#Rasp Plane factory

[householdmanufacturers]

The government never names the construction legal

Most people look to professional contractors specialized in home blueprints in Kelowna as they have sound experience in the field and are authorized to carry on with the home building or remodeling project. In a nutshell, the home blueprints in Rasp Plane Kelowna gives the overall outline of the building structure and set boundaries for each activity. Moreover, while selecting a home contractor, it is important to do some research to find out the authenticity. Furthermore, without an adequate home blueprint and complying with the applicable laws, the government never names the construction legal. This is the best way to ensure that things are done in the most appropriate way because only the experts can complete the project successfully, safely, and on-time.

Planning is the most important part of any construction project whether you are designing an entirely new home or just remodeling the existing one. Building a house is no simple task as it requires coordination of different activities. A proper layout gives all the details regarding the roof structure and its safety and not complying with some rules may lead to an unsafe construction. It gives the constructors as well as the homeowners a sense of security that the home is built safe and sound. The author writes for a home construction company that offer home blueprints Kelowna, design service, sample home designs, and more. It is also very important to ask some questions like does the layout suit your needs, is the space enough to accommodate entire family and guests, does it have a proper storage space and more. The house plans are still popular with the name of blueprints but are printed using digital printers on a large format or designed using software.

In simple words, any construction without a proper plan will be marked as illegal.A Good Home Blueprint Leads to a Perfect House! Blueprints are also called as house plans, working or construction drawings and used by builders as a map to instruct them through the project. Home blueprints offer the construction companies a better idea of what to spend on the project. Therefore, to gain a better idea of the project, the designers make plans taking into account the exact measurements of each room and how the things would fit such as bathtubs, sinks, showers, cabinets, fittings, etc. It is a critical tool for planning the interiors, setting a budget, scheduling activities and coordinating all activities as well as resources for attaining the perfect result.

Earlier house plans were only a set of few pages with white lines on a dark blue background, but now the era has changed. Home blueprints in Kelowna aim at transforming the drawing into your vision of perfection. The plan also complies with the various laws and legal requirements as applicable in Kelowna.. Home plans are crucial when it comes to the construction of a new home as the constructor have no idea what the finished product would look like. Planning also includes setting a budget and sticking to it as there are always small unforeseeable costs that need to be taken care of. Today, the world cannot be imagined without blueprints as nothing would be done accurately

[hansolmates]

jjk; angel’s trumpet [06]

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, in this chapter—partial nudity, dry humping, sad tears  w.c; 3.5k a/n; a little steamy in the beginning but soft and gooey in the end! enjoy the softness while it lasts bc we’re getting close to the end!! and to satiate your curiosity yes cheesecake factory was ultimate date night 

[05] [06] [07] -> masterpost

Abiding by the dress code, you show up at Jungkook’s doorstep with your rattiest sweatpants, Adidas slides and a plain black t-shirt. You hold your night pack in one hand, and a pint of taro ice cream in your other. 

Before you even have a chance to knock the door is flung open, Jungkook ushering you inside with his marigold oven mitts. Aside from the frilly pink apron that you’re half sure is Minghao’s, you and Jungkook are unexpectedly matching in overworn sweatpants and oversized t-shirts. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he’s hot under the stove, sweat beading from his temples as he concentrates on simmering the cream for your pasta. He’s carefully spooning the angel hair pasta from the pot to his saucepan, mixing the sauce vigorously in order to emulsify the contents. You wonder how many Binging with Babish and Joshua Weissman he watched to get to this kind of expertise in the kitchen. 

You hug his torso, peeking up from his elbows, “It smells divine.” 

“Thanks, baby. It’s almost done. Mind finishing up the table?” 

A smile quirks up when you see the coffee table cleared, apart from two wine glasses and a Bath and Body Works candle lit in the middle. Off the table you see a plastic bag with a takeout strawberry cheesecake. You quickly move through his kitchen to grab some plates and cutlery, setting the table that is lined with a simple white table cloth. 

“I’m getting the whole Olive Garden treatment today, huh?” you say as you uncork the wine, pouring two hearty glasses. 

“Nuh-uh. We’re going full-out Cheesecake Factory tonight.” 

You set out the coaster for him to place the pasta pan between you two. The pasta is mixed with a hearty aroma of your favorite aromatics and with plenty of fix-ins to declare a hearty meal. Jungkook also pulls out a basket of bread with a pad of butter in the middle, and your mouth salivates as you pick up a dark brown one. The bread is still hot from the touch, like a little pillow in your hands as you rip it open. 

The two of you converse mindlessly over dinner, talking about various things and catching up with the week. Warm, flushed with affection and wine, you bask in the simple but sweet dinner with your favorite person. 

Eventually you two got lazy spooning pasta into your plate and cuddled up in the middle of the table, spooning each other twirled pasta until the pan’s licked clean. 

Jungkook’s quick to turn on Disney+ once you’re done, hopping on the couch to flip through his holy grail films. 

“Quick. Favorite Avenger?” 

“Well… I think Antman’s pretty—”

“Antman? Antman? You may be only one of three people in this world that like Marvel over DC,” he wags the remote at you like a child, “I’m sorry but I think we need to re-evaluate your sanity.”

“Hey! It's a cute movie, okay? He’s sacrificed everything out of love for his daughter.” 

You sit up on your knees, putting your hands atop your boyfriend’s thighs as you explain your earnest opinion. You’re nestled between his legs, looking up at him with a determined look on your face. 

Jungkook on the other hand, can’t help but view this precarious situation as anything but innocent. But seeing the pout on your face and your insistence to defend the superhero has him melting. 

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you up. 

You immediately let him tug you to his lap, fitting your legs between his torso like a puzzle piece. It’s a perfect fit, and you immediately thread your fingers through his head, feeling like a koala as you cling to the scent of his fabric softener. 

“Wanna know a secret?” he faux whispers.

You hum against the collar of his shirt. 

“I really, really like you.” 

“That’s a terrible secret,” you deadpan, “I already knew that. You gave me the whole Cheesecake Factory treatment, after all. In high school, going on a date there confirmed you were serious.” 

“I guess this is me confirming how serious I am about us?” he tugs you away from his neck so he can press his forehead to yours. He lets his eyes flutter shut, and your finger goes to trail down his nose to his lips, “because I am,” he whispers, words moving against your pointer, “very serious about us.” 

“I am too,” you reply earnestly, the pads of your thumbs brushing against his soft cheeks. As you stare in his eyes, you feel a shift in your chest, a sign. 

Hoseok was right. He’s Jungkook, but not your Jungkook. You try not to let your smile falter as you trace the planes of his skin, noting the clear, stress-free skin and lack of eye bags. 

You try to pin your incessant thoughts for now, Jungkook put a lot of effort in this date. He presses his lips to yours, and you immediately let yourself relent under his touch. His hands are warm and needy, trailing from the waistband to the bare skin of your back. His hands fumble to where your bra is supposed to be, and he breaks from your kiss. 

He raises an eyebrow, “You really committed to the dress code tonight, eh?” 

You reach for his hand, letting him palm your bare breast. “I–oh,” you bite your lip at the way he kneads the tender flesh, his wide doe eyes fixated on your facial expression, “always like to be prepared.” 

Squirming in his lap, you let yourself sink against his crotch as you fumble to rip off your t-shirt. Jungkook drinks you in, petal pink lips parting like a kitten starved for milk. One large hand settles on your waist, and his lips latch onto a nipple. 

You cry out, instinctively rolling your hips against his as he brings you to a slow, sensual pace. 

“My pretty girl,” he praises, marveling at the way you immediately respond to his touches. “You look so, so beautiful like this.” 

He snaps his hips up, and through the thin material of your soaked sweats, it’s apparent that he likes this as much as you do. You bite your lip, getting lost in the way Jungkook tends to your body. 

“Baby,” he rasps against your neck, dampening the skin, “hold tight.” 

And his hands move to cup your cheeks, lifting you up in one swoop and bringing you to his room. You immediately cling to him like your life depends on it, and you both giggle and laugh as your boobs bounce with every step and how he suddenly got a cramp in his calf for getting up too fast. 

Jungkook quickly throws you on his twin, and for a second you feel like you’re floating. The sheets smell like floral fabric softener, and you’re encased in an ocean of seashell white blankets and fluffy pillows. Jungkook crawls over to you, looking absolutely smitten as he trails a stream of kisses from your bare belly button all the way to your lips. 

“God, I’m so lucky,” he husks against your collarbone, and you can feel the smile on his lips melding into your skin. “I’m so lucky to have met someone like you, and you’re all mine.” 

At the second he says that, the whole moment feels like an out of body experience. Not in the way two minutes ago, when you felt like you were on cloud nine as Jungkook ravished your body. This feeling is akin to drowning, making you all choked up as you try your hardest not to let the man above you notice. 

“Hey,” he brushes against your cheeks, the pads of his thumbs gathering the moisture welling from your eyes, “baby, are you okay?” 

“Oh,” you sit up slightly, roughly scrubbing away the tears from your face. A strong flush overrides any hint of pleasure that you felt, effectively ruining the moment. You feel terrible, angry at yourself for getting so caught up in your emotions. “I—I’m sorry, it’s just…” 

“Is it me?” he looks a little hurt, sitting on his heels to give you some space, “did we go too fast? I’m sorry—” 

“No, no Jungkook!” you fling up, finding the strength to wrap your small hands around his. “You, you’ve been wonderful. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for more. You’ve done so much for me in a short amount of time,” you squeeze his hands, feeling the warmth of his fingers sink through yours. You wish you could hold onto him, keep this moment tangible for as long as possible. “It’s me, Jungkook. I’m a little messed up in the head.” 

“Is it him?” 

You can’t tell from Jungkook’s expression if he’s feeling slighted by W1 Jungkook. Despite not knowing the situation fully, he really does have a good grasp on how much this has been affecting you, and how much you’ve been trying to avoid it. You have it good here, you can’t deny that. But you can’t be here forever, it isn’t fair to anyone. 

“Some of it, yeah,” you let go of him, hands falling at your lap as you dampen his sheets with your continuous bout of silent sobs. “I’m so sorry, Jungkook. You must think I’m awful and you’re the second choice and fuck—you don’t deserve any of this. I’ve been so selfish wanting to be happy after so long and—”

Patient, loving Jungkook pulls you into his arms, forcing your head between his so he can stroke your head. You’re now full on sobbing on his chest, succumbing to his touch as he soothes you like a baby. 

“What’s so wrong about being selfish for a little bit?” he asks, tone light. He rests his chin on your crown. “At the end of the day, this is your life. Do what makes you happy, save yourself.” 

You don’t know if you can form coherent words so you nod fervently, nuzzling your nose into his collarbone. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Take your time with me, y/n.” 

Is there even time left to take? 

The two of you stay like that for a while. You don’t know how long, but eventually your tears dry and Jungkook’s body is too furnace-like to be pressed up against. Moving so you can still face each other, you plop yourselves side-by-side on the mattress, facing each other. 

Fiddling with the sheets you ask, “Can I still stay here?” 

A soft smile resurfaces to Jungkook’s lips, immediately alleviating your hesitancy. “Of course, I wouldn’t want you to sleep alone if you’re still shaken up.” 

“Could you tell me something happy? So we can end the night on a positive note.” 

He chuckles, propping his arm up on the pillow and tucking his hand to support his head. He’s still shirtless, inadvertently flexing as he adjusts himself. You try not to stare, but Jungkook decides not to tease you just this once. 

“So, it’s kinda-sorta a secret. I’m not really confident about it yet but,” he blows on his black bangs, nervous, “I like to sing.” 

A small, tender smile worms its way onto your visage. “Yeah? I’m sure you’re a beautiful singer.” 

Jungkook snorts, “You’ve never even heard me.” 

“Hm, I still know you’re beautiful.” 

“Well, there’s this producer that works at the radio station. He’s a friend of a friend, and they hooked me up and I’m gonna collab with him. We’re gonna finally meet up and I’m gonna demo some of his songs. He needs a vocalist.” 

“That’s amazing. I can’t wait to hear.” 

“Yeah,” and a dreamy smile overtakes his lips, his eyes floating to the gold LEDs decorating his room as if they are stars. “It’s just a hobby, but I wanna give my all in this.” 

You hum, tucking your hands between the cool pillow, “Can I hear you sing?” 

He frowns, “I’m not even warmed up.” 

“C���mon, just a ‘lil sample!” 

“What do I get out of it?” 

“A happy girlfriend. And if you’re that uncomfortable I’ll sing for you after. I make a pretty mean rendition of Happy Birthday.” 

A pause, and he relents, reaching over to squish your cheek. “Only because you look so peaceful right now,” he sits up a little, “any requests?” 

“Lost Stars, by Maroon 5.” 

“Oh, so she has taste.” 

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be vulnerable around you. You almost tear up again, hearing the sweet sounds of his voice as he starts off with the pre-chorus of a cover near and dear to your heart. He’s right, his voice is rough and untrained, but the potential is there. But it’s the one thing from home that you’ve missed, and just a couple notes is enough to make you feel at home. 

Once his sample ends, he throws you a small smile and buries himself in the blankets. His face pops up cutely, embarrassed. 

You throw yourself onto the mattress with a flourish, clutching your chest as you make a show of swooning. “That was beautiful,” you say sincerely, “please post a full cover on YouTube. They’re gonna swoon over you.” 

He rolls his eyes, “As if. Only K-pop idols get that kind of attention.” 

“I suppose,” you shrug. 

“But you, however. I remember you saying you were gonna sing for me in return,” he laughs when you groan and flop against the cushions. “C’mon, I wanna see that Happy Birthday remix!” 

You playfully sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Alright, but you only get one line.” 

“Mhm, hit me with that Happy Birthday.” 

No, you are not going to sing Happy Birthday. You take your time, and reach a hand to caress his face. He easily leaned into your touch, placing his hand on top of yours. 

“Take my hands now, you are the cause of my Euphoria.” 

Whether your singing talents are good or not did not matter, Jungkook is equally enamoured. “That’s a nice song,” he says simply, “I’ve never heard it before.” 

You shrug, scooting closer, “Maybe you will one day.” 

The length of the day starts to edge you off to sleep, and you feel your eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness. Jungkook seems equally exhausted, but patient as he watches you fight to stay awake. He pulls the blankets over both of you, reaching forward to pull you closer. 

He looks at you in consent, hands hovering over you as you nod. He starts with your shoulder, trailing his palms down your smooth skin before it reaches the curve of your waist. 

“G’night, Koo,” you mumble, snuggling into his warm chest, “‘M sorry again, we’ll talk about it soon.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” how could he possibly be upset, when he feels how much you care for him right here at this very moment? He presses his lips to your forehead, “everything will be fine, pretty girl. The way I see it, the way we met was fate.” 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

W1. 

Jungkook jolts awake, as if lightning pierces his system. 

Instinctively, his hand reaches for yours. Despite the weather getting warmer, your hand still remains uncomfortably cold. He rubs a hand across his face, sweeping the sleep that so desperately wants to take him. 

Things have changed. Your superficial wounds have healed, however you still appear pale and lifeless, twitching occasionally in your sleep. 

Your position has been replaced, right off the bat. There’s a new language teacher to guide the rookies, who has big shoes to fill as they take long hours to ensure that they’re worth keeping. He isn’t sure you’ll have a job to come back to when you wake up. 

It’s been well over a month since he’s seen you. The first couple of days he refused to leave your side, insistent on cleaning your skin with a warm cloth and putting lavender lotion on because you couldn’t. After that, he had no choice in the matter. Life had to go on without you. 

If anyone was in pain from your hit and run, they’ve so far masked it really well. Everyone other than Sehlyung however, whose roots have grown in and her stitching has slowed considerably, as if always interrupted by mere thought. But smiles continue to be exchanged, performances are full of unbridled energy, and he immerses himself completely. Except today when he gets a break, he insists to drive straight to the hospital to keep you company, even if you don’t know it. 

At that time Jimin placed a soft hand upon his sunken cheek, pale due to overexertion and lack of sleep. “Jungkook, you can go home with us and rest for a few hours,” he tried to convince him, “she’s not going anywhere.” 

“I know,” he felt like a child, fiddling with his hangnails as he’s pressed between Jimin and Hoseok in the back of their van, “just don’t wanna waste any time doing needless things.” 

“Like showering, eating, making sure you’re still a human being?” Hoseok tried to lighten the mood, staring out onto the city as they made their way to their apartment complex. “C’mon, I’m sure y/n can still smell how much you stink right now.” 

Someone chided Hoseok, and threw a bag of Cheetos in his lap. The conversation on their side started to morph into something else, completely forgetting the conflict Jungkook was going through. Jungkook sunk further into his seat, thighs brushing against Jimin’s as he continued his spiel. 

Jimin offered him a tentative smile, “In case she wakes up, y’know? I’m sure she doesn’t want to see you like this.” 

Jungkook’s not even sure if you’d want to see him at all. 

Nevertheless it’s six against one, and with a quick shower and a granola bar he’s already Ubering to the hospital. Initially he was going to bring his work computer to get some stuff done in your room, but he figured your family would be in your room and he didn’t want to impose. 

Thankfully, he could avoid another awkward conversation today (he didn’t want to remember the first one)  as the nurses told him that your family already left for today. That much was evident when he spotted a garbage bag by the door, filled with pizza boxes. Courtesy of the company you’ve been moved to a VIP room, large enough for your visiting family to spend their days in. 

The desk that he usually occupies to do work is filled with coloring pages from your younger cousins, renditions of you awake and playing dress-up with them. He doesn’t bother pushing them aside, instead plopping his bag in its chair and going over to the sofa chair closest to your bedside. 

Fast-forward to now, he doesn’t know when he fell asleep holding your hand. He opens your bedside drawer to search for something to wake him up. You always kept a tin of breath mints in your purse, just in case. 

Your purse is splayed out across the drawer, stray items rolling back and forth. Immediately finding the forest green tin Jungkook pops two spearmints in his mouth, slamming the drawer shut. 

He hears glass shuffle between the wood. Confused, he opens the drawer again, slowly. In the very back corner, there’s a bottle he’s never seen before. He picks up the tiny container, weighing it between his palms. A wilted, once sunset orange flower is floating sadly between the clear liquid. There’s a little bit of the liquid left, and it almost looks like a novelty item you keep in your purse, like a good luck charm. He pops open the lid and brings it to his nose. Maybe it’s his propensity to get sick more often, but he can’t smell its contents. 

With a shrug, he throws it back and takes a swig. 

He immediately coughs at the sudden and unexpected tang of floral alcohol. Some of the nurses passing by ask if he’s fine, but he waves them off and reaches for the glass of water on the counter. After downing half the glass he quickly caps the jar and shoves it back in your purse. 

Resting his head on the thin mattress, he reaches for your hand again. He whispers your name. 

“Can you hear me?” he says, halfheartedly trying to get you riled up like old times, “when you wake up, you owe me an explanation of whatever poison is in your bag.” 

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of you. It’s like he’s swimming, present but not. But it’s definitely his gaze, from his point of view. He sees you, naked in an unfamiliar room with warm yellow LEDs, reaching to caress his messy hair. Jungkook’s hands are splayed over your body, and he can almost feel how soft your skin is, slightly damp but comfortable enough to hold you. He can’t make out whatever you’re saying, but you flash him a tired smile and snuggle further into his chest, as warm as can be. 

[omg-just-peachy]

I have a soft spot for parents who run themselves ragged taking care of a sick kid and then need to be aggressively cared for themselves. What about a scenario that starts when out-of-town Tony comes home to find the kid on the mend but a stressed-out, super sick co-parent Steve who Tony needs to coax out of damage-control mode in order to cuddle. Or vice versa, if you prefer sick!Tony ;)

Ahh yes, yes this is so soft and good ❤️ Tony comes home and finds Steve is Struggling.--

Tony opens the door, exhausted, eager to be home and reunite with Peter and Steve, but stops when he opens the door, nearly dropping his keys in the process. He’s pretty sure hurricanes have caused less damage than what’s been done to the Rogers-Stark household in the time he’s been away. Steve mentioned that Peter was sick, but made it sound like everything was under control, and this was… the opposite of under control. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink when the dishwasher was right there, and there were socks and toys and stuffed animals covering nearly every available surface. Steve had clearly pulled out all the stops trying to comfort Peter between Tony being away and the latest bug. 

When Peter got sick, they were learning, it happened in the blink of an eye, but he recovered just as fast. Preschool germs were rampant, but all the kids seemed to bounce back quickly, nearly immune to each other and every gross, drool-covered surface in the classroom. A sick kid could be almost more of a handful than a healthy one, though, and Tony feels guilt twinge in his chest for not being there. He picks up discarded blankets, toys, and debris as he makes his way to the living room, where he finds Steve laying face down on the couch while Peter played with a few of his latest favorite toys on his back. 

“Anyone wanna explain why it looks like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and Toys R Us imploded in my house?” Tony says in greeting, smiling widely when Peter launches himself off of Steve and into Tony’s arms. 

“Daddy’s back!” He yells, and Steve does his best to lift his head from the pillow, smiling weakly over at Tony and Peter, who is hanging from Tony’s neck like a baby koala.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Steve rasps, and it just like that, the mess, the way Peter was clearly the one running the show, it all comes together. 

“Uh oh, someone couldn’t hang with the five and under crowd,” Tony says, making his way over to Steve. He deposits Peter on the floor and strokes a hand through Steve’s hair. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick too? I would’ve come home earlier; you know I’ll take any excuse to give board members the slip.” 

Steve rubs his face against the throw pillow he appeared to be burrowing into and groans with a shrug. 

“We were doing okay until yesterday morning. Peter started feeling better, but then I started to feel worse and I couldn’t keep up with him. I’m sorry about the mess, I just…” Steve turns to the side to cough, clearing his throat miserably. “It was the field trip,” Steve croaks.

While Tony was away, Peter’s class went on a field trip to the aquarium, which Peter had been off the charts excited about. His new thing was Finding Dory, which they’d all watched no less than three hundred times, and he could not wait to find all the fish when they went; the fact that Steve would be chaperoning the trip only added to Peter’s excitement. Tony had to admit, the pictures he got from Steve, candids of Peter with his face pressed against the glass tanks, or a posed photo of him holding up a stuffed clown fish were almost enough to make him turn his plane around to join them. However cute the day had been, though, it’d clearly massacred Steve’s immune system. Tony doubted his husband had been this sick since he was about seventeen years-old. 

“Poor guy. Have you taken anything? I can handle bath time and clean everything up, okay? I’ll get Nemo here in the tub and grab the medicine.” 

“Can Marlin come?” Peter asks, wielding the fish and squealing as Tony picked him and tickled him. 

“Marlin can’t really swim, kiddo,” Tony tells him. “He’s gonna have to wait on land. Maybe we can leave Marlin with Daddy so he can keep an eye on him while you and I are upstairs?”

Peter contemplates this before holding his arms out to Steve, and Tony walks them over, crouching down. 

“Daddy,” Peter whispers. “Marlin’s gonna stay with you. He’s a dad, just like you!” Peter lays the little stuffed fish beside Steve, who smiles up at them, eyes tired and red.

“Thanks, Pete,” he murmurs. 

-- 

When Tony comes back, Steve is asleep, snoring quietly on the couch from under the blanket Tony draped over him. He looks exhausted, like anyone would after a week alone with a recovering toddler, and Tony touches a finger to the dark circles under his husband’s closed eyes, letting him sleep. Peter’s in pajamas, the room around them is organized, and, to no one’s surprise, their son requests that they put Finding Dory on. Steve might have slept right through the night if Tony hadn’t laid a gentle hand to his forehead, checking to make sure he didn’t have a fever.

“I’m up!” Steve declares, sitting up and looking around, wide-eyed. “What happened?”

“It’s just me, you can go back to sleep.” Tony runs a hand through Steve’s hair, pushing it back and off his forehead. “We’re just watching a movie. You have one guess which one it is,” Tony says quietly. 

He relocates to Steve’s side, lifting the blanket up and settling himself in against him. Steve’s warm from sleep, though luckily he doesn’t seem to have a fever, and, god, Tony had missed this while he was away. He knows he’s running the risk of getting sick himself, but has no plans to leave this spot. Steve leans into him, pressing his face into the crook of Tony’s neck and smiling. 

“Mm, missed you,” he says. “Turns out, doing this parenting thing alone is hard. Hazardous to one’s health, even.” Steve still sounds tired and congested, but the medicine Tony gave him does seem to have helped, and he kisses Steve’s temple in agreement. 

“The good news is, we don’t have to.”

Peter chooses then to look away from his fishy friends and over at his parents, snuggled up together on the sofa. He’s still too young to be embarrassed by parental affection, loves it, in fact. He’s a tactile kid who is just like Tony in a lot of ways, but especially in how he shows affection. He’s always the instigator for “sleepovers in the big bed” and group hugs before he goes to daycare in the morning, dragging them along, one hand in Steve’s and one in Tony’s, to school. Peter pouts over at them for leaving him out before leaping to his feet. 

“Wait for me, wait for me!” He sprints the short distance across the room and nestles himself in between Steve and Tony, burrowing into the blankets. 

“Comfy?” Tony asks after a few minutes, overwhelmed by how thankful he is to be home with his family, tucked up under blankets, Steve recuperating and Peter happily making his stuffed Marlin swim along with the movie. 

He smiles when Steve and Peter answer in unison, a resounding yes. 

[silverfootstepswrites]

title Halfway summary Standing in between the past and today pairing itasaku, tobisaku, hot messes

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix (here) | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)

The city passed by in a blur. Her head spinning, eyes drifting shut as the wind blew through her hair. The taste of beer lingering on her lips, making her tongue heavy and sweet.

Sakura leaned her head back against the seat. Her thighs numb. The tip of her nose tingling. Edison lowered the volume on the radio. Teeth clenched around his cigarette. 

“Where do you want to go, babe?” he asked her. And Sakura opened her eyes, already smiling.

“Anywhere,” she replied. Her eyes glittering just as bright as the streets that rushed past. And Edison grinned. The gold chains around his neck sparkling. He laughed. 

Sakura jolted awake. Her hands trembling. Sweat cooling on the nape of her neck.

Itachi opened his eyes to find Sakura on the balcony. Curled up in one of the teak chairs. Her arms wrapped around herself. From just her profile, he couldn’t quite see what expression she had on her face. And as he watched, a single wisp of smoke rose from her pursed lips. She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. 

He wondered why she was out there. Naked. When her robe hung from the hook on the bathroom door. Or why she hadn’t woken him. 

She turned her head to the side. Staring straight at him. Through him.

And he had the feeling that it wasn’t just the glass doors that separated them.

Itachi flew back later that afternoon. The taxi driver waited outside the penthouse, red car idling. And Itachi stood in front of the elevator, arms caging her in the corner. Her right shoulder pressing to the cool window. Her smile made it clear that she didn’t feel trapped at all.

“When will you be in Tokyo?” he asked.

“Soon,” she assured him.

“When?”

He leaned in closer. When he tilted his head like that, she could see the marks she had left on his neck. Scattered under his ear. Little bruises like constellations. Her smile widened. She ran her palm over them, just a little rough. 

“Soon,” she promised. 

And then, the teasing in his eyes faded. He sagged, lips touching the top of her head. She felt the change. Her fingers curled around a few strands of his ponytail. 

“I don’t want to go back,” Itachi sighed. She had heard his many different voices before. But never this one. 

“I’m sure your underlings would have an issue with that. Also, you have family, don’t you?” Sakura reminded him. Itachi raised his head. She had grown used to seeing him like this. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. Really smiled.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Putting on a face?” Itachi clarified. 

Sakura laughed for real. The sound startled even her. And then she dragged both her hands up his jaw. Tracing the curve of his cheekbones. Her eyes blazing into his.

“You silly man. Neither of us is putting on a face. This is who we are, Itachi,” she declared. He wasn’t laughing, though. He searched her expression. And her gaze softened.

“But this is me, too,” she added. patting his cheek. 

“And who does this part of you belong to?” Itachi queried. She smirked.

“To me,” she retorted. Pressing a kiss to his mouth. Catching his lower lip between her teeth. 

“Now go, Leng zai, before I decide not to let you,” she whispered. A look crossed his face. This one, she did recognize.

“I could always catch a later flight,” he mused. Sakura pushed him in the chest. And he obliged by taking a step back. 

“Go. That last minute plane ticket wasn’t cheap. Think of it as my Christmas present to you,” retorted Sakura. She reached around him to hit the elevator button. Itachi took her hand. He pressed her fingers to his mouth, a crafty look narrowing his eyes. 

“I thought my Christmas present was last night when you let m-”

“Itachi,” she sighed, her voice a little sharp. The time for jokes was over. He nipped the tip of her thumb before releasing her.

“Call me when you’re in Tokyo,” he said.

“Maybe,” Sakura called after him as he stepped into the elevator. His chuckle was the last thing she saw before the doors slid shut on him. 

“What happened to the Kumicho?” asked Tenten as she opened the car door for Sakura. She folded up the umbrella and got into the car after her. Sakura crossed one leg over the other. Red heels gleaming. She opened up her compact and began patting foundation over the marks on her neck and chest.

“I sent him home,” Sakura answered.

“You could have worn another shirt,” remarked Tenten, her voice a little dry. 

“I could have. But I didn’t,” Sakura responded. A little bite to her words. Tenten narrowed her eyes but held her tongue. She sat up a little straighter, eyes focused ahead.

“...Deui m’jyu,” Tenten apologized, “I overstepped my bounds.” 

Sakura snapped her compact shut. “No. If I didn’t have you giving me a hard time, who knows what stupid things I’d be off doing. Just... everything in moderation.” She glanced over at Tenten and offered her a smile.

The rest of the car ride was silent. As Zabuza pulled up to the fish factory, his eyes darted up to the rearview mirror.

“Have a nice night, Aunt Cheng,” he said. The car stopped. Tenten opened up the door to let her out. Already spreading the umbrella against the rain pouring down from the heavens. Sakura headed into the warehouse. The lights flickering as she passed under them. Tenten paused in the doorway to close the umbrella. And she clicked her tongue at the dilapidated state of the rusted halls.

“Those little shits. I even told them to clean up since you were coming,” she grumbled. Sakura snorted. 

She pushed the metal door open. It groaned on its hinges. And the creak made heads turn. 

“Ah! There you are!” Sai said, raising his pliers at her. Blood flecked his face and the front of his once-white shirt. Sakura stepped closer, onto the layers of tarp and plastic taped to the concrete. She avoided the pools of blood, a careless glance skimming over them. And then she reached out, squeezing Sai’s cheeks together. 

“Looks like you’ve been having fun, sai lo. Any good news for me?” Sakura greeted him. Blood smeared across her thumb as she released him. Sai ducked his head to wipe his face on his sleeve. Then he made a beckoning motion. One of the underlings came forward with a folding chair. Set it just on the edge of the tarp, away from the biggest splashes of blood. He bowed, backing away. And Sakura sat, pulling a handkerchief from the inside of her coat. She wiped her hand.

“Good and bad. Which one do you want to hear first?” Sai said, crouching in front of her. 

Sakura reached into her coat again. She pulled out a box of cigarettes. Tapped one out for herself. Then, she offered him the box. Sai plucked two out. He lit both at the same time, handed one back to her.

“Bad,” she replied. She drew in a long breath through her teeth, exhaling through her nostrils. Smoke spilling from her like her insides were a furnace. Red mouth parting as she watched him. 

Sai took a short drag. He pursed his lips as he exhaled. And then he tucked his cigarette behind his ear, squinting.

“Alright. This guy’s short about 41,000. And he hasn’t got shit to pay with. No house. No car,” Sai informed her. He jabbed his thumb back at the man tied to the chair. Blood still dripping from his face. He was slumped forward. The only way she could tell that he was still alive was the way his thin back rose and fell with each breath. Sakura’s eyes narrowed.

“You brought me all the way out here for this?” Sakura growled. Sai held up his hand.

“So here’s the good news. Or at least, it’s funny? This lan yeung says he knows you, Boss,” Sai told her before she could get angry. Sakura glanced at the captive again. At this ratty, bleached hair. Growing in dark at the roots. The piercings running up his ears. The black scorpion on his neck did seem vaguely familiar. 

