07 | We All Have a Face That We Hide Away Forever

[sinistral]

WHO: the Soldier/the Winter Soldier (sinistral) and you
WHERE: Sh'Ka
WHAT: after helping Beck escape, the Winter Soldier was sent off-world for a mission; he's physically returned but mentally there's still a battle...
WHEN: conspicuously after Calibrations ended, for which he was conspicuously absent
WARNINGS: possible violence (please don't make me write a fight scene I'm not good at it); possible mention of violence; possible mention of mind control and actions performed without consent

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SH'KA
→ Δ; Delta; Closed to Billy;

Sh'Ka. Or what appeared to be Sh'Ka; the Winter Soldier recognized that his current location didn't match his previous, but in trying to catalog the details of that previous locale he found he couldn't clearly capture them. It frustrated him, one of the few emotions he could feel. He needed to focus though; he didn't know how much time had elapsed since his last visit, or even since the start of the day. His main concern was shelter: hidden and defensible, and unknown to others.

He had equipment here in the city. Supplies. None of that could be trusted. No one—

He rolled his shoulder, the motion causing a ripple in the plating all down his left arm, and rose from his crouch behind a half-collapsed wall. He could still manage for half a day without sustenance, making the search for a place to shelter the highest priority. Enough of Sh'Ka was rock and rubble, grey and green and red—

Red red blood on the rocks on his hands on his face and it should be warm but all he knows is cold, cold, cold—

Red but not blood; the flutter of fabric on a breeze and a body wrapped in (impossible!) stars, a figure so viscerally real it hit the Winter Soldier as a physical blow.

→ η; Eta; Closed to Reeve;

The quiet hours of twilight and predawn, with the night in between, felt the most comfortable to him. The days seemed too unnaturally long; the alien sun had too piercing a gaze. Night harbored the dangerous things; he belonged to it.

Night let him slip into the greenhouse when he needed food. Not enough for his metabolism to truly be satisfied but enough to remain functional, especially supplemented with what he could gather from the trees. The big house seemed to hold some amenities but too much in activity; he ruled it out quickly. That left the fountain— or—

He sat on the lip surrounding the basin. The fountain, or something related to it, was important for some reason. He didn't know why, or to what part of him it pertained. Water, but that didn't feel right. Power, but again it didn't resonate completely. Something of a sense of watching, but also of physical work. That he really couldn't reconcile.

Too soon he finished eating the meager meal — and not soon enough, as true morning was nearly upon him. He still needed to secure a place to rest, and to perhaps attempt to sort out the new confusion sitting by the broken fountain caused.

→ ε; Epsilon; Open;

It didn't matter which personality had control; both were highly skilled in moving covertly and Sh'Ka's landscape certainly aided that pursuit. When the Soldier didn't want to be found he could evade most people, and right now he didn't want to be found.

Except—

He shook his head and pressed his right hand to his temple; the migraine from this morning showed no signs of abating. Add to that the feeling (paranoia?) of being followed; he committed to a circuitous route to his temporary shelter and already cursed the distance. But a straight path would lead his pursuit right to—

Boots on pavement; harsh voices; crisp winter air. Training exercise, training exercise, training accident——

A sharp inhale; the exhale a curse emphatically muttered in Russian. Look right, look left, step—

And whirl around, knife in hand to meet the threat.

→ μ; Mu; Wildcard;

Open to other ideas. Please reach out to me at sometimesamuse or via PM for plotting needs. As always while I write starters in prose I'm happy to match brackets if that's your preference.

Comments

I knew you'd appreciate that

[sinistral]

A puppet might be a more apt analogy than anything else. An empty shell; a weapon to be pointed and fired, nothing more. And as Beck clearly demonstrated, no sense in trying to be anything more.

"I don't have a name," he answered. Persistent, something told him; he probably needed to prepare himself for the inevitable follow up questions.

He looked back over his shoulder: still following, while still answering questions. Was that typical? Something about following, yes, but not like this. He didn't know; trying to think about it made his head hurt. "Does that matter?"

[usedtobesmoller]

"Everyone has a name," Steve argued automatically. Probably not the best course of action here, but this was uncharted territory for him. Probably for the man before him as well. Steve considered the second comment a bit longer before responding and closing the distance between them just a little bit.

"And I'd say it matters. I'd like to know if the person I'm talkin' to knows who I am or if I haveta introduce myself. My ma raised me with manners..." He tried to say all that lightly, like a joke. For all the good that might do him.

