bakerstreet | i'm in a world of shit, yes. but i'm alive. and i am not afraid.

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i'm in a world of shit, yes. but i'm alive. and i am not afraid.

THE WAR ZONE MEME

WARNING: Meme will contain TRIGGERS, including war, violence, capture, and general uncomfortable content. Please do not click if you don't want to see, and please respect your fellow role-players.

◊ Post with your character with name and canon.
◊ List any preferences(roles, scenarios, time periods, etc.) you have

ROLES
1) The General/Admiral: You're the head honcho, the guy in charge. You have hundreds, maybe thousands of lives resting on you. What decision will you make?

2) The Officer: Not the leader, but you've got responsibility for your crew. What's your specialty -- independent initiative? Insubordination? Or do you let the noncoms walk all over you?

3) The Soldier: Just an ordinary soldier with your pike, or rifle, or energy gun. Your job is to follow orders. But when it comes down to it, when you look the enemy in the eye -- what will you do?

4) Spy: Dressed in civilian clothes, disguised as an enemy officer. Your job is to get as much information as you can, and then get out. Or are you going to sow a little chaos and destruction along the way?

5) Civilian: This is your land that's being fought over. Do you support a side? Do you hide, or do you hold steady in the face of such violence?

6) Other.

SCENARIOS
1) Battle: In the middle of the fighting.

2) Downtime/R&R: A few peaceful moments, to spend as you will.

3) Sabotage: Something's gone terribly wrong. A factory blown up, a bridge destroyed, an assassination. What do you do about it?

4) Planning: How do you go about storming that beach?

5) Capture/Rescue: The enemy soldiers have you surrounded. Or maybe you're on a daring mission to break your buddies out of jail.

6) Other.

TIME PERIOD
1) Ancient times: Grab that centurion's helmet, form up into a phalanx, and let's go crush those Gauls and/or Persians!

2) Medieval times: Suit up in your armor, grab a lance and make sure to bring along your squire.

3) Revolutionary times: Basic guns and muskets, very little medical care, and very little tactics. Give the other army a few days to dig in, and they'll hold you off forever.

4) World War I/II: Technology is advancing, and warfare is more sophisticated than ever. Remember the trenches, the skirmishes in cities, the spies and the drama.

5) Modern times: Guerilla warfare, modern tactics, modern technology.

6) The future: Ray guns? Space battles? Let your imagination go wild.

7) Other.

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Okay, that-- fine, he doesn't know. His brain still feels frozen, and as the rest of him wakes up, he's also ravenous and he aches. There's metal all through his left side, and it's a dull, heavy pain he feels in his bones. It's all distracting, and he doesn't have the necessary brainpower right now to fight much beyond it.

So while he recovers and gathers more intel, he refrains from choking her. For now. He does lean heavily on the door, though, as far from her as possible, watching the road around them. "If there's more goons waiting for us wherever you're drivin', I will take your head off first," he promises fervently. At least his teeth have stopped chattering, so it actually sounds vaguely threatening.

"Not surprised," she tries to grouse, but comes up flat despite the spiking adrenaline. Too long a week. Too long a day. Too many years.

It's good to see him talking, at least. Still him.

"This drive is going to be another forty minutes. Keeping West. I'd offer you a map, but having one seemed stupid. We're gonna get to a cabin, a goonless cabin, and lay low for as long as supplies hold out. Then a break for the States."

A beat; letting him process it. His week's undoubtedly been longer.

"There's gonna be hot water there. Food. You can eat, have a bath, sleep. Rest."

He regards her sidelong, wary, and doesn't address any of that for now. It's been a long... however long it's been. He actually has no idea. His memory is--

--it's patchy. He knows he's been experimented on further. There were more scalpels, more drugs, more doctors, more--

His mind skitters away from that. He knows he spent time in a small cell, alone. He knows he spent some time in that horrible tube, time gone because he was fucking frozen. Even now, the small space in the car is making his skin crawl. "How did you find me," he asks, voice flat. Tired as much as suspicious.

"I'm a numbers girl, no matter where I go I can't get away from desks. Just lucky enough to have been double-checking intake before some procedure, recognized the bloodwork. Had a good crisis about it, followed the ones you left with."

Honest, but brief. She's thawing alongside him, acutely aware of the blood she's lost and less chatty for it. Focus is reserved chiefly for the road.

"I didn't know they had you," she eventually adds, sorrowful and quiet. "You don't believe that. And that's fair. But I didn't know, I'd had no idea of any of this until whatever was going on a few months back. Can't make it right, but I can do this."

