The desert blurs past in sunburnt streaks as Alexei grips the steering wheel with meaty hands, knuckles white, his mouth a tight line of childish glee and anxiety. The Soviet-made limo, obnoxiously red, armored in theory, and wide enough to house a birthday party, screams as it climbs just past 60 mph.

Yelena, in the passenger seat, peers at the speedometer with an arched brow.

"Is that it? Okay, any time now," She says, deadpan.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We're working on it," Alexei huffs.

"A little bit faster, Alexei."

"It takes a second!"

"Alexei!"

Behind them, sand plumes as three matte-black armored vehicles tear after them, their noses sharp with reinforced grilles and turret-mounted guns. The first opens fire.

RATATATATAT.

Sparks spit off the back of the limo. John flinches in the middle row, ducking instinctively.

"Alexei!" He shouts.

"Okay! Don't worry! She's bulletproof. Engaging defensive measures!"

Alexei flips a red switch. There's a whirr, and then--

Red lights strobe in the back of the limo.

A low fog machine kicks in, mist pooling like a bad nightclub.

And over the speakers:

"If you're horny, let's do it, Ride it, my pony--"

Yelena groans, hands over her face, "No. No, no, no."

Cici, seated near the back, starts to laugh, the first real laugh in what feels like days. It echoes off the cheap plastic of the interior. She leans into the absurdity, until a bullet cracks through the windshield.

Glass sprays.

"Shit!" John throws his shield forward, angling it just in time to deflect the next shot.

Ava yanks Cici by the collar, pulling her down as more bullets punch through.

"What happened to bulletproof?!" John barks.

"Bulletproof-ish!" Alexei yells, ducking.

Yelena shouts, "Jesus Christ!"

"Everyone's a critic today! Vodka! Vodka now!"

Cici, still on the limo floor, reaches into the ice bucket and pulls out a sweating bottle of vodka. She chucks it forward. Alexei catches it, uncorks it with his teeth, takes a swig, and pours the rest into a dirty rag.

He lights it with the cigarette lighter in the dash.

He chucks it out the window.

The flaming molotov thunks against the windshield of the nearest armored vehicle. The flames lick the glass, but slowly die out in embarrassment.

Cici gives him a sympathetic look, "A for effort?"

"It was Russian vodka," Alexei mutters, "Too pure."

The bullets keep coming.

John lifts his shield again, gritting his teeth as the force of the impacts rattles through his bones. Ava wipes blood from her nose and says through grit teeth, "Okay, I'll be back. I hope."

She phases out, vanishing with a breath of static.

Seconds later, the roof thunks. Ava clings to the back of the limo, aiming to reach the source of the gunfire.

But then--

A whine.

High-pitched. Subsonic.

The sound weapon fires.

Ava screams. The noise drills through her skull. She spasms, claws at the metal. Her molecules can't stabilize. She can't phase.

Inside, Cici grabs her head, wincing, curling forward as blood pools in her ears. Her shriek is wordless, feral.

John grunts, seizes Ava by the ankle through the shattered rear window, and hauls her limp body back inside.

Yelena braces one knee against the center console, leans out of the side window, and fires.

POP. POP. POP.

The armored truck shudders.

But it doesn't stop.

Then, from the horizon, a blur. Black. Sleek. Two wheels. A roar like thunder.

A motorcycle.

Bucky.

The Winter Soldier.

He moves like a specter through dust and flame, his arm a streak of metal and muscle. With precision, he hurls explosive charges beneath each pursuing vehicle.

BOOM. One flips.

BOOM. Another crumples.

BOOM. A third spirals and slams into a sand dune, catching fire.

Silence.

But then--

Bucky slides from his bike, lifts a launcher with one cybernetic arm, and fires.

The explosive whistles through the air.

A click beneath the limo.

Then--

BLAM.

The entire limo lifts off the ground, a massive rolling beast of metal and fire. It flips once. Twice.

Inside: chaos.

