sixthiterationlogs | 'cause i'm a cowboy

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'cause i'm a cowboy

WHO: Steve Rogers and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Town Hall
WHEN: 16 June
OPEN TO: Open to all
WARNINGS: No warnings as yet.
STATUS: Open to new threads

fountain;

Steve Rogers really, really hates large pools of water.

Right now he's three for three on the involuntary drowning thing, but the difference is that he's not flying a an aircraft into the sea, nor is he falling out from one of it. No, the details of this particular encounter is particularly fuzzy -- the last thing he remembers is rescuing his teammates, and an instant later, water. There is no logical sequence of events, as if he'd been shocked out of some sort of fever dream and forced to fight for his life.

There is a light that shimmers off the surface, and Steve fights down panic to swim up for it. He's not dying, not here, not now, not when there's so much more to fight for and there are people who depend on him. Bucky's back in cryostasis, safely sleeping within Wakanda until the day when they can fix him, and Steve had almost succeeded at busting out Sam and the others, too.

He breaks the surface with a gasp and burning lungs, the heat of the sun almost immediate despite the cold of the water, and he's swimming towards the smooth, curved edge, gripping a hold of it to pull himself up. It's only at this moment that he realizes there's a weight strapped to his back, and Steve immediately sheds it, dropping the backpack onto the ground when he's perched on the edge of what he comes to realize is a fountain, of all things.

What the --

He stares down at it incredulously, dripping wet and entirely disoriented. He doesn't remember this place, and everything seems impossibly old, rustic and backward, which, oddly enough, is more jarring than the whole sudden-drowning thing. Dripping wet, he runs his fingers through his hair only to realize that he's wearing green scrubs, of all things. Was he hospitalised, why is he here? So many questions, and no answers. Which is when he starts actively looking for them, beginning with the person nearest to him.

"Where am I?"

inn;

Initial exploration of this village yields precious little, aside from the fact that he's somehow trapped in some sort of experiment with faceless, formless people who are in charge -- and nothing chafes more than being a lab rat again, for unknown people with unknown agendas. He has to find a way out of here, no matter what -- there are people back home who need him, and he cannot let them down even if the recent turn of events has other plans.

It doesn't take long for Steve to meander into the inn. There are people here, activity, and with that more potential sources of information; who knows, maybe there already is a team trying to figure out how to breach this place's boundaries, and if they need help of any kind, Steve is more than happy to offer it up. Now, he's hungry and tired; an entire afternoon of exploring and meeting people along the way has taken its toll. Surprising, really -- Steve could have gone all day and then some before this, and pushing it, while challenging, has never been this difficult.

Even so, he makes sure to be careful. He has no idea what to expect here, or how to actually pay for anything -- do their unseen captors run a tab? Who knows? But he's politely asking the first person he comes across this: "Do you know where I can get some dinner?"

town hall;

Steve pauses in front of the town hall -- the nexus of every town and city. He assumes it's the same here as well, but holds no great hope for any earth-shattering revelation that isn't already known to the village's occupants. But it can't hurt to find out as much as he can of the terrain, right? At the very least, it gives Steve something to do, something to occupy himself with so that he can figure things out.

Stepping into the building itself, he looks around at the structure curiously, wondering who it was that made this -- one of the villagers, or had it been here ever since the first of them came? He's better off asking someone, he supposes, and he turns at the sound of footsteps.

"You don't work here, do you?"

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For all that she's still nursing a touch of a wound (made better by two successful jaunts to the springs), Peggy still remains vigilant at the fountain. Bucky has never been that far separated from Steve, she reasons, which means that he might be coming any day now. She endures the pain and settles herself down in a sitting position that won't strain her too much. That said, when fountain water splashes over her ankle boots, Peggy does wonder whether she isn't still suffering from the lingering effects of her injury.

No matter how much she reminds herself that she's at the fountain to wait for Steve, seeing him hauling himself over the lip of that fountain still takes her aback, as if she hasn't already seen him once before. For a brief moment, Peggy wonders if this is a very vivid hallucination brought on by heat, stress, and blood loss (perhaps infection?), but that voice is Steve, through and through, that face, that bloody gorgeous chest so apparent with the scrubs sticking to him. She's already overworked and overheated, so she's glad no new flush appears on her cheeks.

