EVENT #010

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: New Amsterdam and any other megacity the Displaced happen to be in/travel to!
WHEN: May 28, 2512
WHAT: Golden-eyed monsters stream into New Amsterdam and other megacities the world over.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Violence, death, body horror, mind control, and transformation.

> EVENT #010

It starts in the middle of the night, when most everyone should be fast asleep in their beds, whether they're still taking up a cot in the safehouse or staying in their own apartment. One moment it's quiet, with most of the rest of the city having also turned in for the night, and then in the next? It isn't.

There will be mass confusion as the scope of the situation becomes clear. Monsters stream out onto the streets, thundering up the stairs of a train station, skittering out of construction sites, or climbing up the walls. Some of them fly. Others slither. Others run, loping forward with only one goal in mind: to find something to sink their teeth or claws into and to leave destruction in their wake at every turn. They are a horde, a swarm, a teeming mass of creatures that have no intention of stopping. All of them have eyes or bodies that shine gold and wherever they go, they seem to leave decay. Concrete turns black and porous where they step; plants wither and die.

There is no real preparing for an attack of this scale. New Amsterdam will awaken as the sound of these monsters crashing down on cars or bursting through storefronts or into homes forces people to run screaming from their dwellings or places of work. There is no discrimination in who these beasts might target, and no discernable pattern in where they go.

All that one can really tell is that they seem to want to spread out. They're constantly on the move, leaping from victim to victim, and they're relentless. No one knows why they've come, where they're come from, or what will make them stop. At least for now, the only option seems to be to cut down their numbers. It's time to fight the horde.

The first night will be utter chaos as everyone reacts to the monsters' sudden appearance, but by the morning hours news reports will start streaming in. This is not only happening in New Amsterdam, or wherever else a Displaced might be staying, but seemingly everywhere. Some cities seem harder hit than others, but practically every megacity is overrun with the creatures.

With no way of knowing who might have unleashed the monsters, all of these cities have essentially been turned into battlefields. Not many civilians are prepared to fight for their lives, and it will take a mobilization effort from the police, Morningstar, the Displaced, and anyone else who's willing to take up arms in order to survive.

◉ As a note, this attack starts simultaneously in multiple cities. While it's the middle of the night in New Amsterdam, the monsters will appear at other times of the day in other parts of the world depending on the timezone!

> BESTIARY

So as to not make this post overly long, we have compiled all of the monster descriptions into a Google doc here for everyone's reference!

> (NOT SO) SAFEHOUSE

For those Displaced who stay at (or spend any time in) the safehouse under the hoverbike shop or the Red Wings bar, they may become aware of the presence of the monsters sooner than others, due to the fact that at least a few of the giant mole monsters will end up burrowing up through the concrete basements to wreak havoc. The screeching noise of steel claws tearing through the floor will be sure to wake up even the deepest of sleepers.

This won't just be an occurrence on the first night of the attack, either. Unless something is done to deter them, tunnels leading straight into the safehouses will continue to be created, allowing even other types of monsters to find their way through (the smaller ones, that is). Where exactly they're coming from won't be entirely clear, though it's a safe bet to assume that they must have originated in the cave system somehow.

Suffice to say that El won't be happy about the safehouse being compromised in this way, though this isn't a possibility that ze or anyone else could have really prepared for. While ze can't do much to physically help with containing the invasion of the monsters, ze will offer whatever resources ze can—though Morningstar is going to be busy in plenty of other locations, as well, and they only have so many resources.

The Red Wings, being a Displaced-operated location, will also be in need of assistance, especially if it's meant to be a point of safety and a hub for handing out supplies. Speaking of—

> RED WINGS HQ

As things begin to deteriorate, Clarke Griffin and Stephen Strange sink their resources into Red Wings, adapting it into a base of operations for the Displaced. Clarke also called in PRESERVE to set up a checkpoint here, too, and anyone—from the Displaced to civilians—will be able to seek aid here. (Of course, Red Wings will be just one of a few locations throughout the city where they attempt to set up shop, but Red Wings may prove to be more fortified thanks to the talents of the Displaced.) Civilians will not have access to Red Wings' safehouse, however. That's still something that Clarke and Stephen want to keep under wraps, for now.

