Resilience | ✔

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Wakanda was . . . fantastic.

The king, T'Challa, was incredibly nice, and his little sister Shuri was dope. She was a few years younger than Beck and about ten hundred years smarter. She'd already made three prototypes for Bucky's arm, and they'd only been there for a day. (After completing each arm, she'd tossed them out and vowed to do better.) The Dora Milaje had promised to teach Beck some sweet new moves; the food was on a whole new level of delicious; the air and water were purer than she'd ever experienced. She could stay here forever.

"I could stay here forever," she said to Steve.

"Don't get wed to it, we won't be here for long."

Beck met Natasha's eyes and sighed.

The three of them and Sam sat on the balcony of the guest chambers in the king's palace, taking in the sunrise over Wakandan breakfast. Steve was drawing; Natasha was reading something on a very advanced-looking tablet; Sam was cleaning his guns. Beck was watching the sunrise like a normal human being. And worrying.

"Any word on Marley?" she asked Natasha.

The Russian shook her head.

Beck twisted her hands in her lap. That was the one thing she didn't like about their situation. She agreed with Steve when it came to the Sokovia Accords and everything that had followed. She'd felt bad for turning on Stark when he had been so hospitable to her, and taken in her best friend so nicely, but . . . that faded when he started being an ass. Who the hell thought it was a good idea for the government to control the superheroes? There was a reason they weren't in the military. And all the governments in the world controlling them? Jesus. Earth would be blown up in a week, and she couldn't understand how Stark couldn't see that.

But she did feel guilty for betraying Marley.

Marley, who had been missing for months. Marley, who Steve and Natasha had told Beck was dead, because no one would keep someone alive for so long with no ransom note. Marley, who Beck did not think was dead, who Beck refused to think was dead, who Beck refused to give up on. Because while there was no doubt in her mind that Marley was going to get killed instead of dying by natural causes – while there was no doubt in her mind about that, she wouldn't allow Marley to be dead yet. Not when she was fucking fifteen years old. Not stolen from some fucking parking garage. It wasn't right. It – it didn't work. She couldn't be killed so . . . unimpressively. When she died she was going to make it big and melodramatic and Beck just refused.

She'd looked. She'd looked and looked and looked for Marley, until it was just her and Stark and Steve and Wanda and Natasha, until it was just her and Stark and Steve, until it was just her and Stark. Scouring every possible corner of the city, of the country, of the world. She'd thought they were close, that they had to be close, and then the whole shit with the Sokovia Accords happened, and now she and Steve and Sam and Natasha were war criminals.

She stopped twisting her hands and rubbed her face instead. She missed her best friend. Her only friend. She didn't regret the choices she'd made, the choices that had led her here, but . . . she missed Marley.

"Beck?" Natasha said suddenly.

The warning alone in the spy's voice had Beck sitting up straight and tense all over. "What is it?"

"Pepper Potts just released a statement," Natasha said. There were tears in her eyes. Beck shook her head. No, no, no. Marley wasn't dead, Marley couldn't be dead—

Natasha said, "Marley's alive."