Bodies tossed. Screams muffled. Glass shattering. Seats torn from bolts. Limbs flailing.

John wraps himself around Cici, shield out, trying to cage her in safety.

Cici's vision is all red and silver and noise.

Then--
a CRUNCH.

The limo lands on its side.

Silence.

Smoke.

Steam.

A radio crackles somewhere with static.

Inside the wreckage, they lie unconscious--

Crushed against each other, battered and bloody, somewhere between escape and execution.

The light inside the gas station buzzes like a dying insect.

Old neon flickers over cracked tile floors and rusting shelves stocked with dusty cans of chili, expired energy drinks, and a rack of faded postcards that say WISH YOU WERE HERE over a backdrop of cracked earth and desert bones.

They sit in a row on the floor, cuffed like convicts, John, Cici, Yelena, Alexei, and Ava, with a single broken fan whirring lazily above them, moving hot air around in a mockery of comfort. Ghost tries, in vain, to phase through her cuffs, her form flickers, spasms, and then settles back into grim resignation.

Cici doesn't even try.

She sits with her back against the refrigerator case, shoulders slumped, hair falling into her face, still clinging to the last phantom touch of Bob's absence. Her wrists are sore. Her eyes are dry now, but her ribs ache from sobbing. A tear-stained hollow has replaced her usual sharpness.

To her right, John stares ahead, jaw tight.

To her left, Yelena gently nudges her shoulder in silent solidarity.

Across from them, Alexei kicks his legs out like a restless child, and Ava's back is straight, still alert, still poised for a fight.

Alexei groans, throwing his head back against the snack rack, "No, no, no, no! Just when I am getting my team together! Mister soldier, you are making a serious mistake!"

Standing by the counter, arms folded, is the man who's already ruined their morning.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

A name that echoes like a ghost.

Bucky doesn't even look at Alexei, "Save it for the committee."

Yelena squints, "What committee?"

Bucky finally turns his cold blue eyes toward her, "All of you are evidence in the impeachment against Valentina."

Ava lets out a bitter laugh, "We don't even work for Valentina anymore. She tried to kill us."

John says, "We were ordered to destroy all her secrets, but actually, she sent us to kill each other in that vault."

Yelena adds, "But then we met Bob. There was a man in the vault. She's done something to him. It's called Project Sentry."

Cici shifts uncomfortably, her breath catching in her chest. Just the name alone coils around her like a noose.

Ava says, "He shot up into the sky. He exploded. And then he crashed into this mountain. And then he died. Didn't die."

Bucky arches a brow, sarcastic, "Yeah, I got it. He's very, very scary."

"Okay. Congressman Barnes," John sneers.

Bucky turns toward him, "Alright, Walker. What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you know me, Bucky. So cut the crap and listen to what we're trying to tell you."

Bucky's jaw tightens.

"Yeah, I know you, John. And you made your choices. I know it's been tough since Olivia left you and took your son--"

John flinches. His entire frame tenses like a live wire. The insult hits, deeper than expected, like a bullet behind armor. Cici sees it. Her brow furrows. Her anger at him, momentarily, softens. And Yelena, Yelena looks at John for the first time without venom in her eyes.

Then Ava speaks, low and firm, "Bucky... there won't be any committee left. Okay? There might not even be a government. Valentina has something big—"

"Yeah," Bucky interrupts, "A threat. Got it. His name is Bob. Or Sentry. And he flies. Right? You all want me to believe you're heroes now? Chasing after the monster you accidentally unleashed?"

John mutters, "We weren't going after her together."

"We were just trying to get home alive," Yelena says quietly.

Bucky snaps, "That's even more pathetic."

"I know," Alexei says under his breath, "That's what I've been telling them."

"Shut your mouth," Yelena snaps without looking at him.

Then, buzz. Bucky's phone vibrates. He pulls it out, reads something. His eyes narrow.

"The plane lands in six minutes."

He answers.

"Yeah... What is it?... Project Sentry?... What guy?... Bob?"

