meadowlarklogs | EVENT #010

Entry tags:

EVENT #010

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ His faltering quickly becomes less about not knowing what to do and more about the sight before him. His knees lock up, eyes wide, churning at his core.

Frozen, right up until Steve's eyes shoot up and meet his, and he snaps himself out of it.

His knees hit the dirt, and as he reaches in sticks and branches snag on his clothes, scratch at his skin. They go largely ignored in favor of getting his hand on the side of Steve's freshly (mostly) human neck. ]

Alright, alright- okay- come on-

[ Those somewhat breathless platitudes that are given to people in pain when you have nothing better to offer. Maybe it's not the best time to be laying on hands, considering the onslaught of absolute pain Steve passes to him and the torrent of concern-horror, the helpless need to reassure he passes back.

Maybe it'll help to replace some of that hurt with anything, no matter the alternative. Who knows? In any case, just sitting back without lifting a finger didn't feel right somewhere deep in him. ]

[ --PAIN-- bright, hot and cold, blinding and sharp, a tiny sliver of apology, like a single bead of sweat dripping down his back, insignificant against the spikes of agony.

Was trying to warn him off. Hoped for a brief minute you might've slept through this--

He gasps and pants and cries out again as his hips snap, the crown of his head pushing into Bucky's shoulder and his eyes closed tight. The horn's gone from his head, his ears melting back into place, a tufts of blonde hair-- not fur, crowding out of his scalp.

The reassurance flowing toward him dissipates like steam as soon as it hits the fiery wall. His hand grasps around a metal forearm, bumping around the mangled plates. ]

Buck--

[ His lungs convulse and shrink back to normal size, his organs rearranging. The pain comes and goes in short waves: brief moments of relief flowing and ebbing, giving way to another convulsion. ]

[ There have only been a handful of times Steve's said his name quite like this, and an even fewer number where he felt absolutely powerless to do anything about it. Put this one on the list, up there with the flu that almost took him out when they were both too young and stupid for it. Somewhere above that time he fell off a goddamn train, because really he was a little more preoccupied with himself at the time.

There's really nothing quite like watching a loved one suffer to such a degree that you're half convinced it's going to kill them. He knows better, he knows, everything they've heard says they change back and then it's over. No reports of anyone dying during it, at least nothing caused by the transformation. The vulnerable state they're in to both other monsters and other people is a different matter.

Steve grabs at him and wilds against his chest, and all he can really do is grab back. He presses his forearm across the span of Steve's chest like a safety bar, because the only goddamn thing he can offer is to keep him from smacking his head on a stone, or to keep a wayward branch from digging into eye, mouth, nose during all the thrashing. ]

Alright, I got you.

[ Even though it's a veritable onslaught of Steve practically clawing at him emotionally, nails on a chalkboard, fingers in pressure points, pain in ways he can't even properly explain because it's not even physical.

It's killing him, not being able to take this away. He knows what the guy can handle without making much of a sound at all. The noises he's making now... ]

Come on, come on, you gotta breathe-

[ His chest raises and falls against the forearm holding him in place, and he doesn't try to force another word out. His fingers grip reflexively, hard enough to have left bruising marks if there was anything by metal beneath them.

He breathes.

He doesn't know how much time passes. Feels like it could be hours, but the sun's still passing through the leaves above them when he realizes the pain ebbs more than it flows, that the burning heat is replaced by a slight chill everywhere except where they're pressed together. He's soaked in his own sweat, naked and exhausted and half covered in dirt. But the pain's not blinding anymore, his mind's not a maelstrom of feverish desperation and agony. He's still, except for his ragged breaths that are beginning to calm, and his grip's no longer as tight.

The tails are gone. The maw. There's no trace of the creature, melted away beneath his skin.

(he doesn't remember most of it, that one year with the flu when out of nowhere that his fever spiked so bad he could even see the worry through his ma's schooled features

he remembers after, when you'd been given permission to visit regularly again, when you came over almost every day to sit with him)

If it were anyone else right now he'd feel at least some modicum of embarrassment. But it's just you, and he needs a second, guard down (obliterated, truth be told).

