Everyone else is asleep.

And Cici is awake.

She doesn't shift.

She doesn't twitch.

She just sits there, staring at the metal wall of the aircraft, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she's holding herself together. Her leather jacket creaks softly as she shifts her weight, but her eyes don't move. They're wide, glossy, fixed on some point beyond the steel, some place far from this plane.

She tries to keep her breathing even.

She fails.

The silence eats at her ears, gnaws at her skin. It's not really silent, there's the engine hum, the occasional metal creak, but compared to the noise inside her head, the outside world is a tomb.

She's trying not to cry again. That's what she tells herself. That's why she's awake.

That's not why.

"You're not gonna sleep, are you?"

The voice cuts gently through the dark like a dull blade.

She startles slightly, jerks her head up, and there he is.

Bucky Barnes. Leaning against the side of the bulkhead. Arms crossed. Eyes steady. Quiet in a way that makes her think he's been standing there longer than she realized. Watching. Thinking.

She hadn't even heard him leave the cockpit.

Cici blinks at him. Doesn't answer.

Bucky steps closer, slow, like he's approaching a scared dog. Like he's seen this before, because he has.

"I know that look," He says, his voice low, "That weight. Like you're too tired to stand but too wired to sleep. Like if you close your eyes, the wrong part of you wakes up."

Cici says nothing.

Her mouth trembles slightly, but she clamps her jaw shut and breathes through her nose.

"You don't know me," She finally murmurs.

"Nope," He agrees, "But I know that."

She looks away again, a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye, streaking silently down her cheek.

"I don't sleep much either," Bucky says, "Still. Even now. Some nights are worse than others."

Her voice cracks, "Is this a bad night?"

He looks at her, really looks. At the trembling in her fingers. The way her shoulders are tight enough to crack her bones. The way her mouth fights itself between silence and scream.

"Yeah," He says, "This one's bad."

A bitter laugh flutters from her lips.

"I used to like flying," She says, eyes still on the wall, "I used to think clouds looked like little mountains I could hop on if I had wings. Like I could run away into the sky."

He doesn't interrupt.

"I don't remember everything," She says, "From before. Not clearly. Just flashes. My cousin... Marc... we were playing by a lake. I was a kid."

Her lips tremble.

"And then... I was gone."

Her breath hitches, but she swallows hard.

"I ran into the woods and I never came out. I mean, I did, but not the same."

Her voice breaks.

"I didn't mean to run so far. I just wanted to win hide and seek."

Bucky slowly lowers himself into the seat beside her. He doesn't touch her. Doesn't crowd her. Just... sits. Quiet. Present.

"I woke up in a cage," Cici whispers, "At first I thought it was a game. They told me it was training. They put me in this ring and told me if I won, I'd get food. If I lost..."

She trails off, voice shaking now.

"I don't remember their names. Just their eyes. Just the smell of metal and bleach and blood and... cheering. They cheered when I bled."

Her hands clench.

Bucky doesn't speak.

He can't.

He's heard versions of this before. Echoes. In other voices. In his own nightmares.

But this girl, this sharp, cracked, bleeding girl, she says it like someone who never got to say it out loud. Like her voice is relearning how to carry the weight.

"Sometimes I wish I remembered less," She says, "And sometimes I wish I remembered more. I don't know which would hurt less."

"You survived," Bucky says gently.

"Yeah," She laughs, short and joyless, "Congratulations to me."

Bucky looks at her, his jaw tight.

"You're still here," He says, "That matters."

"I don't know who I am anymore," She whispers, "Sometimes I feel like I'm just made of scars and rage and whatever's left of the little girl who liked frogs."

She finally looks at him, and her eyes glisten, huge and wet in the dim light.

"Do you ever feel like that?" She asks, "Like you're just the sum of what they did to you?"

Bucky's throat tightens.

"Yeah," He says, "Every damn day."

They sit there. In the quiet. Two weapons. Two ghosts. Two broken bodies trying to remember what it means to be human.

"Does it ever get better?" She asks.

He thinks about it.

Thinks about Steve. About Sam. About nightmares and therapy and long walks in Brooklyn.

"Not in the way you think," He says, "It doesn't go away. But... you build things around it. Small things. People. Moments. You earn pieces of yourself back. Slowly."

Cici nods, eyes brimming again.

Then, softly, she leans her head against his shoulder.

It surprises him.

She's so sharp. So volatile. So vicious when provoked. And now she's quiet, folded against him like she's trying to remember how to breathe through someone else's lungs.

He lets her stay there.

Doesn't move.

