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[for Steve] happy birthday
Mar. 25th, 2014 11:30 pmBucky Barnes is an early riser. Between his growing commitments to the school and the ITF, he wakes most days before the sun, even when he wasn’t working the night before. His morning routine runs like clockwork. He starts from whatever nightmare his mind graced him with that night and shakes off the sleep that lingers to his bones. He gets in a quick workout and a light meal. He feeds Virginia and goes for a run. He comes back in time for a heartier breakfast, maybe a cup of tea, and a shower. He dresses for the day.
This morning is different. Bucky’s quiet by nature, like a ghost, but the only sound to be heard is Virginia getting restless in her stable next door. The house itself shows no sign of life. The window slats are shut, keeping out the light of dawn. There’s no evidence of anyone entering or leaving, everything seemingly untouched except for one glaring intrusion.
Sitting in the center of the sparsely decorated living room is a large tank that arrived some time during the night. The shadowy figure of Bucky Barnes floats inside, the odd air bubble escaping to the surface the only reassurance he’s still alive.
Today's his 89th birthday and the Island's wasted no time in delivering his present.
This morning is different. Bucky’s quiet by nature, like a ghost, but the only sound to be heard is Virginia getting restless in her stable next door. The house itself shows no sign of life. The window slats are shut, keeping out the light of dawn. There’s no evidence of anyone entering or leaving, everything seemingly untouched except for one glaring intrusion.
Sitting in the center of the sparsely decorated living room is a large tank that arrived some time during the night. The shadowy figure of Bucky Barnes floats inside, the odd air bubble escaping to the surface the only reassurance he’s still alive.
Today's his 89th birthday and the Island's wasted no time in delivering his present.
[for Various] Steve Rogers' Birthday
Jul. 4th, 2013 03:40 pmMemorial Day had passed by with little more than a couple of a beers and a five minute conversation, but Bucky'll be damned if he lets Steve's birthday go the same way. Even during the darkest days of the War, birthdays were always given the special treatment; hell, Toro once blew their cover making sure Bucky had a good one. The gruelling grind of the past couple of months is still fresh in body and mind, but in the simple preparation for the day's get-together, Bucky's found some semblance of peace.
He's not much of a party animal -- he's not even much of a planner -- but things fall into place easily enough. They set up in and around Steve's place, that nice bar of his getting some use for once. There are a couple of goats spinning on a spit outside, courtesy of Thor, and a more traditional grill manned by Bucky himself. Platters of cheeses and fruits and vegetables line a table covered in a red, white and blue tablecloth, and there's more than enough flag-themed birthday cake to go around (strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream make up the familiar stars and stripes, doubling as both food and decoration). Music from Steve's youth plays in the background out of borrowed speakers, and in lieu of streamers, there's a banner that stretches over the front door of his house that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN.
It's not a lot, but it's something.
[Open to Marvels, significant others/close friends of Marvels, and any assorted friends of Steve. This post will be linked to the main community on July 4th. Slated post here. ST/LT welcome!]
He's not much of a party animal -- he's not even much of a planner -- but things fall into place easily enough. They set up in and around Steve's place, that nice bar of his getting some use for once. There are a couple of goats spinning on a spit outside, courtesy of Thor, and a more traditional grill manned by Bucky himself. Platters of cheeses and fruits and vegetables line a table covered in a red, white and blue tablecloth, and there's more than enough flag-themed birthday cake to go around (strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream make up the familiar stars and stripes, doubling as both food and decoration). Music from Steve's youth plays in the background out of borrowed speakers, and in lieu of streamers, there's a banner that stretches over the front door of his house that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN.
It's not a lot, but it's something.
[Open to Marvels, significant others/close friends of Marvels, and any assorted friends of Steve. This post will be linked to the main community on July 4th. Slated post here. ST/LT welcome!]
[for Rose]
Jun. 12th, 2013 07:05 pmHe keeps making plans for breakfast. The players change, depending on the day, but most mornings find him in the Winchester or someone's kitchen, eager to find some kind of distraction from whatever horrors he witnessed the night before. This morning's no different, finding him sitting across from Rose in a clean set of fatigues, hologram on and expression set to something pleasant. He's not that hungry, truth be told, but he's too wound up for sleep for at least another couple of hours yet, and he'll make the effort to get some food down in the meantime.
"So how're you making out so far?" he asks between mouthfuls.
"So how're you making out so far?" he asks between mouthfuls.
