twenty nine ✪ spam

[imfollowinghim]

[Closed Spam]

[The room is... familiar. He doesn't know why.

There are parts of it that look like the exhibit at the Smithsonian - the rifles stashed in the closet (M1 Garand, M1903 Springfield), the clothing folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet all look as though they've been removed from behind the glass and placed here for him. Then, he'd almost wanted to be able to touch, now, he's almost afraid to.

That doesn't stop him from touching the dark blue sleeve of the jacket one of the mannequins had been wearing. The fabric's different from how he thought it would. Softer, maybe.

(It looks black when its stained with blood.)

Some of it doesn't make sense. Plaid shirts, pieces of equipment that don't come from this time period - even he has a vague sense of technology, how much the world's changed, if only because of the museum - and then there's some of the weapons he's used, things he's been issued in the past for assignments, even though he doesn't remember how or when or what happened.

Everything except the last one. His one failed mission.

There's a bear dressed like Captain America sitting on one of the cabinets. He picks it up, holds it gently in his right hand, and there's a part of him - a vicious, violent, terrified part of him, no I don't! - that wants to rip it to shreds, but the thought makes bile rise in his throat. (Or would, if he'd eaten anything today.)

The bear is carefully returned to its place, and he decides he's seen enough. There's nothing for him in this room except more questions.]

[Open Spam]

[So he sets out onto the ship. He remembers the Admiral - it doesn't bother him that he doesn't remember what he looked like, or exactly what he'd said, he's been given a mission and he's going to fulfill it - and he remembers the helicarriers, remembers failing, remembers the inexplicable surge of terror and guilt at Captain America's - Steve Rogers, the museum said his name was Steven Grant Rogers - last words and the equally inexplicable relief he'd felt when the badly injured man had started breathing again on the shore of the polluted river. But the rest of it is still... not there. Blurry.

It gets worse the more he walks around. He's still wearing the jacket, shirt and jeans, the sleeve covering his left arm, and he keeps his hands shoved in the pockets to further prevent anyone noticing. The baseball cap's still tugged down over his dirty, too long hair as well, shielding his eyes a little as he tries to get his bearings, exploring what parts of the ship he has access to, trying to attract as little attention as possible.

(People are staring at him. No one at the museum had paid him much attention, not even as he stared at his own face blown up huge in black and white, but here, people are staring at him, and it makes him want to vanish. He hunches in on himself, and tries not to meet their curious eyes.)

The Admiral had said he'd been here before. He doesn't remember. This isn't like any facility or place he remembers, not at all, but at the same time, the more he looks, the more he feels some horrible sense that he's been here before, the same, strange feeling he'd had staring at the photo of his own face starting to settle in his gut.

He feels bad. Not injured, but... Ill. Compromised.

He takes a seat in the dining hall in the corner, with his back to the wall, holding a mug of coffee in his human hand, but not drinking it, even though his stomach complains to be filled with something. The lights flickering as he walks through the halls don't bother him, but he stops to inspect some of the lingering signs of violence and death that still stain the walls, crouching, leaning in close, and frowning.

The infirmary is avoided entirely, and he spends a long time on deck, watching the stars.

Something about them seems different. He doesn't like it.]

[Spam for Morgana, after he's got his memories back]

[It's all too much. Way too much. So he - Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes - runs, because he doesn't have a choice. He can't stay there, can't talk about it, doesn't know what to fucking do, because there's no where to hide on a cruise ship of the damned where someone won't be able to find you.

He can't go back to his room. Steve will find him there, or Helena, or Ben, or someone else, and he can't face them right now. Can't face any of them, and he feels more trapped and boxed in and terrified than he's ever been, overwhelmed by the weight of memory and the years he's suddenly got crushing down on him.

Some combination of conscious thought and instinct has him standing outside a familiar door, knocking anxiously, wondering if this is just as much of a mistake as the rest of this was. But how could he have known? What the fuck is the Admiral's problem?]

[ooc: Dillon and Jean are going to pounce him and give him his memories back, but until then, enjoy your new and improved brainwashed assassin in recovery, Barge.]

