Vigilanden Justice; A strange dream, a strange offer, a strange world. Nothing about this situation feels right: from the palace and its rules to the city and its politics. But — putting aside for the moment that he may in fact be crazy and that this might all be in his head anyway — Bucky decides that the best course of action is to take to the streets of the city, partly to explore and partly to just get away. Staying all day in the fantasy castle probably isn't conducive to deciding whether or not the fantasy castle is actually real. Of course, the streets come with their own problems, namely the gangs wandering through what Bucky has been told are Blood areas of the city. He still doesn't understand the politics of it all but violence is something he understands very, very intimately. The intent to do harm gives a person a certain stance, a certain nervous energy — especially when that person isn't a professional soldier. He picks it out easily, trailing the knot of young men like a shadow.
It's when they make to move on a woman with two children that he moves. The man at the front brandishes something that looks sort of like a gun and sort of not like a gun but it's clear he's the threat and ringleader both. His gang had been expecting an easy mark, maybe. What they get instead is a supersoldier moving through their ranks like nothing, disabling two of the group before they even realize he's there, making a line right for their leader. It can't even be called a fight; it's more a very efficient, very quick disarming. His flesh hand holds the young man's wrist in a firm grip. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's very much something he won't easily break. The other hand squeezes, reducing the weapon to scrap metal. "You really don't want to hurt anyone today," he says, quiet and calm. "Do you?" It's not really a question.
The young man glares balefully at him before nodding; when Bucky releases his wrist, he and his compatriots run off. Bucky lingers for long enough to watch them disappear around a corner before turning away himself, nodding awkwardly at the thanks of the woman and her children. He hadn't done it for them specifically, but he had done it, and with little thought beforehand. That's something he needs to digest.
Warm Front; Magic. It's magic, and Bucky's half convinced that he really is crazy, that this really is some sort of fever dream. Or worse, hallucinations from being so long out of cryo; with no memories of his own, his brain has clearly substituted flights of fancy instead. He doesn't understand any of it but apparently the jewel thing with which he'd woken is of a desirable color, enough to give him some sort of skill with this so-called Craft.
Yes, he's definitely gone crazy; there's simply no other explanation.
Regardless of his feelings on his own mental state or on the political tensions, he finds himself in the city with another person who's apparently also been brought here from somewhere else. Which is maybe sort of a little comforting unless the person and the story are both also figments of Bucky's imagination, but that train of thought promises to be much more convoluted than he wishes to consider, especially not when they enter the rougher-looking parts of Old Town. Slums don't bother him — they're a great place to find information more often than not — but information relies entirely on people who want to share. Or who can be persuaded to share but he doesn't think this calls for his particular brand of persuasion, especially considering that offering warmth seems like it can be a very strong bargaining chip.
Poisoned Gnature; Bucky doesn't mind work. He doesn't mind hard work, doesn't mind any sort of physical labor at all, and in fact prefers to keep active. Smearing mosquito-repelling paste on livestock isn't at all what he'd imagined for work though. He understands the importance of it certainly, especially given his own metabolic needs, but he hadn't quite been prepared for the reality of the work — namely, the exact nature of the thick, sticky paste. And how it adheres to metal as readily as it does to animal hide.+ It's going to be trouble, he can tell from the start. But starving would be even more trouble. And if even this supposedly powerful queen is stepping in to see to the welfare of the farm animals, he supposes he can do no less.
Especially if she really can follow through with that promise.
It's that in particular on which he chooses to focus; that and the simplicity of the task. Fortunately the work is rather straightforward; there's no grappling with Craft, or whatever it's called, here. It's elbow grease and work ethic; those he can supply in spades. And after working his way through the stable, he's outside, attempting to clean the smelly stuff from between the plates and joints of his left hand. It's not exactly going as well as he'd like, but he's nothing if not determined.
Something Else; Leave me a starter, or hit me up via PM or at sometimesamuse to plot! I'm open to almost anything, and I'm happy to match your style if you prefer brackets to prose. For those familiar with canon, Bucky is taken just post-The Winter Soldier so, uh, that's. A Thing.