In the bar proper, there will be medical aid, supplies, and even weapons for those who can use them. During rare moments of downtime, the gang at Red Wings will also work on reconnaissance missions to find safe spots throughout the city to provide much needed protection and safety for the people of New Amsterdam. This task may be much easier said than done. Gathering intel on the monsters is a high priority, too, and for anyone who tries to capture a monster to learn more about them, the basement might be a good place to hold them. If the Displaced are going to be able to fight back, they need to know exactly what it is they're fighting.

However, the truth of the matter is that this attack happened quickly, and in the middle of the night to boot. As much as the group at Red Wings tries, resources are stretched thin, and they didn't have time to prepare as much as they wanted to. Supplies need to be rationed, bandages and stitches used for wounds that really need them, and if you're not a great shot, it might be best to let someone with more training take that gun you're eyeing.

More than anything, despite the difficulty, this is a way for the Displaced to help out as many people as they can, and a way for them to cement their humanitarian efforts and affect the population's opinion of them. The citizens of New Amsterdam are sick of this cycle of destruction, and are just waiting to be empowered. Now's the time to teach them to fight back and help them protect their city.

Red Wings' safehouse underground will be damaged by burrowing monsters as well, and will need protection. The bar itself will escape relatively unscathed.

> INVESTIGATING / GATES

Maybe the best way of dealing with the monsters isn't violence at all. Maybe there's a more strategic way to deal with this.

The monsters will be moving from city to city via the gates, just like the Displaced do. There might be a way to keep them from spreading, or at least slow them down, by shutting down the gate network. Of course, with the mag trains shutting down, getting back home could be an issue. One option is the delivery network of hover trucks. They'll still be running to get supplies from city to city, but their batteries don't run indefinitely, so these will be relatively local trips only. No getting from New Tokyo back to New Amsterdam with this method, unfortunately, and convincing a driver to let you hitch a ride might be a challenge, but it's doable.

Of course, there's also the question of where these things are coming from. Intrepid characters might be able to track them back to their nests, which are tucked away in wildly different places depending on the city. In New Amsterdam, they might be in the caves below the city. In other places, they might not be in the city proper at all, but just outside of it. It's important to keep in mind that the nests are far away from any of the action taking place elsewhere. Tracking these origin points may provide some answers, but the cost would be less involvement in the crisis taking place.

And then there's the matter of the monsters themselves. How can you fight an enemy you know nothing about? For those determined or crafty enough, capturing them might be an option, although this will take some creativity. Once these creatures are captured, they'll need to be kept contained, and kept alive. Just because they're monstrous doesn't mean they don't have to eat, after all, and some will need special environmental considerations as well, such as the mind control slugs.

What happens after that is up to the Displaced. Is dissecting them the best bet? Their internal anatomy won't be wildly different from most "normal" animals, with the exception of some creatures who have strange appendages or the like. Still, this might give the Displaced a better idea of how they operate and what their weak spots are. Sending samples to a lab is another possibility, if the Displaced can figure out how to safely store those samples. After all, the world is in a crisis, and no one is running tests at the moment.

All monsters, though, seem drawn to the blue light. When a Displaced uses a power or activates the empathy bond, the creatures will lock onto it, utterly transfixed, and if this is done enough times, that gold glow of theirs will intensify. What does it all mean? Maybe figuring that out will be a pathway to stopping their attacks.

> PITCHING IN

While all of this is going on, it certainly won't be just the Displaced who are heading out into the streets to try and stem the flow of the monster attack. These creatures are certainly not holding back, and no matter how much work might be put in, their numbers are overwhelming. Plenty of people will end up dead as a result, ripped to shreds or dragged off somewhere to be eaten. Yet, for some reason, these monsters are not as vicious toward the Displaced. They'll engage them in a fight and injure them, but they never go so far as dealing a fatal blow.

Seeing how that's not the case for the rest of the populace throughout the world, however, some groups and organizations will be rising up to do their part.

Police departments will be mobilizing in every megacity to put the monsters down, and while they are armed, it's not on the same level as the UNA. They also don't have any sort of training that's prepared them to fight monsters, but they'll still be putting their lives on the line to put a dent in the monsters' onslaught. When it comes to enforcing regular law and order, they certainly won't have the bandwidth for anything like that. Then again, most people won't be in any position to take advantage and commit crimes either, given the chaos that will be a constant everywhere.

