station72 | MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

Entry tags:

MISSION: WAYPOINT SHRIL, PT. I

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: WAYPOINT SHRIL
WHEN: Day :025 - :029
SUMMARY: Welcome to Waypoint Shril, the soon-to-be home to the galaxy's most incredible competition!
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Strange, how a moment ago everything seemed perfectly fine - as normal as things get on Station 72 - and then the next the entire void shifts by a degree. There's a crackling, anticipatory feel in the air. Dwelled on too long and it might become nauseating, triggering some hindbrain impulse the nervous system under the skin or--

Something is coming.

Something is coming undone.

In the heart of the Station in a small, featureless circular room, The Prince and Cathaway dredge the Station from its mooring. There's a rush of shared adrenaline, then an massive sensation like an inhale. A gulp of breath. Relief floods through the body like something palpable as the massive beehive structure of the Station snaps into real space above the deep space space station known as Waypoint Shril.

( ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬...Please meet us in the hangar. We have your next assignment....▬▬▬. )

Once they've arrived at the hangar, the Hosts will be briefed by Cathaway and Prince on their new objective. They'll be given their mission kits, along with a written brief on their databanks. The usual warnings apply. Try not to kill anyone. Do not get killed yourself. And accomplish your mission. From there, pack yourself onto the transport shuttle and make your way to the Waypoint. --One of you knows how to drive, right?

Once ejected from the Station, you'll find yourself on one of literally thousands of ships. The black space above Waypoint Shril is full to bursting with air traffic from the smallest pod-shaped one being ship to the most gargantuan floating planet cruisers. Some of them rival even the Station which now lurks, a mottled white and grey latticework structure that's no more bizarre to look at than any of its neighbors.

VROOM. A ship shaped like a sword with a naked multi-limbed alien painted in lascivious, technicolor detail along the blade slices directly across the path of the shuttle transport. It blares a proximity alarm and a holographic message full of swearing and threats pops up even as the ship blasts down toward the traffic choked landing platform in the distance. A school of insectoid fighters go swarming after it. In the distance, the flash of ships dropping out of hyperspace through the gate rings gleams like a strobe light and on around the landing platform itself buzz two dozen security vessels desperately trying to keep order.

Welcome to Waypoint Shril. Don't crash into anyone on the way in.

     I. PLATFORM ALFA
When the ship finally docks on Waypoint Shril - after a lot, lot longer than you may have liked -, the scene that greets you is more hectic than even the busiest rush-hour on Concordia. There are simply too many people in too small and too hastily prepared of a space. The platform itself was clearly designed for utility, not for comfort and not for style. The walls- towering sheets of welded metal from a countless number of sources, flecked with old paint and the occasional slash of grafitti - offer nothing in the realm of sound dampening, and the electro-cloth banners that hang from the ceiling, advertising the Aurora Blue Arena! in dozens of different languages do little to help. As a result, the entire platform echoes with thousands of voices trying to talk over each other and the newly enhanced intercom system struggling to be heard over the din as it works to provide simple directions and instructions for the teeming mass of tourists.

In the press of flesh and the constant motion, it’s easy to get swept away from your party. It’s easy to find that the items you just had on you are suddenly missing, expertly palmed away by slippery fingers as you try to push your way towards the series of pneumatic tubes leading to the Waypoint proper. Ship's hydraulics hiss, lights flash, and the smell of greasy stall food spreads out from the edges of the platform. There are a few bright-eyed, clever locals - or what count for locals on Waypoint Shril - who don’t hesitate to reach out and grab your arm, offering to be your guide. Asking if you’re here as a spectator or a participant. Asking if you need information. Company. Everything has a price.

Get your bearings - if you can. It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

     II. THE MOST FABULOUS PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE (Please Excuse Our Dust!)
Waypoint Shril's main thoroughfares and twisting platforms may have made sense to someone, but now absolutely no one knows how to navigate them as the ABA! has swept through Waypoint, bulldozing and building up anything and everything in its path. Oh, did you like that tentacle sandwich shop you stopped in five minutes ago? Too bad! We decided two minutes ago we're tearing it down to make way for a spa-slash-beer-garden! Stand back please, there are explosives detonating in this area in 3, 2, 1…--!

