leave in her wake are just collateral damage.

Behind her, the low purr of an engine cuts through the haze.

Warner's motorcycle rolls to a stop beside her, tires crunching over dirt and bone-dry grass. He swings off it like he's stepping into a family barbecue, arms folded, shoulders loose. But his eyes—his eyes are steel. Cold. Distant. Familiar in a way that guts me, but sharp-edged now. Weaponized.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. My powers hum, restless under my skin. The weight of them coils inside my skull, pressing behind my eyes like a storm about to break.

Bucky stands to my left, silent. Still. But he radiates tension like a live wire. His hand is loose by his thigh, close to his holster. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel the storm inside him too—some cocktail of fury, restraint, and that thing we don't talk about. The thing that gets louder every time we're close enough to hear each other breathe.

To my right, Natasha exhales slowly. Controlled. Calculated. Her fingers twitch in the faintest of signals—combat formation.

I nod once.

This is it.

This is the part where someone bleeds.

I meet Warner's eyes across the dust-choked distance. His jaw clenches, just slightly. I wonder if he remembers the same things I do. The backyard in winter. The broken toy soldiers. The last time we spoke before everything turned red and black and screaming.

He doesn't blink.

Neither do I.

"Well," I mutter, voice low and dry, "family reunions really know how to clear the calendar."

Nataly smiles like a knife unsheathing.

"Emris," she says smoothly, stepping forward. "Still playing house with your captors?"

The words land like a slap. Not because they're wrong, but because she wants them to be right. I take a step toward her, my body screaming not to, and force the venom into my voice. "Still dressing your trauma in couture and calling it power?"

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. "I'm not the one pretending I'm free."

I nearly lunge. The only reason I don't is because Bucky moves—barely, just enough to brush against my arm. A warning. A threat. I can't tell.

The air thickens. Every sound sharpens—the soft creak of leather as Natasha shifts stance, the ticking cooling engine of Warner's bike, my own breath catching at the back of my throat.

Then Nataly's fingers twitch.

Like a conductor raising her baton.

And the world splits open.

The first sound is steel slicing wind.

Nataly lunges—not running, gliding. Her blades catch the dying sunlight, curved like fangs, and her body twists midair in a way that shouldn't be human. One moment she's in front of me, the next she's everywhere—ghost, shadow, storm.

Bucky curses beside me and moves. So do I.

I duck right, just as one of Nataly's blades carves air where my throat was. Her foot nearly catches my jaw, but I twist and roll, feeling the bite of gravel through my bodysuit. She lands soundlessly, turns, and comes again.

Focus. I shove the word through the fog of adrenaline.

To my right, Warner charges Natasha like a freight train. She dodges smoothly, using his momentum to redirect him into the side of the half-collapsed barn. He slams through it in a cloud of dust and splintered wood.

Bucky grabs my arm and yanks me back a split-second before Nataly's second blade would've found my ribs. I crash into him with a grunt. He doesn't look at me—just shoves me to the side and snarls, "Stay out of my way."

I hate how warm his hand was.

I hate how he smells like leather and metal and something steady.

I hate him.

Nataly's already mid-flip, blades catching the light like ribbons of death. I duck low and sweep my leg out, aiming for hers, but she vaults off Bucky's shoulder like we're goddamn furniture and goes airborne again.

"She never stops moving," I hiss, spinning to track her. Bucky's already firing—three sharp, efficient shots. Nataly lands and cartwheels sideways, avoiding them all like it's a game.

"She's stalling," Bucky mutters, watching her movements with narrowed eyes. "Waiting for him."

I follow his gaze just in time to see Warner burst from the barn, eyes locked on me.

No. On us.

My stomach knots.

Natasha intercepts, slamming a shock disc against his arm, but he barely flinches. His eyes burn straight into mine, and something old and ugly coils in my chest.

Family.

"Emris," he says as he moves. It's not a shout—it's a summons.

The name freezes me.

My brain floods with the memory of screaming, of my mother's arm falling limp across my chest, of fire and gunshots and the metallic stench of blood soaked into carpet.

I blink—and Warner is right in front of me.

I raise my hand. "Not again."

And I push.

My power surges out, wild and jagged. I don't aim for pain—I aim for the truth. I hurl the memories at him like knives: the night our parents were killed, the sound of our little sister's scream as she was dragged away, our baby brother's face gone slack in Warner's arms.

Warner staggers.

His lips part. His eyes flash with something almost human.

"I—I didn't—"

"You left me," I growl, stepping closer, voice shaking. "You watched them take me. You were supposed to protect me!"