“Hm... that is funny. Why don’t we let him talk? That is... if you’ve left enough teeth for him to,” Sakura said. 

“Relax. I only took two. You’re always telling me to pace myself,” replied Sai. He got to his feet. Grabbing the back of the chair, he dragged their captive over the tarp. She watched him through the haze of her cigarette as Sai jolted him down in front of her. 

The man’s head lolled toward his chest. But after a while, he lifted his head. Blood dribbling down his chin. But when he opened his eyes, unscrunching his face, she recognized the jagged scar running down the side of his mouth, pulling it into a grimace. Her eyes widened.

“Four-Eyes Ngai?” she guessed, a little incredulous. His broken glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. The rose-colored lenses spattered with grime.

“Lan hai it is you,” Sakura laughed. 

Blood and saliva bubbled out of his lips. Sakura leaned forward to dab it away with her handkerchief.

“You used to be the biggest dealer in Causeway Bay. What’re you doing here taking out loans from the 24K?” she went on. Four-Eyes cleared his throat, wincing.

“When those pok gaai like York Ng and Red Eyes Chiu moved in from Macau, they got in tight with the Suns. Drove me out of my turf,” he rasped. Sakura’s eyes narrowed. She dropped the dirtied handkerchief. Resting her cheek in her palm as she looked over his ragged state. 

“Really? Rumor has it that you turned informant for the HKPD,” she pressed. Four-Eyes Ngai looked up at her, chuckling bitterly. 

“Oh, come on Mei-Mei. You, Dirty Sam, me. We were tight back then. You know me. I would never work with the fucking cops,” he reminded her.

Sakura’s smile dropped.

“Dirty Sam is dead,” she told him. Voice flat. 

Four-Eyes’ expression sobered. He shook his head. “Diu. Sam wasn’t a bad guy. What happened? Was it the Huang’s? Cops?” 

“It was me. I slit Sam’s throat,” Sakura answered in that same, measured voice. 

“What?”

Sakura stood. She gripped deep into his hair. Yanking his head back so that he could stare up into her face. Into the way her eyes glittered without sympathy.

“I ran into Sam about three, four months ago. You see, Andy, Sam wasn’t a little chickenshit who went into hiding the second things got tough,” Sakura interrupted herself to explain, just her mouth smiling. “And when I started to get to places with the 24K, I took him with me. Because that’s what friends do. Help each other out.”

Four-Eyes’ lower lip began to tremble. His breath coming in shallow gasps. 

“And when I found out that he was trying to turn his back on me to go work with Fai Tsai- Well... We were tight back then. You know me,” Sakura threw his words back at him. Her eyes narrowing.

“I don’t deal with fucking liars.”

With her free hand, she pulled her gold Desert Eagle out. Pressed the cool muzzle to the underside of his throat.

“So let me ask you one more time. Didn’t you turn informant for the HKPD?” she asked through clenched teeth. 

Four-Eyes shook his head. 

“No, you have to listen to me, Mei-Mei! I swear! I’m not!” 

She fired her gun just beside his neck. The hot barrel burning his skin. He let out a scream, tears falling from his eyes.

“Okay! Okay! I did! I did! They said they would keep me alive!” he shrieked. Tears, snot, and blood mixing down his face. 

“And you’ve been a spying little rat for them ever since. How much did you tell them about me?” Sakura went on. Nudging his chin with her gun. But his shook his head again. So fast that it almost looked like he was vibrating.

“Never you! I’ve mostly been looking into the Huang gang. And sometimes the Dragon Head of the 24K. But never you!” he insisted, stumbling over his words. Spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth in his rush to speak. 

“And so what brought you here was shitty luck?” she guessed. He nodded.

“I just knew I was borrowing from the 24K. I didn’t think it was one of your guys.”

“Hm...” Sakura hummed, thinking. She tapped her cigarette. Ash falling onto his forehead. He didn’t dare to flinch away.

“Well... I found a rat in my house. It wasn’t in my room, but I still don’t want to leave it to roam around,” she remarked. She tapped the gun against his chin one last time. And then she released him. 

“Sai,” she called. 

“Yeah, Boss.”

“How fast do you think you can get to the Dragon Head’s office?” 

“Uh,” Sai said, looking down at his watch, “Maybe 7 minutes if I get the car now.”

Sakura unloaded a bullet deep into Four-Eyes Ngai’s gut. Where she knew it would pierce into his intestines. Black blood bubbling up from the wound. 

“Good. Go. This won’t kill him right away, but I want to get him to the Dragon Head before he passes out,” Sakura uttered, smiling. Sai began running out of the room, arms pumping at his sides. Sakura released Four-Eyes’ head. Letting it slump back onto his chest.

“Mei-Mei.... why?” he groaned in a pitiful voice. 

She shot him in the foot. Another scream of agony leaving his mouth.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” she snapped. 

As she waited for Sai, she dialed Hashirama’s number. 

“Jing-Mei...” he sighed into the phone. She had half-expected him to be annoyed with her. Which meant that Tobirama had delivered the news.

“I know, Uncle. But before you scold me, I just wanted to let you know that I’m sending a little present along,” she hinted. She watched Sai and one of the underlings load Four-Eyes into the back of the van. They had laid down plastic in the back, and someone had thought to tape more plastic over his stomach and foot. Sai nodded at her before he ran to start the van. It rumbled off down the road. 

“A present?”

“Just something little for you. I’m sending Sai to deliver him, so you can ask him for details.” Sakura crossed her arms over her chest. She turned back to the warehouse floor. There were already people mopping up the blood. Ripping up the plastic to dispose of it later. Tenten shouting orders at them as she leaned against the wall.

“I know I’ve been a little... irritating lately. Consider this my apology,” she added.

Hashirama sighed.

“This isn’t a conversation to have over the phone,” he stated.

“I’ll be by tomorrow. I promise,” Sakura answered. 

“Jing-Mei.”

His tone made her stop.

“I really will, Uncle,” she said again. 

He said nothing else as he hung up.

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix (here) | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)

[storiesof2018]

Her Brooklyn Nutcracker

December 16, 1944

A white-hot implosion of agony razed his heartbeat; the air felt vacuous against his clammy, youthful skin. Around him, the nauseous -musky odor of virile sweat had potently invaded his pinching nostrils; time was devolving in fruition as he fell into a deadlock of immobilization, his forehead pressed against the cold sterile metal that the rigid length of his bulk was strapped down onto- an examination gurney. A mordant aura grappled him down. He was exhaustingly doing his utmost of fighting the constant urge to vomit, breath choked up his raw scraped throat-drained from high-pitch screams that shatteringly exploded out him in desperate volume.

He was cleaved from reality, becoming deadened to react as the cacophonic echoes of torturous screams of his men-the disabled valorous ranks of a brotherhood of the 107th infantry-defiantly hellbent and iron-willed fighters who voluntarily engaged HYDRA defensive lines of the mud-rutted trenches in Azzano. As the suave, young sergeant, he was saddled down with the voice command, with Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones scouting the dugout fox-holes; it was only a fringe of prevailing victory. The stacking detriment of lives rushingly mounted high to wage against.

'Bucky...Behind you!"

The unevaded-volleying barrage of HYDRA monstrous war machines- Uber Tanks. An unprecedented tempest of carnage had struck down on the front lines, ethereal blue salvos of weaponized energy lanced through flesh and bone, vaporizing men into sifted ash heaps that collected under the tread of their laced boots. The reaping slash of HYDRA's mobilized division had scythed them down like wheat-they were ambushed in hellstorm. The last of his outgunned-surviving unit became captured and mercilessly forced into grueling subjection of being HYDRA's POW assembly line, welding parts of a massive aircraft-a super plane.

'M warnin' ya, this is one Brooklyn kid you don't wanna mess with...'

Disturbingly, the acidic stench of chemical wavered through suffusing contrasts of clotted darkness-a knifing wake of ambient dread exceedingly rushed over his latent form-the world had been cruelly stolen from his reach. Every defined band of solid muscle beneath his threadbare-ragtag GI service jacket was bruisingly clamped in a vise; paralytic numbness enclasped in his tensing veins.

Errants gleams of heated wetness meandered down his bristled cheeks, drenching tousled chestnut tresses messily askew over his blood-smeared temples as he feverishly grated out a throaty hitch. "M' Bucky-" he slurred out, straining his broad neck to arch up. Blurringly, his grayish-aquamarine irises stared with rampant intensity at the nightmarish display of surgical utensils readied on a medical trolley alongside him. It was his variant punishment for cockily smart-mouthin' off to a HYDRA sentry-another damnable round of being stuporously induced within thralls of unwarranted compliance. 'Gotta fight..." he rasped out in a phantom mantra against grated breath, raggedly. "Gotta-"

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes. I hope you are feeling rested. You've been out quite awhile." A dreadful voice rose in octaves through Bucky's disorientation. A German accent, weaselly and devoid of compassion despite the greeting. Bucky fought to reclaim his focus, ignoring the buildup of nausea that came with the world spinning before his eyes. The urge to vomit began nearly intolerable were it not for the fact the room had such low lighting. He mumbled in reply, but could barely hear his own words beneath the ringing in his ears. He groaned, shutting his eyes to diminish the spinning hangover that reminded him of the cyclone on Coney Island. Not a fond memory in retrospect, but he rightly assumed what he was about to endure made all of that seemed just so insignificant.

"Who's that? Where am I? …What is this place?" He asked repeatedly once he could hear his own voice. He made to rise up off the cold slab he was laying on, only to find the harsh grip of leather keeping him confined to the table. "Hey, what is this?!" He cried out, ignoring the pain his head, so debilitating, he began to rethink his efforts to get up. It wasn't long until he took in the scene of a large laboratory; cold and clinical with the stench of chlorine and other sterilizing agents. He hated labs and hospitals. Everyone he cared about went into one and so few came back out. His steel-blue eyes looked over the numerous tables with odd instruments and open note-books and focused in on the only other occupant in the room. A stocky, balding man in a lab count pouring over a list and an old dusty book in front of him. "Who the hell are you? Hey!" Bucky raised his voice once he realized he was being ignored.

"Your voice will drain out soon enough, Sergeant Barnes," Against the clash of irate defiance that venting out of Bucky, the ceremonious German resonance that spitefully echoed back with the greenish sconces wavering throughout the vacuous space. Doctor Armin Zola edged towards the reinforced gurney with reptilian prowess in his malicious advances, a stubby hand possessively cast a shadow over the broad expanse of Bucky's arching chest, as he disgustingly recognized the prevalent spirit of Brooklyn harboring inside his latest American hostage under a breadth of his lurid-sadistic tolerance."Soon the procedure I have selected for you will begin, I can give you the pleasure of becoming something extraordinary for HYDRA..."

"Let me out of here now, Hydra scum!" Bucky ranted with equal parts anger and distress. The straps securing him to the cold steel table dug into his bruised flesh, sending sparks of pain shooting through his body. His brow was drenched with sweat, his short brunette locks were matted to his brow. He masked his pain with grunting and yelling, but try as he would, the straps wouldn't give away.

He was utterly and effectively helpless against the creepy old man that had begun preparing a suspicious looking needle with an unknown blue substance. Nothing good would come of it. "What are you doing? What is that?!" Anger and indignation tore at Bucky; finding his fate to appear more hopeless as time went on. His men and brothers in arms were either dead or like him, waiting to be next-in-line as a Hydra guinea pig.

"Something to help you relax, Sergeant Barnes, As delightful as it is to hear your fine example of American manners, I do need some quiet to work." Zola stepped over to Bucky who did his best to shirk away from the needle but it proved to be a useless struggle.

"Get that away from me, punk. Or I'll-" The needle punctured Bucky's shoulder clean as a knife through butter. A numbing sensation gripped him as if his bones were coated with ice. The young soldier's words died in his throat, his blue eyes were wide and filled with inexplicable shock. A cruel smirk formed across Zola's face as he watched Bucky's rampant struggles of defiance begin to slow and then cease entirely.

"Better now?" The scientists taunted, relishing the silence that filled the room beyond the humming and whirring of his lab machinery. There was no response from Bucky who appeared as lifeless as a corpse despite the glimmer of awareness in his wide and unblinking eyes. After a few moments, moisture collected in his tear ducts before they spilled droplets from the corner of his eyes, streaking down his temples. "Good." Satisfied the paralytic sedative had done its job, Zola began to undo Bucky's restraints.

"As ideal as it would be for me to keep these on, I do not believe you will be capable of causing me trouble for the next few hours. Am I correct, Sergeant?" Bucky gave no response, not even a shift in his movement to indicate a dim sense of understanding. Zola expected no less; the tranquilizer he used was powerful enough to sedate a horse. With nothing but deafening silence to answer him, the Hydra scientist took a moment to openly appraise the young soldier lying helplessly in front of him.

"You are young, headstrong, athletic and from what I've heard; a frighteningly efficient marksman." He genuinely commended. Hydra lost more than a half-dozen high-valued officers in the past year to the rifle of James Barnes; leaving Schmidt in equal parts angry and impressed. "Hydra would benefit greatly by having such a talented killer like yourself on our front-lines…" The scientist continued before growing thoughtful. "Or perhaps as our knife in the shadows…"

The dreadful silence that followed was almost as dreadful for Bucky as the sheer feeling of helplessness that came with his paralysis. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move; he couldn't so much as blink while his eyes stared into empty space. The world dimmed and came in and out of focus, he hoped to wake up at any minute now inside of his barracks, roused by the cruel sting of cold water being tossed over by Dino Manelli who would then laugh at the wet Yankee he made friends with. Or better yet, waking up in the comfort of his own bed, back home inside that modest flat his father owned in Brooklyn. Steve would be waiting there for him, and so would his little sis.

His stomach twisted at the thought of never seeing them again as he lay at the mercy of a sadistic Nazi scientist. He could only pray and hope whatever happened next would be quick. Zola was shaken from his thoughts as the clock on the wall audibly clicked as the hour turned close to midnight. "Pardon me, the silence often makes me think-aloud." He chuckled as if embarrassed and shrugged off his musings.

"Plans that have not been set in stone. It will be Herr Skull's decision ultimately to decide your fate. But…" He appeared perplexed as he looked at the clock on the wall. "it would appear he's been delayed. He should have been here by now." The Red Skull was seldom delayed from his scheduled inspections at the weapons factory. That he had yet to arrive or send word troubled the Hydra scientist who considered himself the Skull's right hand in all but name. To deflect his worries, Zola shuffled over to the table covered with his several notebooks and research documents.

The tension in his posture shifted and relaxed the moment his thoughtful eyes glanced over the book he'd been studying since secreting it from the old sanctum in Tonsberg not too long ago. "Hmm...Delays should not result in time wasted." The look that Zola gave him was beaming with evil cunning, turning Bucky's blood into ice. "With a crop of your brothers-in-arms at my disposal, this presents an opportunity to indulge what you might call a 'pet-project' of mine."

The tension in the room became apprehensive as a chill of foreboding shook Bucky from head-to-toe. Anger and loathing filled him as he ached to rise off the slab and snap the old man's neck; to stop him from harming anyone of his men. In the distance outside of the laboratory, a loud commotion could be heard as if there was a fight breaking out. Bucky clinged to whatever small hope that gave him; an uprising or maybe even a rescue. Zola appeared disquieted as he listened to the sounds before he once again, shrugged off his worry then proceeded to clean his glasses.

"Such chaos. This war grows ever more perilous. So much that it has become increasingly difficult to move such large-scale forces across the battlefield without detection." Zola said, flipping through the old book while silently reading the old Norwegian texts. "Subterfuge can only accomplish so much without a new innovation." He said flipping through the pages until coming to a page with the sketching of a tall lanky man, adorned with the ox-horned helm.

"As a man of science, I found it repugnant to delve into the myths of the world. However recent events led me to reconsider our own science, or own place in the universe." Bucky listened as Zola shifted and moved several items around. A rancid stench of wet dirt and dead flowers permeated the room as ingredients were prepared and mixed in a bowl. Bucky would have gagged if he were able.

"The old gods may have walked among us long ago, and they left us much wisdom for us to evolve our science and our own weapons of war." Zola stepped around the table until he hovered over Bucky, an air of superiority in his stocky posture. "To put it simply, Sergeant Barnes; I've accumulated the power of Loki." In one hand, Zola held an oversized injection needle that could puncture the eye of a rhino. In the other, he held a bowl of powder that shimmered under the light of the examination table. There was no questioning the insanity in those eyes, Bucky knew.

"I have always admired him above all the Norse deities who value only strength. Loki in a way, was quite like myself." Zola rambled. "He valued cunning and intelligence to win his battles. Such is what I intend to do for Hydra now." With that, Zola began his cruel work that he had been cultivating for many years since before being recruited to the Nazi party and assigned to the Hydra division." The procedure I have in mind for you will require your limbs to be statically posed to ensure its success.

Confusing it might sound, but I do not expect you to understand, boy." Zola said as he began to move Bucky's arms to an at-rest position. Bucky felt his skin burn as if scalded by the offending touch. Oddly enough, he could begin to feel a small measure of control slip into him as his toes began to curl as well as his fingertips. Seeing this, Zola quickened his pace, realizing the paralytic drug was wearing off quicker than he expected.

The noises of chaos continued outside of the lab, but too far for the focused scientist to feel concerned with as he hastily began to coat Bucky's motionless body with the strange powder from head-to-toe. "Don't worry. With the paralytic serum I administered, you won't feel a thing...perhaps." Once Bucky was fully coated with the itchy and revolting substance, he felt control of his eyes return to him and he began to shift them about in a panicking fashion.

The first thing he felt then saw was that large needle injecting a cold green fluid into his arm-into his body. He inwardly roared in both pain and despair, at the intrusion, and as his nerves and bones were encased with numbing ice. They felt rock-solid, as if their mobility was dipped into a freezing lake and they were solidifying into an unbendable pose. "There we are." Zola said as he withdrew the needle. Before he could commence with the next phase, he became aware of a missing piece to his experiment.

"Wait. Of course, how could I forget. You wouldn't resemble much of a soldier without a proper accessory now, would you?" From a storage locker close by, the scientist procured a rifle confiscated from an Allied soldier and proceeded to carefully rest it into Bucky's paralyzed grip. "Perfect. Don't you think? You will be Subject-0 for Project Nutcracker. Not my first choice in code-name, but you will appreciate its irony, Sergeant, as you feel your body and mind enter a state of dreams-and non-existence. Let us see how well the laws of science and sorcery can coincide."

'Project Nutcracker?' The mad scientist's words confused Bucky more than they instilled fear in his heart. The pain in his body began to numb, but he was back to feeling completely and utterly stiff like a statue...like a figurine. He knew whatever came next would be the end of him. He refused to show fear, nor any ounce of weakness in his eyes as he mentally prepared himself to leave his world. He knew he would likely die the moment he enlisted, but the fear could never be shaken, only accepted. He relaxed as he accepted his fate and waited and prayed for God to carry him to a better place.

It was then that Zola began to read from the old book; a chilling and incomprehensible chant in Old Norse that Bucky didn't understand or care for. That was until the powder on his body began to glow. Like a brilliant otherworldly green aura, it was both alluring and frightening to the young soldier who astonishingly felt no pain, only a mild itching discomfort. What was happening to him? Zola kept reading, even as his scientific mind was overwhelmed with shock and curiosity that he was performing magic-real old Asgardian magic, and it was beginning to manifest the spell he commanded.

It wasn't long before the spell began to respond with cruel efficiency as Bucky felt his very skin begin to harden with the same stiffness as his bones and muscles. He was dimly aware of his drifting into darkness, he could feel it reaching out to pull him into its cold embrace. 'Steve...Becca...I'm sorry.' His listless eyes stared into space, unable to close, as the spell touched his mind, whispering what reminded him of a haunting melody that told him not to fear, not to despair-a true fight and true love would awaken him.

Bucky Barnes entered the realm of dreams, gone from the waking world as his body shrunk and skin and clothes transformed into plastic. Zola watched in shock and silence as the spell finished, and all that remained on the table was the small unassuming shape of a toy figurine that bore the visage of a young soldier. "It worked…" He giggled hysterically, eyes wide with delight and pride. "It worked!" The building suddenly shook as if it were struck by a waking giant that roared wrath and ruin. A bomb attack. No sooner had it happened did the double doors to the lab suddenly swing open with authority.

"DOCTOR ZOLA!" There stood the cold and authoritative shape of one Johann Schmidt, his human mask glaring daggers at the bewildered scientist who fumbled as if he were caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"H-Herr Schmidt, I was concerned of your t-tardiness." The scientists fumbled with his glasses, completely forgetting about the figurine and the very experiment he implemented in the "face" of his furious superior.

"Have you now? Is that why my weapons facility is presently under attack?!" The Hydra head snapped as he stood tall over the quivering scientist like a sentinel of death.

"A-Attack?" Zola paled to a deathly white. "I-I thought it was a simple commotion the guards were making with the prisoners, sir. I was rather immersed in my work that I strive for the betterment of Hydra."

"Gather your research. Now. We are evacuating." Schmidt seethed with barely controlled anger as his gloved hands balled into fists.

"E-Evacuating sir?" Zola inquired worriedly as he began throwing whatever crucial research he could into his briefcase/bag. Several documents and his notebook fell in his mad scramble, he dared not to make a clumsy show of retrieving them in fear of a super-soldier fist punching a cavity sized hole through his torso.

"Our forces are outmatched. Erskine's newest progeny has made himself known. It will not be long until the Allies follow him here. We will be long gone by then. COME!" Schmidt yelled while making his way out. Zola flinched at the commanding tone but quickly followed, leaving the forgotten Nutcracker soldier exactly where he left it.

Against the return of December gales careening over the residential sectors; visages of dereliction and scarcity were fading echoes of the dynastic reign of the deceased Wayne family; after the tragic murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne riddled in Crime Alley, the mephitic infestation of bloodshed and cresting panic demolished the blighted city into an urban cesspool-a hell pit. The severe levels of poverty were fringed in the East Quarter distinct-the Carmine Family domain. A rancid mafia syndicate -lowlife scumbags who intently preyed on the desperate and forged contracts stamped in blood.

Those were the deceptive grounds of survival that people crossed every day. There were no free gains, just a stockpile of bodies penetrated with bullets dumped in Gotham Bay. This wasn't an easy ride to gun out. Daylight was a price to steal back and unerringly adopting a lethal-feline caliber with inventive-brazen tactics was essential to guarantee the next morning. With the Christmas season fastly encroaching within the borders of the city, the gift of vengeance was all that Selina Maria Kyle desired, unrelentingly.

Balancing on the bleeding-edge conditioned her to never falter with the traction of reluctance on the precarious ground. She thrillingly dared that shifting gravity, using effective thieving charades of stolen identities, raiding upscale penthouse security-uncrackable vaults with a virtuoso flair that would test her brazen limits of infiltration. The banking adrenaline she channeled with every heist never ebbed.

The gutted backdrops of the East Quarter district appeared vacant, derelict and consumed by verminous tenants-buildings were beyond the visage of disrepair-everything was cheaped-out by the parasitic reek of Falcone. The criminal element was staking high and the cash outflow of the GCPD had been reaching a charitable increase since most of the city officials-undoubtingly genuine sleazeballs were on the corruptive take. Being a stray kitten on the streets-she knew the angles of Gotham, the players and gambled who rolled the loaded dice.

Living on the razor's edge was intoxicatingly explosive-Selina mastered practical tactics of deception to engage the crosshairs, accepting the damn existence that she was bred to become the sleek knife in the dark twirling on a stage of tragedy- stealing lives by gouging corrupted hearts open, just like how Carmine Falcone left her mother's bullet-riddled body to bleed out on the apartment's floor. This December she would relentlessly deliver a murderous reckoning and drive that viperous bastard into the icy depths of Gotham Bay. She had one matchstick-chance-left to ignite the fire that would raze his underground empire into ash.

Crouched down with balletic -feline ease grounding her svelte, curvaceous form on an iron grated step, disheveled wavelets of luscious mahogany flittedly cascaded down tone curves of her delineated garbed shoulders; her leather jacket was scuffed up from the last nightly brawl she engaged within the Narrows. A buckled collar strap was securely fastened around the graceful length of her sleek neck. She was a sirenic mystique-dangerously alluring in elemental contrasts of shadow. Being harshly conditioned on the streets was a lethal extension of preservation. She couldn't settle for less—not when the mortal-resistant grounds of validity were demolished.

Watching reckless orphans that bailed from foster homes lifting apples off a vendor station defined the stratagems of rampant desperation. The nascent Falcone's reign had become the lifeblood of the city; he had a cabal of defective police officers in his pocket-loyal informants on every street corner.

Backdrops served as execution grounds-criminal activity protracted, ushering throw-away kids in the system to join the ranks. It was a new level of organized industry and she was in the fringe on the imminent emergence. Being only eighteen-years-old, Selina needed to stay level on her-become unshakeable like granite. The malevolent intensity of her dark coffee irises gazed an indifferent cast on a parked Bentley town car below the fire escape stairway; a distinct black vehicle that usually remained idle in front of Wayne Enterprises building. Harboring sympathy for the reclusive Wayne heir was so overrated. Roses withered on graves and the decreased became irrelevant etchings to stow memories.

Brandishing an impassive expression over her kittenish-elfin features, cunningly Selina watched the Bentley's driver side door painstakingly opened, and a tall, white-haired Englishman caught the wisps of the evening snowfall dusting over his tailored Oxford long coat. His weathered down featured were visually etched with unbidden heartache and strain of deep-seated grief.

He was an easy target of opportunity for her to coax for a quick spoil of pocket change; chasing his lumbering, measured steps vigilantly treading against heavy drifts of snow that heavily collected in the vacant alleyway; she couldn't evict the deviant-unwarranted impulse of blindingly lifting his wallet in the swift clutch of her thieving hand. There a genuine aura about him—a vital sense of home.

She needed to observe her mark of curious interest before pouncing. Nothing would stall her. She masked her visage of humanity with no betrayal of resistance-sentiment. It was a smokescreen identity that she effortlessly utilized. "A girl's gotta eat..." she gritted out, bitingly, under a smoky breath, intently staring down at the elderly stranger advancing towards amber sconces of streetlight that deflected off a padlocked door which she intuitively guessed was a blind spot. "Now, that's interesting to play with..." A vixenish smirk widely curved over the lavish fullness of her crimson lips, as her gloved hand gripped the stair railing beside her.

As the steel door opened ensued a clamorous echo of frozen hinges, Alfred Pennyworth unfalteringly precede towards a vacant dressing room of the Gotham Theatre; remnants of torn scarlet and makeup dust were gathered on a vanity, newspaper clippings were taped onto the shattered mirrors, it was an eerie-operatic ambiance of discarded memory that wasn't salvaged-crystal shards from the grimy chandelier were shattered on the floor as Alfred measuringly cemented his unwavering stance near a draped curtain that overhung above him, trying to banish grievous apparitions that splintered against his care-worn heart. The corners of the desolate space were besieged with encompassing darkness as he registered a subtle pulse of feminine vitality-resilience grapple him into a casual stalemate.

Automatically with a clandestine tack in his reaction, he listened to heels clicking over the floor; it felt like time became frozen as the beckoning infusion of ardent cherry and vanilla convincingly breached his guarded senses in a warring heartbeat. The ground between him was testable as his gloved hand fluidly shoved into his coat's pocket, gripping a concealed Walther PPK pistol-a lethal sidearm that he operated with during his years being a pawn-field operative for a shadow-game in British spycraft where loyalty always came with a price.

After serving in the ranks of the Her Majesty's Royal Airforce -the airstrike division and engaging zero hours in the blackened skies; Alfred became fitted as an intelligence agent and executed unforgivable missions that were drawn in lines of blood-all for the security of his country. Embracing a glimpse of anchored relevance that wasn't fractured acridity of past error, he gladly accepted the employment of Doctor Thomas Wayne, living at the Wayne estate as the butler-a gentleman and protector- it was the utmost of honorable missions he ever took.

Shifting his intent resolve at the doorway, Alfred fixed his wintery cerulean irises with steady exactness, he gazed at a distinctly feminine, curvaceous shape edging into the room, the elegant poise of cool graces in her determined stride and ravishing fierceness in her aged virtue. Peggy Carter wasn't just a lady of England who had wielded an iron fist with the SSR, honed with untarnished regard to preserving the grounded morals of freedom and unshakeable testaments of faith that Captain Steven Grant Rogers infinite sacrificed by undertaking the hardest choice that ultimately defined his unyielding-heroic spirit-he traded his life for those HYDRA targeted. Peggy was more than capable of dicing with danger, she possessed a steeled heart and never had to prove her value in the betraying ranks. She was a vibrant—eternal beauty, the fullness of her lustrous dark brunette tresses was pinned in a silky tumble with streaks of silver that didn't detract from the molten fire in her chocolate irises that were leveled with his in a heartbeat.

Nothing was disguised between them as the prevailing gravity of their vintage -sincere friendship held no safeguards of trust. Once the reeling moment passed, Alfred felt his wrinkled lips charmingly quirk into a rakish smirk, as he whispered in a cadence of reverence. "Agent Carter, always a pleasure to meet up with an old friend, if I must say, you're looking quite beautiful tonight..."

Staving off a lancing throb of unbidden-steepened heartache, Peggy haphazardly neared the dressing vanity to the command of her measured awareness, unswervingly. Now, it was time to grip onto the full charge of reckless hope. In an effort to compose herself against the upheaval of tumultuous emotions, she flashed her dark irises at her dearest friend and returned with a slight falter in her silken tone, underlying an errant strain in her throat.

"To be honest, Agent Pennyworth, I sometimes wish we could hold a cup coffee in hand away from the shadows, but I'm afraid we have the grave matter of business to discuss concerning Armin Zola's past work..." She fractionally removed a tattered crimson leather book that had an ensign of a black star on the cover, with a pinch of unavailed revulsion over her unblemished alabaster features, she placed the book onto the vanity's dresser with deadened resistance."Recovering these notes wasn't an easy gamble back when Zola was imprisoned, this book contains his unanswerable secrets about using the captured men-soldiers of the 107th infantry for his unfathomable experiments at the weapon's factory that Captain Rogers had infiltrated."

A blear of unshed tears stole her vision from a tense second of momentous reality, as Peggy stiffened her grip onto the book and continued, discreetly."His extension of punishment was stemmed from his sadistic methods in arcane forms that were hellishly occultic, James Barnes is the last captive who needs to wake up from these cursive shackles...It's time we clear the decks before HYDRA mucks them up."

Subtly nodding against variants of the command of her urgency, as Peggy tried her damnedest to hold a rush of tears with an unreadable countenance; Alfred electrifyingly felt clamorous hope sailing through his veins; fervently hinging up a stoking unity of uncompromising faith that infused him with placid resiliency. He knew the high cost of the elemental battle they waged and that only a hairbreadth of a fleeting chance was prevalent to end Zola's soul-arresting enchantment over James Barnes.

They had a mission to finish. He needed to rein up enough strength to challenge the assonance of beyond the mortal plane of existence and deliver one last Christmas miracle before the midnight knells beckon the young sergeant's spirit into the void. Reassuringly with an unstilted promise, he eased his gloved hand over Peggy's garbed shoulder with a chaste flex of his palm inextricably holding her against the impending gravity that clashing around them.

His irises glinted warily silver under his grayish lashes, narrowing down at the red book with soulful regard. It was nearly a decade since Alfred was presented the responsibility of guarding an invaluable treasure that Peggy had secretly delivered in hand to him back in London-nothing would dampen their unquenchable hope of giving a valiant spirited and hellbent Brooklyn kid a the breath of restored humanity. "We'll find a bloody way to get that defiantly charming sergeant off my bookshelf, I figure he's getting tired of the dust..."

Impatience was beginning to unnervingly escalate, the smooth carpeting of Bentley's interior trunk rasped over her cheek, with grudging effort in her braced-stiffened poise, Selina was lying flat on the delicate planes of her leather garbed stomach; rigidly gripping onto a pocket knife—her devious impulse to pop the trunk open and slip inside was a preferred alternative of eluding Falcone's night patrol enforcers-cockroaches. They had marked her down like a damn kitten in the headlights, she needed to avoid exposing her disarmed vulnerability against the penetrating—frigid gusts of snow, and utilized refuge spot to dodge the lethal trajectory of a bullet.