Everywhere you look, Waypoint Shril is undergoing a dramatic transformation. Maybe there are places on the outskirts, far from the Arena Zone that aren't literally being paved over or built on top of, but they seem to be the exception to the rule. Don't get lost as the neighborhood quite literally changes shape around you!

     III. MEET THE COMPETITION
Between the fabulous prizes and the fabulous fame - every single still-living winner of the previous competitions became household names before they stepped out of the Arena, then went on to live lavish lives of excess where they're paid exorbitant fees just to be seen and heard, known for canoodling and cavorting with the best, the brightest, the most privileged the Galaxy has to offer- it’s no surprise that the ABA! draws competitors like a magnet. And while not everyone advertises their status, plenty do - hoping to exchange the slimmest possibility of their victory for favors or drinks or just plain old attention. They’re loud, they’re visible, and plenty of them are very, very drunk, or whatever counts for drunk for their species.

If you want to size up the competition, now’s the time - in the middle of Blunt Force, with scores of other competitors lined up. The club itself is home to a deep, thrumming beat that vibrates through your chest, the industrial concrete walls covered in splashes of electro-paint that pulses in time with the beat. The floor is dark and smooth, the bar is long and there isn’t a single seat to be found at it, just an endless slab of some ancient black stone that drinks slide back and forth across. Every bartender wears a half of a mask in clear plastic run through with simple circuitry in complex patterns and they’ll keep you hydrated for a modest price. Above the floor on a catwalk composed of corrugated metal and transparasteel there are low couches and cushions in rich fabrics of a hundred different patterns of velvet and neon, two dozen tables, and another small bar that will hand out drinks and powders and oils and smoke. The patrons are as varied as anything else in this place, as hodge-podge. Slender, slick looking people with hunched backs and long necks. Short, broad aliens with four legs and four arms. Something heavily shrouded, the only part of them visible a proboscis. Some are here to dance, some to drink, some to talk and more than a few to fight - maybe for keeps. Hell, you might be one of them.

     IV. WILDCARD
There's plenty to see, do and explore. You've got a few days before the competition kicks off - might as well make the most of it.

((OOC NOTES: Welcome to Waypoint Shril! This log covers the arrival on the Waypoint and can be used for anything prior to the start of the Aurora Blue Arena! on Day :029. However, feel free to make your own logs if you choose! You can find a complete mission overview and a place to ask any mission-specific questions over at the OOC post.

Thanks everyone!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ There's a sharp surge of anger that Sam lets go almost as quickly as it comes, keeping himself as calm as he can - but there's still a tight set of his jaw, fists clenched and body tense and ready. A not insignificant part of him no longer gives a shit if this ends in violence, because anyone who wants to put a gun in Bucky's face when they were just trying to mind their own damn business deserves to get the shit beat out of him.

But it's never been for their sake that Sam was trying to keep calm, and getting his hackles up now isn't going to help.

Of course, soon it doesn't matter.

The second the lights go out, Sam moves. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that this isn't the first time that Bucky's sent electricity sparking, that there's something there they need to look at more, but now's not the time. Now's the time to be grateful that Sam's been working on developing his enhanced vision enough that he can still see pretty damn well, even in the dark, and that he's a hell of a lot faster than most people think. Especially with the symbiote enhancements.

He pulls the knife from his boot as he charges the two closest to him. Right now he's gotta trust that whatever Bucky did knocked at least one of the ones by him out, and he can handle the other - and hope that the leader won't be all that keen on continuing with his crew out of commission. The first robber gets a foot in the face before either of them realize Sam's there, and he lashes out with his knife at the second, slashing at his gun arm to get him to drop it. ]

[Bucky is long gone. The ripple of electricity shatters the pieces of Bucky Barnes into a fine powder, leaving only the Soldier to emerge from the depths. The buzzing of his mind has multiplied ten times over as the programming seizes control. #4, the unlucky son of a bitch, is caught off balance by the sudden loss of light, but finds himself with a face full of metal a moment later as the Soldier slams into him with the register. Shen fly through the air with a faint whistle and the Soldier vaults the counter in one fell swoop to hit #5 in the back of the head with the now-bloodied cash drawer.

The Soldier follows through and breaks #5's neck against a display with his boot without a single moment of hesitation and when he hears a groan behind him, he picks up the downed robber's gun and fires point blank into #4.]