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A strange dream, a strange offer, a strange world. Nothing about this situation feels right: from the palace and its rules to the city and its politics. But — putting aside for the moment that he may in fact be crazy and that this might all be in his head anyway — Bucky decides that the best course of action is to take to the streets of the city, partly to explore and partly to just get away. Staying all day in the fantasy castle probably isn't conducive to deciding whether or not the fantasy castle is actually real. Of course, the streets come with their own problems, namely the gangs wandering through what Bucky has been told are Blood areas of the city. He still doesn't understand the politics of it all but violence is something he understands very, very intimately. The intent to do harm gives a person a certain stance, a certain nervous energy — especially when that person isn't a professional soldier. He picks it out easily, trailing the knot of young men like a shadow.
It's when they make to move on a woman with two children that he moves. The man at the front brandishes something that looks sort of like a gun and sort of not like a gun but it's clear he's the threat and ringleader both. His gang had been expecting an easy mark, maybe. What they get instead is a supersoldier moving through their ranks like nothing, disabling two of the group before they even realize he's there, making a line right for their leader. It can't even be called a fight; it's more a very efficient, very quick disarming. His flesh hand holds the young man's wrist in a firm grip. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's very much something he won't easily break. The other hand squeezes, reducing the weapon to scrap metal. "You really don't want to hurt anyone today," he says, quiet and calm. "Do you?" It's not really a question.
The young man glares balefully at him before nodding; when Bucky releases his wrist, he and his compatriots run off. Bucky lingers for long enough to watch them disappear around a corner before turning away himself, nodding awkwardly at the thanks of the woman and her children. He hadn't done it for them specifically, but he had done it, and with little thought beforehand. That's something he needs to digest.
Warm Front;
Magic. It's magic, and Bucky's half convinced that he really is crazy, that this really is some sort of fever dream. Or worse, hallucinations from being so long out of cryo; with no memories of his own, his brain has clearly substituted flights of fancy instead. He doesn't understand any of it but apparently the jewel thing with which he'd woken is of a desirable color, enough to give him some sort of skill with this so-called Craft.
Yes, he's definitely gone crazy; there's simply no other explanation.
Regardless of his feelings on his own mental state or on the political tensions, he finds himself in the city with another person who's apparently also been brought here from somewhere else. Which is maybe sort of a little comforting unless the person and the story are both also figments of Bucky's imagination, but that train of thought promises to be much more convoluted than he wishes to consider, especially not when they enter the rougher-looking parts of Old Town. Slums don't bother him — they're a great place to find information more often than not — but information relies entirely on people who want to share. Or who can be persuaded to share but he doesn't think this calls for his particular brand of persuasion, especially considering that offering warmth seems like it can be a very strong bargaining chip.
Poisoned Gnature;
Bucky doesn't mind work. He doesn't mind hard work, doesn't mind any sort of physical labor at all, and in fact prefers to keep active. Smearing mosquito-repelling paste on livestock isn't at all what he'd imagined for work though. He understands the importance of it certainly, especially given his own metabolic needs, but he hadn't quite been prepared for the reality of the work — namely, the exact nature of the thick, sticky paste. And how it adheres to metal as readily as it does to animal hide.+ It's going to be trouble, he can tell from the start. But starving would be even more trouble. And if even this supposedly powerful queen is stepping in to see to the welfare of the farm animals, he supposes he can do no less.
Especially if she really can follow through with that promise.
It's that in particular on which he chooses to focus; that and the simplicity of the task. Fortunately the work is rather straightforward; there's no grappling with Craft, or whatever it's called, here. It's elbow grease and work ethic; those he can supply in spades. And after working his way through the stable, he's outside, attempting to clean the smelly stuff from between the plates and joints of his left hand. It's not exactly going as well as he'd like, but he's nothing if not determined.
Something Else;
Leave me a starter, or hit me up via PM or at