He roars and charges me, fury and guilt battling behind his eyes.

A bullet slams into his shoulder—Bucky.

"Move!" he barks at me.

"I had him—!"

"Didn't look like it!"

Nataly crashes into Bucky before I can fire back an insult. They tumble, rolling across the ground in a blur of blades and fists. She's graceful, precise, almost elegant in her violence. He's all brute force and timing, dodging just barely, countering with bone-crushing blows.

I sprint after Warner, who's now locked with Natasha, their movements a blur. She's liquid shadow, ducking and weaving with surgical grace, knives flashing. He's power incarnate, swinging like a juggernaut, fists tearing the air. But he's unfocused—still rattled from what I showed him.

"Come on," I mutter, reaching into his head again. "Let's really talk."

I dig deeper—memories of us as children, the games we played in the old living room, the lullaby our mom used to sing. His breath catches. He falters.

Natasha strikes—two knives, chest and thigh.

He roars, shoves her back, but he's bleeding now. Slower. Shaky.

Then everything tilts.

A scream rips from the left—Nataly pins Bucky with her knee and draws back one of her blades, eyes alight with victory.

"Bucky!" I shout, sprinting toward them.

I don't think. I just throw.

My blade sails through the air, spinning once—twice—before it embeds in the dirt right next to his head, grazing a lock of his hair.

Nataly looks to the blade, then to me.

Bucky flinches and ducks, using the moment to flip Nataly off of him. She lands hard, hissing.

"You could've killed me!" he snaps, panting.

"You're welcome!" I yell back, pulling another blade from my hip.

"You're insane!"

"You were pinned, dumbass!"

He growls but we fall into motion—unspoken, unwilling rhythm. Our bodies move like magnets forced into proximity. Sharp, reluctant synergy.

Then I see it.

Nataly veers toward Natasha—like a bullet changing direction midair.

"Shit—"

My blood runs cold.

Natasha turns too late. One of Nataly's blades glints, raised high, aimed for the neck.

I sprint, heart hammering, world narrowing to a single thread.

She doesn't see me coming.

My blade is already in my hand.

My blade sinks between Nataly's ribs.

Or at least—it should have.

It phases through her, like she's made of smoke.

My vision lurches. No—this isn't real. I'm already inside.

Nataly stares at me, unmoving, her pupils blown wide like she's drowning. Her body in the real world trembles, suspended mid-motion. I see her flinch. Muscles twitching. Like something is breaking behind her eyes.

I've slipped into her head.

Good.

Now I burn it down.

The world around us fractures. The dirt fades. Sky melts into static.

We're standing in a memory.

A metal hallway—dripping red light. The walls hum like bees inside my skull. I feel the echo of boots, the clang of cuffs. Cold water runs ankle-deep. A steel door slams shut ahead. I know this place. Red Room. Hydra. Black Lotus. All three have left their rot behind.

Nataly's mind is a tomb.

She's in the center of the hallway now. Barefoot. Younger. Drenched. Clutching her knees in a corner.

"No sound," a voice orders. Her voice. A handler? Herself?

The child-version of Nataly bites her lip so hard it splits.

I press deeper, twisting the memory. Amplifying the fear, the silence, the isolation.

A tank appears—full of viscous, grey fluid. Electrodes hang above it. A mask floats beneath the surface. Her memories are trying to lock me out, but I shove against them with brute force.

The room begins to convulse. Metal groans. Screams flicker in and out, soundless. A child cries. Herself, again. Alone.

In the real world, I see her legs buckle. A drop of blood trickles from her nose.

Good.

"You're not invincible," I whisper inside her mind. "You're just another broken weapon."

Something flickers in her expression—recognition. Pain.

Then guilt slithers up my spine. Too far. I can feel her panic, her desperation. I taste her terror like it's in my own mouth.

I try to dial back, but—

"You're just like them," Nataly whispers.

It's not a memory. It's her.

In the psychic haze, her adult form materializes behind me like a phantom—face pale, lips trembling. She stares at me with wide, livid eyes.

And then the pain explodes.

White-hot, searing through my thigh.

Reality yanks me back like a slingshot.

I'm falling—no, collapsing. My leg gives out, blood surging down my combat suit in a hot rush. Nataly stands above me, real now, real and panting and furious. Her blade is still in her hand—in my leg—and I realize she stabbed me to break the mental loop.

Smart. Brutal.

I gasp, the scream caught in my throat.

The ground rises to meet me.

I hit the dirt.

Everything blurs at the edges.

But before I black out, I hear her voice again—low and cold.

