In the Dead of the Night || Winter Soldier

Fifteen: Dead Language

Fun fact: This was originally going to be a DC fic, where Tori is actually sent to Arkham Asylum for claiming she can 'see dead people'. It was titled "The Dead Talk, The Insane Scream" and I was hell pumped about it. But then I fell down a Bucky Barnes hole and ended up creating this instead. I'm happier with the story I've developed for this over the DC one. More original.

~

There are a fair few routes that we could've chosen to take us to New Orleans, the quickest two, however, require us to drive through Atlanta. Having driven for a few hours, I thought it only fair to give Buck another rest and spend the day in the city.

Not because I haven't really been in a big American city before. Pfft, no. That would not be the reason at all. Not like I've ever wanted to go to a big American city, like LA, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington DC, or any of the others. Definitely not because of that. Nup.

.....

Okay fine. Yes, I want to see the big cities. I really hope I'm never interrogated, because my gosh I couldn't lie to save my own life. The brief stop does give me a chance to do some more research and figure out what could be behind this whole witch doctor debacle though. So, triple points!

Vivaciously cramming a hot dog into my mouth with one hand whilst holding Everest's and Lady's leashes with the other, I stare up at the never-ending skyscrapers in awe of their sheer immensity. Wakanda's big cities may be cleaner and more technologically advanced, but there's still something undeniably remarkable about the atmosphere of big cities elsewhere in the world. Despite a lot of them looking rather similar if you take away their landmarks, you can't take away the atmosphere created by the local people. An atmosphere you can only find by looking past the overwhelming gas and light pollution and random acts of crime, depending on the city.

Having left T'Challa with Bucky whilst he finds us a hotel, I idly remain on the semi-crowded street where he left me – more pointedly, told me – to wait on, the $50 still in my pocket and unspent. I'm supposed to be buying groceries from the store across the road, but then I saw a hot dog vendor!

The pinnacle of American street food. Doesn't taste as glorious as I thought it would be, but the experience more than makes up for it.

My nose crinkles, displeased, when I notice a bit of mustard staining my dark purple sweater after I finish the snack. Bringing the article of clothing closer to my face, I lick the affronting condiment right off of it. And you thought you could best me. Ha! I laugh in the face of obstacles and adversities!

"Miss Kingsley, isn't it?"

Oh darn.

Stiffly turning to face the source of the inquiry, with an expression I can only guess is akin to a deer caught in the headlights, I meet the stern, brown eyed gaze of an unknown man in a police uniform.

Double darn.

"That... would be... her?" My voice rises in pitch, an act of uncertainty. Pointing at Lady, a nervous ramble begins to pour from my mouth. "Because being like, my children, my dogs obviously take my last name, so Lady here is Miss Lady Kingsley. Is this about that dump she took on the street corner a few blocks back? Because I swear Mr Officer Sir I offered to take her to a public toilet but she didn't listen to me. Dogs, right?" I shake my head at the offending dog in disapproval. "I think you should just plead for life sentence in prison now, Lady. That way you might evade the death penalty. Is that how the American legal system works? I wouldn't know, I'm from Wakanda, well, technically Ireland, but also kinda Wakanda, both great countries—"