The group's heads snap toward him in perfect unison.

"Bob!" They shout together like a cursed chorus.

There's a pause.

The call ends.

Bucky pockets the phone.

He turns slowly.

His voice is hollow.

"...Bob."

Cici lifts her eyes, bloodshot and bruised with grief, and meets his.

"It's bad," She says simply.

Bucky doesn't reply.

He steps forward. There's a heaviness in his stride now. A weight behind every step.

He kneels beside Ava and unlocks her cuffs.

"You're coming with me," He says.

Ava raises a brow, "Why?"

Alexei leans in like a proud dad, "For the glory."

Bucky rolls his eyes, "Because you know Valentina. You've seen what she's capable of. She's got this thing out there. People are going to get hurt. And I've got to stop her. And you are going to help me."

Yelena tilts her head, "Wait... us?"

"You got someplace to be?" Bucky asks.

Yelena hesitates, "Bucky... you have the wrong people."

He starts uncuffing the rest of them.

"Look," He says, voice quieter now, almost sad, "I've been where you are. You can run. You can. But it doesn't go away. Sooner or later, it catches up to you. And when it does... it's too late. So you can either do something about it now, or live with it forever."

There's a long silence.

The fan continues to spin above them. Outside, the sun burns across the desert floor like a match to parchment.

Yelena looks at her father. He smiles, big and dumb and earnest.

She looks down.

Then sighs.

"Stop Val," She says softly, "And save Bob."

She looks at Cici, who, after a beat, nods.

John hesitates. His hand rubs the place on his wrist where the cuff used to be. His face is unreadable.

"Fine," He mutters.

Ava shrugs, "Go on, then."

And finally, Alexei, who practically jumps up.

"YES! Yes!"

Cici stands, her limbs sore, her eyes still carrying Bob's absence like a bruise beneath her skin.

But she feels it now. A spark. A shift.

They're not heroes. Not yet.

But they're something.

The bed is soft. Too soft. The sheets are impossibly white, the air warm and tinged with chamomile, like a hotel trying too hard to soothe a guilty conscience. Bob wakes to the hush of filtered air and the hum of distant machinery. There's no pain. Not in his body, at least. Only the ache behind his eyes, that familiar dullness, like something pressing inward from the back of his skull. The Void hangs just out of reach, coiled in the dark corners of the room.

He blinks against the amber light. There's a gentle glow in the ceiling, soft yellow, like morning forever paused in its golden hour. And then--

A voice.

Silk-gloved, but sharp as bone.

"How are you feeling, Robert? Are you comfortable?"

He turns his head and sees her. The woman. Dark suit, crisp and tailored, one leg crossed over the other. Her presence is polished, but there's something glassy behind her eyes. Not warmth. Not even curiosity. Just calculation.

"My name is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine."

He jerks upright. The world swims a little, "No. No, no, no, you tried to kill us."

She tilts her head, smile cool and measured, "Let me explain. Would you like that?"

Bob says nothing. His hands clench in the sheets.

"You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, on the cutting edge of human enhancement. And you were selected. That wasn't a mistake, Robert. But not everyone could handle the amount of greatness we had in mind."

Bob stares at her, his heart thudding, "What happened to Cici?"

Valentina's smile doesn't falter. But her pause is long, "Cici?"

She says it like a smudge she's never cared to wipe clean.

"Well," She says slowly, "those people you were with, they're not honest people. They're criminals. Villains, really. Every one of them has blood on their hands. They use people like you, Robert. People who want to help."

"No," Bob mutters, shaking his head, "Not them. Not Cici. They helped me."

Valentina's gaze hardens, just slightly. But her tone stays light.

"Robert, let's forget about them for now. Let's focus on you, and how perfect you are."

She leans forward, fingers laced on her lap.

"You've always thought of yourself as a victim. But you overcame that. You went to Malaysia. You were lost, weren't you? Searching."

His lips part.

"And you found me."