Extreme variants of survival under the gun had rampantly fueled unwarranted desperation-pawning off various items that she effortless lifted from hotel penthouse suites while deceptively playing the charade of a gawky maid wouldn't be enough to swipe a boarding pass to Rome—she wouldn't embrace the vitality of salvation or open her traitorous heart to the spirit of Christmas.

That eminent presence felt sideswiped as she abandoned that naive fantasy; not allowing chaste hope to become an inducement of reigning within the malignant darkness that she cunningly prowled through. She weaponized her soul with practical safeguards, daring limits of mortal gravity as each heist burningly promised an untamed kick of ecstasy—the precarious edge of inevitable risk always came with a reward. Tonight would be no different. The whooshing vibrations of incessant traffic faded out as she became aware of the vehicle shifting direction. Daunting turbulence hauntingly greeted her pulse, in heightened reaction, she reared her lithesome form inches back from a glint of light piercing from the trunk's keyhole at the jarring moment the Bentley's engine turned off.

There a strange silence that followed the moment that happened. The noise of traffic faded into the distance until there was nothing but the hum of the engine. The vehicle had undoubtedly slipped off the highway, away from the city and into palisades. It was heading into country-side where the woods stretched for miles. An ideal spot for dumping bodies that would never be found. The anxiety that gripped Selina was staggering, she instinctively held the knife tighter; her knuckles turning white. Where was she being taken? Had she been discovered and was being led into an elaborate trap that would be her grave? Her breathing steadied as she forced herself to calm down once the car came to a creeping stop.

A second later, the groaning of an old gate could be heard before the car continued on its unknown path. A private residence, she realized. Anticipation moved through her veins as the vehicle slowly crept to a stop. Seconds later, the engine stopped and the door opened. The driver took slow measured steps to the trunk; Selina held her breath, and the knife the whole time. Her youthful features with etched with fear and anxiety the moment a leisurely yet benign British accent spoke to her from outside.

"We have arrived at our destination, young lady. Although in the future, if you are in need of a chauffeur, I would suggest you ride in the passenger seat rather than the trunk." The lock to the trunk turned and the door opened. A tall withered old man, dressed in warm clothes looked down at her with expectant eyes. "It can be a long rid-"

In a lightning thrust of her gloved hand with feral ease, Selina viciously arced the blade over his exposed wrist, a breadth from delivering a surgical gash, her lethal resolve didn't alter when she wrenched her sleeved arm back. She wickedly fashioned the full lushness of her lips with a deviant fringe; while her dark jeweled irises flashed heatedly under the contrast of shadow, betraying no hesitation stowed in her fluid grip.

Conditioned with usage, long steeped in her veins, Selina readily anticipated the elderly man's failing tactics of subduing her. There was a brief clash of sentiment between them, a beckoning sense of warmth that she couldn't reject. 'Damn..' She remained in defensive poise, the recognized intent was seemingly explosive as she drove the edge of the blade closer to his leather clutched fingers. "Yeah maybe for you, grampa..." she hissed back derisively, leashing down her ferocity to give him a chance to yield.

"I have no intention of harming you, young miss. I urge you to please put down the knife." Alfred calmy tried to reason with her. Her sudden attack had nearly surprised him. Were it not for who for the decade he spent in Her Majesty's Royal Airforce, and the young girl's lack of training, he would be sporting a Colombian neck-tie about now. The training he received and his own experiences with the SSR kept his reflexes sharp as the knife that was lashed at him by the clearly distrustful young woman.

They stood a few feet apart from each other. Her youthful countenance put her at the age of eighteen, maybe nineteen; he couldn't be sure. Her posture and balance told him she was street-learned in the arts of combat, but still not to be underestimated. "You are at Wayne Manor, I brought you here because I sensed you were in a bit of trouble that has left you in a tizzy. If you lower the knife, I just might invite you in for a spot of tea." He tried with a benign look.

Selina visibly struggled as she listened to him. Not trusting the genuine compassion he exuded and that couldn't be found anywhere in Gotham. The city was a hopeless den of deceit, no one cared about anyone but themselves. Why should this old crone care about a stray like her that hitched a ride into his Bentley and was now threatening him with a knife. "Nice try, Gramps. But even I know never to take candy from strangers." With that, Selina dived forward and made to thrust her blade in the old man's abdomen. A flesh-wound that wouldn't kill him, but would distract him long enough for her to get away.

What she hadn't counted on was the old man reacting with the speed of a marathon runner as he caught her arm, twisted her wrist until she felt the knife slip out of her hand and into his own. "I'll be taking that, thank you." Alfred said as if he were accepting dishes to be washed.

Chillingly unnerved by the deft smoothness of his gloved hand seizing her knife, Selina dragged out a terse breath, the delicate curve of her jaw stiffened against a raw torrent surging through her veins. She wasn't impressed. Gnashing her teeth, she roved her dark gaze calculatingly over the desolate estate's snowy vistas, noting that it was the Wayne family's ancestral home-Gotham's wellborn of nobility. "So you brought me out here for a cup of tea?" she questioned him icily, her undertone hitched with a low snarl, evident to her fist clenching against the carpet. Her poise was challengingly steeled, her coffee irises didn't waver a blink. "Passing off Christmas cheer, are we?"

"I may be old, but I'd like to think spreading the joy of the holiday spirit would never be considered old-fashioned. As would sharing a cup of tea with a curious stranger which can be a true delight." Alfred assured with a modest look as he secured the trunk and faced the still distrustful young woman with a welcoming air. "As extenuating as your situation might be that you should happen to find yourself in the trunk of my vehicle, I do believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Alfred. Alfred Pennyworth." He nods his head to her in a gentlemanly fashion, allowing the silence to stretch in the hopes she would trust him enough to give him her own name.

Bating a clipped breath, incredulously, Selina pinched her eyes shut for a tensing moment; feeling a lancing shiver of the heavy gusts drill through her bones. She couldn't push herself to the extent of dire limit-not when the outside temperature was undoubtingly backsliding against the endless snowfall powdering over her mahogany wavelets. The fostered gravity of convenient trust felt intolerably underrated. She had no other evasive alternative, regardless of her feline resilence that urged her trenchantly to dodge his charitable offer--which felt akin to a stab of clemency driving through her chest.

Nipping on the swell of her underlip decisively with a kittenish pout with a blatant motive, Selina coolly brandished a deceptive countenance, her bronze irises blazed coaxingly with thieving light; trying to play him down for an old fool. She preferred an intangible extent of distance, but the sudden rush of cold raked searingly over her knuckles bone-deep. "I don't even know what you're swaying me into, Gramps, most people in this damn city take rather give..." she breathed out, ruefully in a husky scoff, Alfred unmistakably registered the depth of her vehement cadence."Having an empty hand is just the downside of survival..."

"You won't have to worry about survival here, Miss. Wayne Manor might be a forsaken house without the family that built it, but Thomas and Martha would want their doors to always be open and welcoming to wayward souls." A touch of sorrow moved across the old man's face at the mention of Gotham's long dead paragons. If Selina were to guess those people were more than just employers to him. They were...family. She hated that word, a constant reminder of the one thing in life she had been denied so cruelly. Her mask of indifference had remained in place despite the warm welcome. Gotham had hardened her to an ice sculpture incapable of letting emotion pass through.

But somehow, she found herself curious as the old man-Alfred-gestured the way up to the front entrance of the manor. "Words that can be further explained over a nice cup of Old Grey. Come, I do believe it is getting far too chilly out here for either of us." With that, Alfred made his way up the steps of the main entrance and began unlocking the door. After much hesitation, Selina chose to follow him, arguing that it was getting too cold and at the very least she could steal something valuable if worse came to worst.

Nothing about this snow-blown night would unstintingly alter her perspective on the generous relevance of humanity. Sitting in an upholstered armchair with rigid poise, agitatedly Selina felt the delicate planes of her back sunk deeper into the firm cushion, feigning patience, she casually arched her booted feet over the chair's armrests with no retraction of graceful elegance. The despotic ambiance of Wayne Manor chased her like a dark apparition. There was no promise of normalcy; just an interminable vacuum that was threatening to spear her in the dark.

Against her drumming fingertips, she felt a tragic aura dauntingly ghosting through her fervent pulse, ushering her to the edge of a chasm of desolate anguish that bordered every vast space. For a moment the air felt suffocatingly unbearable as flickering sconces of the crackling fireplace burnished her lavishly touseled mahogany tresses; she wouldn't use the grief infested mansion as a refuge to evade the inevitable-rabid crossfire.

The midnight hour was drawing close, at least she was temporarily given limited isolation before white-chalked haired, dapper old stiff reemerged with a silver tray of brewed Earl Gray adept in his gripped hands. An intrusive chill funneled through her veins as inexorable reality became held in deadlock, the scent of cindering timbre and pine wavered from the hearth as looping garland of scarlet ribboned fir was adorned the mantle's edge-salvaged remnants of Christmas. The Elizabethan facade still existed in the study, twin bookcases were adjacent from the arched bay windows, stacked with unscathed collections-elements of abandonment.

The encompassing heat toasting over her pearlescent skin was a welcomed luxury- not the pillowy warmth that she had been detached from; only artificial coziness that was offered to an unwanted stray kitten. That prevalent sense of home dredged up onrushes of unassailed- irreparable memories of her mother who Carmine Falcone mercilessly stole away with a heart-piercing bullet. The litheness of her dainty fingers curved into a vindictive flex against the cushion-she couldn't evict the murderous assent of her infinite choice to him choke on a bullet-it would only be a fringe of her restoking vengeance.

Slanting an incredulous glance of piratic coffee to the unadulterated extent of latent curiosity, she ardently became drawn inexplicably by an unnameable, beckoning force that made her inquisitive gaze painstakingly fix on a glass shelved cabinet. A definite-vestigial pulse of desire that felt possessively incendiary to the morphic reality that was arrowing soul-deep. With a caustic ease of nonchalance, Selina advanced stealthily a breadth closer to the marble fireplace-a subtle glint of a mischievous light cast in her dark irises when brazen awareness infused over her exquisitely alabaster- elvish features. Maybe there was an easy score in there...?

The room she was in was easily bigger than all the rundown apartments she'd lived in and fancier than a five-star hotel room. There were paintings on the walls from Renaissance-era Florence and Rome, antique yet well kept. She wouldn't have been surprised to spot the real Mona Lisa somewhere around here. Italian imported carpets, a crystal chandelier, towering rows of bookcases; oakwood ceiling-the whole place screamed "filthy rich". Anything, even the gold candle stick on the night-stand could fetch her a good price.

The little girl inside of her told her not to steal from the kind old man that welcomed her in, but the angry teenager who loathed the rich and powerful told her those exceptions needed to be made if it helped her earn her next meal. Her coffee-brown eyes once more spied the glass cabinet with curiosity. She knew the real treasures weren't kept in plain sight. Biting her bottom lip, Selina felt her cat-like curiosity win out and her steps carried her over to the fireplace.

She ignored her reflection in the marble and spied the cabinet that curiously had no locking mechanism on the door. She paid no attention as she suddenly became transfixed by what she found behind the glass. It wasn't an antique weapon nor some kind of ancient relic from a forgotten age in history. It wasn't a fancy piece of jewelry, not even a prestigious award trophy that the owner would've took pride in. It was...a figurine. "Who keeps a toy inside a glass cabinet?" She said to herself, both confused and weirded out.

The soft patter of footsteps outside of the study drew her attention from her discovery. The old man-Alfred-entered the room with a tray and tea-set prepared. Selina discreetly stepped away from the fireplace and put up a casual show of admiring the room while keeping her itchy hands firmly in her pockets. "Doom and gloom oozes off these walls, Pennyworth. I can see why Wayne hightailed it to the Bahamas, or wherever it is rich-boys run off to have their fun." She said nonchalantly, turning to see the butler setting the tray down on a serving table between the two cushioned chairs.

"There is quite more to that story than what you might've learned from the Gotham Gazette." Alfred sighed, the age in his features becoming more noticeable due to the invisible burden he still by the absence of his Ward who had only just vanished two years ago. "Master Wayne...lets just say he has much to discover and think about before he returns home." It was something he told himself each night, the certainty of it only kept alive by the occasional post-card he'd received from somewhere in South-East Asia.

"Really?" Selina uttered skeptically as she watched him prepare two cups. "How do you know he'll be back? No offense, but it's not like this city has done him any favors. If I had pockets as deep as his I would've left a long time ago and never looked back." It was a cavalier and detached though, but one she hadn't arrived at easily. The city was a dark and hopeless cesspool of crime and sin; it killed the only two people that gave a damn about saving it over fifteen years ago.

Rather than appear vexed or even downtrodden by Selina's points, Alfred gave her a soft look as he settled into his chair after fixing their tea with only a small spoon of cream. "If I were a practical man, I would simply say that this city is apart of him. Its his family's legacy. It runs through his blood just as bricks and mortar hold this house up from the ground. But I'm not a practical man."

Selina arched an eyebrow at him, urging him to make his point.

"I'm a man of hope and faith. I believe every imprisoned soul deserves a chance to flourish with a new purpose in life. A new beginning. All it needs is the right motivator to set it free." A soft smile touched his wrinkled lips, which only served to heighten Selina's confusion once she considered the possibility he just made some kind of inside joke only he was in on. Whatever the case, the young brunette shrugged at what she considered to be old philosophical rambling.

"Touching Gramps, but sometimes life and reality have a way of spitting on people's hopes and dreams." She shrugged.

"Then let's not discuss hopes and dreams. Come, sit before your tea gets cold." Alfred gestured kindly to her waiting cup. Selina eyed fine China and the soothing aroma of the Earl Grey wafting from it. She shrugged as she sank into the cushioned chair and gingerly took the cup in her hands.

With an cool ease of deterrence, underlying her miffed reaction Selina edged the fragile cup to the full arch of her burgundy lips with a waver of reluctance; the subtle variants of feminine resilience she distractingly brandished on her ivory-white, kittenish features, she adapted charades of masquerading-sensuous incarnations to compose utilized deceptive-sophic- identities that she readily conceived during a the high-adrenaline stint. Curving her lips, she sipped the brewed tea, which became surprisingly tasteful down her raw throat-it was a revelation that conditional extensions of humanity still prevailed even though death was an earshot away. Bracing herself for a space of a heartbeat, she wanderingly roved the collective intensity of her decadent coffee irises fixedly back at the glass cabinet with nerve- grudging interest. "So does the rich boy still play with toys, or is that dinky figure in there something worth holding?" she queried out with a coy rasp, huskily.

"Ah yes, I noticed you rather admiring that when I came in," Alfred revealed, his tone betraying neither waryness nor amusement by the fact. He noted the frown of irritation on the youth's face at being caught despite her attempt at playing casual. He felt thoughtful for a moment as he took a purposeful sip of his tea, savoring the sweet warmth that soothed his nerves and kept his mind relaxed. It was refreshing to have someone to talk to after living in an empty house for nearly two decades now. He was careful though with his choice of words as to not steer his no doubt sociably-defiant young guest into a vexed retreat. "Its not a toy. Few are worth being kept in such a protective enclosure. Its a figurine; mine in fact passed onto me by a good friend from the Second World War. It holds a rather...sentimental value a reminder of times passed."

Her devious resolve felt splintered at the vexatious moment her dark irises skeptically chased the dismal gesture of Alfred's wrinkled hand, arresting the distance from the cabinet. Her senses rioted with a thieving implosion to dare the edge of chance, but suddenly her veins felt corrosive as she reluctantly banished that erring - unslaked compulsion. With a subtle clench of her delicate jaw, she tensed rigidly in the winged-back chair, glaring down vehemently at the fragile cup secured in the curve of her lithe fingers. She couldn't make the elderly butler of the Wayne family another damn sucker in her fleeting shadow. She wasn't that heartless. Smacking the pillowy fullness of her poised lips with a variant of scoffing disinterest, she played out easily. "What your holding in there is priceless to you, huh?"

"Priceless in a sense; to someone." He answered. "The world is different today than what it was when that figurine was made. In some ways it was worse just as it wasn't. Of course you don't need me to tell you how harsh life can be." It was a hard life growing up in Gotham; Alfred knew that better than anyone after raising his missing charge for a decade before he vanished. Somehow he guessed this young woman had been exposed and molded by the crueler aspects of the city. Her hardened gaze told him not to delve further so he chose to gently steer the conversation to a brighter point. "Back then, the world relied on not only brave men-but extraordinary ones to represent the ideals we fought for. Ideals we are in sore need of today."

"Heroes don't exist," Selina rebuffed in a hiss, trenchantly with a gauged countenance, it was damn apparent that he was trying to anchor her back to a headlong reality of daybreak-hope-everything came with a price when denizens of anarchy and bloodshed shuffled the decks. There was no such thing of unstinted chivalrous acts stacking in the blackened trenches-imminent extensions of spawning crime was markedly tantamount on the ravaged-out streets. Exchanging a quick glance with Alfred's wintry depths, her impassive demeanor chilled testily. "People out there lose everything because no one chases a bullet..."

"Is that how you found yourself in the back of my Bentley? Where you chasing a bullet? Or did it just happen to be chasing you?" Alfred asked coolly. It was a bold counter to what could quickly turn to a volatile conversation, but having spent years trading arguments with a still grieving-still angry-young Wayne, had provided him with enough experience in handling teenagers. It didn't take a detective to understand that the young woman in front of him was no doubt in a bit of trouble with the wrong kind of people. "I don't mean to judge," he offered quickly while setting his cup down. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, meeting young woman's icy look with one of complete understanding.

"I know you have no reason to trust someone you just met. A helping hand in Gotham City carries the danger of a concealed dagger up the sleeve. But if you look hard enough through the cracks, you can still find the good in the foundations. A hero can be anyone. They exist in any good deed offered even to those that refuse them."

The genuine validity in his unhesitating cadence that she registered fuelled unwarranted- incendiary emotions with driving gravity that impaled through her overcautious heart. Her steeled resistance was dismantling, in a vicious flex, she gripped the chair's armrest tensely, feeling a resurrected bone-deep throb surging like glacial acid that evoked a hitch of conviction to manifest. "Sorry, but I usually scratch back at that kind of hand," she murmured huskily, catching a tight breath while frostily glaring at the mounting snow gathering against the glass panes of the arched windows. "Now, I need to ride this storm..."

Sensing the teenager's withdrawal, Alfred accepted her response as she finished her tea then began rise up from her seat. "Its getting late, Gramps. I need to get going." She nodded to the view outside. The hour was beginning to grow late and the snowfall was beginning to increase heavily. Alfred's first instinct was to offer her a roof over her head for the night, but he had the good sense to know her trustful boundaries were nowhere close to that yet. His concern for her safety aside, he felt another weight on his shoulders begin to increase as his thoughts turned to what Peggy Carter had mentioned to him.

Time was running out. the burden Alfred carried stemmed from the duty of being responsible for more than just one bright young man. While Bruce Wayne was beyond his reach to guide, the same could not be said for the trapped soul that many believed perished decades ago in a time few were alive today to remember. Peggy Carter's words of warning repeated on a loop in his mind. The days that passed were like a pendulum that steered closer to maiming whatever hope remained for undoing the curse they were up against. He never liked to think of himself as a man of manipulation; it was one of the many reasons he chose to never join SHIELD despite the fact his friend directed the organization.

But he was a man of faith who believed that there were some things that happened for a reason. Meeting the young woman in front of him today, he wanted to believe wasn't by chance; nor was her curiosity in the figurine on the mantle. As he sensed the young woman begin to slip away, he felt so were the chances of saving perhaps more than just one lost soul.

"Too right it is," he rose up from his chair to meet her then made his way over to the fireplace. "Before you go, I hope you will accept a couple of things from me. Think of it as a gesture of thanks for sharing a quaint afternoon with a lonely old man in need of conversation." With great care, Alfred opened the glass cabinet and took the figurine off the stand into his hands. "This lad has seen many battles, but I have come to think of him as a silent guardian, watching over those in need. May he bring you good fortune." With that, he held the surprisingly well detailed and life-like figurine towards Selina.

Expecting a timeworn visage etched in a disused mold of plastic, Selina remained brisk in her stance, not abandoning the offered gift that was only a breadth from her opened reach; with a measure of full control, the first touch felt startlingly voltaic-a telltale rush of heat ghosting her fingers. She'd anticipated a faux gesture of charity-the fallback, instead, Alfred tentatively placed the six-inch figurine in her swift clutch with a mirroring pulse of delicate reverence;it was her first Christmas gift that she received since the age of six.

Dragging out a breath, undeterred by the butler's moderate proximity, Selina lowered her gaze painstakingly down at the sculpted details of the handsomely pocket-sized figure, his plastic-defined features were broadly chiseled and sleek like a knife-edge; his lips were shapely arched and masculinely beautiful against the rugged contrast of his stubble-dimpled chin. It was the paint his mesmeric eyes-a piercing steel-blue that felt soul-piercing to sink into.

As her thumb unwaveringly drifted over the molded ridges of his dark blue tactical uniform that painted with emblems of silver wings of valor on the sleeves and a bygone Thompson rifle strapped over his right shoulder; a trace of girlish radiance unknowingly glinted in her liquid coffee irises-lost echoes of definite innocence. "Yeah, I hate to spoil the moment, but I really don't play with dolls..." There was an evident impendence when she watched Alfred's hand with an effort of dismal temperance, deliver a phantom shadow of unsustainable-grievous desperation over the cherished figurine. "I'm guessing he's a soldier?" she quipped out with a cool rawness tamping down in her husky pitch as he leveled his stoic gaze onto the clutched treasure."You're trying to make me live up the Nutcracker story, huh?" she deadpanned, teasingly.

"I can't say I know for certain what you're implying, Miss." Alfred said with a degree of coy. "But I have lived long enough to know that life does not often imitate art. But on the rare chance that it does, when all is else seems impossible, it is a precious moment to be held onto. Hold onto this soldier, keep him close as if he were your life-line; and may he keep you safe out there." He finished with a tender look, full of heartache yet relief all at once. He was taking a gamble, that much he knew. But he had to believe, he had to hope it would all turn out for the best. As he watched the teenager stare at the figurine thoughtfully, he felt certain he made the right choice as he sees her carefully set him inside of a small backpack. "Now then, I believe its time we see you safely back. Which brings me to my other surprise if you would follow me." He beckoned her to follow him with a look of cheer in his withered features.

His concern for her well-being wouldn't allow him to not offer some form of easement for her journey back to wherever she called "home." Hailing a cab for her wouldn't be safe at this time of night, and he guessed she wouldn't accept a ride either. Thankfully, the old garage had more than its fair share of unused vehicles.

After a few minutes of treading against the knifing blasts of snow, Selina involtionairy pursued Alfred's purposeful stride rampantly towards an eclipsed flag stone garage of the wintering trees were fringing the iron gate -another Gothic 19-century extension of Wayne Manor, she expected a collection of expensive overseas cars being showcased; the sleekness of her toned muscles locked numbly with stoking tension when her booted heels clicked on granite flooring. Sconces of automated light fixtures reflected off black tarps like stage luminosity over draped curtains. Her coffee jeweled irises flitted over a concealed set of wheels that Alfred coaxingly patted with his gloved hand, calmly signaling her to breach the distance, as he pulled off the tarp, exposing a fiery red and black matte Evader 50 moped scooter-that she loathly figured was the rich boy's toy. "Let me guess, the bail-out prince of Gotham left this there for you to play with?" she questioned, sardonically.

"Quite the opposite actually. The moment he received his license, Master Wayne was eager to running before learning to walk; thought to take the old Harley Davidson out for a joy ride. Too soon, I would've said. The moped was our compromise. It hasn't seen the road in years, I believe you will show her the time she deserves." Alfred held the keys dangling from his fingers. Selina was left baffled by this show of generosity, the cynical part of her mind telling her that there had to be some sort of string attached to all of this. Rich people and certainly not their butlers were never this kind to the wayward and poor. But tonight proved to be quite the night of unexpected surprises.

"Look I'm not very good at giving something back," Looking intensity ahead at the hillocks of flurrying snow drifts barricading the iron gates that bordered the manor, Selina unconsciously grazed her teeth on the swell of her underlip, a tremulous hitch of stark conviction was fringing in the huskiness of her sultry undertone. Despite that, she wanted to gun full acceleration of breakneck speed towards the plowed intersection, as she effortlessly with the sleek exactness of fluidic grace in her lowering ease, straddled her lithesome weight over the moped's saddle and smirkily rasped."For you, Gramps, I'll make an exception..."

The silken length of her tousled mahogany wavelets cloaked over the delicate expanse of her leather garbed shoulders, as she fastened the backpack's straps as intrusive coldness sailed through her veins. Bone aware of the invaluable soldier figurine-a modernized nutcracker that Alfred voluntarily gave to her without stifled raze of compromise, she felt a jaunty smirk kick up her voluminous lips, conveying a play of abandoned sassiness that was inadvertently morphing teamed radiance in her flashing smile-nothing was synthetic. Hope was blazoned in the sincere depth of Alfred's pale azure irises -no retractions of betrayal. The reality of his adamant trust didn't feel expendable. He deserved to know her name—at least instead of a smokescreen identity. "Selina Kyle...That's my name since you asked before..."

Despite the emergence of cosmic synergy, Alfred's passive countenance genuinely softened to the reveal of her name; under silver lashes, his wintry azure irises brimmed tearily alight with immeasurable hope that promisingly anchored his grieving heart to a restored cadence of steadiness. With one last soulful glance, he watched her vanish into the snowfall. A new chance of home-love wouldn't slip out of Selina's thieving fingers, nonetheless, he knowingly sensed that handsomely enchanted figurine would be more than just a Christmas treasure for her.

The gravity of her brazen momentum became stunted against the barraging succession of bullets deafeningly ricocheted off eroded oil drums stacked in a darkened corner. She banished the lurching urge to vomit as vaporous rust sifted down her throat. She was a detected target in the scoped crosshairs of Falcone's enforcers-her blood would chase the shadows tonight. Without a stall against the conscious effort of her feline-honed stealth, momentarily Selina reared back on her gloved palms braced over the cement; never wavering in her crouched poise-the dock warehouse was a blackout spot, GCPD patrol cruisers would risk a drive-by.

She was isolated within the clamorous elements of a murderous tumult, the reeking - the macabre stench of errant intestine fluid and decomposing flesh wafted off two inert unformed bodies that were lynching disturbingly above the steel containers-obviously just another lurid display of Alberto Falcone's execrable-barbarous tactic for gutting out resistance. Swiping a gloved hand unerringly against her scrunching nose, she blocked out the rancid odor. She disarmingly felt no different than a startled kitten ducking under a car. Her assuage of practical instinct was giving a razor-edge advantage against the collapsing ground under her booted feet. Her angelic visage wasn't bared, a stolen wool balaclava safeguarded her identity to a deviant of ingenious mystique-a dark revenant against the rapid hailstorm. This was the crummy extent of her life-always on the point-break of an endgame, throwing back whatever demons careened after her.

She was loathe to admit, however, that she hadn't wound up in this position by accident. Catching a whiff of imported contraband by the docks had peaked her interest that she thought she could sneak in and see if there were any spoils that she could safely steal. She knew the word "safe" was non-existent in Gotham, but that hadn't stopped her from dipping her toes in cold water. It had taken her only moments to realize that it wasn't exactly a pick-up she stumbled upon, but a trade-off between members of Falcone's family and the Maroni's, overseen by Gotham's most corrupt pig: Arnold Flass.

Needless to say, crap hit the fan quickly when they hadn't reached an agreement. Using the chaos and gunfight as her chance to make her move, Selina slipped in between the containers and made off enough of the spilled cash that she could carry. Before she could safely disappear into the maze of crates, the Pig Detective's greedy nose caught whiff of her and alerted Falcone's men to her escape. Maroni's men lay dead in blood heaps and the sun wasn't even down yet. Day or night, Gotham bred chaos and death. Now more than ever, Selina knew she had to put as much distance between herself and this death-hole of a city as she could.

The loot she stole could help with that. It was a constant reminder for herself as she ducked around a construction crane parked outside an abandoned parking lot to the old Sionis factory. The four armed thugs were no pushovers as evidence by their unrelenting pursuit of her as they screamed at her to give up the money or be peppered with bullets.

"Give us the cash, girlie! I'd hate to put a bullet in that pretty head of yours." A thick Italian accent called. Little Vitto. Carmine Falcone's godson and Alberto Falcone's best-friend. Selina had heard enough about him to know he wouldn't make her death quick if he got a hold of her. He stood at fix-feet with a perfect head of push-back black hair and a smile that could be both charming as well as sadistic. Early 30s, broad-shouldered, hard-jaw and focused eyes. He cut an imposing shape in his tailored gray suit, black overcoat and the submachine gun in his hands.

The three stooges following him looked like newbies to organized crime, but certainly not to crime itself as they moved about in reckless fashion, showing neither tact nor finesse. Selina knew their boss was the sole danger here and getting back to her parked moped would be a bad-play unless she lost them first. "I'm getting tired of chasing you girl. I know you're here. I can smell that cheap herbal shampoo of yours." The irritated gangster taunted. Selina frowned and resisted the urge to yell back as her eyes searched her surroundings for a way out.

She discreetly moved in slow steps, careful not to cast a shadow as the multiple ones in pursuit of her feline prowess across the ground.

The stacked eroded barrels of diesel offered a line of cover against the darkened contrasts of latent shadow; repressing down her snarky retort, Selina became intuitively aware of their pestilent stench advancing to her proximity while Vitto stood impassively on a grated step; reserving grounded traction of her thermal boots, she reared her jaw up, disheveled mahogany tresses clinging feverishly askew over her flushed temples damply beneath her balaclava.

A whipcrack echo broke the silent ambiance of the warehouse as Selina registered a tumultuous rush of undeterred anticipation warring against the deafening momentum of her accelerated heartbeat. Another scrouging birth of Falcone's tyrannic-vitriolic gain would inevitably contaminate the East Side quarter on Christmas. She needed to invent a new-effective tactic to beat this hellish dodge.

Gripping on the loose strap of her backpack, her rigid lithe knuckles tensely colored white against the variant of a defensive strain-the lethal raid of Alberto's hired enforcers-big guns that catered his insidious demands had been signaled to the dockyard when her stealthy brazen infiltration was maddeningly detected by a paid-off security watchdog.

"Okay..." she gritted, bitingly in a pinched breath, unzipping a front compartment of the backpack, and deftly clutching the plastic soldier figurine before reluctantly tossing her spoils over the barrels. "You know I'm being pretty generous tonight, big boy..." she purred out steelily in melodic cadence and winced slightly against the wafting stench of potent-malt whiskey and doughnut grease. She had to anticipate the right moment to blindingly swipe a Glock that was haphazardly fastened over the hoggish detective's protruding belt."No short-offs this time, I'll play nice..."

"Not so fast, girlie. I don't know what kind of tricks you have up your sleeve. Step out from there; nice and easy. Donnie, get the bag!" Vitto demanded, standing with his sub-machine gun aimed towards the barrels where he detected the coy youthful voice coming from. His men formed behind him while Flass stood lazily in the background, a cold absent look in his eyes as they waited. One of new recruits shuffled towards the backpack with his gun aimed low. Selina knew she was outgunned and cornered, especially out in the open. Her first impulse was to rush for the abandoned Sionis warehouse beside the old mill, but she would be gunned down before making it to the door. Her survival instincts screamed at her to take her chances, to utilize her skills of deception and cunning to talk her way out.

The defiant part of herself-the part that got her into this tight spot in the first place-argued not to be stupid, to be smart. "Okay...I'm coming out," she called, keeping the figurine tucked into her coat-pocket as she slowly stepped out of her cover; just as the gangster-Donnie-approached to retrieve the backpack. "Just keep your-"

*BOOM*

A single shot rang out and Selina, acting on sheer instinct, used Donnie as a human meat-shield to catch the bullet that was meant to hit her chest. Donnie gasped and Selina tried not to look him in the eye, even as blood poured from his mouth. Reacting quickly, she pulled his Glock out from the hem of his pants just as he fell to the ground, dead as a doornail. Vitto and his men stared at Detective Flass with confusion and frustration.