"Late, is what you are," she says, curtly, as if she can somehow mask the emotion attempting to surge forward by hiding it behind a cool exterior.

"Can't say that I do." Neil turns as he answers the question to eye the newcomer- it has to be a newcomer, he doesn't recognize the voice. And jesus, it takes a big man to make Neil 'brick shithouse' Mackay feel small, but this one might manage it. Those shoulders...

"Are you looking for something in particular or just wondering what the bloody hell is going on?" It would be a fully legitimate query, under the circumstances. Neil still spends a lot of time wondering about it.

Wanda wasn't dressed in scrubs. She was wearing a green pair of light cargo pants and a white tank top with her hair had been pulled up off the nape of her neck to combat the rising heat. She was looking to borrow some of the supplies that was kept at the town hall though she was having trouble finding what she'd been searching for. Her conclusion was that it was moved to the inn after the hail storm.

Her boots scraped softly on the floor of the hall as she made her way towards the exit. Wanda stopped when she heard the question spoken by the familiar voice. She turned on her heel, her green eyes focusing on Steve.

"Steve?"

Wanda wasn't sure what to do. She didn't completely register his question and so she left it unanswered. What Wanda was more worried about was when he had been taken from. Did he know her? And if he did Was she an enemy or a friend? Thor had said that people were from different times and while Clint or Sam might vogue for her, neither of them were here.

"Here," Jude answers, as helpful and exuberant as a loitering teenager. He feels like one, a lot of the time, waiting to be shooed out of the public buildings or directed out of his home for someone more important, with more resources.

It probably doesn't help his closed, wary posture that he's solving the resource problem by finding and hoarding what he can get his hands on, fighting the heat to explore storerooms and other empty houses, even a building that turned out to be some kind of thrown-together church. Good to know some things persist, even without someone else to set it up and obligate you to go.

The man's caught him with a hand on the doorframe of the kitchen, proving the coast isn't clear. Foraging and trying to stab at the shrunken riverbanks with sticks only gets him so far on the hot, endless days, and he's been slipping through when he could to borrow supplies from the pantry.

Group meals set him on edge: no idea where he's welcome, wearing out the description of his dad to people who haven't seen him, and always the possibility that he'll black out, fall over, see something he doesn't want to on their shoulders. Maybe something smaller, like cooking for two, is tonight's compromise. "They have meals every day," he clarifies, finally moving out from behind the frame and squaring himself up, even if it does nothing to put him on the guy's level. "You missed it by a bit, but I could try to cook you something."

While Clint was spending his time at the mill with repairing it, Sam was at his usual haunt: the inn. He wasn't in the kitchen just yet, instead taking notes in one of his notebooks as he tried to come up with some new recipes to try. By this point his wrist was more or less healed which meant he could go back to cooking without having to get people to help him through the process. He knew the heat was starting to get to people, so Sam was wracking his brain for recipes that would be cooler--so no soups or stews despite how easy they were. At the moment, he'd landed on mint and cucumber as helpful ingredients, but the only thing coming to mind was putting them on bread and calling it a sandwich.

He felt that was a little too "tea party" for their current predicament. Something else would probably go over better and not feel as pretentious. Not that cucumber sandwiches were necessarily pretentious, they were actually stupidly easy to make. He shook his head and sighed, closing the notebook and looking up in time to see a familiar face wander into the inn.

"No way," he muttered, not believing it. What time did it make this? Sam shook his head and rose, "Steve!" He cracked a grin, "So you washed up here after all."

It's decided to be summer. That's Kate's opinion: it's decided to be summer. It still isn't as bad as awful, awful January where she is from, and the Inn is much cooler than her ma's place ever was, but she knows the feeling of summer.

Not that this has prompted any change in her attire. There are Standards, and, still, it's not as hot as all that. And as she moves, her skirts provide a breeze anyway, so it is that the slim young woman who greets Steve is wearing an ankle-length skirt and a long-sleeved blouse over a corseted torso. She's pinned her long hair up, and her cheeks are pink, but otherwise she looks like the weather isn't affecting her at all.

