ARRIVAL LOG 023

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam (with references to other parts of the world)
WHEN: May 21, 2512
WHAT: The twenty-third arrival
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy, references to natural disasters and lost and missing people as a result.

> ARRIVAL LOG #023

On the evening of the 21st, the ground throughout the world begins to tremor and shake. To the citizens of New Amsterdam, this may feel familiar. So soon after their exit from the simulation, they find themselves in the middle of catastrophe and the feeling of anxiety moving through their stomachs is almost expected. They half-expect reports of a creature surfacing just outside of the city walls, ready to destroy everything inside. Like before. But—thankfully—no creature rises up to destroy the city this time.

Instead, news reports begin to funnel in about what truly happened: an earthquake erupted along the fault lines near Adelaide Island in Antarctica. Early projections show this earthquake to be an 8.2 on the Richter scale, and it's led to devastating effects in other cities in the southern hemisphere: New Lima, New Buenos Aires, New Santiago, New Cape Town, and New Johannesburg. Due to their proximity to Antarctica, each of these locations suffers greatly once the earthquake hits, and the news reports in the following days will report on numerous losses and disappearances of people due to the catastrophic damage. For once, it's not New Amsterdam that's in danger, but that doesn't mean things are any better. For the Displaced who have friends and loved ones down in Antarctica, now might be the time to worry about their whereabouts.

As for the rest of the cities, they are impacted by near-constant aftershocks and each of them goes into a state of intentional brownouts, limiting the power everywhere so that none of the grids are completely knocked offline. As a result, all public transit, trains between megacities, and excessive intracity traffic is halted. Anyone traveling by train between cities will be sitting tight for a while. The good news is that the staff on the maglev trains are prepared for circumstances such as this one, and they're well stocked in food, water, and other requirements to ensure that passengers are taken care of for at least up to seven days. (Don't worry, these intercity trains will be back up in at least 24 hours.)

News reports pour in, most of them questioning how an earthquake of this magnitude could happen without any signs. While seismologists still struggle to predict when an earthquake will occur, they typically have an idea. The active volcano on Deception Island should have been a clue of brewing trouble in Antarctica, but there was little evidence of any signs of future eruptions in numerous reports. These same scientists are left baffled, indicating that they need "more time to go over their findings." There is also the unusual additional factor: that the tremors are felt as far north as New Oslo and New St. Petersburg. How could this happen, and what does it mean about scientists' knowledge of the movement of tectonic plates? And why were cities like New Johannesburg and New Cape Town just as disrupted? How common is it for an earthquake of that magnitude to reach that far?

> RIP ZOMBIE WALK

Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound and light, color, sensation. Hazy and difficult to grasp on to, but slowly aligning into focus. A series of regular, rhythmic beeps. A medicinal, astringent smell. The sensation of movement, a low hum and accompanying vibration under you. Your eyes are heavy, hard to keep open, but in the glimpses between slow, dark blinks you see two people in front of you: one dressed in a thick set of armor, while the other wears medical garb. Out the windshield in front, there are many tall buildings—all reaching up beyond a normal city skyline, all entirely too close to the vehicle itself. But more than that, many of those buildings are covered in green.

You realize there are others next to you: all dressed the same way as you, you'll come to realize: in tattered, worn down clothes, some covered in a blood-like stain that spreads from their mouth downward. To your left there's an armored interior door, two more people visible, and the movement of streets passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips.

You feel the vehicle lower to the ground and hover in place. "Boss just called," the driver calls from the front. "There's been a change of plans. Something's happened again, so they've cancelled their dumbass walk and these guys have gotta be taken to that bar again."

"Is it happening here?" A voice behind you. You're unable to turn to look. "Fuck, New Amsterdam is a shithole! And these guys—they always seem to be right next to it."

"No, not here. Down south. Antarctica looks like ground zero." A woman's voice. She's larger and formidable, and the others seem to look at her with deference. She clears her throat. "Get moving. Reports are coming in that say we're going to be sitting ducks for the night. I don't want one of these people looking for us."

The vehicle raises up, and after about fifteen more minutes of driving, comes to a stop outside of a bar with a bright red sign declaring it as "Red Wings."

