sixthiterationlogs | mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: spawn fountain, inn, butcher shop
WHEN: 05/27 & 05/28
OPEN TO: all
WARNINGS: A:IW spoilers in the first section, adult language and potentially traumatic themes referenced.

a. arrival;

It's a jarring transition, a sudden awakening from nothing to drowning in a microscopic instant. It's only through the sheer control he's got over his own body that he doesn't gasp or inhale, his eyes bug out and his limbs flail, kicking upward with the fury of a strong survival instinct. He'd been dust only a moment ago, he thinks. Phantom limb sensations in the wrong arm as they spread like ashes in the breeze, and then darkness. The weight of his arm is like an anchor, pulling him down, aligning with gravity, and it feels heavier than usual despite the fact that water is meant to make people feel weightless.

After a desperate eternity he breaches, heavy metal arm flinging over the coarse edge of the fountain and gripping. Then he gasps, lips parted, hair sopping, floating and breathing and nothing else at first. The water around him stills before he begins phase two, hauling himself over the ledge and onto dry land.

It's an ungraceful roll, his back against the raised edge and a grunt when he falls off of it and onto the pavers below. His hair falls like seaweed around his head, collecting grit and dust from the ground beneath him. His heavy arm lays askew to his left, but he doesn't seem to care. His chest rises and falls, and if he were to be attacked right now he'd be the most vulnerable, easiest target on the planet. He doesn't care about that either, he just breathes, trying to process what feels like two minutes and a lifetime all at once.

b. the inn - later that day;

Several hours and a fair bit of scouting after his arrival, his mind sets a few goals he needs to accomplish for basic survival. secure shelter; gather rations are the orders from a deeply mechanical, deeply russian voice that he now recognizes as fragment of himself from a darker time. It's right this time, so he doesn't alienate it and instead pairs it with a more normal human alternative. He heads for the inn, hoping like hell he can convince them to put him up and feed him for the night. Luckily, it seems like there's a sort of lackadaisical economy here, a sort of socialist provide what you can, we barter, nothing costs money Wakandan style that suits his current predicament.

He settles at a table in the farmost corner, eyes sharp and alert, hair falling on either side of is face like it'll keep him from being recognized by anyone too familiar with the FBI's current wanted posters. Crappy disguise, but wherever this place is, it seems out of touch. It's a gamble, he thinks, and everything about his posture states he's expecting to have to bolt any second. He even startles uncomfortably when someone comes around to take his order. Not exactly the most inviting visage.

c. soap up - the butcher's, day 2;

On the second day, when the ceiling doesn't cave in around him and no federal agents burst in to have him put down like a dog, he starts to settle down. The utilities are worlds away from Wakanda or even his time in Chechnya, but they ring in a nostalgic feeling from Brooklyn a long time ago. Sadly, they're lacking in things like shampoo and basic necessities, so he packs his bag, dons his scrubs, and heads out in search of a rumor he'd heard about soap being stored at the butcher's.

The bell tinkles behind him as he enters, lips parted, curious. It's bizarre, this whole place is, and he's doing his best to take in every piece of it. There's a part of him, too, that feels bad for taking and not giving, but the only thing he has to barter with are the clothes on his back that aren't even his. As such, he does his best to slink silently toward the soap stock in an effort not to be observed taking something he can't afford to replace.

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Her words seem to take a moment or two to sink in but when they do some of the wildness in his eyes calms, and he releases his grip slowly and carefully. His palm presses flat against the pavers beneath them, and he uses it to push himself back a few inches, lifting his shoulders off of the ground, some sort of midpoint between sitting up. Guilt at the assault and wariness of his situation settle in his chest in equal measure, and probably read like a book on his features.

"...Sorry." He says, a soft and chastised mutter, a rasp in his voice from the heaving and exertion. Eyes flicker from her to the fountain, and then to the landscape around them, completely lacking in recognition, confused and displaced. "I don't- what the hell is this?"

Leaning back to give him some space, Claire watches him. Not suspiciously and not because she thinks he's going to try and hurt her, but because she wants to decide how best to help him, which is basically all she's been doing in this world and before that in her own world. A world they share, unbeknownst to either of them.

Claire offers him a soft look and shakes her head. "I wish I could tell you, but everyone that arrives here comes through that fountain and we can't be sure who it is, or what they want us here for."

