sixthiterationlogs | mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

Entry tags:

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 language catches him more by surprise than her appearance, if Steve were here he could imagine a disapproving look being cast in her direction. The thought makes his lips twitch in amusement despite how skeptical he is of the whole situation they find themselves in. Can't blame her for being blunt, actually, he appreciates that in a person. People bullshit around their problems until things become a manipulative mental dance, and if there's one thing he's staunchly against lately it's mental manipulation.

"Thanks," he answers, voice dry and a touch bemused. Eyes track to her fingers, back to her hair, and then finally settle on her face again.

"Sorry if I was-" He gestures vaguely at the direction she came from, pauses to struggle for the right words to say to avoid digging himself a whole. "Staring."

"It's the hair," Sam said. It was as automatic as a reflex. Someday. Someday, she hoped, someone would notice her for something else. Her eyes or her knobby knees or, a girl could dream, even her tits. But for now, she was kind of trapped in a hell of her own making.

Really, she didn't know why she still bothered with the wig. Old habits, or something. It wasn't like she'd known, when she was dropped in this hellhole, that she'd be completely isolated from all other Kindred. She still had an identity to protect.

Now, it barely seemed to matter.

But if Sam gave up on that, she knew, she was basically giving up on the very idea of home. Or something. It was a serious mindfuck and she was nowhere near introspective enough to want to figure it out.

"I'm used to it."

And she was.

She offered him a vague ghost of a smile. "So...did anyone give you the Skinner Box bullshit speech about this place yet?"

"I have no idea what that is," Is the frankly earnest reply, a touch of apology in his tone. Ironic if you think about the fact that he's basically an experimental lab rat himself, but all he can do is shrug the one good shoulder he has left. He's pretty sure he can get the sentiment through context, though, and he runs through it before she can answer. "Apparently everyone wakes up at the bottom of that fountain and nobody knows why."

He supplies what he knows so far, which is perhaps a little bit more than that, but not much. He knows the man this place is run by, he knows they operate on an everyone pitch in for everyone else kind of basis, and he knows it's going to be really, really damn difficult to get in touch with anyone back home to let them know where he is or find out what's going on.

She nodded, grabbing a nearby chair and turning it around to straddle it. He hadn't invited her to sit, but Sam wasn't the type of person who ever waited for the rules of etiquette. She'd been a total horror show at Court and at Ventrue clan meetings. She was pretty sure they'd been ready to disown her.

Except for Avery, of course.

Fucking Avery.

"Near as I can figure," she said, interlacing her fingers through the slats on the back of the chair, "this is a giant Skinner Box. An experimental environment to test reactions to stimuli. We don't know who shoved us in here, but a lot of the others call them our 'Overseers.'" She paused. "I call them 'Overlords,' but no one really listens to me."

By this point he's well and truly accepted that people are going to approach him, she's not the first since he sat down and certainly not the first today. In a community with fifty people, every new face seems to invite a litany of welcome and questions. Though his guard hasn't dropped, so far none of them have been a threat and have done a decent job filling in the gaps of his knowledge. In other words, straddle on, girl.

A shadow passes over his face at her speculation, a darkening familiarity taking hold of his features. He's far from a stranger to the concept, and the possibility seems all too likely to him as such. It's a familiar MO, but the question is who? There are no shortage of agencies that have done the same to him and others like him, and to list them all would take the better part of the evening. Metal fingers absently curl around the utensil Benedict had left atop his table, and the spoon bends a little at the grip.

"You seen any of them?" The overseers, he means. "What they look like, where they live?"

Okay, this guy was on point. Sam really appreciated that. There was something she desperately missed about practical people.

Or, well, vampires.

But people was good.

"No," she said. "Just a good look at some of the stimuli they've introduced into this system. And given the nature of the way they've been kidnapping us," she insisted on using that word, no matter what anyone else thought, "they have underheard of power. Enough to generate their own Einstein-Rosen bridges on a pretty regular fucking basis."

Pretty much all Bucky knows is point. Taking point, pointy knives, getting straight to the point. It's the rest of the stuff he's not so great at, like settling into bars without looking like a homicidal maniac and drawing infinite attention to himself. Truth be told all he wants to know is whether or not Hydra's involved, whether or not he's going to have to invest in some heavy duty earplugs to avoid assassinating half the island as a part of this little whatever box experiment.

He's got no idea what an Einsten-Rosen bridge is either, and he gets the feeling that's more of a Stark or Banner conversation than one he'd be capable of having, so he doesn't ask. He gets the gist; they're beyond Hydra's level of technology (he hopes), beyond Shield (he guesses), and maybe they're more on an Asgard level playing field. This means he's entirely out of his depth, but on the other hand, he probably doesn't have to worry about kickflipping someone's head off on accident.