"No witnesses," Flass shrugged, not wanting anything or anyone to link him to today's screw-up. It wouldn't be the first kid he had to make disappear.

Selina knew these rabid dogs wouldn't let her get away. The second she took the Glock in hand, she fired a couple shots towards their direction to scatter them. It worked as the gangsters and their pig took cover behind the nearest objects, allowing Selina enough time to run towards the warehouse.

"Damn it. Go get her! NOW!" Vitto yelled. His men took off into the warehouse while he hung back, watching with mild outrage as Flass began to leave. "Where you goin'?!"

"I think you cannolis can handle one little girl. Just clean this mess up. I'm due at the station," the corrupt detective sniggered as he stepped into his car and drove off. Vitto, having no other alternative, followed his men inside, picking up the backpack with him.

Curiosity killed the cat. It was a saying her mother always told her whenever she was reckless and nosy as a child. Something Selina never took as wisdom given her naturally deviant nature to do as she pleased. Life was too chaotic and too short to live in fear constantly. No life was worth living if it meant growing hungry every single day. But now as a half dozen guns chased her through the cold dim hallways of the old warehouse, she began to think about things she often avoided. What if? What if she had chosen a different path? What if she had never been too afraid to have friends? To open her heart to someone? What if-what if… "Keep it together, girl." She told herself as she shuttered her eyes and hid in a dark alcove that smelled of dry wall and rust.

"She went this way. The tracks are fresh, look." One of the gangsters said.

Selina mentally cursed when she realized the floors were so dusty she had in fact left behind a noticeable trail for them to follow her. "Damn it." She squeezed the gun tighter while her heart proceeded to do pound painfully against her chest. She had to lose them. She...she needed help. It was an inevitable conclusion. 6 guns against one. As much as she had learned as a street fighter since her youth, she was still untrained and had only fired a gun a couple of times before today in a poor attempt at target practice in the Narrows.

She was good at stealth and manipulation, but right now she had only the former to rely on as she snuck out of the alcove and hid in the shadows. She stepped over the less dusty areas on the floor while making her way towards the manufacturing room of the warehouse. Her sneakers were quiet but her pace was slow due to the number of turned over pieces of old equipment and debris. Some blocked her path and left her with no other alternative but to move around or climb. Her heart raced as she looked back and heard the voices coming closer.

"There she is!" Shots rang out just as Selina slipped through the door and into the manufacturing room. Old machines stood high and forgotten. Dust was thick as fog and the youth coughed as she made her way through. She held the Glock in her hands tight. The instant the doors opened, she opened fire without hesitation. Hesitation got you killed. Three bullets found their way into one of the gangsters while the others fell behind cover.

"S***. She got me in the leg!" One of the gangsters cried. "Kill her!" The roared, entering and opening fire in her direction. Selina slipped behind a stack of crates, the pounding in her heart keeping her warm with adrenaline, but soon her blood ran cold with the realization as she aimed and pulled the trigger at them, only to hear the click of an empty clip.

"She's out! Move in!" They yelled. Despair settled into Selina who looked around hopelessly for another door to exit. None were close by and many of the windows were either boarded up or blocked off. Wincing, she slowly sank to the ground and let the empty gun fall to her side. She had to do something, she couldn't give up. As her hands blindly searched her pockets for anything worthwhile-a knife or even a lighter to set things ablaze, she remembered the figurine in her coat pocket.

"Some good luck charm, Pennyworth," she said sourly as she held the soldier in her hands. She winced as a bullet nearly grazed her cheek from behind cover. They were getting closer. She held the figurine like a life-line, the fear of being surrounded gnawing at her cool exterior as she contemplated her odds of survival. "I'm a Bonnie Tyler song, and in damn need of a hero!"

The unwavering tension warningly barricading her felt like a drawn blade, the glare of industrial light that reflected against the smuggling crates on the north side became fiercely captured in her dark coffee irises; her devious resistance was stilted to the clash vulnerability-she was arrested in a deadlock. Methodical taciturnity was evidently shadowing her incautious evades, vestiges of bone-deep fatigue were overriding her reactive instincts. A telltale shiver nakedly stole her pulse as she inadvertently braced the svelte planes of her garbed back against the frigid steel of the door. She was gutter vermin that Falcone reckoned to exterminate on his kill-site.

With a hammering force of driving intent, her gloved hand bruisingly slammed against the cement, slackening her desperate grip on the priceless toy figurine-her handsome Nutcracker. Shockingly, an unprecedented echoing-tactile pulse mirrored her own-she could feel the liquefied heat welding against her tremulous palm in morphic fruition of increasing solid tautness. "What-" she rasped out breathlessly, dropping the melting figurine. Her fervent senses became exceedingly hijacked when arcing vaporous skeins of lucent energy wreathed searingly over the ground. The cacophonic surging depth was ear-piercing against unstable gravity.

For a short and incredulous moment, Selina nearly forgot about the gravity of her situation; being cornered by a vicious group of Falcone thugs. Her brown eyes were unblinking with wide-eyed wonder as the figurine that she had only moments ago held like a life-line, began to take on a life its own. The plastic surface melted as if it were being scalded by hot temperatures. For a moment she would have considered the possibility of some weird reaction to an unseen substance in the room. But there wasn't any smoke wafting from the figurine, nor some kind of putrid smell. And that was when she saw the light. Not the light of righteous realization, but of an eerie otherworldly glow the figurine had taken once it fully dissolved on the floor in front of her.

"What the hell…" She murmured to herself, watching as the puddle expanded and began to take a solid form. It was like watching a clay statue being molded in fast-time before her eyes. The crimson energy curled around it, shimmering in its trail as hard lines took form and the mass expanded into a life-sized form. In the seconds that ticked by, Falcone's men continued to move in search of her. Selina anxiously watched as the puddle took on the sculpted shape of...a man. Her brown eyes were wide as the puddle and energy cleared, and all that was left was the unassuming form of a young man, dressed in army clothes on the floor.

With a subtle measure of raring caution, Selina edged her lithe hand closer to his laden arm, masculine resilence was thrillingly ushering her closer as her gloved fingers traced a beckoning glide desirously over hardened swells of banded muscle a vibrant contrast smooth flexion. In the procession of lucid moments, she was hauntingly aware that he was real-flesh and blood. His cheek was resting flatly on the cement, as unkempt brunette tresses draped wolfishly over the bristled stubble of his heavy-set jaw.

Banishing a recede of hesitance in the fractional precision of her ghosting hand, she listened to him chokingly gurgle against deep throaty intakes as the sensuous arch of his shapely-wide lips quirked to draw out threaded breaths rapted against her sleeve. The virile beauty that fiery infused in his hawkishly boyish features was mesmerically addictive-graven tension delineated youthful skin as his jaw consciously angled up, errant dark strands whisked over the knife-edge of his cheekbones; she felt a kittenish smirk tug on her lips when her coffee irises were unblinkingly fixed on traces of chubbiness that layered under his dimpled chin. He was only a soldier-boy that was being awakened into her remorseless world.

Time had seemed frozen along with his mind, locked in an eternal slumber with nothing but darkness and oblivion to surround him. Who was he? Why couldn't he wake up? Questions asked repeatedly until they lost all meaning. The world he knew was gone and he was asleep-a prisoner in his own transformed body that couldn't move-couldn't speak. Left at the mercy of unknowing people for generations and always at the risk of being discarded like an ordinary toy. But something had changed recently. The cold absence he felt turned into unprecedented warmth, the outpour of dependency- a heartache melted the plastic that had trapped him.

The old Asgardian magic was undone as a warrior was called into battle.

The world had seemed impossibly frozen, both to Selina, and to the young man on the floor who slowly began to stir, as if awakening from a normal sleep. "...Ste...eve…" He slurred with a deep scratchy voice that hadn't been in use for a long time. She guessed that wasn't far from the truth. He looked groggy and confused. "...where…" Her wide-eyes watched him closely, taking in every detail from the pinched frown creeping onto his brow, to the way his body tensed up and pulled tight at the fabric of his clothing.

He had an athlete's build, and a soldier's alert-level. That much she realized when he paused for a brief second before he sprang up to his knees as if someone had dropped a bomb on his house. Maybe it was the faint ringing of gunfire, but something had triggered him into full alert-mode as his gaze snapped at his surroundings until it landed on her. Her world had become a hypnotizing and seductive shade of steel-blue. Over a decade of hardening her emotions had suddenly felt so futile as she openly stared at the man in front of her with bafflement.

He didn't remember his name, he felt it lingering somewhere in the fog of his confused mind as he wandered through it aimlessly. The world around him looked cold and grim, yet somehow familiar as if he were in a place no different from when he was forced to sleep. His thoughts raced with questions until his eyes landed on her. Like a deer at the headlights, he was dumbfounded by the unexpectancy of such a sight, so bright and so unknown, he didn't know what to do except stare at her; mesmerized by the sight of her angelic beauty and her alluring brown eyes that gazed back at him.

"W-Who…Who are you..." He whispered as his body shuddered with pins and needles that came from his sudden mobility after being stiff for so long.

"Okay, I'm never taking gifts from cryptic old men ever again," Selina said to herself aloud. What next? Does the moped he gave her turn into an Autobot? That she could appreciate given her harrowing predicament she was instantly reminded of when a bullet pinged against her cover.

Cursing under a stifling breath, Selina could barely command herself to reel backward against the bullet's trajectory arrowing through flurrying snow; flashing sparks glaringly deflected off the eroded barrels, she felt the intense heat caress her skin-every nerve became jacked up. Thrusting her gloved hand up with blinding ease, she braced her palm over rippling-broad muscle under his frayed uniform, pushing him down with a tangible effort at the instant another rapid volley of automatic-fire cruised over them. He was a passager on this high-adrenaline ride. Staccato concussions of volume temporarily blocked out her hearing-she reserved Glock's angle with a vicious arc, discharging a dead-eye shot at Vitto's men."Keep your ass down, handsome-" she hissed out raggedly with a pithy edge of impatience, squeezing off deafening shots towards chained barrels that had combustible sigils on boarded skids. "Things might get hot..."

"Wait, what is-" he asked before the ping of another gunshot hit the edge of the machine they were hiding behind. Instinct settled in along with a rampant flow of memories. They came with the force of a rushing river carrying him down a stream. He visibly groaned and held his temple as they did. Through the haze of flashing images, he found a certain clarity as the fog in his mind began to lift. The clarity revealed a name. James Buchanan Barnes. That was his name. A kid from Brooklyn just looking to do the right thing and defend his country and the people he cared about. He was a soldier on the front-lines, and the best damn marksman to serve in the 107th Infantry. Captured...tortured...Zola.

"Hot-zone…" Bucky repeated the young woman's words, finally getting a grasp of his bearings as questions flooded his mind. Where was he? How did he get here? And who was this gorgeous young woman that happened to be caught in the line of fire with him? He shrugged off the onslaught of thoughts. His soldier instincts kicked in as he realized he was caught in a war-zone of sorts. He grabbed his rifle off the floor and checked its ammo. A hard look schooled his boyish features but he was quick to reassure the pretty young dame beside him with a charming smirk.

"Don't worry, beautiful. Puttin' down Hydra scum is my specialty." He loosened his stiff shoulders as he aimed his rifle to scope the area. Selina looked at him oddly at the mention of the word Hydra. 'Just how old is this handsome GI?' She wondered as she watched him take aim. Bucky calmed his breathing, his blue eyes cold as glaciers as they caught sight of two...armed civilians? He frowned at the lack of uniforms, wondering if these were Gestapo's of sorts or just bad people. It didn't matter, they were shooting at him and they were gonna lose.

"Come out, girlie! You got nowhere to run!" One of them yelled in an Italian accent. Bucky waited until one of them was dumb enough to step out of cover and fired. The gunshot was like a roar of thunder as a crimson hole exploded out the back of the thug's head and he fell dead.

"Shit! I thought you said she was empty?!" One of the others cried in shock. "Flank her! Take her down!" The Falcone thugs rushed out from behind cover while Bucky reloaded his weapon, not missing a beat. He had a pretty dame to protect and see to it that she got back home.

"Who are these guys, darlin'? They don't look like Hydra, and they sure ain't trained soldiers." He asked Selina who watched the chaos unfurl, waiting for the right moment for them to give the slip. Bucky took aim and fired a clear to the knee of a taller thug, which brought him to a crouch, Bucky finished him off with a headshot.

The hammering echoes of bullets ricocheting off crates against the semidarkness entrenching her into a lethal crescendo; Selina responded quickly in a seething lash, grudgingly catching her stoking breath. Giving him an irate glare of molten coffee; she impassively conveyed her abhor of playing a tactless damsel in the line of fire. Gouts of straying blood leached from the penetrated skulls of flailing bodies. Her grated nerves felt afire when she tantalizingly listened to the graveled timbre of his suave Brooklyn drawl- smoothly ravishing like dark velvet that arrestingly seized her heartbeat. She reactively wrestled for control against the heady rush-upsurge of battle-tested arousal.

Damn.

Her rivaling senses became teemingly yielded to his ardent violation in throaty pitch. He was only a hairbreadth from her, balancing mechanically on his solid haunches in a sniper-marksman crouch, his calculating, laser-edge resolve was undeterred by the lethal extent of the mission. Footsteps were approaching in all directions. Brandishing a semblance of deadened vigilance, Bucky leveled his wartime rifle with an unerring grip, sinking low with combative ease until his bulked mass was planked rigidly on his garbed forearms. He was readying to execute a kill shot. This playing field was hardly stable-she needed to swipe off the shuffled deck before Carmine would indulgently relish with sating his conventional pleasure of discarding her strikingly handsome Brooklyn boy like a drowned rodent in the corpse-filled waters of Gotham Bay.

Fleetingly Selina risked a vehement glance over a barrel, finding an injured enforcer wobbling in clumsy paces near the loading crane's steps. The Falcone spawn was attempting to break a run. She coolly gestured a gloved hand toward the gunman's proximity, as the flash of bestial menace in Bucky's glacial steel-aquamarine irises chased the variant motion of her lithe hand, daringly. "I guess you're my backup piece huh...?" she huskily quipped against the explosive pulse of the invasive moment. Furrowing his brow into a strained pinch, Bucky felt his shapely lips drop blankly agape before he answered with a chaste quirk of a smirk to her indignant challenge."Try not to be a show-off..."

"There's some things I just have no control over, darlin'." Bucky quipped as he reloaded his rifle with the quick succession, taking aim and fired another shot at one of the thugs attempt to rush to another covering position. The bullet struck clean in the side of the head with scary efficiency. Smooth as silk. "And some things I do." His focused turned to the masked young woman beside him, wondering why the need for the disguise and why it seemed these men were after her. The question lingered at the edge of his tongue, but he knew it was something that could wait for when they were in the clear. "Now tell me, does the mysterious young dame got a name?" He coaxed with a boyish smile. He, unfortunately, could do little to control the increase of his spiking curiosity as she leveled him with a hard look. He shivered at the intensity of her smoldering brown eyes. How long had it been since he seen a woman?

Dame. That was the unmistakable scripted word of effortless cavalier seduction that Selina recognized from old-time movies of Fred Astaire and Cart Grant; the men wearing the tailored vintage fedoras was their charading arsenal-smooth players that were charm incarnate. Those were damn chimeras of masculine grace; apparitions captured in the black and white frame, never daring their nonchalant stride towards the barricading hell pits of Gotham's underworld where demon hordes bred.

She wasn't a classy dame to be swept off her feet-this unwarranted dynamic attraction reining her closer to him was intoxicatingly novel against her feline caliber; with a tense set of her delicate jaw, she felt her spine arch to a conjuring vestige of phantom heat that was gripping her down to a derailing thrall of submission. In a breathy rasp, she reeled back until the svelte planes of her back swiftly collided against a barrel. Her coffee irises leveled darkly on the emptied Glock clutched against her leather palm.

The intimate gravity felt electric with high-voltage that lanced through her veins-a dangerous fusion that evoked her aggressive instincts to breach her compromised resolve of deviation. "Look, I'm not a good dame or whatever you Brooklyn boys call a girl..." she gnashed her teeth, scathingly, tearing her gaze from the pistol."What you're expecting under the mask, isn't someone you want to dance with, handsome..."

With painstaking steadiness in his crouch, Bucky glanced piercingly at her, the glacial smokiness of his aqueous irises nakedly gleamed with viscerous stark echoes of bone-raw heartache against the banking- an unfathomable reality of existing in a morphic vessel of a figurine plastic-a toy soldier.

He wasn't a stealthily delivering lethal accuracy of dead-eye shots as a counter-sniper on the Front Lines while concealed in sludgy trenches; clearing off the invaded snow-laden farmlands as SS stormtroopers-Wehrmacht ruthlessly commandeered abandoned outbuildings-kill sites. Did his infantry unit of 107th survive-get extracted out of the HYDRA's armament factory-Zola's horror shop? He lurched suddenly like his heart's riotous momentum had slammed on the brakes. 'No...'

A nauseous glaze of sweat broke out his tensing pores, a feverish shivery onslaught racked his veins as the edge of blearing tears dampened his lashes. A cold rush of dormant fury imploded through his bones, a phantom ache that wouldn't recede. He was suspended in time-immobilized to drift on the breadth of damning-vapid oblivion. It felt soul-crushing torturous for him conceive as Selina guardingly watched a half-grimace curve ferally over his scowling poised lips.

"I'm sure there's a story that comes with that. Maybe you can tell me more about it once we're out of here." Bucky responded after a moment of pause. He couldn't quell the disquiet and meager disappointment inside of him at being brushed off. It was an uncommon experience for him back home in Brooklyn. Though he wasn't one to think of himself as a Ladies Man, he was never coldly received by one even in passing. The world was harsh and he wondered what it had done to this mysterious young woman that was being chased by bullets. As his attention wandered to the greater predicament at hand, he noticed a clip of ammunition having fallen out of the pocket of dead gunman.

Mindful of his surroundings, Bucky leaned close to ground level and retrieve the strange looking magazine. "You know how to use that?" He asked Selina, watching as she clutched empty but oddly sophisticated looking gun in her hands. Was that one of Stark's newest designs? It looked sleek and stylish.

"Tried a whip before, wasn't the right accessory for a girl with my style," Selina tartily, rebuffed back in hushed cadence; utilizing the street-level extent of her mechanism of undeterred endurance. Curving her gloved fingers thievingly over the seized Beretta's carbon-steel, in a variant of fluid effort, she readily aimed the nozzle with balletic precision of her flexing wrist, Bucky's steel-aqueous irises grew narrowingly alight with banking fascination as he grazed his slightly bucked teeth on the underswell of his jutted lip. It was an inducing rush for him to gaze down at the revolver, smirking in devious contrast against his perplexed reaction, Selina rasped silkily as each harsh plane of his smoothly boyish features rapted with gripping tension. "These bastards know how to put up a nasty fight, so it's always good to play with new toys..."

"Someone's helping her!" One of the Falcone thugs yelled over the chaos. Bucky barely heard him as he looked at the masked girl with wonder.

'A dangerously attractive young woman who knows how to use a gun? Okay heart, be still and don't go nuts," Bucky thought to himself incredulously. He knew of only a very small number of girls back home who were tomboys and played tough against bullies. It was never easy to watch. Despite how impressed he felt at the girl's fearlessness, he couldn't control the protectiveness her felt towards her. He couldn't let these thugs get to her.

It was who he was, why he became a soldier-to stand up to bullies and defend those were targeted by them. "In that case, here. Keep them off my back." He said as he tossed her the clip of ammunition. He wasn't surprised when she caught the clip and reloaded her gun in one smooth move. Demonstrating her level of precision, Selina had taken aim and fired two shots with succession, hitting two of the thugs that were sneaking up towards Bucky's blind left side. "Okay now who's showin' off?" Bucky quipped once the shock wore off.

The nidorous efflux odor of spilled blood overpoweringly entrenched her railing senses; lives were being wasted out as bullets arrowed rapidly through flesh with squelching tempo she effortlessly orchestrated. Selina couldn't afford to hold back-this was her killing ground to dance on.

Shifting her dark glower onto him in a space of a dueling heartbeat, Selina eased out a terse breath and lowered herself down back into a crouching stance a tactful hairbreadth at his garbed left calf, his strength was dangerously palpable, until she became an extension of shadow. Nothing mirrored her evades. She collectively rotated on her boots, arching her shoulders with cautious poise and risked a keen glance near the warehouse's vacant exit point. Feigning a mischievous cast in her coffee irises, she expected another convergence of more enforcers barricading them. "This isn't the first party I've crashed, handsome," she quickly deadpanned against a rueful hiss, while Bucky furrowed his brow tensely."Sometimes I get bored and want some fun just for kicks..."

Bucky couldn't help but feel troubled by that. "This is all fun and games to you? Killing a bunch of no good punks?" He tried to keep the judgment out of his voice but it wasn't something he could fathom. He never enjoyed killing, not even inhuman Nazi scumbags who deserved it. War wasn't a province he relished but it was one he had chosen to defend his country. Women had no place on the front-lines, and Bucky for the life of him couldn't understand how this girl found her way out here...Wherever here was. The girl sounded American by her accent. "You shouldn't be here." He shrugged. "This is no place for a woman. Once we're out of here, we'll find you someplace far from enemy lines."

Taking aim, Bucky put down the last gunman who thought to get creative by igniting a molotov cocktail. The bottle and the thug crashed to the ground noisily and then there was silence. Must've been the last one. "I think that was the last one." He turned only to find himself pinned by a very irritated pair of brown eyes glaring at him.

Intense revulsion automatically clamped in her unshakeable grip, Selina would have sucker punched him-the infinite promise she had staked with Wayne's charitable butler floored the momentum of her fist; brandishing a cool semblance underneath the itchy wool of her mask, she levelly gazed at the loading dock entrance, trying to distinguish straying movement of lingering Falcone spawn. No visages of her pursuers were tagged in her line of sight. With a subtle gesture of her gloved hand, she coaxingly beckoned him to follow her paces towards the unguarded exit."Stay low in the shadows with me," she urged in the unpredictable wake of their synced advances.

In the aftermath of the gunfight, Bucky stood silently while surveying the toll. Over a half-dozen armed men-not soldiers. Punks with guns that chose the wrong fight. The last thing he remembered before going under was being strapped to Zola's table inside of his lab after he and his regiment were captured. Now after waking, he was in an old warehouse he didn't recognize with an even stranger masked woman beside him who not only unsettled but intrigued him. Though he stood easily a good four or five inches over her, he somehow felt smaller and way out of place.

"...Sure. Lead the way, darlin'." He responded to her once the tension had passed. "I get the feeling I'm a long way from Kansas right now." He quipped with a smile devoid of mirth. Something felt off about all of this. As sad it sounded, the only thing that felt familiar about all of this was the gun-fight. Against every inclination in within him, he decided to follow the brunette across the room to an entrance littered with bullet holes and dust. His rifle was held firmly in hand, treating the area like any other hostile environment that carried several unknown factors. "You wanna tell me your name? And why these guys were after you?" He asked.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, something gnawed at him. A soldier's intuition should never be questioned, especially in the face of certain disaster. The moment he heard the click, he threw his weight against the young woman's. "GET DOWN!"

The propelling force of his bulked mass crushingly stripped her breathless, Selina couldn't react to the neutralizing inrush of masculine -thermic heat saddling her as she lost feline-honed agility into the galvanic descent of their bodies intimately collapsing onto the floor. A breathy rasp chased her rampant pulse at the desirous second her arms twined instinctively over his broad nape, using him as her anchor from the gaping jaws of hellish eternity.

Resistance evicted when unfeigned heat tactilely ghosted over her garbed cheek as Bucky throatily emitted a guttural snarl against barred teeth, lurching back with a release of an untamped gasp, he pinched his eyes shut at the blearing flash a bullet whisked over his braced shoulder, slicing into rigid cords of muscle. His shapely-bow lips stretched wide as he piercingly drew out a tenor of hitching agony. "Aarrghhh..."

This wasn't about tactical convenience that she deceptively employed for a measure of survival; the soldier boy had dove valorously into the crosshairs-he took a bullet for her. Unadultered panic thrummed against her heartbeat, nerves shivered as her dark bronze ireses narrowed an unblinking cast over his blood-drenched sleeve. "No...I can't los-" she murmured shakily, her lithe fingers glided urgently over the crimson ribbons of blood painstakingly meandering down his left forearm-an inevitable revelation that everything came with a damn price. "Listen carefully, soldier boy, I don't need you to go all hero on me..." she bitingly gritted out in a vehement undertone. "I had it under control..."

"Nowhere to run now, chicken legs." The cruel and sadistic voice of Little Vitto permeated the harrowing silence that had followed. The Falcone enforcer had laid low and allowed the shootout to commence until the girl and her rescuer thought they were safe. Now they would pay the price; a bullet to each of their heads. The enforcer made his way out from behind a molding machine with his gun aimed in Selina's and Bucky's direction. His conniving mind told him to kill the rescuer first to make the girl suffer traumatically before he'd end her. "After I kill your pretty boy, I'm gonna-" The enforcer's words died in his mouth the moment a bullet hole exploded against his temple.

Selina glared with misty eyes from behind the barrel of the Glock in her hands as another life perished by her hands. It never got easier. The gravity of what she had done shook her to her core; she killed Alberto Falcone's best friend. Carmine Falcone's godson. Flass was still out there and would tie her to this. She would never be safe…

"It was him or us, darlin'. We gotta get out of here," Bucky told her as he watched her stare into space with the gun still aimed. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation, there was clearly more to this unknown girl than what met the eye.

A gleam of tears heatedly bleared her dark irises under the slits of the balaclava, Selina quashed down the acid trek of bile mounting up her throat; she drew out a sobbing breath, feeling the manic world dauntingly collapsing on the bloodied edge of a precarious reality that was fashioned under her thieving shadow. The Glock slipped out of her tenuous clutch, underlying her warring surrender that had accelerated beyond her conditioned limits of vengeance.

A frisson of penetrative conviction ruinously shot through her revealing guarded apparitions of girlish phantom innocence to Bucky. The ambiance of unbidden terror starkly leached out of her veins, to her chagrin he didn't stray from her side. The frosted intensity of his stare echoed tentativeness as his larger hand ghosted caressingly over her gloved palm with conscious ease patently invested in smooth precision, there was no vacuous pulse of detachment, the breadth of virile grace felt like awakening deliverance.

The Wayne family's elderly butler-Pennyworth- had given her a new reckoning-promise to harbor onto, she wouldn't let Gotham's notorious mafia louse Carmine Falcone steal her Brooklyn Nutcracker away. That ephemeral sentiment of attachment felt exceedingly hinged against her intractable heart. Reeling her hand back, she quickly slid the Glock in her leather boot, and gave him a subtle nod, invitingly. "Usually boys want to chase me, but seeing how you took a bullet, I guess slow pace might be good..."

"As I see it, you just saved my life. Something tells me there's someone worth knowin' behind that mask, and maybe if I stick with you long enough, I'll get to see?" It wasn't his best charm tactic. Often times he used it as a defense or coping mechanism in the face of a perilous situation he tried to make light of. He was confused and alarmed by the place he'd awoken. And more importantly, he was mystified if not captivated by the young woman in front of him who not only appeared fearless in the face of danger but was quite lethal herself with a gun in her hands.

As a kid from Brooklyn, seeing a dame holding a gun was about as rare as seeing pigs fly. He wondered who taught her how to shoot the way she did but knew now wasn't the appropriate time to ask given how shaken she was at just killing a man point-blank.

"You ready to get out of here?" He asked her somberly as he lifted himself off the ground with a soft groan. The pain in his arm began to catch on and he knew he might be needing stitches despite just being grazed.

The boyish light of his glacial cerulean irises drove coaxing intensity through her; it was a flare that seared relentlessly deep. She couldn't resist his suave effort-a headlong urge that careened her on a fringe of resistance. The slanted quirk of his shapely lips temptingly etched in his cheek-the intimate awareness was electric to her own violation. Tamping down a scathing hiss, Selina caught her breath as her dark irises glowed challengingly with banked fire behind the mask's slits. Tensed by the unnerving rush, she gestured to him to follow with a swift tilt of her head. "Fine, but not expect a horse waiting or whatever you charming boys ride..." she mouthed out, snarkily.

"I'm more of a biker kinda guy," Bucky shrugged while he pondered briefly what she meant. He felt an inkling of dread about whatever big elephant had yet to be revealed to him as he followed her out of the manufacturing room. There was something off about this place. Even the machines around the room looked sophisticated and different from the ones he remembered back home. He followed the young brunette through many dark dusty corridors until he could see the pale light of day breaking the room. They emerged into the daylight outside. Bucky grimaced at the world that existed in hues of gray, black and dark blue. They were standing in an industrial parking zone with numerous construction machines around. He coughed and held a hand up against his eyes seeing numerous dark clouds with specs of snowfall on the wind.

He didn't remember it being winter when he and his regiment were captured. More importantly, none of this looked familiar to the isolated forests on the edge of France. Where the heck was he? The dread on his face must've been noticeable given the girl placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder to pull him out of his confusion. "I'm a long way from home, aren't I?" He asked with a knot in his throat.

Lowering her hand back own fleetingly avid to a flash of a knife, Selina registered the graveled strain in his murmurous drawl, he reeled back staggeringly, fighting against a breathy wince against the detached haze stealing his vision. He was losing his balance of grounded traction, anchoring himself against the steel frame of the loading door; he waded back to reality. The smooth ruggedness of his features grimly set graven-hard-edged as she fiercely ushered him towards a shadowed area behind a freight container. "Look, I don't know what happened to you, but there's an old butler who knows the whole story, doll boy..." she hastily addressed, feeling blood soak through the leather of her clutching glove. "First we need to fix up your arm at my place..."

Bucky wasn't sure what to say, or how an old butler apparently knew about him. But he felt like some kind of pilgrim in an unholy land and his only chance of finding a proper direction was with the mysterious dame beside him whose face he'd yet to see and name he'd yet to hear. This was overwhelmingly mysterious if not suspicious. He ignored the gnawing feeling in his gut that told him time had gone on longer than he imagined.

He hadn't dismissed the possibility this was an elaborate trap, but he knew she had no reason to have risked herself to save him back there. Whoever this girl was, he needed her. At least until he could get himself patched up and find his way back to the Allied camp...if they were still around that is. He gazed into the exotic allure of her brown eyes, enthralled by strength and softness he found there. He resisted the compulsion to bring himself closer to her. His body tingled at the proximity as they stood shoulder to shoulder, as if they were magnets attracting.

It took him a moment to realize she had essentially offered him a safe place to stay with her. He tried and probably failed spectacularly to hide his enthusiasm over the thought as he smiled at her. "Lead the way, darlin'."

Plugging in the wire of a thermal block heater into a wall socket, Selina remained guardingly poised in a crouch on her sleek haunches in front of a black-ochre vanity that she utilized as her workstation when cleaning delicate pieces of jewelry-easy spoils to pawn. The oval mirror was loose from the pegged joints; she had managed to salvage the furniture piece of rejected elegance out of a dumpster and repaired the dresser with an assemblage of hardware tools.

Claiming an spartan industrial garret as her durable safe point within the despotic city, gave her barriers of isolation; she collected Victorian era antiques that were regarded trash behind Gotham's Theater, packed arrays of clothing in frayed suitcases and unashamedly used a suede olive-green sectional as her makeshift futon that was pressed against a wall adorned with mosaic herringbone brickwork that contrasted against pipe-iron light fixtures hanging from steel rafters-it was her undetectable refuge harbor.

Despite the constant barrage of drafty air intruding through the vents, she adapted to the stationed elements, relishing a measure of personal space and the quick access outlet to use during her thieving hours. The loft wasn't an exception for a home, just a black-site to evade the unrelenting frigidity that encompassed over Gotham's sectors.

Tension was stemming through her veins, as she kept out of the breach of desirous proximity that beckoned her damn heart to become compromised-what happened in the dock warehouse was the first wave of overkill.

