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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"Kind of. Not exactly." He starts cautiously, and corrects himself the next second. A few dozen out of six billion isn't exactly common, but... "Probably more than we know of exist, but some are... famous. Basically celebrities. Heroes."

He bites out the word not with ire in his voice but with irony, because he thinks the term's inflated. He thinks it washes a complex individual down to just a suit and a gimmick instead of giving them any respect as a human being. Steve's a hero, and that's all the world will ever see him as; not as a man deserving of peace or a vacation every once and a while.

Suits and gimmicks were the first images to flash through Sam's mind. Comic books and superhero movies. Notions that she'd traded away as she came to accept the fact that monsters were real.

"You're lucky," she said quietly. "There aren't any heroes where I come from. Just people who try hard and people who don't bother."

And most didn't bother.

She found herself rubbing her other eyelid. Her smudges didn't exactly match, but it definitely worked with her whole lopsided Goth image. Or what was left of it, anyway. She'd done some careful cutting of her hideous, black scrubs. But wig aside, she didn't really try any more.

"What's it like? Being friends with a hero?"

"Same thing," he responds frankly, because that's the only thing aside from a suit or some powers that made those people heroes. The fact that they try. There others, people on the planet with gifts that choose not to do anything with it, or choose to do the wrong things, or choose to walk a morally gray line where they serve their own best interests and nothing else.

He scratches absently again with metal fingers, pushing his hair back from his face as he contemplates the question.

"I'm not. I'm friends with the guy behind the mask," Is his final answer. "The hero stuff... that's just what he does. He did it before he even had the job. Got the shit beat out of him for it, but he did it."

It was a fine distinction and Sam immediately understood it. Unfortunately, before she could probe further, she caught her first real glimpse of that hand.

And then had to try very, very hard not to stare at it.

She was pretty sure robots didn't grow hair or five o'clock shadows. But she was also pretty sure that was a metal arm.

A metal arm.

It was so astonishingly cool that she had to jam her knuckle between her teeth to keep from blurting out something that would probably fucking embarrass both of them. But she suddenly had a lot of questions.

This was probably the most alive she'd felt in months.

Awkwardly, Sam cleared her throat. "Um, well, I get what you mean. Sounds like a quality person."

Well, she's not exactly subtle about it, is she? The knuckle jamming gets her a look, eyebrows arched in amusement and maybe a little exasperation. He doesn't blame her, though, there's a reason he generally wears long sleeves and gloves, but the scrubs he was given didn't exactly meet the criteria.

He's silent for a second, eyeing her up and down, just to really be an asshole and drag out the expense if he's being completely honest with himself. Finally, after a long pause, he says, "Go ahead. What's the question?"

Okay, she knew that look. And probably deserved it. The same as every other instance of it in her life.

Bucky was earning a surprising amount of respect. Especially for a guy named 'Bucky.'

"Uh, do I only get one?" she asked, her eyebrows puckering a little bit. "Because I'm not gonna lie. If I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing, it's officially the coolest thing ever. I mean, ever. And I have a VHS copy of the Space Wars Hanukkah Special that the director tried to buy and burn all copies of."

Congratulations, Sam. You guys have made it a solid thirty minutes into a conversation before he's decided officially that you're a little on the weird side. He has no idea what in the hell Space Wars Hanukkah Special is, but it sounds like maybe the worst picture of all time, and nobody has ever shown this much enthusiasm over a metal arm. Not even himself, and he's the amputee.

He has literally no idea how to respond to that and so she just gets another look, this time more befuddled than anything, and the I don't understand a single word you're saying is implied. Apparently there is no limit to the number of questions she can ask, because he doesn't pop a number out.

Sam chomped down on her lower lip for a second. She was so fucking out of practice with having actual conversations with actual people. She'd never exactly been a social butterfly to begin with, and she certainly hadn't become one trapped in the giant Skinner Box.

Had she been a bit more reflective, she might have realized that she was actually starving for contact of any kind.

But Sam made a habit of pushing those kind of thoughts into a deep corner of her mind, to be forgotten.

