( OPEN ) I hope you're comfortable in that quiet plastic grave.

[oorah]

WHERE: Fountain Park, The Inn, wherever
WHEN: June 18
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: tl;dr (sorry), near-drowning, sad bro times, panic attacks idk

---

it's only water

He comes to with cool water rushing all around him and his heart immediately seizes with panic. The last thing he remembers is stepping through his apartment door after four long months in a city that shouldn't exist. Reims - or was it Rouen? It says something about him that as he looks around even deep underwater he isn't sure whether New York or that silent place was the dream. In a fucked up way, he's banking on New York. It was a kindness he wasn't owed, to see his friends go home after their shared nightmare.

It's taking him too long to get to the surface, he can see the light, he's so close, but he's afraid to splash. What if he's back? Or in another Sound Eater haven? He's trying to remember the list he had compiled. Perth, Yokohama, Bogota, Tehran, Karachi, Moscow, Bangkok, Frankfurt... With every city, he's getting closer to the surface but he's losing oxygen fast in trying to stay silent. However he got here, he doesn't have to get everyone nearby killed because of his fuck up.

Eventually, and it feels even longer than the reality, he spills out of the fountain with a loud slap against the stone, his body hanging over the edge, prone for entire moments. Suddenly - involuntarily - he sputters, puking up water from his lungs and slowly coming back to full consciousness. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes too, trying to remember dying, but also knowing it never works that way. This isn't the Reset Room, and there's no red dust. Something that becomes all too apparent when he grabs a handful of dirt from the ground sprawling out in front of the fountain. The monsters aren't here yet, so he upturns himself and slips over the side of the fountain as silently as he can.

It's only then that he feels the weight of the pack on his back, missing the familiar shelter of his combat boots when earth sticks to the bottoms of his wet feet. He feels behind him at the backpack, but it's closed with a zipper. He'll have to find a soundproofed place to know what's inside. Hopefully it isn't a bomb???

He dutifully makes his way into the village on silent feet, scanning the area as he goes for anything that seems familiar. Istanbul, Lima, Rio de Janeiro... Nothing. This isn't France, though, not either version he's familiar with. That's honestly the most jarring part, somehow. There's no Constance to greet him, no one shushing him. Just wide open space. He doesn't think he's ever been so terrified in his life, and this coming from a guy who's seen combat. Who's waged it, personally.

The first person he sees will be met with the full brunt of his concerned stare, and it's a doozy. Fear is clearly reflected in his gaze as it darts around, like a wild animal who's been cornered. Similarly, he might bolt any minute, so approach with caution. Or don't, YOLO.

it's only fire

Some wandering and strategic shaking later and a dryer version of the Mayor finds himself inside the Inn where he makes quick work of opening the bag, doing it silently though there are sounds all around him. Soft talking and shuffling that assaults his delicate senses like a category 6 maelstrom. Socks and boots are donned in an instant, just as quietly as he continues to drip on the furniture. This place has to be soundproofed, he reasons, or somehow he's made it far enough away from the monsters...?

In something of a daze, he finds his way to the roaring fireplace and resigns himself to sitting by the flames until he's at least moderately less soaked. He doesn't turn enough to see who comes in, but every time the door opens his face moves towards the sound. It's so - normal. Maybe this is the dream, that would make the most sense of all. Frank pulls his teal scrub top away from his body to help it dry faster, closing his eyes for just a moment. Just one... He nods off, just like that, sitting in front of the fire with his expression deeply furrowed. His eyes twitch like he's dreaming, though it's only been a few moments. Not enough time has passed for REM, but his mind is supplying him images anyway, and if the twitches in his frame are any indication none of them are particularly pleasant.