Morningstar will also be jumping into action around the world. The New Amsterdam branch will be most likely to work alongside the Displaced and share some of their resources, particularly with those who are signed up as official agents or those who've supported them in the past. In cities like New Prague and New Beijing where the Displaced have made some contact with Morningstar before, they'll also be open to working with the Displaced. However, their resources are by no means robust. Morningstar is an organized rebel group, but they're hardly an official army in any sense of the word. They might be able to hand out a weapon here or there and they have a safehouse set up in almost every city, but beyond that, they'll mainly be getting boots on the ground to help with the fighting.

UNA soldiers who have been left without any sort of purpose or guidance will now have an opportunity to put some of that training to use. Their involvement will be much more scattered, though in some cases small groups of these soldiers who used to work in units together will reconnect in their effort to fight off the horde. However, having been cut off from the UNA in an official capacity, they won't have much in the way of gear or weapons. They're still formidable fighters, though, and now might be the perfect time to reach out and make a connection with some of them.

Mercenaries belonging to various different outfits, depending on what city they're based in, will also be joining the cause. Whether they're acting out of a basic desire to survive the attacks or if they're actually being paid by someone to go out there and risk their lives will be less clear, but they're some of the best-equipped fighters (other than the police). They also won't really find much reason to protest any of the Displaced pitching in to fight with them. The more firepower, the better, right?

A group of regulars from the New Amsterdam fighting rings will be rising up to add their fuel to the monster-fighting fire, as encouraged by Hawke and whoever else might know them well enough to reach out. Given that some of these people have illegal mods to enhance their strength or cybernetic attachments that can do impressive amounts of damage, some of them might hold their own against the monsters. Hell, some of them might even ask the Displaced to demonstrate some of their powers if they end up fighting together, as word of their abilities has become more known among their ranks. Either way, they'll be jumping into the fray with quite a bit of gusto.

PRESERVE will be involved on the other end of these efforts and will be doing their best to tend to the wounded and the dead, along with finding shelter and safe spots for people to barricade themselves from the attacks. It's not like the grand majority of civilians could stand a chance against these monsters, after all, yet not all of them can rely on their homes to be safe enough to stay in. They'll be quick to accept an offer of Displaced help, as they'll be doing their best to try and drag the recently dead to hospitals to get them put into medi-units before they're too late. Along with what's set up at Red Wings, they'll also be cobbling together other relief spots throughout the city for taking care of wounded and offering up what supplies they have (food and water, medical supplies, etc).

And what are the corporations doing in all of this? Well, suffice to say, mainly just panicking. Unsurprisingly, they're not much help during a crisis like this, with most of the super-rich opting to hide away in whatever highly secure bunkers they might have. Too bad that these bunkers might not prove so secure in the face of these attacks. Could that prove to be an opportunity if someone went looking?

> FINAL OOC NOES

Please refer to the OOC EVENT POST for all OOC info, including suggestions for directions on how to engage with the event. Given the spread out nature of this event, as well as the amount of additional details provided here, please direct all questions to our QUESTIONS thread below. This is, naturally, a huge event in terms of scale, and so we're certain there are aspects of it we haven't covered and questions that have yet to be answered. We do encourage that all of our players use the event planning post for any additional ideas and for touching base!

Please do not begin to thread out any aftermath until AUGUST 8, 2020, which is when we will put up the aftermath log and OOC post. If this date changes, we will provide a gamewide update as needed! As a note, the August calendar will be posted alongside the aftermath!

As a reminder, there is one power level up available for this event, granted for a thread of at least 5 log/action comments containing your character utilizing their power in some way during the event itself. They will need to reach the 5 comments required by SEPTEMBER 11, 2020 to be eligible. Submission will be handled on the wrap up post.

Our Activity Check will be posted AUGUST 1 at 12 AM UTC. It will run for seven days and close on AUGUST 8 at 12 AM UTC.

Have fun and fight some monsters! Or … whatever else you might do with them. 😉😏 Your secret's safe with us. 😙

> NAVIGATION

Comments

[freightcars]

[ He can't help but wince as that mangled, garbled series of vowels and gargles manifest through a throat not meant for speech. His mind might be trying to make it happen, but it's clear the physiology of these vocal chords and... maybe the lack of a tongue mean it just ain't gonna happen.

Salt in the wound, isn't it? All that and now not even able to communicate?

Well. Not out loud.

His brow knits up into an expression that looks like half apology, half sympathy.

