The convoy rumbles beneath us, sterile and silent apart from the low hum of engines and the thoughts stuck in my own mind.

Bucky's ahead, sealed in that glass-walled pod like he's radioactive. Hands restrained. Head low. His metal arm cuffed tighter than necessary. I can feel the tension from here, like his very presence pulls the air from my lungs. The man's screams that i remember never deserved this.

He hasn't looked at me since they threw us in the trucks. Doesn't have to. And i don't even need to look at him to know he's there. I feel him, and that's enough.

I wonder if he feels me too, if he remembers that darkness I brought. But I'd guess if you'd spent enough time stuck in the dark you'd never remember the feeling.

I sit beside Sam, Steve and T'Challa's in front of us. King T'Challa's spine straight, shoulders square, every inch a king even in silence. Broad, grieving and angry. But the grief doesn't just come from him... but steve too.

The shadows slip from my sleeves without meaning to, without me asking them to move. It's subtle, almost invisible in the filtered light. Just a soft curl around my cuffs, like they're testing the metal, to see if it cracks.

Sam clears his throat.  Eye's fixed in on T'Challa, "So... you like cats?"

Steve gives him a long-suffering look that almost resembles a warning.  "Sam."

"What?" Sam grins slightly, but it's laced with nerves and deep curiosity. "Dude shows up dressed like a panther and you don't wanna know more?"

Steve nods, jaw tense. I don't say anything, just listen to Steve."Your suit... it's Vibranium?"

Vibranium? Steve's shield. Now T'Challa looks at us, more so Steve, not amused. Eye's sharp, voice even sharper. "The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. A mantle passed from warrior to warrior. And now..." His gaze lingers on the road ahead. "Because your friend murdered my father, I also wear the mantle of king."

Something flares in my chest. Guilt, reflexive and wrong, like his words are a blade pressed just behind my ribs. But damn man, all the guy asked was if it was vibranium.

T'Challa turns his head just enough. "So I ask you... as both warrior and king... how long do you think you can keep your friend safe from me?"

Now, That's what captures my attention. Sending a pang of something that almost resembles protective instincts through me.

Steve doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. "As long as I have to."

I can feel my shadows shifting again, stirring like a warning, like a response to the cold bite in T'Challa's voice. The darkness slithers between the small gap between the cuffs and my wrists, metal beginning to become encased in dark thread-like shadows.

Steve's hand rests lightly on my wrist. "Amara," he says, low, firm. "Calm down."

I hadn't realized I was breathing so hard. Nor had I realised the shadows pouring from my finger tips and collecting at my feet. Stone cold panic floods me for just a second as I clock my lack of control. The shadows pull back. I swallow, nod.

T'Challa doesn't comment. Doesn't need to. He knows what I am. Or I'm guessing he can assume. Everything thinks they know me, know what I am. But no one truly does.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The bunker feels too bright, I can feel it draining the weakened shadows from me like a fucking vacuum. The walls are a deep gray, concrete. And this seems like it would've fit in perfectly with HYDRA.

Every surface hums with authority and blind obedience, I guess that's true, some of these people can't think for themselves, are too focused on orders and fear. They've stripped me of my knives and comms, but not my shadows. They cling to me like memories, no one can fully get rid of them or control me... not even hydra.

We follow Ross and Sharon through the glass skywalk like medical examiners trailing a crime scene. Steve's beside me, shoulders stiff with worry. Sam is just behind, keeping his jaw tight and his silence tighter. T'Challa is unreadable. Regal. Still. Very on brand for a king I guess.

Bucky's pod disappears down a corridor on a forklift. I watch it vanish, a silent clung of metal doors. Oh how familiar. It still brings that same feeling, the churn of my stomach, static in my fingertips. I almost brace for his screams like I used to. But that won't happen here... at least that's what I try to remind myself.

"What's gonna happen to him?" Steve asks, voice low.

The man I don't recognise doesn't even move to look at him. "Same thing that ought to happen to you. Psychological evaluation and extradition."

His words don't even seem to make steve flinch, but I see the slight tic in his jaw. Sharon steps forward, tone clipped. "This is Everett Ross, Deputy Task Force Commander."

Ross gives me a once-over. Doesn't linger. Doesn't speak to me directly. I just let out a small scoff, "Brilliant."

Steve starts, his tone growing slightly defensive. "What about our lawyer?"

Ross scoffs out almost a laugh of disbelief, and his eyes flicker between Steve and Sharon. "That's funny. See, their weapons are placed in lockup. Oh, we'll write you a receipt."

Beside me, Sam mutters his voice taut, "I better not look out the window and see anybody flying around in that."