Threading her gloved fingers through scraggly tresses of mahogany, the delicate planes of her alabaster features betrayed nothing to reveal. Her senses riveted against heated coils burningly morphing in her taut muscles as Selina balletically rose up on her boots, impaling a dark glance pointedly towards the direction of a spider-webbed crack window, Bucky stood impassively stock-still in a vigil of harbored anguished, disconnected from the world as errant damp glides of tears streaked over the bristled edges of his serrated cheekbones. In reverent ease, he brought his clenching hand under the broad heaviness of his dimpled chin, gripping onto a metallic chain while pinching his eyelids shut; trying to rival out the contractive pulses of heartache-he was captive in a amorphous stalemate.

Seated on her withered black sofa, Bucky stood straight with a pale look on his face. His army coat was removed and resting on a coat-hanger while his navy-blue shirt hung open, the left sleeve cut off and exposing his exposed arm where he held a red bandage against his bicep. The silence in the room was the equivalent of a graveyard without the barest signs of life to disturb it. On the make-shift coffee-table which just happened to be a sheet of wood with cinderblocks, today's newspaper stared back at him. It was the unremarkable headline that talked about a snowstorm coming to Gotham, or the fact another poor soul was killed in a mugging last night. It was the date on the front that seemed to suck the life out of the young soldier until he was nothing but a pale husk.

December 20th, 2001.

Since they'd left the Sionis warehouse and rode the long way back to her rundown single-room apartment on her moped, Selina had explained to him how long he'd been asleep. How over 60 years had passed since the time he was from, and how the Allies won the War and how she had came into possession of the plastic figurine that was gifted to her by a strange old man. The man who revealed himself to be James Buchanan Barnes, was skeptical, needless to say. That was until he saw Gotham for himself, the city's architecture while still ancient in certain places was still far more modern and sophisticated from what he remembered of New York back in the 30s.

The date on the newspaper only confirmed her story and sent him plummeting into the abyss of shock. It had been almost 10 minutes and Selina began to feel impatient as the silence gnawed at her.

The distant sconces of amber street light flitted alluringly over her elfish features as she knowingly watched him lurch back against the reality that slammed into her at full-throttle, the assuage of his raring reservations became a stark cast in the mesmeric depth of his grayish-aquamarine irises, a tensing pinch of his furrowing brow conveyed his innate stubbornness; he emitted a throated groan, keeping his palm secured on the blood-soak cotton that was knotted over the solid bulge of flexing muscle. After gathering medical supplies while stealthily infiltrating a 24 clinic, Selina reluctantly tasked herself to suture the dime-sized welt embedded in his bruising flesh. "Okay," she whispered in a terse hitch, grabbing a bottle of peroxide off the vanity. "If we're going to do this...I need you to sit down, handsome." she urged breathy while untwisting the cap without missing a beat. "I have to admit I've never been gentle with this..."

He was listlessly aware of her words as he sat staring into a blank abyss, wondering and hoping that this was all just a strange and horrible nightmare he would wake up from at any moment. His skin felt brittle as glass while the scorching heat of pain marred his left bicep. He flinched and groan as he was pulled back into the harsh grip of this strange reality, and the dame pouring peroxide onto his grazed wound. The pain brought a lurch of discomfort in his gut and for a moment, he thought he might keel over and vomit. Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the easing his deep breathing. Breathing was key, right? That's what the doctors said in his med-eval during enlistment. Controlled breathing meant a steady mind...a steady.

"The hell with it," he shrugged, finding little comfort in any relaxation technique. What good would it do? A cool mind wouldn't change the grim fact he was over 60 years into the future, and his past-his war-his world was gone. ...And he was alone. "I shouldn't be here. I should've died in the trenches with my fallen brothers, or at least lived long enough to be in a nursing home today telling those old war stories." He mused with a torn look, fighting against the onslaught of emotion building up inside of him and threatening to overwhelm his composure. His thoughts turned immediately towards Steve, his sister Rebecca. They'd be long dead by now, Steve, especially with his frail condition. His right hand tightened into a fist and his unblinking eyes glistened with unspilled emotion. "Everythin' and everyone I knew is gone."

A tempestuous maelstrom of his unbidden emotions felt unrestrained to the intimate gravity that spasmed through her veins; Selina kept her lithe fingers deftly poised over the trek of blood, the cotton ball fringed over her knuckles as heated tears chased her pulse. Bucky caught his breath against the imploding sting, his fingers curled into the frayed cushions harshly whitening his knuckles as he enforced his grip. "Grah... "

Hearing an untamped snarl resonate up his throat, Selina couldn't brandish up a deceptive charade with him-a shivery phantom caress stalled the momentum of her traitorous heart as she layered another strip of gauze over his throbbing bicep. The intensity of her coffee irises fixed onto the wet gleam streaking down the edge of his stubbled jaw-unguarded- clamorous pain that was bone-raw to the penetrative extent of surrender. He was irrevocably straddled to the fringe of damnable-unreversible existence.

Angling her garbed jaw with an evading sway as the nauseous stench of acidic bile wafted her scrunching nose, unshakably to the limit of tolerance, Selina gritted her teeth, sensing that he needed some visage of reachable hope to steer him back. "I've never had much use for friends," she indifferently admitted, downcasting her stare back at the bloodied gauze clutched in her hand. "There's always something needs to be owed in a price that keeps holdin' us back...I know it's too damn hard to ride this out, but tonight you're not alone..."

Growing up in a modest lower-class home as a youth, with a dad that was never home working multiple jobs, Bucky knew when to count his blessings. His earliest memory of his mother taught him to value any measure of kindness offered to him with a grateful heart. Endless joy would soon come after. The young woman in front of him was a mystery to him, and even if she wasn't his best friend Steve or his lively little sister Rebecca, she was still the woman who rescued him from Zola's spell-who gave him shelter and a chance to continue living as a normal man should. He had that much to be thankful for. As he listened to her carefully measured words that offered modest amount of comfort, he smiled softly at her.

"I can be grateful for that much, darlin'." He said genuinely, wincing softly as she finished applying a fresh bandage to his now cleaned wound. It wouldn't need stitches, he was thankful. Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel confused the longer his mysterious savior decided to keep her face concealed behind a mask. Its not like she had some kind of facial disfigurement, did she? He thought on her words and came to a deduction. "But why the mask? Is it because of what you said about owe'n somethin'? I'm guessin' those guys back there weren't just chasin' you for kicks were they?" He knew it was a bold question to ask but he never was shy around women.

"You don't have to protect yourself from me." He coaxed her with an assuring voice as she said nothing while putting the finishing touches on his bandage. "If you don't want to show me your face, maybe the least you can do is give me your name?"

Sliding off the cushion that her leather-clad knees braced into, Selina became reactively standoffish in a guarded poise, as her gloved hands splayed over the backs of her delectable thighs, grudgingly edging back from the couch. The sweltery gleam of his aqueous irises beckoned her with phantom contrasts against the backlight of the loft with a naked desire that wouldn't be slaked. It was disarmed fringe of elemental seduction-dangerous and addictive on rails of amplified voltage that she was crossing with him. A blinding rush of white-heat frighteningly broke over her until her skin morphed into liquid silk. The infinite moment was real-not a conjuring sense of chimeric betrayal against her granite-encased heart. Lifting her gloved hands to the black wool of the balaclava, she began to daringly reveal pearlescent skin under her palm's eclipsing shadow.

Bucky's heart pounded with increased anticipation as the young woman allowed her mask to slowly peel away as she removed it. 'Definitely not disfigured.' He thought with a dumbfounded look. Pale alabaster skin met his stricken gaze; smoother than silk and flawless with youth. A pair of smoldering brown eyes gazed at him, making him feel much smaller than he'd ever imagined. His skin prickled with electricity and his heart began doing cartwheels in his chest.

Coming from a day and age where women dolled themselves up with excessive make-up and elaborate hairstyles to look pretty, Bucky was enthralled by the natural beauty in front of him that needed none of those cosmetics. To put it simply, the girl in front of him was painstakingly beautiful. Were it not for the haunted look in her eyes as she stared at him, he might've mistaken her for an angel. He didn't realize how long he'd been staring at her like a gaping fish until she arched an eyebrow at him, somewhat amused by his stunned silence.

"Oh...wow. H-Hello beautiful," he found himself saying outloud, regretting it slightly as his cheeks flushed red. It was a strange feeling, one he'd never felt in his life. He wondered what had happened to his charming confidence that he always exhibited, but in the face of a bewildering young woman, he felt disarmed and powerless.

Flashing him a wicked smirk that deviously played over the crimson lushness of her voluminous lips, Selina throw down her mask while every instinct of control she harnessed was speared by his toothy-grin that stretched his lips breathlessly wide, everything became lost in that instant she exposed her kittenish-exquisite beauty, leaving him dazedly mystified-floored by the ravishing sleekness of her elfin features, the delicate curves that were infused with sirenic-lethal allure. He suddenly became a lovestruck sucker, the air between was growing headier- ardent with channeling momentum that suffused in their rapid veins. He caught his rasping breath with a throated gulp, as his quirking lips throbbingly pulsed against the waging temptation that pinned him down to a tameless level of surrender. "What's wrong handsome, cat got your tongue?" Selina teasingly purred, dropping the balaclava onto the floor. "If you want my name, then you'll to give me yours..."

Blinking away the no-doubt stupid love-struck look on his face, Bucky regained some measure of composure despite the heated flush in his cheeks. She was certainly a mischievous dame that knew how to flirt and leave her even a confidant guy like himself in a sputtering mess. Quid pro quo isn't a game he often played but it was one he was beginning to like. "Sounds like a fair deal." The smirk on his face grew familiar and flirtatious as he looked back at her with growing confidence. Despite having revealed his name on the way over, he had a hunch she was asking for the name truly preferred to be called. A name that Steve made-up for him.

"You can call me Bucky." He smiled at her tenderly with a warm look.

"Bucky?" Selina repeated pointedly with a ghosting scoff, her dark irises fixedly roving over his boyishly-chiseled features, the light from the electric lanterns placed on stools across them cast hauntingly against his metallic G1 dog tags that rested over the broad expanse of his garbed chest, she inched fractionally closer, the heavy set of his stubbled jaw was apparent to the warrior-hone calculation behind his grayish-blue irises-voltaic sapphire that warningly blazed like a flame, ignited by smoldering diesel. That explosive intensity was hypnotically enthralling -he projected a sense of bestial strength, a valor-driven promise that kept her intrigued. It was hard to fathom that only hours before he existed as her pocket-sized figurine—a Christmas nutcracker.

With an effort of shaking off his mesmerizing virile beauty, Selina pursed her lips without a shift of hesitance and preparing to reveal her name—no measure of charades. Lies and fictitious identities where easy to play on the tongue-the evocative push had careened her off balance, Gotham had dissected the chastity of her spirit; a knife operation under Falcone's possessive shadow. A visage of trust was akin to a cheap drink followed by a slow burn. This hellbent Brooklyn soldier did valiantly risk everything in the crosshairs, notwithstanding that she was cold-hearted. She felt her instinctive resistance defusing as she parted her full-bow lips, and whispered smokily. "Alright, Bucky, you can call me, Selina..."

"Selina...That's a beautiful name," he said earnestly, not just to be charming even if it was a quality about himself he couldn't control. It wasn't a common name he often heard back in Brooklyn where Betty's, Audrey's and Marilyn's were a dime a dozen. It didn't matter presently, he felt, as he regarded the brunette with a genuine look. "Thank you for savin' my life, Selina. Somethin' tells me its not somethin' you make a habit of. You're definitely my hero." He already knew enough about the girl in front of him to know there was something dangerously exciting about her he wouldn't find in an ordinary dame. It terrified and concerned him as he thought about how much the world had changed and if women living this dangerously was quite common now.

For her part, she appeared uncomfortable with the praise and his words of gratitude. He knew it wasn't his place to question her about her past and why she lived like this. She didn't know him-not yet. He was an unknown, a man way out of his time without anyone in the world except for her. He wasn't eager to drive her away. He couldn't, he'd lose himself to the grief and pain that simmered beneath the surface of his boyish features. The tears that shimmered in his eyes hadn't dimmed and he willed himself not to make things even more uncomfortable. He needed to grieve, but it had to be with his own little solitude. As if understanding him, Selina nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You can take the couch. There's an extra blanket and pillow in my closet there," she directed to the door behind a small pile of discarded chairs near the corner. "I'd get some rest, soldier-boy. Tomorrow we'll go get answers as soon as dawn breaks." She shrugged as she rose up to her feet and left the peroxide and bandages on the table. Bucky's eyes followed her, his heart aching with each step she took further away.

"Good night, Selina." He called with a soft voice, swallowing a lump of emotion as he laid back to rest his head on the arm-rest. She lingered at the door to her room, resisting the compulsion she felt to stay close to him-at least until he fell asleep and didn't have to worry about the ghosts of his past haunting him. Ultimately, she knew that was a battle she wasn't prepared to help with.

She had to stay strong… She couldn't let him in...She couldn't…

"Good night….Bucky," she sighed as she closed the door to her room. She wouldn't find any sleep tonight, she was sure.

Clutching a paper bag that was heavy with a freshly baked cranberry muffin that she purchased during her morning venture away from the loft; she was nocturnally bound against the drag of exhaustion. After doing her routine acrobatic workout-testing adaptability of strenuous gravity and resilience of feline agility on a gym mat near the cement steps, her curvaceously svelte form harnessed core intensity and balletic sync; she needed to weaponize every sleek muscle, test her composed limits and reject infringing weakness. Everything felt turbulent. Haphazardly with brazen grace in her sauntering paces without a stint of deterrence, Selina advanced closer to the occupied sofa, her dark coffee irises intently settled on the half-cast sheet draped over the cement flooring.

Transparent gleams of encroaching daylight light caressed over Bucky's sleep-tousled chestnut tresses, the heaviness of his dimpled chin was slacken over the curve of his muscled forearm, he deeply breathed with a nonchalant resonance that feathered against the bunched pillow as his shapely-wide lips parted with the rise of his bulked chest. The angular and hard-bone planes of his smooth features-the invincibility of his youth as sharp rapt of anguish revealingly invested over his lax visage. He looked devastatingly handsome and boyishly angelic in the fleeting contrasts of grounded serenity—a Brooklyn prince.

Time assailed as she lingeringly gazed down at him. At least for today, Bucky could embrace his lost humanity, involuntarily she lowered the morning treat on the makeshift table, she retracted her steps away with fluid ease, giving him time to allow thralls of drowsiness to recede out of his veins. "I thought you might enjoy this spoil, handsome," she implored tentatively with a soft rasp, as words stretched, while Selina pulled her unerringly leather gloves off to recapture thermal heat in her bone-chilled lithe fingers."After all, a fella's gotta eat..."

A slip of heated tears collected on his dark lashes as he tellingly upheld the conscious urge to finally awake. A grated moan feverishly ravaged his throat, a vicious flex of his fingers gripped the sheet, he was still detached from the world. Her nerves felt jacked up as wet -phantom heat of his beautifully-irresistible- defined lips smolderingly beckoned. She couldn't recklessly launch herself straight into an unchained reality that would crescendo into a vehement rhythm. Nothing was permanent to induce a fostering promise of depthless hope. Evicting that naive sense of home, frustratedly Selina felt violated against the resurrected craving for solid warmth to fuse against her bones-that would seep through the unmended fractures of her granite-encased heart before demons clawed it out.

Words fluttered past his lips, too slurred and soft to make out as he stirred from his slumber. His heavy-lidded eyes slowly peeled open revealing a glossy blue. There was an alarming absence there as he stared back at her. He was still, chillingly. as it too much resembled his previous state as a plastic figurine. His eyes were telling in that that he didn't have a good night's sleep, despite how comfortable he'd made himself on the couch. The look passed soon once he blinked himself back to clarity and gazed up at Selina with a facade of exuberance.

"Thanks. A fella's gotta sleep too, but I think I've had my fill," he lightly snarked with a small bite of humor. It was a coping mechanism he'd fallen into whenever times felt tough for him. He wondered if he had enough joking material to get him through this long adjustment period. Dreams used to be his escape from a brutal reality when he was back with the 107th Infantry. He dreamed of brighter places and a home waiting for him.

Now they were a prison. Last night he dreamed he was back in Zola's lab, strapped to his table while evil scientist began to twist him from the inside out, turning him into a lethal killing machine that showed neither fear nor remorse as he terminated Hydra's enemies. Somewhere through the night, he had discarded his shirt as the heat of exhaustion began to wear him down and make the bandage uncomfortable. He reached up to accept the muffin she had generously offered him. "But I think my stomach, could use some fuel. I must be skin and bones by now."

He noticed her looking at him curiously, or more specifically, taking in the sculpted planes of his naked torso with an arched eyebrow. Clearly, she was skeptical of his comment.

With irked frustration glinting in her coffee irises, beguilingly Selina felt a devious quirk slant her full lips into a half-smirk; she wanted to elude this razed moment of sabotage against her impassive demeanor-her space had been compromised. Brushing an errant strand of mahogany behind her ear, she kept a temperate measure of distance from the sofa.

The unbearable attraction was escalating in a tenfold, she was conscious of the vitality of Bucky's warrior-strength and honed defenses. She couldn't get close to him, not when the softness of his shapely lips pursed slightly with a mirrored rakish smirk, evoking a groundless reaction that made her involuntarily recoil back against the impulsive effusion of stark desire rip-tiding through her.

Carmine Falcone murderously deserved to choke on a bullet-to make that bastard feel that corrosive burn of inexorable death. If she was to become a villainous Christmas apparition of retribution-she needed to upgrade her Yuletide arsenal. First, she needed to pay a deceptive visit to Wayne Manor. "So..." she murmured in an indrawn pause of cool breath. "I don't expect thanks coming for you, it's really not my style, I did this because I made a no take-back promise that keeps on dragging me down..." she gritted, ruefully.

"What promise is that?" He wondered aloud, gazing up at her side-long with curiosity. He could detect a sudden increase of distance from his question. He wondered what solemn calamity haunted her behind her alluring brown eyes. He wasn't surprised to see her close up and withdrawl from him, all traces of playfulness gone as she set a small cup of what smelled like black coffee on the table.

"Another time, maybe. We'll be heading out in a few minutes." She said before retreating into her bathroom. Bucky watched after her. Maybe he would need to watch his words around her. Despite having only known Selina for a day, he got the sense that she didn't like personal questions. Whatever it was that was bothering her, he knew it was something he couldn't expect her to share with him any time soon.

"Way to go, Buck." He shrugged at himself with mild frustration. He ruthlessly bit into the muffin with a pinched frown then chugged the beverage with a hard sip, only to recoil with a gasp. "H-H-Hot! Hot!" He grimaced, setting it down.

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Might want to go easy on that cup, its a scalding trap." Selina quipped yelled from the bathroom. Bucky glared incredulously, then released a dry laugh.

"Gee thanks for the heads up, darlin'."

Accepting that she was stuck in the stage light of a live-action Nutcracker tale, she felt the undeterred extent of reality grappling her down to the borderline of the sorcerous chimera; she distantly remembered listening to a familiar tune from a music box that was always placed on her mother's bedroom vanity-the Nutcracker suite-she would whirl around with balletic grace on the carpet floor, inventing a childish dream that she was a famous dancer. Keeping her silently poised in a traction of guarded semblance near the arch-way of the manor's entrance door, with composed ease, Selina lifted her gloved hand, the litheness of her fingers grudgingly left a delicate tracery of reverence against the solid oak, and knocked in urgent succession while Bucky tantalizingly stood on a marble step behind her.

Once the midnight hour encroached for the arrival of Christmas, Bucky would inexorably morph back into a plastic -soulless figurine.

His first impression was that whoever lived here was rich enough to buy the New York Dodgers two times over. Spending most of his years growing up in the harsh borough of Brooklyn, Bucky could honestly say he'd never been to a more fancier place. He wondered how Selina had found her way here and how she knew whoever owned it. "You sure we got the right place, darlin'? This place is a little...expensive. Feels like I'm wasting a fortune just standin' here." Bucky lightly quipped which caused Selina to lightly roll her eyes. As his gaze wandered the snowy paths that covered the entrance, his eyes fell on a derelict graveyard off to the side of the manor.

His expression fell with the thought of time and death; and all the friends and loved ones who likely went into the Earth while he still walked it. Had he been buried back home in Brooklyn? Closing his eyes, he tore his gaze from the grim sight just as the front door to the manor opened. A kind unassuming old man with gray hair stood in the doorway, appearing dutiful yet welcoming in his countenance. He smiled warmly at Selina who looked at him expectantly.

"Good morning, Miss...Kyle?"

Hearing his Cockney accent irately breach her ears, Selina drove her dark gaze tigerishly piercing on the elderly butler, she wasn't in the mood for inviting British tactics of charm; with a swift blur of her hand, she quickly clutched the blue material of Bucky's commando jacket, yanking him at her side. "Don't start with me, gramps," she warned heatedly. "Remember that plastic soldier you gave me last night, well, he's not pocket-sized anymore..."

In an act unbecoming of a well-mannered English gentleman, Alfred gazed at the familiar young man beside Selina with open disbelief. "Bloody hell, it actually worked." He deadpanned. His reaction did anything but endear the irritated young woman who frowned at him with suspicion. For his part, Alfred felt a loss for words as he and the young man exchanged a short moment of openly studying each other, lost in a point in time where the world was in chaos and the bonds of brotherhood were forged in blood and sweat.

"Pennyworth?" Bucky asked, breaking the awkward silence with an awe-stricken look. "Is that you?"

Alfred smiled warmly at being recognized. "Its good to see you again, Sergeant Barnes. I had hoped I would once more in this life-time." He said genuinely, reaching to take the young man's hand in a handshake. Too few of his friends from the War were still around today. Time had ravaged those who survived the global chaos, but fate it seemed had greater plans for those who were like Barnes.

"I understand you both have many questions. Please come in, allow me to explain them," the courteous butler fell back into his dutiful role as temporary master of the house and beckoned Bucky and Selina to follow him in. What would come next would be the longest story he would ever recount. One that could spell hope or gloom for the two young souls that found one another.

"I gotta put her in the water…"

"Please don't do this. We have time. We can work it out."

"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die. Peggy...this is my choice."

Bucky sat in a crushing silence as he listened to the old recording play over the equipment Alfred had setup. Heartbreak didn't begin to describe the emotions storming through him as he tucked his clenched fist against his mouth, his misty eyes glazing with unshed tears. Whatever answers he had come expecting to learn, his expectations didn't even begin to touch what he was listening to. His friend, his best friend Steve's dying words.

Seated around the room, Alfred and Selina also listened with respectable silence.

"Peggy…Promise me something."

"Of course, anything."

"Promise me...You won't give up on Bucky. What they did to him… Promise me you'll find a way. I couldn't save him. Maybe you still can…"

"O-Okay. I promise."

"...I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance."

"Turn it off," Bucky shrugged with a choked voice, unable to listen anymore, unable to stop the flow of tears that streamed down his cheeks. Alfred thankfully didn't argue as he immediately switched off the classified recording that so few people in the world had listened to. Bucky sat on comfortable single arm-chair but as of now he felt as stiff as a board. The ache in his chest had widened to an all-consuming black-hole that threatened to rip him of all feeling.

Steve had died a long time ago. His best friend had miraculously risen to become one of the greatest heroes in history; a supersoldier regaled in history as Captain America. "Damn it, Steve." He sniffed, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "Always gotta be the hero, punk." Releasing a tired sigh, Bucky felt the weight of his years crush him down. He knew it was probably nothing compared to the heartache that dame, Peggy Carter, must've felt went Steve sacrificed himself.

He heard the unmistakable love and heartbreak in their words and knew that he wasn't the only one to have mourned the loss of Steve Rogers. "Guess this Peggy Carter kept her word huh?" Bucky asked Alfred with a shrug. "Steve sure can pick em."

"In a manner of speaking. Peggy entrusted me with your safety...And I trusted Miss Kyle to help me deliver you back to us." Alfred said, sparing the young woman an appreciative look to which she just shrugged, still not happy at the feeling of being manipulated in a sense.

Clinging onto feminine restraint as her fingernails painstakingly dug into the cushion, Selina risked a glance at the vacant glass cabinet, a vehement contrast of unbanked fury gleamed in her coffee irises before she crossly steered her gaze at Alfred's crestfallen, wrinkled features as rapt desperation tellingly cast over him. The unevaded reality was holding her at knifepoint; grim solace eeled in the ambiance of the study, with a taut clench of his stubbled jaw, Bucky narrowed his head in stark dejection, the glacial intensity of his aquamarine depths bleared out against a raw sting of pulsing tears, a naked onslaught of unmistakeable anguish-heartache.

He didn't shift in the chair as he blinked listlessly-pressing his shapely lips thin edge of pale white. In explosive reaction, Selina quickly sprung out of her chair, furiously. "Well I'm glad well you found a use for this stray," she bitingly seethed back, and roved her unwavering intent at the frosted window."Now if you boys excuse, I've got better places to be..."

"Selina…" Bucky called to her, the tremor of vulnerability in his voice was enough to make her pause reluctantly as she made to exit the study. "Please...don't leave yet." He asked tiredly. Frustration crawled through her and there was nothing she wanted to do more than outrun the feeling and retreat back into her shell of solitude and numbness. But his voice...damn that voice. So soothing and yearning. It was easy to envision the somber look on his boyishly handsome face. Despite her greater reluctance, she knew that for his sake, she should hear the rest of all this out.

"I don't like being conned, handsome." She replied back with a tired voice. She'd experienced enough of that in her young life, being both on the giving and receiving end.

"It wasn't my intention to manipulate you, Ms. Kyle. I do apologize if that is the impression I gave." Alfred implored her with a remorseful tone. "It wasn't a gesture meant to incite harm or deception, but to offer a chance for a warm opportunity." He explained. His grandfatherly countenance made it all the more difficult for Selina to hold a grudge as she squared him with a hard look.

"What opportunity is that, Pennyworth?" She asked. "Chaos? Degradation? The first thing Prince Charming over there encountered was a storm of bullets when he woke up from his long nap. And second off-Magic? Spells? This is the most convoluted crap I've ever had to deal with. And coming from a girl who grew up in Gotham, I think you should stop to appreciate the magnitude of that statement!" She shot back irritably.

"You think I'm charming?" Bucky asked with raised eyebrows.

"That wasn't the point, soldier-boy." Selina scowled. She resisted the urge to smirk at him. She had to choose her words more carefully around him. Her displeasure known she felt a small victory as the two men nodded concedingly at her point.

"I confess, there is much to the world I have yet to understand for myself. Even as far back in my glory years, serving in Her Majesty's Royal Airforce, we encountered things in the War that could not be explained through logic or science. The spell that turned Sergeant Barnes here from the striking good chap we know to the antique we were entrusted with, was studied for decades. It was only recently we made a breakthrough in uncovering its design."

"What does that mean? How did you know giving him to me would set him free?" Selina asked, genuinely curious this time though she maintained a stern demeanor.

"In truth, I didn't." Alfred admitted, which garnered an incredulous look from Bucky. "Not for sure. The spell was an old Norse poem meant to lay warriors to slumber. They would only rise again when set free from either the tongue of the spell-caster or by way of a calling."

"A calling?" Bucky wondered, his mind reflecting on what he remembered from yesterday and anything that might've passed through his mind while he slept all those years.

"The Call of Battle. The Norse were a warrioristic society. Those induced in the transformation could only recalled into battle to serve their purpose if they hope to ever be carried on the wings of the Valkyrie's." Alfred continued with ease, grateful to see the two youngsters were paying close attention, but also dreadful of their reactions of what would come next.

"That's all well and good then. Soldier-boy is free to live his life and find out just how much the modern still sucks over sixty years later." Selina rebuffed with a pessimistic frown. Bucky frowned at her words.

She knew she should try to be positive for at least his sake given everything he had just been through recently, but she couldn't ignore the darker part of her mind that said maybe he might not be so grateful once he saw what the world today looked like. Lawlessness, poverty, corruption, terrorism. This wasn't exactly the peace and liberty he and his best friend Captain America both fought and died for was it?

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Alfred responded, his downtrodden expression setting both Bucky and Selina on edge.

"What d'ya mean?" Bucky asked, knowing whatever this was about wouldn't spell good news for him if Alfred's remorseful look was any indicator.

"Short of the spell-caster undoing the curse himself, there are only two components at hand that maybe. One is answering the Call as you no doubt have already done. The second... is an admission of fidelity." He revealed. Their reactions where about what he would have expected.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Selina blinked with a pinched look.

"Fidelity? Like what you mean a promise to serve something?" Bucky wondered aloud, equally just as skeptic as Selina. This was all beginning to sound too much like a fairy tale it was hard to conceive where the real world had gone.

Alfred smiled softly at that. "In a way. But there are fewer causes worth serving that can be construed as pure and just. If history has taught us anything, there is only one cause that is worth the sum of all things in its pursuit."

"Love." Bucky realized, his heart plummeting into the hole in his stomach that had been opened just this morning. "Perfect." He shrugged with a look of despair. A long and dreadful silence stretched the tension that had enveloped everyone present. Selina for her part felt dread claw at her as her analytic mind began to piece everything together at a detective's rate.

"What happens if he doesn't finish step 2? Does he go back to being a collectible antique?" She asked, finding it difficult to control the quake of unease inside of her. Her brown eyes shifted from him to the old butler, feeling afraid of what this could mean.

The sorrow on Alfred's face could tell them so much before a word was spoken. "There is likely a greater consequence. It could also mean the magic would solidify and be irreversible. For all intents and purposes it would be permanent. He would be-"

"Dead." Bucky finished. His somber gaze had become suddenly lifeless and distant. Selina felt a grip in her chest when she recognized it as the same look on her face each time she looked in the mirror. It looked so wrong. An emotion that devastating had no place being on someone like him. The iciness of dread that encompassed Bucky from head-to-toe made him feel faint. Death was never a prospect that frightened him on the front-lines, never being able to see home again. Never finding that special dame to settle down with and having a big family.

Life wasn't generous to everyone. He felt his whole world had been ripped from him the moment he had woken up. But somehow the thought of being plucked away now didn't sit well with him. He felt as if he were being cheated out of something new, something promising… something beautiful. His tortured gaze flicked towards Selina, the heartache in his chest increasing as he took note of her impassive exterior.

She could never love him.

The thought hit him harder than he would've expected. The pounding of his pulse in his ears made him feel as if he were going to burst from the inside out. His head felt light while the world spun on its axis. "Yeah uh, I think gonna get some air." He rose from his seat before they could say anything then made his way out through a patio door.

The dire gravity of Alfred's revelation made Selina's regressing spirit propelled against the warping reality; she didn't attempt to brazenly distance herself when a knifing throb of a phantom stiletto gouged through her chest. Everything was becoming overloaded-desperation felt contractive as a feverish chill hiked over the suppleness of her flesh. Veering a fixed gaze towards the Englishman who valiantly did his damnedest not to allow an unbidden onset of tears to fracture his steeled resolve, she heatedly watched a rapt of clamoring agony etched over care-worn planes of his withered features; this wasn't a high road she wanted to cross.

An intolerable sense of presentiment swept through her numbed veins, as her coffee irises stole another glance at the glass cabinet that had caged Bucky for an unrecoverable decade. Selina quelled down the riotous urge to ram her dainty fist and make the smashed glass rain into the hearth's firey embers. "Why did you think I could save him.." she demanded, harshly, a blearing glaze of wetness throbbingly bordered at her lashes. "How much time does he have?"

"Hours," was the Englishman's quiet response. "By this time tomorrow I venture. With Zola long dead, this is James Barnes' only chance to walk among the living again...unless he cannot meet the second requirement to undo the spell." The sorrow was unmistakable in the face of a probable doom for a good young man who he once called an ally and friend. The weight on his shoulders had been lifted the moment he had seen Barnes show up on his steps this morning, full of life and curiosity. But there was a hollowness within that was too familiar to Alfred who had spent over 10 years raising an orphaned boy who had the exact same look. The look of their world being plucked away and having nothing to fill the void.

"Fate has a way of being cruel to good men. Many have suffered undeservedly or have made the willing sacrifice." He shrugged as he took a seat, forearms resting on his knees. "Barnes was a bit of both from what I recall."