If he's woken either purposefully by a second party, by someone making too much noise near him, or merely by his own cruel thoughts pushing him back to consciousness, he'll start awake, eyes flying open wide. Though his mouth opens into a gasp, that too is silent. He's dry and warm now, and it's time to move on. He gets to his feet one inch at a time, trying to avoid the crackle and pop of tired bones though one dislodges in his neck anyway and earns a grimace from him. It wouldn't have been enough to get him killed, even in Reims, but any sound is deafening now after over 100 days of consecutive silence.

He shoulders his pack and makes his way back out to the square, and the cacophony of villagers gathering outside causes bile rise up his throat in dread. The wheels on carts and the soft stomp of trudging feet carrying the louder din of voices and laughter have his heart pounding fast all over again. Something is very, very wrong and he doesn't have the data to get to the bottom of it. He'll be frozen there in the middle of the causeway for some time before carrying on to find a quiet place to be alone.

it's only love

Frank will be wandering the 6I/7I village(s) for most of the day until someone directs him more specifically. Feel free to encounter him anywhere along the way.

Comments

[freightcars]

It's definitely the conclusion Bucky's jumped to, that Frank is deaf or otherwise incapable of communicating verbally whether it's a hearing or speaking issue. He hasn't had enough time to perceive which of the two it may be, but he'll be unconsciously looking for signs one way or the other as they interact. Judging from his pantomime for putting a jacket on rather than the actual ASL word for the jacket he's not completely fluent in ASL either; maybe recently deaf and still learning? Or recently mute and still learning?

He gets the picture though, boots and a jacket, and those are two things he can in fact manage. He nods. Signs follow me and then points in a direction just in case Frank doesn't know that one yet. With all the signing, it's impossible to mistake the metal fingers which, Bucky notices Frank hasn't fixated on. It's interesting.

He leads the way, falling into step beside Frank and studying the man in quiet interest. He finger-signs an easy question: n-e-w?

[oorah]

It's hard to fixate on something that hit your face once, and in a friendly way at that. He still maintains his first opinion of the prosthesis that he originally developed: it's freaking cool. So when he turns to follow after Bucky, he does peep a better look at the implement. Yep, still cool.

It's easy enough for him to catch up, though he's still extra cautious in order not to make a sound. He looks over in time to catch the letters, and after a beat's hesitation, he nods. That's what's happening, isn't it? He's new, the way he'd been new to Reims in January. Frank frowns suddenly - it's a scowl really - as he shoots back: The date?

[freightcars]

It's hard for him to interpret what the scowl is for, whether it's the question or the situation or the sign language itself. His own lips twitch, tugging down before slipping back into something impassive again. The pair of them move with disturbing silence, a product of both of their histories- Frank's probably more recent and Bucky's more of a muscle memory habit. They're practically cats. It helps that the ground beneath them is padded, flattened dirt and not something more difficult to traverse, but the road to the inn is frequented enough to be gentle under their feet.

At the question, well, Bucky can only shrug. Peggy would say it's the forties or fifties, a few others will say a different year in the 2000s, and god only knows what year it was for Benedict in his weirdo universe.

2018 where I'm from is his answer. He finger-spells h-e-r-e and then shrugs again. Based on the technology it might as well be the old fucking west, minus the thing strapped to their wrists.

[oorah]

He "listens" carefully, sometimes only picking up the odd word here or there. But it's enough. It reminds him of learning Native sign the first weeks in the encampment - almost nostalgic really. He's been trying hard not to look at the device on his wrist, the one that won't come off. He's betting on there being a text function he can rely on if they really get stuck, but he'd rather not need to at all.

2018 is easily understood, so not so far off from his timeline. And it feels warm here, like it might well be progressing into Summer. It had been mid-April for him mere hours ago. Just like Reims, there's no true date, then. A lump is sinking in his guts, and he hates to think he might know what's happening to him now. Somehow it was easier when he thought he was still in the quiet place, albeit a different settlement therein. Frank points to himself and signs, April 2017. So wicked close, basically. He's used to the technology discrepancy too, and so to that he has nothing to "say" either.

