Chapter 11: The Apocalypse (Part 2)
It had been a long night. A long night of Natasha
relaying to Bucky why she couldn't spend the night at the compound. After what
had happened in the library, Nat bolted, creating as much distance between you
two as possible. Her usual fearless stoicism abandoned her as she practically
ran through the compound's halls, her urgent footsteps turning heads along the
way. And as soon as the team returned from their mission, without waiting for
their debrief to conclude, she ran straight to Bucky's apartment, white-knuckling
the steering wheel the entire drive.
When Bucky opened the door, he raked his eyes over
his girlfriend, and immediately knew something was wrong. The Black Widow,
master spy and assassin, looked... rattled. Her crimson red hair was windswept,
her eyes wide with an emotion he rarely saw in them—fear. Natasha wasn't one to
overreact, nor was she one to scare easily. This was the woman who had stared
down gods and monsters without flinching, who had faced apocalyptic battles with
a smirk and a half-loaded gun. But that night, as she stood in his doorway, she
seemed uncharacteristically vulnerable. The sight alone had sent a chill down
his spine.
Natasha sat on the edge of Bucky's bed, her soft
cotton robe hanging loosely around her shoulders. She stared blankly at the
worn hardwood, her face etched with an anxiety that felt foreign to her usually
indifferent demeanour.
Bucky watched her carefully, straddling a chair
backwards, his metal arm resting on the chair's back.
"Nat..." his voice was soft, careful.
"What happened last night?"
She swallowed hard, barely able to lift her gaze to
meet his. "I think… I think I had a vision last night. I think Y/N gave me
a vision. It was like flashes, burned into my mind."
Bucky shifted closer, concern darkening his
expression. "A vision, babe? What do you mean Y/N gave you a vision?"
Nat shook her head, almost in disbelief. "I
don't know how to explain it. One moment, I was listening to her ramble, and
then... It was like being pulled into someone else's nightmare. Except it
didn't feel like a nightmare. It felt like..."
"Like what?" Bucky prompted.
"Like… like a prophecy." Her voice dropped
to a whisper. "I saw the end of everything. Us, the world, the universe
itself being torn apart." She met his gaze, her green eyes haunted.
"Someone's going to destroy it all..."
“And you think this someone is Y/N? Could it be
someone else? Anyone else?"
"No!" The vehemence in her voice surprised
them both. "There's something about that girl, Buck. She gets inside you,
like she's twisting things in your head. I thought maybe I was being paranoid,
but... now? I don't trust her around us. She's dangerous. I felt it."
He sighed, standing to his feet to close the
distance between them. His hands slipped around her waist, cool metal and warm
flesh converging as he gazed down at her.
"Nat, sweetheart, I get it. More than you know.
That feeling of having someone mess with your mind. I mean, let's be honest, it
wouldn't be the first time someone was weaponised against us… But if you think
I’m going to allow a little amnesiac to hurt you…"
A hint of her usual sardonic smile quirked at the
corner of her mouth. "Yeah? What're you going to do?"
"Well, for starters, stay alert. If something's
off, we're the first line of defence."
Natasha shook her head, her voice barely audible.
The tremor in her tone was unlike anything Bucky had ever heard from her
before. "I can't shake this feeling. Like she's already in here..." she
tapped her temple, her fingers slightly shaking, "...messing with my mind.
And if she can do that to me, what about the rest of us? How long before she
does it to you?"
Bucky lifted a hand, his metal fingers surprisingly
gentle as they caressed her cheek. "Then we keep each other grounded.
Whatever she is, whatever power she has… if she has any powers… she's
not getting past us. I've got you, Nat. We watch each other's backs. Always
have, always will."
Nat nodded, letting herself lean into Bucky's
embrace, though her unease remained. Sensing her tension, Bucky leaned down,
capturing her lips with his. A gesture of reassurance and of promise.
The kiss was soft, but beneath it ran a silent
declaration that whatever was coming, they would face it together. It had taken
him forever to finally make a move and ask her out. He wasn’t about to
let some strange girl, literally from the street, ruin things just when it
started getting good. Even if, secretly, he had a bit of a soft spot for you.
After Nat had unceremoniously bolted, your gaze
swept across the expansive library, a sanctuary of knowledge waiting to be
explored.
You began browsing the shelves, running your fingers
along leather-bound spines. Some books looked decades old, others pristine and barely
touched. An eclectic collection of varied interests—scientific journals nestled
beside classic literature, quantum physics texts sitting comfortably next to
philosophical dissertations.