"Mr Rogers!" Kate exclaims, eyes widening. Then she visibly pauses, and shakes her head slightly. No, he wouldn't know her, not if he's asking about dinner. "I'm afraid you've missed the main meal here, but there'll be some things left over if you don't mind some cold rabbit and damper bread."

The town hall is surprisingly quiet. It's like a little patch of paradise, removed from the heat outside. Removed from the people. Credence likes people, he likes them a lot, even if he doesn't know how to deal with it--but today he doesn't feel like talking, much. It's not them, it's him.

He's stuck in a rut. Nothing's changing, everything is the same, and while he welcomes routine he dislikes routine without direction. He has no larger goal beyond getting up. Or maybe the long-rising sun is getting to him, how it rises and sets differently. OR maybe Credence has finally snapped.

Or maybe, he just wants to be left alone today. So he brings a glass of water all the way from his house, along with a battered copy of the US army manual he'd borrowed from Tina, and his snuggie with the empire state building.

The snuggie is used as a blanket in the middle of the floor, and, as he begins to read the forward, glass carefully to the side, he hears a voice. Credence jumps, and it's his natural instinct to quickly stow the book away and slide back a foot, heart hammering in his chest like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

In away, he feels like he has.

"Sir--hello, I wasn't--I don't--I'm in the way," he mumbles, scrambling to his feet and nearly knocking over the glass of water. He's snatching the snuggie up just as quickly, trying to pack up as swiftly as he can, gaze on the floor.

"Sure, but you gotta be willing to scrub a pot or two if you want some." Of course Steve showed up. Of course Steve showed up. At this point it's just inevitable; he keeps expecting to turn around and see Lang following him like a happy puppy at some point.

Clint lowers the hatchet tool and cobbled-together carrying contraption for pieces of wood to the floor next to one of the tables, a one-sided smirk on his face. At the moment there's definitely no night, and so no "cooler" period of the day, but it's still in his habit to do heavier work early in the day before it would - normally - get sweltering. He's got a much better heat tolerance than a lot of people, just doesn't notice the temperature that much, but it's getting annoying even for someone with his love of leather jackets. He's wearing his scrubs, but since he got white in the draw, he's still doing pretty good, though his hair's definitely longer than Steve's ever seen it. He should hunt up a trim soon. "Been wondering where you were."

Vivid hallucination sounds about right.

Steve stares at her, and wonders if the sudden, unforgiving heat has somehow addled his brain. He's soaked through and looks like hell, but somehow she looks like she's stepped clean out of his memories; barely older than when he had left her hanging all those years ago.

What is this? Has he somehow successfully drowned, and he's crossed over to the other side? Those clothes -- those clothes are not quite her, but she looks at him the way he remembers, right down to the heat in her eyes and that outwardly cool exterior. No, in his dreams she's gentler, in his visions they spend their lives together -- which is why he knows it's not true.

But here, like this, she seems more real than not, and he hesitates, torn between hope, heartfelt and fierce -- and cautiousness.

"Late -- am I dead?"

Sorry, buddy. He was factory made, so there are some considerations there. But Neil doesn't look all that bad himself -- and when he speaks up Steve turns to him, curious but open to hearing more about this world. God knows he's going to need as much information as he can get.

"Just wondering what the hell is going on. No one seems to have any real answers." A beat, before he remembers his manners, and holds out his hand. It never hurts to make friends when you're finding out how to shut this thing down for good. "Steve Rogers."

Wanda looks different from when he'd last seen her -- she looks better, healthier, and evidently not tormented by whatever her captors had decided to put on her. It inspires a profound sense of relief; no matter the trappings of this village, at least she isn't holed up in a tiny cell and treated like a criminal.

"Wanda." He says in turn, relief in his words. "Not that I'm not glad you did, but -- how did you get out of there?"

"I see." Steve is polite, although it doesn't escape his notice that he towers over a good number of the village's inhabitants. Then again -- it's not very different from home, so he pays it little heed. The lanky young man seems to be heading somewhere, and Steve is prepared to offer an apology for the imposition. He does, at length.

