[Locked & OTA] Splashdown

[living_proof]

WHO: Liv Moore
WHERE: Fountain, Hot Spring
WHEN: May 28 & 29
OPEN TO: Ravi & Everybody
WARNINGS: Zombie talk in the first prompt, semi-nakedness in the second

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6I Fountain - May 28, Evening

Locked to Ravi

You know what I'm not a fan of? Deja vu. In my line of work, or at least the very specific way I go about that line of work, I tend to get it a lot. That niggling feeling that I've been somewhere before, or seen something as someone else. It can be useful, sure — I'm not knocking the tool kit I've got to work with, here. But it can also be irritating. You feel off, like you're caught in a time loop, or in limbo. The worst is when you can't put your finger on why.

Today, though, I know exactly why. It's fortunately not everyday I relive drowning and then throwing up on myself.

It is also fortunately not everyday that experience involves me doing all of that in a fountain, with no memory of how I got there. I haven't had any brains in a few days... Did someone sneak me a piece of party animal without me knowing?

The scrubs I've got on are familiar at least, even if it's been awhile since I wore them for work. I've got somebody's backpack with a bunch of clothes inside, and a smart watch strapped to my left wrist, but nothing's ringing a bell. I heft off the bag, take a seat on the lip of the fountain and scroll through the screens on the watch, looking for clues. Maybe I can make a futuristic phone call on this thing.

There's a list of contacts, a few messages, and— Wait, what? Right there, bold as brass: Ravi Chakrabarti.

Furiously, I type out a message:

ravi what have you done and why was i in a fountain

It's only after I send it that I realize it says it's from Liv Moore. When did I buy a smart watch, and how many drugs was I on?

Hot Springs - May 29, Evening

OTA

I have no idea what I think about being here, and if I actually stop to think about that, I figure that's probably about as good a reaction as I can expect. So far, I haven't had any kind of discernible mental breakdown, although I did very emphatically give Ravi the third degree. Maybe being a zombie has fortified me against acts of supreme and all-encompassing weirdness. I mean, at least I'm myself, and not trying to get my Lara Croft on or sleep with everybody here. That's something.

What I am doing, though, is exploring. I've got no reason to doubt Ravi when he swears we're stuck here, even if I'm clearly not fully processing that I'm here at all. What am I going to do, sit around and hang with Ravi's rats? I've had more than enough of that for about three lifetimes, thanks.

I follow a path that leads out of town and end up at a spring. A hot one, to judge by the steam, with a little waterfall and a clear, rippling pool.

"Nice," I murmur, and after a quick glance around, pull off my shirt.

Comments

[freightcars]

"They kept a low profile," He dismisses easily. Wakanda was barely an afterthought in the United Nation's mind, let alone the average american who could barely name a dozen countries and most of them all with at least a speck of notoriety before 2015.

Once he gets the all clear he chances a timid look at her again, clearly guilty of her accusation, perhaps a bit chastised after it. "No offense, but you're practically a lighthouse. Hard not to look."

Not that it's an insult or anything, lighthouses are beautiful and they save thousands of lives by existing. He's not sure if what he just said comes out as a compliment, an insult, or like he's trying to hit on her, and frankly he doesn't know how he means it either. It just comes out, and it's accompanied by an uncertain shrug.

[living_proof]

"Oh-ho-ho!" I chortle, and then slowly shake my head. "That's it, Bucko, I no longer feel remotely bad about pointing out your Terminator arm. I'll have you know I have a condition," I add, an emphatic hand pressed to my chest. A condition that hopefully my smile makes clear isn't something I'm remotely worried about people noticing. I got over the strange looks early on; even my fellow zombies think it's weird I don't fake tan and color my hair, but I'm too used to people thinking I just crawled out of a cave for the bother.

"I wonder if I could make money that way," I muse with a tilt of my head. "Stand out on rocky outcroppings in the middle of the night. It would save on electricity. Reduce the carbon footprint."

[freightcars]

"Your condition a sun allergy?" He responds in deadpan, an amused quirk in his eyebrows. He's never seen Terminator, but he's pretty sure he's heard mention of the movies. Something about a robot and the end of the world, and yeah, okay, he'll give her the point on that joke. It's only because of the look on her face that he knows it's okay to fire back, otherwise he'd be stumbling over an awkward apology.

