Time...

     What was it, really? To me, it felt like nothing more than a construct—a cruel illusion that passed for others but seemed to stretch endlessly for me. Life flowed around me, fleeting and fragile, while I remained, watching as the people I loved and cherished grew old, withered, and eventually passed away. Friends, lovers, allies—all gone, their lives extinguished like candles in a gale.

But my journey had to continue. My purpose demanded it. I lived for something greater: protecting those who couldn't protect themselves, standing between the innocent and the harm that sought to claim them. Every death weighed heavy on my soul, each loss carving a new scar in my being. Yet, for every life lost, there were lives saved, faces that reminded me why I endured. It balanced the scales—good and bad, light and darkness.

I've seen more in my lifetime than most could imagine, more than anyone should have to bear. I've stared death in the face and dared it to take me. I've fought in wars that reshaped the world, stood amidst the chaos, and emerged unbroken. I've married royalty, loved deeply and passionately—more than once—and not always with men.

I've fought for the rights of the voiceless and the oppressed. I marched in silent defiance for women's rights, stood firm for Black rights, and supported countless other causes. I was always in the background, shrouded in the shadows, silently fighting battles that history would never record. They say the quiet ones are the deadliest, and in my case, they couldn't be more right. 

Time... It may pass for others, but for me, it's both a curse and a constant. My story stretches across its endless expanse, woven with loss, triumph, love, and pain. And through it all, I keep moving forward.

I strolled the streets of Brooklyn, New York, 1943. The rhythmic click of my heels against the stone pavement was almost hypnotic, accompanied by the occasional rustle of my grey dress as the breeze caught its hem, which stopped modestly at my knees. Fashion had evolved significantly over the centuries, and I had made it a point to keep up, always adapting to the trends that swept across the world.

The bustling street hummed with life, yet my senses remained sharp, attuned to every detail around me. As I walked further, the sounds of struggle broke through the ambient noise—a grunt, followed by the unmistakable crash of something heavy hitting metal. The commotion drew my attention to the left.

I turned on my heel and found myself looking into a narrow alleyway. Metal stairs zigzagged upward on one side, leading to an unknown destination. Further down, two figures stood locked in confrontation.

The larger of the two—a towering brute of a man—loomed menacingly over a smaller figure who struggled to stay on his feet. I watched as the giant ripped a trash can lid out of the smaller man's desperate grasp and flung it aside with a loud clatter. Without hesitation, the bigger man threw another punch, the sickening thud echoing down the alley.

My breath hitched, my hands clenching into fists as instinct began to take over. This wasn't the kind of scene I could simply walk away from.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you?" the bully taunted, his voice dripping with disdain as he towered over his battered opponent. The smaller man, bruised but unwavering, refused to back down, his resolve as unyielding as steel.

"I can do this all day," came the defiant reply, his voice clear and steady despite the punishment he'd endured. The words rang out, reaching my ears even from where I stood just out of sight around the corner. His determination struck a chord deep within me, but watching wasn't an option—I had to step in.

I edged closer, my gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before me. The smaller man, with his short blonde hair matted from sweat and grime, swung his fist in a desperate attempt to fight back. His punch was swift, but the towering bully easily intercepted it, his larger hand blocking the strike with minimal effort.

Before the blonde could recover, the bully delivered a brutal right hook. The force of the blow spun the smaller man around, sending him crashing to the ground. His body hit the pavement with a dull thud, his face scraping against the cold metal of a nearby trash can.

The scene churned my blood, igniting a fire within me. It was time to put an end to this.

"Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" I called out, my voice cutting through the tense air with unwavering strength. I stood just a few feet behind the bully now, my stance firm and unyielding.

He turned sharply at the sound of my voice, his movements deliberate as he faced me. His gaze locked onto mine, and for a brief moment, surprise flickered across his face. But it was quickly replaced with a cocky smirk, one so infuriatingly smug that it made my blood boil. He thought he had the upper hand—how wrong he was.

"This doesn't concern you," he spat, his smug smirk still firmly in place.