Where are you from? he tries Bucky in the Native language. It's a strange amalgam of mainly LSF and BSL combined with intuitive gesturing for English and French long ago lost by the Natives. He doesn't know if Bucky will understand, but that's what he's trying to gauge. It's also clear that he is fluent in whatever version of signing this is, it's the ASL that loses him when it isn't simple words or letters and numbers.

[freightcars]

Though he might not consciously remember learning the languages, he's familiar enough with them to know that what Frank's doing is hodge podging a bunch of them together. American, British, and French sign languages are completely different just like the spoken language is, and although he comprehends the inquiry he can't hide the puzzlement at the mess Frank's making of sign. Not that he gives a shit about the integrity or honor of the languages or any of that crap, so much as he's trying to fill in Frank's backstory through context alone. Is he American, French, British? Deaf or mute? What's this guy's story?

Judging by the steadfastness and the posture he's hardy, perhaps a cop or a vet. Maybe a gang member, but some sort of fighter no doubt. Evidently well traveled or at least well-exposed if he's mixing these things together. Quick to pick up on the situation if he's asking questions like where rather than how.

Interesting, to say the least.

New York is his initial answer, done in ASL followed by a quick mostly in British and then repeated in French. Sure as hell isn't the most effective communication he's ever had with anyone. He points to Frank, an inquiry, you? Mouths the word as he points.

[oorah]

Frank nods, half-expecting the answer honestly. There had been a lot of people from New York in Reims. From his New York, even. He wonders if Bucky isn't the same. He points to himself and signs Me too in ASL. The effort is appreciated on Bucky's part, but he wonders how he knows ASL BSL and SLF. Frank doesn't know any SLF but he remembers Clara speaking to him with BSL enough to recognize it.

Maybe it's because he senses the same about Bucky - the same as he had with the first version he'd met - that he's a veteran of some sort. That he earned that arm fighting battles that were never his. Whatever the reason, he decides to share, and it's an active decision on his part, too. Something he obviously considers and makes a judgment call that the other man will handle the information properly. This is said mostly in the Native language, though he drops into ASL when he knows the words.

Before here I was somewhere it was scary [Read: Dangerous] to make noise.

[freightcars]

Now that makes sense. The only reason Bucky knows sign language is for situations wherein making noise was a tactical disadvantage for whatever mission he happened to be assigned to complete. Surprisingly a good chunk of them had been an infiltrate silently, no witnesses, no casualties target, which is why he's only credited with half of his actual kills and why half of the people who even knew the term Winter Soldier thought it was a myth or a ghost story. In other words, because it was dangerous to make noise.

The context may be different but they at least have that in common, and a look of understanding filters across his expression.

Nothing like that here is his answer, but the fact that he signs it means he gets that just because someone says you should feel safe in a situation doesn't make it true, or at least doesn't actually make you feel safe deep down in your gut where it matters. Nothing but moose and trees.

Somehow, he doesn't actually know the word for moose. He mimics some antlers for a second, looks frustrated at himself, and then just finger spells the god damn thing in consternation.

[oorah]

He's grateful that Bucky doesn't immediately start speaking once he understands what Frank is saying - and that he could and Frank would understand him in turn. He's pretty sure the relief is palpable on his face, his frame slackening a little as though physical weights have been lifted from his shoulders. Everyone keeps telling him the same thing. No monsters, no enemies. But what if they're wrong, what if he brought the Sound Eaters with him somehow? He knows it's improbable, that those beasts didn't discern one sound from another. They heard something and they struck, fast as lightning. Faster than any overpowered super in that place, too. The Punisher was no match for a thing like that.

Bucky's attempt at 'moose' gets a tight smile, though, biting into the inside of his lip to keep from it spreading into an obnoxious grin. Big deer? he asks, knowing that's not the word either. There had been no moose in Reims, so no reason to learn it. There probably wasn't even one in the Native sign at all, come to think. He asks Bucky the same question he had asked Katniss hours ago, except this time he knows he'll be understood. S-A-F-E? Is that even possible? His eyes narrow as though he believes it's an impossible ask, let alone answer.