His right hand turns, palm up, and he holds it out in Steve's direction without properly taking his elbow off his knee. ]

Do me a favor.

[ That's what you said to him last time, right? ]

[fossils]

[ It's probably not particularly reassuring that when he turns his head to fix on the hand the muscles of his jaw twitch strangely, teeth peering out from behind the seams.

His eyes close to slits and he lifts his head, bumping against the back of his upturned hand.

The brush of contact pulses information:

(concern, fear, guilt, nausea, tension, gratitude colored with shame and discomfort, and question like feelers) ]

[freightcars]

[ A soft breath puffs out of his nose at at head bump; what are you, a golden retriever? World's worst bred hairless version, maybe. He settles his hand at the back of Steve's neck (maybe?), a loose but anchoring grasp. Seems like he's got no intentions of making this a brief contact.

Their concern almost matches; you okay?

Not just physically, that's a given, but... he's probably uniquely equipped to understand what's going through Steve's mind aside from that part. Some portion of it, anyway, if you're not accounting for the goddamn processing of being transfigured like this.

That guilt, that tension, that shame and discomfort... ]

Don't be stupid.

[ Said firmly, and the words are heavily coated by the feeling pressing through his skin. It's an enormous urge to reassure, a dark shade of understanding backed up by the kind of baggage that never really goes away. Not a single hint of blame or distrust, no real affront. It wasn't your fault.

Not like Steve even hurt anyone, not like he did anything worth feeling bad about. His arm's just metal, it doesn't matter, he can get it fixed.

That isn't to say it's all wholesome feel-goods on his end, there's still heavy fatigue and the memory of pain he's still working through. There's still a mote of feeling like Steve is wrong like this, and the discomfort that it brings. He can't help that, he can't turn it off, and he feels bad for it, but.

That's reality. That's what he feels, and it's worth pointing out how small those things are compared to how bad he wants to keep Steve from feeling guilty about any of what just happened. ]

[fossils]

[ His head and neck lowers again, whether Bucky's hand follows is up to him.

Don't be stupid.

The reassurance wraps around him like an old, familiar quilt, and a noise from his chest vibrates through his body to Bucky's hand, low and deep.

Grateful (concern).

The understanding Bucky's offering is something nuanced, not given lightly just to soothe him. He doesn't project a sense of rejection for it, but what slips through the bond is muddied again.

Fear-concern

Comfort-guilt-fear, a question, reliance fixated on the contact

There's nothing but that for a minute, until a memory blooms between them. Lifting Bucky off the ground, his arm ripped off from the bicep down... the lab in Wakanda, the scientists patching what was left of his arm, mention of pain receptors... then, an even short memory that's simply him watching Bucky walk ahead of him toward Red Wings from what could've been earlier today...

? a question.

A long one, or two put together. ]

[freightcars]

[ They wouldn't have been able to manage this if it were the first time trying, he realizes. If they'd held off, if they'd avoided figuring out how the bond worked. If Steve hadn't torn the band-aid off at the start they'd be muddling, faltering, or at the very least not having almost a full conversation here without Steve able to speak a word.

It was the right call.

He tries to blanket that concern as best he can, reassurance to soothe the lingering burn. Quiet patience as he feels Steve sort out how he feels about the whole thing.

The memories aren't expected, but they aren't startling either. Steve sews two of them together and he understands it for the question (or observation) that it is.

A little flickering confusion at that third one, trying to tie in how it fits, but he'll focus on that first bit. ]

It's alright.

[ And it's honest. It'd hurt at the time, that gnashing at the plates, the teeth sinking in, tearing at metal in a way that resembles how it would feel tearing at flesh, but it's muted by a mile. More distant, less debilitating. Didn't even stack up to the pain he felt in his hand trying to hang on. ]

There's a capacity, it doesn't... keep hurting after a certain point. If there's damage.

[ Otherwise having it blown off in Siberia would've left him writhing rather than just out. Wouldn't make sense from a strategic standpoint, he guesses, to allow it to become so painful it makes him inefficient.

Feeling just shuts off entirely. Still reactive, still mobile and able to parse grip strength, but it's just... numb. Nothing, not a thing from his shoulder down.

It's probably wrong, or weird, or some kind of inappropriate to pet the thing beside him, but his hand glides back and forth over a patch of fur anyway. It's one of those things people just tend to do around an animal settled at their side, laying down and looking forlorn.

