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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"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."

Sam found it hard to believe that a boring-ass town like Wauconda could be the hub of any sort of technological mecca. And why the UN would be involved with it was beyond her. But if you accepted the multiverse, you had to really, really accept it. Even when it didn't make sense.

Especially when it didn't make sense.

"Well," she said, with a bit of a sigh. "It's all fucking wishful thinking, anyway. Been here a year with no signs of escape. And believe me, I've looked for every neon sign marked 'exit' possible."

One day maybe they'll sort out the difference between the country of Wakanda and the suburb of Wauconda, but today is not that day. Hell, for all Bucky knows maybe Wauconda is a subset of the nation and the buildings there have the most advanced central air conditioning on the planet.

He purses his lips sympathetically, fiddling with the spoon atop the table. "Apparently I've come and gone twice, I don't remember it, but... not exactly a new thing for me. My point is, hang in there. Don't lose hope."

Because she seems like a nice girl, and the look of sadness on her face means just a little bit more now that they've talked for so long that it would've if he'd glimpsed it on a stranger across the bar.

"People come and people go," she said. "But we don't know where they go." It was a point she often argued with some of the more idealistic among the lab rats. Some people actually believed that when people disappeared, they somehow got home. Sam was pretty sure they were dissected somewhere.

Once a science project, always a science project.

After all, she owed her very existence to dissection.

...ew.

"Hope," she repeated wistfully. "What's that?"

He'd protest- after all, he knows where he just came from- but he bites his tongue instead. She's been here longer, she knows more about the comings and goings of people, she's seen it first hand, he supposes it isn't his place to try and correct a veteran. He's not going to jump onto the train of thought, though, he'll wholeheartedly retain the hope that when he leaves he's going back to Steve's side.

He huffs a little at her wistful-sounding joke. He can't answer it either, to be honest, he's not a regularly optimistic person so he lets the sadness ride for a moment. It's a comfortable, quiet sort of lapse in the conversation, a natural lull that he doesn't feel any urgency to fill.

In that moment he realizes what she's done, what she's managed to do to his nerves. He's not stiff anymore, not tense, alert, ready to spring at the next threat. He's calm, satisfied in the knowledge that he's just had a full blown thorough conversation with a stranger without the world ending, so with something of a kind smile in the corners he decides to express a simple but genuine, "Thank you."

The silence felt funny to Sam. Not like other silences she'd known. Silences she'd caused. They were usually way more awkward. But Bucky didn't seem...well, she couldn't think of the right way to describe it. But it was like she was a person to him. Rather than a nuisance.

It was a nice change of pace.

Until he thanked her and completely threw her off.

She blinked rapidly a few times. "For what?"

"The company," He replies with something of a dismissive shrug, unphased by her confusion. Time spent in Romania and Wakanda both taught him that gratitude was one of the easiest forms of payment he could offer, twice as valuable when sincere. "And the conversation."

Helping someone adapt to a new place is no small notion, Sam, so take it.

Sam stared at him. Openly. Honestly.

And completely puzzled.

"Wow," she finally said, clearing her throat. "I'm not sure how to take that. I don't think I've ever made a good first impression before."

Like. Ever.

But when she thought about it, really, she was the one who ought to be thanking him. "You know, I think this is the longest conversation I've had with another person in about six months..."

She's not the only puzzled person in the room anymore; a look of confusion settles across his features. If anyone is going to deserve the mantle of 'having the longest conversation in 6 months' it definitely shouldn't be him, he's a socially awkward shell of a man with a history of saying smartass shit and looking generally unapproachable. Sam's really got to get out more if this is the case, because he can't fathom it's any positive attribute of his own that lead to this.

Still, Romania and Wakanda also taught him not to reject a thank you, so he replies with an uncertain, "Any time?"

It would have been an interesting contest. But Sam had never developed the Kindred ability to read minds.

Thank the fuck.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. "Listen," she said, "I'm sure I'll ruin that good first impression eventually. But until I do..." She traced out her room number on the tabletop, in faded, charcoal lines. "Here's my number." She gave him a half smile. "I'm just upstairs."

A lot of people lived in houses with people they liked here.

No one liked Sam.

"If I'm not there, I'm usually in the kitchen, working on my still. Either way, I'm usually somewhere in this building, if you need anything."

He huffs a soft laugh at her self-defeatist attitude, if only because it rings so similar to his own. It's hard to ruin a good impression with an accidental mass murderer with a low sense of self worth. With something of an amused look he nods at her. "If I come across any genetic abnormalities or space candelabras, I'll give you a knock."

"Hopefully not on the head," she said, swinging her leg over the chair and standing up. "But who knows? I'll probably deserve it."

Sam and self-worth weren't exactly great friends either.

Still, she gave Bucky a slight smile, trying her best to be a person. "See you around, Bucky."

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mild A:IW spoilers in option a.

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