He can't help but laugh, though, at the way she pokes fun at herself. The mental picture's a good one, not that he's picturing her naked or anything, not like that, but there's something admirable about self-deprecating humor. He's got it in droves, he respects it in other people. "At the very least maybe you'll blind a pilot and get us salvageable plane crash. Fix it up, fly it home, you're the luminescent hero."

[living_proof]

"I think that plan, brilliant though it is, would require an actual plane, alas," I reply with a resigned sigh. "Plus, that's just high-risk. What about the pilot? What if they were hurt? Great power comes with great responsibility, you know. I take my superheroing very seriously."

Now that I consider it, joke or not, this isn't exactly untrue. I've had more meaning in my life since becoming a zombie than I ever had before, even as a medical doctor. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do here, where I presume most people refrain from killing each other. That's just one more thing to put right up on the shelf labeled 'Think About Later.'

"So like, is that just an arm, or does it do other things? Have you got a nail file and a pair of tweezers in there like a Swiss army knife?"

[freightcars]

"I guess I could argue the whole greater good thing, one life for- what- fifty?" That was the rough approximation of the population he'd been given by someone. Benedict, maybe? "Then again, my moral compass is already confused, so. Probably just gonna let that one lie."

He's never been much of a moral debater anyway; in situations of duress he tends to ask himself what would Steve do. He thinks he guesses pretty accurately.

He shifts, lifts his arm up to survey it, and then shoots her something of an amused look. "Technically it makes a decent hammer."

In other words... no. It just does arm stuff.

[living_proof]

"I guess that's not bad, although I just have to say — Because we're friends now, and friends look out for each other — I think maybe you got a bum deal," I reply, lips pressed together as I slowly shake my head. A damn shame, is what it is. There should at least be a bottle opener in that thing.

"But, on the bright side, I can never find a hammer when I need one, and you'll never have that problem," I add with a motion Bucky's way. "When life gives you lemons, use your hand to hang a piece of artwork."

[freightcars]

With a silly and cavalier attitude she dubs them friends, and he'll be honest, it catches him off guard. It's not that he doesn't have any; specifically he has about three, it's the fact that they were so hard-fought to get compared to this. He supposes, though, that this is how normal people interact. They have a pleasant conversation, they get to know each other, and quickly without recourse they shift into friendship. It's insanely, unbelievably, confusingly normal. Simple.

He huffs another laugh, a soft chuckle. Hanging artwork is one thing he's never done with this arm, and he feels like if she kew the number of people it buried she wouldn't be so quick to joke or call them friends. "The fact that it works at all puts me ahead of the one-armed curve, at last."

[living_proof]

"Well, yeah, that," I allow, but then shake my head again and motion his way. "But you're not one-armed, clearly. One of your arms just happens to be bad-ass and look like it was possibly created by a mad scientist or aliens. Or both, working together." I squint, taking half a step more Bucky's way, and lean in as if I'm not still several feet away. "It was both, wasn't it? You can tell me."

[freightcars]

The thing is, she's not far from the mark. Mad scientists probably using alien tech, but mostly the former. He offers her something of a tight smile, a little strained but not entirely lacking in humor.

"Worse," He responds, and in deadpan adds: "Germans."

[living_proof]

I pull in a breath, rearing back. "Zee Germans. I should have known. That guy who sells the Shamwow is always telling me they make good stuff. Clearly they went above and beyond this time, even if you can't use it to speed-dry a car."

Truthfully, I'm curious more than I'm giving away here, but there's only so much you can expect out of a first meeting. I'm not exactly offering up my own sordid backstory, either.

"So, New York, huh?" I prompt, figuring I've harangued the man about his prosthetic limb long enough. "I could see you there. Not that I'm an expert, but you've got a little bit of that New York-y attitude."

[freightcars]

Zee Germans she says, and he chuckles a little at it. It's unexpected, but amusing; she's outgoing, friendly, everything Bucky isn't. He admires it immediately, even if he has no fucking clue what the Shamwow is or which guy evidently makes it. He imagines it's some kind of iPhone because apparently that's all anyone cares about in this the year of our lord 2018.

