The Captain

20. December 4, 2016 (Steve)

I look at my phone screen.

December 4, 2016.

I can't believe it's already been six months.

My chest tightens. My throat closes up. The air in my lungs flees. Suddenly, I feel like I'm suffocating.

Bucky.

The first tear rolls down my face, and I wie it away with the back of my hand. Then I turn to the desk in front of me. I've spent the last several days locked in my apartment, and I've refused to let anyone in. I've disabled security camera access, locked everything twice, and even let T'Challa know that I'm not to be disturbed. I told him I'm taking a mental health break and that I want to be left alone for a while.

He understood — when Sam got out of the Raft, he refused to speak to any of us until he got ahold of Sam, and even then, he spent every waking moment at his side, nursing him back to health. It was adorable, and I wouldn't be surprised if the cat finally caught the canary.

But, back to my notes and books.

I take a breath, knowing I won't be able to keep my shit together unless I breathe, and then I let it go.

This better work.

I look at the carefully drafted procedure laid out in front of me on top of a mountainous stack of papers and notebooks.

Everything seems to be in order.

I've checked it dozens of times.

Nothing has changed except the actual machine and it's mechanics.

I glance at the doorway to the second bedroom in my palace apartment.

A giant structure waits beneath a white sheet, the product of my own hands and mind. It's solid steel, lined with lead, and built with extreme care.

    I move from the desk and go to the monolith. I pull the sheet off and let it fall to the floor at my feet.

    This is really happening.

     I press the red button on the front panel, and the machine comes alive, whirring and beeping softly, letting me know that it's powering up.

     I turn from the machine and go to the mini fridge next to the desk. I open the door and take out two trays of glass vials. I carry the trays to the machine, and I begin placing the vials in their proper slots on the machine, each vial matched with a specific port and a specific program.

    The machine chimes twice to let me know that is is ready to be programmed, and I finish placing all 200 vials before going back to the control panel.

     I open my laptop and hook it up to the machine, typing a line of code into the machine's programming.

     Here we go.

The monolith hisses as the seal between the two halves of the structure is broken and air enters the chamber within. The front of the structure opens slowly, like a door.

     I set the laptop on the floor, off to the side, away from the door of the monolithic structure, and then I shed my shirt and sweats, heaving me standing in just my boxers.

     I take a deep breath as I watch the program initiation countdown on the laptop screen, and then I step into the monolith's open chamber.

I do my best to steady my breathing and remain calm as I turn around and the door closes, leaving me inside of the machine.