Among the stack, one author caught your eye: Dr Elon
Leekie. His books stood out, not just for their number, but for the intriguing
titles you simply couldn’t pass up. "Mutalution: The Evolution of the
Human Organism" was your first selection, its enticing title promising
impossible insights.
Dr Leekie, you would learn, was no ordinary
scientist. A provocative South African "pop scientist" who straddled
the line between academic research and public spectacle, he had built a
reputation for challenging conventional understanding of human potential. His
works suggested humanity was on the cusp of a radical evolutionary leap—not
through natural selection, but through deliberate, scientific intervention.
Delving deeper, you discovered that Dr Leekie was also
the visionary founder of MutaTech, a cutting-edge biotech company that
had taken the world by storm. Specialising in mutant evolution and
mutant-driven technology, MutaTech's mission was as bold as its founder: to
harness the unique abilities of mutants to drive humanity into its next stage
of evolution. From groundbreaking medical therapies derived from mutant biology,
to advanced technologies inspired by their powers, MutaTech operated at the
bleeding edge of innovation.
His publications read like manifesto and scientific
speculation intertwined. Genetic manipulation wasn't just possible in Leekie's
world, it was inevitable. Humanity's next stage of development would be
engineered, not discovered.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
Later that evening, after the Avengers had returned,
Bruce's lanky frame filled the doorway. His eyes scanned the stack of books
beside you, lingering on the Leekie volume in your hands.
"Mutalution," he read aloud, a hint of surprise
in his voice. "Not many people dive into Leekie's more controversial
works."
You watched him carefully. "You're familiar
with his work?"
Bruce chuckled, a soft, knowing sound.
"Familiar? More like professionally fascinated. Do you… understand any of
what you’re reading there?"
You glanced down at the complex diagrams, your
response forming before you could question it. "The cellular regeneration
patterns here... they're not just theoretical. They're based on actual case
studies from MutaTech's beta trials, aren't they?"
Bruce's eyebrows shot up. He pulled up a chair,
leaning closer. "I… I don’t know. No one knows for sure. Of course,
there’ve been rumours, but nothing concrete."
"Look at this sequence here…" You flipped
to a page marked with detailed molecular structures. "These are targeted
adaptations, designed to interface with existing human genetic
structures."
Bruce removed his glasses. "Y/N… Most people
see those as abstract concepts. You're reading them like sheet music."
You ignored Bruce’s comment, flipping over to the
back of the book. “And then this… How they've managed to stabilise the
integration process... Traditional gene therapy has a rejection rate of nearly
40%, but these patterns suggest..." You trailed off, now aware of Bruce's
intense scrutiny.
You swallowed hard. "I shouldn't know any of
this, should I?"
Bruce's expression softened, utterly fascinated by
your knowledge. “Well, perhaps you were a science major in your previous life.
A protégé. In which case, yeah, of course you’re going to know about all this.
There’s a reason for everything, Y/N. We just need to piece them together.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
In your dream, double helixes twisted like serpents,
chromosomes mutating before your very eyes. You were standing before multiple
screens. Each monitor displayed a different genetic sequence—your
genetic sequence. Your hands moved across holographic interfaces, adjusting,
tweaking, perfecting.
“Subject demonstrates remarkable adaptability at the
molecular level,” you heard
yourself narrating. “Cellular reconstruction occurring at unprecedented
rates...”
But something tugged at your consciousness. Not a
sound, not a movement, simply an awareness that transcended ordinary senses.
Your eyes snapped open.
The silhouette across the room was immediately
familiar. That impeccable suit, the slight tilt of his head that somehow
managed to convey both authority and gentle concern. Your racing heart settled
instantaneously.
"Director Coulson!” You cleared your throat. “What
can I do for you?"
He stepped into the soft light, a half-smile warming
his features. "Just checking in. Noticed the hallway light was still
on." His eyes swept over the scattered books, lingering on the open volume
that had slipped from your lap. "Light reading?"
There was something in his voice—not quite worry,
but a protective edge that had become increasingly familiar. The way he looked
at you sometimes, like he was seeing ghosts of his own past, tugged at your
heartstrings.
"I was just..." you gestured vaguely at
the books, suddenly self-conscious about the complex diagrams visible on the
open pages.
Coulson moved closer. His movements were casual
enough, but you could see the careful assessment in his eyes. The same look
he'd worn when they'd first found you, cautious yet concerned. "You’re having
trouble sleeping again."
