Joy ride (part1): Stealing

break

It's over..

M'Baku is unmoving behind him; a shadow cast over James; as big and menacing and still as the mountain he ruled. Yet, he is nothing —nothing! —in comparison to the raw fear; the crawling menace of getting caught in the act. Of revealing secrets he had only just known to keep. From her.

Shuri.

It's over..

James finds himself somewhere on the ground. That, at least, is the right place. The one right in so many wrongs. It's better to be down here, where he belongs. Safer; more honest then venturing up in the clouds, with her. Perhaps he'd fancied himself a modern Icarus, Trying to fly that high. Trying to be close to her; to. Up too high; measuring himself with the gods. Trying to hold and make love to the sun itself.

Shuri has left him burned to a crisp.

This is what he gets. Wings burned off and back down on the cold, hard pavement. Stone crumbling like mud in his palms.

And he'd tell her: 'it's not fair.' Tell her: 'It's not fair. You cannot relinquish me; you cannot cast me away because, recycling. It's a thing.'

It's a thing..

'They'll pull me from the garbage heap and put me back together again. All wrong, again. Make them theirs. And that's not good. That's not right. I'm yours; I'm yours.'

But his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth; teeth glued together. If there's any sound he's making it's a pathetic whine; like a dog out of breath. Or a beast, in pain, after receiving that killing blow. Defeated by the good knight —by M'Baku, but without even a glancing blow taken. Some dragon to defeat he turned out to be; wrought by his own words.

And what's that? There is one more sound: a scratching of metal on stone. An odd vibrating; shaking like a drill, digging into pavement. What is that? James redirects his gaze down, curious. But the eyes stare unseeing; unable to interpret the thing in front of them. He blinks, blinks again, and finally understands what he sees.

The arm malfunctions; it's the arm that shakes. And James can only keep staring down at it, confused. To the hole in the ground, where that black jewel has dug in, like jaws into pavement stone. Where it crunches and shakes beyond his control. And he'd tell her; He'd say: 'I didn't break it.' 'I couldn't have broken it.'

If words still worked for him.

But the shaking, it holds his attention, demands his gaze. An anomaly. An oddity. A fault: what should be a small one in the face of his world crumbling. A buoy in this beautiful dream ending. Yet with such vast implications James cannot drag his eyes away. Or perhaps James is just a coward; perhaps it's the relative safety of staring down to the ground he craves. Staring at his own arm, when up above gods are flaying him with burning eyes he cannot meet.

And yet.

James cannot remember any piece of him ever shaking without conscious effort. Least of all his left arm. Not even the old, metal one. With the perfect thing she crafted for him, it should be inconceivable. In an effort to fix this transgression; small as it is in comparison to his other failings, he covers the malfunction with his right, and blinks.

Again, 'I.. I didn't?', he'd say.'I couldn't.'

If words still existed.

But. but, it's worse. The right shakes as well. Left and right, together in some odd concert. Hands, always steady. Shaking like an old man having a bad trip. James stares down at his palms. If this all- if it all wasn't bad enough, is the body broken as well? The left is powerful, perfect. But artificial; and machines break. Always break. Needs maintenance, upgrades; improvement.

It's the flesh one; the biological hand that should be eternal. The right arm that should be the truly indestructible one. And yet now that too shakes like it's broken; shakes with the entire flesh body. The part of him that had always been like weed before: indestructible, unmarred and unchanging. And yet, now, that too has succumbed to pathetic tremors.

James tries one more time. He tries to tell her, he didn't. Didn't break any of it. James shakes his head; Doesn't understand. Malfunction? He'd tell her, but his jaws still don't work. His entire face; entire head, as useless and broken as the arms; the body. And, if there was any hope of her seeing, of her wanting back and forgiving. Of her knowing that under all that mess, he could be salvaged. That he could be fixed, if she'd just try again.. that hope is certainly gone now.

It tries to raise off it's knees, but all it does is fall down, and land on it's ass. Because it's garbage; broken; damaged refuge that should have been decommissioned a century ago, yet keeps going and going; put together by fools and dreamers and it's never even understood why..

And it can hear Shuri speak. It can hear her, see her lips move, but the words do not make sense. There is an answer, from the man. Voice like a cavern, still at his back. Slow and sad and cautious, and that makes no sense. But then, nothing has made sense in a long time.

Someone walks over; booted feet in gold and red. A woman, and she crouches down. A dangerous looking woman; and she scowls. It knows her. The name.. Okoye? Hard to think, and the eyes will not close. Will not blink. They stare at nothing, beyond its control. And then the floor lurches.

The scowling woman has him though. Lifts up the body as if it was nothing. If only he were nothing. If only James could disappear into the cracks. If only this time he could be a ghost, and not bound to this broken, useless corpse.

But it is pointless to try. "James," she calls.

Shuri calls; And he remembers that he is. He has a name now; he is a someone. One person, of all those jagged parts. With memories and past; and grateful though he is, that means this responsibility can no longer be dodged. He cannot leave, he cannot hope to put this on someone else. Not even on Bucky. James has proven, in his own pathetic way, that he is not a hair better. That he never was any better.

So, when Shuri calls he answers as well as he can: blinks and raises his head a little from Okoye's chest. He fears what he would see there. The end; certain and obvious.

But all he sees is a sad smile. No surprise; not shock. Shuri still takes his hand, and James relaxes to her touch. Cradled like a child in Okoye's arms, too tired to keep fighting, keep running. Why did he even try? He was never meant for paradise. But, Shuri is at his side; once again. Still at his side, for now.

People are talking. The heavy baritone of M'Baku. The steady surety of T'CHalla. More; many more. James wonders where they're going. Needs to know, if this responsibility is not one he can evade. Then, he sees it, up ahead, the palace of Wakanda; a promise of a destination.

Not yet the refuge heap.

The warning still lays heavy in his mind: 'He will have to leave.' M'Baku's words. And, James doesn't doubt them to be true. Once they enter, James knows they are going down, under the palace. Too low for his rooms. Too low even for the meeting rooms of usual labs. They head lower still; somewhere deep below the labs he has only been for cryo and surgery. But they are not making him leave. Not now; not yet. They will not just cast him aside. And James supposes that's the best he can hope for. Relieved and exhausted, when he wishes for it, this time, oblivion has mercy.