Blood & Honor||Bucky Barnes FF

Clouded Thoughts

The chaos of the explosion lingered in the air, the acrid stench of smoke and scorched debris filling Amari's lungs as she carefully navigated through the wreckage. The scene before her was one of devastation—twisted metal, shattered glass, and the disorienting wail of emergency sirens echoed in her ears. Fire crews moved methodically, hosing down what remained of the buildings, their efforts futile against the weight of the loss they were all feeling. Water cascaded over what was left, washing away the ash but doing little to erase the horror of the moment. Overhead, a red and white medical chopper circled slowly, the rhythmic chopping of its blades adding a constant hum to the aftermath of the attack.

Amari's chest felt tight as she breathed in the smoke-tinged air. Her mind raced, still reeling from the reality that had unfolded only minutes before. Moments ago, everything had been intact, secure—their father, King T'Chaka, delivering a speech that was supposed to cement Wakanda's place in the world. He had been standing tall, his voice firm and reassuring, his presence a symbol of hope and unity. Now, all that remained was devastation. The king was gone, and with him, a part of Amari's world had been shattered.

But there was no time for her to grieve, no space to process the raw pain that was gnawing at her heart. Action had to be taken. There were duties to fulfill, and as a member of the royal family and the Dora Milaje, Amari understood that responsibility would always come before emotion.

Her hand trembled slightly as she finished the phone call, informing her mother, Queen Ramonda, of the tragic news. She had never heard her mother sound so still, so silent, as if the words had stolen the breath from her chest. And then there was Shuri. Amari could still hear her sister's voice in her mind, the disbelief and fear barely masked by Shuri's attempt to sound brave. Sixteen years old, brilliant beyond measure, and now thrust into an unimaginable loss that neither of them had prepared for.

Okoye had also been briefed and was already coordinating the Dora Milaje. They were prepared to mobilize if the situation escalated, though Amari hoped it wouldn't come to that. Still, the sight of the Dora Milaje at the ready would send a clear message: Wakanda was not weak, and they would respond to this atrocity with force if necessary.

Her eyes landed on T'Challa, sitting on a nearby bench, his figure a silhouette of grief. He sat motionless, his head bowed, a deep cut visible across his forehead. The world around him seemed to blur, the cacophony of sirens and urgent voices fading into a distant hum as he grappled with the enormity of what had just happened. His entire posture sagged with the weight of his sorrow.

Amari's heart clenched. She had never seen her brother like this—so vulnerable, so raw. She approached quietly, her footsteps soft as she moved toward him, the warrior in her knowing when to stay silent. She took a seat next to him, not speaking for a few minutes, her presence a silent offering of support in the midst of the storm.

„Mother and Shuri are informed," she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper, though steady. It took all her strength to keep the tremor from her words. "Okoye too. The Dora Milaje is prepared if we need their help."

T'Challa nodded absently, his gaze fixed on the ground as though it could anchor him. He toyed with their father's ornate silver ring, rolling it between his fingers with a haunted expression. The ring seemed to be the last connection to their father, the only tangible piece of him that remained in this world.

Amari glanced to her right and saw Agent Natasha Romanoff sitting on the bench a short distance away. The attack had entangled them all, though Amari knew that Natasha's grief was different—less personal but still significant. Her eyes met Natasha's, and the two women shared a brief, wordless understanding.

Natasha's voice broke the silence, soft and sincere. "I'm very sorry."

Amari nodded slowly, her grief threading through her words. "Thank you for your condolence." She knew Natasha had seen her share of loss, but this was different. This was family. This was Wakanda.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were the distant sirens and the murmurs of the emergency crews. Finally, T'Challa broke the silence, his voice low and filled with something that felt like defeat. "In my culture, death is not the end. It's more of a... stepping-off point. You reach out with both hands, and Bast and Sekhmet, they lead you into the green veldt where... you can run forever."

Natasha tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. "That sounds very peaceful."
T'Challa nodded, though the gesture was almost imperceptible. "Our father thought so." His voice wavered, betraying a depth of pain that words could never fully express. With a slow, deliberate movement, he slid the silver ring onto his finger, as if claiming a responsibility he had never wanted. "I am not my father."

Amari felt her chest tighten. She understood what he meant. The weight of the crown now rested on T'Challa's shoulders, a mantle he had not been prepared to take so soon. The differences between him and their father were stark in his mind. Where King T'Chaka had been the diplomat, the elder statesman, T'Challa was still searching for his path, still uncertain of how to carry the legacy that had been thrust upon him.

Natasha leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet but firm. "T'Challa, the task force will decide who brings in Barnes."

Before T'Challa could respond, Amari's voice cut through the tension, sharp with conviction. "Wakanda will be the one to bring accountability to this murder." Her eyes burned with determination, her body thrumming with the need for justice. Whoever had taken their father from them would not escape the consequences. And it would be Wakanda that delivered that justice.

T'Challa's expression darkened, his grief sharpening into something harder, something dangerous. His fist clenched at his side. "Don't bother, Miss Romanoff" he muttered, his voice low and edged with fury. "I'll kill him myself."

Without another word, he stood, his entire demeanor shifting as the quiet resolve of a king began to take shape. Shaking her head, Amari rose with him, matching his pace as he walked away from the bench. She could feel the fire burning inside her, the warrior within surging to the surface. This wasn't just about their father anymore—this was about Wakanda, about everything they had been raised to protect. Their legacy, their future, hung in the balance.

For Amari, nothing—no one—would stand in their way.

That's how she found herself back in the Wakandan jet, the quiet hum of the craft's systems the only sound as she changed into her Dora Milaje uniform once again. The familiar weight of her vibranium spear settled in her hand, the cold metal grounding her as they prepared for their next move. They weren't even in the air yet, but the warrior in her was already ready.

"I got something," T'Challa's voice broke the silence. He stood over the vibranium sand table in the middle of the jet, his eyes scanning the information displayed before him. "A sighting in Bucharest."

Amari raised an eyebrow, cautious hope flickering in her chest. "It's not like the other ones?" She didn't want to get her hopes up. Tracking a highly trained assassin was no easy feat.

T'Challa's gaze was sharp as he nodded. "Yes. The CIA validated it and is going for it."

Amari moved to the front of the aircraft and sat in the pilot's seat, her hands already moving over the controls with practiced ease. "Then we shouldn't waste time." Her voice was calm, but inside, the storm of grief and vengeance raged. 

She started the jet and set their course for Bucharest, to bring down the Man that took her father away.