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

[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?

[Bucky can sense Sam starting to withdraw and steps back out of the bunker. He doesn't mean to go in alone, but he doesn't know how to ask Sam to stay. Except then Sam fades, not quite disappearing, and Bucky still feels somehow alone. He stares up through the swirl of color and shapes to see crimson on Sam's side, spreading, sticking with every breath. Furrowing his brow, the guilt is already burning at the edge of his eyes. He did that, but he doesn't remember. That or the robbers.]

I don't... remember. [His voice buckles and warbles as he tentatively reaches up for the bloody spot on Sam's side.] Where...?

[Where are the robbers? Are they dead? Did he kill them?]

[ He doesn't have to ask. Sam'd thought - well, no, not thought, because that implies conscious processing, but he'd wondered if Bucky might not want someone else in his head, after all that. When he feels the echo of Bucky's loneliness, though, he fills his mind again, becoming a more solid presence.

I'll go in with you and I'm still here all rolled up in one, even if he doesn't quite say them.

He doesn't flinch when Bucky reaches for him, makes no move to stop him. He's tired, and like this - like this he trusts Bucky. ]

You didn't shoot me, one of them did. I shot you. [ There's no guilt from Sam's side of the mental link - he hadn't meant to hit Bucky as badly as he did, but he had meant to shoot him. ] Do you want it?

[ The memory of what happened, he means, but he doesn't have to say that for it to be clear through their connection. Close as they are, he's pretty sure flashes of it'll slip out even if he just tries to explain what'd happened. ]

[Bucky's still trying to focus on the crimson spot spreading on Sam's side. It doesn't make sense. If Sam shot him, then why is Sam bleeding? His fingers brush Sam's shirt and come away wet. He did that, there's no way it was the other way around, even if he can't seem to remember a single goddamn second of the last five minutes. He doesn't even remember the robbers, nothing past sitting behind the register and hearing the front door chime. After that? It's a mess of static.

He pauses at the step of the bunker, staring out into the snow for Sam. Once he spots him, he moves to the side in a silent invitation to come in. The guilt comes in the form of an acid that drips from the ceiling, dour smelling and corroding the edges of the frigid steel.

He wants to know, he has to know.]

[ That... is probably something they should focus on. Or it would be under normal circumstances, but it's okay. Sam's ability will heal it, it always does. Normally he'd be a little more worried, at least want to stop the bleeding, but he's still trying to come back down into himself.

There's a rush of relief when Bucky agrees, that Sam doesn't have to try to retell it. He steps inside the bunker, reaching a hand out to Bucky at the same time as he thinks back to the last five minutes.

The memories are fresh, tinged with Sam's emotions - Bucky's call of alarm, five people with guns barking orders, a burst of anger fueled by an underlying helplessness as one of them put a gun to Bucky's head. The spark of electricity from Bucky and the sweeping darkness that Sam immediately takes advantage of, taking out two of the robbers and getting shot by a third before taking that one out, too.

When he'd looked back and seen the Soldier, and the other two robbers dead. The certainty that he was going to keep his promise. His recall from there is fuzzy, since so much of him had been occupied in Bucky's head, but he remembers shooting the Soldier, remembers tackling him to the floor and glass breaking and his symbiote ability activating to switch their injuries. Remembers the Soldier headbutting him, and transferring the injury back to him. ]

Sometimes this ability bites me in the ass, but sometimes it's good for something.

[Bucky watches behind closed lids, sees himself stand, the spark of electricity and the inevitable wake of death that follows as the Soldier steps into him. It's weird seeing it from this angle, how his posture changes, how everything becomes sharper. The rest of the scene plays out and the lingering question on Bucky's tongue revolves around that promise.

More pieces of glass gather about Bucky's form as he leads the way into the bunker even as steel melts around them. Amber lights flicker to life, faces etched in cloudy glass with dates. Women, men, children... a long, long row of them stare down as the illuminate one by one. He pauses when they reach blank slats beside Fury, Nicholas, Rogers, Steve, and Wilson, Sam.

There wasn't supposed to be anymore. The next time was supposed to be the last time.

And yet here he is alive when Sam is bleeding and there are five dead bodies on the floor.]

You said you would kill me. [He grunts, lip curled against the burn of the guilt in his gut.]

[ Man, this ain't healthy. They've gotta have a talk about how to take responsibility for the people he's killed and honor their memory in a way that doesn't involve sitting in his head in the middle of all of their tombs. It's not doing them any good, and it sure as hell isn't doing Bucky any good.

