The Liberty War || Infinity War & Endgame

Chapter Twenty-One: Farewell

Music is "Forget" by Marina and the Diamonds.

Picture is Grant Barnes.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Farewell

{September 11, 2001 -- Seventeen Years Ago}

N E W Y O R K

I drive to the Barnes' house in Brooklyn like my life depends on it. Because it does, but it's not just my life that hangs in the balance. It's the life of the little boy in the back seat. Time is of the essence. I have to grab what I need from the house, then head for the Canadian boarder. I have a contact in Saratoga Springs, a private pilot, who I can hire to take us across the national lines. By the time word gets out about who I am and who I have with me, it will be too late. By then, the little boy and I will be on a flight from Montreal to London.

I park the car parallel to the street, outside the house. Though slightly frazzled, I pick up the little boy from the back seat and carry him into the house. I put him in Marilyn's chair and turn on the small television. Once I have it set on morning cartoons, he zones out and sits still.

I take the stairs to the second floor two-by-two, knowing I have to take only what I can personally carry. There are so many memories in this house. This is the place I've lived in for decades, when I was in the country and living on my own. I pass the first door, Rose's old room, the second, Steve's bedroom, and the third, my old room. The fourth and final bedroom, the master bedroom, is my target.

The door opens quickly, and I don't spare another moment before shoving a spare pair of clothes into a suitcase on wheels. I don't pack more than a second pair of everything. Once we get to London, or to France after that, I'll throw them out anyway. A new home and identity means a new wardrobe. I won't waste valuable space on clothes.

My hands grab sentimental things first, things that can fit into a suitcase. A small plague of the SHIELD eagle for my work on getting it started in the 50s, a file of articles I wrote for The Daily Telegraph in the 90s, a tassel from my graduation cap after completing a degree in journalism in the 70s, a portfolio of ticket stubs and photographs from my decade of travel with the Dugans in the 80s. I shove multiple, thin photo albums from before the War on top, filling every available space with something else: framed pictures of my parents; wedding pictures of Rose and Dum Dum, Peggy and Daniel, and Howard and Maria; my favorite pictures of Steve and Bucky before the War.

I take out three, sealable plastic bags. Moving into the walk-in closet, I pull three pieces of clothing from a sealed, glass container at the very back. One is the light blue dress I wore in Lamia when I was married, the second is the traditional gown that I would have worn, and the last is the Lady Liberty uniform I spent most of the second World War in. Each of them has lasted the test of time, just like me. Once they go in the suitcase, I snap it closed and move on to the backpack.

In it, I shove my emergency stash of money--bills from America, England, and many other countries--a burner phone with Rose, Peggy, and a few other contacts inside, and my passport. In a pocket easily accessible, I put my .22 pistol and .44 glock, along with extra clips and rounds. My bowstaff, SHIELD badge, and a sheathed dagger go on top, being the easiest to grab. I'm not sure what kind of obstacles I'll face on the way out of the country, but one thing is for sure: I'm ready for anything.

Everything else is replaceable. I slip my backpack over my arms and grab the suitcase. The Korean boy is still watching cartoons where I left him. I grab a box of pop-tarts for the road, knowing we're both starving. With one hand on the handle of the suitcase and the other pulling the child into my arms, I give one last glance over the house my family's lived in for decades.