He'd say they'd seen each other worse before, except if he were to have the mind to think about it-- that's probably not true anymore.

Every kinda milestone, huh? ]

[ It passes so slowly and so subtly it's hard to tell at first that he isn't just trying to convince himself. When he was younger, his mother used to tell him to count the seconds between lightning and thunder to see if the storm was getting closer or moving away. It's the same premise here, he thinks, and tick by tick the seconds stretch out farther until they seem to stop entirely.

Helps that relief starts to spread a little more deeply than the pain. Some of his own starts to mirror it.

It wouldn't be remotely true to say he feels as exhausted as Steve does afterward, but he feels a portion of it. Feels a little stripped out, too long under water and finally able to breathe again. Parts of him slump, too — from standing on his knees to lowering down and sitting on his calves, shoulders dropping, his head rolling back and face pointed toward the sky for a few long seconds.

Concern dies down, but doesn't leave entirely.
Horror fades out, flickers, dies when a glance at Steve's body reveals all parts human and no swishing tails.
Borrowed pain lowers to an ache, and he doesn't really know if that's coming from him or Steve anymore.
There's a kind of fierce protectiveness in the background that would probably surprise not a single soul who knew them.
Overshadowing it all, though, is that heavy, oppressive relief.
He's not rushing it. Not a bit. He'll sit here with his arm around Steve's chest propping him up for as long is it takes, because...

God, he's never him scream like that before. Not even when he took a couple bullets and had Bucky on his chest beating the literal life out of him.

(If he'd been in the room when they stuffed him in that vita-ray coffin, hard telling who he might've clocked back then.) ]

Edited 2020-08-04 21:34 (UTC)

[ His mind is foggy, slowly processing the situation through Bucky's side of the bond as if they were his own thoughts: it's over. Forearm stays wrapped around forearm as he catches his breath.

Thanks.

The sentiment blooms from his hazy thoughts, warm and fond and wry and
grateful. The kind of gratitude he's never had and never will have the right words for. Deep and unquestionable. Constant and unchanging.
Apology in the immediate sense. The now. An intention to move that's taking root and spreading, forcing his aching body to catch up--

The greenery directly ahead of them rustles, the movement of something large.

They didn't hear it break the glass beneath the sound of his screams, mental and physical.

Must've been called by the noise. Whether it thought it heard its tortured brethren or potential prey doesn't matter anymore.

The giant, cat-like creature pauses mid-step, transfixed and frozen by the blue light pulsing from Steve's bare chest. ]

Edited 2020-08-05 04:54 (UTC)

[ There's a high rise and fall behind Steve's back, the product of a deep breath in and a slow exhale. Warm-fond-wry-grateful replacing the absolute hell from a minute ago is like stepping into a shower after cold rain.

Never knew you were capable of that much gratitude, considering how much you used to dig your heels in over it.

Couldn't even imagine what to say to that.

Doesn't matter, he doesn't get the chance. How the hell did he not notice that come in? It's stupid that his first thought is about how Steve's lying there goddamn naked, as though a scrap of denim would do much more to protect him from this thing. Bucky knows firsthand that not even metal will stop it.

That flare of protectiveness is about as old as Steve's gratitude, practically right on the dot.

They don't have telepathy, and opening his mouth right now isn't a great idea. He's just gonna have to go for it, and hope Steve picks it up.

His movements are incredibly slow. Barely shifting beneath Steve's weight, lifting up on his knees. As long as it's staring at Steve's chest... he can probably... manage to reach it. It means he can't break contact, or the light will flicker and die. He also can't hold Steve's hand and reach out, because his left hand can't do what he needs it to.