"You're talking about him like he's already gone." Selina accused with a frustrated voice, eyes glimmering with unshed emotion. "And you didn't answer my question. Why me? Why did you give him to me?!" She demanded.

A tired look came over the old butler, the sum of his turmoil manifested in a weary sigh that spoke volumes due to his never-ending pondering over this outcome. "I had hope, Ms. Kyle. When I saw you yesterday, a cunning yet wayward soul crawling out of the back of my Bentley, it became clear to me that you were an elusive feline living a dangerous and lonely life. You needed more than just a generous hand to lend you aid, you needed a soldier to stand beside you...to help you fight the hardships of this life you endure each day."

"You don't know a damn thing about me..." Selina gritted venomously against a serrated rush of breath, spastic white flashes of heat arced through her veins; with heart-lurching momentum, she defensively sprung out of the chair. She wasn't about to cater to an ephemeral sense of promise-love. Scowlingly poised like a rearing panther, she glared darkly at Alfred, trying to dissect faith-induced hope out him. "Let me make this clear, gramps, I'm just a stray walking in the dark, I don't need anyone to cross the street with..."

Alfred maintained a calm facade devoid of any defensiveness or rebuke. "If that is the case...Then this was all for nothing." He sighed with a conceding look. There was always the possibility that his gamble wouldn't pay off, and that there would be no happy ending to be found for James Barnes and Selina Kyle. "I've failed another young man soon to vanish into the ether." His heart ached at the realization. He could feel Selina's penetrating gaze on him and he met it with a friendly smile. "Such are the worries of the old, they cannot expect the young to bear their burdens. I apologize if I've misjudged you, Miss Kyle."

Rising from his chair, Alfred sighed as he began to make his way out of the study. "You can leave now if you wish. I will watch over James Barnes, and help him make the most of his last night on Earth." Pausing near the doorway, he turned to send one more heartfelt look towards Selina, conveying what he hoped was a profound message.

"After all, it is Christmas Eve… No one should be alone tonight." He left Selina in the study to ponder his words.

Eight hours. That was an inevitable betrayal of mortality. Once the midnight hour encroached for the arrival of Christmas, Bucky would inexorably morph back into a plastic -soulless figurine. Standing passively reserved near the vacant glass cabinet, Selina reeled back, the faint stench of cinder bordered her demolished senses. The delicate ease of her fingertips ghosted trepidatiously over the crystal mantle, the silken red velvet that embellished Bucky's metallic stand. He wouldn't become hellishly condemned to a latent oblivion.

The cadence of her rivaling heartbeat was akin to a charging piston as crescents of firelight gleamingly danced in the steady depth of her pupils. She desired to purge herself from this damn reality, she couldn't quash down the dull throb achingly generating in her chest. Stiffly tipping the delicate edge of her chin up, the ambiance of the room infinitely grew colder-a devoid of warmth. Steadying her breath, as her decisive stance angled in a slow pivot unconsciously towards the patio door, the ardent beckoning of visceral urgency became an unerring force, pulling her to a new stable ground under his protective shadow. He was freely given to her without strings attached-a price that defined his worth. "Why does he have to be damn handsome..." she grumbled lowly, disarmingly stretching a gloved hand to reach for the brass knob as warring sensations evocatively commanded her pressing resolve. "This had better pay off..."

As the doorknob turned against the immediate flurrying blast of snow that gashed over her alabaster features, Selina braced herself against the barraging elements as she fervently gained vehement traction in the banking drifts; errant mahogany strands whipped slashingly against her frigid cheeks. The ominous spires of Wayne Manor possessively eclipsed over her fleeting curvaceous-lithesome silhouette like a tragic umbra as she descended the stone steps.

Unceremoniously, she was inexplicably grappled down in riptides of resurrected dread as indistinct chirruping squeaks hauntingly echoed from a pile of eroded wooden planks concealing the passage of disused chasm that was adjacent a glass terrace. There was unquestionably something uncanny to chaotic dissonance tunneling beneath the estate's grounds. 'Well, that's a little spooky..."

Forcing impassive stillness in his tautened muscles, Bucky stood broodingly in front of an iron gate bordering the idle cemetery of the Wayne family, his tenuous hand clutched the rail, everything around him felt barren-unremitting in tenfold against the briefest moments of his limited existence. He wasn't Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes-the best damn sharpshooter of the 107th- the pestilent stink of HYDRA's rancid tentacles had seeped in his veins, contaminating him to surrender to the deadened will of Zola's conjuring enchantment that captured his tenacious Brooklyn spirit into a keepsake relic-a worthless-forgotten Nutcracker.

He was alone to recover shattered chimeras of his blighted past. Each resisting pulse he salvaged became dismantled-there was no assonance of valor crescendoing in his grievous heart; the hoggish doctor had torturous chastened him a sorcerous extension of mortal severance, into devolving-catatonic thralls of a soul-imprisoning fate. His chances of wholly discovering true love-a new life had blown to hell. Now he was balancing on the hairbreadth of crossing eternity and oblivion; the irrevocable promise of feminine deliverance wouldn't chase his heartbeat.

Sulkily, Bucky downcasted his teary gaze at the heartbreakingly snowflakes landing over his whitened knuckles, just a trace of cool relief to quench out depths of bridled anguish. Tamping down a hitching sob, his shapely-wide lips sneeringly poised into a determined grimace that rapt over his taunted cheeks. "Gotta keep fightin' Buchanan..." he uttered gravelly against feverish breaths, lengthy chestnut tresses webbed over his temples, shadowing his glacial aquamarine irises as neasous sweat broke out of his pores. His resistance was becoming paper-thin."Gotta keep fightin' until the end of the line..."

"Hey I figure that you needed some company-" Selina coolly played out against the continuous flurries powdering over her disheveled, wind-touseled mahogany stands that were cascading vibrantly over her leather garbed shoulders; breathlessly responding to the melodic cadence of her smoky undertone, Bucky turned his neck just enough for the heaviness of his chin to graze his tensed shoulder.

The voluminous curve of her burgundy lips unhesitantly conveyed her kittenish allure, Selina causally advanced closer to the iron-gate, as the voltaic rawness of his bleary steel-blue depths electrifying stole her pulse; it was a bone-liquefying firestorm in her blood. "So with all things considered, I was thinking maybe you want to get out of here..." she coaxingly urged without a flinty countenance and gazed at his tear-damp lips compressed painfully into a thin line, as if he was hammer-punched in the heart, the extent of agony suffocated his warring soul. "I do owe something for diving into that bullet, handsome..."

The bite of the cold December winds did little to affect the numbness Bucky felt throughout his whole body. It was like his conscience had drifted to an unreachable plateau while his body remained ground and unfeeling against the elements. His tanned skin was ghastly pale and his blue eyes were unblinking as they stared across at the myriad of headstones across the derelict graveyard ahead. Graveyards never unsettled him as they always seemed to be an ominous spec on a horizon too far for him to see. Not that spec loomed over him like a foreboding shadow prepared to snatch him come the dawn. With the sun dipping further into the west and the cover of night shifting closer, Bucky shuddered at the pricks of anxiety moving through him.

Selina's presence was a warm balm that he felt almost too afraid to savor. This was temporary, just as he was on borrowed time. She looked so ethereal, so pure and beautiful with the white flurries cascading over her hair. The romantic part inside of him played with the idea she was an angel watching over him in his final hours, giving him the snarky comfort that only she could provide. A small smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes, but still enough to convey his warm appreciation of her presence.

"You being here is enough," he responded modestly. The silence grew once again, the two of them reflecting on the past 24hrs and how they'd met; how chaotic and unthinkable circumstances brought them here. "Its kinda funny now that I think of it," he said suddenly, his tired gaze stretching beyond the graveyard towards a point in time that no longer existed. "Back in the trenches, I could count the number of times I was ready to die on double digits. War has a way of turning boys into men, making them see the brutality of life while understanding the value of things that are greater. Things worth fighting for."

Selina said nothing but listened intently, finding his words to be curious.

"Freedom. Friendship. Family...Love." A shaky breath escaped him, the cold air turning to vapor near his mouth. "If I was going to die, I wanted my death to mean something. Even if history never remembered me, I didn't want it to be for nothin'. When I was strapped to Zola's table…" His posture stiffened with the discomfort of one reliving a traumatic moment in life. Selina subconsciously knew she reacted the same way whenever thoughts of her mother entered her mind.

"I fought so hard against him because I didn't want my death to mean nothing." Turning into a pawn for Hydra was a face worse than death to him. His memory and identity would've been destroyed. "When I woke up yesterday, I thought I had that second chance... " He scoffed with a bittersweet smile. "But I was a sucker to think guys like me were that lucky." He couldn't bring himself to shed any tears, he'd spent them all over the past 24 hours since learning everything he knew was gone.

"Listen..." Selina began with a tentative undertone, disarmingly without the slightest clash of innate resistance she came at his side in new tack; lifting the daintiness of her lithe hand a breadth over the tensed bulge of his shoulder. "Alfred gave you to me with a free hand, I never expected to feel something good..." Smirkily, catching the underlying measure of chaste sincerity in her admitted words, she quickly pivoted on her silettoed boots, trying to avoid the furrowing pinch of his brow as she clenched her jaw. "I've done things that I can't look back, and now I'm realizing, I've got something to lose..."

'You're not alone.' He recalled her words from the night before on her couch. He felt a flicker of hope in his heart. It was faint just as it was dangerous to pursue. The storm of questions he'd had since the night before were slowly being answered, but only a few too delicate remained unchecked. The abyss he felt in his chest since learning of Steve's fate was like a vacuum that threatened to suck all feeling from his body. But the girl in front of him, so mysterious and enchanting helped him to turn away from the gaping hole and look towards the possibilities that awaited.

"Promise me something?" He asked with a cracked voice, turning to face her fully. His boyish complexion and untamed short locks blew in the wind while flecks of white covered him. He looked vulnerable and most disconcerting of all, he looked broken. He desperately needed an anchor, something to keep him rooted to the new life he had recently been delivered into. His rough hand reached out until his fingers brushed Selina's dainty digits. Testing the waters, hoping she'd accept the warm contact.

Feeling the smooth flexing of his larger palm fittingly mirror hers against the interlock of their fingers, Selina reeled back against a thump of her rivaling heartbeat; the sudden breach of virile contract was enticingly anchored by stilted instinct- sensuous gravity edging her intimately within unbreakable thrall. She almost shattered against his reverent-beckoning touch; banishing erring thoughts to run, she melded her gloved with ghosting delicacy over his taut knuckles, securing an unspoken promise. She needed to know his infinite request. "I can make an exception...All demands on what you want, handsome," she teasingly snarked.

There were a few girls that called him "handsome" back in his original time. None of them made it sound as good and invigorating as Selina did. His smile was strained as he contemplated his unique request. "If...When I turn back into a plastic souvenir. Promise you'll keep me. I don't want to go back to being just a decoration on some rich kid's fireplace. Its not where I belong. Its not where I want to be." The ache in his chest intensified as he watched Selina's expression harden to one of restrained emotion. There was such strength and defiance in her angelic features it was an enchanting sight.

Girls like her were practically non-existent then. All modesty and class. It was an ideal trait men looked for when it came to the perfect girl that they dated, married and started a family with. Somehow, none of them had seemed to be what he was looking for. If circumstances were normal, he would've asked her out to night of movies and dancing. Except normal, he began to realize, was not what he should expect from Selina Kyle. And somehow, that didn't bother him one bit.

"Since I woke up, I actually felt like more than just a soldier. I felt like a kid from Brooklyn again. Confused, hopeful and eager to impress the gorgeous dame that happened to save my life. I have you to thank for that, darlin'."

She couldn't make that soul-deep promise expandable-he was asking for a price that would stake her down. The moment altered painstakingly against those damn echoes that rode out to a point of surrender-that ineviable reality of losing him arrowed through her bones. Keeping herself collectively steeled to impassively, her dark irises glinted like heated brandy as she became maddeningly aware of the shifting caress of his gliding thumb, a practiced stroke that feathered wanderingly down the delicate bones of her captured wrist in urgent contrast.

Catching a hitch in her raspy breath, Selina gnawed stubbornly on the underswell of her lip, trying not to abandon this desirous moment with him. "Stop trying to sell yourself short, Bucky," she murmured out fiercely, staring transfixed into his grayish-aquamarine depths, stormily infused with reckless hope. "You're mine for Christmas, remember...?"

The smile that formed on Bucky's face could light up a dozen Christmas trees.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Somehow, he felt his worries fly away in a whirlwind of happiness. Together they stood facing each other as the night fell over grounds. The cool flurries that fell over them were a soothing contrast to the rush of warmth blossoming from within. His hands found their courage and gently took her hands into a nourishing hold. The connection that formed between them was as powerful as two magnets being drawn close together. It was invigorating as it was intimidating. Their gazes locked, wondrous and soft in the dim moonlight, searching and exploring the vastness of their souls and finding themselves entranced.

Unable to control the emotions swamping him, Bucky raised his hand to tenderly brush a curly strand of hair and cup her cheek. So warm, so soft. They'd know each other for 24 hours. And yet somehow, Bucky felt as if he'd been searching for her his entire life. He'd never felt this attraction before, this yearning. Was this love? Was it true? "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice torturously soft and vulnerable as he drew closer to her, "and I will…"

"Now where would be the fun in that," she challenged in a breathy thread, as thephantom heat of his gliding, rough fingers rapt against her silken alabaster flesh, dueling emotions invested in his enthralled touch as his curved palm ardently bracketed the sleekness of her tilting jaw to make their faces become level in a heady rush of intensity; against that suffusing wake of raw-naked fusion, to that ardent compromise, Selina coaxingly gripped his wrist as his sleeved arm braced heavily over her shoulder. This was a release for them against the vacantness of their stolen pasts-they were amorously meeting each half-way into a rhythmic waltz that only dared their hearts beyond limits of gravity.

A tracery of sensuous heat chased her riotous pulse as Selina's boots unconsciously dragged a half-step closer against the unexpected urges-havoc stunningly caught them both as cool silence of flurrying gusts achingly enveloped over their joining bodies. Lush sheening heat of her full petal-soft beckoned readily with visceral-addictive hunger that clamorously wouldn't be denied at the instant of those decadent pulses scythed their veins. She felt the spurring rasp of his bristled cheek prick into her eclipsed skin, arresting her swift reaction.

Her answer was a like a beacon to light his way to something blissful and fulfilling. He had kissed many girls before, but he could never recall feeling this surge of anticipation. His heart hammered against his chest, so loud his pulse pounded in his ears. The beckoning of their lips allowed their feelings to flourish in their shared connection. As his hands drew her in closer until she stood an inch from his chest, they drew their foreheads closer, feeling the brush of flavory warmth over each other's lips. Their eyes shuttered closed, their hands and fingers intertwined. Just before their lips could find each other's, Bucky felt Selina stiffen in his arms and withdraw. Confusion and heartache slammed into him at the thought of rejection. That was until his soldier-instincts kicked in and his ears detected the encroaching sets of footsteps coming from the woods. The look on Selina's face was enough to alert him to the harrowing realization that they were no longer alone outside.

The fading of December light heralded perpetual twilight over the horizon, an unknown plaguing miasma was festering against the snowy drifts; it was a harbinger of instant death, keeping herself rigid, Selina felt a hostile aura converging around them, as the dissonance of vehicle tires skitting became deafening as if a balloon popped against her wind-bitten ears-Falcone's loyal cadre of lieutenants-sleaze-bags had marked down her vulnerable location.

In blinding response as encroaching boots tauntingly crunched in the snow, her gloved hand swiped the 9mm Glock that she fitted between the delicate planes of her back and denim waist of her jeans. She was in deep of the killing circle. Three robust Italian men swiftly emerged like murderous phantoms out of shadows, claiming the reverent grounds of Wayne Manor as their shooting range. They were arsenals on foot, lethally tailored to enforce bone-numbing pain.

Selina froze like a stunned kitten, she knew Falcone's sadistic methods of execution, he wouldn't cede her a quick death-first, he would glut out her heart by cruelly aiming an unevaded bullet into the chest of a poor sucker that she cherished-loved. "Bucky get out of here!" she yelled in frantic pitch, tilting her svelte body with a balletic pivot of feline grace as a ricocheting bullet warningly sliced through the icy bark of spruce tree behind her. Automatic fire would manically grow in rapid succession. "They're after me, not you, handsome..."

Effortlessly with a vicious snarling drag of bestial-wolfish aggression, Bucky propelled up in midair, his fingers were gripping onto a weighed branch until his muscular legs hung readily poised to unmercifully deliver the swinging momentum of a frontal kick as his grayish-aquamarine irises blazed directly at the advancing leather-garbed thug.

Involuntarily releasing a tactful breath,the cursed Brooklyn kid throbbingly gnashed his teeth hard as his piercing gaze was trained undeviatingly onto his armed target. "Hey ya big jerk," he seethingly dared with a cocky timbre, jarring the enforcer's fatal intent from Selina. "Pick on someone your own size..."

"Like you pretty boy," A harsh bellow raggedly emitted from the enforcer's scowling lips, he calculated Bucky's tactical counter and instantly grabbed his laced boot with a vicious yank of a cobra strike. Bucky didn't relent as he answered the cadence of explosive ferocity and with a heaving raw gnarl, he burstingly struck a ramming thrust of his bent knee into the man's Kevlar chest, momentarily forcing him to reel back in stumbling traction.

With a demented snort, the enforcer wickedly pressed his stubbed fingers into Bucky's exposed calf bone, trying to devolve his reaction time when one of his undeterred partners engaged towards Selina."Your stray kitten is stinkin' bad blood that the boss wants cleanse out..." he taunted out condemningly, Bucky whipped to the direction with a breakneck jerk of his straining neck at the unpredictable instant Selina hastily back-flipped with acrobatic precision over a headstone."A damn little thief who's been messin' with Falcone ever since her mommy choked on blood..."

Slitting his pupils with razored intensity against liquid steel of aqueous irises, the boyishly hawkish beauty of his graven features tautened frighteningly into a menacing edge. Gritting his teeth against the rushing blood pulsating his fist, conveying naked aggression-the bestial-enhanced- power of Zola's beta serum potently synching in his extremities.

It took moments for Bucky to regain control against a tumultuous implosion of a lethal-nightmarish rapture of weaponized malice."Arggh..." he snarled throatily still gripping onto the branch, no hinged resonance of telltale surrender chased his stoking grated breaths. Rearing the broad expanse of his shoulders back to that recognition, Bucky crushingly with a violent thrust as his straight-arm defensively launched back with unwavering acceleration; relentlessly drove his brandished fist with bone-splintering force into the enforcer's flabby jaw when his straining throat was being chokingly squeezed by a convulsive flex of the Italian brute's hand."Y-You bastards..."

The suddenness of the Falcone thugs' arrival had wavered off of Selina as her trepidation and unease was replaced by sheer rage. She was a cool kitten who never allowed her emotions to get the better of her. It was how she stayed alive so long by not being reckless on the streets. Her mother's murder was a flood that she had built a dam around to keep from overwhelming her with its devastating weight. Now the dam was being ruptured and the flood threatened to break free. Rather than recoil from its impending arrival, she met it head on with a vengeful defiance. "You're gonna be choking on your tongue tonight!" She yelled, diving beneath the gun-arm of the bad-mouthing thug. Using her momentum, she swept his leg out from under him and proceeded bash his face in with her fist.

Bucky had fallen into soldier-mode the instant the hostilities began. Having brawled with his fair share of bullies in Brooklyn and his formal army training gave him a distinct advantage over the the two remaining gunman who wasted no time in taking shots at him.

"You're gonna wish you never stuck your nose in our business, Pretty Boy," one of them took aim towards Bucky's head and fired. Demonstrating his fast reflexes, Bucky had been quick to dodge before the trigger had been pulled, narrowly being missed. He was unarmed but for his strength and determination. He throw a vicious jab to the solar-plexus of the gunman, forcing him to double over. Bucky followed-up by ramming his face into his knee, feeling his nose shatter on impact.

"You picked the wrong guy and the wrong dame to mess with," Bucky retorted. His steel gaze caught sight of a shiny object near the thug's belt. A knife. Bucky's fingers unconsciously began to twitch at his side.

"You're dead, Yankee." The third gunman yelled as he rushed to tackle Bucky. He made it no further than two steps before a sharp-piercing pain punctured his chest. Bucky tried to control his own revulsion at the feeling of blood on his hands and the thug's strangled gasp. The knife in his hand was firmly embedded in his shoulder, puncturing the muscle and bone.

Instantly against the bloodied contrast vividly seeping pristine white, Selina fleetingly glanced over her coiled shoulder in the periphery of the crossfire; she registered a rabid cadence of predatory aggression that became uncontainable as Bucky frighteningly clutched the seized knife into a reverse hammer grip of his unshakeable fist, crimson trekked wetly over his knuckles. Dauntingly under soul-compliance to the mission, Bucky caught his jutting lip with a harsh drag of his teeth, rawly against a throat snarl, he wrenched back in recoiling traction as the enforcer's gasping form collided inches from his tactical boots, the man's blurring eyes glazed half-open like a overheated reptile. Impressed by the lethal-honed precision of his fluid grip, Selina coolly flashed him a devious smirk. "I think a knife fits your style, handsome..."

"Ah! My arm…" The injured thug fell from his arms with a cry of pain, cradling his bleeding shoulder. Selina wrestled the gun away from the third attacker and rolled off of him in time to aim it at his direction.

"But I'm more of the Glock-kinda girl," the intensity in her eyes promised certain death should he try and make another move. The second thug groaned while cradling his broken nose, unable to see and much less breathe except through deep cursive grunts.

"You gonna pay for this. Falcone don't forget." The uninjured thug promised while helping his partners up onto their feet. Selina felt compelled to end them here and now, it would be three-less goons for her to worry about.

Her intent must have been clear in her eyes as the leader of the pack scoffed at her with derision. "Go ahead and shoot. Do us in. Won't matta. You killed the boss' godson. He'll keep sending more guys after your pretty little head." He taunted. Against every fiber of her being, Selina allowed herself to lower the gun.

"You're lucky it's Christmas Eve, and I'm feeling a little generous. Hit the road and don't come back; otherwise the Roman is gonna have a lot more idiots to bury." The thugs looked at each other incredulously, neither of them believing that they were being allowed to walk away just like that. It wasn't until Selina fired a warning shot in the snow covered ground in front of them that they chose to cut their losses and scurry away into the night.

Bucky couldn't release his grip on the knife, feeling as if his fingers had formed into stone around the grip. His breathing was heavy with unshakable aggression, the pounding of his pulse in his ears was triggered by a darker sensation that he found disconcerting. His joints felt hard and brittle, as if the cold had seeped into his flesh and coated him with a thick sheen of ice. Except it wasn't ice. "Selina…" He called her with a foreboding tone, revealing his plastic-coated hand.

Hearing the impending urgency of his graveled timbre, Selina felt coldness leaching out her raring strength corrosively akin to an acidic paralytic stunting through her heart until she fell mercilessly into an atmospheric stalemate against time. Everything became deadweight-lead- in her veins as she blankly gazed at the liquid sheath of coating plastic rapidly devouring smooth flesh of his fisted hand.

Clutching his wrist as greenish skeins of acerous energy ghosted over his jacket's sleeve, Bucky staggered back with stark dread apparent over his pinched features. This was the edge of unforgiving- precarious reality she wanted to dodge. For once in her high-stakes life, she felt home-salvation again when she daringly mirrored his cool aquamarine eyes silvery gleamed with rampant unshed tears. Bucky Barnes was her charmingly hunky Nutcracker. She wouldn't let him slip out of her reach. "No-No..." She choked out breathlessly against a kittenish mewl and stretched out her hand in a wake of throttling desperation-trying to grapple for him before his soul was cast into sorcerous fathoms of plastic oblivion. She was balancing on a rift of eternity with him. "Y-You're staying with me..."

The desperation in her voice should've set him on edge, spurred him to the brink of panic as a flood of emotion began to storm towards him. But surprisingly, Bucky felt only a mild feeling of concession. Years of battling chaos and death had alerted him to the fact he was only one step ahead of his ultimate fate; that one day soon the reaper would have his due. It was easier for him to accept at this point in time. And yet, at the same time, it felt impossible-undeserved. The icy numbness in his hands soon manifested in his legs. His kneecaps had become stiff and his muscles were depleted of their strength.

He collapsed onto his back in the snow just as Selina rushed to his side, cradling his head into her lap. His dazed blue eyes stared up at her, remorseful and yet at the same time, reassuring in their confession. "Would if I could, darlin'..." He responded with a soft voice. A shiver of dread moved through him. The warmth of her proximity comforted him against the stinging cold. As dreary as it sounded, he wouldn't rather be anywhere else right now in what appeared to be his final moments.

"I always wondered what the future would be like." The sorcerous energy trailed up his body like wildfire, unstoppable and devouring as it skin and clothes began to turn into lifeless plastic. He didn't cry out or struggle, his soulful eyes locked onto Selina's tearful brown gaze looking down on him. "I'm glad I got to see it." He smiled up at her. His facial muscles grew heavier and stiff, but he had managed the feat. "Because I met you, Lina..." His beating of his heart began to dim and his mind pulled him back into the darkness as a tear escaped him. "Thank you…"

The wetted slip of his errant tears landed on her clenching hand as the huskiness of his deep-timbre warbled into gasping hitches, carious energy heartbreakingly solidified his chalk-white flesh into chilled plastic. Suppressing a sob racking up her throat, against blearing vision she gazed at his beautiful shapely-wide lips became frozen into a morphic tint of paint of fate's brush stroke. "No..." A pained whisper chokingly ghosted out of her-vapory tendrils of emerald sheathed over his immobilized form as the soul-gouging convergence of divested surrender.

Closing her eyes to block off another onset of edging tears, Selina blindingly lowered her head until her brow with delicate touched his stiffen-plastic temple with a vestigial pulse of urgency. A shadow cast of distant moonlight radiantly limned the smoothness of his knife-edged features."You don't deserve this, handsome..." She gripped onto his jacket's sharp rubber collar, just enough for her knuckles to steal a heartbeat."You're more than a damn soldier..." Seizing a fringe of control against the razed moment as she kept her forehead pressed against his, she didn't abandon the unshakeable promise to hold onto him forever she had avowed to Alfred. "More than some big score of a dream for this girl to hold onto..." Right when raged tears damped unkempt mahogany tresses, the supple lush of her quivering lips slanted beautifully with cushioned heat over the sculpt of his frozen mouth with love-driven pressure, trying to intensely surge her life back into him.

It was in that outpouring moment that midnight had arrived along with the spirit of Christmas. Only the truly devout could feel its majesty and splendor that lit up the sky with beacons of hope. Its radiance and magic wove tendrils through the grove of trees, finding their way towards Selina, and began to undo the foreign incantations. Selina held onto Bucky as if he were the most precious thing in the universe, her tears cascaded and poured onto his plastic face as the softest of sobs escaped her. The magic halted the curse from fully manifesting, keeping the Nutcracker shaped male in his true-size while ever so slowly, it began to restore the surface of his body in a glittering display of magic.

Selina had been oblivious to the spectacle until she felt a tingle of warmth spread across her palms. She glanced up with tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes that gaped in bewilderment at the fairytale-like display that enveloped Bucky fully. "What?" She whispered breathlessly, watching as Bucky's clothes and skin began to soften before her eyes. She resisted the urge to pinch herself, knowing sure enough that this was real, she wasn't hallucinating. In a matter of moments, the final vestiges of the curse peeled away and before her awe-stricken gaze, James Bucky Barnes was made whole once more.

The certainty of it made when Bucky inhaled sharply as if he were breathing for the very first time in his existence. A gasp escaped him as he rose to a sitting position, eyes wide until they landed on Selina beside him. "W-What just happened?"

She didn't answer him. The inevitable reality that almost whisked him away to death's reach of mortality was derailed. Kneeling into the snow with jerky poise, feeling her denim-clad knees became drenched against thawed a snow mound, Selina bodily launched her svelte weight into him with a colliding-blinded ardency that imploded with heady exhilaration.

Fluidly twining her slender arms over the broad expanse of his corded shoulders, knocking him back down until the dueling tempo of their joined bodies thrummed an intimate cadence that was old as time itself-an everlasting deliverance of true love that fierily arrested the wondrous-intensity of their unblinking gazes of steel-ultramarine and jeweled coffee.Quashing down a throated sob, she felt inadvertently breathless and stunned by the incendiary revelation claimed by her kiss. "Y-You're free..." she feverish murmured against a throbbing hitch.

A emotional chuckle traveled past his lips as he held her tight. The surrealness of the moment had disappeared the moment he felt her in his arms, her words repeating on an infinite loop in his mind that banished any lingering apprehension. He was free; at long last. And more importantly, he had her here with him. She didn't let him go. "I'm free...Guess that's two times I owe ya, darlin'." He quipped as they parted to openly gaze at each other. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. The smile on her lips was wide and breathtaking, nothing but joy and gladness reflected back at him from her shimmering brown eyes. Truly kittenish and angelic.

The curse was gone. She had set him free… But then did that mean she truly loved him? His thumb wiped a trail of tears from her cheek with adoration. "Now what were you about to say?" He teased with a knowing smirk.

Echoes of feminine resistance glisteningly faded in her teary coffee irises, as she captively kneaded her lithe fingers through his roguish dark chestnut tresses, as her gloved palm curved with a seductive flex over the hard warmness of his broad nape, temptingly urging him to equally answer her sirenic call of wanton-unstoppable paces of intoxicating abandon.

She knew what they both wanted.

A telltale glint of boyish naughtiness flared dreamily brazen in his smoldering turquoise depths; the arrowing prow of his nose grazed tantalizingly over her cheek in naked contrasts of sensuous demand. Cool mint flavored his feathering breath as his gliding palm splayed brushingly with tentative accord under the delicate curve of her angled jaw. The world fell away as wispy snow powdered their disheveled brunette tresses as they infinitely edged into the proximity of new promise-hope. The damnable conjuring of HYDRA's enchantment receded with momentum-defiant vitality of unyielding Brooklyn spirit. "Just shut up and kiss me already, soldier boy..." she breathlessly urged with a teasing rasp, the fullness of her burgundy lips dazzlingly stretched into a watery smile. "Since you're the best damn gift I ever got..."

Unable to express the true depth of his feelings for her with words, Bucky did exactly as she urged him to do-what his soul cried out for him to do. Guiding her close against his chest, his lips brushed across hers, spreading warm heat throughout their bodies in an incandescent display. It was an evocative implosion of cushioning pressure, the wet heat of their lips fused ardently, as he echoed the first beckoning pulse of demand in an equal cadence that increasingly grew explosive that arced through their fevered veins like raw--untamed fusion. Everything was answered within a heated communion of a resurgence as their kiss-swollen lips stretched against dueling intensity. The slightest drag of his grazing teeth delicately caught the lush swell of her underlip with an angling shift of his flexing jaw to mirror her throbbing paces with shivery breaths as the kiss raged. This was his new awakening---daybreak that would go beyond the insuperable limits of a battle-tested heart.

It was a liberating as it was fulfilling; across time and space, two halves made whole and never to be separated. Their arms encircled each other's shoulders, never letting go as the snow continued to fall over them and bathed them in an immersive light. It was moments later that they began a slow trek back towards the manor, their hands intertwined.

From the window of the study, Alfred looked on with a twinkle in his eyes, feeling joy the likes of which he hadn't felt in a life-time. "Merry Christmas to all."

Completed: December 23rd 2018

[nicksstoryvault]

December 16, 1944

A white-hot implosion of agony razed his heartbeat; the air felt vacuous against his clammy, youthful skin. Around him, the nauseous -musky odor of virile sweat had potently invaded his pinching nostrils; time was devolving in fruition as he fell into a deadlock of immobilization, his forehead pressed against the cold sterile metal that the rigid length of his bulk was strapped down onto- an examination gurney. A mordant aura grappled him down. He was exhaustingly doing his utmost of fighting the constant urge to vomit, breath choked up his raw scraped throat-drained from high-pitch screams that shatteringly exploded out him in desperate volume.

