T'Chucky One Shots

{•4•}

T'Challa rips the backpack Barnes had been carrying around in two. What seems like hundreds of handwritten notes fly out, and after reading some of them, and looking into Barnes' horrified face, he doesn't want to fight him anymore. He can't.

They were fighting on the rooftop when the bullets began to rain down from the hellicarriers.

Barnes ducked out of the way, because he lacked any sort of armor, though T'Challa had gathered that a couple bullet holes wouldn't stop him anyway. He was a formidable opponent, and if circumstances were different, one which T'Challa would be proud to fight next to.

Unfortunately, those were not the circumstances.

T'Challa bolted after Barnes who was swinging down the rails of the parking garage stairway with a practiced ease. T'Challa could play that game too, and he followed after him quickly.

At this point, the fight was dragging on, with no clear end in sight and no sure winner. It seemed as though someone had unofficially made him the keeper of Sergeant Barnes(though he was sure Captain Rogers wouldn't be too happy about that). The two of them had been fighting on and off for days, and T'Challa could tell that he wasn't the only one growing weary.

Barnes ducked into an alley close by, and T'Challa was surprised to find that he was only an arms length away or so, and stretched his claws out, ripping the backpack he'd been carrying around in two.

The way Barnes froze was almost like the claws had punctured him, instead of missing his body completely. He turned around slowly, his face becoming one of the most pure looks of horror T'Challa had ever seen.

What seemed like hundreds of pieces of paper floated out of the torn bag, floating gently to the ground or taking flight in the gentle breeze. Writing covered the white sheets, different amounts on each.

The lost and almost frightened look on Barnes' face, one that he hadn't seen before caused T'Challa to retract his claws and bend to pick up a few pieces.

They were dated, with dates from the last few months. As his eyes read over the words, a sick feeling overtook T'Challa. Barnes stood in front of him, frozen, like someone was pulling on his strings to keep him in place.

The older the notes, the more mechanical the handwriting was, like the practice letters in books that they used to teach little children how to write. These were also the shortest notes, the ones with the least detail.

I think I had a sister. I don't remember her name but I can sometimes see her face.

Someone tortured me. Before, a long time ago. I think an angel saved me.

Double dates at dance halls.

I don't remember my father. I don't know what that means.

One simply read: Steve.

The newer the notes, the ones written most recently lost a bit of their mechanical handwriting. They looked more human. But they were the longest, more detailed and held more horrors.

I didn't want the boys to suffer. So I fought and they left them and took me. They strapped me to the table but I didn't say nothin. Not when they cut into me and played with my insides, not when they stuck me with needles. I remember fading in and out of consciousness, I don't remember how long I was there, but I knew that something was wrong. I was healing from the incisions much too fast. Too fast. Name, rank, serial number. And Steve. That's all I knew.

We were twelve, maybe thirteen. Steve was sick again, and Sarah couldn't afford the hospital that she worked in. I picked up his homework from school, and bought him an ice cream with the change I'd been saving up to buy something for someone. I hurried to Steve's and thrust the ice cream in his direction before it could melt. His smile was like the sun.