03. | When everything's meant to be broken

[sinistral]

Who: the Bucky Barnes who no longer goes by Bucky or Barnes (sinistral)
Broadcast: no
Action: yes; SS Starduck, Lyndia
When: throughout the visit to the Bix star system

---

SPACE
→ SS Starduck;

Once, far enough back in Earth history that no one would likely truly remember it, some sarcastic jackass responded to a challenge with two now infamous words: Watch me. And while it's more likely than not that the Soldier had been in cryo for said occurrence, he certainly seems to embody the spirit thereof. He's been told, by several different people at several different times, that his life is his to live as he wishes. It's invariably followed up by recommendations, and even at times objections when his wishes do not conform to the path they'd imagined. He can't, shouldn't, withdraw from everyone and everything, they say.

Watch me, his current behavior replies.

He's stopped visiting the Iskaulit, save for a single afternoon to memorize a document. Most of the Starduck's crew keeps to themselves, making the avoidance of casual conversation easy. He keeps appointments to train in the gym space in their cargo hold, still makes his own rounds of the ship to check its safety and integrity — and to check that nothing new has been planted on board without their knowledge. He checks, re-checks, and re-checks again the upgrades to their systems. He trains himself, choosing odd hours, times during which other members of the crew aren't likely to observe the way he uses — abuses — the punching bag. It's not solving anything, his brain supplies. It's not answering any questions.

Watch me, his fists beat into the bag in steady cadence. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me.

PLANETSIDE
→ Sun's Rest;

A desire to surround oneself with physical beauty seems simple enough, right? He recalls a conversation, one in which the other person had told him that the aesthetic appreciation of a thing need not be based on extensive knowledge or experience. The words were meant as a kindness, he thinks, and they're what sends him to see the glowing grove when he hears of it.

If a single word must describe the place, he supposes that beautiful is the one most would use.

Thankfully it also seems quiet, which is a small miracle. He directs his thanks to the flora and fungi of the planet; were it not for their apparently aggressive allergens, it's likely that there might be more people wandering the paths to enjoy the sights — or wandering off the paths to enjoy other activities. Put in that context, the relative emptiness is a blessing. Still, it apparently doesn't stop all of those with amorous intent and on hearing rustling and moaning (and a sneeze or two) from a particular cluster of bushes, he'd been quick to abandon his exploration of the weeping, flowered branches of a tree, not having any desire to know any more about who's in those bushes or what, exactly, they're doing together.

He stops by the edges of the lake, watching the glowing forms of the fish swimming underneath the water. There's an imagery there for which he doesn't have words. But as he sinks to a sitting position at the edge of the lake, he supposes that he doesn't really need them either. For a little while at least.

→ Kenn-Tellnic;

At least this planet is relatively high end, as far as supplying oneself is concerned. Proper combat knives are a requirement and most people would probably scoff at how much of a morning is given over to the pursuit of obtaining just that, but he's picky. He needs to be picky when it comes to something that needs to feel like an extension of his own body and needs to be just as reliable. It's a process that takes him through several shops and half the city before he finds something that meets his standards and specifications; he realizes the time once he's left the shop with purchases secure in their sheaths and decides that the cafe caddy-corner to his current position will do. It's glass and brushed aluminum and streamlined — apparently this planet's high-profile coffee chain — and even the short line of customers moves efficiently.

It's too good to be true.

There's certainly something to be admired in the efficiency of the operation that is taking an order, accepting payment, and fulfilling that order. It's clean. Impersonal. Exactly the way things should be, and the entire thing grinds to a halt when the cashier looks him in the eye and asks, in that distinct retail blend of perky-yet-interested-in-moving-the-line, for his name. It's an uncomfortable moment, made worse by her follow up, the slight slowing of two syllables: "name, sir?"

"Nothing. Never mind," he says, turning away from the counter to move for the door. He doesn't spare another glance for the girl left standing behind her register, nor for the other patrons of the shop. No coffee in the universe is worth answering that question right now.

→ Jungles;

Being around people has become increasingly uncomfortable. He knows it's all internal, all him; he was designed to be a weapon, not a person. At least out here he can put that reality of his existence to good use: there is game to hunt, and he's nothing if not a hunter. And the creatures here are certainly big enough and strong enough to provide a challenge.