She looks him over. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Aside from looking like a lunatic and being half-drowned he doesn't seem injured. Any wounds inflicted in the battle he'd just come from seem to be missing and, what's more, his arm seems to have been swapped out as well. That's a question for another time, though, and not exactly something he can ask a stranger. That in mind, he gathers his strength and heaves himself up again, teetering into her personal space as he loses balance and then regains it again. Maximum effort gets him upright, if leaning a little raggedly to the left.

"I'm- no, I'm..." His preoccupation with his surroundings makes him lose track of his words for a second. Forgive him, Claire, he's taking it all in. An entirely new continent based on the flora, he thinks, but he doesn't know the half of it. His attention settles on her again and he remembers her question with a little shake of his head. "I'm fine. Are you?"

He asks only because he can't be sure how tightly he gripped her throat, and because stumbling into a new place headfirst by choking someone out seems like a typically him way to make an entrance. He's not a fan of that.

Honestly, most do look like lunatics when they arrive, but it's that first step of accepting you're there because that's all you can do. Claire has been the welcome wagon a few times and there's no good way to say it. Fortunately, it's not horrible there and being stuck with a bunch of people from all sorts of different universes is interesting all on its own.

"I'm not the new person," she says, leaning back to push herself to her feet and when she's standing, a hand is offered. "I'm Claire from New York. Come on, I'll give you the new arrival speech about this place and what we have and what we don't have."

He seems to hesitate before he shakes, and it's only because he'd just been choking her out a moment prior. Most people aren't so keen to move so quickly passed that and into the pleasantries stage of things. It's the leas the can do, he supposes, and sticks his own hand out to shake.

"Bucky," A beat, and since she brought it up, adds, "From Brooklyn."

New Yorkers, right? Always a solid talking point between one another. Lays the groundwork for judging the rest of the world over not being from New York. Granted he spent more time in soviet Russia than he ever did in the states, but that's a conversation for another time. Probably never.

Lay it on him with the speech, because god knows he needs some answers.

Well, most people aren't Claire. He wouldn't know that, no, but he will soon enough. She's a pretty decent judge of character and maybe that's a New York thing. Or maybe she was more like her mother than she thought. Most would consider her the lunatic for helping when it was better to step back.

"Thought I heard a bit of Brooklyn," she replies, smile widening as she shakes his hand. "I'm in Harlem at the moment, but I was in Hell's Kitchen before that."

A pause.

"That bag on your back is waterproof and has some dry clothes in it. My house is close by if you want to change. I got towels, too."

At her suggestion his eyes drop to himself, taking in the way the soaked scrubs cling uncomfortably to his body and the fact that his hair is dripping a consistent stream, landing on his chin and neck in cold little droplets. He certainly hadn't been wearing those ten minutes ago, and it just serves to add another pile of questions to the ones he already had. He must've been drugged or something, must've been stripped and reclothed, and something about that is such a personal slight that his skin crawls.

The loss of the of his bodily autonomy has him stiffening again, curling metal fingers defensively around the strap of the back on his shoulder.

"No, um." Nothing personal Claire, it's just he's too paranoid a person to follow the first friendly face home after falling out of a magical kidnapping fountain. Not that she hasn't been kind, but there's an alert in the back of his head suggesting it may be a ploy, that she's the one responsible for this. Not an overpowering gut feeling, just a possibility, just a traumatic russian accent in his head telling him no, on no uncertain terms. "I'm fine, actually. Is there- a payphone, or a gas station, somewhere I could make a call?"

Stupid question, considering the whole we all arrive here and we don't know why with a we're stuck here implication, but he asks anyway.

And that is something Claire respects completely. The look on his face reminds her a lot of Matt and occurs to her how funny it is that she's been thinking about the blind man so much lately. It's about the only thing of her life back in her world that is consistent and, of course, it makes her feel guilty given her relationship with Luke.

She lets her hand slip from his and with a nod in understanding, her expression turns neutral again when he asks his question.

"The closest thing to a phone is the device on your wrist. It's capable of sending messages but only here and only between the other people stuck here." Her brow knits in thought. "There's about 40 of us, give or take a few."

That will answer that. Claire moves over to a dry edge of the fountain and leans against it, looking up casually to see Bub's massive antlers between the trees. She looks back at Bucky.

"Life here isn't great, but it's not the worst. We have houses we can live in, food to eat and a place and supplies to help anyone who gets hurt. So, it's not hell."

