sixthiterationlogs | A world too far gone and all alone

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A world too far gone and all alone

WHO: Jake Jensen
WHERE: Bunker, Around the Village
WHEN: Around 9/20
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: PG for possible language. Will update as needed.

>BUNKER (One person only please)

It doesn't take a paranoid man that has already been turned on to fear being lured into a coffin for a cross ocean trip to a border city where, if discovered, one is likely to find themselves shot and dumped in a shallow grave in the desert.

Add to it the person locking you in just burnt down your hotel and is the one you have to trust to come cut the straps and open the lid, and a man is in for a very long trip. Thank God for tranquilizers and hours of being recon and having to hold a position for hours on end. Damn the devil for coming to before the straps have been cut and the lid opens.

The moment there is light, he pops up like a Jake in the Box. Scrambling to get out of the... not a coffin. Gaining his feet, slowly looking around as relief slowly turns into confusion shoving his glasses up on his nose with his middle finger. His heart is racing despite the lingering effects of the drugs he took, bile rising in the back of his throat.

"Colonel? Cougar? Uhmmmmmm... anyone?

Asleep in a coffin they had been vulnerable. Now they were separated? It is definitely not good in the do not scream and panic kind of way. A new horror dawns on him.

"Max?" Fucking Hell do not let him answer. He glances down, spying the yellow of the outfit he totally wasn't wearing when he went into the coffin. "What am I even wearing?"

>THE VILLAGE (Any/All)

It's been two days and Jake is realizing how bad things are. As far as he can tell none of his unit is there. He's explores as much as he canon foot, ignoring the late hours and the darkness as he goes, just trying to find them and turning up nothing. He's explores empty house, and some that turn out to not be so empty. He can be found peeking around the inn and hospital, while finding himself drawn to the blacksmith building.

None of his unit can be found.

Worse, except for the electric stoves in the inn, the highest piece of tech he's found is the text capable device on his wrist. There is a time he may have cried. It might as well be the dark ages and the truth is, he's not entirely sure how to cope with that part of any of this.

Though you might catch him trying to take apart the device while sitting at a meal in the inn. Or on the floor, face first in the oven trying to figure out just where the source of the electricity comes from. Please do not turn it on, okay?

>The Inn Bar - For Bucky

What started out as Jake being a bit of a spazz on the closed circuit network - and when isn't he a spazz - he's told Bucky he'll be at the bar the third evening he's in... wherever this is. He's a soldier, been through a helluva lot more than Jake has, but there's a comfort in talking to someone that's been there, done that. Even if it has been nearly a century between when Bucky served and Jake's own time in the Army.

He's still wearing ~~pee colored~~yellow scrub pants but he's found a white tee somewhere and commandeered it. Mostly because he's gotten both of his scrub shirts dirty already. Perched on a bar stool, he is fidgeting with the device though opening it has proven a problem so far without destroying it. He still tries though.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's happy to be a welcome wagon for a new face, not that this place really needs the extra helping hands. Just as with when he'd first arrived, every member of the town seems willing and eager to lend a hand with the integration process. He's sure, then, that by day three Jake will have been over the whole deal about this place time and time again, and decides what he can offer instead is real booze and a little normalcy.

He heads downstairs from his room with a bottle of (cheap, he's not that welcoming) tequila in hand, and can't quite be blamed for what he thinks he sees at the bar. Broad shoulders beneath a white shirt, a familiar crop of sandy blond that looks a little darker in this light (nope, it actually just is darker), a jawline that he'd pinpoint anywhere, the shell of an ear. Just enough of Jake's back and side that all he sees, all he recognizes, is Steve.

So he starts in with a conversation that might sound both abrupt and apropos of nothing, rattling off, "Hey, what happened to your voluntary solitary conf-...ine..."

And then he rounds Jake's side and the subtle differences kick in. A different shade to the eyes, a slight shift of the nose, the facial hair, the glasses. "Sorry, you're- From the side you kinda look like..."

The spitting goddamn image of Captain America. Up close, not so much. Ten feet away and without super serum eyes, though? Holy cow. Maybe he's heard that already by now, though, with all the people here that know Steve and might be inclined to spot those same similarities before their eyes focus on the differences.

Glancing up when he hears a voice, Jake stares at Bucky for a few minutes, all wide eyed behind his glasses. Putting the device back on his wrist as he frowns slightly at the other man, owlish for a moment as he cants his head.

"Huh? I mean, who? I look like someone?" He doesn't tense but there's this sensation running down his spine. He's heard talk about some list, about names in a bunker that he has avoided if only that the idea of getting trapped underground in this place leaves him skittish after how he arrived. At least unarmed and without anything to try and break his way out with.

