Chapter 3: The Package (Part 2)

The screech of tires against asphalt cut through the evening air as Bucky commandeered an abandoned Harley, its owner still arguing with a police officer over a parking violation. His Vibranium arm glinted as he kick-started the engine.
 
"Ross, bomb squad's clearing civilians. They're moving fast but–" He swerved around a news van, accelerating between lanes. "Times Square on a Friday night? It's like herding cats."
 
Ross gritted his teeth in frustration, silently cursing all tourists. "Just get there as fast as you can," his voice crackled through the earpiece.
 
In the background, Bucky could hear the whir of S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter engines growing louder. No doubt his teammates, probably Steve and Natasha, racing to get to the scene.
 
Meanwhile, inside the duffel bag, sound reached you as if you were underwater. Muffled sirens. The thunder of helicopter blades. Fragments of urgent voices: "...clear the area... everyone back..."
 
Your fingers twitched as sensation slowly crept back into your limbs, a familiar pins-and-needles prickle. It was a minor victory, but enough to spark a flicker of hope through the haze clouding your mind. Starting at your fingertips and toes, crawling agonisingly up your arms and legs, each heartbeat fought to push the drug’s hold back, inch by inch.
 
Your jaw unclenched. Then your neck. But with returning sensation came awareness of new things: the ache in your muscles from being cramped in the bag, the burning throb of the tattoo on your back, the desperate need for water.
 
Beyond the canvas walls of your prison, boots thudded against concrete. Radio static... Hurried footsteps... The emotions of the crowd shifted from curiosity to fear… Then it hit you. A tidal wave of fear so intense it made your newly-awakened nerve endings scream. Raw terror crashed over you from all directions: the skittering panic of fleeing tourists, the sharp anxiety of police officers, and most prominently, a single concentrated beam of dread approaching with cautious steps.
 
“Please don't explode. Please don't explode. Think about Rachel’s recital tomorrow. Focus. Breathe. Just like training.”
 
The foreign thoughts pierced your consciousness, clear as a bell. No, they weren’t thoughts. They were more like feelings. You felt the racing heart as if it were your own, tasted the copper of fear in his mouth, sensed the trembling of his hands. The heavy rustle of his bomb suit seemed to echo in your own ears.
 
"Approaching target," the bomb squad officer whispered into his radio, each word carrying the weight of possibly being his last. Through his eyes (somehow you were seeing through his eyes) the grey duffel bag sat innocent yet deadly in the growing empty space of the evacuated area. "Three meters out."
 
His fear wrapped around you like a straitjacket, compressing your chest until each breath came in shallow gasps. You wanted to scream, to tell him you weren't a bomb, but your throat wouldn't cooperate. Instead, you absorbed wave after wave of his terror.
 
“Rachel’s tenth birthday is next week… God, please let this be a false alarm.”
 
Two meters now. The shuffle of his suit grew louder.
 
“Check for wires. Check for triggers. Standard procedure. Just like training.”
 
The intensity of his fear made the returning sensation in your limbs feel like electricity, every nerve ending firing at once. Your fingers spasmed against the canvas as his dread became your dread, his racing pulse synchronised with yours until you couldn't tell where his panic ended and yours began.
 
One meter.
 
“Our Father, who art in heaven...”
 
The bomb squad officer's prayer echoed in your mind as he knelt to the ground, and with a trembling hand, encased in thick protective gear, reached for the bag.
 
Bucky stood at the edge of the evacuation line, tracking the officer's every movement. Around him, a combination of NYPD and federal agents maintained the perimeter, their radios creating a symphony of static and clipped updates. But his focus remained unwavering.
 
"How far are you guys?" he asked, eyes nearly widened to not miss a beat.
 
The thrum of the helicopter’s engines filtered through his earpiece, along with the distinct sound of Steve checking his tactical gear.
 
"We're seconds away, Buck." Wind whipped through the open door, nearly drowning out Steve's voice. "No matter what, don't let them seize anything. Whatever's in that bag comes to us. Not the feds, not the DEA, no one!"
 
Bucky's eyes narrowed as a cluster of suits appeared at the opposite barrier—federal agents, their earpieces and ravenous expressions revealing them clearly. One was already on his phone, gesturing animatedly. Three unmarked black SUVs idled nearby, their engines running.
 
