Chapter Text
“Please… no… Please don’t…”
The mission’s gasping pleas mean nothing to the soldier. He tightens his chokehold about her throat, the servers in his arm recalibrating constantly as the life in her brown eyes fades. His face impassive he lowers her body to the ground and bends to check for her pulse with the gloved fingers of his flesh hand.
No life signs. Mission complete. Return to handlers.
The soldier straightens, his movements economical and silent as he makes his way through the dark house to the back door. While passing through the kitchen the sound of stumbling footsteps reaches his ears.
Small. Light. Half asleep.
In confusion he halts. His mission only specified the single target. His eyes flick towards the back door and he dismisses the notion immediately. The footsteps are too close to the kitchen. The porch light too bright through the stained glass panels on the door. He will be seen leaving. He must not be seen. That detail was very specific.
“Mama?”
The child is small. Rubbing at one eye they stare in bewilderment at the soldier veiled in shadows by the counter. Not yet old enough to know they should be afraid of a strange man in their home they take a step further into the kitchen.
“Where’s mama?”
The servers in the metal arm whir once more as the soldier crushes the throat of the flailing child in his grasp.
No witnesses. Do not be seen.
Two hours later the soldier sits submissively as his handlers remove the silicone copies of the fingerprints of another man from his metal hand. He barely blinks as they work, answering their questions mechanically, complying with them strapping him to the chair for his debrief. Electricity rips through his body, his involuntary screams hurt his ears.
The memory of the small, blue eyed child is erased…
Bucky wakes with a scream that dissolves into a choking cough. Falling to his knees in the dark he feels grass beneath his hand as he retches and heaves out his horror and despair.
Not again, dammit. Not again.
As the spasms of his mind and body recede he becomes aware of pain in his right hand and flinches as he tries to curl his fingers into a fist.
More broken bones. Fuckin fantastic.
As if it isn’t bad enough that his worst memories persist in returning as nightmares while he sleeps, his body betrays him further with the sleepwalking.
Where the hell am I? Please tell me I didn’t hurt anyone else again?
It is deep night in rural Wakanda, the dark all encompassing, but Bucky’s night vision is better than the average man. Squinting slightly he waits for his vision to adjust then scans his surroundings. The shadowy form of his hut is visible, several hundred feet to his right down the slope, the occasional bleat of one of his penned goats reaching his ears. To his immediate left is a large natural rock formation which projects out of the side of the hill like a termites nest. To Bucky’s relief he is alone.
Thank fuck. I musta whaled on that rock formation. Better that than…
Shaking his head to dispel that dangerous thought he cradles his broken hand close to his chest, pushes to his feet and returns to his hut. There is a special lantern inside the hut that Shuri made for him after the first time he broke his hand, rendering him virtually armless for around twenty four hours as the bones knitted. Of course she had tried to convince him to let her make him another bionic left arm first. Bucky’s nose wrinkles at the memory of that conversation. It hadn’t been pretty, largely due to the rage that had exploded out of him at the mere thought of submitting to another metal arm.
The special lantern hangs at head height. Without thinking about it Bucky spins on his left heel and kicks the button on the front with his right. A soft, golden hued light fills the simple hut, revealing his meagre possessions. The covers from his pallet bed are a tangled and wadded mess on the floor, his pillow soaked with the same sweat that makes his scalp itch beneath the clumped and dishevelled weight of his hair. His kimoyo beads glitter in the lamplight, scattered about the floor like marbles, the sight pulling a wobbly exhalation from his lungs.
“You’ll be needing these.”
Bucky’s brow creases in confusion as Shuri fastens a bracelet of glass beads about his wrist. “I’m not a jewellery kinda guy,” he falters, not wanting to offend the Wakandan princess after all she has done for him. Removing the triggers from his brain is no small thing. He owes her and he always will. To his relief Shuri laughs at his ignorance.
“White boys…” she scoffs in amusement, her dark eyes dancing. “They are kimoyo beads. Let me show you.”
The teenager sits beside him and taps one of the beads. It glows beneath her finger. “This is the prime bead. It contains all of your medical and health information.” She taps the bead to the left of the prime bead and a holographic screen springs to life between them. “This is the AV bead. Use this to access our internet.” Next she taps the bead to the right of the prime. “Here we have the communication bead. This functions like a western smartphone. As you don’t speak Wakandan I made sure to alter the programming so these beads respond to English. The others are merely decorative, but can be altered to different purposes if required.”
“I hope I don’t break them,” Bucky mumbles, turning his wrist from side to side. “How do I use them with one hand?”
“You won’t break them.” Shuri sounds confident of this but Bucky can’t help the sceptical arch of his brow. “Bast!” she exclaims, rolling her eyes. “You white boys have such egos. Do you imagine you are the strongest man in Wakanda? T’Challa has a set of these beads and he has yet to break them. Do you imagine yourself to be stronger than the Black Panther?”
Bucky decides not to dwell on that question. His memories of being chased through the streets of Bucharest by her brother are still vivid. T’Challa is not a man he wishes to tangle with again if he can help it, especially as the man has seemingly taken him in and given him a home that he isn’t sure he deserves.
“Tch.” Shuri shakes her head at his awkward silence. “Let me show you how to activate them…”
Focus, dammit! Focus…
Giving himself a stern mental shake Bucky crosses to the other side of the hut, stepping carefully over the scattered beads. With a resigned huff he squats in front of his locked first aid cabinet. Shuri delivered this to him, fully stocked, after his first sleepwalking incident. Bucky’s lips twist in pain as he presses the pad of his index finger to the fingerprint scanner on the door. There is a beep and the door swings open on a silent hinge. The first thing he sees is the shelf of medications he refuses to take. The sleeping tablets and antidepressants are an almost accusatory presence and he scowls at them before sitting and using his toes to pull the much used hand splint from the bottom shelf. He considers the specially formulated painkillers for a brief moment before shaking his head and kicking the cabinet door closed.
A few minutes later he lays on his bed, staring at the communication bead he’s holding between the index and middle fingers of his splinted hand. The rest of the beads are gathered in a small pile next to him on the dirt floor. None of the individual beads appear to be broken but they are no longer a bracelet and Bucky has no idea how to return them to their former state. His hand flares with pain as he twists his wrist sharply in the beads activation sequence. The bead between his fingers glows softly, a musical chime accompanying the light. A quiet hum reaches his ears and Bucky opens his mouth to speak, closing it again after a second.
Don’t be an idiot. You call him you know what’ll happen. He’ll come here and then what? You know what he’ll hope – you know he’ll struggle to keep his promise. You also know you won’t refuse him. You’ve never been able to refuse him. And it’s not what you want anymore. You know it’s not. You have a chance here… To build something good… Maybe… Fuck!
With a growl of frustration Bucky deactivates the bead and sets it gently with the others. Then he folds his arm over his chest and stares blankly up at the thatched roof of his hut until the early dawn light pierces through his cloth door come morning.