Best he can hope for is to carefully, pointedly move Steve's palm somewhere within his reach; his back maybe. Whatever will let him outstretch an arm and get his hand on that damn thing's head. ]

Edited 2020-08-05 05:06 (UTC)

[ Never needed telepathy.

But if he's a half step behind it's only because he's running on fumes. Bucky wills them to move, and they do. Life or death, no choice but to lift up onto legs that threaten to crumple. One arm shifts slowly, inch by inch, around Bucky's waist, lifting the hem of his shirt: bare forearm pressed to the small of his back.

The blue spreads between them, casting strange shadows beneath the foliage.

The mutated panther snarls, powerful muscles tensing up. He can smell rotten meat on its breath.

He feels Bucky's arm like its his own.

Same thoughts, same body.

Same intent. ]

Edited 2020-08-05 06:28 (UTC)

[ Everything becomes blue. The leaves around them, the broken branches that have given way to them and the beast standing over them. The grass, even his peripheral vision in that way that Christmas lights sometimes do.

For a second, he forgets who's arm it is that's reaching out toward it. It's both, somehow, and not just his. There's an overlay. Tracing paper.

You ready?
Yeah.

Except he doesn't even really need to ask (answer?), it's just happening. They're both there, and it makes things almost seem... slow motion.

It launches forward. One of them slams it down; the hand is metal but that doesn't really mean anything right now. It lands in the space Steve was occupying, but he isn't anymore and somehow he just kind of knew the second he moved.

When they presses a palm to its head, it's not just Bucky's power that comes out. They'll both feel that pull, that draw that he gets when he goes into something's mind. It isn't a memory he's searching for this time, though. Whatever it is, it's coming from Steve.

That thing he has in him. That thing he's always had in him, before they slapped a nightlight over it and called it a power. It's that, that's what they look for, and fingers that aren't fingers wrap around it to rip it out.

It's intense enough that he-- both of them?-- actually does fall backward like he'd (they'd?) been pulling and the cable snapped.

And the damn thing just... it just lays down. ]

[ The moment the creature stops, he's dropping to his knees, half curled over the grass with one arm propping him up (relief, reluctance, exhaustion, the last feelings to flow between them). Back in one, single body, the blue glow fading from them. He'd dodged the attack, and they pincer their creature-- but it doesn't matter anymore.

Catatonic isn't the right word. Its eyes are half-lidded, its position almost comically similar to the way Steve had lain on the ground so many times before: head resting on its forepaws, completely non-threatening.

And something else, understood instinctually.

Defeat.

What they ripped out of it--

He struggles to his feet.

This is their cue to leave. ]

[ What the hell do you even say after something like that? Not sure he can wrap his mind around it, and this definitely isn't the place to try. All the stress, all of the exhaustion both mentally and physically, it feels like everything's spent. Just... used up, a battery with no charge.

But it's alright.

He's on his feet not but a second or two after, and it's instinct to wind an arm around Steve's waist in case his knees buckle. Knows how bad off he'd been, how precarious. They can limp him over to the change of clothes Bucky brought.

And then he's gonna take him home. They're not gonna fight about it, even if Steve digs his heels in again. They're going. Enough is enough. ]

[ He doesn't end up digging his heels in until they get closer to their destination, when he starts to pick up which street they're on and the direction they're headed. ]

Here?

[ Grunted out, eyes narrowing faintly at the familiar building, though not an objection exactly. He expected they were heading to one of the PRESERVE sites for him to try to sleep this off. They haven't been back to the apartment since this started.

He's been leaning most of his weight on Bucky the whole way. His legs are getting worse, not better. Transforming back was hard enough on his system, whatever they did that made them both blue and ripped the willpower outta that cat-monster drained the last dregs from him. In the daylight his complexion is too pale, the circles under his eyes dark and heavy.

They're not touching, so he's blind to how Bucky's doing except for what he can glean from his movements. ]

Don't even start.

[ A tired, toneless drawl. Knew it was coming sooner or later, he's surprised they even made it this far.