[for Spud]
Jun. 7th, 2013 03:03 pmIt's almost quaint, Bucky thinks. Here he is, sitting across from a fellow vet, armed with a cup of tea sweetened with honey and a combat knife strapped on his thigh. He opted to shower first, as much for Spud's benefit as his own, and it makes for a surprisingly nice way to unwind after a long night's work, the pair of them sitting on Bucky's porch.
"Told you I did tea," he says, spooning more honey into his cup.
"Told you I did tea," he says, spooning more honey into his cup.
[for Peggy]
Jun. 7th, 2013 03:02 pmAnother fruitless, frustrating night in Rapture comes to a close, and Bucky's too wound up from unspent adrenaline to want to crash so early. They've had a few breaks in the Redman case lately, but haven't yet been able to make it materialize into more actionable information since destroying the Bathysphere. But that night is as much a source of distress as it is of comfort; he nearly died, in a very concrete, familiar way, and while he was able to shrug it off at the time, what few quiet moments he's had since have been filled with unsettling thoughts of the strange, twisted nature of his life.
He sits across from Peggy in the Winchester, chin in his metal palm as he pushes his food around in his plate. He extended the invite when he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, but filling the meal with casual conversation is proving more difficult than he expected. Eventually he opts to just ask the question that's been at the forefront of his mind since they sat down.
"Sergeant Barnes," he says, glancing up. "How did he die?"
He sits across from Peggy in the Winchester, chin in his metal palm as he pushes his food around in his plate. He extended the invite when he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, but filling the meal with casual conversation is proving more difficult than he expected. Eventually he opts to just ask the question that's been at the forefront of his mind since they sat down.
"Sergeant Barnes," he says, glancing up. "How did he die?"
[rapture] I Ate It Up and Spit It Out
Jun. 4th, 2013 12:51 amIt takes weeks to track the damn thing. Even with Stark hacking into the surveillance systems, trying to see what they see, the Bathysphere's movements are erratic, not set to one specific route like the others. It's what allowed a Big Sister to slip by their defenses and steal one of their own, and Bucky'll be damned if they let that happen again. But the wait is the worst part, his patience growing thinner by the day, until, finally, they get their first piece of actionable information.
The plan is simple and the team is small. With the ITF stretched thin and Stark's expertise having been involved from the start, pulling him in for the mission seemed smarter than pushing him out, especially since it freed up another soldier to stay below ground; Steve was the obvious counterbalance, familiar both with an Iron Man's tactics and Bucky's own, drawn into the investigation of Lydia Redman's disappearance by no less an authority than the girl's mother. Bucky tries not to dwell on the strangeness of leading two Avengers into battle, but looking between Iron Man and Captain America, it's hard not to feel like the odd man out.
He focuses on the mission instead, double-checking the demolitions charges that Stark rigged up. The man's been out of the weapons making business for years, but these aren't designed to be anti-personnel. They'll do one job only and one job well: blowing up a goddamn submarine.
When the Bathysphere surfaces on the north beach, reflecting moonlight, Bucky nods from his position, signalling to Stark and Steve with a quick, silent gesture.
Showtime.
The plan is simple and the team is small. With the ITF stretched thin and Stark's expertise having been involved from the start, pulling him in for the mission seemed smarter than pushing him out, especially since it freed up another soldier to stay below ground; Steve was the obvious counterbalance, familiar both with an Iron Man's tactics and Bucky's own, drawn into the investigation of Lydia Redman's disappearance by no less an authority than the girl's mother. Bucky tries not to dwell on the strangeness of leading two Avengers into battle, but looking between Iron Man and Captain America, it's hard not to feel like the odd man out.
He focuses on the mission instead, double-checking the demolitions charges that Stark rigged up. The man's been out of the weapons making business for years, but these aren't designed to be anti-personnel. They'll do one job only and one job well: blowing up a goddamn submarine.
When the Bathysphere surfaces on the north beach, reflecting moonlight, Bucky nods from his position, signalling to Stark and Steve with a quick, silent gesture.
Showtime.
[for Hannibal]
Aug. 22nd, 2012 10:45 amHe'll never admit to it, but Bucky's about as fond of Rapture duty as most of the Force, which is to say: not very. It's not the location itself. He's no stranger to dark and depressing pieces of hell; he's spent most of his life operating out of the shadows. No, it's the work. It feels like a waste to assign all of these soldiers what amounts to security detail, and while he understands it a necessary evil, he wouldn't be disappointed if tomorrow the whole place vanished. Nothing good's come out of here since it first showed up, though with their luck, whatever would end up taking its real estate would be ten times worse.