"Actually, it does," I shot back, stepping between him and the blonde guy who was struggling to stand. I locked eyes with the bully, my stance unwavering. "Throw another punch, and you'll regret it," I warned, my voice cold and dripping with intent. My words hung in the air, but instead of backing down, he let out a derisive snicker.

With an air of overconfidence, he strode forward and grabbed my arm roughly, yanking as if to pull me out of the way. But I didn't budge. His smirk faltered into a frown as he realized I wasn't moving—no matter how much strength he exerted. The harder he pulled, the more his frustration grew.

I couldn't help but smirk, a contrast to his now-confused expression. I wasn't even trying, yet he couldn't move me. In a swift, deliberate motion, I drove the palm of my free hand into his chest with considerable force. The impact sent him stumbling backwards, his body slamming into the brick wall behind him with a dull thud.

His eyes widened in shock, and his bravado momentarily shattered. He stood there, catching his breath, before shaking off his disorientation and storming back toward me, anger etched into every step.

"Hey!" a deep voice rang out, commanding attention. A soldier in uniform strode into the scene, grabbing the bully by the collar and yanking him away from us. "Pick on someone your own size," he said firmly, spinning the man around to face him.

The bully, not one to back down easily, swung a punch. The soldier dodged effortlessly, countering with a sharp right hook that landed squarely on the bully's cheek. Without missing a beat, the soldier followed up with a swift kick to his ass, sending the man stumbling out of the alley, his pride in tatters.

I let out a small breath of relief. While I could've handled it, there was something satisfying about not needing to step in further. My eyes shifted to the soldier as he turned back toward us. His gaze locked onto mine, intense and unwavering. In the light, his eyes gleamed with a quiet confidence. His clean-shaven face bore the faintest shadow of stubble, the kind that suggested it wouldn't take much to grow into a full beard.

"Sometimes I think you enjoy getting punched," the soldier said, breaking the momentary tension as his gaze shifted to the smaller man. My eyes followed, landing on the blonde who leaned against the wall, dabbing at the blood trickling from his lip.

"I had him on the ropes," the blonde retorted with a wry grin. His defiance was admirable, though slightly misplaced. I couldn't help but shake my head, amused by his persistence.

"I'll give you points for effort," I said, stepping forward with a small smile. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I noticed a faint flush creeping across his cheeks. Whether from embarrassment or the bruises already forming, it was hard to tell.

"And who might you be?" the soldier asked, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a hint of flirtation. He straightened up from retrieving something off the ground, his gaze locking onto mine.

"I'm Karla," I replied, smiling at them both. "I was just passing by when I saw what was happening. I couldn't stand by and do nothing," I added, speaking earnestly.

"Well, thank you for stepping in," the soldier said, his tone warm and sincere. A pleased smile tugged at his lips as he added, "I'm Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky. And this here is my best friend, Steve Rogers." He clapped a firm hand on the smaller man's shoulder, giving it an affectionate rub.

"Nice to meet you both," I replied, my voice soft and genuine as my eyes flicked between the two men. "I better be going, you both take care now," I added with a small smile, glancing at them one last time before turning and walking past Bucky, heading out of the alley.

As I stepped away, I could feel their gazes lingering on me—not with malice, but with curiosity. The weight of their attention pressed lightly against the back of my head, leaving a subtle sense of warmth in its wake.

........................

I returned to the apartment complex and slid the golden key into the lock, feeling the satisfying click as it turned. Though the apartment was smaller than I had hoped, it had a cosy, welcoming charm that made it feel like home. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, taking in the modest layout.

The hallway stretched out before me with two doors on either side. To the left was the bedroom, just large enough to fit a double bed with its minimalist metal frame. It wasn't much, but it provided the space I needed. On the right was the bathroom, equipped with a corner glass shower that left little room for movement, but it served its purpose. Straight ahead, the space opened into a combined living room and kitchen area, a simple yet functional layout. It wasn't luxurious, but it was enough. And I was fine with that.

Closing the door behind me, I dropped my keys into the ceramic pot on the small entry table. I sighed, the weight of the day easing slightly as I walked down the hallway into the living room. Flopping onto the floral-patterned couch, I let my head rest against the back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

My thoughts wandered back to Steve Rogers—the determination in his eyes, the unwavering bravery as he stood his ground. He didn't flinch, even when faced with overwhelming odds. There was something strikingly familiar about him. He reminded me of someone from long ago.