"How do you know all that?"

"I know everything," She says, matter-of-factly, "I know about your mother's illness. I know about the clinic in Idaho. I know about the addiction and the group homes and the juvenile record. I even know about the times your father--"

"Stop!"

His voice cracks in the room like a whip. He recoils, folding in on himself.

"No. No, no, no, I didn't tell you that. You can't just know."

Valentina stays calm. Her voice softens, but only like velvet stretched over steel.

"Robert. I know everything about you. And I still want you to be my guy. Isn't that what you want? To be accepted? Embraced? To be chosen?"

His breathing is shallow now. She's pulling on every nerve ending like piano wire.

"Nobody else sees it. But I do. I see you, and I believe that maybe, just maybe, your past is what makes you so perfect."

She reaches for his hand, fingers long and pale, the kind of touch that always comes with a cost. He hesitates, but he lets her.

The moment they touch, the air implodes.

Darkness rushes in, not like the absence of light, but the erasure of self.

Everything vanishes. The bed. The light. Her hand.

The world becomes a mirrorless void.

And suddenly she is the one trapped inside it.

Valentina stiffens.

A flicker of something inside her fractures. The carefully constructed wall behind her eyes trembles, and shatters.

A memory rises, ancient and blood-wet. Italy. The smell of cigarette smoke and copper. Her father shouting. Then silence. The way silence falls in love with death. The way the blood looked on her shoes.

Her breath catches. A sharp, brittle inhale.

The void fades like ash caught in the wind, and they're back. The room is golden again, sterile and soft and deceptive.

She's still holding his hand. But not for long.

She lets go.

Her face is blank, lips parted slightly as if she's forgotten how to breathe.

Then, calmly, too calmly, she rises.

"Would you excuse me for just a moment?"

Bob's eyes go wide, "No. No, wait, wait, wait, wait. I can control it."

He nods, desperate, "I can. I can keep it in. Just don't leave."

Her hand's already on the door.

Valentina glances at him, her voice back to smooth edges and diplomatic distance.

"Great," She says with a tight smile.

And then she leaves.

The latch clicks.

Bob is alone again.

The bed feels colder now.

The light is still yellow, but it feels more like jaundice than warmth.

He curls his fingers into his palm where she touched him, like the skin there might remember more than he can. His jaw clenches. The room is too quiet.

And somewhere, deep inside the layers of silence, the Void hums.

Not gone.

Just waiting.

The Watchtower is too pristine to feel real. Its angles are smooth, seamless. The light never flickers. The silence is never broken. It's not just a facility, it's a cathedral. And Bob Reynolds is its sacrificial lamb.

He paces the floor of the room, barefoot against spotless tile. He hasn't seen the others since the desert. Not Cici. Not Yelena. Not John. Not Ava. Just that glimpse of the void in Valentina's eyes. Just that moment, her silence when she left the room.

But now she's back.

She strides in with a confidence that could bend steel, flanked by five people in charcoal gray uniforms. Each carries something, whiteboards, sketches, fabric swatches, reinforced plating, holographic displays. They're designing a god.

"Robert," Valentina says, her voice warm, deliberate. She smiles like nothing ever broke, "I brought some friends. We're all here to help you. You've been doing so well. Haven't you?"

Bob doesn't respond.

His eyes flick toward the table where a single glass of water waits for him. It's crystal clear. Too clear. Like the stillness before a storm.

He stares at it.

A part of him wants to laugh.

Another part wants to scream.

"This is a waste of time," He says, unsure if he's talking to her or to himself.

Valentina steps closer, not pushing, just watching, "It's not a test. Just a step. That's all it is. Try it, Robert."

He lifts a shaky hand toward the glass. His fingers twitch. The air around him feels heavy, like something old and enormous has just woken up. But nothing happens. Not yet.

"I don't know," Bob mumbles. He drops his hand, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Okay," Valentina says, soothing, "Yeah. That's okay. We just try again."