But at least there are more bodies around now to help keep an eye on the damn place; they were getting stretched pretty thin the past couple of months with disappearance after disappearance. He's not yet sure what to make of most of the new recruits, granted, but they seem to be holding their own so far... Even if this guy, Hannibal, is pretty chatty. When his radio crackles to life for another time that night, Bucky lifts it to his ear.
"Say again."
But at least there are more bodies around now to help keep an eye on the damn place; they were getting stretched pretty thin the past couple of months with disappearance after disappearance. He's not yet sure what to make of most of the new recruits, granted, but they seem to be holding their own so far... Even if this guy, Hannibal, is pretty chatty. When his radio crackles to life for another time that night, Bucky lifts it to his ear.
"Say again."
[for Coulson]
Aug. 22nd, 2012 10:06 amIt's not every day that a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent washes up on their shores. It's even rarer that they're brought into the Clinic by the man who'd stabbed them. While things aren't quite yet back to normal between him and Steve following the events of the previous month, they're still talking, and one of Fury's showing up here was worth a mention -- even if the guy is from an alternate take on the universe.
The Clinic isn't among Bucky's favorite places on the Island -- if he had a choice, he'd never step foot in the damn room ever again -- but it seems like the best place to start looking for him. Hoping to sneak past the doctor on duty to avoid any awkward questions about how he's been doing lately, he slips into the nearest patient wing. His eyes immediately fall on a strangely familiar man and he quickly ascribes the familiarity to the fact that all government types seem to have a look about them.
"Agent Coulson?"
The Clinic isn't among Bucky's favorite places on the Island -- if he had a choice, he'd never step foot in the damn room ever again -- but it seems like the best place to start looking for him. Hoping to sneak past the doctor on duty to avoid any awkward questions about how he's been doing lately, he slips into the nearest patient wing. His eyes immediately fall on a strangely familiar man and he quickly ascribes the familiarity to the fact that all government types seem to have a look about them.
"Agent Coulson?"
[for Stark]
Aug. 11th, 2012 02:52 amHe's been avoiding this conversation. He could try to convince himself it's because he's had other things to do -- getting the ITF's numbers up had been a particularly neglected priority during the month he'd spent thinking he was still back in the war -- but the truth is that apologies had simply never come easily to him, and the same continues to hold true now.
After all, most people didn't survive his attempts on their life. It probably says something about Tony Stark that he's endured made it through over various incarnations -- though what, exactly, Bucky can't tell you.
When Stark's usual haunts turn up empty, Bucky'd briefly considers putting off the conversation another day. It can wait, there's other business to attend to, other apologies to be made. But as he walks away from the Scrapyard, he knows he's already left this particular loose end untied long enough, and it's with a renewed sense of purpose that he goes out of his way to continue his search. He eventually finds himself outside the guy's house -- what exists of it, at least. Though parts of it are constructed, there's plenty left that's still just scaffolding. But the house doesn't hold his attention for long, his gaze falling on the man he's spent the afternoon looking for instead.
Their last conversation had been almost pleasant, ignoring the amnesia. He doubts this one will go half as well. They barely know each other, when all is said and done, but there's enough of a history to make things complicated regardless.
Adopting what he hopes passes for a conciliatory bearing, he makes his approach.
"Stark?"
After all, most people didn't survive his attempts on their life. It probably says something about Tony Stark that he's endured made it through over various incarnations -- though what, exactly, Bucky can't tell you.
When Stark's usual haunts turn up empty, Bucky'd briefly considers putting off the conversation another day. It can wait, there's other business to attend to, other apologies to be made. But as he walks away from the Scrapyard, he knows he's already left this particular loose end untied long enough, and it's with a renewed sense of purpose that he goes out of his way to continue his search. He eventually finds himself outside the guy's house -- what exists of it, at least. Though parts of it are constructed, there's plenty left that's still just scaffolding. But the house doesn't hold his attention for long, his gaze falling on the man he's spent the afternoon looking for instead.
Their last conversation had been almost pleasant, ignoring the amnesia. He doubts this one will go half as well. They barely know each other, when all is said and done, but there's enough of a history to make things complicated regardless.
Adopting what he hopes passes for a conciliatory bearing, he makes his approach.
"Stark?"
[for Various]
Aug. 1st, 2012 07:58 pmIt comes back in flashes, fragments. Colors run together behind closed eyes. Reds and blues and grays. The racing pulse of a heart turns into the burst of sniper fire. Bodies, bodies, so many bodies, bleeding and mangled and dead. Heads facing the wrong direction. Bullet holes between their brows. Machinery and white coats, murmured Russian and the soft hands of a lover. A glimpse of red hair and the heavy perfume of scented oil. Cold. Alone. Death, then life, then death again. Never my own, not since the first time.