He was cleaved from reality, becoming deadened to react as the cacophonic echoes of torturous screams of his men-the disabled valorous ranks of a brotherhood of the 107th infantry-defiantly hellbent and iron-willed fighters who voluntarily engaged HYDRA defensive lines of the mud-rutted trenches in Azzano. As the suave, young sergeant, he was saddled down with the voice command, with Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones scouting the dugout fox-holes; it was only a fringe of prevailing victory. The stacking detriment of lives rushingly mounted high to wage against.

'Bucky...Behind you!"

The unevaded-volleying barrage of HYDRA monstrous war machines- Uber Tanks. An unprecedented tempest of carnage had struck down on the front lines, ethereal blue salvos of weaponized energy lanced through flesh and bone, vaporizing men into sifted ash heaps that collected under the tread of their laced boots. The reaping slash of HYDRA's mobilized division had scythed them down like wheat-they were ambushed in hellstorm. The last of his outgunned-surviving unit became captured and mercilessly forced into grueling subjection of being HYDRA's POW assembly line, welding parts of a massive aircraft-a super plane.

'M warnin' ya, this is one Brooklyn kid you don't wanna mess with...'

Disturbingly, the acidic stench of chemical wavered through suffusing contrasts of clotted darkness-a knifing wake of ambient dread exceedingly rushed over his latent form-the world had been cruelly stolen from his reach. Every defined band of solid muscle beneath his threadbare-ragtag GI service jacket was bruisingly clamped in a vise; paralytic numbness enclasped in his tensing veins.

Errants gleams of heated wetness meandered down his bristled cheeks, drenching tousled chestnut tresses messily askew over his blood-smeared temples as he feverishly grated out a throaty hitch. "M' Bucky-" he slurred out, straining his broad neck to arch up. Blurringly, his grayish-aquamarine irises stared with rampant intensity at the nightmarish display of surgical utensils readied on a medical trolley alongside him. It was his variant punishment for cockily smart-mouthin' off to a HYDRA sentry-another damnable round of being stuporously induced within thralls of unwarranted compliance. 'Gotta fight..." he rasped out in a phantom mantra against grated breath, raggedly. "Gotta-"

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes. I hope you are feeling rested. You've been out quite awhile." A dreadful voice rose in octaves through Bucky's disorientation. A German accent, weaselly and devoid of compassion despite the greeting. Bucky fought to reclaim his focus, ignoring the buildup of nausea that came with the world spinning before his eyes. The urge to vomit began nearly intolerable were it not for the fact the room had such low lighting. He mumbled in reply, but could barely hear his own words beneath the ringing in his ears. He groaned, shutting his eyes to diminish the spinning hangover that reminded him of the cyclone on Coney Island. Not a fond memory in retrospect, but he rightly assumed what he was about to endure made all of that seemed just so insignificant.

"Who's that? Where am I? …What is this place?" He asked repeatedly once he could hear his own voice. He made to rise up off the cold slab he was laying on, only to find the harsh grip of leather keeping him confined to the table. "Hey, what is this?!" He cried out, ignoring the pain his head, so debilitating, he began to rethink his efforts to get up. It wasn't long until he took in the scene of a large laboratory; cold and clinical with the stench of chlorine and other sterilizing agents. He hated labs and hospitals. Everyone he cared about went into one and so few came back out. His steel-blue eyes looked over the numerous tables with odd instruments and open note-books and focused in on the only other occupant in the room. A stocky, balding man in a lab count pouring over a list and an old dusty book in front of him. "Who the hell are you? Hey!" Bucky raised his voice once he realized he was being ignored.

"Your voice will drain out soon enough, Sergeant Barnes," Against the clash of irate defiance that venting out of Bucky, the ceremonious German resonance that spitefully echoed back with the greenish sconces wavering throughout the vacuous space. Doctor Armin Zola edged towards the reinforced gurney with reptilian prowess in his malicious advances, a stubby hand possessively cast a shadow over the broad expanse of Bucky's arching chest, as he disgustingly recognized the prevalent spirit of Brooklyn harboring inside his latest American hostage under a breadth of his lurid-sadistic tolerance."Soon the procedure I have selected for you will begin, I can give you the pleasure of becoming something extraordinary for HYDRA..."

"Let me out of here now, Hydra scum!" Bucky ranted with equal parts anger and distress. The straps securing him to the cold steel table dug into his bruised flesh, sending sparks of pain shooting through his body. His brow was drenched with sweat, his short brunette locks were matted to his brow. He masked his pain with grunting and yelling, but try as he would, the straps wouldn't give away.

He was utterly and effectively helpless against the creepy old man that had begun preparing a suspicious looking needle with an unknown blue substance. Nothing good would come of it. "What are you doing? What is that?!" Anger and indignation tore at Bucky; finding his fate to appear more hopeless as time went on. His men and brothers in arms were either dead or like him, waiting to be next-in-line as a Hydra guinea pig.

"Something to help you relax, Sergeant Barnes, As delightful as it is to hear your fine example of American manners, I do need some quiet to work." Zola stepped over to Bucky who did his best to shirk away from the needle but it proved to be a useless struggle.

"Get that away from me, punk. Or I'll-" The needle punctured Bucky's shoulder clean as a knife through butter. A numbing sensation gripped him as if his bones were coated with ice. The young soldier's words died in his throat, his blue eyes were wide and filled with inexplicable shock. A cruel smirk formed across Zola's face as he watched Bucky's rampant struggles of defiance begin to slow and then cease entirely.

"Better now?" The scientists taunted, relishing the silence that filled the room beyond the humming and whirring of his lab machinery. There was no response from Bucky who appeared as lifeless as a corpse despite the glimmer of awareness in his wide and unblinking eyes. After a few moments, moisture collected in his tear ducts before they spilled droplets from the corner of his eyes, streaking down his temples. "Good." Satisfied the paralytic sedative had done its job, Zola began to undo Bucky's restraints.

"As ideal as it would be for me to keep these on, I do not believe you will be capable of causing me trouble for the next few hours. Am I correct, Sergeant?" Bucky gave no response, not even a shift in movement to indicate a dim sense of understanding. Zola expected no less; the tranquilizer he used was powerful enough to sedate a horse. With nothing but deafening silence to answer him, the Hydra scientist took a moment to openly appraise the young soldier lying helplessly in front of him.

"You are young, headstrong, athletic and from what I've heard; a frighteningly efficient marksman." He genuinely commended. Hydra lost more than a half-dozen high-valued officers in the past year to the rifle of James Barnes; leaving Schmidt in equal parts angry and impressed. "Hydra would benefit greatly by having such a talented killer like yourself on our front-lines…" The scientist continued before growing thoughtful. "Or perhaps as our knife in the shadows…"

The dreadful silence that followed was almost as dreadful for Bucky as the sheer feeling of helplessness that came with his paralysis. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move; he couldn't so much as blink while his eyes stared into empty space. The world dimmed and came in and out of focus, he hoped to wake up at any minute now inside of his barracks, roused by the cruel sting of cold water being tossed over by Dino Manelli who would then laugh at the wet Yankee he made friends with. Or better yet, waking up in the comfort of his own bed, back home inside that modest flat his father owned in Brooklyn. Steve would be waiting there for him, and so would his little sis.

His stomach twisted at the thought of never seeing them again as he lay at the mercy of a sadistic Nazi scientist. He could only pray and hope whatever happened next would be quick. Zola was shaken from his thoughts as the clock on the wall audibly clicked as the hour turned close to midnight. "Pardon me, the silence often makes me think-aloud." He chuckled as if embarrassed and shrugged off his musings.

"Plans that have not been set in stone. It will be Herr Skull's decision ultimately to decide your fate. But…" He appeared perplexed as he looked at the clock on the wall. "it would appear he's been delayed. He should have been here by now." The Red Skull was seldom delayed from his scheduled inspections at the weapons factory. That he had yet to arrive or send word troubled the Hydra scientist who considered himself the Skull's right hand in all but name. To deflect his worries, Zola shuffled over to the table covered with his several notebooks and research documents.

The tension in his posture shifted and relaxed the moment his thoughtful eyes glanced over the book he'd been studying since secreting it from the old sanctum in Tonsberg not too long ago. "Hmm...Delays should not result in time wasted." The look that Zola gave him was beaming with evil cunning, turning Bucky's blood into ice. "With a crop of your brothers-in-arms at my disposal, this presents an opportunity to indulge what you might call a 'pet-project' of mine."

The tension in the room became apprehensive as a chill of foreboding shook Bucky from head-to-toe. Anger and loathing filled him as he ached to rise off the slab and snap the old man's neck; to stop him from harming anyone of his men. In the distance outside of the laboratory, a loud commotion could be heard as if there was a fight breaking out. Bucky clinged to whatever small hope that gave him; an uprising or maybe even a rescue. Zola appeared disquieted as he listened to the sounds before he once again, shrugged off his worry then proceeded to clean his glasses.

"Such chaos. This war grows ever more perilous. So much that it has become increasingly difficult to move such large-scale forces across the battlefield without detection." Zola said, flipping through the old book while silently reading the old Norwegian texts. "Subterfuge can only accomplish so much without a new innovation." He said flipping through the pages until coming to a page with the sketching of a tall lanky man, adorned with the ox-horned helm.

"As a man of science, I found it repugnant to delve into the myths of the world. However recent events led me to reconsider our own science, or own place in the universe." Bucky listened as Zola shifted and moved several items around. A rancid stench of wet dirt and dead flowers permeated the room as ingredients were prepared and mixed in a bowl. Bucky would have gagged if he were able.

"The old gods may have walked among us long ago, and they left us much wisdom for us to evolve our science and our own weapons of war." Zola stepped around the table until he hovered over Bucky, an air of superiority in his stocky posture. "To put it simply, Sergeant Barnes; I've accumulated the power of Loki." In one hand, Zola held an oversized injection needle that could puncture the eye of a rhino. In the other, he held a bowl of powder that shimmered under the light of the examination table. There was no questioning the insanity in those eyes, Bucky knew.

"I have always admired him above all the Norse deities who value only strength. Loki in a way, was quite like myself." Zola rambled. "He valued cunning and intelligence to win his battles. Such is what I intend to do for Hydra now." With that, Zola began his cruel work that he had been cultivating for many years since before being recruited to the Nazi party and assigned to the Hydra division." The procedure I have in mind for you will require your limbs to be statically posed to ensure its success.

Confusing it might sound, but I do not expect you to understand, boy." Zola said as he began to move Bucky's arms to an at-rest position. Bucky felt his skin burn as if scalded by the offending touch. Oddly enough, he could begin to feel a small measure of control slip into him as his toes began to curl as well as his fingertips. Seeing this, Zola quickened his pace, realizing the paralytic drug was wearing off quicker than he expected.

The noises of chaos continued outside of the lab, but too far for the focused scientist to feel concerned with as he hastily began to coat Bucky's motionless body with the strange powder from head-to-toe. "Don't worry. With the paralytic serum I administered, you won't feel a thing...perhaps." Once Bucky was fully coated with the itchy and revolting substance, he felt control of his eyes return to him and he began to shift them about in a panicking fashion.

The first thing he felt then saw was that large needle injecting a cold green fluid into his arm-into his body. He inwardly roared in both pain and despair, at the intrusion, and as his nerves and bones were encased with numbing ice. They felt rock-solid, as if their mobility was dipped into a freezing lake and they were solidifying into an unbendable pose. "There we are." Zola said as he withdrew the needle. Before he could commence with the next phase, he became aware of a missing piece to his experiment.

"Wait. Of course, how could I forget. You wouldn't resemble much of a soldier without a proper accessory now, would you?" From a storage locker close by, the scientist procured a rifle confiscated from an Allied soldier and proceeded to carefully rest it into Bucky's paralyzed grip. "Perfect. Don't you think? You will be Subject-0 for Project Nutcracker. Not my first choice in code-name, but you will appreciate its irony, Sergeant, as you feel your body and mind enter a state of dreams-and non-existence. Let us see how well the laws of science and sorcery can coincide."

'Project Nutcracker?' The mad scientist's words confused Bucky more than they instilled fear in his heart. The pain in his body began to numb, but he was back to feeling completely and utterly stiff like a statue...like a figurine. He knew whatever came next would be the end of him. He refused to show fear, nor any ounce of weakness in his eyes as he mentally prepared himself to leave his world. He knew he would likely die the moment he enlisted, but the fear could never be shaken, only accepted. He relaxed as he accepted his fate and waited and prayed for God to carry him to a better place.

It was then that Zola began to read from the old book; a chilling and incomprehensible chant in Old Norse that Bucky didn't understand or care for. That was until the powder on his body began to glow. Like a brilliant otherworldly green aura, it was both alluring and frightening to the young soldier who astonishingly felt no pain, only a mild itching discomfort. What was happening to him? Zola kept reading, even as his scientific mind was overwhelmed with shock and curiosity that he was performing magic-real old Asgardian magic, and it was beginning to manifest the spell he commanded.

It wasn't long before the spell began to respond with cruel efficiency as Bucky felt his very skin begin to harden with the same stiffness as his bones and muscles. He was dimly aware of his drifting into darkness, he could feel it reaching out to pull him into its cold embrace. 'Steve...Becca...I'm sorry.' His listless eyes stared into space, unable to close, as the spell touched his mind, whispering what reminded him of a haunting melody that told him not to fear, not to despair-a true fight and a true love would awaken him.

Bucky Barnes entered the realm of dreams, gone from the waking world as his body shrunk and skin and clothes transformed into plastic. Zola watched in shock and silence as the spell finished, and all that remained on the table was the small unassuming shape of a toy figurine that bore the visage of a young soldier. "It worked…" He giggled hysterically, eyes wide with delight and pride. "It worked!" The building suddenly shook as if it were struck by a waking giant that roared wrath and ruin. A bomb attack. No sooner had it happened did the double doors to the lab suddenly swing open with authority.

"DOCTOR ZOLA!" There stood the cold and authoritative shape of one Johann Schmidt, his human mask glaring daggers at the bewildered scientist who fumbled as if he were caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"H-Herr Schmidt, I was concerned of your t-tardiness." The scientists fumbled with his glasses, completely forgetting about the figurine and the very experiment he implemented in the "face" of his furious superior.

"Have you now? Is that why my weapons facility is presently under attack?!" The Hydra head snapped as he stood tall over the quivering scientist like a sentinel of death.

"A-Attack?" Zola paled to a deathly white. "I-I thought it was a simple commotion the guards were making with the prisoners, sir. I was rather immersed in my work that I strive for the betterment of Hydra."

"Gather your research. Now. We are evacuating." Schmidt seethed with barely controlled anger as his gloved hands balled into fists.

"E-Evacuating sir?" Zola inquired worriedly as he began throwing whatever crucial research he could into his briefcase/bag. Several documents and his notebook fell in his mad scramble, he dared not to make a clumsy show of retrieving them in fear of a super-soldier fist punching a cavity sized hole through his torso.

"Our forces are outmatched. Erskine's newest progeny has made himself known. It will not be long until the Allies follow him here. We will be long gone by then. COME!" Schmidt yelled while making his way out. Zola flinched at the commanding tone but quickly followed, leaving the forgotten Nutcracker soldier exactly where he left it.

Against the return of December gales careening over the residential sectors; visages of dereliction and scarcity were fading echoes of the dynastic reign of the deceased Wayne family; after the tragic murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne riddled in Crime Alley, the mephitic infestation of bloodshed and cresting panic demolished the blighted city into an urban cesspool-a hell pit. The severe levels of poverty were fringed in the East Quarter distinct-the Carmine Family domain. A rancid mafia syndicate -lowlife scumbags who intently preyed on the desperate and forged contracts stamped in blood.

Those were the deceptive grounds of survival that people crossed every day. There were no free gains, just a stockpile of bodies penetrated with bullets dumped in Gotham Bay. This wasn't an easy ride to gun out. Daylight was a price to steal back and unerringly adopting a lethal-feline caliber with inventive-brazen tactics was essential to guarantee the next morning. With the Christmas season fastly encroaching within the borders of the city, the gift of vengeance was all that Selina Maria Kyle desired, unrelentingly.

Balancing on the bleeding-edge conditioned her to never falter with the traction of reluctance on the precarious ground. She thrillingly dared that shifting gravity, using effective thieving charades of stolen identities, raiding upscale penthouse security-uncrackable vaults with a virtuoso flair that would test her brazen limits of infiltration. The banking adrenaline she channeled with every heist never ebbed.

The gutted backdrops of the East Quarter district appeared vacant, derelict and consumed by verminous tenants-buildings were beyond the visage of disrepair-everything was cheaped-out by the parasitic reek of Falcone. The criminal element was staking high and the cash outflow of the GCPD had been reaching a charitable increase since most of the city officials-undoubtingly genuine sleazeballs were on the corruptive take. Being a stray kitten on the streets-she knew the angles of Gotham, the players and gambled who rolled the loaded dice.

Living on the razor's edge was intoxicatingly explosive-Selina mastered practical tactics of deception to engage the crosshairs, accepting the damn existence that she was bred to become the sleek knife in the dark twirling on a stage of tragedy- stealing lives by gouging corrupted hearts open, just like how Carmine Falcone left her mother's bullet-riddled body to bleed out on the apartment's floor. This December she would relentlessly deliver a murderous reckoning and drive that viperous bastard into the icy depths of Gotham Bay. She had one matchstick-chance-left to ignite the fire that would raze his underground empire into ash.

Crouched down with balletic -feline ease grounding her svelte, curvaceous form on an iron grated step, disheveled wavelets of luscious mahogany flittedly cascaded down tone curves of her delineated garbed shoulders; her leather jacket was scuffed up from the last nightly brawl she engaged within the Narrows. A buckled collar strap was securely fastened around the graceful length of her sleek neck. She was a sirenic mystique-dangerously alluring in elemental contrasts of shadow. Being harshly conditioned on the streets was a lethal extension of preservation. She couldn't settle for less—not when the mortal-resistant grounds of validity were demolished.

Watching reckless orphans that bailed from foster homes lifting apples off a vendor station defined the stratagems of rampant desperation. The nascent Falcone's reign had become the lifeblood of the city; he had a cabal of defective police officers in his pocket-loyal informants on every street corner.

Backdrops served as execution grounds-criminal activity protracted, ushering throw-away kids in the system to join the ranks. It was a new level of organized industry and she was in the fringe on the imminent emergence. Being only eighteen-years-old, Selina needed to stay level on her-become unshakeable like granite. The malevolent intensity of her dark coffee irises gazed an indifferent cast on a parked Bentley town car below the fire escape stairway; a distinct black vehicle that usually remained idle in front of Wayne Enterprises building. Harboring sympathy for the reclusive Wayne heir was so overrated. Roses withered on graves and the decreased became irrelevant etchings to stow memories.

Brandishing an impassive expression over her kittenish-elfin features, cunningly Selina watched the Bentley's driver side door painstakingly opened, and a tall, white-haired Englishman caught the wisps of the evening snowfall dusting over his tailored Oxford long coat. His weathered down featured were visually etched with unbidden heartache and strain of deep-seated grief.

He was an easy target of opportunity for her to coax for a quick spoil of pocket change; chasing his lumbering, measured steps vigilantly treading against heavy drifts of snow that heavily collected in the vacant alleyway; she couldn't evict the deviant-unwarranted impulse of blindingly lifting his wallet in the swift clutch of her thieving hand. There a genuine aura about him—a vital sense of home.

She needed to observe her mark of curious interest before pouncing. Nothing would stall her. She masked her visage of humanity with no betrayal of resistance-sentiment. It was a smokescreen identity that she effortlessly utilized. "A girl's gotta eat..." she gritted out, bitingly, under a smoky breath, intently staring down at the elderly stranger advancing towards amber sconces of streetlight that deflected off a padlocked door which she intuitively guessed was a blind spot. "Now, that's interesting to play with..." A vixenish smirk widely curved over the lavish fullness of her crimson lips, as her gloved hand gripped the stair railing beside her.

As the steel door opened ensued a clamorous echo of frozen hinges, Alfred Pennyworth unfalteringly precede towards a vacant dressing room of the Gotham Theatre; remnants of torn scarlet and makeup dust were gathered on a vanity, newspaper clippings were taped onto the shattered mirrors, it was an eerie-operatic ambiance of discarded memory that wasn't salvaged-crystal shards from the grimy chandelier were shattered on the floor as Alfred measuringly cemented his unwavering stance near a draped curtain that overhung above him, trying to banish grievous apparitions that splintered against his care-worn heart. The corners of the desolate space were besieged with encompassing darkness as he registered a subtle pulse of feminine vitality-resilience grapple him into a casual stalemate.

Automatically with a clandestine tack in his reaction, he listened to heels clicking over the floor; it felt like time became frozen as the beckoning infusion of ardent cherry and vanilla convincingly breached his guarded senses in a warring heartbeat. The ground between him was testable as his gloved hand fluidly shoved into his coat's pocket, gripping a concealed Walther PPK pistol-a lethal sidearm that he operated with during his years being a pawn-field operative for a shadow-game in British spycraft where loyalty always came with a price.

After serving in the ranks of the Her Majesty's Royal Airforce -the airstrike division and engaging zero hours in the blackened skies; Alfred became fitted as an intelligence agent and executed unforgivable missions that were drawn in lines of blood-all for the security of his country. Embracing a glimpse of anchored relevance that wasn't fractured acridity of past error, he gladly accepted the employment of Doctor Thomas Wayne, living at the Wayne estate as the butler-a gentleman and protector- it was the utmost of honorable missions he ever took.

Shifting his intent resolve at the doorway, Alfred fixed his wintery cerulean irises with steady exactness, he gazed at a distinctly feminine, curvaceous shape edging into the room, the elegant poise of cool graces in her determined stride and ravishing fierceness in her aged virtue. Peggy Carter wasn't just a lady of England who had wielded an iron fist with the SSR, honed with untarnished regard to preserving the grounded morals of freedom and unshakeable testaments of faith that Captain Steven Grant Rogers infinite sacrificed by undertaking the hardest choice that ultimately defined his unyielding-heroic spirit-he traded his life for those HYDRA targeted. Peggy was more than capable of dicing with danger, she possessed a steeled heart and never had to prove her value in the betraying ranks. She was a vibrant—eternal beauty, the fullness of her lustrous dark brunette tresses was pinned in a silky tumble with streaks of silver that didn't detract from the molten fire in her chocolate irises that were leveled with his in a heartbeat.

Nothing was disguised between them as the prevailing gravity of their vintage -sincere friendship held no safeguards of trust. Once the reeling moment passed, Alfred felt his wrinkled lips charmingly quirk into a rakish smirk, as he whispered in a cadence of reverence. "Agent Carter, always a pleasure to meet up with an old friend, if I must say, you're looking quite beautiful tonight..."

Staving off a lancing throb of unbidden-steepened heartache, Peggy haphazardly neared the dressing vanity to the command of her measured awareness, unswervingly. Now, it was time to grip onto the full charge of reckless hope. In an effort to compose herself against the upheaval of tumultuous emotions, she flashed her dark irises at her dearest friend and returned with a slight falter in her silken tone, underlying an errant strain in her throat.

"To be honest, Agent Pennyworth, I sometimes wish we could hold a cup coffee in hand away from the shadows, but I'm afraid we have the grave matter of business to discuss concerning Armin Zola's past work..." She fractionally removed a tattered crimson leather book that had an ensign of a black star on the cover, with a pinch of unavailed revulsion over her unblemished alabaster features, she placed the book onto the vanity's dresser with deadened resistance."Recovering these notes wasn't an easy gamble back when Zola was imprisoned, this book contains his unanswerable secrets about using the captured men-soldiers of the 107th infantry for his unfathomable experiments at the weapon's factory that Captain Rogers had infiltrated."

A blear of unshed tears stole her vision from a tense second of momentous reality, as Peggy stiffened her grip onto the book and continued, discreetly."His extension of punishment was stemmed from his sadistic methods in arcane forms that were hellishly occultic, James Barnes is the last captive who needs to wake up from these cursive shackles...It's time we clear the decks before HYDRA mucks them up."

Subtly nodding against variants of the command of her urgency, as Peggy tried her damnedest to hold a rush of tears with an unreadable countenance; Alfred electrifyingly felt clamorous hope sailing through his veins; fervently hinging up a stoking unity of uncompromising faith that infused him with placid resiliency. He knew the high cost of the elemental battle they waged and that only a hairbreadth of a fleeting chance was prevalent to end Zola's soul-arresting enchantment over James Barnes.

They had a mission to finish. He needed to rein up enough strength to challenge the assonance of beyond the mortal plane of existence and deliver one last Christmas miracle before the midnight knells beckon the young sergeant's spirit into the void. Reassuringly with an unstilted promise, he eased his gloved hand over Peggy's garbed shoulder with a chaste flex of his palm inextricably holding her against the impending gravity that clashing around them.

His irises glinted warily silver under his grayish lashes, narrowing down at the red book with soulful regard. It was nearly a decade since Alfred was presented the responsibility of guarding an invaluable treasure that Peggy had secretly delivered in hand to him back in London-nothing would dampen their unquenchable hope of giving a valiant spirited and hellbent Brooklyn kid a the breath of restored humanity. "We'll find a bloody way to get that defiantly charming sergeant off my bookshelf, I figure he's getting tired of the dust..."

Impatience was beginning to unnervingly escalate, the smooth carpeting of Bentley's interior trunk rasped over her cheek, with grudging effort in her braced-stiffened poise, Selina was lying flat on the delicate planes of her leather garbed stomach; rigidly gripping onto a pocket knife—her devious impulse to pop the trunk open and slip inside was a preferred alternative of eluding Falcone's night patrol enforcers-cockroaches. They had marked her down like a damn kitten in the headlights, she needed to avoid exposing her disarmed vulnerability against the penetrating—frigid gusts of snow, and utilized refuge spot to dodge the lethal trajectory of a bullet.

Extreme variants of survival under the gun had rampantly fueled unwarranted desperation-pawning off various items that she effortless lifted from hotel penthouse suites while deceptively playing the charade of a gawky maid wouldn't be enough to swipe a boarding pass to Rome—she wouldn't embrace the vitality of salvation or open her traitorous heart to the spirit of Christmas.

That eminent presence felt sideswiped as she abandoned that naive fantasy; not allowing chaste hope to become an inducement of reigning within the malignant darkness that she cunningly prowled through. She weaponized her soul with practical safeguards, daring limits of mortal gravity as each heist burningly promised an untamed kick of ecstasy—the precarious edge of inevitable risk always came with a reward. Tonight would be no different. The whooshing vibrations of traffic faded out as she became aware of the vehicle shifting direction.

[clubofinfo]