Comments

Dining Hall

[americasdirtiest]

[Whether he knows it or not, Bucky picked a pretty good time to pop back up if he's feeling off-kilter: so is every other damn person that stayed up on the Barge for the week. Mickey is no exception. It's a different kind of off-kilter than what Bucky's going through, but it's been enough to keep him solidly in his cabin since the tears closed. Sleeping, mostly, in fact.

But a guy's got to eat at some point, and eventually he runs out of whatever scraps and condiments are left in the fridge in his cabin. He's sitting down with a tray -- a huge stack of pancakes and a bigger cup of coffee -- when the guy in the corner catches his eye and he looks up, then squints.]

Barnes?

[It's probably not, though, he thinks immediately. Another twin, more likely.]

My bad. You new?

Dining Hall

[imfollowinghim]

[He was watching the young man with the tray of hot food - pancakes, his mind supplies, and suddenly his stomach growls even louder than it has been - and so there's a moment of tension when he realizes he's been noticed. That more than anything else, he knows he doesn't want. Even if he knows he doesn't want to go back to HYDRA - can't, anyway, doesn't know where to find his handlers if he tried - being unnoticed feels smarter, better, and it's much harder to do in a contained environment.

It's worse when he addresses him. It's that name again: Barnes.

(He remembers how his target had said it with such resignation and honest belief.)

He doesn't know what to do in the face of someone else knowing the name, or calling him by it, and something in him coils tensely, knowing he might have to lash out, but then the man drops it and whatever it was relaxes again. Slightly.]

Yes. [There's some relief at having that dropped so quickly, and he feels like he should look away, or drink the coffee, but he doesn't.

How does he know Barnes?]

Dining Hall

[americasdirtiest]

[Mickey and Bucky were never bosom buddies, but he knows Bucky just well enough to think of him as a clean-cut, stand-up kind of guy -- which to a Milkovich isn't always a compliment, but that aside, this dude clearly doesn't fit that particular profile. Bucky's face in someone else's trappings. Like Stephen and Zane, like Gene and Dillon -- he's learned to roll with it by now.

Hell, maybe it's someone he can get along better with. He's gotten enough rest that he's actually not looking too wrecked from the death tolls, but he's taken approximately zero pains to clean himself up since washing all the monster gore off and crashing into bed. His clothes are very obviously slept-in, his hair slept-on. Between that and his general... Mickey-ness, he's looking about as far from clean-cut as it gets.

So he offers the guy a bit of a smile.]

'Ey. I'm Mickey. Welcome to Hell -- get out while you still can, if you can.

halls somewhere :x

[orderfromchaos]

[When he comes around the corner of a stairwell, he stops cold, starting at Bucky, blinks to make sure this isn't some hallucination after the stress of being dead and wrangling an apocalypse. But Bucky is still there, and still - still -

So, okay, there were hints. The angle of Steve's eyelashes sometimes, watching Bucky. The extra millisecond before he smiled. But Dillon hadn't ever seen a person who's best friend got tortured and brainwashed into an enemy assassin before, and it's not like Steve didn't have plenty to feel awkward about in the history Dillon did know about, and-]

halls somewhere!!

[imfollowinghim]

[The kid is staring at him. He stops in his tracks, assessing, somewhere between wary and just flat out predatory before he remembers no, he needs to stay unnoticeable, blend in, except the people here recognize his face and know the name he'd been called while his target was bleeding to death in front of him.

He doesn't know what to do. He's feeling increasingly trapped, and when he realizes the look on the kid's face seems to be one of recognition, he freezes, pulse racing.

His head aches. There are too many conflicting images flickering behind his eyelids and against his better judgement, he squeezes them shut, digging the heel of his flesh and blood hand into his eye socket, gritting his teeth.]

[orderfromchaos]

[He realizes Bucky's caught him staring, hurries to say something, words stumbling out.]

Hey, it's okay, I'm -

[He almost says a healer, which is kissing cousins to doctor, bites his own tongue before he can, tastes blood for a moment before the cut seals.]

My name is Dillon. You, um - you helped me. Before.

[thelastbullet]

[He's slowly going back to his old routine: get up early, make breakfast, clear up and then have his own breakfast. Some of the death tolls are still working their magic, so he's got a pounding headache by the time he finishes his shift, but he's no longer puking every time he gets up, so that's a plus.