[freightcars]

Yeah, he sees that smile and he knows it's a laughing at him not with him situation. His answering look is flat and deadpan, a gentle fuck you buddy not signed but solely carried in his facial features. Big deer, close e-fucking-nough.

The dirt path they amble leads them slowly but surely toward the Inn, and he pauses outside of it at the question. Doesn't open the door quite yet because he thinks honestly is the best policy.

And so he shrugs, and finger spells f-o-r n-o-w. There have been a few mentions of prior incidents, ominous talks of things observers have done to them, experiments, tasks, missions. Changes in the entire topography from a canyon to whatever this town is now, things he's never seen firsthand but that have been whispered of from the past.

How long? He signs, then shrugs again. It's as good of an answer as Frank will get from him, and he spares Frank a response by tugging the door open and nodding him in. Bucky will lead him through the loud and crowded inn toward the stairs.

There are two rooms in particular, in fact, and he nods to one.

Weapons, he signs, because he figures if there's any word Frank would know in ASL it'd be that. The other he actually opens. Storage, everything from slap chops to snuggies to, as requested, hoodies and boots.

[oorah]

For now is about as safe as Frank ever gets, but he's still not sure he can trust it, even from an admittedly reliable source. When the Inn comes into view, he realizes they're heading back there. He had already been there for most of the afternoon but hadn't done much in the way of exploring its secrets. The follow-up helps, honestly. How long will this place stay safe? None ever do for very long, in his experience.

Frank ducks into the Inn at Bucky's behest, though he's usually not one to let someone hold a door for him. There's no way around the doors making noise, and for some reason it makes him less anxious when others do it than him. The man is easily followed again to the storeroom, nodding his understanding at Weapons. Well, he knows where to go in a pinch now. Or just because. His eyes glaze over a bit tellingly for a moment, but then he's tearing them away from the door to see what's in front of him. Oh wow, that's a Slap Chop.

F-R-E-E? he asks, wrinkling his nose a little. It isn't so strange when he'd had shit lying around for New Arrivals in Reims always, but being the object of the same kidness is jarring for him to say the least.

[freightcars]

Bucky'd had the same inclination toward the door marked for weapons when he'd first arrived, the temptation to dip in and squirrel away some knives was almost overpowering. He'd restrained, though, only because of the kindness of the people who took him in. They have a sign-out sheet attached to the door, they'd notice if things went missing, and he thinks it would disappoint them more than it would anger them. That in and of itself is a bigger concern of his.

His lips quirk up a little as he watches Frank take stock of their hoard, watches his eyes linger on certain things and gloss over others. At the question he simply nods, gesturing vaguely inward for Frank to take his pick. Bucky himself had stocked up on denim and henleys, he wasn't a scrubs guy. They felt too clinical, and he's got an unrelenting aversion to all things medical now.

Probably for obvious reasons.

[oorah]

He's eyeing the henleys too honestly, he'd missed them, and when's the last time he wore a freaking pair of jeans... but he finds a black hooded jacket all the way at the back and touches the zipper with a frown. Everything had buttons in Reims out of necessity. Even the zipper on his backpack had been a struggle earlier. Then he's crouching down to look through the shoes. The hiking boots were by far the least awful part about the ensemble he'd been given, but they were loud and unfamiliar all the same. The scrubs are at least quiet, similar to his cotton jumpsuit in both material and their function. Frank blows out a silent breath as he feels the exhaustion creep in on him. Straightening up before he can collapse, he repeats the sign Bucky had just taught him: How long? How long had the other man been here? He wants to know before he makes a complete ass of himself trying to explain what he's reasonably sure is happening now (even if none of it is actually reasonable at all.)

