Cherry || b.barnes

31 || Why

What came after that is a blur for me, nothing more than colors and sounds and motions spinning in a never-ending circle. Almost like a high speed carousel that just won't find a stop, and when it does, it catapults you several meters until you bang against a glass front.

  I didn't give myself enough time to think about what just happened – the way he looked at me, the fact that he recognized me immediately, that he thought me dead. There was no time for any of this as the battle roared alive again with the sound of gunfire and knives piercing through flesh and bone. And I couldn't help them, the ones I didn't mean to hurt. I couldn't, because I promised my head to another, and I needed to save Wanda. I disabled her, and strange as it is, for the first time, I felt responsible for a death, her death should it come. I couldn't let that happen. 

Meaning that I didn't get much of the fight. A few actually tried to break into her room, but I made it a short process to... let's say, un-harm them. I don't wanna know what Wanda thinks the second she awakes and strolls out of her room after a good sleep over twenty-four hours, stepping right into a pool of blood soaked into the bluish carpet.

However, since I didn't get much of the battle being somewhere else, neither did I get the point of its ending. My head started to malfunction the second Rogers hit the ground, like his words, his expression pressed a button that made me blunt. It was enough to let me recognize the bad ones are the ones with the red skull emblem knitted into their clothes somewhere, but the more I murdered or beat unconscious, the weaker I got. Which leaded to me being overwhelmed by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents after taking down a handful of them at Wanda's door, and sitting once more in one of their boring concrete interrogation rooms. 

I don't really know what took them so long. Hours pass with me alone, tied with the very same cuffs I did tie James, onto a cool metal chair in front of a plain white desk. Nobody in, nobody out. Four sources of light in each corner of the ceiling.

I started getting hungry, getting thirsty, getting tired, but no one really seemed to care. Or rather, they had better things to do.

At some point, my neuronal system decided to proceed with its work. Numerous outcomes, numerous ideas are played in my head, numerous purposes for Steven Rogers' reaction. 

Maybe he saw my mother when he looked at me. I never doubted their love despite the fact that he lured the monster into our save cave; there is this one picture of them, the picture having died in flames, and the only ever taken of the both of them. They stand in front of each other in our living room, hands in hands, looking right into each other's eyes. I used to think that Disney's magical moments aren't real, until my mother proved me wrong by showing me the footage. There's no denial that he loved her; worse that he killed her. But also the explanation as to why I've been able to hurt James in the worst way imaginable although I have deeply rooted feelings for him. Seems to be a family trait.

His features also could have softened because he knew I missed. Many of the soldiers around us, even Natasha perhaps didn't see, realize what I and he did, but maybe, it has been the recognition of another chance to kill me that were portrayed in the loosing of his clenched jaw. Would fit to him admitting the thought of me being dead; he could just go for it again. 

Whatever the reason, I have to get out of here as soon as I can. For once, because I sure as hell don't want to have to look my father into the face.
Second, because I maybe planned for Natasha being captured, but if she really is, I also planned to come rescue her. All of this has nothing to do with them. They play no role in my game.
And third, because I very much think I will be punished, but the honor for that is reserved by James.

Looking around, I start to wish for a shower. I'm still in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s black, tight suit that is sprinkled with the scarlet of blood, as is my hair; me completely covered in sweat. I must seem like a fury, like an angel of Lucifer's, getting more and more nervous by second. The longer I scrutinize my environment, they greyer the walls become, the whiter the table, the harder the metal I sit on.
But I don't show. Even if no one has come to talk to me yet, I sure as hell am watched over all four cameras in each edge of the room. I don't need them to relish in making me anxious.