Not since the first time.
There will be others.
It's dark when he awakes, tangled in his sheets. The moonlight filtering in through the slatted windows paints his room in the same shades of his memories, muted blues and grays, shadows twisting his modest furniture into carnival versions of reality. He forces air down his lungs in gulps, his face wet from tears he shed in sleep. He presses his hands to his cheeks, fingers framing his bones until he manages some measure of calm. He's lived through this experience before, he knows -- and there's a strange feeling, knowing after weeks of not -- but it's different this time. There's no Cosmic Cube and no purpose behind it, not the loss of his memories or regaining them.
He wants to sob. He wants to scream. He wants to rip this island to pieces until he finds some fucking answers, but he settles for destroying his room instead, senselessly tearing through his bedding until he's on his feet and there's a chair in his hands. The wood makes a satisfying crack as it snaps against the sturdier dresser, clothes spilling out onto the ground as one of the drawers gives, fabric and bamboo splinters pooling around his feet.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, wooden shards poised to inflict more damage on an enemy that isn't -- and may never be -- there, but his breaths have leveled by the time he moves again, numb from remembering. He keeps one in hand as a makeshift weapon as he exits his room, tucking it under one arm as he pulls open the pantry door to fetch one of the bottles of Chechnya Vodka freed from Rapture he keeps hidden behind a loose panel at the back. He doesn't bother with a glass, padding his way outside to the porch and lowering himself onto one of the steps.
Dimly aware that Jason's not home and that Virginia is asleep in her stall, he unstops the bottle and takes the first of what's sure to be many pulls, his eyes peeled on the pinkening horizon.
Not since the first time.
There will be others.
It's dark when he awakes, tangled in his sheets. The moonlight filtering in through the slatted windows paints his room in the same shades of his memories, muted blues and grays, shadows twisting his modest furniture into carnival versions of reality. He forces air down his lungs in gulps, his face wet from tears he shed in sleep. He presses his hands to his cheeks, fingers framing his bones until he manages some measure of calm. He's lived through this experience before, he knows -- and there's a strange feeling, knowing after weeks of not -- but it's different this time. There's no Cosmic Cube and no purpose behind it, not the loss of his memories or regaining them.
He wants to sob. He wants to scream. He wants to rip this island to pieces until he finds some fucking answers, but he settles for destroying his room instead, senselessly tearing through his bedding until he's on his feet and there's a chair in his hands. The wood makes a satisfying crack as it snaps against the sturdier dresser, clothes spilling out onto the ground as one of the drawers gives, fabric and bamboo splinters pooling around his feet.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, wooden shards poised to inflict more damage on an enemy that isn't -- and may never be -- there, but his breaths have leveled by the time he moves again, numb from remembering. He keeps one in hand as a makeshift weapon as he exits his room, tucking it under one arm as he pulls open the pantry door to fetch one of the bottles of Chechnya Vodka freed from Rapture he keeps hidden behind a loose panel at the back. He doesn't bother with a glass, padding his way outside to the porch and lowering himself onto one of the steps.
Dimly aware that Jason's not home and that Virginia is asleep in her stall, he unstops the bottle and takes the first of what's sure to be many pulls, his eyes peeled on the pinkening horizon.
It's the fire that catches Bucky's attention, smoke curling up in the air so that he spots it from his vantage point in the trees. After having been led around the island by a chaperone the past couple of days, it's the first time he's ventured out on his own, and he couldn't be happier for the promise of something interesting lingering just around the corner so soon. Relaxing's fine in small doses, but he feels like he's been locked up for a lifetime between his clinic stay and the pervasive, dull ache in his ribs.
A doctor'd probably yell at him for climbing in his condition, but Bucky's gone off to war boasting worse injuries than a few lousy bruises. Besides, as far as he's concerned, his mind's in rougher shape than his body. No matter how many times he catches a glimpse of his reflection, he can't seem to get over just how old he looks, and try as he might to remember something -- anything -- about what happened after the war, he can't seem to get drag up even the foggiest of memories. There's just this wall in the back of his mind that he can't scale for the life of him, though at least he's in better standing than he was just a few days ago when he couldn't even remember his own damn name.
