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

[sinistral]

Oddballs is probably a nice way of putting it. But that's a curiosity too: from what little he was able to observe on Earth, most media seemed to depict stories of humans, or had humans as central characters. Assuming that model extends to other worlds and other beings, what does that say about the Atroma? Are they vaguely humanoid creatures sitting at control consoles perhaps, scheming up new and interesting things to throw at the Fleet for their own amusement?

Oh, and ratings of course. Can't forget the ratings.

"An entire planet affected by debilitating allergies though?" Isn't that just a little suspicious? "How did they possibly manage to construct all this, if they were so impaired?"

[twosoul]

His theory has always been that this is a far-future result of an alternate timeline where the Exodus fleet had managed to make it out of the system, instead of crashing into a singularity out in the asteroid belt and transmuting his people from Human to Other. Or an elaborate simulation. Can't get rid of that theory so easily, especially since he's been in them before.

"It'd have to be one of two things, right? Either they had automated excavators they moved in after, or the allergy is a recent development. Either way, it's--gotta be some kind of refugee situation, right? Because people settle on the most hospitable land available. This is the only rocky planet in the system, so they must have run out of fuel or something. Otherwise why not drift for a few weeks until they get to B'lire?" He crosses his arms, annoyed at the problem, and seeming to forget all about the coffee issue. "Once they were here, yeah, they'd stay because it's their home. But why come here in the first place?"

[sinistral]

"Unless they didn't have the means to sustain that drift. Or, for whatever reason, didn't want to." Strange either way he looks at it honestly, and he doesn't like that there are so many unanswered questions. Not that the answers would provide them with anything, he doesn't think. It's far from their own situation, just another stop on their path through space and towards —

— towards something, maybe. Who knows?

"Guess it doesn't much matter since we'll move on soon enough. But it's at least a place to stretch the legs until then. Their loss if they can't enjoy the surface." And the Fleet's apparent gain, since there seems no shortage of surface-based jobs with which to keep busy and earn credits.

[twosoul]

"Or, maybe," and he grins, suddenly looking a lot younger, "this was the best place to ranch their giant sheep creatures. Have you seen those things?" He opens his arms in a gesture to show how big they are. "They're giant and fluffy, and I totally think we could keep a few on the Iskaulit if we tried."

Dumb idea? Maybe. But his mentor had a pet chicken, so why not?

[sinistral]

He had seen them on the surface, and they certainly looked peaceful enough. The wool is apparently very high quality as well, at least according to signs in shop windows. "I wonder how they got so big anyway. Or if they were here before the people."

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?" The Iskaulit certainly is big enough for it, and it's easily justified as a source of wool and meat both. Not that he needs any justification for anything of the sort, because it sounds like just enough mischief to be fun.

[twosoul]

Lorden laces his fingers together and stretches them out in front of him. "That if we want to sustain deep-space living, we need a better fiber source than the shitty uniforms they give us? Or that it would be cool to have giant sheep around, because it's kind of a mix of both."

[sinistral]

"I'm sure someone in the Fleet knows how to knit. Or weave. Or whatever it is they do to turn wool into cloth." But really it's the second, because it would be cool to have a couple of giant sheep roaming around. If nothing else just cleaning up after the things is probably going to give the cleaning bots on the Iskaulit a new level of productivity, and he does enjoy the thought of sticking it to the Atroma in even just this small way.

[twosoul]

"Beats me. At home we'd just put Glimmer into a forge, give it our measurements, and it would spit out new clothes." He tugs at the hem of his hooded cape, a teal affair with two trailing tails. "Making things from scratch is so Dark Age."

But he sounds delighted about it. There's a whole mountain on the Iskaulit, he found it once when he was exploring. Surely there's room for some Flouds.

[sinistral]

"Guess I'm just from the Dark Ages then." Because the Blue Guy may as well be speaking a foreign language for all that he understands what's going on. "Since clothes actually have to be made. By people."

A revolutionary idea, clearly.

But it doesn't really matter, ultimately. It sounds like a good bit of mischief to get a Floud off the planet and onto the Iskaulit, and he's all for it. "Guess we need to get a shuttle to a sheep." Then figure out how to get the sheep into the shuttle.

[twosoul]

At that he actually takes a moment and considers Bucky. How likely is it that there's actually anyone from the Dark Ages here? "More likely pre-Golden Age," he says slowly, "if you're from Earth. But I wouldn't know if you're from my timeline at all if you haven't got to Mars yet. That's our diverging point, near as I can tell." Mars was when everything changed. For the better? For a while, yes. But it was still debatable. There would have been no Dark Age if there hadn't been a Golden Age first.

"Right. So, finding a clearing big enough for a shuttle that's not too far away from some sheep. Then, what, lure it in with food?"

[sinistral]

"Guess we wouldn't know then, we haven't gotten to Mars. At least not as far as I remember." Not that his memory is a reliable thing, but that's beside the point. Still, who knows? It's not like the Atroma have made any sort of historical comparison reliable, after all.

It's not really important anyway.

"Sure? Unless you think putting a leash on one and leading it like a dog would work, but I have my doubts."

[twosoul]

"Oh, you'd know. But I'd be surprised." He'd done a little digging in the network archives, and while there had been other Guardians from time to time, there was no one from the Golden Age, not that he'd been able to tell. Pity. it would have been enlightening to talk to someone from that magical time.

"Never had a dog either, so. Food it is."

[sinistral]

"Suppose so." Really it raises more questions than it answers, but there's little enough sense in dwelling on it. He personally thinks those answers won't really answer any of his actual questions, and as such it isn't worth bothering.

"Food should work. If not, we add brute force to it."

[twosoul]

Lorden grins and flexes his arms a bit. It doesn't have much effect because of the armor he's wearing, but he at least doesn't seem afraid of the prospect. "Got it. I'll ask around, see if I can grab anyone else to help."

And then he pauses, because the whole point of this is that the other guy is uncomfortable with his name. So how are they going to get in contact?

"And, uh, ask the whole network when we're ready?"

[sinistral]

"If not, I'm not too worried about it." He's not even sure what this man is about, but maybe such behavior is normal wherever he's from? At least the gesture seems confident, and that's good enough.

"Ask for the Security officer on the Starduck." Since asking the network for a guy with a metal arm doesn't yield a singular result.

[twosoul]

He thumps his chest in acknowledgment. "I'm Security on the Bloodsport if you ever want to swap techniques. Until then--"

He wiggles his fingers. "I'll brush up on my sheep-grabbing skills. Take it easy, man."

[sinistral]

"I'll keep it in mind," he replies. Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll go back to training in the gym on the Iskaulit every now and again; the more public place meant more of a chance of running into like-minded individuals, at least in theory.

That finger-wiggle is a weird interpretation of a wave but it gets the point across at least. "Same here. See you soon."