Months. A few months back. Implying it's been a lot longer than that, when she didn't know. He knew it'd been a long time, but....

"How long?" he asks, voice hoarse. "What happened with the war?"

"Three years," she manages, without her voice catching even. "Germans battled back, world saved, everyone back home or dogging their own little pet cause."

That's... longer than he'd hoped. If it's been three years and nobody knew he was alive-- if Steve never knew--

If Misty were on the level, she'd have brought Steve. He'd have smashed through all those HYDRA fuckers in three seconds flat. Which means he either can't, for some reason-- he decided he didn't care and would rather settle in with Peggy (don't think like that, he'd come for you, he'd come--) or he's.... He has to ask. "Where's Steve?"

Edited 2021-03-01 06:22 (UTC)

"Went down." There, her throat catches. No dancing around it. No bullshit. "Found himself on a plane about to cause a lot of trouble and rather than let it happen, dropped it into the ocean."

And she doesn't tack anything on about his being remembered, his being lauded, because it's implicit and hardly fucking matters compared to the fact he's gone right now.

He's very still for a moment, not even shivering anymore, expression stricken... and then he curls away from her to lean against the car door. That sounds like exactly the thing Steve would do, but at the same time it doesn't feel real.

He's not up to dealing with this yet. Unless she tries to make him talk, he's silent for the rest of the ride to the cabin-- awake, watching the scenery, but not volunteering or asking anything else.

He's earned that, and she doesn't dare intrude on whatever he's feeling with commentary or questions. So it's silent. Something of a relief; much easier to focus.

An intended off-road is blocked by a fallen tree - the wind must really be something - so the alternate route takes them up to a roughly fifty-four minute drive. Though tense all the while, there aren't any gunshots, no sirens, no one emerging from the woods to assail them. And that's nice.

The cabin is dark when they reach it, as expected. The storm rolling in will ruin any tire tracks, so she spares him (and herself) the hike she'd initially imagined and drives up alongside it. He's together enough by then to manage that walk and so she doesn't coddle by offering assistance. Doubtful she'd be of use anyway - she's graduating slowly to lightheaded, and drops quickly onto the bench by the door once she's pushed past it. The first of a few first aid kits live under it, for imagined injuries much worse than hers.

"Kitchen's on the left, living room's just past that. Bathroom all the way on the right." Said still flatly as she rifles through the case. "Fire's probably the thing to start with - too far from anything for anyone to see smoke. I'm gonna be a few minutes here, but if you want to start that and get a bath or something, I can cook."

He lets her go first, moving slow and stiff, but his eyes dart around with more alertness than the rest of him once he's inside, taking in everything. He's shivering again, but less from cryo and more because he's wearing a thin shirt and pants and no goddamn shoes at all.

As soon as he sees the first aid kid come out, he all but skuttles away to the promised fire. No one is coming near him with one of those things. By the time she's patched herself up, he has the old-fashioned kitchen boiler stoked up, and another fire going in the living room fireplace, but he's just curled in on himself in front of the latter instead of moving on to something else.

Not surprising, but a sad sight. Walking with something of a willing limp - nothing lodged in her leg, a shocking amount of luck, not that she wants to press it - there's no mistaking her movements around the cabin and eventually around him. Blankets and bedding she'd been generous with. The blankets she drops carefully on the floor just in arm's reach won't be missing from anyone's bed, and the pillow she supplements it with just in case won't stop anyone from sleeping if they decide to retire to a bedroom proper.

"I'm gonna work on dinner, okay?" A question, even though she's certain he won't find any reply. Feels like good practice to say outright where she's going and what she's doing, and the sooner she eats the sooner she can stop moving so much. Bath tomorrow.

When it comes, it's nothing special. Tinned meat heated in broth, hastily roasted vegetables, two slabs of bread and butter. Seating herself on the threadbare sofa some feet behind him, she makes a show of starting in on hers first in hopes of skipping the poison accusation she knows could well be lurking.

"If you want to sleep out here I can grab you more blankets," she offers quietly, on the last leg of the meal.

He doesn't touch the food yet, staring at it like he's not sure what to do with it. It's been a long time since he's been given food that actually looks like food. He's got the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, at least, and his feet on the pillow up on the hearth, protected from the brick while they unthaw the rest of the way.

"Why did you do it," is what he finally asks, voice flat. "Spy on us. Report to goddamn HYDRA."

Well. It was coming eventually.