His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, giving him a casual air. To Bucky, though, there might be something about him that whispers danger. He's been on his toes since Omar robbed him (at fucking gunpoint), and then with the monster invasion... He's wound tight, tension lingering in his shoulders, in the way he walks towards a table near Bucky.

He sets his plate down with a deliberate clatter, then looks at Bucky for a few long seconds. He knows it could be the same as with Omar-- someone who had looked like Chalky, but definitely wasn't. His eyes aren't he same, the way he sits isn't the same. But his face is just so familiar that he has to ask. He'd thought Bucky had gone back- had died.]

Barnes?

[imfollowinghim]

[He was watching Jimmy out of the corner of his eye because yeah, there is something about him that suggests he could be a problem. Less a target and more someone who's going to get in the way, a body guard or other thug that he'd need to take out to make sure the mission was successful.

Another soldier. He recognizes that.

(Almost too much, and he doesn't know why, but he thinks of mud and rain and screaming when he risks an actual look at the man.)

He ignores Jimmy until he's addressed, and again, it's that name, and if he hadn't known by now that people here are all like Steve Rogers - they all recognize him as the dead man, Rogers' friend - he definitely knows now.

The look Jimmy gets in return might seem blank at first, but there's something stormy in his eyes. Barnes. They all know him as Barnes.]

[thelastbullet]

[He frowns when there's no verbal reaction, licks his lips while he assesses. The man's eyes are dark, violent, trouble in a way he thinks he recognizes. But not from Bucky.

So he shakes his head, then slips into his seat, right leg outstretched. It's a clear weakness, but not one he can disguise.]

My apologies. You look like someone who was here before, is all.

[youwillgotohell]

[Since seeing Guinevere on the barge - a boggart, though she doesn't know that - Morgana has been struggling to maintain some level of calm. An hour ago, she pulled out quill and ink, and has been stumbling through a letter to her friend for most of that time. Nearly everything is scratched out, full of sudden starts and abrupt stops: she's never sorted out what to say to Gwen, and she's beginning to doubt she ever will.

The knock at the door is welcome relief, and Morgana puts the quill down readily. When she opens the door, her eyes widen in surprise, pleased to see him, because she recognizes him immediately - and then her brow furrows as doubt sets in, bypassing that immediate connection in her brain that glimpsed his face and thought Bucky.

(She used to see his face and think Jefferson, but it's been so long now.)

For only a moment she hesitates, leaning against her door.]

Bucky? When did you get back?

[imfollowinghim]

[When the door opens - almost too quickly, and he finds himself talking a half step backwards like he's expecting a grenade or something to come out - Bucky just looks shocked, almost like he can't believe she's really there. Maybe he was hoping she wouldn't be. Maybe he wasn't sure if she'd remember - it feels like he's been gone for years - but now that he's looking at her, he's almost not certain if this was a good idea. If coming back at all was.

(He's also consciously aware for the first time in decades that he looks awful. His hair's a mess, he's unshaven, his clothes are ragged and filthy, and all of that's so inconsequential, but it makes him feel even more out of place, even more like he doesn't belong in his own skin.)

He's killed so many people. Innocent people, and now that he's not running through the hallways, he feels like the weight of that is crushing him. Maybe he's even going to be sick.]

I didn't know where else to go, [He blurts out, voice cracking. He's suddenly not certain he can look at her, and it's hard to breathe.

Jesus Christ, he'd tried to kill Steve. He's killed so many people.]

[youwillgotohell]

[For all their differences - and she has always known there were many, despite the easy way they've always gotten on - there is something so achingly familiar in him now that Morgana knows letting him leave would be a terrible idea.

She reaches out, slow and gentle, and lays a careful hand on his forearm.]

Come inside.

[She waits, doesn't pull her hand away until she's sure he will; only then does she step out of his way. She's tempted to just pull him in, but she knows how she might have reacted to that, once.]

LATE FOREVER

[maced_eggs]

[Squinting across the dining hall, Mason has to stare - really stare - at poor Bucky.

He's not the sharpest tool in the drawer, but he can't help but feel something's off. There are face twins on the Barge, of course, but who's to say what is and isn't real?

After a second, he shoves himself out of his seat to wander over]

Oi.