Steve can barely hobble with help, let alone by himself. Bucky's using up the last of himself half-carrying him, and it's burning every muscle from his shoulder to his hip to even do this much.

His forward pace won't falter, and that's partly because he's not sure he'll start again once he stops.

He's got a purpose, though. Got a mission, and that's helping. It gets them all the way into the apartment, the door kicked absently shut behind him, and he's gonna steer them right on through to the bathroom.

No offense, pal, but it's a goddamn relief to finally deposit Steve's weight somewhere other than his shoulders right now. The toilet seat can bear that burden for a while, so he can mindlessly gather up what he needs to finish all of this finally.

It's like a mechanical, scripted process. Pacing to the kitchen. Running water. The shake of pills in a plastic container. The trek back, and the murmured: ]

Take these.

[ A cabinet opening and shutting. Peroxide and cotton balls, antibacterial and bandages. He's done this a million times before, his body knows how to do it again with minimal thought. ]

[ He makes a sound like a scoff, tired and strained for humor. Doesn't make an attempt to steer them off course-- couldn't, anyway, he loses track of the next couple of minutes of walking, a brief blackout period like they went directly from the street to the bathroom.

With sagging shoulders he leans back on his toilet seat perch, accepting what's handed over to him without interruption. Clockwork. Different bathroom, same deal. Except this time Bucky's got a bum shoulder and he's trying not to say anything about it. His guilt for making him drag him all this way won't fix it, anyway, and they're both too tired to pass reassurances back and forth. They know they're there.

Felt them loud and clear.

And now that he's sitting, well, he's not long for the waking world. He started leaning forward when Bucky began handing him stuff, and his chin jolts in a hypnic jerk before he even registered the room going dark. ]

Just gimme five more.

[ Minutes. Just hang in there five more, because being a crutch is one thing but carrying Steve's dead weight after he passes out is something else entirely. He'll manage it, probably, but not gracefully and not without putting forth an amount of effort that seems herculean to his mind right now.

Left arm, two gashes. Right arm one. Precarious one beneath the jaw that, if it'd been lower, might have been a far bigger concern than the cat over them. The large insect bite itself that caused all this.

It gets to the point that his eyes are dry, that it hurts to keep them open, but he finishes. ]

Home stretch.

[ Is the warning he gives before ducking and pulling, one more round of shouldering, and finally, finally, finally dumping him onto the bed. Over the blankets, still covered in sweat and dirt and maybe blood, doesn't matter even the smallest fraction.

Only then does he feel like he can let himself fall onto the other side of the mattress, boneless, done. Permission to stop. ]

Edited 2020-08-06 05:58 (UTC)

[ He manages to stay upright through the next five, offering a short nod and an exhausted, self-deprecating ghost of a smile. Bucky finds wounds on his body that he'd either forgotten about or hadn't had time or focus to notice.

Wherever fingers touch skin finds brief pulses of bone-deep exhaustion tinged with the same gratitude, concern, the shaky hold on staying conscious, the now familiar color and warmth that almost always seems to come from his end of the bond when they're sitting like this.

Home stretch.

The next thing he knows he's on a mattress and every ache in his body erupts at once in the moment he finally lets his muscles relax. He's vaguely aware of Bucky settling next to him, that they're both filthy and dirtying up the sheets, and neither of them have it in them to care right now. He hasn't thought about the laundry in approximately a week.

It takes him longer than he expects to actually fall asleep. On his back, because his injuries keep him from lying on either side or his stomach.

Turns out the battle was already ending around them that day they spent trapped. When he wakes up again its dark, and the news reports from his implant are talking about the retreat of the remaining monsters picking up globally.

He hobbles into the kitchen and pours a glass of water for himself, considers something stronger before changing his mind.

Opens the fridge to find the last of the eggs, and half a frozen bag of onion-hash brown mix. Dumps the latter into the skillet first and fills the kitchen with the smell of oil and onions.