[ Shit.

All right, well, they're in this now. The first robber that Sam'd hit is unconscious on the floor, but the second is still gearing for a fight, and Sam doesn't bother with nonlethal incapacitating. The Soldier is out and at his back; the robber attacking him is lucky he doesn't get more than a knife to the chest.

The Soldier's out and the leader of the robbers decides it's Sam he should shoot at, because of fucking course he does. Sam drops down, ignoring the flash of pain as a bullet grazes his arm, and grabs one of the fallen guns to shoot back, two in his chest and one in his head.

Then there's silence, save for the calls of the animals in the background - not as freaked out as Sam might have expected, maybe they're used to gunshots and violence on Waypoint - and the crackle of static in his mind. Sam stands, turning towards the Soldier, and not coincidentally leaving himself between him and the door. ]

The threat's taken care of, all right, stand down.

[The Soldier is about to turn on the leader when Sam beats him to the punch. Gunfire discharges fill the air and now there's only one target left, standing between him and the door. Extraction. Threat elimination and extraction. One more target. The clamoring of the animals in the background means little to the Soldier. He's not entirely sure how he got here, but he knows he needs to get out and away to an extraction point.

The buzzing echoes and reverberates in his head, rising to the point of screams, like nails on a chalkboard as he raises his pistol to level it at his last target.

Move or be moved crackles under his skin. You're not his handler.]

[ Right, well. Sam should have known that wouldn't work, but he had to try. He had to try, because there's no way he can let the Soldier into the crowds of more or less innocent people. Not for long, not without more bloodshed, and he's not going to let that happen.

He'd suspected that it'd destroy him if he had to kill Bucky back when he first promised he would, and now - now he knows it will, more than just because of the symbiote that connects them. There's a big part of him that just going dear god please don't make me kill you. But he will, if he has to. He promised, and he won't break one he made in response to one of the only things Bucky's ever actually wanted from him.

Sam drops his shields, almost as completely as he'd done when he was showing Bucky how he forms them, and floods into Bucky's mind. He's not going anywhere, and if the programming wants him out, it can go ahead and try. His connection with Bucky runs a hell of a lot deeper than the last time he squared off against the Soldier.

His finger doesn't leave the trigger of his stolen gun, but for the moment he spills warmth over their connection, sweeping through Bucky's mind and trying to find anything left that feels like Bucky. ]

[The Soldier doesn't hesitate. He squares up to take the shot, thinning himself into profile, arm extended, finger on the trigger. Breathe in. His target's silhouette is haloed by the neon pinks and blues of the street outside. But then something invisible hits his mind, collides with the wall of static and ice. He curls in on himself momentarily, clutching his head. The programming knows there's someone here that shouldn't be, someone digging, and the Soldier cries out in anger. He straightens and takes a wild shot.

The pieces of Bucky are a sharp powder in the Soldier's eyes as Sam billows across the link like a summer storm, but the programming scatters him again into dust just as he begins to gather.

Another shot follows the first, more wild and blind and angry. Getoutgetoutgetout!]

[ The programming can fuck the hell off, as far as Sam's concerned, it's the thing that shouldn't be in here. Whatever the symbiote had done that tripped it up, if it's the connection itself making it unstable or the electricity that Sam's almost keyed into or god knows what, it doesn't matter. Bucky'd gotten it under control before, at least as long as there wasn't anyone reading from a book or shoving him into a chair.

And if the symbiote is making it harder, then damn the least Sam can do is try to use it to give Bucky the support he needs to combat it.

Maybe Sam wouldn't even stand a chance if they weren't broodmates, but he can still feel the brood bond, and he anchors himself in it as deep as he can go. He extends his shields out, wings stretching out as he tries to protect himself from the icy storm of Bucky's mind - as he tries to give Bucky some kind of shelter to pull himself together.

At the same time, though, the wild shooting is really not gonna go down well, and Sam fires his own gun at the Soldier's non-metal shoulder. ]

[The deeper Sam roots himself, the harder the programming pushes, frigid claws going straight for the jugular. As his broodmate swoops in, the blizzard picks up, blistering cold with lances of ice threatening to tear through the wings. The ground ripples and quakes as rusted rivets crawl up through the snow underneath Sam, attempting to dislodge him.