Following the smoke to find the fire, the trail leads him to a scrapyard that's clashes beautifully with the surrounding greenery, capturing Bucky's attention fully as he slips inside, absently mindful of any potential security. He's been told that everything's free here, but that doesn't mean that someone wouldn't want to protect their stash, and with resources so limited, Bucky's got to think that all this stuff would be worth the prettiest of pennies if goodwill suddenly fell aside to capital-G Greed.
Eyes finally lighting on the source of the fire, his curiosity's quickly swept aside by recognition. He doesn't know a whole lot of faces yet, but he'd be hard-pressed to forget any of the men who'd been around when he first woke up. Tony Stark's a face he'll remember.
"Wow," Bucky says, stepping closer to what he can only describe as some sort of experiment, expression rapt. "Should that be burning like that?"
A doctor'd probably yell at him for climbing in his condition, but Bucky's gone off to war boasting worse injuries than a few lousy bruises. Besides, as far as he's concerned, his mind's in rougher shape than his body. No matter how many times he catches a glimpse of his reflection, he can't seem to get over just how old he looks, and try as he might to remember something -- anything -- about what happened after the war, he can't seem to get drag up even the foggiest of memories. There's just this wall in the back of his mind that he can't scale for the life of him, though at least he's in better standing than he was just a few days ago when he couldn't even remember his own damn name.
Following the smoke to find the fire, the trail leads him to a scrapyard that's clashes beautifully with the surrounding greenery, capturing Bucky's attention fully as he slips inside, absently mindful of any potential security. He's been told that everything's free here, but that doesn't mean that someone wouldn't want to protect their stash, and with resources so limited, Bucky's got to think that all this stuff would be worth the prettiest of pennies if goodwill suddenly fell aside to capital-G Greed.
Eyes finally lighting on the source of the fire, his curiosity's quickly swept aside by recognition. He doesn't know a whole lot of faces yet, but he'd be hard-pressed to forget any of the men who'd been around when he first woke up. Tony Stark's a face he'll remember.
"Wow," Bucky says, stepping closer to what he can only describe as some sort of experiment, expression rapt. "Should that be burning like that?"
Part II: You Are Every Inch A Soldier
Jul. 4th, 2012 10:21 amWhen at last he's given leave from the clinic (under the promise that he'll return should any memories start to surface), James is granted the gift of new clothes and a tour guide in the form of Steve Rogers. The island itself is beautiful, not that James could've guessed as much from inside his windowless cell, and he spends a good part of the morning simply enjoying the fresh, warm air as his alleged best friend gives him the grand tour of the immediate surrounding area. Unlike the aptly named Compound, the other buildings are largely made of wood instead of concrete, giving the main drag an overall sense of having been lived in that the sterile surfaces of the clinic can't afford.
He keeps the subject of his questions limited to the history of the island rather than whatever history lies between them, though this tactic fails him when Steve steers them into an art gallery and reveals this is where he holds his classes.
Because Steve, it turns out, is an art teacher, which James doesn't believe for a second. Amnesiac he might be, but he's sure as hell not gullible.
"You teach art," he says, dubious. "What, the art of war?"
He keeps the subject of his questions limited to the history of the island rather than whatever history lies between them, though this tactic fails him when Steve steers them into an art gallery and reveals this is where he holds his classes.
Because Steve, it turns out, is an art teacher, which James doesn't believe for a second. Amnesiac he might be, but he's sure as hell not gullible.
"You teach art," he says, dubious. "What, the art of war?"
Part I: I Won't Forget You Too Soon
Jul. 1st, 2012 10:16 amIn the past twelve hours, James has been poked, prodded, and pressed for more information that he can't possibly give, but at least he's been afforded the courtesy of pale blue scrubs and a fancy new arm in the meantime. It's the latter that captures his attention whenever the doctors retreat to discuss their findings, all gleaming metal and carefully articulated joints, and he kills a good hour simply admiring the usefulness of an opposable thumb. While he wants to know how the hell he lost the arm, he's learned quickly that not all questions come with a ready answer.
The most encouraging tidbit he's been told since waking a second time is that he's not the only person afflicted with amnesia. For whatever reason, the eggheads have taken this for a win, and though James isn't a hundred percent sold on this whole magical island thing, having been stuck inside this concrete shoe box for as long as he can remember, he's in no position to argue. The amnesia shouldn't be permanent, he's told, but they're keeping him around for another few days, regardless; for all their assurances that he isn't a prisoner, it's hard to believe otherwise.
Flopped back onto his hard, little hospital bed, forever mindful of all his aches and pains, James runs his flesh and blood hand over his cyberkinetic arm for the hundredth time that day, and imagines all the roads that could've got him here.