A man who had once been a hero to his kingdom, a warrior who defended his people with unyielding strength. A man who was selfless, courageous, and undeniably... unforgettable. My chest tightened at the memory, bittersweet and lingering, as I allowed myself a brief moment to revisit the past.

My gaze fell upon a flyer resting on the end table in front of me, its crisp edges catching the faint light. It had arrived earlier in the day, tucked neatly among the usual post. The bold text at the top read, "World Exposition of Tomorrow." The flyer promised a glimpse into the future, showcasing innovative ideas and creations.

I couldn't help but smile faintly. Over the course of my life, I'd witnessed countless marvels of human ingenuity—some wondrous, others terrifying. This event, I thought, would surely be fascinating in its own way.

As I set the flyer back on the table, my eyes wandered toward the kitchen through the archway, but I didn't really see it. Instead, my vision blurred, and my thoughts drifted far beyond the walls of my modest apartment. The mundane details of the present dissolved, replaced by a deep void of memory.

The past loomed in that abyss, tugging at me with its weight. It was a place I often tried not to visit, but one that held me captive all the same.

It was still early in my life, around 2960 BC, and my training with Victoria had been progressing steadily over the years. I had absorbed as much as I could from her, but when it came to magic, I was still struggling. The spells, the energy, the whole concept of it all—nothing came easily. But, as Victoria used to say, "I had centuries to learn." She was right, of course. I had a lifetime ahead of me to figure it all out.

I adjusted my focus and could see it clearly now, the scene unfolding before me. A small, rustic wooden hut stood in the distance, nestled in the heart of Ancient Greece. The door swung open with a creak, and there she was—Victoria, stepping out into the morning light. Her hair had begun to grey, the first signs of ageing creeping into her face. Her wrinkles were a testament to the years of wisdom she carried, and as I looked at her, I couldn't help but reflect on the time that had passed.

Behind her, I saw myself—young, full of energy, eager to take on the world without knowing the dangers that awaited. My hair was tied in a ponytail, my tunic reached my knees, and I wore brown leather trousers that stopped at my ankles. I hadn't grown fond of dresses yet at that time.

"Can we not train with swords today?" My younger self moaned, the frustration evident in my voice. I remember this moment well. Victoria had insisted that I focus on my magic, and though I had great potential, I wasn't fully in control. But I wanted to fight. I wanted to feel the rush of battle.

"You are lucky, Kyralia," Victoria had replied, the weight of her years in her voice. "Not everyone born with magic is able to control it. Magic flows through you, but it takes time and practice to harness it. The fighting can wait." She stopped in the middle of the field, our home situated on an open patch of land, with nothing but the sky and the earth surrounding us.

"Summon your sword," she instructed, her tone calm but firm. My younger self huffed, clearly frustrated but determined. I raised my right arm, opened my hand, and focused on summoning the sword. My eyes squinted, trying to concentrate, and a flicker of dark green smoke swirled in my hand.

"Focus. Imagine the sword already there, in your grasp," Victoria's voice cut through my concentration. She could tell I was struggling, but I didn't back down. I tightened my focus, feeling the cool metal of the sword take shape.

In moments, the green smoke merged, swirling into a slender, sharp form. The green hue deepened, and the sword materialized in my hand. It was real.

"I did it!" I exclaimed, my voice filled with triumph. Victoria's pride was clear in her smile, a look of approval that made my chest swell with pride.

"Good," she said, nodding. "Now let's dig a little deeper."

She always pushed me. There was never a moment of rest, never a second of complacency. She wanted me to master both magic and combat, to be the best in every way possible. And I knew, even then, she only had my best interests at heart.

The memory faded, and I returned to the present, to my small apartment in New York. I felt my lips tug upward in a smile, uninvited. These were the memories I cherished, the ones I could relive at will, thanks to my abilities. But there were others—memories I would give anything to forget. The ones that haunted me, that pulled at the edges of my soul. But I couldn't erase the bad. Nor did I want to, really. Because the bad... it made the good that much more precious.

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