Not to imply Steve's an animal, just... it happens without much thought. ]

[fossils]

[ The explanation seems to mollify his concerns and some of his guilt to a degree. Not that he wouldn't trust him by his word, but the hand on the back of his neck already confirms what he says about the pain, without worry about him downplaying.

As far as the physical damage and how to get it fixed, neither of them are in the position to do anything about it here--

His hand starts to coast across his fur and the muscles beneath that spot twitch reflexively, a soft flicker of surprise. For all the physical contact they've been indulging in these days after all that time apart, this feels like like a friendly squeeze on the shoulder and more like... fingers stroking through his hair, a little more intimate than is meant for the two of them.

Physically it feels good, soothing (he tries to think about his ma's hands, gently feeling his brow when he was sick, brushing his hair back from his forehead)-- except that it's threaded with an undercurrent of self-deprecation, hinting at deeper embarrassment and frustration, partially (intentionally) buried deeper than the surface level of the bond can accurately relay when he becomes too self-aware and digs his heels in.

He sends Bucky another brief memory of Red Wings set up as a safe point, then the PRESERVE site they'd slept at earlier, the latter from his perspective, lying on his back with his head turned toward Bucky. Tries to fix on the momentary safety of those places. Urging.

Whether or not Bucky can decode any of that, he figures he already knows what he'll say to the suggestion.

Stubbornly he's trying to get it right just to get it right. Not one to give up on the first try.

(and also, maybe, in spite of his own fear of being left alone, away from the contact that gave him his thoughts back) ]

[freightcars]

[ The things that frustrate him about the empathy bond are shifting. It started out with the idea of letting too much of himself show, with being unable to completely erase the things he didn't want Steve to see as though play acting at being a perfect, positive person. He came around to that lack of control, slowly loosened the reins when it became clear they had some of the same problems. Should have really been obvious, but when you've been through the ringer like he has, it's easy to forget other people aren't perfect either.

That faded out, and what started to replace it is the lack of context that comes with some emotions. It's not telepathy. Parts are obvious — fear, concern, surprise. Parts make less sense to him, and they're establishing sort of an understanding or an etiquette about it: you don't go pulling at threads just because you feel them. There is still a form of privacy allotted, even through something as exposing as this.

His curiosity is equally contextless, and twice a short. A missable flicker that even he dismisses almost instantly.

Walking to Red Wings, PRESERVE, sleeping. Understanding slides in like rainwater. ]

You're right.

[ He drawls, as if Steve even needs the tone to know he's being sardonic. Thank you, empathy bond. ]

Now's exactly the kind of situation where you're supposed to leave your best friend overnight. Maybe go have a beer. Take a nap.

[ Come on, man. If you wouldn't do it to him, don't ask him to do it either.

As far as he's concerned, that's the end of the conversation. Now he can slip back into dutifulness, that familiar mode he wore about half the time back before everything. He doesn't even think about it, about what he's passing through the bond here, his mind's on logistics.

Contemplative.
Whatever the feeling's called where making sure someone's taken care of isn't even a question, the question is just how to best do it.

(Concerned, physically aching, his body is tired but there's also a deeper fatigue that's been semi-permanent since goddamn Azzano.)

Steve's gonna need food. Bucky'd like to re-seal the doors and maybe cover up the glass just to prevent anyone from wandering by and accidentally getting a look in. Cobbling together grand ideas about putting down an easy target. Maybe he'll do that one first.

Doesn't hurt to go ahead and ask, though: ]

If I pick up food, are you leaning more toward canned tuna and mice or a virgin sacrifice?

[fossils]

[ Yeah, he hears it. And it's about how he'd respond too, if their situations were reversed. So there's no surprise and little argument this time, his concession tinged with frustration less aimed at Bucky than his predicament.

Or at least until he mentions the mice and virgin sacrifices.

He bristles slightly, and offers up the memory of a greasy hamburger and fries that neither of them have had access to since getting here.

But he has no answer. The hunger he's feeling right now isn't for anything in particular, so if Bucky's hoping for a useful answer he won't get one. He's not particularly "chatty" throughout his run-through of planning, either. Doesn't need to hear Bucky's thoughts to understand that's what he's doing in the moment, could've told by his expression, the set of his shoulders. There's another faint pulse of frustration.