"Okay," she said carefully. "So...context. I was training to go into a scientific field before. Well. Life things happened that sort of quashed that." Unlife things. World-ending things. Whatever. "But I still get a total hard-on for science. And I was working with this engineer who developed some of the most sophisticated tech I've ever seen. But nothing compared to..." She raised her chin slightly at his arm. "I mean, I didn't even notice until you did that thing with your hair." She imitated him. "You've got to have, like, a billion points of articulation."

Way to be subtle, Samantha.

How hilarious would it be if he just took the arm off and thumped it down on the table for her. He doesn't even consider it, of course, but her explanation does seem to lessen the amount he'd been judging her there for a second. Lessen and not eradicate, because Space Hanukkah will never be okay. After a moment of deliberation, he extends the arm forward for her to inspect.

"I guess I never really thought about it," He admits, gently shrugging his good shoulder. "I didn't exactly ask for it, either, it was kind of... an involuntary upgrade."

A beat, and before she can even ask adds, "It's a long story."

Look, but don't touch, Samantha. She forced herself to repeat the mantra over and over again in her head before she leaned forward to look at his arm. The craftsmanship would have given even Max a hard-on. And she was pretty sure he was super dead inside. More than your average Kindred. It was beautiful. She'd never seen anything like it before. And it was maybe because of how exquisite and distracting the arm was that she let slip, "Oh, I know all about involuntary upgrades..."

She really shouldn't have said that.

And she would have kicked herself, if she weren't so busy admiring the engineering.

"Tech like this does not exist where I come from. This is gorgeous."

Edited 2018-05-31 13:39 (UTC)

Her accidental commentary on upgrades earns her a scrutinizing gaze, but he knows better than to ask. If she wanted to talk about it she would, and besides, they've both been a little uncomfortable in the last five minutes. Maybe he'll make things awkward some other time. He's not exactly a pushy person.

"Thanks," He says, and if it sounds skeptical it's only because gorgeous is a word that's never been attributed to his arm before. He turns it for her, flexing the fingers unconsciously. Eventually the arm drops, settling it by his side. "Probably wouldn't believe me if I told you it was made right after world war 2."

"No," she agreed, forcing herself to tear her gaze from the arm, back to Bucky's face. "I wouldn't believe you. Although I guess it stands to reason that the World War II in my universe was probably different from yours."

And yet they both had them.

Along with, it seemed, guys who painted themselves silver and pretended to be robots.

Go figure.

"All I know about mine were the stories we heard in Hebrew School." She made a grand gesture, inviting him to share more. If he so desired, that was.

He shrugs his right shoulder, dismissing the lack of knowledge. It wasn't exactly made public at any rate, so he expected nothing less. Either in his universe or hers, because governments seem to be the same in any time space continuum.

"Maybe. Or maybe there's a lot of tech they keep underground." He hadn't planned on going into detail, but now he feels obligated to at least fill in a little backstory. "I fought in it. Went down behind enemy lines. Long story short, well-"

He gives the arm a little motion. Very, very long story very, very short.

"You fought in World War II?" she said wrinkling up her nose a little bit. She got that the multiverse was full of all sorts of quirks and that time wasn't necessarily...perfect. But all the same, "As what? A fetus?"

Because there was no way he was that old.

Not unless he was a Kindred

And he wasn't, damn it. Not unless he was that weird kind without a Predator's Taint...

Oh, fucking shit. She did not want her new friend to be a Kindred. One was more than enough for this place. Or any place. Like. Ever.

He snorts a genuine laugh, lips curling up, teeth showing. Glossing over the tragic pieces of his backstory and sticking to just the surface details makes for an interesting conversation, it's a tactic he'll start using from now on. His arms fan out a little, indicating that nope, just as the man you see before you. Actually, okay, yeah, he was about a decade or so younger at the time, but it's close enough.

"Hundred and one years old, in the flesh," He replies, an odd combination of bemused and smug. Not that it was by choice.

From time to time, Sam was forced to wonder what she'd be like when she hit triple digits of age. She'd still be in the same, young body. Would she be able to laugh it off? It was a question that left her tossing and turning in a way that her thermodynamics classes never did.

Science was easy.

Being a person was hard.

"Well," she said, pushing that thought into the corner, with all the others, "you look good. I wouldn't mark you for a day over seventy five."

A pause.