The guards move to start to unbuckle you one by one, helping you to your feet. Your limbs will feel wooden and heavy, slow to move. The formidable guard from before heads to the back of the vehicle and pushes open the doors, and the air outside is humid, spraying light water all over your face. That same guard steps out and waits for everyone to be moved from the vehicle to the front of the business.

"Listen up. We're usually subtler about this, but plans got changed. Now you don't get to be a bunch of zombies—which, personally, I felt was fitting. And your makeup artists—" there are a couple of uncomfortable grunts inside of the vehicle, so it's obvious that the nurses were probably those very same artists "—will be sad that you won't get your big premiere. Too bad. Now, once I'm done, get inside and wait for the people who glow like you to bring you to the place underneath the garage. Don't hurt anyone, don't look for cops—just behave. Now, if you'll excuse me—" She heads back into the vehicle, pulling the doors closed behind her.

The guard will hop back into the van, which will rise off of the ground and head back the way it came, turning the corner of a building that you now realize is covered in winding plants and vines. Once it's gone, you'll find your legs moving almost without your permission, guiding you to follow the steps the guard laid out.

Needless to say, given that this dropoff was planned for New Amsterdam's Annual Zombie Walk, no one's dressed for the occasion of sitting in a bar. Between sticky makeup and fake blood, everyone who's just walked in looks a bit out of place. To make it worse, only about fifty percent of the makeup is done well. The other fifty percent? Well … they probably look like bloody, unhappy clowns. Whoops!

◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request – and that includes the message passed on from the mysterious patron.

> NEW AMSTERDAM (AND RED WINGS)

The message from El comes the same as usual: insistent, not waiting for any active attempt to open it. Scrolling within your vision as if being written while you're reading it.

It's getting a little weird how they keep dropping the newbies off at your front door. But, considering what's going on? I guess it's understandable. Those aren't actually zombies shambling into the Red Wings—they're more Displaced. Go ahead and get them settled, if you can. Those of you who are still in New Amsterdam, anyway.

Once the new set of Displaced step inside of Red Wings, they'll find that it's modeled after a sports bar in the 20th or 21st centuries, complete with multiple people sitting around and watching what appears to be various projector screens. However, to the newcomers, there is nothing on. Frankly, thanks to the quarthquake in Antarctica, any sporting events have been halted or temporarily postponed thanks to the controlled brownouts throughout all of the megacities. Right now, all that's playing are the worldwide news networks.

But still: even as the patrons of Red Wings begin to clear out, these newcomers are here to stay for now. So what is Red Wings, exactly?

◉ Aesthetically, Red Wings is a retro tribute to the lost city of Detroit. It's all red neon, cars and sports memorabilia, with all fittings and decor elements physical where possible as a nod to the era. There is also some artwork dedicated to Motown and its significance within the city, and there is a section of the digital sound system for Motown.

◉ The main area is spacious, with stools at the bar and plenty of room for booths and standing space. One area is reserved for the physical darts board and pool table, which are permanent installations.

◉ There is also a function room available for private bookings and smaller events, though this is currently not quite as nicely done up as the main space.

◉ The bar has multiple neural interface screens installed throughout to make sure there's always an easy view of the game, with one larger screen set up over the bar itself for Big Game days. Unfortunately, this won't be available to the newcomers as they don't have their neural implants set up yet, but they'll be able to gather that the other people here seem to be watching a screen they can't see.

◉ Drinks include a range of the finest craft beers, popular spirits and a basic cocktail menu, but newbies won't have any money to their name just yet, so they'll have to rely on the kindness of strangers if they want something to eat or drink.

◉ Naturally, there will be some people working at the bar and others who are just there to hang out, but either way the newcomers should have plenty of people on-hand to explain the situation. With more on the way, potentially.

Further details about Red Wings and the staff can be found at this post put together by our Stephen Strange player, as he's one of the owners of the bar! Most of the information above was borrowed from this post.

For any of the Displaced who aren't present in Red Wings when the new arrivals show up, New Amsterdam is currently in a state of "low power." As tremors continue to rock the world and brownouts are the mandated rule of the land, public transit has come to a halt, and most rideshare services shut down. No one is able to share their vehicle in a charging station, so anyone who's looking to move will need to do it on foot. If they're aiming to welcome someone, they can only hope they're near Red Wings rather than far.