Doesn't speak.

Just breathes with her.

Slow.

Present.

Alive.

The wheels touch down with a gentle rumble, tires whispering against the tarmac as the plane slows to a crawl. Inside the cabin, the lights remain dim, casting a warm orange haze over the slumped bodies of the makeshift team.

Cici is curled up like a cat, fast asleep for the first time in what feels like forever. No one expected her to fall asleep. Not John, who kept one eye open all night just to make sure she didn't bolt. Not Yelena, who had quietly laid a jacket over Cici's shoulders. Not Ava, who'd been watching Cici like a hawk, every breath rising and falling like a soft countdown to something unknown. And certainly not Bucky, who now stands at the foot of the cabin stairs, arms folded, nodding once to signal: We've landed.

John glances from Bucky to Cici. He whispers through gritted teeth, "Don't wake her."

"I'm not gonna wake her," Yelena hisses, "You wake her."

"I'm not waking her!" John fires back, barely above a breath.

Alexei, of course, chooses this moment to sit up and stretch like a bear coming out of hibernation, "Ah! What a beautiful landing. Precision flying! Very soft, like little feather on goose!"

"Shhhh!" the others all hiss in unison.

Alexei freezes mid-stretch, eyes wide.

"Ohhhhhh," He says, pointing at the sleeping Cici, "Yes. Of course. The wolf sleeps."

John rolls his eyes and leans down, arms slipping under Cici as carefully as he can. She doesn't stir. Not a blink. Not a twitch. He exhales a silent prayer and lifts her into his arms, holding her like a live grenade with a pin half-pulled.

"She's lighter than I thought," He mutters as he tiptoes down the ramp, "But emotionally? Real heavy."

Yelena follows close behind, yawning but alert, a hand gripping the strap of her duffel. Ava brings up the rear, ever-watchful, scanning the dark edges of the airstrip.

Bucky is already waiting at the open U-Haul rental truck, engine rumbling low. He doesn't speak. Just nods and opens the back. It's dark, dusty, and smells faintly of motor oil and forgotten IKEA furniture. But it's better than a holding cell or a laboratory.

John steps inside first, maneuvering like he's holding glass. He finds a wide patch of floor and gently lowers Cici down. The second her head touches the floor, nope. That won't do. Her head's on cold steel.

Yelena and Ava both dive in at the same time, grabbing bags and jackets to make a makeshift pillow. But John has already sat down, and before he can stop it, Cici's head is on his leg.

"Oh no," John mutters, "Oh no, she's touching me."

"Shhhh," Yelena hisses, throwing a blanket over Cici like she's tucking in a fanged child.

One of Cici's legs flops to the side, right onto Ava's lap. Ava just looks down at the limb. Stares at it.

Yelena looks over and snorts quietly, "You gonna move it?"

"No," Ava whispers, "She'd wake up."

"Then enjoy," Yelena says.

The other foot dangles... and finds Yelena's thigh like it's home.

Yelena looks down, blinks at it.

John smirks,"You're the chosen one now."

Alexei clambers up behind them, groaning as his large frame squeezes into the back of the truck. The suspension creaks under him.

"Careful!" Ava warns, "She's sleeping!"

"I know, I know," Alexei says, whispering now. He crouches and tiptoes, yes, tiptoes, toward a corner and sits, hands folded in reverent stillness, "This is team-building. We must treasure these moments. I feel like we are in... how you say... snow globe. Very fragile. Very beautiful."

"You're the loudest snowflake I've ever met," Yelena whispers.

Cici shifts slightly, brows twitching like she might wake up.

Everyone freezes.

Alexei stops breathing.

John turns into a statue.

Ava sits straighter, bracing.

Cici sniffs once, then curls tighter into herself, murmuring something unintelligible, a ghost of a word. She stays asleep.

Everyone exhales in sync, like survivors of a near-death experience.

Yelena wipes a bit of sweat from her temple and looks to John, "She drools?"

John checks his pant leg, "Yup. Definitely drools."

Ava shrugs, "I like her better asleep."

"You just don't want her snapping your neck in her sleep," John mutters.

"No," Ava says softly, "I don't want her crying again."

The humor dies a little, replaced with something tender. The truck hums on the road, rocking them gently. Cici's breath is steady, deep. No snarls. No twitching. Just sleep.

"She looks like a kid," Ava whispers.

"She is," John murmurs.

Yelena nods, "All of us are, kind of. Just... broken kids in grown-up clothes."

Alexei raises a finger and whispers: "Speak for yourselves."