I'M LATE TOO NW

[imfollowinghim]

[He looks up at the new arrival, expression more or less blank. There's no recognition, no whisper of memory like there had been with his last target, and he's not sure if this person is just talking to him because he wants something else, or if he, too, knew the man who shares his face.

So basically, the scary, scruffy looking former assassin is staring at you without saying anything, Mason. What's up?]

[maced_eggs]

[Disappointed it's not Bucky, Mason drops into the seat across from him, setting his chin on his folded arms, his arms folded on the table]

How d'you do, mate? M'Mason.

[ Spam ]

[warisart]

[Ben is not one of those fortunate enough to have avoided death tolling; worse than that, this one has really knocked him flat for no reason he can pinpoint. He is still designed to take damage without flinching, he was hale and hearty before and has everything at his disposal to make a swift recovery now. Everything, anyway, except motivation. He is more at a loss than he has been in a long time, though he knows that Abigail needs him, that Anya needs him, that there are people here depending upon him. None of that can get him out of the infirmary bed any faster, and he can't tell if he should be more upset about that or not, but he is what he is and it takes as long as it takes.

Even when he's back on his feet he feels mostly numb. He isn't remotely in any kind of shape to run his kitchen shift but he shows up anyway, lets in whoever has shown up for work that day, and props himself up against one of the counters to wait it out. This is where he is, idly watching the comings and goings and proceedings out in the dining hall, when he notices someone new.

This is where he is when he realizes it's not someone new at all. Ben's eyes narrow and he pushes off the counter, moves carefully - he can still feel the hole in his gut, still feel the weight crushing down on his chest, even though both are long gone - across the distance, and stops at the man's left elbow.]

Would you like a refill, sir? [Ben's voice is rough and weak, sounds like it might be painful to force himself to speak, which it is; he ignores it, watching steadily for a reaction, to know whether he is right or he is wrong.]

[ Spam ]

[imfollowinghim]

[Something in him recognizes the tone of voice almost instinctively. He's not certain if it's because it reminds him of himself, or of something he used to know, but he stares at Ben and knows he was in pain. Is in pain.

It bothers him. He doesn't know why. He's never felt much of anything hearing people in pain, or when they're begging for their lives, or the life of someone else. At least, he hadn't on his last mission, so he thinks it must be true for his others, because he knows there have to have been others. He remembers the chair, too. Vaguely. So he doesn't understand, because he's never really felt this before - empathy - and he doesn't have a name for it or know what to do with it.

Well, except for that one time.

So he just winds up staring at Ben for several seconds too long while he tries to work out the correct thing to say here. If he even wants to say anything at all.

(Why did he call him sir? No one's called him that. No one really calls him anything to his face, not like that.)]

No, [He settles on, feeling uncertain. Is that the correct response? He isn't sure. And doesn't know how this is supposed to move forward from here, either.]

Deck

[whatthefoxsay]

[Kira's looking a little worse for wear, but things are starting to look up. She's on deck patrol; funny how the sight of the stars do a lot to lift her spirits, even if she's not a celestial kitsune.

For a moment she mistakes the man at the rail for a stranger, but then he turns his head and she lights up - in the metaphorical sense.]

Bucky!

[She darts toward him, hopefully he's prepared for fox-tackling huggery. Or not.]

Deck

[imfollowinghim]

[It's the name that saves her from being instinctively thrown on the deck, or flipped over his shoulder, or both. Something - and he isn't sure what, because the last person who'd called him that certainly hadn't been shown any mercy (until he had been) - stops him from reacting violently, grabbing her by the throat with his metal arm or sweeping her legs out from under her or any of it, but he does sidestep the hug quickly, staring at her with haunted, confused eyes.]

Sorry.

[It seems like the right thing to say, even if he's not sure he's actually sorry.

(Except he is. Maybe.)]

[voluntaryapnea]

[He's still not sure what to make of how things are with Dean, or Scott, and he's still not sure what they should do about holding people accountable for their actions that doesn't involve locking them away in Zero, and after awhile of thinking about these things, he has to get the hell out of his cabin and get some air. He makes his way to the deck of the ship, barely paying attention to the other man at first.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the stars, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. There's something, though, that catches his attention and he turns his head to look at the man more closely, eyes widening after a second. He looks radically different than the last time Stiles saw him, but -- ]

Bucky?