"I wouldn't want to be any trouble if you're heading somewhere." He says politely; other people's time is not his, and Steve appreciates any help he can get, especially where food is concerned. "But thank you." A beat, because it occurs to Steve that the young man might be finding himself something to eat, too. At least, that's why he's near the kitchen, isn't it? Or maybe he's the cook here. "Have you eaten?"

Sam, what a sight for sore eyes.

Steve brightens; evidently delighted to see another familiar face in a sea of unfamiliar ones. If Sam is here, then things are definitely easier to sort out. The man's become one of his best friends, the one that he relies on to have his back -- and vice versa; Sam's easygoing nature and sense of humor is a balm to frayed nerves, and it figures that he'd be here, wouldn't it?

"Couldn't keep you hanging, buddy." He cracks, and he's relieved that he's out, too -- the idea of Sam and the others being trapped in their prisons doesn't sit well with him; they're a team, and seeing him free (and as happy as one can get under these circumstances) takes a weight off his shoulders. Stepping forward, he holds out his hand for a shake and a half-hug. "And I can't let you have too much fun without me. When did you get here?"

Wanda's arms remained at her sides as she stood watching Steve. She suddenly felt very tired.

Her brow furrowed at it's center. "What do you mean?" She had no idea what Steve was talking about. The last time she'd seen him he'd gone to Peggy's funeral. Clint had told her some of what happened after she left the house with him but he hadn't told her about the end result of the adventure and Wanda had never asked.

Jude blinks up at the man, neutral as ever, waiting for him to finish. Politeness has a familiar quality across people and places: it takes too many words and gestures to get at a point. The only polite Jude ever learned was quiet, and it didn't stand out much when people pushed against it 'til the conversation was between fists, not words.

"Was headed to fix that," he finally says, wrapping all the questions into their single answer. "Why I offered."

That established, he backs up three steps through the doorway, gaze lingering like a question he doesn't want to ask, before he turns with the tic of discomfort for the pantry. The guy is some combination of big, polite, and clean that doesn't sit right. Kind of guy they sent for mom. Kind of guy they sent to the unions. It shouldn't matter here, with no mines, no jobs, and no shrinks.

"Not used to all of this fresh," he says, standing in the doorway to the pantry now. It's only loud enough a comment if the guy followed, setting the expectation for whatever Jude manages to heat up. "Nothing's canned or frozen, here."

"Only if someone killed you before you got here," Peggy replies, trying to carefully parse through her thoughts in order to pick words carefully. Her grip on her seat is tight enough that her knuckles whiten and she hasn't blinked yet, looking at Steve. Even with the heat, the curls in her hair hold up admirably and her lipstick shines as red as ever, so to some degree, she wonders if she looks like a ghost to him, a past image that he hasn't seen in some time. That is, if he's come from the future he's going to live in.

Cautiously raising herself to her feet, Peggy leans her weight on her good side and approaches, grateful she doesn't have far enough to go that she'll show her hand (or her limp, in this case). "You're very much alive," she promises, reaching out to rest her warm palm atop his wrist, squeezing gently to showcase the warmth of her fingertips. "You still owe me a dance," she blurts out, selfish and sounding youthful and a touch demanding, but he does. "I knew you were awful with women, but crashing a plane into the Arctic to get out of it..." She's trying to be funny and light-hearted, but it comes out hurt and wistful.

It comes out hurt and wistful, and it occurs to Steve that any Peggy of his own devising would never have been this way. No, she would be magically there -- and they could step forward to their lives together; for as long as the illusion will hold up.

But there is no illusion here. She's warm and real, and her words make his heart ache; her hand on his wrist erasing any doubt that she really exists, and he's not dead. No, definitely not. Nothing in his imagination would have cooked up a meeting like this, and he draws closer, pulled into her orbit the way he always had been.

"I've got a lot to make up for, huh?" He musters a smile, even if it's short-lived -- he's overwhelmed by her presence, by everything that's happening right now. And he doesn't have the heart to tell her that she's dead in his world, that he'd carried her casket on his shoulder, silently wept at her passing. He had missed so much. "Do you know where we are?"