He's got no thumbs but he's got five tails, and they each curl awkwardly curl around him from behind. The tip of the last one lightly nudges his left shoulder.

concern-warmth-gratitude-concern ]

[freightcars]

[ The memory of real, proper diner food earns a quiet groan from him. Yeah, alright, fair enough reminding him what he may never get to eat again considering the smartass remark that prompted his answer.

The memory of chocolate drifts back, wistful and resigned. It still exists, but the cost is damn outrageous. More than he can justify.

A little startlement springs up at the unexpected touch to his shoulder. Can't help but glance quickly back like he's expecting another source, and then the realization sets in that it's one of Steve's--

Jesus Christ. One of his half-dozen tails.

Once that fades out, a little appreciation replaces it. ]

Unless those things have Tylenol hidden in them somewhere there's not much either of us can do about it.

[ Less sarcastic, more the verbal equivalent of a sigh.

(Like that'd even do a damn thing if they did.) ]

That's got nothing to do with you.

[ For the record. It's been like that since well before Steve's bones rearranged themselves. A brief tussle in the grass didn't do anything make it worse than it already was, no matter the bent plates he's got now. ]

[fossils]

[ He knows. Started noticing a day or two ago the way he was favoring that side. It's not guilt this time, only concern.

There's that same muddled, purposely obscured thread too. The tail that touches his shoulder shifts to rest in place with the others encircling Bucky. Not touching him, not drawing him closer, but settled in place all the same.

Momentum got lost the minute they sat down like this. Might as well catch his breath for another minute.

(he can tell himself he's fine and admit that he needs a minute at the same time, if only to himself) ]

[freightcars]

[ They sit a while, Bucky's hand absently petting and Steve's tails serving as a sentry behind his back. Adamant as he might've been about needing to get stuff done, about how a twenty minute rest wouldn't do anything to ease the ache, he takes it anyway.

Just twenty, though, because he's got things he's gotta do to make this safe. Make it less miserable. He's gone for about an hour and a half, a rifle slung over his back while he blacks out windows with whatever he finds around. Paper or blood or soot. He heads back to that PRESERVE set-up to pack up something to make a couple bedrolls.

Gets twice what he might normally bring Steve to eat, because whatever species he is right now is goddamn large.

A box of checkers, because why the hell not?

Still puzzling out the logistics of how in the hell he's gonna drink, but they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

He sets up camp in the furthest corner from that door with broken glass. Tops it off with a small battery powered lantern, and there's no denying the setup's better than some of the ones they've had in the past. Maybe some of the ones they've had this week, considering the lack of a dozen muttering, nervous people.

Sometime after sundown when he's run out of quips like think they make collars your size, after they've eaten and the sounds off distant chaos drifting over the building tops has decreased with nightfall, he settles up against the wall with his left arm propped up on his knee again.

It's quiet.

He searches through the implant for news, updates, anything relevant. Doesn't look much better now than it did two days ago. ]

[fossils]

[ He takes the time alone to sulk in private. Get that out of his system before Bucky returns. Redundantly checks the perimeter of the garden, the windows and doors. It's not enough to keep his mind busy, though.

He can, at least, help set up the bedding when Bucky returns with supplies. With his maw he can gently grab the edges, and his strange forepaws can sort of smooth it all out. When they're not in contact his body language consists mainly of his tails flicking back and forth when focused or interested, his responses limited to low growls and that chuffing sound that can either be amusement or exasperation.

Sometimes he lifts his head and goes still, listening to some noise in the far distance that only he can hear. When his tails flick then, it's in agitation, until he drops his head again.

The brief moments of contact consist of that same low key agitation, sometimes anxiety, but he seems to calm quickly each time.

Tends not to drift far out of sight. In the quiet after sundown he's pacing again. His steps are beginning to noticeably flatten the grass in a wide circle around the camp, and more than once he stops with his ears pricked up, listening, then starts all over again. ]

[freightcars]

[ Hilariously, those indecipherable chuffing noises really aren't all that different from the sounds he'd be making with his actual mouth, Bucky thinks. The same kind of half-laugh half-annoyed scoffing sound that communicates plenty clearly without the empathy bond.

It takes a little bit for Bucky to notice the anxious energy picking up. Those first couple of german shepherd-like moments where he stills and his ears perk up go observed but unacknowledged, because being alert during a time like this isn't even remotely questionable.

After half a dozen times, it starts to bring an uptick to one eyebrow.