While Red Wings almost has no choice but to stay open given the circumstances (that is, the newcomers), many restaurants around the city close for the day. Power restrictions mean that they can't run central air or most appliances to cook large amounts of food, so they send their employees home. That means that Red Wings can only sell premade food and beer right now. Frankly, the beer might just be enough to help weather this storm.

As a result of the uncertainty elsewhere in the world—and the odd feeling of not being the epicenter of it—New Amsterdam citizens take to the streets to think of the people who are struggling in the wake of this devastating earthquake. If there's ever a city that knows what it's like to fall on hard times, it's New Amsterdam. Impromptu messages of hope and love, combined with drawings of varying qualities hit the sides of buildings throughout the city. Anyone who joins in can feel free to do so, but surveillance is still up all around the city. It might be a good idea to be careful.

Otherwise, one of the side effects of what happened in the simulation is that there's a greater sense of neighborly feeling. People take to their apartment hallways or all head down to the ground floor because their central air isn't running and they spend time together. If someone's feeling antisocial, they're going to have to be creative to duck these crowds. It might be time to bond when people least want it.

> SAFEHOUSE

Located under an abandoned hover-bike garage, access to the safehouse is a hatch in the floor beside a rusted set of metal shelves that used to hold tools and supplies. The immediate area is similarly abandoned: full of rundown and dilapidated warehouses and forgotten businesses, where numerous people squat in hopes of having some stability because they can't afford a place themselves. Because of the circumstances outside, Gaby won't be available at this time. Anyone new will need to rely on the other Displaced, or they can reach out to El. They can contact El through zeir inbox, if needed.

The safehouse is a large space with multiple rooms for storage, with the largest of the rooms filled with rows of basic cots set up to sleep a large number of people. Basic, but outfitted with everything necessary for daily life. A few doors lead to back rooms for storage, medical care and a large communal bathroom, and past the long rows of cots there is a communal kitchen, fully stocked, and an eating area. For anyone in need of them, Gaby will offer up partitions that will come out of storage. Tucked away in a corner is a VR system, though newcomers won't be able to access this until their ID has been set up. Even with the newly erected partitions in the sleeping areas, privacy is at a minimum.

◉ New characters will be asked to pick their beds, and provided with a change of (second-hand, mismatched and somewhat threadbare) clothes and basic toiletries.

◉ There is a mini-bar set up in the kitchen. The quality of the alcohol inside is akin to what someone might get from the well at a bar, but it's well-stocked.

◉ While the kitchen has basic foods and necessities, anyone looking for a jolt of caffeine from coffee or tea will find themselves sorely lacking. The only tea present is herbal in nature, and caffeine appears to be almost nonexistent in most of the beverages lying around.

◉ Gaby will make it clear to all new arrivals that if they have any requests or queries, they should contact her or El. Either she or El will explain that they've been given a modest stipend of credits to help them get by until they can find a job. This will be enough to cover their living expenses for about a month while they hang out in the safehouse, if they're careful with budgeting.

◉ The drugs making new characters compliant will remain in their systems for a few hours after their arrival at the safehouse before finally beginning to fade. They will be gone entirely after a night's rest. In the meantime, they may want to be careful of what others say to them.

◉ New characters will be given rudimentary access to the network on arrival in the safehouse, but will not have their ID set up yet. They will be able to make posts and replies, but their messages will be anonymous and they do not have inboxes yet.

◉ New characters do not have access to the internet until their ID is setup. They only have limited access because they're present in the safehouse, but they can't surf the rest of the internet, check out Cooltalk, or watch the equivalent of Netflix until their ID is made.

◉ New characters cannot leave the safehouse at this time. The hatch is locked tight for them, making it impossible for them to get out for the next four days while they're locked inside. There won't be any immediately obvious ways to cut their way out through turning off the power.

◉ New characters will not be allowed to leave the safehouse until MAY 25 (JULY 19). These 4 days are for them to adjust, learn about the world they've arrived in from their fellows, and for El to speak with them and work on setting up their IDs.