I think I'll always appreciate his little moments, his small little comments that slice through the tension like butter. There's something strangely comforting about it.

The hallway opens into a glass passage suspended above the main floor. The Tony Stark's already there. I've never met him, but I'd be a fool not to know who he is. Iron man, billionaire. Something philanthropist. God knows, all I really care to know is he was/is important to Steve and is part of the avengers. But the expression on his face, the hatred displayed across his features only makes my heart beat faster. My eyes flicker, Natasha stands a few feet away from him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"You'll be provided with an office instead of a cell," Ross says, focusing on T'Challa. "Now, do me a favor — stay in it."

"I don't intend on going anywhere," T'Challa replies evenly, not even blinking an eye. And that tells me just how eager he is. That tone, that expression. All remind me of myself, eager to kill.

"How comforting." I mutter sarcastically under my breath.

And then Natasha, dry as ever, unimpressed, "For the record, this is what making things worse looks like."

Steve's voice is quiet, as she shifts to stand beside him. "He's alive."

"He won't be for long if they keep locking him up like that." Is all I can bare to add. It's the truth. Someone like that... someone trained to be a weapon stuck in one place? People will come looking to either use or destroy. It's how it works, how it's always worked.

Steves eyes flicker toward mine for just a sharp, quick, fleeting moment. Nervousness evident in his gaze for a second. But no one else bothers to register my words. And that's the reality, no one cares. No one cares about the man forced to lose himself. And that just might kill me.

Tony doesn't look up from his phone. "No. Romania was not Accords-sanctioned. And Colonel Rhodes is supervising cleanup." Pause. Then he turns to Nat, "Consequences? You bet there'll be consequences. Obviously you can quote me on that 'cause I just said it. Anything else? Thank you, sir."

He finally ends the call, and looks up, right at Steve. Then at me. And I feel it. That flicker of tension. That immediate, visceral distrust. The fear, the hate and uncertainty. No one knows me well enough to truly hate me. They hate what I represent, what I've done. And it kills something deep inside me.

Steve says, confused, stepping forward. "'Consequences'?"

Tony tilts his head, eyes glinting like the tip of a blade. He scoffs, just slightly, "Secretary Ross wants you both prosecuted. Had to give him something."

"I'm not getting that shield back, am I?" Steve asks, a tint of a Brooklyn accent accompanying each of his words.

Natasha cuts in, walking but head still turned toward Steve. "Technically, it's the government's property. Wings too."

"That's cold," Sam mutters, shaking his head.

"Warmer than jail," Tony deadpans, casually sarcastic as if none of this truly means anything.
His gaze then drifts to me. Calculating. Less disgust than before, but more caution, like I'm an unstable bomb he's waiting to detonate.

I say nothing, eyes involuntarily narrowing.

"Well, well," he says, folding his arms. "Your caps magical murder ghost. Still dragging shadows around like it's Halloween year-round, huh?"

I don't flinch, just scoff. His words mean nothing, no one's words ever do. "At least Sarcasm isn't my only emotional depth."

Tony's eyebrows shoot up. Shaking his head as his eyes flicker to Steve, "Oh good. She talks."

"Tony," Steve warns, stepping forward.

"No no, don't 'Tony' me." He points toward me but is looking at Steve, "I told you this would happen. You brought in someone with Hydra ties. Now Bucky's in a box, half of the county is on fire, and you still think this is a good idea?"

My shadows bristle at my feet, a pulse of anger in the form of smoke and shadows. I clench my fists and shove it down. I can't do this, not here. Not now. Don't prove him right Amara, come on.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not standing right here," I snap, jaw clenched. Shadows dimming just a little as words fall from my lips.

"Oh, trust me," he says, voice all sharp edges, "I never forget you're standing right here."

Steve steps between us, calm but firm. "She's a kid. That's enough."

A kid? Is all that rings through my mind,
Ricocheting off my skull. I was 27? 28? And I still feel that age, still look it. But I'm 66 with no recollection of those years aside from horror.

"Is it?" Tony raises a brow. "Because this is your call, Rogers. Just like going after Bucky, just like defying the Accords. So when shadow-girl over there blows a fuse next, and believe me she will, I just want it on record that I called it."

"I'm not going to hurt anyone," I say, quieter now. But even I hear the uncertainty in my voice, I never miss it.

Tony narrows his eyes. "Noted. Still gonna have you flagged in every surveillance system from here to Wakanda."

He turns and walks off before anyone can stop him. Natasha follows, throwing one last look over her shoulder. I shouldn't ever expect anything less than what Tony just showed. I am a killer. He has every right to act that way towards me. I guess Steve's words, Sam's words let a sliver of hope linger in my chest. Hope kills... I never should have let it back in.