Steve frowns at her, studying the way her confusion is written all over her features. It cannot be that she's forgotten, or she somehow doesn't get it -- after all, she's been made prisoner right there.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

It's definitely decided to be summer, and while Steve doesn't yet understand the nuances of this, he knows that the sun is unforgiving, the weather unbearably warm for this time of year, and somehow this young lady in the inn seems to know who he is.

Steve smiles, confusion flickering in his eyes because he's sure he'll remember her if they met, and these days he's thankfully not that notorious that people would pick him out of a crowd by sight alone.

"I see. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate that very much." He smiles, ever polite, and definitely not looking to put her out. Leftovers will do. "Did you know me?"

Oh. Oh.

Steve's clearly startled someone out of their comfortable hiding place -- a quiet, cool place within the city hall building seems like as strategic a place as any to be holed up in, and the way the young man is startled immediately makes him reach forward to try to mitigate any distress.

"Hey, no -- no. It's fine, you're fine." He says hastily, because the young man looks like he'd much rather bolt if Steve so much as breathes wrongly in his direction, which is quite unsettling. Has he been bullied? Harassed? Is he hiding away from the rest of the villagers because they were picking on him? Steve might not understand the distress and the desire to flee, but he's been bullied just about all his earlier years in life. He knows the hallmarks when he sees one.

"You weren't in the way." He says again, holding his hands up. "I'm sorry if I startled you -- please. don't go on my account, I was just looking around. I'm new here."

Another familiar face, and quite the comfort, too. Steve brightens when he catches sight of him, even if the longer hair he sports now confuses -- the last he'd seen of him, it wasn't nearly this long.

"Sure, show me to where they are." He grins, because strangeness or not he's always up for a friendly banter or two, and if there are friendly faces in the village, it's easier to work, to gather people together to find a way out of this place. Still, strangely enough, Clint seems to be tremendously at home in this place, which doesn't make the least bit of sense, and it's enough to confuse him.

"About to launch a rescue mission, actually. How long have you been here?"

Not used to fresh food, Steve can commiserate. He nods at that comment before he follows after him, looking to see if he can be of any help. The lean young man's economical with words, but he's sharing pretty useful information, even if it inspires even more questions. Reaching around to hunt for plates and bowls for the both of them -- he assumes he's eating, too; and if he isn't, no foul.

Also, nothing canned or frozen?

"Why's that?"

Wanda has been asked that question before. Both Thor and Clint came here from times before her. She hadn't asked about her future though from Steve's initial reaction it probably wasn't pleasant.

"Clint came to get me from Headquarters." She never called the Avengers headquarters home. It was another place that she lived but home was where the people she cared for were, not a building.

All he can do is shrug, tilting his head back to see if the guy would even notice. He finds him hunting cupboards, more help than Jude is used to in any kitchen. Maybe Parker, he thinks, like there's no other metric for being in a pair. He doesn't need Parker anymore, to tell him what to do, to be a thing he orbits--and he hasn't missed it much until this place.

Untethered, that's what he is. Nothing yet here to tie the rope on.

"I don't know," he says aloud for the guy's benefit. "Couldn't fit a canning factory in the canyon, I guess. People hunt and fish, there are crops in the middle of all the houses." And in case he hadn't noticed, it's a hundred degrees outside, and no ice machines.

It's as if the entire world sort of bleeds into a fuzzy, distant thing. The only thing that exists is Steve right in front of her, so physically present and like something out of one of her daydreams. She's still holding onto him and even though he's come closer, she doesn't dare let go. It feels like a conduit right to her heart is connected through their hands and the rest of the world can be damned to hell, because nothing else matters right now.

It takes her a moment to acknowledge that he's asked her a question, startled away from staring up into his eyes. "No," she manages, trying to muster some form of dignity, even as she moves her fingers just a little, to rest at his pulse point and let the steady heartbeat reassure her of his presence. "I've tried to map out the canyon and the stars, but wherever we are, it's impossible. It was 1947 when I was brought here, over a year ago," she reports, "but no one else I've met has come from the same year. I can't explain it, Steve, not even with Stark's maddest of sciences."

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'cause i'm a cowboy

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