> DREAM A LITTLE DREAM

As the Displaced fall to sleep that night, they'll find themselves freezing, reliving the experiences for a group that's not with them—not right now, not when the world is currently being rocked by unusual, seemingly unnatural tremors. Perspective moves and shifts. First, it's someone carefully stepping over the rock solid ice, heading into a lab. Then: it's someone who's sick, a different someone, heading in to take in fluids and spend some time alone. Then: it's someone collecting a sample, bagging it gingerly. The viewpoint changes over and over. There's no chance to see who it is—no opportunity for someone to wait to hear their name called.

Again and again and again.

Until it seems as if the earth begins to shudder. No, not shudder. It's not unlike a body trying to unearth itself from the ice, trying to plunge forward, but there is so very much in the way. The ground opens up in countless places, the volcano roars with unhappiness in the distance, and then it gets worse—

Then death threatens to sweep in. The dream shifts to one of three others:

THE FIRST
These soldiers walk at night to reach their destination. In the night hours, the only sign they shuffle forward is the golden glow of their eyes as they stare out into the darkness. They move in formation, side by side. It's difficult to make out who or what gives off this glow, at least until they come under the dim light of the moon overhead. It turns out that these soldiers are only men, after all.

They come into view in the morning. This scene repeats, each time with a different set of soldiers:

The Macedonians wearing a Chilton and Chlamys, and fully booted feet.

The Romans: marching in tidy formation wearing a galea and Lorica hamata, complete with the scutum shield.

The crucesignati: heading to Jerusalem to fight in the name of their god, marked with a cross and a heightened holy purpose.

The light cavalry of the Mongol Empire: dodging left and right, maneuvering with ease.

Napoleon's army dressed in the blue "National Uniform": white front and pants, red piping, and a blue and gold hat with a red plume at the top.

Men crawling in the trenches, angling to survive. Most of them will not.

US soldiers landing on the shores of Normandy. What lies ahead could change the course of everything.

They who fight—for purpose, for their love of their country or leader, or because there is no other choice but to fight. Some bear hatred in their hearts. Others deny that hatred. Some fight for honor, for glory. Some fight because it's the last resort.

No matter what: their eyes always glow gold in the dark.

THE SECOND
They surface bit by bit. Enraged and yet driven by purpose. Their minds are difficult to parse, to understand. In this, no one is in their head, but viewing them. No, instead, they are the earth these creatures move through, bit by bit, plowing through the soil and digging their way up. They are the plants torn asunder and distorted in nature. They are the water: turned black and brown and a light red, spoiled by their arrival as they surface for the first time in centuries.

These creatures are large and small, many legged and lacking any legs at all. They merge together and come apart as they disrupt the land around them, ripping it to shreds.

Vengeance drives them. They have a purpose, a reason to fight, and to win, and to bring victory to what matters.

No one else deserves that win, not anymore.

They surface everywhere: New Johannesburg, right into the ruins of the city. New Oslo, ripping the large green expanse of the upper portion of the city to shreds. New Tokyo, climbing up the metal bearings of the city, beginning to wear down and rust at the steel holding it together.

All anyone can do is watch these beings surge into battle.

THE THIRD
They are here for one reason: to find it. The others aren't as equipped, as prepared. They're lesser in comparison, forced to belittle themselves. Some are better protected, better able. But they can't find what they're seeking. They know what it is that they're looking for, though they lack the senses, the certainty.

(Has it been that long?)

(How long could it be?)

They rove in packs through the city. Their maker is far away. Their birth happened not long ago, shedding off the side of the large creature as it tore into the city to set the stage. To take the first strike. To declare war.

They smell it at first. They rove forward. But they're divided. Split into different packs. Different groups. The smell isn't strong, isn't concentrated. It goes this way and that.

They see it in their minds, but it fades in and out: the blue. That's what they're seeking.

Blue.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed out of the safehouse until MAY 25 (JULY 19), and until that date will appear as "@anonymous" on the network. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up.

For the dreams: please comment to the dreams header below. If you have multiple characters, please limit it to one. Only characters present in New Amsterdam will be having a dream!

This arrival log builds on the setup from our Antarctica log. Anyone who is present in Antarctica cannot be present in New Amsterdam (for the time being, though we've provided instructions in that log on how they can return).

We'll be outlining the event this all leads to in our OOC Event Planning Post, which goes up on JULY 13, 2020.

If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below.

The July CR meme for the month is here.

Please check out our July calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month, as well as some additional notes from the mods.