When they don't, there's always the escape of pure physical activity, running and hiking and climbing, if he can find it. Anything that presents a challenge; anything that pushes the body to its extremes, that elusive point of exhaustion where the brain finally quiets and nothing exists outside of pushing the muscles to achieve more. It's a luxury in every sense of the word: to have a body that can perform on such a level, and to have not only the freedom to exercise it, but a place that presents enough challenge to do so.

He's being reckless, he knows. But as it's not endangering others, he just doesn't give a damn.

WILDCARD
→ Elsewhere;

Did we discuss something and I forgot in the hell that has been final projects and exams? Have another idea? Want to go steal some Flouds? I'm open to almost anything, hit me up via PM or at sometimesamuse and we'll figure out out. I do write starters in prose but if you prefer brackets I'm happy to match.

Comments

SS Starduck

[appletart]

Escha's usually asleep at this hour. Tell that to the spinning thoughts in her head, or the odd and restless energy that's keeping her awake for whatever strange reason. She knows she should sleep - there might not be much to being a captain of a ship in this Fleet, but there's still some level of accountability, and even besides that she just wants to be able to support the others on the ship. Can't do that on no sleep, right? If only brains listened to logic...

She's tired of lying in bed, staring at her pocketwatch and getting all nostalgic and sad about things, so she ends up pacing through the ship's hallways - no destination, not even really intending to check in on anything. But the rhythmic, heavy sound of repetitive strikes from the cargo hold catches her attention. She pokes her head inside.

Yes, the Starduck crewmembers tend to keep to themselves - not in a bad way, it's usually a very comfortable existence, and it seems to suit everyone just fine to leave it that way. But something about the way he swings at the bag, with hyperfocus and intent in every impact, is enough to let her know that things... probably aren't okay.

"Can't sleep either?"

Her voice is quiet, but calm, as she steps a little ways inside. She has no idea if he'd even want to talk to her - or if he even needs to talk at all! Maybe she's completely wrong! But what's the worst that could happen, honestly? No harm in asking.

[sinistral]

He doesn’t know much about other ships in the Fleet, how they’re run, how their crews interact. But that doesn’t matter because nothing, no ship, can be better than the Starduck. There’s privacy, as much as he wants of it, and that alone makes this the best ship. It also means he’s not expecting anyone to drop into the cargo bay, especially at this late hour, and he’s so focused on his workout that he doesn’t hear Escha’s approach. He catches the flash of her colorful hair out of the corner of his eye though, and catches the bag on its rebound instead of throwing another punch.

He’s sweaty and gross but she looks a little sleep rumpled (or sleep attempt rumpled anyway), so neither of them is at their best, clearly. But it could probably be worse.

“Captain, ma’am.” He steps away from the bag, hands running through his hair to free it of its tie and re-do the ponytail his workout had loosened. “I hope I’m not what’s kept you up.”

[appletart]

Yeah, sleep rumpled is a good word for it - and almost on cue, she stifles a small yawn before speaking.

"Not at all." She shakes her head. "I didn't even know anyone else was up until I started walking around. For a moment, I was afraid I might have woken you up! But it looks like you've been at it a while."

She glances at the bag, then back to him.

"Does it help?"

[sinistral]

That's slightly worrisome, the yawn, but insomnia is hardly the province of ex-assassins alone. There exist so many things that could keep a person up, and not all of them fall into the doom-and-gloom categories.

He looks down at his hands when she calls him out on the time spent and resists the urge to fiddle with the wrapping on his right hand. "I'm not a heavy sleeper anyway, so don't blame yourself. I'd make a poor security officer if I slept like the dead."

He raises his gaze back to hers, wondering if she knows the answer already. Can she guess it? Do they know each other well enough? Is she just that perceptive? "No. But I didn't really expect it to."

[appletart]

"Well, I guess that's true. Sleep is important though! Or at least, that's what everyone keeps telling me." Says the nerd who is absolutely guilty of pulling accidental all-nighters in her lab, working on whatever's got her current fancy. "But, thanks for always keeping the ship safe. Things are always so unpredictable here, it's nice to know we won't be caught totally off-guard."

And she means it! Even if it's an... odd time to be expressing gratitude.

