Hey hey! The response for Of Man and Machine was good, so I'm sharing the sequel here. I tossed up about it, mostly because I post on AO3 and I've been pretty turned off here, especially since I got immature reviews on two of my fics from someone who'd never even read them and this website wouldn't get rid of it. But I suppose I shouldn't let that stop me from sharing with you guys, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ enjoy!

"Though we tremble before uncertain futures may we meet illness, death and adversity with strength may we dance in the face of our fears." - Gloria Anzaldúa

Now: Date Unknown, Location Unknown

Darcy Lewis

Wham!

The sound of Darcy's ribs cracking as fist meets chest echoes in her ears, dazing her enough that she fails to realise she is airborne until her back slams against roughly-hewn rock. Air leaves her with a whoosh, and the tang of copper fills her mouth. Lungs burning, throat tightening, she reels. Her foggy brain is shouting at her body, screaming, unable to move but needing to, because to stop is to die and she isn't done yet.

Someone screams in the background, a wordless cry that reverberates against shield and rock and body. Agony, hot as a poker and twice as sharp, rents the air with its wail, and something, dancing out of reach like the fairies of her childhood, tells Darcy that it was for her. That that pain is because of her.

Out of the corner of her darkening vision, a figure flitters into view, pace swift and graceful yet no less violently forceful than if he were stalking a mark. With a practiced strike, he catches her attacker, towering over her and fist raised to finish her, off guard, causing him to stumble away. But what would have shattered a normal man's skull only leaves her attacker stunned for a moment, and he quickly recovers to bat away the steely fist, stepping into that deadly dance of blows that she had just lost.

Too dazed to know anything but fear – fear for herself, fear for Bucky – she lays there. Heart beating a tattoo into her chest, head throbbing. Pain makes her unable to keep up with the back and forth of the brawlers yet unable to turn her head to look away, her neck twinging sharply when she tries. In truth, she would not be capable of looking away, though, even if she could move; the pain did not stop her from feeling worry gnawing away at her soul, from needing to know the fight's end.

Her body has other plans. As she lays there, shock giving way to a bone-deep cold, black spots dance in her line of sight, expanding and consuming the bleak image of their demise. Consuming the bodies – Natasha, Hulk, Groot, Vision, Steve, SamSamSAMNOSAM – the blood, the metal, until nothing is left but blackness.

She enters it gladly.