Broken Cages (MCU)✔️

Gilded Cage

I didn't exactly fall asleep, but I let my mind fall in and out of reality, drifting as I was transferred from a car to a plane. No comfort or clothing was offered, but the American named Barnes didn't reclaim his jacket. Eventually, my skin warmed, and I felt a dull buzz, masking the pain.

When the pain resurfaced, I reluctantly opened my eyes to the cargo hold of a plane. There were boxes and supplies strapped down. I had been placed across three chairs, and buckles dug into my sides. The American named Barnes was the only other person in the room.

He was sitting in my eyeshot, or I had likely been placed in his. He stared blankly ahead, his hands clasped, his feet wide.

Somehow, my body felt worse than before, as if I was still being punched, kicked, and held underwater. I was used to punishments. I understood pain, but I was not a punching bag. My throat felt raw, and every breath was a struggle. Bruises would grace my body, and scrapes had bloodied my clothes. At least I had fought back initially. My head throbbed from a headache, but my time submerged had spared it from more significant injuries.

I shuddered and forced my eyes to remain open, unwilling to visualize anything lurking behind my eyelids. I never wanted to go near a pool again.

I did not believe we had not been on the plane for too long, but my body was starting to feel sticky with fever and the sensation of a full bladder pressed against my pained stomach.

I did not want to talk to the American who had had a gun pressed to my head, but I was losing a battle. I pushed myself into a seating position, which caused my stomach to lurch. Luckily, I had already lost it in its entirety. The American looked up, observing me.

I glanced around the room, seeing the bright universal sign for a washroom—a glowing toilet.

I bent my elbows and knees, trying to push myself up off the chairs to make my way to the washroom without toppling over. I only hoped that I wouldn't be followed.

I was only followed with eyes.

–

Eight hours later, the plane touched down. My bleeding had ceased, and my clothes had finally dried, but I was still uncomfortable, barefoot, and clad only in an oversized jacket. The pain intensified, forcing me into a restless sleep, ignored by the plane's occupants.

Parts of my body had swelled and bruised quite nicely while the evening turned into day. I had dried my hair with a paper towel I had found in the washroom, so while it was dirty, it was dry and sitting on my head like a mop.

I thought of my father and mother, who surely would be looking for me now if they had been in the building during the attack. I didn't pay much attention to their comings and goings. The only time I was around either of them, it promised to be a bad day, so I took avoiding them to be my full-time job. This meant my days were spent in solitude.

When the plane touched the ground, I let out a shaky breath. I was far away from home, from my future. I shut my eyes, and a tear trailed down my cheek. An unwarranted sense of relief surged through me, quickly replaced by fear when Barnes grunted, causing my heart to race.

I may be away from my parents. But I was not safe. I was with people just as violent, whether they worked in organized crime or not.

What would their tactics be? Would they feign friendship and then betray me? Attempt bargaining or resort to torture? My father used these tactics to control those around him, including me.

I shuffled behind the American out of the plane and onto a tarmac. It was day, but nothing around me gave me any indication of where I was. The tarmac was surrounded by fields leading to forests, and the nearby buildings seemed more official than those in a crime organization. Shock coursed through me; I hadn't expected such cleanliness and order.