"It's good to meet you though. Insert all those kind of things about wishing it was under better circumstances," he says, grinning crookedly, a bit shy. His experience with units other than his own have not always been good.

"Also, was I supposed to be like in quarantine?" He asks, considering those words about solitary. "If so, someone sprung me early."

God damn that's bizarre; the voice that comes out is just shy of Steve's too. A little higher, the accent's a little different, but it's close enough to have him shaking his head. To be fair, he supposes there are a limited number of facial features and body parts in the world, and on more than one occasion he's found himself rooted in place on a crowded street when someone in Romania circa 2016 hits him for a dead ringer of a long-dead friend or family member back in the forties.

This is a little much, though.

Shake it off, Barnes.

He covers it with a sort of wry smile, plunking a hefty tequila bottle down onto the bar top before them using a clearly metal hand. Schools his face into something a little less befuddled by the whole thing. Rattling off a mile a minute and grinning crookedly are hardly Steve Rogers qualities, really helps outline those subtle differences.

Mostly.

"No, but frankly I'm not so sure we shouldn't quarantine those pants on principal," He nods at them. Pee yellow. Not a good look for the bottom half, my friend.

Jake has spent so long being the man overlooked by others that he isn't sure what to think about Bucky's reaction. Such odd looks, and he's pretty sure he's causing it. Touching his face, running a hand over his goatee because maybe there's something stuck there. Then he's smoothing a hand over his spiked hair. It really doesn't do anything for the spikes.

His brows shoot up at the bottle, trying not to perk up at the sight of it. "And see, I was beginning to think there is none of that here. Or that everyone has already drunk it down. I know I probably would have given half a chance."

Especially in being there alone with none of his unit there.

"Hey! I didn't chose these," he says, rolling his eyes. "I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt when I went into the coffin. Came out in this shit. What even is it? Why even."

Barnes leans chest-first onto the bar so he can reach over with the metal arm and snag a couple of shot glasses. After they're settled nice and neat before the bottle, he takes his seat on the stool next to Jake. Focuses a little bit of attention on opening the bottle, sparing him for a bit from those odd scrutinizing looks.

Not that he needs to study the thing to twist the top off, but it's really for both their benefit that he drags his eyes away for a minute. Listening to him talk without looking at him makes it easier for him to separate the two entities in his mind. They're not twins, they're not clones or anything, there are enough differences to make that clear, but.

It's still fucking bizarre. He'd win one of those celebrity impersonation contests easy, probably. You know, if he ditched the beard and the hair gel.

He pours them both a shot and settles the bottle back down again. Slides Jake's toward him a few inches.

"Yeah, don't get your hopes up too high, buddy. This is the good stuff, and it's straight outta my stash. Most of what you're gonna find around here is bathtub vodka and moonshine." Both of which will burn the god damn hair out of your nose. "This is just the welcome wagon, don't get used to it."

He sounds amused though, wry and subtly friendly if not excessively expressive.

Jake stares for a minute, unable to help himself. Not shocked or bothered. No it's interest that lights up his eyes.

"You didn't mention... I..." He lifts his hand and then jerks it back as if he's heard someone telling him to behave. In his head, he actually does. Damn, Cougar would have had his ass if he had seen him doing that. "Right so..."

He draws the glass a bit closer, knowing he wants it but also knowing that a drunk Jake Jensen makes sober Jake look like a calm and rational person with excellent social skills. Of course then he gets the warning about the supply and he feels a tightness in his chest. Here this guy is sharing something precious with him, and he acted like an idiot.

"That's really pretty amazing," he finally manages, staring down at his glass and not at Bucky's arm. "Most prosthetic pieces don't have the sort of motion..." Right. Talk about something else, or you know, manners.

"Really, thank you. All of this, waking up here without my unit, yeah." He sighs. "Thank you," he says, taking a sip. "Okay, needed this. A lot."

Put down another tally mark on 'number of times people have geeked out over his arm', he's really probably close to hitting double digits since he's gotten here probably. He doesn't mind, and expresses as much with a muted, wry sort of smile. He's decades away from the issue that caused it in the first place, and considering he'd been unconscious during the procedure? Yeah, not really a sensitive subject all around. As far as his memory goes it was arm, fall, decades of things way more important than the arm, and then coming back to himself having already adapted to using it.

He's past it whether he ever intended to be or not.

"Plus, you can pop it off and use it as a back scratcher," He adds, tone inscrutable. Is he joking? The world may never know, he's too busy throwing back his own shot and swallowing it down to give that answer away. He doesn't say you're welcome because he doesn't think it's necessary. Any good person would do this. The transition here's a hell of a step.

Only once he's swallowed does he press on kindly, observing, "You guys were close?"

it me;

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Not even sorry

Never be

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Inn

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The Village

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