"Exposition? Please?"

Bucky's fortunate at least in the regard that he doesn't have a full hundred years of memories floating around in his brain; it's more of a patchwork of segments during which he was unfrozen. A handful of times every decade or so, maybe a hundred and fifty sessions total tacked onto his thirty years' worth of actual memories.

"Cryogenic freezing," Is his explanation, simple enough, hopefully something they had in her universe. He'd be incredibly surprised if they didn't. "Spent most of the last century on ice."

"Your world has cryo?" Sam's didn't. Except in theory. And the occasional sci-fi movie. "Shit," she said, "I think I want to live in your world." And not just because hers sucked. "You gotta take me with you, if we ever find a way out of this hellhole."

That was...mostly a joke.

At least, she wanted to believe it was a joke.

Her own feelings about home were so extremely complicated. Love. Hate. Anger. The need for revenge. Hope. And the overwhelming question of is she'd still be mind-whammied if she went back. Fuck it was a mess.

"For better or worse," He agrees, referencing the cryo rather than what sounds like he's proposing over her order to take her with him. There's a vaguely ominous sound in his tone, it implies a deeper and darker history that surrounds the word. He feels the need to clarify: "It's not exactly common technology, but it exists."

Meaning not everyone was hopping into the freezer every ten minutes for a nap; aside from himself, Steve, and the five assassinated winter soldiers he doesn't know of anyone else that had gone under. He also figures he needs to ask, "Not a fan of home? L.A. still off the grid?"

"Dead to the world," she replied dryly. "Assuming there's anything left of the outside world." The mountains did a wonderful job of isolating them. "I miss the internet so fucking much."

Easier answers than delving into what her brother had done--or was trying to do--to her.

"Besides," she continued, "your tech is way more fun."

She tilted her head to one side, whetting her lips. She wasn't sure if she ought to ask, but she couldn't help it. "Do you have...splicing technology?"

He supposes it makes sense she'd want to leave, then. Were he not so tethered to home, to Steve, he may consider joining another planet entirely himself. Somewhere Thanos' reign hadn't reached, somewhere he wasn't wanted by the FBI, somewhere the Winter Soldier hadn't eradicated the hundred best people alive in the last century and left Bucky Barnes to deal with the fallout. Unfortunately his sense of duty is too strong to take advantage of the possibility.

"Splicing?" He echoes, not because he's not familiar with the term but because he can't infer the context. Gene splicing, maybe, but some specifics around her question would be nice.

"It's a genetic term," she said. "I was going to be a geneticist before...well, I mean, I think all orphans are secretly fascinated with DNA. Unanswered questions, you know. Anyway, it's a term for finding ways to combine DNA that shouldn't go together."

There was no way to talk about it without sounding like a mad scientist.

...like her parents.

Sam shook her head. "Never mind. Like I told you, I get a total hard-on for science."

Finding ways to combine DNA that shouldn't to together, yeah, no that rings a few bells. Whether or not the serum coursing through his veins is considered spliced DNA or not he couldn't say, he doesn't know what the deal is with it. Regardless, yeah, there are instances of it where he's from. A simple parted-lipped look of understanding crosses across his features, and he nods.

"Think so." He agrees, though he couldn't go into specifics if pressed. SpiderMan is probably a good example of it, but he doesn't know the kid's origin story at all. He offers her a tight, semi-encouraging smile. "Guess you'd probably like it there after all. You'd fit right in over in Wakanda."

"Wauconda?" she said. It was the name of a suburb of Chicago, up in north Lake County. She'd been through it once or twice as a teenager. Nothing much to say for it. A nice library. Some forest preserve land.

Nothing special.

She tilted her head. "What's so special about it in your universe?"

He doesn't catch the miscommunication, the pronunciations are too similar. Not to mention the fact that Wakanda kept most of its technology and advanced economic prowess hidden throughout the entirety of modern civilization, it makes sense that she wouldn't think of it as anything special.

"They've been hoarding knowledge," Is his reply, shifting a little to one side so he can roll what muscles remain on his left shoulder. It's been getting sore here, been aching like it never really did back home. "They've got some of the most advanced stuff on the planet squirreled away, they've only just gone public at the UN about it."

mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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