[sinistral]

"I don't." Not the first time he'd had this talk. Probably not the last either. And probably yet another person who wouldn't understand it either. Then again the Soldier rarely put in the effort to try explaining; not anymore. The conversation always exhausted and frustrated him.

He turned around finally, looking at the smaller man and then looking away. "You're a headache. Not a metaphorical one; I have a headache."

[usedtobesmoller]

Steve frowned, not sure how to take that information.

"I'm sorry? But I do know enough about medical services here that I could help you out with that? If you wanted?"

[sinistral]

"No." A flat out refusal met the offer, in a tone that brooked no arguments. Doctors, labs, medical-adjacent things; they were all off the (operating) table. He'd rather the migraine a hundred times over.

Extreme? Yes. But he had his reasons, none of which he wanted to share. "Medical treatment is unnecessary."

[usedtobesmoller]

Steve remembered the chair from Bucky's memories and almost punches himself for being so stupid. Of course no medical attention. Still...

Steve jogs a little to walk closer to the man's peripheral vision. "I'd be the one helping you out," he clarifies, thanking God for the first time that he was so small. "Just in case you decide you do want it. Got no powers or anything like that. Sooner have an asthma attack than be able to hurt ya..."

[sinistral]

Medical treatment really was unnecessary. Even the migraines, as bad as they could get, passed given enough time. This one would be no different.

"No," he repeated. "Maintenance is not required." Operational efficiency had not regained its peak but he didn't need high performance for the current situation, at least as far as he could tell. Physical threat remained small (haha, small); emotional threat did not apply. Mental threat—

Well. He wasn't exactly stable in the first place, so it hardly mattered.

[usedtobesmoller]

"Okay," Steve conceded. If anyone knew when to stop pushing someone to get medical attention, it's him. Still, he followed behind this man as best he could. Quietly at first and for as long as he could manage. After a few minutes he had to take a quick puff of his inhaler to offset the fast clip he was maintaining. Clearing his lungs clearly meant it was time to attempt conversation again.

Lucky Not-Bucky.

"So. Uh. I'm Steve. Steve Rogers." He waited a second to see if that had any reaction.

[sinistral]

At least he stopped offering medical treatment. Occasionally someone simply didnt, and kept insisting passed the point where the Soldier ran out of patience. Why it was so hard to let things drop, he didn't understand. Maybe common sense — and common courtesy — really wasn't that common after all.

He sighed after that introduction and stopped walking, turning to face his follower. "What do you want?"

[usedtobesmoller]

It wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting, good or bad. Instead it was just a question and one Steve didn't have a great answer for. "Nothing," he said honestly. He didn't want anything from the other man. Except, maybe, to make sure he was as alright as he could possibly be. Maybe.

He stood still a moment, not sure how to navigate this interaction at all.

"If you want me to, I can leave," he offered. "I'm not fool enough to think you're the Bucky I knew. You don't owe me nothin'. I...just. I guess I just want you to know I'm around if you need help or anything. No questions asked. Probably don't remember it, but I didn't like any of those myself, back when I needed it."

[sinistral]

"No one comes to find me unless they want something." Casual social calls? Not for this assassin. Always they had some kind of motive, selfish or otherwise. He didn't allow himself delusions of personhood. He was a weapon with a unique skillset and not much more.

"You don't need to waste your time." Which was all it would be, in the end. "There is another man with a similar face. You can find him if you wish a friend."

[usedtobesmoller]

"I don't want anything," Steve pushed. He didn't make any movement but his body swayed forward, irresistibly, directed by his own insistence.

"And I'm not wastin' my time. Bucky and me are friends here but that ain't the point. You're not him. If it helps, I can pretend you're not Bucky at all. I'm not here to make you who you were or into him. I just..." It was hard to explain.

"I got precious few opportunities to be of help to people, here. I don't have super strength or anythin', I'm sick all the time... So. If I can help you? I want to. Not 'cause you used to be Bucky. I just... wanna help you."

[sinistral]

"Yes you do." A shrug; everyone wanted something at some point. Maybe he'd find out what eventually, maybe not. It mattered little. The Soldier's opinion on it mattered less; he knew that remained constantly no matter which side of him was in charge. "Maybe you don't know what, but everyone wants something."

He shook his head — which didnt help the headache at all — and crossed his arms over his chest. Defensive? Possibly. Over it? Definitely. "I told you already. I don't have a name. I'm not whoever you think I am. No pretending; that's reality."

He remained quiet for a long moment. "You'd help yourself more by forgetting you met me."