It wasn’t a question, it was an observation. Though lacking
the clinical detachment of the countless doctors and scientists who'd examined
you before. Perhaps the way an attentive father might observe.
You sat up, marking your place in Leekie's text.
"I keep thinking if I read enough, something will click. Some memory
will..." You made a ‘mind-blown’ gesture with both hands.
"You know, when she was younger, my daughter
used to fall asleep reading just like that. Usually with a flashlight under the
covers, thinking I wouldn't notice."
Again, the warmth in his voice made something in
your chest ache. "Did it work? The not noticing part?"
"Never." His smile turned wistful.
"But sometimes pretending not to notice is its own sort of kindness."
He picked up one of your scattered notes, studying the complex diagrams you'd
drawn. "Speaking of noticing things... Banner mentioned your conversation
earlier."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Trouble? No, no, no," he said softly,
setting the paper down. "But I am concerned. About you pushing yourself
too hard. Sometimes answers come when we stop looking so desperately for
them."
"I just..." You looked down at your hands,
remembering how they had moved with such confidence across imagined molecular
structures in your dream. "I feel like I'm so close to understanding
something important. Something about myself."
"Just promise me you'll be careful. Some doors,
once opened, can't be closed again."
You studied Coulson's face, noting the slight
downward pull at the corners of his mouth, the tightness around his eyes. Your stomach
clenched. You'd seen that look before.
"There's something else, isn't there?"
He shifted his weight from one foot to another, his
composure cracking almost imperceptibly. "Y/N, I don't think you realise
just how serious your situation is."
"My situation?"
"You've no identity, no family to claim you,
and you're failing your psych evaluations."
Your heart skipped a beat. "I'm failing them?
How can I be failing them?"
The words came out innocent, but your mind flashed
to your session with Dr Glueck. The way her face paled at your knowledge of
Rorschach tests and your… colourful, long-winded answer to her simple, “What
are some of your immediate needs?”
"According to the assessment, you pose a threat
to yourself and to those around you. It's not looking good for you, kid. If you
keep this up, you'll be sent to the Raft."
The air left your lungs in a rush. The Raft. You’d
heard about it in passing conversation. An underwater prison created for the
sole purpose of detaining and incarcerating enhanced individuals.
"Phil," you whispered, using his first
name for the first time, "they can't. I haven't done anything wrong."
His expression softened with pain. "Sometimes
it's not about what you've done. It's about what you might do." He
gestured to the books surrounding you, the complex notes scattered across your
bed. "These aren't the scribblings of someone with complete memory loss,
Y/N. They're the work of someone who knows things they shouldn't. Dangerous
things."
You could feel your pulse thundering in your ears,
could sense the weight of surveillance cameras watching from corners, could
almost taste the salt of ocean water closing over your head.
“But,” Coulson continued, tossing something onto
your bed, “much like my predecessor, I always have a contingency plan…”
You glanced between Coulson and the tossed item
warily, picking up the small plastic card and holding it between your fingers.
The glossy S.H.I.E.L.D. ID caught the hallway light, your photo staring back at
you—a face you were still getting used to seeing in mirrors. Below it, printed
with undeniable authority: your name, followed by 'Consultant'.
"I don't..." Your voice faltered as you
traced the laminated surface. "Is this even legal?"
Coulson's eyes twinkled with that particular spark
that made you suspect he rather enjoyed operating in grey areas. "Let's
just say I learned from the best. Nick Fury had a talent for keeping valuable
assets close, even when protocol suggested otherwise."
You looked up sharply. "Is that what I am? An
asset?"
"What you are, is someone who needs protection.
And sometimes the best way to protect someone is to keep them inside the
system rather than at its mercy."
The ID card felt strange against your palm. It
wasn’t just plastic and credentials, but a lifeline. A shield against whatever
was out there.
"The others won't like this," you
murmured, already imagining the bureaucratic storm this would stir up.
"The others," Coulson replied with a
slight smirk, "have more pressing matters than questioning my staffing
choices. Besides," he stood, straightening his tie, "they might find
your... unique insights valuable. Assuming those insights are properly channelled."
The meaning was clear. Protection came with
expectations. Play by the rules, keep the strange knowledge under control, make
yourself useful rather than threatening.
You caught his sleeve as he turned to leave.
"Phil…? Thank you."
“Don’t thank me just yet. Fury's contingency plans
had a way of always working out for the best. Let's hope mine do too."
Thank you so much for reading! 🙏 Your support means the world to me, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please show some love by liking the video and leaving a comment with your thoughts… 🎥💖
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