ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ || 𝟙

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 14

"Hold on," Peter said sharply, stepping in front of her. 

"Come on, do you actually still believe her? She's supposed to be dead." Bucky snarled, ready to pump her full of lead. "She's  really not being suspicious at all, stealing one of the most technologically advanced pair of glasses on the face of the planet - good job on that by the way -, forcing you to bring her back to the compound, nearly turning us into a smoking crater and trying to escape from the hospital wing." 

"You were dead too, before we found out you were just a mind-controlled super soldier." Peter responded quietly.

Bucky paused, his own past unexpectedly used against him from the usually mild-mannered high schooler. Taking advantage of their hesitation, he quickly slung their weapons out of their hands, tossing them to a corner.

"Clearly she isn't dead," he clarified, poking her forearm once for good measure as she glared. "That means that whoever the coroner or lead doctor who signed her off is, they probably just didn't do their jobs very well." 

"Very well?" Sam snorted. "Whoever they are should probably be fired. They're a danger to their patients." 

"Right," Peter ignored the quip. "As I was saying, the next step is easy. We track down the coroner and get them to tell us about the experiments."

"This is a wild goose chase," Sam groaned. "What makes you think that they're actually alive? Don't you think they would kill every doctor, lab assistant and nurse that was part of these modifications?"

"Because she lives on the outskirts of the town that's 10 miles from here," replied Peter as he calmly showed the digital file he had accessed. "Anna Smirnov, in her early 40s now. A PhD in biochemistry specializing in genetic manipulation and a Masters degree in Alternative Energy Sources. She look familiar to you?" he asked Demetria, projecting her file onto the opposite wall.

Thin lips, lined with dripping red lipstick and even thinner blonder hair stared back at her, abnormally murky green-brown eyes, the same tinge of a dirty swamp burrowing its way down into her soul.

This time, the memories came back to her in lightning-fast bursts, each one like the flash of a camera shutter all going off simultaneously. 

Flitting pen lights, muffled voices ordering her to "Follow the finger" or "Follow the light" as the click-clack of high heels on tile would alert her to impending doom. Her pale gaunt face would look even more washed out in the harsh fluorescent light reminding Demetria eerily of a female Edward Scissorhands in spite of the biohazard suit she wore. 

"Let me know if she changes." was what she uttered most often before walking out, the oddly sinister rhythm of her clacking heels like ominous laughter as it resonated down the hallway.

"That's her." Demetria confirmed as the memory wave receded. The room suddenly felt unbearably cold and her skin itched as if a million ants were crawling over her. "I can't be in here." she choked, the ants now making their way into her throat and lungs, her breaths becoming more labored.

She had to get out. Now. 

"Demetria!" Peter called out as he reached out to stop her.

She barreled right through him, not caring that her actions would get herself shot. It was probably a mercy at this point, she would rather be dead than continue existing in this room. She was suffocating on land, drowning in the sorrows of memories that would have been better left buried.

Leaping from her perch, she ran as fast as her legs would take her, taking the stairs three at a time, her calf muscles stretching and screaming in protest but she refused to stop until she finally saw a sliver of light. Bursting into the main hall, she ran until the cold, wet-cement like weight in her chest lifted. Taking in deep cold gasps of air that burned her throat, she staggered backwards, looking for the Quinjet, she would give anything, cut off any finger from her dominant hand to be anywhere but here right now.

Tripping over a gnarly root tree, her normally incredibly coordinated and well-trained body face-planted right into the hard, frozen earth, jarring her chin against stone upon impact.

Wincing, knowing that was going to bruise over the next few hours, she righted herself, only to find herself at the back of the house where the shrubbery had grown into a wall of thorns, branches and spiky hedges.

"Are you kidding me?" she growled, angrier at herself than anything as she turned her head to the right, spitting viciously.

Finally able to focus, the realization of where she was, registered. Headstones lined up in obsessively neat rows. Whoever had planned out this small cemetery had been incredibly organized and determined to fit in as many bodies in one place as possible.

She backed away cautiously and the sole of her boot swept back a layer of earth revealing what she had fallen upon.

--

Peter found her half an hour later, body rigid with fear, staring downwards at a tombstone, completely motionless.

"Demetria?" he asked, gripping her shoulder lightly, surprised when she didn't brush it off.

"Barnes is right. I should be dead." she said almost dreamily, her voice floating with the clouds.

"That's not true, he was just being careful," he attempted to reassure her. "Mr Barnes is just tough, he's... been through a lot." 

"Really?" she pointed to the ground beneath her. 

Sucking in a deep tentative breath, Peter decided it was worth the risk of losing an appendage as long as he got her out of here.

"We need to get you out of here. I'm going to pull you up and let you lean against me okay? But I'm going to have to wrap my arm around your shoulders so I can keep the balance, so I'm begging you here please don't break it," he said, before very carefully helping her up. 

"I belong here." she said in reply, eyes unfocused, lips quivering.

"No, you don't. You're here, alive and we're going to figure this out. Just move your right leg forward okay?" he demonstrated, gently coaxing.

She obliged although it was like the portal to Hell was resisting, drawing her back, with every inch.

"Then your left."

She moved slightly.

"Now right again."

Another shift.

"See, that wasn't so bad." he reassured her.

Shaking her head furiously, her entire existence crashing before her eyes, she barely registered anything except his arm around her.

"I can't move."

"One step at a time, please," he begged, tightening his grip around her shoulders.

As she was pressed against his body, his warmth slowly seeped into her, like a patient coming out of hypothermia and he was the heat that was keeping her alive.

"One step." she whispered and his face cracked into a smile.

"One step." he repeated, nodding.

Without looking back, she allowed herself to be gently guided towards the Quinjet, each footfall taking her further away from the tombstone that had her name etched on it.