[imfollowinghim]

[Who the hell is Bucky?

He blinks quickly, not sure where that came from. Not at all. Did he say that? When? He doesn't remember, but at the same time, something is nagging at him, like feeling a splinter under your skin. Or shrapnel, too small to really hurt, but enough to notice, and feel strange. Annoying.

Belatedly, he turns towards Stiles and just stares at him, expression almost entirely blank. There's something haunted and hollow about his eyes - he hasn't been sleeping much (not that he needs to) - and he hasn't shaved in a while, but at least he's not going in for the kill, or looking like he might easily be startled into doing just that.

He doesn't say anything. Is he Bucky? Everything points to yes, but he doesn't remember, and isn't certain he wants to.]

Spam;

[velocette]

[He sees him by chance, because today his hearing has been gone close to 80% of the time so there's no point looking at the various video (or worse, the audio) feeds from the rest of the ship.

It's probably a bad idea to look at Bucky with recognition. Plenty of people go and come back, and they all resent being treated as if they were here all along. But not so long ago, he and Steve had talked about him, and even if the only conversation the Motorcycle Boy can have right now is written or sign language, he's curious. So he turns, watches him. Follows, for no particular reason.]

Spam;

[imfollowinghim]

[Honestly, it's a worse idea to trail him like this. He notices - of course he notices - and it sets him deeply, deeply on edge. Makes him think about difficult extractions, mission objectives that aren't yet complete, being caught and dragged back to the chair after going... somewhere, and screaming, screaming when they took him back.

(The last thought makes him blink quickly, confused, because the memory is missing pieces and he has no idea how to deal with it, or any of this.)

So his shoulders tense, and he starts intentionally trying to lose him. It's casual enough, but the longer it continues, the more tense and wary he gets, and the more likely it is that he'll wind up slamming the other man up against a wall with his metal arm and choking him into unconsciousness.

No one is taking him back. No one.]

private voice; so backdated ugh

[adelphoktonos]

[Helena, by necessity, notices body language. It's easy to tell Dillon and Gene apart even from far away, the ways they move and hold themselves, the unconscious language in their flesh. Twins on the Barge come from different worlds. They aren't the same as her copies or the same as Sarah. Their doubled faces put her on alert and she takes notice carefully so she can spot the differences, tell them apart.

So when she sees him in the hall, sees Bucky's face under long hair, his body under clothes in a style that isn't his, she trails him, watchful but distant. It hurts, a dull ache in her gut because she wants it to be her warden, wants it so fiercely it burns inside her; maybe the burn is making her see something that isn't there. This man is watchful and nervous but not even close to panic. She knows how Bucky moves and he doesn't move like Bucky does. Except... He does, too. There's something in him, in the way he turns a corner and his shoulders shift a certain way, something in his stride as she watches him pause to inspect a wall, the way he looks back at her even though she sees no recognition in his eyes.

Uncharacteristically, she doesn't follow him for too long, giving up and going back to her own room instead, etching dark pictures on the walls and picking at the new blood-crusted scabs on her shoulderblades. It's much later that she's told that it really is him, that she wasn't wrong, that he didn't remember things properly when he first came back but he should now. After she finds out, she does go to his room but he never turns up there. She waits for a long time before going back to her own cabin again. It's later still that she sends him a message, back in the bed that had belonged to Elizabeth Childs. She keeps to voice, low and thick-accented; she doesn't have the patience to type or the faith in her own ability to keep her emotions from her face.]

Serzhant.

[A statement, not a question.]

private text; pretend there is text formatting here 8v

[imfollowinghim]

[He's been expecting this, and he's nervous and guilty and relieved to hear from her all at once. He knows she'll likely be upset he didn't go to her first, or tell her immediately, or reach out by himself, even if she won't say it, the same way Steve probably will, but he just... Couldn't. He didn't want to face her or Steve or anyone, really, and the only reason he'd sought out Morgana was knowing that she would understand parts of this and not push about the rest of it.

So it takes him a moment to respond, and when he does, he can't bring himself to switch on the video or audio feeds. Not yet.]

Hi Helena.