Her voice doesn't waver. She sounds like a kindergarten teacher coaxing a child across a balance beam.

Bob looks at her. Then at the glass. Then at the five strangers drawing the silhouette of him in bold marker strokes, broad shoulders, golden cape, the white-hot eyes of divinity. He feels like a mannequin being sculpted from ash.

He nods, swallowing hard, "Yeah. Okay."

Valentina gently gestures, "Let's just focus. No pressure. I believe in you."

Those words wrap around him like warmth in winter.

He raises his hand again. Fingers pointed, trembling.

The water in the glass twitches.

Then it begins to boil.

The liquid bubbles and coils as if something beneath it wants to rise, something ancient and radiant. The glass begins to hum. It shudders. Vibrates. Bob's brow furrows in concentration, his mouth slightly agape.

Then--

CRACK.

The glass splinters in a flash of light, water leaping upward like a geyser before crashing in a glittering mess across the table.

Everyone freezes.

Bob flinches backward in shock, hands still raised like they're stuck in the moment of breaking.

The silence is electric.

He stares at the shards, steam rising from the wet table like breath from a dragon's nostrils.

"I can do that?" He whispers.

The awe in his voice is fragile. Like a child who just realized he could breathe underwater.

Valentina takes a single step closer. Her eyes gleam with a quiet, terrifying pride.

"You can do anything."

She lets the words sit.

Then, as she circles the table, she speaks softly but with the precision of a scalpel:

"People think they know you. They look at you and see 'Bob.' A stammering, stuttering man with messy hair and a lost look. They pity Bob."

Bob lowers his hands. He's still shaking.

"But I don't see Bob," Valentina says, stopping in front of him.

"I see Robert Reynolds, the man who survived everything this world threw at him. The man who shattered that glass with his mind. The man who walked into the void and came back glowing."

Her hand gestures toward the whiteboards behind her. One shows a radiant silhouette, blazing golden light emanating from his chest like a second sun.

"I see the Sentry."

The word drops like a stone in still water.

He swallows.

The golden light behind his eyes pulses, faint, but present. Like something just beneath the surface is smiling.

"I believe," Valentina says, "that your past is not a weakness. It's the crucible that forged you."

She lifts one of the swatches of fabric, golden and thick like celestial silk.

"You are limitless."

Bob's gaze drifts to the table again. The water has evaporated. The glass lies in shards.

And yet he feels whole.

His reflection peers back from the polished floor: messy hair, hospital shirt, bare feet, and behind the eyes, something vast and holy. Something watching.

"Ready for the next lesson?" Valentina asks.

Bob doesn't answer immediately.

He steps toward the broken glass.

He looks down at it.

He doesn't step around it.

He steps through it.

The shards crunch underfoot like ash. He doesn't bleed. Not a drop.

He turns to her, lips parted in a small, unfamiliar smile.

"Yeah," He says.

The golden glow flickers in his eyes, stronger now.

The plane hums gently through the clouds, its body swaying like a cradle in the high air.

The desert is long behind them. So is the fire, the gunfire, the screech of metal on dirt, the spinning violence of the flipped limo. Everything is quiet now, save for the dull drone of the engine and the occasional, thunderous snore that rattles from Alexei's open mouth. He's slumped in a seat like an overfed bear, mouth wide, arms crossed, a contented sound that somehow makes him seem even larger.

Yelena is beside him, chin resting in her palm, legs pulled up on the seat. Her eyes are half-lidded, but they flick occasionally to Alexei with the exhausted fondness of someone who's long since accepted that this is simply how her life is. Every time he snorts in his sleep, she exhales just a bit heavier, her mouth twitching at the corners like she's staving off a smile.

John is across from them, shoulders stiff, elbows on his knees. But he doesn't notice his posture, he doesn't notice anything except the girl seated beside him. Cici. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. But he is sitting too close. Not intrusively so, but enough that his leg brushes against hers sometimes, and he doesn't move away.

Cici doesn't move either.

