Played by the Enemy || Captain America || Book 2

Chapter 27: I'm Running On Spite, Fury And Redbull

Place your one shot requests right here! Any and all requests for my OCs from any of my books and the Marvel/DC comic characters themselves are welcome. Little ones though please, nothing too long. Just to help me get back into the swing of regular writing.

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"It was him."

For a fair while now, the choking silence of the drive had begun to drive me mad. Silence means no distractions, and no distractions means that I had reverted into all the little thoughts that I want nothing to do with and had squashed back into the nether regions of my mind for good reason. Since the infection – that's what I'm calling this post-Dark stone sickness I'm enduring – had begun exhibiting obvious symptoms, I've had these niggling feelings that it's been something to do with the Dark stone.

The Power stone, from what little Loki and Thanos have blabbed onto me about, is used to amplify the 'power' of the other Infinity stones. It's also quite capable of tampering with the powers and abilities of people who are unordinary in that respect, whether it is to amplify them or to remove them.

So yeah, practically that goddamn XCX machine from the first book in an omnipotent form.

My DNA is what made it possible for the Dark stone to grow inside of me, same as Adelaide. However, once Loki removed enough of my powers, the Dark stone no longer had stable DNA to latch onto; causing me to believe it had just disappeared. I should've known that it wouldn't just vanish, that my body still needed to excrete or expel it somehow. To cleanse it entirely from my system.

But these side effects, these blackouts, spewing black gunk, sudden bouts of nausea and sickness, weakened body and powers... all these symptoms could not have chosen a worse time to surface.

Fucking Murphy's Law.

Still rather tired and exhausted from having a building dropped on us, followed by being thrown out of a fast car on a high way, almost strangled to death by a metal armed super assassin, and how Bucky Barnes actually remembers me, I find myself leaning my head back against the inside of the van, a million and one thoughts screaming for attention inside my brain.

How does Bucky remember me? How long will this infection go on for? Are there more symptoms I've yet to experience? Because that whole fiasco was all new to me, though, I'm starting to believe that my acute vision in the dark has something to do with the Dark stone – it's not exactly rocket science to piece that together. And I made it snow. Snow. I've never made it properly snow. This has to be the all new strengthened abilities Loki mentioned, but I haven't even properly got my fire back yet, and somehow I can make it freakin' snow.

Steve's voice eventually offers a distraction from my rampant, throbbing thoughts. Between said undesired reflections and speculations, and the pain from the bruises encompassing my body, my bleeding left arm – courtesy of a narrowly avoided bullet – ringing ears from a grenade launcher, the repulsive taste and smell of bitter blood – partially a result from Brock's goon who slammed me across the face with his freakin' gun – and my pounding headache, a little distractive conversation wouldn't be minded right now.

One good thing is, I don't need to act dumb about the Winter Soldier anymore. Not only did I tell Steve I had encountered him once before – with his mask on, as far as my lie goes – but Steve even opened up about him upon our trip to the Smithsonian for the Captain America exhibition. And yet, upon the devoid, hollow, despondent words that fall from his lips, I can't find it in me to think of the right words to respond with. His eyes look like they're back in the 1940s.

"He looked right at me, like he didn't even know me." The crestfallen, baby blues that I've grown to adore don't even hold enough spirit in them to rise from where they stare at the floor, even when Sammy replies in disbelief.