static | BUCKY BARNES

8

"'iinah yaemal?"

"aintazar."

A sharp pain pulses through her head. Her teeth grind against the mouth guard as she lets out a muffled cry.

"nem fielaan."

"limadha lm tamt?"

"'iinah jindayna aljadid."

The pain fades into a dull throbbing at the back of her brain, the feeling of someone squeezing it making her head spin. She attempts to open her eyes to slits, but the bright light causes her to squeeze them shut.

"ma hu asmuha?"

Her eye lids are suddenly spread apart, the blinding light piercing through her sensitive eyes. Tears run down her temples.

A face moves and blocks the light. In one hand is a sleek black remote with multiple buttons. His lips spread menacingly, revealing yellowing teeth. And his eyes—his little beauty eyes hiding behind his spectacles—cut deep within her like he knows all the world's secrets.

"Static."

Sparrow's eyes snap open. Her breathing falters and gets caught in her throat as she sits up, a hand over her heaving chest. Her black hair sticks to her glistening forehead.

She frantically scans her bedroom, her mind whirring, and feels a slow-growing flood of relief as she realizes the man in her dream isn't there. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Once her breathing evens and she doesn't feel like her heart is about to explode, she peels the covers off her torso and legs and tiptoes over to her bedroom door. It creaks open as she twists the doorknob and pushes against it. She closes it behind her.

Her metal feet are louder than she would like as she makes her way to the kitchen. Even though the tower is almost completely dark, Sparrow doesn't have to turn on any lights to see. She walks around the table and counters before taking a seat on a barstool. She just sits there in the silence for a while.

A distant mechanical sound reaches her ears, which she assumes is just Tony working late in his work shop. He does that from time to time—staying up all night working on new projects or fixing old ones, even if it means irritating his fiancé Pepper.

Sparrow spots her reflection of her shoulders and above in the microwave. The hair on her head is disheveled and looks like it hasn't been combed in years. She runs her fingers through it, but stops as soon as she starts. The cool metal weaving through her tangles feels unnatural and wrong. She brings her hands in front of her and stares at them. She lets her mind wander back to the dream she just experienced.

She doesn't even know what language the voices were speaking in. She doesn't even know who they belonged to, or if the dream was consolatory a fragment of her imagination. But it couldn't have been, right? It sounded like they were speaking in a real language and it felt so real; the pain felt real, too. She can still feel the remains of a headache at the back of her head.

Raising a hand, Sparrow reaches back and feels around the back of her head. Her metal fingertips run over her scalp until they touch a raised line of skin. She furrows her brow and follows the line up an inch or two. She trails back over it a few times, wandering what gave her the scar and if it has anything to do with her peculiar dream.