He's not all that broken up about changing the subject from his metal arm to something a little easier to discuss, and he lowers his arm back into the water as though hiding it from view. "That right? Haven't really been back to New York in... a long time, guess it's one of those things that never really goes away."

Even after a hundred years. Even New York in the 40s has a particular way of branding its citizens.

[living_proof]

"I'd like to think that if I'm stuck here for years, I won't still be a snob about how my coffee is roasted and complain when it gets hotter than 75 degrees, but you know what they say. You can take the girl out of Seattle but you can't take Seattle out of the girl." Not that either of us really want to be thinking about the potential to actually be here years.

Like Ravi.

"I'm going to have to figure out something to do with myself," I realize, my eyebrows pulling together. "Do people even have, like, actual jobs in this place?"

[freightcars]

Good to know that the Seattle of her world is the same as the Seattle of his, at least. Doesn't mean they're the same world by any means, but it does mean they've got a common background. At last, as far as culture is concerned. He shifts in the water, lifting a hand to push his damp hair back, further wetting it in the process.

"Kind of a... do what you can do thing, more than anything." He answers vaguely. "People who have skills- building, farming, medical, whatever, they do that. Everyone else just does what needs done. Cooking. Chopping wood. Hammering stuff."

He gives a little finger waggle with the metal arm. He hasn't had much time to contribute yet, but he's managed a chore or two today. "Anything you think you can bring to the table?"

[living_proof]

"I do not have a fancy metal arm to hammer stuff, but I do have an M.D.," I reply with a lift of my chin. Not that I've done much to help out the living with all that training recently, but I still can. Whatever that even means here. Probably a lot of minor stuff — Poison ivy, abrasions. The town is definitely sleepy.

"I guess I should find out if there's a place to sign up for that sort of thing, because I definitely wouldn't trust me to chop wood," I add. "I am a pretty banging cook, though."

[freightcars]

"A doctor, huh?" He muses, sounding a touch impressed. No such thing as too many of those; he knows Claire's a nurse, but he's yet to see an actual doctor. Then again he's met like four fucking people, so that's not exactly making a strong statement.

He shifts forward, resting elbows on his knees, chin nearly touching the water. "There's a clinic here. They do what they can, but I'm sure they could use an extra set of hands. Probably more than earn your way there, no need to chop your fingers off cutting wood."

Not that he's doubting her, but... he's totally doubting her. Her hands aren't calloused and she doesn't have the build of a lumberjack, which isn't exactly an insult.

[living_proof]

"100% bona fide," I reply with a nod, "and thank god, with what I've been paying in student loans— Or was, I guess I should say." My face goes a little pinched at the bald reality of being stuck here, even if it means I can say sayonara to my mountain of debt.

But then Bucky's leaning forward and all I can think is Jesus, he's hot, although to be honest, with that hair it probably ought to be Jesus is hot. I'm suddenly glad I've never been religious.

"Yeah, I used to be a surgeon, so not so much with the wood cutting or the meat slicing or really anything that comes with an actual warning label about losing appendages."

I lift my hand to demonstrate I've got all five still attached, and notice the pads of my fingers are starting to go a little pruny. Shit.

"So who gets out first? I'm thinking it needs to be you so I can lounge here and watch, since you peeked when I was getting in."

[freightcars]

He has to laugh, has to shake his head, because she's not wrong. First in, first out, that's the general rule and considering he's betrayed her No Looking trust it's only fair that he be the one to leave. Not that he doesn't enjoy her company, but looking for a graceful and not socially awkward exit has been hovering in the back of his mind for a few minutes now. He appreciates the out.

And he stands, there you go, Liv. There's your view, because the man is SWOL, shirtless, and dripping onto soaking wet scrub bottoms. He rounds the series of rocks that separate them, hovers somewhere over her left shoulder, dips to grab up his bag and rifles around for the towel stowed therein.

Once his hands are dry and he's not quite sopping, he reaches out a hand to her to shake. Might as well be polite before he leaves. "Nice to meet you, been a pleasure."