[He's visibly bruised and his face is a bit cut up. Timed for July 1st. Information can be found here.]
The most encouraging tidbit he's been told since waking a second time is that he's not the only person afflicted with amnesia. For whatever reason, the eggheads have taken this for a win, and though James isn't a hundred percent sold on this whole magical island thing, having been stuck inside this concrete shoe box for as long as he can remember, he's in no position to argue. The amnesia shouldn't be permanent, he's told, but they're keeping him around for another few days, regardless; for all their assurances that he isn't a prisoner, it's hard to believe otherwise.
Flopped back onto his hard, little hospital bed, forever mindful of all his aches and pains, James runs his flesh and blood hand over his cyberkinetic arm for the hundredth time that day, and imagines all the roads that could've got him here.
[He's visibly bruised and his face is a bit cut up. Timed for July 1st. Information can be found here.]
Part III: No, I Don't Remember
Jul. 1st, 2012 03:43 amHe comes to slowly, the drugs dulling his senses so that the world around him seems bright and warm and soft, offering him no incentive to leave. The illusion wavers as time stretches on. At first it's the temperature, then it's the light, dimming until he's aware only of darkness, this home he made turning cold and hard. Next to go is the silence, bursts of high-pitched chirps and murmured conversation passing him by until it's all too noisy to ignore, and he wakes with a gasp that makes his chest burn. The stench of antiseptic is almost suffocating.
It's a full second until fear kicks instinct into overdrive, his mind unable to make sense of the scene playing out before his eyes. He tries pushing himself off the bed with an arm that isn't there, a scream catching in his throat when he realizes his left shoulder tapers off into thin air. Adrenaline races through his veins, heart pounding his ears as he starts to hyperventilate. Dimly he's aware of the restraints biting across his torso, his legs, but he struggles all the same, knowing only one thing for certain.
He needs off this bed.
It's a full second until fear kicks instinct into overdrive, his mind unable to make sense of the scene playing out before his eyes. He tries pushing himself off the bed with an arm that isn't there, a scream catching in his throat when he realizes his left shoulder tapers off into thin air. Adrenaline races through his veins, heart pounding his ears as he starts to hyperventilate. Dimly he's aware of the restraints biting across his torso, his legs, but he struggles all the same, knowing only one thing for certain.
He needs off this bed.
Part II: All You Want Is Allegiance
Jun. 29th, 2012 11:09 amHe's down one shield and a bullet, but the Winter Soldier's lost his tail. For now, at least. Leaving behind loose ends isn't his style, but it had been an acceptable risk. An injured kid demands more immediate attention than a fresh young corpse, and the Captain's altruism won out, just as the Winter Soldier knew it would, giving him time to slip away.
Hours later, though, and he's still running hot with adrenaline. The environment provides plenty of cover from prying eyes, but its newness is a liability. Familiarization has become key to the mission's success, and while he's scoped out plenty of ground so far, his intel's not adding up, not when it's placed against the circumstances under which he awoke. All of his gear -- and then some -- had been at his fingertips, yet he was bunking with what turned out to be an enemy. Why? He's trained not to question, conditioned to jump at any order, but the longer he has to dwell on the situation, the more he wonders just what puzzle piece it is that he's missing.
The terrain itself is far less interesting. There's a creek dotted with plain wooden huts that runs west, which he follows for about a mile until he breaks for less populated jungle. The first item of note he comes across is a bright yellow box affixed to a tree, HELP written in bold letters under a big red button. Stopping long enough to examine the tech -- primitive at best, no additional surveillance, not a threat -- the Winter Soldier allows himself a brief moment of amusement.
It'll take far more than a radio to stop him.
His next stop proves more promising. A salvage yard in the middle of the jungle sticks out like a sore thumb, its presence alone an affront to the surrounding greenery. It demands further examination, and like a ghost, the Winter Soldier slips inside.
Hours later, though, and he's still running hot with adrenaline. The environment provides plenty of cover from prying eyes, but its newness is a liability. Familiarization has become key to the mission's success, and while he's scoped out plenty of ground so far, his intel's not adding up, not when it's placed against the circumstances under which he awoke. All of his gear -- and then some -- had been at his fingertips, yet he was bunking with what turned out to be an enemy. Why? He's trained not to question, conditioned to jump at any order, but the longer he has to dwell on the situation, the more he wonders just what puzzle piece it is that he's missing.