AC remains halved this month due to the state of the world right now. New players will only need to provide at least five comments across two-four (2-4) threads, while older players will only need to provide ten comments across two-four (2-4) threads. Please let us know if you have any questions about this!

> NAVIGATION

Comments

[bornrussian]

[Literal bile is rising at the back of Natasha's throat, and she's trying to breathe through it, but it feels as if her clenched teeth might be the only thing keeping her from throwing up.

The offer is distraction enough to pull her back from the ledge. Her breathing stops when he pulls out the knife.

Even though his hand is metal, Natasha touches only the knife as she takes it from him. She doesn't know the rules of touch well enough to risk it. The weight of the blade in her hand settles something.

They're the same, the two of them. Drop either one of them naked in the middle of nowhere and they're both still lethal (him a little bit more, perhaps, what with the metal arm and all), but there's a certain comfort to the weapon. It's an edge where seconds ago she had nothing.

Natasha casts a quick glance around, makes sure no one is watching them before she tests it out. Twists it around in her hand, opens and closes it just once. She'll find somewhere private (hopefully, maybe) later and play with it until it feels like an extension of her fingers.

For now, she slips it into one of the (too) many pockets on the cargo pants that were in her pile of clothes. They're frayed along the hems, held up by a cloth belt she had to force a new hole into to fit her waist. Later, she'll find a better place for it. Somewhere safe, but easy to reach. Preferably pressed against her bare skin.

When she looks back up at him, her jaw isn't clenched quite so tight.]

Thank you. [The words are barely more than a breath, but they carry far more weight than the other two times she's leveled that phrase at him in this conversation.

Natasha curls her fingers against the edge of the cot on either side of her thighs. Her right arm presses against the pocket that holds the knife, the outline tangible against the knot of bone at the base of her wrist. A constant, steady reminder.]

What-- what's the last thing you remember? Before waking up here? [So much for her determination to wait to ask that particular question.]

[freightcars]

[ Two for two so far, if you exclude the lukewarm reception of that candy bar. He doesn't think that's a failure so much as reserved judgement for later. The look on his face still isn't bright, it's no blossoming pretty affair, but it's an actual smile for once. Small, muted, but real.

Doesn't feel like it's impactful enough to warrant a you're welcome, so he'll just leave it there.

Back to business. The smile slips off again back into something more somber. He's heard about the time differentials. Heard of people not quite lining up with other people they know. Him and Strange are from different years, he thinks Daisy was too.

He hasn't thought to calibrate with either Steve or her until now. Steve, at least, seems like he's within range.

(It's an incorrect assumption, but he doesn't have enough evidence to make that line of questioning a priority at this juncture.) ]

After Siberia. Going back under cryo until they could figure out how to fix me.

[ Which they didn't, unfortunately, before he woke up here. ]

You?

[bornrussian]

[In all fairness, Natasha hasn't been grateful for a candy bar since she was twelve. Maybe later, she'll realize the rarity of the treat. But, for now it lies forgotten on the coarse blanket of her cot.

It is, she thinks, about the third time she's ever seen Barnes smile. Bright and warm at the first sight of Steve in Wakanda, before the fighting began. Then a little more muted, but no less warm, at Steve in the weirdly anachronistic sports bar earlier this evening. Now here.

It's a nice smile. Hits the same note as the soft scent of the hoodie.

Natasha's face twists at the answer.

Unlike with Steve, there's nothing truly lost between them. The occasional overheard Skype conversation while she and Steve were on the run together. (Not like she was trying to listen in. The places they stayed just tended to cramped rather than spacious, the walls thinner than they were thick.) The brief camaraderie in Wakanda. Nothing important.

But, it's the second chance lost at answers tonight alone. His presence here means nothing to the question still wound tight around her ribs.]

Seven years after that.

[A shrug. Like the difference means nothing. It puts her ahead of both of them. Bucky and Steve only about a year apart. They probably have it calibrated right down to the month already.]

[freightcars]

[ He smiles more often than people expect, just not when they're mission focused. The thing about it is, when are they not mission focused? When do they interact with him outside strategy in combat? Steve hasn't in a long time, Natasha hasn't ever.

Seems like now she'll finally get a glimpse. For all he tries to make it seem, for all he's been schooled into it, James Barnes is not, in fact, a robot.