They all fall into a moment of silence. A heavy one. Not tense, but thoughtful.

Cici sleeps in the center of them all, her limbs draped like trust personified, like her unconscious body knows, despite all logic, that for once, she's safe. And that, maybe, she's no longer alone.

No one dares to move.

And for once, none of them want to.

The city breathes closer with every mile, and in the cab of the truck, Alexei breathes louder.

Bucky grips the steering wheel like he wants to throttle it.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I fought a bear?" Alexei asks, face bright with delight, eyes squinting out at the blur of passing billboards, "Real bear. Not metaphor. Big claws. Smelled like onions."

Bucky sighs through his nose and clenches his jaw, "I'm driving."

"Yes, yes, I can see this. You are doing so well! Very smooth. The truck is floating."

"It's a U-Haul, not a hovercraft."

Alexei hums contentedly, "In Soviet Russia, we do not have U-Hauls. We have M-Hauls. You haul M—more people, more potatoes, more secrets."

Bucky doesn't respond. He flips the turn signal and merges onto the freeway, jaw ticking like a metronome of barely-contained irritation. Beside him, Alexei stretches until his back cracks like gunfire.

Back in the cargo hold, the real challenge continues: Operation Don't Wake The Wolf.

Yelena sits criss-cross on the floor, balancing a protein bar in one hand and her patience in the other. Ava is curled near the opposite wall, leaning against it with one knee drawn to her chest, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward Cici every time the truck bumps. John sits where he's been for the past hour, Cici's head still on his lap, like a bomb he doesn't know how to defuse.

She's still asleep.

Mostly.

Sort of.

Her brows begin to twitch, then furrow.

One hand curls into a fist.

Yelena holds her breath.

"Don't move," She whispers.

Ava glances at John, "You're breathing too loud."

"I'm breathing regular," He mouths back.

Cici shifts again, this time with more force, an annoyed groan rasping from her throat like a warning growl. Her foot twitches and slams lightly into Ava's thigh.

"Ow."

"Shhh."

"Don't shhh me. I'm injured."

Cici's eyes flutter, then snap open. She sits bolt upright, hair flying in every direction, eyes wild and unfocused. Her hands instantly curl into fists.

Everyone freezes.

John lifts his palms like he's approaching a wounded animal, "Hey, hey. Easy. You're good."

Cici squints at him, then Yelena, then Ava.

Then she groans and collapses back down, burying her face into her arm, "Why is the floor moving."

"Because we're driving," Ava replies.

Cici groans again, "That's stupid."

Yelena leans in, grinning, "Morning, sunshine."

"Go away," Cici grumbles into her elbow.

"I would," Yelena whispers, "but your foot is still on my lap."

Cici kicks her leg off with a grunt, nearly knocking over a water bottle that rolls loudly across the truck bed. Everyone stares at it.

Cici watches it roll, eyes puffy with sleep, mouth drawn into a pout, "What time is it."

"Too early for that attitude," John says, half-smiling.

Cici glares at him, but it's a weak one. Sleep still tugs at her bones like gravity, "You're the worst person I've ever met."

"Okay, now I know you're feeling better."

Cici slumps against the wall, dragging her fingers through her hair and wincing at the knots, "Where are we?"

"Almost in the city," Ava says gently.

Cici squints toward the small window carved into the door. Light seeps in like diluted honey, catching dust motes in the air.

"My back hurts," She murmurs.

"Yeah, truck floors aren't five-star," John replies.

Yelena reaches into her jacket and tosses Cici a wrapped granola bar, "Eat. It'll help."

Cici unwraps it half-heartedly and takes a small bite. Her nose wrinkles, "Tastes like sand."

"That's the flavor," Ava says.

Cici sighs, rubbing her temples, "I hate mornings."

Ava smirks, "Didn't realize you had preferences about which time of day you were kidnapped and almost shot."

Cici gives her the finger.

"Ah, she's back," Ava says.

"Never left," John mutters, nudging her shoulder.

Cici huffs, "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You needed it," Yelena says, " You rest now, you hit hard later."

Cici looks down at the granola bar in her hand. Then up at all of them.

Her team.

Somehow.

A collection of misfits and monsters and ghosts, half-dead things still breathing.

She exhales slowly, "Thanks."

The metal of the truck rattles with every bump, but inside, the mood has warmed like slow-burning coals.

Cici's curled in the corner, the last remnants of sleep still clinging to her lashes. Her mood is softening with the day, her face less stormy now, more aware. She chews slowly, working through the protein bar like it wronged her, but she's listening now, watching them through narrowed eyes, curiosity seeping in.