The Soldier is moving when the first reply of gunfire barks. It pivots to raise the metal arm, where the metal arm should be, and the bullet tears through the soft flesh of the Soldier's side, spilling him onto the floor as he shouts in pain. Pain makes any animal stupid and the Soldier is no exception. He kicks the heavy display separating them, hoping to pin his target or at least move him out of the way of the door, before squeezing off another shot with shaking hands.]

[ Right now, Sam can't let himself feel any guilt for that shout of pain, even as there's an echo of a burn in his own side when he feels it across the brood bond. He holds his ground, planting his feet and angling himself so he takes the hit of the display on his shoulder.

And fuck that is gonna hurt tomorrow, but right now he's grateful for the symbiote's enhancements to his strength and durability.

His teeth are chattering as he ducks behind the display for cover, as though the blizzard trying to tear him from Bucky's mind was physical instead of mental. He's stopped trying to push, sticking to holding onto their brood bond for dear life as he sends out a sharp burst of warmth like a blinding flash of sun. ]

( Come on, sunshine, help me out here. )

[The Soldier winces with a sympathetic burst of pain through his shoulder, but he angles himself toward the door, ignoring the way his shirt sticks to his side or how it throbs with every beat of his heart. He sends another burst of fire over the display before skirting low to the ground. His goal is in reach. Extraction. Time to go.

Except the burst of warmth from Sam ignites the tinder that is Bucky underneath the snow. The flames flicker and waver against the steel pushing through the ice and the frigid wind tearing through the holes in Sam's shields. He's trying. He's trying. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't know where he is. It's so cold.

The Soldier doesn't care.]

[ Oh hell no. Gunspray or not, Sam launches himself from behind the display, aiming to tackle the Soldier to the ground if he can, or at least put himself back in his path to the door if he can't.

But he grasps on tight to that little flicker of Bucky that he can feel, telling himself that if he can just hold on a little bit longer, they can do this. The storm tears at Sam and honestly, he just lets it, putting all his focus on keeping the wind off of Bucky and on pouring as much of his own warmth into Bucky as he can. ]

( Your name is Bucky Barnes, except when I like to call you Bucky with the good hair. You're on Waypoint Shrill, in Petcetera. And I know it's cold, sunshine, but there's a whole lot of warmth waiting for you over here if you just stick with me. You can do this. )

[The Soldier shifts to leave, mere feet from the door when Sam collides with him, sending both of them crashing into one of the terrariums near the door. Glass splinters slice into the Soldier and he screams before he makes to shove Sam bodily off him. This one is dead and now he has a hundred knives.

Like the ice spiraling under the surface, slicing through the feathers of Sam's wings and gouging the twisted earth around them. Bucky struggles to breathe for the cold punches the air from him as he scrapes pieces of himself from the warmth Sam offers. Bucky with the good hair. Feathers. Feathers in his hair. Braids and soup, but it's so, so cold. He can't find his voice in the howling wind or the pain in his side.

It's too much. Too cold.]

[ Sam locks his legs around the Soldier's waist, and the second he does, he feels his symbiote ability activate. Shit it's not supposed to be out of his control anymore, it's not - he'd practiced so damn hard to make sure of it, but as soon as he touches Bucky it tears through his control.

The flare of warmth that usually accompanies his symbiote ability is brighter and hotter than any other time he's used it - and he's not sure if that's because it's a broodmate, because of the extent of Bucky's injuries, because he can feel the bruise to his shoulder and his own gunshot wound transferring to Bucky at the same time as he's healing Bucky's injuries, or just because however strong their connection must be to activate Sam's ability without him wanting to also picked up on the fact that they could use some more warmth right now, but he'll take it.

He'll take it, and he piggy backs on the surge of heat flowing through their connection, adding the sensation of fingers laced together, the memory a skin-warmed coin pressed between their palms.

God he has to hope this works, because he's putting everything he's got into Bucky right now. ]

[The Soldier's push does little to dislodge Sam and he goes for the kill. His body warms as skin knits around glass and he reaches up for Sam's neck with a hand glittering with flecks of the terrarium. Strangulation is a long process, but quieter than all the gunfire they've been slinging and far more accurate.