Seven years.

Christ.

His eyes flicker over her face, trying to answer his own questions before he asks them. She doesn't look peaceful. She doesn't look content. Would someone like them ever, though? Even if they were, it wouldn't show up here after a day like this.

He's not a glass half full kind of guy, so he's being purely sardonic when he asks: ]

We win the lottery, open up a commune, settle down and grow our own crops?

[bornrussian]

[Natasha felt a moment of peace. It shone through her as she fell. A bright shining fragment of a star lodging in her chest and spreading its warmth throughout her limbs.

But it shattered. Became the blurred shards of memory of waking up in a world of too tall buildings crowding so close together the sky can only be glimpsed between them.

Now, all that remains is the exhaustion of setting one foot in front of the other and pushing on towards a distant goal that seems all but unreachable.]

Got it in one. [The words are followed by a crooked smile that's as real as it's exhausted.] You must be psychic or something.

[Sorry, Barnes. She's not going to volunteer any details. They might both be outside of their timelines, but there's no use both of them knowing that sometimes the heroes don't save the day. Steve certainly doesn't have to know. And Natasha has a suspicion that what Barnes knows, Steve soon will as well.]

Thor wanted to grow hops, but Steve pushed for rye.

[freightcars]

[ He won't ask. Not yet, not so soon, especially when she so clearly doesn't want to talk about it. If they can get her integrated, if he can get to know her a little bit, he might poke at that avenue later.

Tonight, there's enough going on.

He meets her crooked smile with another small one of his own, echoing the sentiment. Sad humor, laughing when the world's falling apart, same old same old. ]

I'd have gone for hemp, but I'll keep my controversial opinions to myself.

[ It's a slow, wry drawl. ]

Ask Steve about fifteen cent cigarettes sometime.

[ That's a joke, too. He's pretty goddamn confident Steve never touched the stuff, but they absolutely sold it in spades around his tenement.

Anyway, enough acting like a grandpa talking about the good old days when they used to have to walk to school in the snow up hill both ways. Circle back around to seriousness. ]

You need anything?

[ Anything else, anything he can offer before he brings Steve his tidings and heads home? ]

[bornrussian]

[Barnes doesn't push, and that's another thing for her to add to the list. 'Things Natasha Romanoff is grateful to Bucky Barnes for'. Also known as 'Debts Natasha Romanoff doesn't know how to repay'.

They don't know each other. Technically, they haven't even been introduced. They've met maybe four times, not counting the time he won't remember. Right before he turned to dust. Three times, he's been actively trying to kill her. The fourth, she was helping him and Steve escape the airport. (She paid a heavy price for that.)

But they're both aware of each other. Natasha's read more about him than she thinks he'd be comfortable knowing. What he knows about her is anyone's guess. Probably everything SHIELD knew about her.

It's a lot of information between virtual strangers.

Natasha smile brightens a little at the joke. It's a pleasant surprise. A huge difference from the other times she's seen him. But then his expression turns serious again and the brief reprieve is over.

Natasha looks down, busies herself with zipping the hoodie up around herself.]

No. I'm good. Living the dream. [There are so many things she needs, and not a single one of them something he can give her.]

Hey. [Before he leaves.] Thank you. Again. I feel like a broken record. It--

[means a lot. Natasha's mouth tightens into a miserable line.]

I'm glad Steve's got you.

[freightcars]

[ Living the dream earns a soft huff. It's barely anything, certainly doesn't count as a full laugh, but it's audible. There, commiserating with her.

He's gonna have to eventually bring up those, you know, murder attempts. Apologize for those in a way that's more direct than a hoodie and a butterfly knife.

Another thing on his list of stuff to do some other time that isn't tonight, or this week, or maybe even this month depending on how it all shakes out.

He's on his feet with his hands in his pockets before she hey's him, and he pauses patiently to let her finish.

Seems sincere when he returns: ]

You too.

[ It's coupled with a little gesture, that one hand in the pocket but still pointing it through the fabric kind of deals, mixed with a little upper body twist to pair with it.

He means, he's glad Steve has her. That he's had her while Bucky wasn't anyone, that he's probably had her those seven years.

And that's it, that's all, no more parting words before he slips off. ]