"Never crawl inside me again."

I don't feel the ground beneath me anymore—just pain and pressure and the horrible knowledge that I'm bleeding too fast.

Something was on her blade, a poison or a drug to mess with me. I know how Nataly plays dirty.

"Emris!" Natasha's voice cuts through the haze.

I try to rise. My leg screams in protest. My head spins. Blood drips, hot and steady, painting the earth beneath me. I clutch the ground with trembling fingers, push off with my good knee.

Bucky's silhouette barrels toward me through the smoke, face twisted in frustration.

"Stay down, dammit!" he barks, skidding to my side.

I shove him weakly. "I can still fight—"

"Like hell you can." His hands are already under me, one arm behind my shoulders, the other hooking beneath my knees. His vibranium arm is cold against my skin. His real one is warm. I feel both like fire.

I hate that I feel both.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing.

My leg shifts and white-hot pain spears through my spine.

I bite back a scream and cling to his vest, fingers digging in.

"Don't you dare pass out," he growls.

Nataly is airborne again. I see her blur past overhead—blood down her temple, fury in every movement. Warner's closing in behind us, gun raised, eyes fixed on my chest.

Then I twist, just enough to look him in the eye.

I don't think—I just push.

A ripple snaps through the air. Warner jerks back like I slapped him. He staggers, blinking fast. His gun lowers. Confusion floods his expression—then panic.

He screams.

I collapse the world around him.

Flames erupt in his mind—walls on fire, the sky melting, the smell of burning flesh curling into his nose. I don't have the strength to make it clean, but it's real enough.

He shrieks and spins, swatting at phantoms. Falls to his knees.

I smile, teeth red. "Still works."

"Emris!" Bucky snaps, jostling me. "What the hell did you just do to him?"

"Gift-wrapped nightmare. Keep running."

Natasha covers our escape like a storm. Bullets bark from her pistols—measured bursts of violence. Then she hurls a smoke grenade. It bursts behind us with a loud pop, sending plumes of white curling through the wreckage.

"Go!" she shouts, already moving sideways to flank.

Bucky grunts and ducks low, adjusting his grip on me as we sprint through the chaos. Every footstep slams into my thigh like a hammer. I want to pass out. I want to scream. I do neither. I just bite down on my knuckle and focus on him.

His breath is ragged in my ear. His heart pounds beneath my cheek—deep and steady, like a war drum. Sweat and blood cling to his neck. I know I should hate this—hate being here, with him—but some traitorous part of me clings tighter.

"Why are you always the one carrying me?" I mumble.

"Because you're reckless and stupid," he mutters, voice too tight. "And light as hell."

I laugh once. Then cough. Then almost vomit.

Not as funny anymore.

Explosions erupt behind us—Natasha's detonators. Dust sprays in all directions. Bucky shields my body with his as debris rains down. His arm tightens around me. One leap, two—we're over the ridge, stumbling into trees.

He doesn't stop.

Even as his breath hitches, even as I feel the tension humming through every muscle in his frame—he just keeps going.

I blink against the sweat stinging my eyes. The world tilts.

My thoughts scatter like ash.

Not like this, I think. Not with him.

But my head lolls forward. His heartbeat drums beneath me. My vision fades to black.

The world is too loud.

Each heartbeat slams through my ribs like a war drum, too fast, too strong. I'm weightless and heavy at the same time—drifting in Bucky's arms, skin clammy, blood leaking down my leg like a broken hourglass.

My vision narrows, curling in on itself like burning paper.

"Emris," Bucky snaps. His voice is rough, panicked—raw in a way I've never heard before. "Stay with me. Don't you close your goddamn eyes."

Too late.

The stars above smear like ink on wet glass. The trees are melting shadows. His face flickers in and out—jaw tight, eyes furious, jaw clenched like he's trying to hold the world together with his teeth.

"Poison," I manage to muster out, hoping they understand what I am trying to tell them about Nataly's stab to my leg.

My mouth tastes like blood and dirt.

Then—

whistle—thunk.

A flash of heat tears across my ribs.

A bullet.

My body jerks violently in his arms.

Bucky stumbles, half-loses grip, then clamps me tighter with a strangled curse. "No. No, no, no—"

I feel him twist, turning to shield me. His back curves around mine like armor. Another blast echoes behind us. I can't tell if it's real or in my head.

Everything tilts.

My fingers go numb. My ears ring.

And still, beneath it all, I hear it—his heartbeat.

Steady. Angry. Alive.

My final thought is a traitorous whisper.

Why does that sound like safety?

Then the dark takes me.