"Stimuli." He repeats, focusing in on the part that might be more worrisome than who right now. "Stimuli like what?"

"Mystery boxes," she said, ticking off on her fingers. "Diseases, unanticipated weather patterns. Occasional badger attacks." She fucking wished that last one was a joke. "Some people spontaneously developed superpowers for two weeks, then lost them again."

And some of them were completely stripped of their powers.

And then got some of them back.

Sam still wasn't sure how she felt about being a vampire again. But she definitely missed beer.

She'd gone to town on beer, while she could.

"I sound like a psycho, don't I?" She shook her head. "I'm also a fucking idiot. I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Sam." She waved absently. "Hi. Again."

He can't really seem to help the movement as he incredulously mouths the word badger, because of the stimuli he was expecting that one didn't even make the unabridged list. Disease, sure. Spontaneous super powers? He's a walking, talking example. The rest, though, don't really ring in any familiarity except by extreme stretches of the imagination. It's unsettling and unfamiliar, he'd been hoping to make connections to preexisting notions he's had encounters with before, but the longer this conversation lasts the less similarities he sees between this and any one group.

He huffs a little. "Yeah, trust me, you definitely don't sound crazy." It's spoken with the genuine sureness of someone who's seen that type of shit before, and he takes little to no convincing of the legitimacy of her claims.

Sam. Add that to the list of names he's going to have to remember to associate with faces later on down the line; all the information is overwhelming and the names are the smallest pieces to hold onto. The hair might make it a little easier. "Bucky. Nice to meet you, under the circumstances."

Bucky? His name made her smile, unbidden and unexpected. She was suddenly flooded with memories of Bucky's Convenience. Shit, she hadn't thought of that place in years. It was one of the few places in Lake Forest that was actually open after nine o'clock at night. How many times had she gotten in trouble for loitering there?

Was that her?

Or had that been another person?

Someone so fucking innocent.

No. That definitely wasn't her. Not any more.

"Nice to meet you too," she said, ducking her head a little bit. It was like she was embarrassed to be caught smiling. It was a fucking rare occurrence to be sure. "Wish I could tell you it gets better or something. But the most we can hope for, really, is that it gets fucking boring sometimes."

Smiles aren't usually an expression that follows his name, it's an unusual reaction that gets her a searching gaze and a slight furrow to his brow. He doesn't ask, though, because he's not an intrusive person and they're not on a level that he feels comfortable to do so.

"I can settle for boring," He mutters with a dark and ironic little shake of his head. "Boring... would be a nice change of pace."

"I felt that way once."

It slipped before Sam could realize exactly how it sounded. And how tragically true it was. The thing was, now she'd happily trade away the boring, just to be back in her depressing little world of darkness again. It sucked but...having someone who actually noticed if you lived or died?

Who wouldn't miss that kind of connection?

She shook her head a little bit. "You sound like a New Yorker."

It's ominous, the way she relates and shoots down the sentiment. Maybe they're opposites, or maybe he's just being too optimistic about the thought of not having a cause to fight for anymore, only time would tell. He certainly hadn't minded the boringness of Wakanda, the routine, the peace. It was a change of pace that gave him time to heal, to rest, to think. If they're trapped here, imagines it'll be similar. That he'll farm, or chop wood, or fill his life with things other than bloodshed and running for once, and it'll be good.

Or he'll drive himself crazy, trapped and alone with his own thoughts, because she's right, the only person who'd notice if he lived or died is Steve, and Steve isn't here. Best not to consider that alternative right now.

The observation pulls a tight smile from him, a good effort at looking pleasant that might fall a bit short.

"Brooklyn," he agrees with a nod. "You?"

"Los Angeles," she said. Or what was left of it, anyway. But she hadn't really gotten into the details of her home life with anyone here. In part, because she didn't think anyone would care.

Maybe in part because she didn't think anyone would believe her.

Most of the people she'd met came from whole words. Some of them, even came from better worlds than her own.

"But I had relatives out east," she added. "Plenty of New Yorkers in the family."

So another person from Earth, unlike Benedict. Guess he was right, they do make up most of the population. It's a relief, to be honest, he's had enough culture shock for one day and he'd like to let the dust settle before things get any weirder. Like, say, if she turned out to be a vampire or something.

"We can be a handful," He comments, a soft uptilt to the corner of his mouth. He hasn't had the pleasure of spending any amount of time in Los Angeles, but he imagines it's pretty close to how New York is now. Big, crowded, beautiful but full of strangers pressing in and eyes on you at all times. Not quite home for him anymore.