The ice storm has stripped through most of Sam's shields, torn the feathers to pieces but Sam's funneling more intense heat into him, pushing the steel back beneath the gouged earth, leaving them in knee-deep snow. It's somehow both better and not at the same time. Bucky with the good hair. Bucky with his challenge coin from a pararescueman named Sam Wilson. His broodmate and friend.]

[ Last time he and the Soldier fought, Sam felt grateful that he's only got the one arm. Now he's got the opportunity to be real damn happy about that again, because it's a hell of a lot easier to stop someone from strangling you if they've only got one arm than two. He grabs the Soldier's arm with both of his, but now that he's found Bucky in his mind - most of his attention is there.

What's left of his wings curls around Bucky as he keeps hold of his hand, like if he can just hold on tight enough he can protect them both. He remembers the way Bucky'd imagined his wings, the last time they were in each other's heads like this, and he focuses on that until they glow with light and heat. Until he can pull them both forward, trying to get Bucky back on his feet.

It's not like he's looking to try to fight through the blizzard, not really - not unless Bucky wants to - but there's their brood bond, gleaming strong and bright, and they can slip into it to try to circumvent it. ]

( You with me, sunshine? )

[The Soldier growls in anger and surges upward, attempting to headbutt Sam. The disadvantage drives the blizzard inside, churning the winds into a vortex that eats into Bucky as he crouches low against Sam's presence. His own tentative roots begin to tear under the sheer force of the maelstrom. While the heat of Sam's wings melts most of the snow under them, Bucky is shaking, pieces of him falling apart and crashing upon the earth below. They need to disrupt the storm somehow, disrupt the Soldier physically. Even with Sam's help, Bucky is breaking into smaller pieces.

He's trying. He tries to push the fallen pieces back in place. His name is Bucky Barnes. Sam Wilson is his broodmate. He has a friend named Steve Rogers. He remembers the noodle-armed blonde as they play baseball in the Station's rec wing.

Faces begin to appear in the wind, targets--- victims. Bucky pales, his presence dimming and flickering. That's right. He's a killer, too.]

[ Distracted as he is, Sam only barely sees the headbutt coming, and in the split second he's got, chooses not to move. It's only marginally a choice, when he couldn't have dodged it completely anyway, but instead he leans into it, taking the hit in damn near the worst place he could've and for a moment the world tips sideways. Before he can fade out, his symbiote ability kicks in to transfer the injury to the Soldier, and he follows it up by try to grab hold of the Soldier's shoulders to slam his head down into the floor.

He can feel Bucky flickering, feel him trying so damn hard to hold on, and Sam clings, trying to keep them both together. ]

( Stay with me, Bucky, I need you with me. )

[When the hit connects, the Soldier once again begins to reach for Sam's throat. Except the world shifts and turns and pain slices through his head. Dizziness follows hot on its heels as his vision doubles. His shoulders rise up from the floor only to be knocked back against it, glass crunching under his hair. He grunts something unintelligible.

The storm around Bucky and Sam freezes momentarily with the headbutt, ice and snow alike hanging in the air. Bucky blinks and it resumes as if it never stopped, but a heartbeat later the ground shakes. The wind stops and through the break in the storm the bunker becomes visible.

The Soldier is still awake and semi-conscious, barely and Bucky seizes Sam's hand for an all-out sprint to the center. Pieces of him continue to flake into the snow, his name, his voice, forgotten.]

[ Things click into place as the storm halts. Sam'd suspected that knocking him upside the head did something to disrupt the programming, after the last two times the Soldier'd gotten activated both back home and here, but suspecting is different than seeing. Later, he'll put it together with the electricity and maybe manage to figure out something of what's going on, but he's not doing a lot of putting together at the moment.

He slams the Soldier against the ground one more time, moving on muscle memory more than any conscious decision, because his mind is completely wrapped up in Bucky's. He's in so deep he's not even sure he can remember how to get back to his own mind, but he'll deal with that when it comes. Right now, Bucky's running, and the only thing Sam can do is hold his hand tight and run with him. His wings are in no shape to do anything like fly, but he still focuses on them anyway, holding onto them like a shield, like he can try to catch the pieces of Bucky that shake loose in the sprint.