Brings the messy omelet back to the bedroom on a single large plate balanced with a pair of forks, and another glass of water. ]

Edited 2020-08-09 02:01 (UTC)

[ He's got no damn idea how long he slept. His body isn't a great indicator, that delayed onset muscle soreness just keeps carrying over from repeat overuse and now everything feels stiff. Aching, tight.

To put it another way, he feels like he's gotten the everloving shit beat out of him repeatedly and now he's making pikachu meme in his head over it.

He wakes up when Steve reels himself out of bed, what with the fact that he's not exactly the most graceful human being on the planet right now. Considers following him for all of four seconds before deciding any amount of effort is too much. He spends his time instead zoning out, gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling but not taking in a single speck of it.

While he isn't always the biggest fan of the changes the future forced upon him when he arrived here, there's no denying that right now he's grateful for the ability to turn on the projected version of a television without moving a single damn muscle to do it.

He listens while Steve cooks.

Hasn't felt this relieved in a long time. He knows they'd go back out, whether it was right now or the next morning. Knows they'd keep at it until it was done one way or another, but it's over. Thank Christ.

When he gets back, Bucky summons all of the willpower left in his entire damn soul to push his elbows back and slowly drag himself up to a sort-of upright position, if you're being generous about the definition of upright. ]

I've been telepathically asking you to bring that in here instead of making me get up for the last ten minutes. It worked. I'm pretty sure I have a new power.

[ His voice is scratchy from sleep (how much? still not sure), and while the words are a joke his tone is almost inflectionless. ]

[ His eyes narrow in weary amusement, handing over the glass for Bucky to hold while he settles on the edge of the bed with a faint wince. ]

Uh huh...

[ Sounds convinced.

He places the plate somewhere between them, handing over the fork next. ]

Check the news yet?

[ See the part about the dragons?

Too bad they missed that.

For a clearly I-gave-up-half-way mishmash, the omelette's more than serviceable. Steve can cook well enough on a good day, as a kid he had to fend for himself on nights his ma worked. He can make an overeasy like they both like it, but this is what happens after he breaks the second and third yolk in a row thanks to a tired hand and a little too much force. The onions and potatoes are mixed in, cooked them first to crisp so they aren't a soggy mess so long as they eat it fast. ]

[ If by hold you mean drink heartily, he holds it a lot. Doesn't bother taking his mouth off to up-nod at the projection on the wall past the foot of the bed. They're not talking about a dragon yet, not that he's seen, but it's definitely the news playing out. Shaky-cam shots of displaced members chopping and glowing and whatever else.

He'll be a little disappointed about missing it, too.

Takes his fork. Shovels in a bite — confirmation, it tastes better than it looks. He's not about to start complaining. ]

If I knew all it took to get you to bring me breakfast in bed was a monster apocalypse...

[ He ventures, just to be distracted by a pretty familiar projected figure. ]

Huh.

[ He muses over what seems like an accidental camera angle that catches Steve himself in the corner of it. ]

You're famous again, congratulations.

[ He's definitely not, he was on screen all of four seconds and they were talking about someone else entirely, but. Still. ]

[ That gets a raised eyebrow and a sly half smile. Tears off a piece of omelette and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Woke up starving, but now that he's back in bed he'd rather just lie down again. Everything hurts like it hasn't in... well, years. Not that he hasn't strained his body before. It's that this is different.

Or maybe more like the way it used to be.

He frowns at his less than 5-minutes-of-fame as it flashes in front of them. That it takes him even longer to recall when that scene happened probably says something about this week.

Lets out a long exhale, glancing back at Bucky with another raised eyebrow and mock annoyance. ]

Don't get crumbs on the sheets. [ Jerking his chin towards him, poking gently at his metal arm with his fork. ]

How good is your insurance, anyway?

[ With faint concern creasing his brow. Not joking this time. Not even a little bit. Not asking about himself either, in case that's not clear. ]

[ That comment about crumbs earns Steve a dry look. He still hasn't showered, he's filthy. There's sweat and dirt and something's blood on the bedspread. It's absolutely absurd.

