War Torn || Civil War

Chapter Thirty: Emma

Music is "One More Light" by Linkin Park.

Picture is Marseille, France.

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Warning: This chapter includes sensitive subjects like death and suicide. Read with caution.

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CHAPTER THIRTY: Emma

{December 16, 1991 -- Twenty-Five Years Ago}

M A R S E I L L E

I've always felt at home in France. Of all the places I've lived, of all the people I've been, I've always felt a sense of calm in my father Aubert's hometown on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It could be that it's the place that he was born, Aubert Holmes, the father I never knew because the Great War took him too soon. It could also be that it's relatively remote and safe, a place I can go to sleep without thinking of HYDRA or SHIELD, the Red Room or Veraport. But the most likely possibility is that France is a connection to who I used to be, who I was before the War or America, Lady Liberty or Lady Justice. France is in my blood.

It's been nearly nine months since the Veraport incident in Manaus. Nine months since Peggy and I rescued Amelia Carter, the Manaus SHIELD team, and the prisoners being held by Yuri Somodorov. Nine months since I was experimented on and invaded against my own will. In the time between then and now, we've yet to find Yuri or his brother Ivan. They've both gone underground, vanishing off the face of the planet. I suppose that's for the best, but the girl Yuri took with him--along with the samples of my DNA--have yet to be found either. That part makes me uneasy.

The bags Amelia found, the ones with Steve and my samples inside, have been in the hands of Howard Stark for some time. While I don't know what he plans to do with them, I suspect it has something to do with the American government. I can't let that bother me now. For the first time since that day, since the Dugan's returned to Brooklyn and I moved to a new home, I feel a little peace. For once, I've pushed the fear of my uncertain future from my mind, of what will become of me after Rose, Dum Dum, Howard, Maria, and Peggy are gone.

Ahead of me sprawls all of Marseille. The vast blue waters of the Mediterranean, spotted with sail boats and islands, is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. To every side of me, white and cream-colored buildings spring up, covering the slopes and hills of the city. From the balcony of my condo, I can see everything from the Vieux Port and Fort Saint-Jean to the Notre Dame de la Garde and Saint Charles Station. The breeze smells of salt, and the sun is setting over the western horizon.

Everything is perfect, and as the last light of day reflects off the waters, a smile forms on my face.

For the first time in a very long time, I'm just Emma. Not a Holmes, nor a Barnes. Not a soldier, spy, or agent. Not Lady Liberty, nor Lady Justice. For the first time since 1945, I just feel like me.

Emma.

I turn from the sight ahead of me and walk back into the condo, closing the curtains behind me. From the refrigerator, I pull a bottle of pinot noir and pour myself a small glass. I eye the gun in the box on the counter, a safety measure I promised myself I'd keep in case of emergencies and nothing more. I curl up in bed with the wine and my old copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. On the inside cover, I run my fingers over one of Bucky's many notes that he left in this particular book over the years.

"I miss you, Doll. I'm here whenever you need me.

Your Bucky,
August 12th, 1944."