She thinks she might know the answer already, and he confirms it with his answer. She nods sympathetic. "I'm sorry. I know it's hard where there's a lot on your mind."

[sinistral]

"Guess neither of us is good at taking advice. At least about our sleeping habits." He's pretty sure that as an android, Connor doesn't sleep, which brings the responsibility of having normal sleep down on the head of one person. Maybe they should rename the ship to the SS Insomnia. "I think the Atroma making me Security was in many ways a cruel joke, but I'm going to make the responsibility my own. I hope we'd never have to be in a combat situation, but I want to be prepared in case we are."

He's probably being Too Serious™ about this, but that's beside the point.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." It truly isn't, and he doesn't think she should have to apologize on behalf of his own issues. "If I'm going to be awake, might as well make use of the time."

[appletart]

"Yeah, I guess not." Oh well. If this does end up the SS Insomnia maybe they should rotate sleeping duty?

She's heard others hint at Atroma having a twisted sense of "humor" in their augment assignments. She's not entirely fond of her own - every "official" lab test and all of the provided "equipment" feel way too much like they're rubbing in her face just how much more "advanced" they are, and just how far from home she is. Also, her? Captain? That one is still a gigantic question mark, seriously. Still, that's all nothing compared to some of the far less kind situations she's been told about. And from his tone, she imagines Bucky's is probably along those lines too.

She's about to reflexively apologize for apologizing, but manages to not do that! Small miracles. She pauses for a second, glancing at the bag... And then, "Can you show me? How to hit it, I mean. I've fought monsters before, but I've always had my staff and some explosives. And I know that's really different."

Hey, if they're gonna be insomniacs...

[sinistral]

They should probably also take a poll to get another ship renamed the SS Narcolepsy while they’re at it.

He’s glad that she doesn’t pursue the line of thought — the discretion forms part of what makes her an excellent captain — but he’s not expecting the question. At all. It’s funny actually, when taken alongside a conversation he’d had with Connor about the defensive abilities of their small crew in case something bad happened. “Actually, that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, if you had any combat experience. Just in case the worst happens and we’re boarded; I know it’s happened in the past.” A beat. “Staves and explosives certainly count, but I’m not sure how feasible they’d be on board.”

Explosives might be very, very bad indeed.

He glances toward the bag as well, following her line of sight, then jerks his head toward the nearby bench, an invitation to follow. Another bag sits on the floor and the bench itself has the tape he’d used on his hand. “I’ll teach you on a lighter bag because this one is... reinforced. Have you ever taped your hands before?”

[appletart]

Maybe if Narcolepsy and Insomnia merged, the crew would be blessed with normal sleeping patterns.

A small part of her thought he would turn her down - she's glad he didn't, though. Maybe they don't know each other well enough for him to just suddenly open up or anything, and maybe she doesn't want to go prying into business that isn't hers no matter how concerned she is, so at the very least, she can offer a distraction. Sort of. Right? Plus, she actually gets to learn how to punch something! That's useful information!

She follows him to the bench, shakes her head at his question. "I've watched someone else do it maybe once or twice, but I haven't ever done it, no."

[sinistral]

With their luck — and the Atroma's apparent sense of humor — it's the androids who would end up with the normal sleeping patterns.

They really don't know each other. It's neither of their fault, unless it's both their faults. It's comfortable to be a member of a crew that keeps to itself but it does mean that conversations occasionally tend toward the stilted, awkward spectrum. But the fact that Escha clearly makes an effort does mean something.

Besides, everyone should know how to throw a good, solid punch.

He sits down on the bench, picking up the tape and casually tossing it from hand to hand as he talks. "Then this will be your first lesson. I'll do it on your dominant hand to show you, then I want you to do your other hand." For all that he's standoffish at best, he does take the time to patiently show and explain the process and how it protects the fragile bones of the hand and wrist as well as preventing skinning of the knuckles. And he does let her do her other hand just as he'd said, only making small corrections if she seems like she needs it. "I teach Sansa self defense, you know. I don't know if you want to learn that, or just to learn how to hit and kick against the bag, but I don't mind making myself available to you. In addition to our apparent insomniac hours, I mean." Hopefully it's not too insulting or forward of an offer.