And then there's the pacing. The wearing a hole in grass and stone. Finally, exasperated, he calls over. ]

Steve.

[ Come on, man. You're gonna hear everything just as clearly sitting still and calming down. ]

[fossils]

[ His voice and that tone both give him pause, one forepaw lifted and frozen in the step he's about to take, his strange, indiscernible features turned toward Bucky. Sets that raised foot to the ground after a second, though his face is no more readable, even with the maw closed and his face definable as cat-like. His posture gives more away, the tension he holds himself with.]

[freightcars]

[ There's nothing funny about the situation, not one single goddamn thing despite the potshots Bucky's been taking. This though, that movement for some reason just... it brings a subtle amusement to his features that doesn't last very long in the face of his exasperation. ]

Could you do me a favor? At least pretend you're gonna try to sleep.

[ Said with a pointed look at the bedroll, because if there are any notions of... laying out in the grass or something like an actual goddamn cat, he's gonna shoot those down.

He's gotta be exhausted, he has to. They were both running on cereal bars and spite before Steve's entire body rearranged itself into this. Beyond that, the physical toll stress can take... This isn't sustainable. ]

[fossils]

[ Tails flick as he stands in place for another few seconds, just staring straight on at Bucky with that same inscrutable, unblinking stare before shaking his head-- or shaking most of his upper body, as the action ripples from head to tails.

When he walks over to where Bucky's seated his gait slow and has an unintentional saunter. He settles half on the bedroll, half off, his flank close to Bucky's side. Always lies down the same way so far, pointed straight, his 'chin' resting on his forepaws. It makes him look unintentionally dramatic and depressed, which has probably been pointed out a few times by now, but it keeps all the sharp bits pointed toward the ground.

Even without contact he's radiating some kind of anxious energy that's been building the longer they're stuck here like this, overriding exhaustion from the transformation and the days of running supplies and rescues.

The muscles under his skin twitch.

It's not obstinance. It's his brain and his body at odds on multiple fronts. Probably would've paced a small ditch into the dirt if Bucky hadn't stopped him. ]

[freightcars]

[ Can't help but shake his head, because even as a giant snarling half-hairless cat he still seems so goddamn Steve it would be annoying if he weren't equal parts fond and concerned. That probably comes through when he reaches out to settle a hand on Steve's back, somewhere over his spine. ]

It's gonna be alright, you know?

[ He's serious this time. It's reassuring, but it's also honest. ]

It's one day, it's not permanent. It's almost half way over.

[fossils]

[ His anxiety spikes through the contact, smoothed over by the concern that meets him halfway. The tension's been growing steadily each time, as though getting closer to the end of the twenty-four hours is the end of a timer on a bomb than a finish line.

But he's got no way to explain that. Not the same way he can ask for food, or cobble together memories to make suggestions or attempt to joke. All that reads is anxious frustration, slowly calming from the longer Bucky's hand remains resting against his back. That effect's been a constant all day, at least.

He'd rather have the connection than the claustrophobic isolation.

See? Not always a masochist. ]

[freightcars]

[ There's a shock. Remind him to jot it down in his mental record-keeping book. The day Steve Rogers didn't make himself do the painful thing because asking for relief would only help him, not anyone else.

Maybe that's not explicitly true, having that gauge on Steve's emotional state helps Bucky navigate this whole thing too.

Like before, his fingers find a patch of fur to thread through and smooth down again. A predictable, thoughtless pattern. What he's more focused on is trying to push through that reassurance, that confidence he feels, the calm it brings with him. ]

Before you tracked me down...

[ He starts, slowly and carefully like he's measuring his words and still on the fence about deciding to say them. ]

Back near the beginning, I felt like I was gonna crawl out of my own skin most days. Like I was always late for something, but I never knew what it was. Just ansty, agitated that I couldn't get there and get it over with, because I never stopped being late.

[ Maybe that doesn't make sense. It was a near-constant state of urgency, anxiety, nervous energy. Dread.

He doesn't feel any of that right now, only the vague discomfort that comes with talking about it at all.

Just wants to make it clear he can relate. That he kind of gets it. ]

[fossils]

[ His focus is on the absent motion of his touch, the soft reassurance tempering his restlessness, smoothing it down like unruly strands of hair on his head.

Before you tracked me down...