The terrain itself is far less interesting. There's a creek dotted with plain wooden huts that runs west, which he follows for about a mile until he breaks for less populated jungle. The first item of note he comes across is a bright yellow box affixed to a tree, HELP written in bold letters under a big red button. Stopping long enough to examine the tech -- primitive at best, no additional surveillance, not a threat -- the Winter Soldier allows himself a brief moment of amusement.
It'll take far more than a radio to stop him.
His next stop proves more promising. A salvage yard in the middle of the jungle sticks out like a sore thumb, its presence alone an affront to the surrounding greenery. It demands further examination, and like a ghost, the Winter Soldier slips inside.
Part I: With You In My Head
Jun. 29th, 2012 10:02 amSunlight filters in through the slatted window, painting the inside of his eyelids a vivid red that jars him from sleep. The Winter Soldier blinks, taking in a sharp breath as he sits up in the bed, and looks about the small room and its bare, wooden walls. The rest of the room is similarly spartan: an empty chair, a plain, large cabinet. There's a revolver under the pillow and a combat knife on the nightstand. This isn't the first night he's spent here, then, just the only one he remembers. He wonders how long he's been out, but dismisses it as irrelevant. It doesn't do to ask questions, he somehow knows. Not about this.
Standing, he flexes the fingers of his mechanical hand -- an upgrade from the last time. To touch it would be to mistake it for flesh, and it's almost by accident that he discovers the switch by the shoulder joint, the flesh bleeding away to reveal cool, uncompromising metal. The ghost of a smile materializes on his lips. For a moment he looks like a different man.
Better.
With no handler to greet him, he does a sweep of the room on his own. The facts are as simple as they are unusual. Tropical environment, probably some sort of hut or bungalow based on the construction. Early morning, judging by the sun. Among his uniform and usual tools of his trade, he finds Captain America's shield mounted above the collection of rifles in the weapons cabinet. Curious. Just the sight of it draws an instinctive, raw reaction. It must be a fake, he thinks, a decoy, some part of the mission he's yet to be briefed on, but before he has the chance to reach out, to pick it up, he hears movement outside the door.
Snapping to attention, he heads out into the hallway, the knife tucked into the back of his pajamas. Sharp eyes fall on a young man. Taller than himself and possessing the easy grace of the heavily trained, Winter Soldier relies on the lack of a hostile response to designate his company as friendly.
In Russian, he says, "Where were you? I've been up for ten minutes."
Standing, he flexes the fingers of his mechanical hand -- an upgrade from the last time. To touch it would be to mistake it for flesh, and it's almost by accident that he discovers the switch by the shoulder joint, the flesh bleeding away to reveal cool, uncompromising metal. The ghost of a smile materializes on his lips. For a moment he looks like a different man.
Better.
With no handler to greet him, he does a sweep of the room on his own. The facts are as simple as they are unusual. Tropical environment, probably some sort of hut or bungalow based on the construction. Early morning, judging by the sun. Among his uniform and usual tools of his trade, he finds Captain America's shield mounted above the collection of rifles in the weapons cabinet. Curious. Just the sight of it draws an instinctive, raw reaction. It must be a fake, he thinks, a decoy, some part of the mission he's yet to be briefed on, but before he has the chance to reach out, to pick it up, he hears movement outside the door.
Snapping to attention, he heads out into the hallway, the knife tucked into the back of his pajamas. Sharp eyes fall on a young man. Taller than himself and possessing the easy grace of the heavily trained, Winter Soldier relies on the lack of a hostile response to designate his company as friendly.
In Russian, he says, "Where were you? I've been up for ten minutes."
[for Natasha] valentine's day
Feb. 14th, 2012 07:44 pmIt starts and ends with a single flower: the first on her pillow, the last in a vase on her table, Bucky's one and only nod to the holiday's typical traditions.
The edicts of romance might demand for candies wrapped in red foil and cards inscribed with laughable puns to mark the date, but he's had his sights on something a bit grander for weeks. Never having much opportunity to celebrate Valentine's Day in the past, he thought it be fun to treat Natasha with something better than chocolate, creating a cat and mouse type chase across the Island that stretches old skills while being more playful than a simple training exercise, short, handwritten notes left behind at certain junctures to egg her on with the promise of a worthwhile prize at the end.
The prize ends up being a simple, candlelit dinner prepared in her own home, him wearing a tie, and a much needed reprieve from their real lives for a night. He's only just finished pouring the wine when he hears her approach from outside, and he walks to the front door to meet her halfway, freshly showered with his hair parted neatly to the side in a style that probably dates him, but suits him nevertheless.
"Right on time."