She'd mention there's damn good weed for those days when everything gets to be a little much but that can be brought up later.

It's only when she makes mention of it that he notices it, something not much larger than a watch wrapped around his prosthetic. No wonder he hadn't felt it. He lifts it a little closer, unsettled at the modification, checking for a buckle or strap. His flesh fingers search the ends, tug a little, but it doesn't come off. Doesn't yield. That's not good, it's a god damn tracking device, if he had to place bets. More and more unsettling by the minute.

She starts talking like he plans on staying here, and of it's own volition his head begins a slow back and forth shake, a soft and immediate denial.

"No, I was- I can't leave- I can't stay here." He starts at a mutter, and finally tears his gaze away from the thing around his wrist to lock eyes with her. To impress upon the urgency of the situation. "We were at war. My friend- Steve- we, uh- he needs me, or a lot of people are going to die."

And there it is, reality setting in, not just the fact that he woke up somewhere else but the fact that he can't go back to where he'd been. The true depth of the implication. Ten minutes in, he's not ready to accept the fact that he'll be moving into a house and eating garden tomatoes just yet.

Bless. He thinks if he declines that he can jump on the next bus out of here but..

Claire hears the tone of his voice and though internally she's sympathetic towards him wanting to get back for Steve. But even more so for the fact that no matter how hard he will try, there was no going back.

So she tries to find another way to soften the blow.

"His name's Steve? I don't think there's anyone here by that name, but.."

It's exceptionally hard to explain that this place will play with people's heads; that it brought people in and sent them back home without prejudice or any other reason. It did the impossible some days and during others, it brought strangers together. This place had a really bad sense of humour and had the capacity to be compassionate.

"Look, I'm not saying you'll never see him again because he might be the next person to come out of that fountain. Or, it could be someone else you know. Or, someone you don't. There is no leaving. Or, least no one has found the exit door yet."

His expression is inscrutable, a parted lip narrowed eyed type deal that he holds for only a minute before looking away and letting his teeth snap closed with a click. He surveys the trees, dispassionately takes in the sight of an enormous moose casually strolling beyond the forest line. He's quiet for a long moment, during which time the muscles in his jaw twitch and his teeth grit. Leaving a man behind, leaving Steve behind isn't something he can easily move past. Isn't something he even accepts right now, not knowing what was at stake and how likely the possibility of a permanent death was for his friend. For the rest of the world too, of course, but that's a little less personal.

He doesn't think they could be immune to that here, not with a threat that spans the entire universe.

He can't explain that to her, though. He doesn't know her, she doesn't understand the complexities of the situation, and it's abundantly clear that she's resigned to the futility of escape. She's probably right, she's been here for some time it seems if she's settled into a home and giving what sounds like an abridged welcome speech. This isn't an argument worth having, he decides that easily, and returns his eyes to her.

Time to switch subjects and continue on his own, because he's not ready to exhaust the possibilities yet. "Is there somewhere else? Somewhere I can go- maybe a store or a hotel or something?"

She's seen that look before on a number of faces both in and out of her ER. She's seen it on the faces of her friends when they waited for Matt to emerge, banged up and bleeding but alive. There were a lot of different kinds of war, but she knows that face of defeat and can gather he's a soldier. And she hates being the one to tell him that there's literally nothing he can do to change his situation.

But there are only so many ways you can say it. Being brand new, he'll ask other people questions and they will tell him the same thing. So she decides her job here is done.

"There's an inn that has rooms," she turns and points out the building. "That would also be where you can eat and get basic supplies."

She offers a small, comforting smile. "I'm going to.." Claire motions that she'll be on her way. "Take care, Bucky. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

Stepping back, she looks at him once more and turns towards the direction of Bub the Moose.

Maybe, then, she might understand if he dropped the name Captain America. Maybe if she knew the threat over them all she might be concerned, or maybe this place runs deeper than even Thanos can touch. Maybe her resignation is so all-encompassing because this place has an even greater power. Maybe if she knew him by James Barnes, she wouldn't have helped at all because for a period of time he was the only face on the news.

Maybe they'll find out about that later.

For right now, he can only grant her a jerky sort of nod as she bows out, and has the presence of mind to offer a dark but sincere, "Thanks. For the help.""

And then he's gone, off like a man on a mission in search for the inn, for confirmation on what she's said, for more answers and less moose.

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mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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