His fingers itch to reach out and pull his own name from the wall, to tell Bucky not to put him up there, that he refuses to be just another face to add to Bucky's wall of guilt.

He doesn't, but he's not sure the feeling doesn't come across, anyway. ]

One of them shot me, Bucky, and another one held a gun to your head. I'm not exactly gonna lose sleep over taking them out.

[ Maybe that makes him a bad person, but it's true. And he knows it's different for Bucky, knows that the sticking point is that the Soldier came out and Bucky wasn't in control, but he still frowns a little at Bucky's comment. He doesn't get it; he knows that their connection is strong enough that Bucky can feel that he was ready to carry out the promise. That he still is.

He doesn't realize that they've got slightly different ideas of what the promise is. ]

I still will. Look, man, I'm exhausted, can we do whatever this is after your head's not pounding and I'm not bleeding?

You promised.

[The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them or the bitter edge. He can feel Sam's sincerity beside him in the bunker. Amber rises from the darkness below, five more. The railing next to them curls in on itself and melts to the steel of the walkway. Stupid Bucky. So stupid. Trusting anyone to take him out when the time came, to put the mad dog down. Instead, he's doomed to walk this row again and again until it spans until infinity, until he somehow wrests control from an uncontrollable force, stuck in the loop for eternity.

Sam promised and Bucky can't seem to climb over that hurdle. What limited hope he'd held onto, knowing that someone would keep this from happening again, disappears entirely and maybe it's the concussion or the weight of the exhaustion and guilt but he's so tired. So deeply tired of it all. Of HYDRA continuing to rule his life. Of becoming the Soldier time and time again despite the work to build mental shields.

None of it matters. None of it matters and he shuts his eyes to focus on the internal, to push the now-intruder out of his head.

Get out.]

Fuck off, Barnes, three of those are mine. Let me at least own up to the blood on my own hands.

[ He's angry. He doesn't really understand why he's angry, except that Bucky's angry at him, and he doesn't know why. Except there's five more amber lights and those aren't all Bucky's, except it has something to do with the promise that Sam made him and he can feel that Bucky doesn't think he's going to keep his end of it.

Even if he couldn't, the bitter way that Bucky throws those words at him makes it pretty damn clear. He stays right where he is, stubborn and irritated. ]

I know I promised, you think I forgot? You think I don't know that one day I'm gonna have to kill you; do you not get that it's gonna kill me too? That I'm gonna do it anyway, because I promised?

[ Except after this, there's something that he'd thought - he'd hoped - might make a difference, but his head and his side hurt too much for him to think too much into it. And he hadn't meant to say that last part; he hadn't ever meant to make it obvious exactly what killing Bucky was going to do to Sam, both because he didn't want to admit it and because he didn't want it to influence anything.

But he's upset. That Bucky thinks he isn't going make good on that promise, when Sam knows exactly what he's giving up to make sure he will. ]

I'll kill you before you hurt an innocent again.

[Sam stands his ground. Sam stands his ground and Bucky is furious in a way that is usually reserved for the Soldier. This should've stopped the second the Soldier emerged, before five more lives fell into the fire like chaff. Except they aren't chaff, Sam isn't chaff, and Bucky doesn't understand what Sam means when he says killing Bucky will kill him too. Killing the Soldier is supposed to spare lives. Bucky Barnes is little more than an insignificant speck of dust in the face of the much larger danger of the Soldier.]

It already happened! [Bucky wants to shout, but he's so fucking nauseous and so tired of everything. He pushes harder against Sam's presence in his mind, but he doesn't have experience pushing people out. That's what all his practice building shields was supposed to do but here he is back at square one, still nothing more than a ticking time bomb that has blown up in the faces of five people and Sam.

Those five people won't go back to their families, their children, their wives.

And Sam? Bucky can't ignore the memory of seeing himself straighten, thin his profile and fire.

Goddamit.

God-fucking-dammit.

He can't form the words, he's so angry. As far as he's concerned, Sam broke the promise and nothing else matters. Bucky killed five people, whether directly or not. If the Soldier hadn't come out, the five robbers wouldn't be face down in their own blood right now. Fucking Christ he can't... he can't do this. He can't. And apparently he can't trust Sam to keep his word and somehow that's the most frustrating part of it all. He hates that. He hates that the fact that he's alive is worse than the five corpses growing cold on the ground.

And he's so tired and he can't kick seem to kick Sam out.

So he screams. He screams like the Soldier, animalistic and bone-deep and then he's quiet, eyes burning as the crushing guilt follows. What does he have to be upset about? What right does he have?

God, he's going to be sick. ]

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