The edicts of romance might demand for candies wrapped in red foil and cards inscribed with laughable puns to mark the date, but he's had his sights on something a bit grander for weeks. Never having much opportunity to celebrate Valentine's Day in the past, he thought it be fun to treat Natasha with something better than chocolate, creating a cat and mouse type chase across the Island that stretches old skills while being more playful than a simple training exercise, short, handwritten notes left behind at certain junctures to egg her on with the promise of a worthwhile prize at the end.
The prize ends up being a simple, candlelit dinner prepared in her own home, him wearing a tie, and a much needed reprieve from their real lives for a night. He's only just finished pouring the wine when he hears her approach from outside, and he walks to the front door to meet her halfway, freshly showered with his hair parted neatly to the side in a style that probably dates him, but suits him nevertheless.
"Right on time."
[EP] dated for January 10th
Jan. 10th, 2012 12:57 amBucky had been counting the days to January 6th since the first of December, as eager to get his old arm back as he was for the initial change of scenery, but the date came and went with little ceremony and no magical return to the status quo. While he'd hesitate to call himself surly as a result of this, he hasn't exactly been a bucket of sunshine, either.
His temper short and his patience shot, Bucky's tried his damnedest to keep his chin up as the days stretch on, but there's only so much to be done about a clockwork arm that's been in a state of constant repair since the New Year. He's been going without it, lately, not wanting the hassle while he goes about his business, but this afternoon was meant to be the exception. He'd worn the damn thing so he could go get food for the house only for it to become dead weight before he could get to any shop. Closer to the Compound than he is to home, he ducks inside in the hopes he could fix the damn thing and go about this day, but even this plan doesn't go without obstacle.
Seated in the corner of the Rec Room, his left arm detached and laying motionless on a table, he's nearly done with the temporary patch up job when--
"Dammit," Bucky mutters under his breath, the tool he's using slipping from his grasp when he turns it a hair too hard and it catches. While he doesn't care to be doing such technical work out in the open in the first place, with limited options, he's making do. Still, frustrated, he backs up his chair and kneels to the ground to retrieve the screwdriver.
Distantly, he's aware he's attracted some attention, but at the moment, he doesn't care too much about saying hello.
A public EP, open to anyone; played in a private journal just because it's predated.
His temper short and his patience shot, Bucky's tried his damnedest to keep his chin up as the days stretch on, but there's only so much to be done about a clockwork arm that's been in a state of constant repair since the New Year. He's been going without it, lately, not wanting the hassle while he goes about his business, but this afternoon was meant to be the exception. He'd worn the damn thing so he could go get food for the house only for it to become dead weight before he could get to any shop. Closer to the Compound than he is to home, he ducks inside in the hopes he could fix the damn thing and go about this day, but even this plan doesn't go without obstacle.
Seated in the corner of the Rec Room, his left arm detached and laying motionless on a table, he's nearly done with the temporary patch up job when--
"Dammit," Bucky mutters under his breath, the tool he's using slipping from his grasp when he turns it a hair too hard and it catches. While he doesn't care to be doing such technical work out in the open in the first place, with limited options, he's making do. Still, frustrated, he backs up his chair and kneels to the ground to retrieve the screwdriver.
Distantly, he's aware he's attracted some attention, but at the moment, he doesn't care too much about saying hello.
A public EP, open to anyone; played in a private journal just because it's predated.
[marvel christmas party]
Dec. 23rd, 2011 03:02 pmAfter the year they've had, a small celebration for Christmas seems somewhat called for; it's a nice way to take stock of all that's happened and appreciate that they saw it through 'til the bitter end. The group gathered is, by and large, a disparate one, brought together by circumstances more so than pre-existing alliances, but while the likelihood of a fight breaking out is higher than it has any right to be, at least they can all take comfort in the fact that any property damage won't last beyond January.
Steve, especially, given that he volunteered to play host for the evening's gathering.
They took the better part of an afternoon to decorate the place, boughs of holly and all, and the finished result is undeniably festive, if Dickensian. With an assortment of local food and drinks laid out on a long table, a space cleared for dancing, and a small grouping of chairs off in the corner for those wanting to relax, they were set for an enjoyable night.
Or, at least, an interesting one.
[Details can be found here].
Steve, especially, given that he volunteered to play host for the evening's gathering.
They took the better part of an afternoon to decorate the place, boughs of holly and all, and the finished result is undeniably festive, if Dickensian. With an assortment of local food and drinks laid out on a long table, a space cleared for dancing, and a small grouping of chairs off in the corner for those wanting to relax, they were set for an enjoyable night.
Or, at least, an interesting one.
[Details can be found here].