"They're already circling," Bucky muttered, tracking a DEA agent who was trying to ease closer to the scene. "Like vultures at a crash site."
 
“That package is–" The rest of Steve’s sentence was lost in the roar of the chopper’s descent.
 
Inside the bag, your muscles screamed for release. Each heartbeat pumped more strength back into your limbs, more urgency into your movements. Your fingers, clumsy but determined, found the cold metal of the zipper from the inside. The texture was sharp, real. The first clear sensation since you'd been drugged—aside from the tattoos, of course.
 
The zipper shrieked against its teeth as you clawed it open. The bomb squad officer's terror slammed into you like a physical blow. Pure, primal fear that tasted like metal in your mouth. He stumbled backward, his boots scraping concrete, prayer mixing with panic in his thoughts.
 
"Oh, dear God, please..."
 
The bag shifted with your movement. Light knifed through the widening gap, harsh and brilliant after the canvas darkness. Beyond the perimeter, Bucky's breathing hitched.
 
"Holy shit!"
 
Your fingers, pale and trembling, emerged first, then your arm, pushing the zipper further along its track. The officer's gun cleared its holster with a metallic snap. You felt the weight of it in his shaking hands as if you were holding it yourself, felt his finger trembling against the trigger.
 
"Oh, God..." The words tumbled from his mouth as you emerged from the bag, his weapon trained on you. "Th– there's someone in the bag!"
 
The declaration echoed across the empty square, across dozens of radios, up to the descending chopper. You squinted against the sudden brightness, every sensation overwhelming… the concrete beneath your palms, the spotlights on your face, the cool air on your naked body, the chorus of shocked minds all focused on you at once. The bomb squad officer's fear still pounded through your consciousness, but now it mixed with others: surprise, confusion, curiosity.
 
A fever dream. That's what this had to be. The tattoo burning into your back, the flood of foreign emotions, the guns trained on you… Your mind grasped at the explanation like a lifeline. Any second now, you'd wake up in your own bed, laughing at your overactive imagination.
 
But fever dreams didn't come with muscle cramps that shot fire through your calves as you untangled yourself from the canvas prison. They didn't include the bite of cold concrete against your bare feet, or the harsh glare of the spotlights that made your eyes water after the darkness of the bag. And they certainly didn't come with the overwhelming wave of inexplicable feelings crashing against your consciousness.
 
Your legs shook as you straightened, arms wrapped desperately around your torso. Exposed to the world, you fought the urge to curl into yourself and disappear. Hundreds of eyes watched from behind barriers and windows, from helicopters and tactical positions. Camera phones flashed from distant buildings like predatory eyes. You could feel the fascination and horror radiating from the crowd.
 
"Put your hands on your head!" The bomb squad officer yelled, sounding more fearful than authoritative. "And get down on the ground! Now!"
 
Your cheeks burned. Modesty screamed at you to curl inward, to hide, to protect what little dignity remained. But the officer's finger trembled against his trigger. Without even realising it, you felt his fear, his uncertainty, the way his training warred with his confusion at finding a person instead of a bomb.
 
"I said get down!"
 
Behind the police line, raised voices fought for control of the situation.
 
"This falls under homeland security jurisdiction–"
 
"Like hell it does. This has S.H.I.E.L.D. written all over it–"
 
"The FBI has jurisdiction in cases of domestic terrorism–"
 
The arguing continued as you trembled. Dignity stripped away along with everything else. Through the frenzy of shouting and radio chatter, you think you caught the gist of their feelings: suspicion, fear, calculation. Each agency seeing you as an asset to claim, a threat to contain, a puzzle to solve.
 
Then, through the chaos, a single figure broke away from the crowd. Bucky moved with determined strides toward you, shrugging off attempts to stop him. You felt no threat from him, only a deep well of compassion and understanding that cut through the noise of other minds like a blade.
 
In one fluid motion, he pulled a blanket from the back of a nearby ambulance. The other agencies fell silent, weapons still trained, as he approached with slow, non-threatening movements.
 
"It's alright," he said softly, his voice carrying easily across the tense silence. With gentle hands, he draped the blanket around your shoulders, shielding you from the prying eyes and camera lenses. "No one's going to hurt you."
 
The warmth of the blanket was nothing compared to the kindness in that simple gesture. The first person to see you as human rather than a threat or asset.
 

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