Takes him a second to understand the question and pair it with that fork-gesture toward his arm. His mind went straight to don't worry, you're covered before he realized the reason behind it.

Ah. ]

Universal healthcare.

[ He says a little dismissively. Took them five hundred years, but apparently humanity got there. ]

Prosthetics and everything. They put this one on me in the first place.

[ So they can fix it, too. Shouldn't cost anything, but if it does he can probably afford it.

Just a matter of there being any place around that isn't overrun with people who need help more than he does. ]

[ You know what. Universal healthcare beats flying cars by a mile.

He nods, some of the concern lifting from his features with the knowledge that at least one part of his injuries are an easy enough fix, eventually. There's a pause, both eyebrows raising at nothing in particular. ]

Sounds like you've got it made here.

[ Cocking his head to the side, appraising the television screen, conceding: ]

... minus the occasional monster apocalypse.

[ He takes one last bite of the shared plate and abandons his fork, shifting back toward the headboard so he can relax again. There's a fondly teasing edge to his voice that doesn't hide that he's not entirely joking, the realization hitting him just before he voices it.

Not like they don't have the occasional apocalypse back home. ]

[ He takes one more drink from the glass, then offers it over to Steve. Partly because he's being considerate, party because he wants to shuffle down a few more inches and become the bedspread. ]

I do now.

[ He agrees, follows by a brief pause and the echoed obligatory concession: ]

Minus the monster apocalypse.

[ Because as sweet as he had it, he couldn't have stayed knowing he up and abandoned the guy again. Wouldn't have ever been truly happy, wouldn't have been able to shake the guilt. He'd have gone back if he could have.

Now, though...

A glance over in Steve's direction. ]

Not even a hover-parking ticket.

[ Conversationally, blithely. Sparkling clean record. No murders here, accidental or otherwise. ]

[ He takes the glass, holding it close to his lap as he's propped up and looking over at Bucky. Studying him.

(never been any confirmation, no talk of what's next in those Skype conversations-- the concept too far off and nebulous for either of them to try to tackle in those fifteen minutes, a giant question with an answer he already knew:

you deserve your shot to finally walk away, however you can

but I can't yet)

I do now.

Maybe they do still have use for words every so often.

He ducks his chin, something warm and self-conscious spreading across his features as he shakes his head. He's not exactly thinking about the future yet now, either. But there's a notion. And understanding of what this accidental change in setting might mean, already means for Bucky.

How that changes things for him, too. ]

Not even a hover-parking ticket. [ He repeats, distantly amused. Shakes his head and finally takes a drink from the glass. ]

[ He hasn't been thinking about it too hard, to be honest — the big question. Whether or not Steve would stay, whether he feels the need to go back to the year he left. Not that they can right now, not that it's on the table, but if he wants something enough Bucky knows he's persistent enough to make it happen. Somehow, some impossible way, he could probably pull it off.

But, he's thinking... what the hell's back there? How long did Steve spend in that time period? A handful of years? His theory, seeing as they've never talked about it, is that the only thing really tethering him there is his friends.

Natasha's here, though. Bucky's here — and he'd think that was self-centered of him to point out, or he'd worry he was over-inflating his importance, except there's no doing that anymore is there? Not when you've touched someone's skin and felt what the score is first hand.

Sam's a missing piece, he knows, but how big is that piece? Bigger than the potential here, does it outweigh what he's already got? That's the unknown variable, and the thing that has him going a little more solemn. ]

What about you?

[ Probably doesn't need to point out the obvious, does he? That there's no expectation of him here. No global eye scrutinizing him. His criminal record is as clean as Bucky's again.

Does he think this place is an ideal fairy-tale? Hell no, there are monsters in the streets, someone performed non-elective brain surgery on them, the government is corrupt and politics are unbelievably tense. The thing is... how is it all that different from 2014? ]

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