Expert: I don’t live in the U.S. any longer. I did, for over forty years, but left for good almost twenty years ago. But I return, often, and I even returned and stayed for a year. I returned again this last week as an invitee of the Buffalo/Niagara Falls Film Festival (more on that below). So, I wanted to talk about the America I found this time through. I changed planes in Washington D.C., at Dulles Airport (yes, named after cold war reactionary John Foster Dulles). I could not but think of that fascist loving arch elitist and racist as I sat there for an interminable few hours. I had a delayed connection to Buffalo. The first thing that strikes one, especially after having just left Gardermoen Airport, Oslo, and Copehagen’s Kastrup airport – both of which, along with Amsterdam’s Schipol airport, are maybe among the easiest and least stressful to use in the world – is the noise and sense of agitation. And what one notices right off, while still in Kastrup, is that the gate for the flight to Dulles is separate from the rest of the gates serving the international terminal. Flights to the U.S. have double the number of security personnel and are quite simply isolated. You are asked to submit to additional searches and are required to fill out additional forms — for what reason is anyone’s guess since as far as I can determine none of the forms are actually used for anything. Anyway, that was OK, I had my triple espresso and chocolate. Kastrup must have even better food than Schiphol. Once on the plane I had a nice young Swede in the seat next to me, a student from Ingmar Bergman’s birthplace island of Faro. The food was dreadful, of course. And I was struck, and this was to become a theme for this journey, with the insane and even delusional amount of packaging that is used. EVERYTHING is wrapped in plastic. In fact, plastic spoons and forks are wrapped in plastic. Plastic wraps plastic wraps plastic. And inside is stale preservative and sugar laden food, designed for long shelf life, and which closely resembles and tastes like…plastic. Landing means security. You must scan your own passport at Dulles. Why? I don’t know. You have to go talk to a passport control officer anyway. Then if you have connecting flights you are funneled into another line, in a hot terminal annex, and scanned again. For me it was the third scan in 12 hours — and I had never left the airports.  But then they ran out of plastic tubs and asked we just shove all our iPhones and what not into our carry on bags. And shove them all through the scanner. The young woman at the monitor wasn’t looking at the screen as the bags passed so none of any of this mattered in the least. It was a strange dysfunctional bit of security kabuki. Then more waiting. Only at Dulles you can’t get good food. You can’t get good coffee. You do get a lot of noise, though. Gardermoen is tomb-like in comparison with American airports. But there is another aspect to this. It is true that those rather almost obscenely pleasant Scandinavian airports are servicing a very affluent clientele. U.S. air travel is too, really, only the U.S. today feels increasingly polarized. First class is separate. You actually never see them. They are in lounges provided by the airlines of choice. Business class seems to mean 21st century Wily Lomans. No, it is first class and the rest of us. And the rest are subjected to an increasing battery of security abuses. Take off your shoes? Why? Because one simpleminded patsy tried to ignite his Nikes? ONE GUY? That’s it?? I saw old ladies have to, with some embarrassment, take off their shoes. And then there is the increasingly visible racism of the U.S. I watched when black or Arab workers carried bags or moved carts. I saw so many of those put upon white faces tighten ever so slightly. The animosity is in the air. On the TVs, and there are TVs everywhere in the U.S. Large screens EVERYWHERE. It is the only thing more common than cops. And on TV were endless photos of North Korea and the ‘Rocket Man’, or there were football games. One or the other. Jesus, but football is popular. And there is no other sport in the U.S. as saturated in jingoistic pro war rhetoric and symbol. And I am reminded that this is a game proven to cause irreparable brain damage. That said the, perhaps, hidden dialectic in this most militaristic of sports is the Kaepernick protests, which have spread. Sports always contain within it a kind of potential for such synthesis of contradiction (see Dave Zirin’s recent writing). So mostly the comments one overheard were about football. Or about how fed up people were with that Kim Jung whatshisname…hell, get rid of that fucker. Trump speaking of Nambia. An imaginary country that exists in that private colonial map in his mind. And then, a group of young Christians sat down near me at the gate. They seemed to be focused on ‘the holy spirit’. ‘Oh man’, one girl said, loudly, ‘I felt the holy spirit today’. I could feel it all day, she said, rather too loudly. I looked at her. She was blond, refried, maybe in her late twenties, and wore spandex pants and Rebok trainers and a blue t shirt with some other athletic brand name scrawled across the front of it. She was loud. Oh, and she kept eating M&Ms. A family from maybe India or Bangladesh walked past. They were tired, and had young children. Holy Spirit’s face darkened. She kept speaking on her phone but her voice lowered. The people I saw — those Americans — were all angry, just like the holy spirit girl. Nobody seemed happy. Nobody read. I was reading …Emmanuel Carrere’s bio of Philip K. Dick. A sort of perfect book for 7 hours spent at Dulles. I sat there as Carrere described Dick’s interpretations of Master Eickert’s idios kosmos. Dick battled periods of extreme paranoia. A giant black face in the clouds that watched him. Eventually he simply stopped looking up. I knew the feeling. It was the Dulles domestic terminal. Suddenly everyone felt like an alien, a robotic imposter. A hologram. Deplanning, as they say, in Buffalo, at midnight, is an odd and slightly unsettling experience. Walking down the long corridor to baggage claim I was reading the ads on the walls. One newer one advertised “Aesthetic Vaginal Surgery”, with two Indian doctors in pastel shirts, gold watches, and oddly colored brown suits. Across from them was an ad for “Divorce Lawyer: Legal Assistance, effective and compassionate”. The woman lawyer looked neither, but then looks can be deceiving. Many advertisements for sports, football or hockey. I got to Niagara Falls late. I checked into the franchise hotel reserved for me. In the morning I had awful hotel eggs and toast. The waitress, a sort of late 40s version of the holy spirit girl, spoke in a Marlboro rasp, and asked THREE times did I want bacon or sausage. I said neither, three times. Just eggs. I was already suspect. Around me, without exception, were morbidly obese Americans. Two men wore their cowboy hats on inside while they ate. A younger guy had his hockey stick with him (in its case, mind you) and everyone ate from the all you can eat buffet. It was very popular it seemed. Most of these people came for the Indian Casino (sic) down the block, next to the falls. It is a massive casino. Everything is a franchise. And the food. Again, the food. No wonder America is so miserable. Look at how they eat. It is truly appalling. Niagara Falls, itself, is a wonder, and yet surrounding it is the usual assortment of souvenir shops and fast food vendors. There was a “Daredevil Musuem”, but it had gone out of business. Too bad, I might have enjoyed that bit of American kitsch. The  tourist experience is one of absolute horror. I cannot find the words to describe just how spiritually nullifying the spectacle has become. Walk into those souvenir stores and very little is newly produced. All of it is, of course, made overseas. The faces of those working in these shops are portraits of depression. This is the white under-class, the part-time workers and long-term unemployed. They smoke and they are angry. They are ‘right-on-the-edge’. They have crawled out on that psychic ledge and there is no more space and there is no going back. Nobody even pretends to give a shit. Buy a Niagara Falls t shirt, buy a genuine Native American maple syrup figurine, or fucking don’t. We don’t care. Buffalo and Niagara Falls and Cattaraugus taken together is around a million people. The mean average income is half that of New York state overall. The house value is one fifth of New York overall. In other words if you own a home in Buffalo, you can’t give it away. Ancesteral lineage is mostly German and Polish and Irish. There is a sizable Indian and south Asian community, and quite a few recent emigres from Africa. The average age is slightly younger than NYC. There were forty murders in Buffalo last year, down slightly from the previous two years. Rape was up slightly. There is also the Niagara Falls Culinary Institute, which, judging from the photos out front, turns out steam table chefs for the big hotels. Cheerios are manufactured here. Archer Midlands Daniels runs a huge flour factory and it is home to the National Buffalo Wings festival and competition. Once upon a time, Buffalo was a reasonably rich city. And there remain a few of those great Queen Anne revival buildings that are often found in the major cities of the rust belt. The Richardson Olmstead Complex (architect Harry Hobson Richardson, who worked with famed landscape designer Frederik Olmstead, who created Central Park and Golden Gate Park) to create a still rather wonderful neo-Romaneque brick and sandstone mental hospital built in 1862. Beyond that the city is dotted with old turn of the 20th century gilded age (well, the first gilded age) houses, originally the grand homes of the leading industrialists of the time, or the homes of the managers of the factories of those industrialists. But that was all long ago. Buffalo is a microcosim. A micro-ecology, both psychologically and economically, and culturally for the entirety of the U.S. Tourism is driven by notions no longer believed in; the idea of recreation and family vacations. Nobody can afford that. Leisure was always modeled after work. An extension of work. A kind of faux work time. Adrono wrote of leisure: According to the prevailing work ethic, time free of work should be utilized for the recreation of expended labor power. For Adorno, the repetitive nature of alienated labor created a tendency to reproduce that repetitive boredom during times of leisure. And boredom, as he noted, was a sign of objective dullness. And that in turn linked to “political apathy”. Tourism is for the Japanese and the Germans today. Americans go to the Casino. I stood in line at Starbucks, across from the casino, and a young American pair came in. She was maybe thirty but dressed twenty. Halter and cleavage and long tanned legs. Very aerobasized, and he was buffed with a tight t shirt and baseball cap worn backwards. He was lean and athletic but he had that odd graceless gait of the gymnasium body. His face was handsome, chiseled and yet he looked terrified. Of what I do not know. His future or lack of it I suspect. And she radiated desperation. Both were anxious, nervous, and like the two pack a day souvenir vendors, they found themselves out on that ledge. So many white Americans, working class, have taken on a kind of furtive look. The backdrop of the Falls is pure allegory. The rising mist and the 20 bucks a pop boat rides (barely surviving one suspects) feel bereft of energy. Nobody seems to believe what is going on. The natural beauty of the Falls is now surrounded by massive tourist enterprises and commercialism. In a society of mass surveillance, knowing that you are being watched makes you reasonable AND paranoid. A society in which all movements are infiltrated to an almost impossible to imagine degree, the real becomes a fluid concept. Are my emails monitored? Does it matter? In an age when police can and do manufacture evidence, what need is there for monitoring emails or phone conversations? They can just as easily, more easily, make them up. Pilger wrote recently of his visits to the U.S. : Returning to the US, I am struck by the silence and the absence of an opposition – on the streets, in journalism and the arts, as if dissent once tolerated in the “mainstream” has regressed to a dissidence: a metaphoric underground.  There is plenty of sound and fury at Trump the odious one, the “fascist”, but almost none at Trump the symptom and caricature of an enduring system of conquest and extremism. Pilger also noted…. When Donald Trump addressed the United Nations on 19 September – a body established to spare humanity the “scourge of war” – he declared he was “ready, willing and able” to “totally destroy” North Korea and its 25 million people. His audience gasped, but Trump’s language was not unusual. His rival for the presidency, Hillary Clinton, had boasted she was prepared to “totally obliterate” Iran, a nation of more than 80 million people. This is the American Way; only the euphemisms are missing now. The problem with the fixation on Trump, which seems intentional on the part of corporate media, is that it trivializes the crimes of previous administrations. When walking around Niagara Falls and Buffalo I sense that almost all of my fellow citizens no longer believe what they hear, but they also are so terrified of voicing any dissent that they mostly nod in mute agreement. And this is partly about education. The default position for most Americans is one that has been shaped by Hollywood. And this week Rob Reiner announced the formation of something called The Committee to Investigate Russia, on whose board sit prominent neo cons and various reactionary commentators like Max Boot and Molly McKew (former advisor to Mikheil Saakashvili). McKew is sort of the liberals answer to Nikki Haley. A sprung frothing fringe lunatic, in other words. Also David Frum, longstanding arch conservative and supporter, last election, of Hillary Clinton. The now well known Morgan Freemann video was a piece of pure calculated propaganda. And this is why so many Americans feel it best to just keep silent. They haven’t even the beginnings of basic knowledge on these topics to formulate an opinion. There has been a four decade program of keeping the populace uninformed.But Freeman’s text sounds like a Hollywood movie; hell, he even uses screenplay metaphors, so in many places it will be very effective. Cutting across this, however, are a couple of other currents. One is the deeply entrenched and internalized racism of white America. Racism is like an encrusted psychic carbuncle on the collective soul of white culture. Having Morgan Freeman take the token torch from Colin Powell is perfectly predictable. Obama had already done it anyway. The racism of white America has learned to compartmentalize certain *special* black celebrities, often sports figures, while retaining a thoroughly white supremacist belief system. Then there is the other deeply entrenched adoration of militarism. This month also saw the nakedly revisionist Ken Burns documentary on the Vietnam War. These are grotesque projects of disinformation. But if all you know of the world is what you glean from Hollywood, then most of this will seem quite reasonable and sincere. It is worth noting, too, that Snopes took issue with any criticism of the Committee to Investigate Russia. I digress, but its really well past time to stop referencing Snopes as an impartial observer of anything. Buffalo is like much of the U.S. today. Unemployment is acute, as is poverty. Certain stats jump out at you, like 76% of disabled people live below the Poverty line in western New York state. Numbers mean nothing in unemployment, though, because the long term unemployed are simply not counted. All you have to do is walk around. There is an overriding sense of futility in American society today. And one feels it in a visceral manner when returning here. The looks, the suspicion, the anger. Maybe it is because I live in Norway, but the sense of anger in America feels overwhelming. But so does the sense of smug entitlement. On the long plane ride from Copenhagen to Washington D.C. I read but took some time off to look at a few minutes from various films on offer. A remake of Baywatch, something or other with the insufferable Scarlett Johanson, and, well, it hardly matters because all of it is steeped in self congratulation. And it is all profoundly out of touch with American society. I often wish my remaining friends in the U.S. would just leave. I have certainly never regretted it. It is hard to really understand the ways in which privilege is expressed by mass culture when one lives inside it. The constant onslaught of propaganda, of this unreality, takes a toll. It seeps into your consciousness.  It inhabits your grammar and speech and vision. The sound of U.S. society today is blatantly exceptionalist. WE are the best, the most special, unique, and the world follows our lead. People believe this. White America in particular seems to have collectively regressed. There are pockets, obviously, that are outside of this. But too few. And the cocoon of exceptionalism extends to travel, too. A vacation to some tourist resort means you haven’t really left the U.S. There is a sense, really, of a schizophrenic state existing at large. A collective shrinking of basic emotions and feeling. I met some very nice folks in Buffalo, of course. That is really not the point. Even nice (sic) people will feel they have to kill you if its for your own good. Or their own good. Philip K. Dick spent his life fixated on the details of daily life being or seeming to be slightly out of order, slightly askew. He sensed unreality where everyone said reality. He knew the man behind the curtain only hid more curtains and more men. Dick was not a political thinker. His vision of western society was instinctual, anarchic, and personal. For to him the personal was inextricably bound to the collective. He understood that fascism’s first goal is to change the past. He knew the future was not the real goal, only the past. For the past would foretell the future. This is the insight of the paranoid schizophrenic. To understand the New Cold War emerging today, it is necessary to reexamine the original conflict between the United States and the USSR. The present Russia panic follows an entire century of fearmongering and “threat inflation,” dating to the Russian Revolution, that has long served the interests of the U.S. military-industrial complex and security state. It has had little to do with either Russian or American realities, which have been consistently distorted. — Jeremy Kurzmarmov and John Marciano, “The Russians are Coming Again”, Monthly Review, 2017. It is ironic that the only actual cyber attack against a sovereign nation was one launched by the U.S. against Iran in 2008. Which fact is simply *not remembered* by media today. Instead the new security state is amping up rhetoric about Russia which they know is untrue. But what must be remembered here is firstly, the defense industry and U.S. military win even when they lose. Winning is not a hard fact. It is a loose concept. Sustaining budgets, or increasing them, is the first and only goal. And two, psychologically the ruling class is no less desperate and irrational and repressed than the underclass. It is only that Hollywood and corporate telecoms and places such as Clear Channel…that entire apparatus…they control message and they work very hard to reform the past. Jim Mattis and RC McMaster, and Stanley McChrystal…the entire cabal of white male generals were likely moved in to surround Trump once his fundamental incompetence was made clear. They are militarists, and Mattis was the architect of Falujah, and *earned* his nickname. Kelly and McMaster serve as guard dogs, and protectors of the Pentagon agenda. They seem cool, articulate, and the media adore them. Liberals fawn over them. Literally salivate and grovel in adoration. For the most pernicious and most indelible trope in contemporary America is that of military virtue and goodness. The square jawed buzz cut man of action. And in truth, compared to Trump and his family, they ARE efficient. It’s just that efficiency almost certainly serves the metasticizing of western capital to all corners of the globe, and to the protection of US global interests. If you want to know exactly how distracted from material reality most people are, ask a stranger directions somewhere. I can almost guarantee you will get wrong directions, or more likely still, get non directions. People have in general lost the capacity to organize their thoughts into sentences that convey specific material items or instructions. I had to find the theatre for this film festival. I chose to walk. A ten mile walk. Long but not crazy long. I like walking. But asking the man behind the counter at the hotel proved an exercise in futility. The walk was fine, hot, and as it turned out it took me directly through the shuttered refineries of Love Canal. I started this journey to New York by having an airport hotel not make a wake up call. I missed the flight. The young man who *didn’t* make the call had that deer in the headlights glazed look. He made little eye contact. In New York the slightly older young man simply had no words. He tried and finally printed out a google map…which turned out to be wrong…but whatever. The point is that a majority of American citizens cannot tell you how to get from here to there. Literally, I mean, literally they do not have a large enough vocabulary to explain directions nor to describe landmarks. The screen addictions of contemporary western society is related to this degrading of vocabulary and speech. On this trip, besides plastic wrap, the most significant repeated image is that of people staring down at their smart phones. Walking, not walking, wherever, whatever time, most people are addictively punching out simplistic abbreviated messages. The amount of face time today is drastically reduced. I have read no study or any figures, but again, just go outside and walk around. And people have begun to speak as they text. In short non grammatical half sentences. Texting is not really more than simple coded expressions for generic subject positions. Complex science cannot be texted, and there is no poetics associated with it. The rise, over very recent years, of emojis is another sign of how alienated the culture has become. This has been my experience in the U.S. And while its true in Europe too, it is not nearly true to the same degree. Matt Taibbi in Rolling Stone wrote of Trump: Trump has not only completely lost his sense of humor, particularly about himself, but he’s a lingual mess. In his current dread of polysyllables – his favorite words include “I,” “Trump,” “very,” “money” and “China” – he makes George W. Bush sound like Vladimir Nabokov. On the page, transcripts of his speaking appearances often look like complete gibberish. “When I did this now I said, I probably, maybe will confuse people, maybe I’ll expand that,” he said to Lester Holt in May, “you know, I’ll lengthen the time because it should be over with, in my opinion.”  He also can barely speak anymore, but without a close-up examination it’s impossible to say if this is a neurological problem or just being typically American. As the psychologist Michaelis puts it, one major cause for loss of cognitive function is giving up reading in favor of TV or the Internet, which is basically most people in this country these days. The multiplicity theme applied to internet users (from mainstream popular theorists like Sherry Turkle) sees social media and texting and screen usage as mostly benign if not actually positive, an enhancement of human potential. This is sort of the TED level thinking that glossy magazines promote. But I would argue that the constant fractured and incomplete language of digital communication is both a reflection of and creator of a fractured and increasingly incoherent personality. People check their phones at funerals, at marriages, at almost any public event. But what occurs to me is that people’s compulsive smart phone usage might well continue even if they were only communicating with themselves. If you eliminated a destination for texting, the text-er would continue. That is the pathological aspect of screen usage. It feels like amphetamine driven rats hitting that lever for more drug. The idea, as some have put forward, that texting has invented a new language that is actually very creative, etc., etc., etc., seems nonsense when you wander the streets or malls of America. There are no more depressing places on earth, I don’t think, than suburban America. Synonymous with White America. This is the revenge of white flight on itself. Turkle is correct, however, when she raises the fear that haunts the societies of the West today; the fear that ‘nobody is listening’. There is another aspect here, and that is that screen life, social media, in all of its formats, allows people to create an image by way of deletion and editing. It is, in a sense, a way to edit the past as well as the present. It is hard not to see the drop in literacy in the U.S. and certainly there are ample examples of misspeaking in the political class. Maxine Waters confusing Crimea with Korea (and then having the facts wrong anyway) or Bush thinking Africa was a country, or the dozen or so Trump errors. Geography is not taught in schools today. As I say, ask for directions. In the hotel in which I stayed, in the breakfast area, which serves also as a bar in the evening, there are SEVEN wide screen TVs on the walls. On one wall they are only a foot or so apart. During non sporting hours they are tuned to news channels. The sound is off, but that is no problem as there is close captioned subtitles at the bottom, as well as a constant scroll of news items. The hotel guests are then bombarded during all meals with a constant sound bite onslaught. A recent Zogby poll had 52% of Americans in favor of a preemptive strike against North Korea. Propaganda works best when it is delivered in sound bites. And when all you can understand is sound bites, you will eventually internalize purely authoritarian and fascist values. I wrote a while back on Italian cinema after WW2 and its relation to fascism. The anti fascist strategies, aesthetically and politically, of directors such as Pasolini, Bertolucci, and Antonioni. And I wrote this… In Italian cinema, after WW2, there were debates around the question of post synching the sound track. Elias Chaluja suggested that post-synchronization was an expression of the dominant class, of its ideology and a way to distance identification, but more, to ‘conquer the screen’. Remember that Pasolini, Bertolucci, Antonioni and a dozen others had signed the Amalfi Manifesto in 1968, protesting government censorship, and monopoly control of distribution, but also the laws concerning post synchronization. Antonioni perhaps above all other film directors, radically reversed trends in how to score films. His films create sound-scapes, for lack of a better word. He, like Pasolini, under duress, fashioned new ways to dub and post synch their films. Which suited both their sensibilities. The anti fascism of both instinctively rejected music cues for narratives. They were out to liberate the screen, not to conquer it. Screen life is now fully conquered, as it were. And it need not be so. If digital screen technology contains any inherent addictive qualities, they could certainly be minimized if they did not exist and develop within an utterly coercive and manipulative exploitive framework. Screen addiction is Capitalist screen addiction. Aesthetic liberation is just as crucial to today’s somnambulant population as is economic liberation. Cultural liberation in other words. The soundtrack to daily life is a very specific tone of voice that is heard across all news outlets and entertainment channels. The voice of the generic talking head as he or she mouth platitudes and empty repetitive cliches in cadences that never vary. It is an endless loop and long ago the content of what is being said became irrelevant. It is ‘that’ sound. And to awaken from it means to first turn it off. The festival itself was poorly attended. They had moved it to a new venue. There was an Afghan vet injured in the war, now legless, who came in a wheelchair. A nice fellow. He joined us at dinner. The discussion turned to Vietnam and I sensed growing tension around the table — especially with the guy who orchestrates the festival. We were all at a bizarre neo-Chinese buffet restaurant (the walls painted a curious flamingo pink, but never mind). I changed the subject. Everyone involved were vets. There is that knee jerk patriotic trope that white Americans can’t escape it seems. In most of the U.S., the Military remains sacrosanct. No matter what. I met three students, all black. And each of them sensed the need for dramatic change in the way the U.S. is run. If anything like socialism is to happen, these young men (all were male and all attended local colleges) will drive that movement. They also desperately wanted to know more, about everything. They hung around after my lecture and we talked for quite a while. They also are eager to leave Buffalo — shock, I know. But their curiosity, and desire for social justice, and for a sense of culture, was genuine and substantial. It is how revolutions slowly begin to form. They asked for reading lists, too. It made the entire five days worth the effort. http://clubof.info/

[platonicfox]

timbledum fEarful 156 adventure (New Zealand)

Useful link: a metric dimensions conversion spreadsheet with dynamic thickness.

Full gallery here.

If you are interested in the budget, this thing cost me NZD$1,100. You can find a breakdown here.

I got the plywood supplier to cut the sheet into two 1200x1200mm squares for transport home. My cut plan based on this is here (or here for the svg version.)

My aspirational post on fEarfuls written around ~6 years ago is here – good to see that I finally followed through!

Background

This is a low tool build with some substitutions due to living in middle earth.

So I have been wanting to build a fEarful cab for quite some time now. However, the timing has never been right… until now!

Initially I was simply too poor to afford to build one as a student/graduate accountant, and I had a secondhand Sunn 410 that I was using in my punk and alt-rock bands (consecutive not simultaneous) so the demand wasn't urgent. I then temporarily stopped playing the bass to focus on my professional accounting exams for about two years.

I have been back playing bass sans-rig for maybe the last two years but have been getting sick of playing on borrowed gear and through PAs. I am also now getting a decent salary, and am pre-kids (just!).

I had not really planned the whole build at the beginning, as there were a lot of problems to solve and a lot of things to learn! Pretty overwhelming! So I just took the build one step at a time. I am pretty green with this kinda stuff, so this was all very exciting!

Step 1 – Buy the plywood

This is a very confusing part of the process, as the world of plywood is so varied and wide! Unfortunately we cannot get Baltic Birch here (the standard it seems), so it seems that the next best thing is some sort of marine grade plywood, such as hoop pine.

After ringing some places and having no real luck, I decided to go to Plyman in Henderson and just have a look around. Prior to leaving, I carefully calcuated that I would be able to fit a sheet of 2400x1200mm in the Nissan Wingroad if I got them to cut it in half (two squares), and tested this with a cheap scrap piece I had lying around – the end of the scrap was still at factory dimensions.

I got to the place and they had a super friendly guy at the counter – much recommended. I mentioned marine grade and Baltic Birch to him. He didn't know anything about Baltic Birch so he steared me to the Euro Birch which looked great! I also looked at the marine Gaboon stuff, but it had a pinky colour that I didn't really like.

So I went with the Euro Birch for about $115 all up, and the guy cut it in half for me for free, and we went to get it into the back of the wagon. It was a friggen mission! We ended up getting it diagonal and just pushing (hard) into the boot! They finally slid in one after the other.

It was even harder getting them out on the other side. My flatmate and I spend a good ten minutes figuring out how to get them out. We ended up having to push hard against the framing of the boot to get the plywood over the lip, and then squeezing the plywood through the plastic framing – we left permanent lines as reminder of the plywood for all time.

It turns out the plywood was actually 2440X1220 – the 2 extra cm squeezing through the boot was all the difference! Gahhhh!

Also turns out that I realised when we got it home that the outer birch vaneer is super thin – not like Baltic Birch at all! The main advantage of BB is apparently that all the plys are equal fitness, which gives it a lot of structural integrity and makes it easy to work with (you don't have to worry about sanding through the veneer).Pretty disappointed about that, but we'll see how we go!

I also hit up Bunnings on the way home and grabbed some misc supplies, including the Sika Supa Grip glue substitute recommended [here](Sika Supa Grip 30min Adhesive per http://greenboy.us/forum/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=1106&p=42527#p42527).

Step 2 – Cut the plywood

On the way out from Plyman, I grabbed a long thin offcut which I thought I could use for making a straight-cut jig for the circular saw. I mounted this onto a shorter sheet of crappy plywood that I had left over (trying out the Supa Grip glue – worked great!), and made a cut with the circular saw leaving a straight edge that I could rely on for making all of my cuts accurately.

More or less – it turns out there was a 1-2 mm bow in the "straight-edge" over the metre or two of length. This did mean that I later had to do some sanding to fit. To do this, I glued some ~40 grit sandpaper to a ~300mm long piece of plywood as a makeshift plane, which took some elbow grease but worked fairly well

Cutting the plywood was nerve-racking for me, as I had no experience with this kind of thing, and I was paranoid in ruining the investment in the plywood I had purchased. I used painter's tape for most cuts to ensure a clean cut. I also bought a higher tooth blade which seemed to work quite well. I probably veered on too long for most cuts, which resulted in more sanding down the line. There also ended up being a bit of bow in the old painting (thanks wife) worktable that I was using – this made it tricky to get a clean cut and required a bit of downward force throughout the cuts.

I did most of the big cuts during a solid Saturday afternoon of cutting, and finished off the rest on another day. The bracing (although fiddly), wasn't as bad as expected, as I essentially cut a bunch of planks with uniform width, then cut to length with a hand-saw – I found it more accurate this way. There was, again, sanding down the line to get these all to fit correctly.

Laying out (ruler and pencil) was a lot more time consuming than I expected, partly as I was paranoid! I measured everything multiple times, but even then it took me a while to get used to which side of the line to cut, how to get the lines square, etc. Not easy! I have definitely learnt the value in good quality layout tools, and this was the first project that I have used a square (shocking I know). I was pretty happy with my make-shift compass for laying out the speaker holes.

I had an old very cheap jigsaw which was ~$20 from Bunnings (maybe my memory is exaggerating). However, after a test cut, I determined that it cut the circles great! The bottom of the mid-box which is a bit of a weird shape was also cut partially with the jigsaw. I judged that precision was not a necessity here.

I did later make a layout error with the handle holes – I carefully calculated where my handles should go (based on guesstimate), and jigsawed/rasped/sanded the hole to accept my first handle. I laid out and triple checked the second hole, and drilled the hole for the jigsaw to start, before (on a whim) checking it visually against the other side. It didn't match! It turns out I was measuring from the bottom rather than the top, so the two sides were mis-matched.

Fortunately, I had only done the drill-hole, so I was able to fashion a plug from plywood with a coping saw. After cutting the rough shape, I hammered a nail into the plug, mounted onto my drill, and rounded the plug on a piece of wood that I had glued some rough 40 grit sandpaper onto. I was then able to plug this into the hole with more Sika! Thankfully, this plug blended fairly well, and ended up being half-covered by the handle anyway. Phew! Every cut is so high stakes!

As I do not plan to combine this box with a second cab, and most commercial cabs have two inputs/outputs for daisy chaining, I decided to leave this cab with just the one speakon connector. I did not bother with a connector plate, opting to mount the connector directly onto the plywood. Yes, it protrudes a little bit, but it does the job, and is a very simple, clean solution. I drilled a hole for the connector, then used a rasp to enlarge it to accept the round connector more or less perfectly. I also made sure to use the gasket tape when installing to make a nice clean seal. You can see a shot of the nubbin in the finishing section.

Step 3 – Assemble the cabinet

So I wanted a wood finish Scandinavian inspired cab, with a natural clear finish. This meant I didn't want any fasteners (screws/nails) marring the aesthetics of my beautiful creation. However, this set me up for a fairly tedious build, as each join needed to be glued up separately.

I also have no joining apparatus (such as dowel jig, biscuit joiner, pocket hole jig), and limited clamps (two smallish clamps). Getting things aligned correctly was fairly stressful with the limited set time of the Sika. Fortunately, a work colleague lent me two sash (long bar) clamps – despite their griminess, I wouldn't have been able to build the cab without them.

The glue was fantastic, but definitely had a learning curve. I was unprepared for how slippery the glue was while still setting. I also took the wrong approach for the squeeze out – I tried to rub sawdust into the wet glue, which apparently works for white PVA glue, but not for poly-based glues like the Sika. Fortunately the ugly matt smear from this only affected the port. The better approach was letting the squeeze out mostly harden, then cut off with a chisel. You can see the ugly squeeze out here:

I was also unprepared for the glue-up pressure! You really have to get things done – fairly high stress environment. One time in particular I had my wife put her head in the garage asking a question, and I had to politely tell her to please leave, I am gluing!

I did try to use a screw to attach the shelf to the port divider, which was a total disaster. Despite all my measurements and layout, the port divider hadn't been aligned perfectly in the centre, and I don't think the layout on the shelf was that flash either. This meant having to re-drill the pilot hole in the intense glue-up pressure. This epically failed, and I actually broke a tip of a drill bit, which is still somewhere in the port divider to this day.

And so I continued – glue up by glue up, each one not too onerous, but with heaps of separate glues to do. The 'clamps only' approach seemed to work out well, and I created many ingenious jigs to ensure that everything was positioned mirror less accurately and my limited supply of clamps (augmented with weights) did the business.

The wood did slightly warp, and the cuts were often a mm or two out, so there was a good bit of rasping/sanding near the end to get the last final pieces to fit. One of my best ideas was to glue some low-grit sandpaper to a scrap piece – the poor man's plane.

Step 4 – Buy and assemble the crossover/electricals

At first when I saw the price of the components, I thought it would be easier to source local component equivalents here. However, after chatting to my acoustic engineer bud, it turns out components of this size are just expensive. So I bit the bullet and paid the $100 to get everything shipped from Erse all the way down under.

This was by far the most daunting part of the project, as I have no electrical experience and had to learn everything from scratch, especially how to decipher the circuit diagram! I also had no idea how to attach everything, and finally decided after looking at other builds to base it on a terminal block.

For some reason, I decided to make a "breadboard" from a scrape piece of ply from the project by drilling a whole bunch of holes in it (I glued on some graph paper to get these more or less aligned). Although tedious, this made it much easier to cable-tie the components to the board, and hopefully provides some cooling. I put some foam pads under the four corners of the board, so there is some room for air to get underneath and rise through the components.

On one Wednesday night, with the wife out teaching an art class, it was time to do the assembling!

I couldn't find any glue sticks, and my wife had the car, so I had to cycle down to The Warehouse. They didn't have any real glue sticks, so I ended up buying a mini-glue gun and mini-glue sticks! Around $10 all up.

I used the hot glue + cable tie combo to secure the components. I was super paranoid with the two inductors, putting them at opposite ends of the board.

Here you can see my pencil schematic of how the wires actually needed to be laid out – I think it would be next to impossible to do this based on the plans, especially with the terminal to terminal connections (very confusing, but it works!) I do not foresee myself ever going through the hassle of building one of these again, so I didn't bother with the switch (although it took me a while to figure out which configuration the padded one was – turns out it is the configuration that the wiring is set in the plan.)

For wiring, I used the same cable used internally, so I had to do a lot of stripping. My solders are probably overdone, but I tested the mechanical integrity of each one so I think they were OK! Please do not judge my soldering lol. I also glued down most of the wires for extra measure.

I ended up mounting this on the shelf. It took up two thirds of the shelf and hung over the port divider by ~10mm – hopefully not a big deal!

Step 5 – Buy and install the speakers (the expensive part)

I actually did this much earlier due to excitement! I ended up buying both of them from eBay – even with shipping and customs they were much cheaper than in NZ. I think the Eminence one was actually semi second hand – they had bought two for a project but never made it, so I got a fairly good price. Pretty exciting!

Step 6 – Hardware and finishing

I bought most of the hardware from a sketchy place called Surplus Tronics – at this point one of the spring handles has already failed. However, everything was fairly cheap, and it was handy getting the corners, wiring, terminal block, feet, handles, and speaker covers from one place. One of the springs in the spring handles has already failed though, but it isn't very expensive to replace.

I took a bit of time figuring what batting to use, as we don't have denim insulation here. I almost bought some fibreglass pink batts, then changed my mind and decided to go the polyfill way. I was hoping to get away with quite cheap for this, and put out a cry for help on Facebook with no success, so I forked out the ~$20 at Spotlight to buy some 'Polyester Wadding' – a 30mm thick sheet 122cm x 150cm. This did me very nicely, with only some left over.

I used a combination of PVA glue and hot glue to attach the sheets to the plywood. I think the hot glue was more effective, at least immediately. I put down two layers on the back, with one layer most other places.

After running the internal wiring (mainly with hot glue), and gluing the batting, I could finally glue on the back of the beast!

Sanding took a lot of time. Despite my best efforts, I had a bit of overhang in some of the joins, and used a bit of pine wood filler to fill some gaps and to fillet some uneven joints. Overall, I am happy with how it turned out. A lot of the imperfections seem to be only visible to my eyes! Wood filler also helped a lot with voids in the plywood.

Once this was all done, it was time for the finish. I managed to get some satin water based polyurethane from a friend who had it left over from some flooring. It was old and had bits of crustiness in it, but it did the job. Water based is supposed to be a lot clearer (less yellow), and was very pleasant to work with – I didn't have to worry too much about it getting on my hands. It was a very strange creamy white, but dried to a silky smooth clear finish.

I made the mistake of laying down the finish way too thick on the first coat and was left with visible drips and runs all over the cab. After a good deal of sanding, I learnt my lesson and the subsequent two coats were much thinner and more successful.

I sanded up to about 160 before finishing, and sanded up to 300 between coats with an electric sander. I put down three coats, then had to do three coats on the bottom too. I spent a bit of time before finishing rounding over the corners with a rasp and sandpaper to accept the plastic corner protectors. I also slightly rounded off the edges.

I did have some issues trying to find "gasket tape" – I ended up just buying weather proofing closed cell tape in black. Was much more expensive than I hoped, but seemed to do a good job of sealing the handles, speakon plug, and 18sound speaker (the Eminence 15 already had some foam around the speaker.)

Step 7 – Trying it out!

I was super scared to try this out. The main thing was the wiring/crossover – if I stuffed something up here, I could blow drivers (I think!). I had no certainty that I hadn't made a mistake, or accidentally shorted something… let alone making errors with the box itself (air leaks, etc.)

One of my friends came around with his Markbass Little Mark II and nervously, we turned it on.

It worked! Boy this thing is sensitive! A lot louder than I expected, especially in our lounge, although it definitely keeps up with a drummer as well. I am yet to really push it though.

I am very pleased with the cleanness and transparency of the sound. It gives me great joy to hear a new level of distinction between my bass pickups (Stingray HH), let alone playing with the tonal variety of the VT bass.

Overall, this has been a very rewarding project, and my confidence in problem solving and DIY has grown exponentially. I have just learnt so flippin much over this project. I especially learnt a lot from the Greenboy official forum. Although i have not posted on the forum, I have lurked pretty hard, and the amount of helpfulness and knowledge there is outstanding, so thanks to everyone there! And a special thanks to Greenboy for making these amazing plans and resources free for us all to use!