"So, I have these little, zz zz," Yelena says, mimicking an electric jolt with two fingers, "Widow bites. One on each wrist. Left one? Little more juice."

John lifts an eyebrow, "Yeah, I remember."

Yelena grins proudly, "And then I have this--" she lifts her pistol with a flourish-- "Nineteen."

John raises his own gun with a boyish gleam, "Forty-five. Long barrel."

Ava, half-lounging beside a duffel bag, whistles low, "Wow. It's big."

John, not one to let the moment pass, tips his head, "Yeah, well, it's--"

Yelena interrupts, deadpan, "It's big. It's long."

John holds his hands up in mock defense, "It's a little... it's a little long."

They all chuckle, except for Cici, still chewing, watching from under heavy lids.

Yelena, now teasing, points at John's helmet tucked beside him, "And... what about your hat?"

John squints at her, "The hat? You mean the helmet?"

Yelena waves her hand, "Yeah, whatever you want to call it."

"It's cool, right?" John asks, picking it up and dusting it off, "You like it?"

Yelena shrugs, "Do you like the hat?"

John nods, "Yeah, I think the hat's pretty sweet."

"Then... cool," Yelena says with mock-finality.

Then, suddenly, like a spotlight turning, John's eyes slide over to Cici.

She freezes mid-bite.

The bar hovers at her lips.

John lifts his eyebrows, hopeful, "It's cool... right?"

Cici blinks. Slowly. The truck hums with anticipation as three pairs of eyes turn to her.

Her gaze flicks from John's pleading face to Yelena's amused grin to Ava's curious smirk.

She clears her throat, "Uh... sure?"

John throws both hands in the air triumphantly, "She likes the hat."

Yelena scoffs, amused, "She said sure, not love."

"Close enough," He says with a grin.

Then he leans forward, peering at her like he's only now remembering she's not just the scary girl who snarls when woken, "Okay. What do you have? What's your weapon, leather?"

Cici frowns, "What?"

"Leather," John repeats, gesturing to her brown jacket.

Cici shakes her head, " I have... a knife."

John blinks, "A knife? That's it?"

Before he can dig deeper, Yelena kicks him in the shin with her boot, earning a muffled ow.

"Knives are cool," She says, protective.

Yelena turns to Cici, voice softening, "What else, Cic?"

Cici stares down at her hands. Her fingers play with the frayed edge of her sleeve, her confidence shrinking under the weight of being perceived. She doesn't like to talk about her teeth. Doesn't like how people flinch when they see them. How they call her names, how they look at her like she's some animal broken out of her cage.

So she mumbles it.

"...my teeth."

John leans in, "What?"

"My teeth," She says again, barely louder.

Ava leans forward, arms resting on her knees, her voice quiet but coaxing, "Like... what about your teeth?"

"They're..." Cici trails off, struggling to say it, "They're not normal."

Yelena, ever the chaos fairy, grins, "Show us."

Cici flinches, eyes flicking between them all, and for a moment, she's a child again, shoved into the ring, told to bare her fangs, to bleed or be bled. But here, now, no one's demanding violence. Just... curiosity.

John catches the hesitation in her eyes and softens, "You don't have to."

But Yelena gently elbows her, "Come on. Impress us. I showed you my little zzz-zz hands."

Cici sighs. Her shoulders sag, defeated by affection. She exhales, then curls her lip back slowly.

There they are.

Not the sharpened canines you get with veneers or combat dental surgery.

No.

These are something else.

Her fangs slide down from her gumline with an audible click, like something metallic and ancient. Sleek. Silver-shot. Built for ripping, for tearing, for holding someone's throat between them until the heartbeat stops.

The air shifts.

Yelena lets out a low whistle, "Whoa."

John's eyes widen, "Okay, that's cool. That's actually really cool."

"Holy shit," Ava breathes.

Cici pulls them back with a snap, clenching her jaw. She hugs her arms around herself, expecting the awkward silence, the swallowed fear, the look she's seen a thousand times.

But it doesn't come.

Yelena bumps her shoulder, "You could bite through a tank."

John nods, visibly impressed, "That's definitely cooler than a long-ass pistol."

Ava grins, "Bet you could chew through handcuffs."

Cici blinks, "I have."

A moment of silence.

Cici lets her face fall into her palms.

But her smile lingers.

And it's not sharp, not dangerous.

It's warm.

She doesn't remember the last time someone called her impressive without meaning it like a warning.

Here, among the outcasts and misfits, her bite isn't a curse, it's a badge.