"Not HYDRA," she starts. "Russians. Not high enough to know what's what, who's reporting to who. I knew Russians." Get that out of the way. Ain't like they explain the chains of command to every entry level grunt. "I was captured, for a few months, before I joined up with your lot. It was..."

She clears her throat.

"It was bad. It'd end if I played along, and with pay to boot. All I had to do was listen to my superior and pass along information, that was all they expected of me. I took the out. That's the gist of it."

Well, fuck. If she's not lying-- if she's not lying-- it's a little harder to stay mad. Not knowing what that's like. Not after coming from.... He shudders and huddles further into the blanket, tries to drag his brain out of the tracks laid by memory, tries not to think about fucking Zola and fucking Russians.

But the other tracks laid by memory, the thing he'd been holding onto stubbornly for-- for, god, three years-- it leads to something that's... gone. "I kept thinking," he says finally. "Steve would come. He came, last time. I gave up, last time, but then there he was. All big and stupid and--" His voice breaks, and this time the shudder is a sob.

The urge is there, plain and evident, to go press a hand to his shoulder, give him something solid to cry against. Not an option, of course. Not for good reason. So she hears that sound and sinks into the cushion under her, frown more pronounced by the second.

"I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry, Barnes. Everyone thought you were dead. If there were something I could have done, I would've. If there's anything I can do now, I'm here."

Unspoken: but that's all that can be done. Nice as it would be to spin a story, the reality is reality. No one came for him, all that time. He needed something to imagine.

He doesn't answer her for a long minute, keeping his tears near-silent but for his ragged breathing. He's learned how to do that, in the past three years. Noise just results in more pain.

He's too worn out for more than that long minute, though, and mostly just slumps on his knees and arms tiredly. "Wish you'd told us," he finally says. It's pointless to say, now, but allow him a moment of desperate what-if before he settles into reality. "We would've helped you. Maybe avoided all this. Know the fucking Russians had a fucking HYDRA division."

For some reason, that cuts much deeper than hostility. Much had been made of the past, much of the stress, the phantom loss of people that were not hers to start with - the awareness that there wasn't a lot to lose to start with even before the war.

It's tempting to tear up, but she refuses.

"By the time any of you got word to anyone that could've done anything, the handler would've been gone - I'd either be dead or in some prison for espionage."

Thankless work. And for good reason.

"Having Captain America on your side opens a lot of doors, Miss Day," he says warily. "Mighta been surprised." Not that it'll do anyone any good, now. No Captain America, no open doors. He's not sure he can even... go back. Not with this goddamn arm. Not with the serum. Not when they'll want to test it, test him, not more experiments, not more war, please god--

He shudders hard all over again, then finally uncurls enough to reach for the food she brought. He needs to eat. He hasn't eaten anything but that nutrient slop they gave him in... in a long time. Also, distraction.

"It's one thing when he's selling bonds or fresh in the field, another when he's covering for spies," she counters, more resigned than argumentative. Symbols are good for flag waving and big, flashy, public disputes. Spies are tried quietly and slow. Long enough for things to cool down. No - unless he had an impressive law degree he never talked about, she can't believe it would have turned out with anything short of her head on a pike.

But it's a nice fantasy.

And good that he's eating.

"Do you need another blanket?"

Spies that turn are more valuable than she knows, but it's still a fantasy. Steve is dead, so he can't advocate for anybody.

The soup tastes like ash. But he eats it anyway.

And doesn't dignify her question with an answer. "You can't go back now," he says instead. "To HYDRA. You busted out their favorite test subject. And I know one of them said. They had bigger plans for me."

"No shit."

Not aggressive. Not miserable, really, although some part of her knows she should be. Not really anything. Just the first thing that comes to mind as she scrapes the sides of her bowl clean.

"Going back wasn't the plan. Knew that going in."

"Then what is the plan." She has to have one, if she worked out this much. Maybe it's a good one. Maybe it's a terrible one. But he thinks, maybe, he'll feel better if he knows. Maybe.

"Exactly what I told you. Lay low long as we can here, take a loop around, then beeline you to the States. Someone could get you to the Howlies, Peggy, people that can help."

Simple. Straightforward.

Though she has to admit, "Little surprised I got this far."

He is, too. And... he can't really even consider whether it will work more than this. For all he knows there's trackers in the stupid metal arm, or drilled into his bones. He sure does know they drilled into his bones.

He can't think about it right now. They have a little time, surely. Maybe he can sleep and then worry about whether they can track him here. "Okay," he says wearily. "How long is... as long as we can. Are you thinkin' days? Weeks?"

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