Even if Sam's got nothing left, he can still try to help Bucky hold himself together. ]

[The Soldier reaches up for Sam's throat one final time, disoriented and effectively stunned as his eyes roll around in his head. He gropes blindly for something, anything to anchor himself to, but he's lifted up and slammed. His head snaps back and the lights go out.

Just as the storm looks like it might rebuild, the snow around them stutters to a halt before the eternal illumination of the moon suddenly goes out. Silence and darkness surround them, but Bucky doesn't stop running. Sam's wings glow and light his path toward the steady hum of a single red light leering from the black.

Without the howling winds or the interference of the programing, the distance shortens in almost an instant and Bucky stretches his hand forward to the glowing crimson panel. Pressing it raises a jade slat emblazoned with a HYDRA to reveal a red notebook donned with a black star. Bucky only needs to reach for it before its pages begin to burn.

It's not permanent, never is, but for now the Soldier is gone.]

[ Without the adrenaline of the fight, Sam starts to drop a little, and it's probably a real good thing that he's already all but sitting on Bucky or his legs might give out from under him. He hasn't quite registered the pain of the bullet wound in his side, still too much in Bucky's head - even if right now, all he's doing is watching.

Being there.

The Soldier's gone, and Sam collapses down still half on top of Bucky, breathing heavy from exertion.

A rush of pride sweeps over Bucky's mind - you did it, you fucking did it - and Sam can't quite put that into words, even mentally, but it doesn't really matter when he's inside Bucky's head so much that all he's gotta do is feel it and it's there.

He needs a minute. He just - needs a minute, to figure out how to untangle himself enough from Bucky's mind that he can get back to his own. ]

[Bucky is still on the floor, head haloed in the glass of the shattered terrarium as the internal Bucky breathes for what feels like forever. He's little more than a smouldering collection of glass, missing arms and an eye and half his form, but there's time for that now. Pride bursts bright through the snowscape, fireworks on the horizon as the book burns in its case. Exhaustion follows as easily as it does Sam and Bucky half-collapses in the snow, leaning against the bunker door as shards of glass inch through the frost to fuse with him.

He doesn't know what he did, not sure if he wants to, but the door behind him slides open and the moonlight flickers overhead, glitching in and out. He's waking up, slowly but surely.]

[ There's nothing Sam can do but watch as Bucky tries to pull himself together, and he thinks about trying to focus on the holes the programming'd ripped in his shields, on trying to pull his own self back together - but it seems like too much effort now, or maybe just the wrong kind of effort. He needs to get out of Bucky's head, probably, before he figures out where he stands in his own.

He breathes, in and out, tries to let himself relax, lets a last little bit of warmth seep into them both.

Reaches back for their brood bond, grabs on tight to it - he could follow it back out, he thinks, maybe, if he can figure out which end is which, but that seems like a lot of effort, too.

Or maybe he's just lingering, not wanting either of them to be alone. ]

( Hey, sunshine. You find your voice yet? )

[Bucky coughs as he blinks awake, dizzy and disoriented and concussed as hell. Trying to raise his head results in the world tilting every which way and blood to trickle down his nose. So he simply lets it lay back against the glass as he looks around wildly. Someone's talking to him, he thinks, but his ears are ringing and he feels like he's been burned from the inside out.

Inside, the glass edges of Bucky pivot and turn as he climbs to the pieces of his feet that have returned. He glances toward Sam standing out in the snow before stepping into the bunker. The glass scrapes against the variegated steel as he moves.]

What happened? [Bucky grunts, unsure if he's speaking in English or not or if that even matters.]

[ He feels Bucky try to move under him physically, watches him step inside the bunker mentally, breathes in - and something shifts as he finds his way back to his own mind without even really trying, starts to settle back in as though he'd never left. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd never needed to leave his own mind to settle that deep in Bucky's, and maybe he doesn't need to leave Bucky's to find his again.

Sam's not sure if that thought is comforting or unsettling as fuck, but he'll take it right now. His shields are trashed, anyway, so it's not like he can pull himself behind them.

There's blood sticking to his shirt, and when he tries to move, his whole side is a mess of pain. He winces, and goes back to holding still for a moment. Honestly, he's got no idea what language Bucky is speaking, either - but he matches it automatically. ]

A pack of idiots tried to rob us. Didn't turn out so well for them. How much you think it's gonna cost to get someone to clean this mess up?

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