For the first time in a long time, Cici feels a little more human.

And for the first time ever, Bob feels like a god.

The wind at the top of the Watchtower tastes like ozone and glass, sterile, sharp, and synthetic. The sky stretches endlessly above Bob as he stands beneath the enormous glass ceiling where Stark's old logo has long been replaced by something new. Something Valentina painted in gold and navy, her rebranding of heroism, her personal pantheon. The gods she makes.

And now, she's crowned him.

Bob Reynolds stares at his reflection in the silvered glass wall that once overlooked the city as Iron Man, Captain America, and Thor stood shoulder to shoulder. Now, it's just him. The golden figure reflected back is alien. Sculpted. Larger than life.

He adjusts the hem of the navy-blue cape that drapes over his shoulder, watching how the cloth falls. The boots are black, military-grade, reinforced with Vibranium threading. The belt is thick, gilded, heavy, and the centerpiece is an elegant, simple "S," not just for "Sentry," but for the man Valentina wants the world to believe he is. A symbol of light, of leadership.

His golden bodysuit is skin-tight and seamless, the way Valentina's team insisted, "iconic," they said. "Majestic. Righteous." The material glows subtly under the overhead lights, like polished metal hammered by sun.

They dyed his hair hours ago. Blonde now, almost white under this light, slicked back from his brow. He hardly recognizes the man in the mirror. The soft, anxious Bob Reynolds is gone. Replaced with this, this statue. This god. This weapon.

The transformation is intoxicating.

Bob breathes in. The air shivers around him.

He lifts one hand, slowly, deliberately. He flexes his fingers, and the molecules around them bend. The room hums softly under his power, lights dimming just slightly as he draws energy inward without even thinking. The more confident he becomes, the easier it is to do.

Power used to be a distant concept to him, something other people had. Doctors. Scientists. Government officials. His father.

But now?

Now power answers to him.

He can feel it thrumming beneath his skin like a second pulse. It's almost... euphoric. He doesn't know where he ends and the energy begins.

And yet--

Her name enters his mind without warning.

Cici.

Like a whisper laced in static.

His body stiffens. Just a bit.

He blinks, and the reflection before him flickers, warps, just slightly, his golden visage melting into that image of her: knuckles bloodied, hair curled in wild ropes down her back, her brown leather jacket torn at the sleeve. The look she gave him when he fell. When she thought he was dying.

That look, it wasn't fear.

It was grief.

He wonders if she's alive.

He wonders if she escaped.

He wonders if, maybe, just maybe, she's somewhere safe.

A strange ache blooms in his chest. Not painful, just sudden. An unwelcome softness in the steel casing that's been built around his heart.

He takes a breath, forcing himself back into the now. His golden shoulders square.

"You're the dawn," Valentina told him earlier, "You are what comes after chaos. You are the new myth."

Bob wants to believe it.

He wants to believe it more than anything, because to believe otherwise would mean he's just a puppet. Just a sick man dressed like a god. Just another Bob.

But Cici, Cici didn't look at him like a god.

She looked at him like a person.

He swallows hard. That memory seeps up through the cracks, her hand in his, when it all began. The void they fell into together. The moment their minds collided like dying stars.

He saw her scream as a child, and she saw the fire he'd tried to drown inside himself his entire life.

He remembers how she looked at him afterward, not with fear, but with understanding. That's what she gave him. In that fraction of a second, in the pain, in the memory, she didn't pull away.

She held on.

"Sir?"

Bob flinches slightly. One of Valentina's uniformed handlers waits at the doorway, clipboard in hand.

"It's almost time."

Bob nods.

The handler disappears without waiting for further response.

Bob turns back to the window. The city glimmers below, unaware of the new sun rising above it.

His hand lifts again.

The glass before him vibrates now, ever so slightly. Not from his strength, but from him. He is a ripple in the air, a crack in gravity's skin.

And yet...

There's still a part of him that isn't sure.

He closes his eyes.

He sees her again.

He remembers how her lip trembled before she let herself laugh at something stupid Yelena said.

He remembers her crying.

He remembers how fiercely she fought when she thought he was gone.

And now?

Now she's out there, probably thinking he's dead.

Maybe that's safer for her.

Maybe it's better she never sees what he's becoming.

Bob presses his palm to the glass.

"I hope you're okay," He whispers, voice like smoke in the still air, "I really do."

Because this new world Valentina's building, this gleaming lie dressed up in gold, it's not made for someone like Cici.

She deserves more than gods and governments.

She deserves freedom.

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