He's not adding much to the conversation here, and it's nothing personal, he just doesn't know how. Doesn't know the right words to say, doesn't know how to properly socialize anymore. doesn't really even know his own personality and how to be it, and so he lapses into something of an awkward, uncomfortable silence. Bucky Barnes, womanizer, folks.

There was something weirdly endearing about the way he smiled. Like when Avery managed to get a slang term right. He'd always look so proud of himself for a split second.

But Sam didn't want to think about Avery. She was still so fucking angry at him. And missed him so much at the same time. It was pretty headache inducing. Of course, for better or for worse, she wasn't really getting headaches any more.

"Maybe," she said. "But I would have loved to live in New York." Spoken as someone who knew she would never, never have that chance.

Not any more.

That smile turns downward into a sort of grimace, a contemplative frown at her wistful assertion. Maybe back in his time it was a glamorous, safe place to be but- with everything he's heard, with the news, with what's happened there in the last decade?

"Maybe not so much," he mutters, eyebrow lifting. "You hear about the stuff that's happened there? The attacks- half the city wiped out? Hasn't exactly been a problem in LA."

Yet, anyway, but maybe it was a matter of time.

Sam liked to think that she was cool, confident, and collected. After you died horribly on the floor of a hotel conference room, nothing was supposed to faze you, right? She considered herself too jaded to ever be wide-eyed again.

But that went out of the fucking window and her blue eyes nearly bugged out.

"Wait. What?"

Her brain started working at a million miles per hour. Or, really, 1,609,344 kilometers because she preferred the metric system. The odds of Bucky being from her world seemed impossibly low. But attacks wiping out half of a major, metropolitan area?

That sure fucking sounded like her world.

"...you're not talking about the Rain of Fire...are you?"

The complete switch in her demeanor catches his interest, and considering the topic, creates some cause for concern. He wouldn't be shocked if she was from the same New York as him, especially considering one of the three people he's talked to so far was Peggy from back home- that, and he hasn't really gotten the opportunity to know that there are multiple versions of Earth floating around just yet.

Lips part a little, pausing because- well, yeah, maybe it did rain a little bit of fire when all that crap came crashing down around them and aliens burst through the atmosphere. "That some kind of nickname for the event? Those- things coming out of the sky, smashing through buildings?"

"Satellites. Pieces of space station. All sorts of space garbage. They crashed down on Los Angeles. Cut us off from the rest of the world completely. There was a total communications blackout." Caused by vampires, but that didn't need to come into it, at the moment. It wasn't like it had been her fucking plan. "We haven't had contact with the rest of the world in months."

For all they knew, everyone was dead.

Sam would never have admitted as much out loud. But she'd be lying if she said the thought hadn't crossed her mind.

Space garbage sounds right, satellites sound right, but none of that happened LA and he doesn't remember hearing about it going off the grid. Congrats, the subject's enough to completely distract him from his displacement in space and time, and he drops the spoon he'd been holding onto the table with a clatter.

"What? When? After the invasion?" That was years back, though Peggy's from years back, isn't she? "I don't remember hearing about it."

Then again, he'd bounced out to Romania and Ukraine for a couple years.

"At the end of 2013."

Sam, for better or for worse, had an over a year of the multiverse's bullshit. Mostly, she felt angry with herself. She should have known better to hope that she'd find someone else from her world.

She was alone.

She was supposed to be alone.

It was what she deserved.

Sighing, she ran her tongue along her lower lip. "And I hate to ask it but...what invasion?"

The timelines don't add up; nothing he know of in 2013 would have cut off power to the entirety of Los Angeles for months, and if she has to ask what invasion there's no way she was alive on the planet. First contact would be recorded in every history book, everyone knows about it, everyone. Humanity's undeniable, unhidable first conflict with a species not of their solar system, it's not something you can bury your head in the sand to avoid.

Lips purse and, rather than answering the question, he simply shakes his head. "We're not from the same place, are we?"

Benedict, he knows, is from another world. If that's possible, if this place can pull in anyone from anywhere on any plane of existence, it stands to reason it's multiversal too.

"No," Sam said, shrugging her shoulders, like she wanted to be apologetic or something. Really, she was just foolishly disappointed.

Stupid. Fucking stupid.

She dragged a charcoal-stained finger across the top of the table, forming a line. "This is my world," she muttered. She drew another line, intersecting it. "This is yours." And she drew in five more lines, each meeting at the same point. Her fingertip circled the point. "And this is where we are right now. Which only proves how powerful our Overlords really are."

Honestly, the charcoal diagram of the intersecting lines is the clearest and most precise explanation for their current whereabouts that he's received since he's gotten here. His lips part and a gentle understanding spreads across his face.

"I get it." He mutters, reaching a finger out to smudge the edge of the line designated as his. A beat passes, and another understanding settles in on him. The reason for her disappointment. "You're the only one from your line."

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