She's leaned forward, forearms resting on her thighs, hands clasped loosely together like she's praying to no one. Her eyes are tired, fixed on the floor of the jet, but there's something alive in them now, something fragile and beating and raw.

She hasn't cried since the truck flipped. But her lashes are still clumped from dried tears. Her cheeks still glow faintly pink from the memory of them. She doesn't speak.

And across the aisle, Ava watches her.

Silent. Still. Unblinking.

She doesn't understand why it bothers her, Cici's tears. She doesn't cry for anyone. Not anymore. She doesn't believe in emotional weakness, or at least that's what she tells herself. But when Cici started crying, she wanted to pull her into her chest and hold her until it stopped. That wasn't a feeling Ava was prepared to deal with.

So instead, she watches.

She watches Cici not cry now. She watches the way John subtly angles his body toward her, the way his thumb absently drags along the edge of his knee like he's counting down the seconds until she says something. The way he only barely breathes because he doesn't want to disturb her.

Cici notices.

"Are you always this close to people?" She asks softly, voice hoarse from disuse.

John straightens a little, caught off guard.

"Only the ones I save from running into gunfire," He replies.

Cici lifts a brow, "You dragged me back into that truck like I was a ticking bomb."

"You were a ticking bomb," He says with a crooked half-smile, "Screaming your head off, trying to get shot. I did us both a favor."

Cici leans back in her seat and exhales, eyes closing for a moment. Her voice softens, "Thanks."

John glances sideways at her, trying not to look too proud of himself. "You're welcome."

Yelena shifts in her seat, "Aww. Look at this. Our dog and our idiot soldier, bonding."

"I'm not a dog," Cici says, softly this time, without opening her eyes.

"You barked at me," John mutters.

"I growled. Not the same thing."

"Still bit."

"Only because you deserved it."

Yelena snorts and rests her cheek against Alexei's shoulder, "You two sound like siblings."

"Gross," Ava says flatly from across the cabin.

John shoots her a look, "I think you're just jealous no one's tried to maul you today."

"No, I'm pretty good with that."

They all lapse into a brief, golden silence.

The plane lurches slightly with a gust of air, but no one reacts. They're used to motion now. Constant movement. Running, crashing, fighting. The stillness feels like something foreign.

Then Cici says, "I didn't think he'd do that."

"Who?" Yelena asks gently.

Cici looks up, her eyes glinting in the soft, dim cabin light. "Bob."

The name hangs there for a moment like a breath caught in the throat.

"I thought he was just..." She trails off.

John finishes for her, "Just some guy in pajamas?"

Cici nods. "But he ran. He ran out there. Got himself shot just to buy us time. I saw it happen. I felt it in my stomach. That... crack."

She touches her chest lightly, as if still feeling the echo of that pain.

"I thought he was dead," She says.

Her voice trembles, and she blinks, but no tears fall this time. Just memory. Just ghosts.

Yelena leans forward slightly, her voice low, "He's not dead."

"I know," Cici whispers, "But it felt real. It felt like losing something that mattered for the first time in a long time."

John is quiet for a long beat. Then he says, "He mattered."

And that's the first time he's said something without a trace of sarcasm.

Across from them, Ava closes her eyes. The guilt curls in her chest like smoke. She didn't stop him. None of them did. And yet... Bob is still out there, somewhere in the hands of Valentina. Somewhere between man and myth.

"We'll find him," Yelena says with a nod, "We'll get him back."

Alexei snores.

Then mumbles, "Team bonding... very important..."

The group chuckles quietly, and even Cici lets out a breath that might be a laugh.

John nudges her knee gently with his, "You okay?"

Cici exhales. "I don't know."

"That's okay," He says, "Just stay close. Alright?"

Cici looks at him, and for the first time since they met, since he taunted her, restrained her, infuriated her, she sees something that might be trust behind his eyes. Maybe just a flicker. But it's there.

She nods, "Yeah. I'll stay close."

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