[freightcars]

He has to consider the question; if they have calendars here he doesn't have one yet. He loosely tracks the days in his room a floor down, fortunately for them both thanks to the serum he's got something of an eidetic memory, and he can practically see the groups of tally marks when he thinks back to them. The answer almost startles him when he realizes it; made obvious by only an instant of a widening to his eyes and the slightest part of his lips before he schools his expression again and answers.

23 days, he signs. Almost a month, close enough to it anyway. Almost a month ago exactly he'd been standing where Frank ways, paranoid and jumpy, expecting something to happen at any moment and cause the entire god damn building to start collapsing around them.

Except it hadn't, things had been calm, peaceful. A day in, day out routine of waking up and doing chores and eating and sleeping and... settling in to something almost relaxing, like he'd done in Wakanda where things were simpler. 23 days, plenty of time for a sound eater to have wandered by and picked up on the ruckus around them, then slaughtered everyone.

[oorah]

Twenty-three days. It's nothing, really. Or it wouldn't be at home, right? It would flash by in the blink of an instant without anyone noticing. But in places like this... it matters. But Frank is out of sign language, and out of energy besides. He grabs the jacket, feeling bad about taking anything else, but Bucky had said it was free. This stuff just seems to be sitting around. Two henleys and two pairs of jeans go next that look like they might fit him, sorry bro he's not trying to copy you. The pile is neatly and soundlessly dropped on top of his bag as he moves down again to tear through boots. None of them are right, but one pair looks better than the hiking boots so it joins the rest. He looks up suddenly, realizing he's acting a little feral and signs Thank you - mouthing the same words.

He's dreading opening the backpack again, and yet another part of him is dreading Bucky leaving him to his own devices. But it's what he would've done in Reims so he can't fault the guy. Answer questions, get the newbies what they need and move on. Triage for interdimensional travelers. What the fuck is his life that this has become routine?

[freightcars]

He doesn't judge, not really, as Frank tears through clothes and boots with ruthless efficiency. It's nothing he hasn't seen before or done himself. He doesn't even accept the thank you, it's not like any of this shit is his to distribute or that he worked to get it here. It was the same cache he'd dipped into, free for the taking, so he doesn't deserve gratitude. As such, he simply nods in a dismissive sort of don't worry about it way.

Frank's not wrong, his intention is to leave the new guy to his own devices, to change clothes or bathe or hyperventilate in a room with all the furniture pushed in front of the door like he'd done on his own first day. He pauses for a second instead, though, and figures he ought to add one more little piece of info.

Catches Frank's eye and signs an easily decipherable I'm in room 2. Just in case he wants to stop by after, or needs a hand, or has questions. His room has the number nailed neatly to the front of it, it's unmistakable. And then, he figures after all this time, tacking on an introduction should be mandatory, so he points to himself and fingerspells: B-u-c-k-y.

[oorah]

He nods, but skips the thank you this time as he draws up to full height, a few inches off from the other man but it's never deterred him before. Room 2. He'll find him, probably sooner than later, he reasons. For now it's just good to know where he is, honestly. And then the name is offered, which Frank has to remind himself wasn't given by this version of Bucky. Right.

H-O-T-D-O-G he signs confidently, the letters coming to his hands as though he'd introduced himself this way a thousand times before, and if he knows that it's a ridiculous moniker nothing in his expression would give it away. Frank holds out his hand to shake Bucky's, seeming genuinely pleased to meet the guy in the end.

[freightcars]

Of all the god damn names on the planet.

Despite their thus far established track record for silence, Bucky can't stifle the huff of a surprised laugh that escapes him. Hotdog can not possibly be a real name, but then again, neither is Bucky so who's he to judge? He brushes it off with an amused back and forth shake of his head, but otherwise keeps the commentary to himself.

Reaches a hand out in turn, one made of flesh rather than metal, and shakes with genuine feeling. Okay then, Hotdog. He hopes to see you around, maybe sometime exchange a few actual words. In the mean time, he mouths a simple good luck before their hands fall apart, and he slips silently from the room.