He listens, quietly, in part because he can't add much else, his attention fixed on his voice. Gentle, attentive surprise. Understanding. Faint regret. It makes sense. Woulda made sense if you'd told him earlier too. There was a cabin. A place the agency took him to, in their words, help you adjust. There's enough space between then and now that he hasn't thought about it in a long, long time. Hasn't ever told anyone except Sam.

He doesn't try to relay it now. Not the time. Doesn't hold a candle to what he went through, either-- the ways they entered the 21st century. What he's feeling is what he's feeling, and as much as a moment ago he'd been frustrated by his lack of speech, he'd much rather listen.

You don't often talk about any of it. Not with him. ]

[freightcars]

[ There's a kind of detachment here between what he feels now and what he's talking about. Any emotion surrounding that time is dim and distant, foggy, deliberately sealed behind walls not just from Steve, but from himself. It isn't much to give away, it doesn't cost him anything, it's just... one of those things that's better left alone and in the past, tucked away.

He tries not to dwell on it. It's just that it's relevant here.

He settles back against the wall more comfortably, the crown of his head landing and gently resting. Shoulders propped. Trying to let tension go so he can make Steve let tension go in turn. ]

I used to--

[ A pause, a little self deprecation, aware of how stupid this is gonna sound. ]

Just... count bricks. Not even in that figure of speech way, like watching paint dry. I'd just sit there trying to count them, then lose count and start all over again. Probably, like, a half dozen times before I stopped losing track. Doesn't make any sense, maybe, but it worked. By the time I figured out how many were in the wall across from me, it went away. A little.

[ Not that he's suggesting you spend the next three hours trying to count blades of grass or anything, but you know. The premise is what matters. Finding something to focus on. Something to concentrate on to drown it out until... you don't need to anymore. ]

[fossils]

[ Doesn't sound stupid to him.

His emotions flicker softly. Understanding. Parts of those muddied, churning currents beneath his surface thoughts are a bit less guarded.

A mirror to his self-deprecation.

A pulse of vulnerable admission.

He lifts his head, twists it around the opposite shoulder so that the closed tip of his nose lightly brushes the hand on his back pointedly.

Another flicker of self-awareness, the sense that he's waiting and that the response holds more weight than it ought to.

Not exactly bricks. ]

[freightcars]

[ It isn't really a smile or happiness, per se, that he feels when Steve's understanding filters in. It's less bright and joyful than that, but it's still something good. Whatever it is he feels, something he can't put a name to.

Just a strange kind of relief, or contentment, or some offshoot of one of them somehow. Maybe satisfaction that something is locking into place, another domino knocked down on the way toward something.

And then that nose makes a cameo and he gets a decent idea if what it means. Pauses petting only for a second to re-realize he'd been doing it, then starts back up again a little more aware — some humor lightly trails across the surface layer. Whether Steve's concentrating on it or counting them doesn't really matter. He'll make it a little more deliberate, throw in some fingernails, easier to focus on. ]

You know...

[ He starts in that tone that immediately makes it clear nothing worth hearing is about to come out of his mouth. ]

I always pegged you as one of those yappy dogs. The kind that chase people down the hallway being a pain in the ass. Turns out you really are a god damn cat.

[fossils]

[ Relief's a good word for what flows from his side, faint and tentative, bittersweet...

(the scrape of nails make the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, tingling farther than his reach and making him tense up, then relax, his guard masking his feelings on the sensations from flowing back through the bond)

... quickly followed by a half-hearted, beleaguered sigh he hopes you can imagine in your head if the exact sound can't exist outside of it. He shifts, legs stretching out as he leans on one side, his back pressing against Bucky with most of his weight.

Enjoy your heated bedroll-- it's good that the temperature cools during the night. ]

[freightcars]

[ You know what, he can hear it plain as day. If it weren't for the rows of teeth and the lack of a tongue, he's pretty sure it would come out identical to the one he normally makes. It pleases him in that way only friends giving each other a hard time can be pleased, satisfied with the reaction, content to settle into the weight against his side.

He doesn't have anything else by way of sage wisdom or sarcastic, dry remarks. A comfortable silence settles in, and Bucky goes back to scrolling while petting. Steady and constant, a thrumming calm emanating from him for the next few hours that he spends awake.

Eventually, finally, he settles in beside Steve's radiator of a body to find some of that sleep he's been missing.

It's quieter. More private. He's dog tired. Might be bad to say, but he actually sleeps a little better than any other night this week. ]