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

[Sam clutches him tighter, like he's something--- someone--- precious and feels Sam dig in mentally. The memories flutter through his mind, Sam's, seeing himself like that. The flood of emotions follow through the link and Bucky can't take it. He lets them rush through, but doesn't hold onto them like he has in the past, not like the last time they were this tangled up in each other. A mixture of fear and guilt keep him from latching onto any of it.

He doesn't respond and he keeps his face buried in Sam's shoulder as his sobs slow into hiccups. He can't do this. He can't do any of it, not when they'll wind back up right here. He remembers Sam telling him he wanted to see more of Bucky, more of the smiles and laughs and Bucky doesn't have the energy to recall the full memory. Pieces of him are still so spread out across his mind, fragmented and broken in ways he doesn't know how to fix.

Exhaustion is hollowing him out faster than he ever thought possible, filling up the space left by his expressed grief.]

[ Bucky might not grab onto them, but Sam keeps the emotions coming, swirling like a warm breeze around Bucky's mind - lets himself seep into any cracks he finds. Exhaustion creeps back up on him as the press of Bucky's reminds him of the weight of his own.

Sam kind of gets the feeling this is all they've both got in them right now.

He gently runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, carefully dislodging any pieces of glass that he finds. ]

Come up to the studio with me, all right? Let's get some sleep. We can do this later.

[ Talk about all of this, come up with a plan, clean this mess up, it can all wait - although all right, slight adjustment, Sam's pretty sure he needs to at least bandage himself up before that. Then he can just faceplant into bed. ]

[Bucky wants to run and he realizes there's no way of hiding that from Sam. The selfish parts of him want to put as much space between the obvious danger of the Soldier and the rest of the nest, between the Soldier and Sam, especially as Sam brushes the glass from his hair.

But he's so, so tired and he's not sure he could walk straight on his own either with his swimming vision and pounding head. For now, sleep is going to be really the only option. Just for now, he tells himself, despite knowing that Sam can hear it all. It doesn't matter.

None of it does.]

I know, sunshine, I know.

[ And they both know how Sam feels about Bucky running all the time, but for once Sam agrees that doesn't matter right now. That can get added to the list of things for later, that Sam is always gonna put himself between the Soldier and anyone else.

He pulls Bucky up at the same time as he hauls himself to his own feet, swaying just a little before he steadies. He reaches out to thumb the button that'll lock the doors, then slides an arm around Bucky's waist, tucking himself against him on his good side.

Then he pushes forward, trying to get both of them up the stairs. ]

[Being upright is less fun than sitting down and Bucky does his best to support his own weight. He knows he's not light. When he left HYDRA he was little more than muscle and bone, but now he's got some more meat to him. Still, he leans heavily against Sam as they move toward the stairs. He takes one look at the bodies on the floor before turning toward the goal: stairs.

Stairs should be simple after everything that's happened tonight.]

[ It's not the first time Sam's hauled a super soldier around. At least this time it's not mid air with one hand, and he's got the symbiote's enhancements to his strength on his side. And holding Bucky up gives him something to lean against, too.

He can feel Bucky looking back, but doesn't do it himself, focused stubbornly on climbing up the stairs and into the studio. When they're almost to the bed, Sam stops, nodding at it. ]

Go ahead. M'gonna patch this up first.

[ Then he'll join Bucky, because like hell are either of them sleeping on the floor like this. ]

[Bucky focuses on the steps, on raising one foot then the other, until the stairs end and he's staring down at the bed. He doesn't deserve to sleep in a bed is his first thought as his feet shuffle to a stop. He looks down and away from the bed and the exhaustion and dizziness is too much.
.
He all but falls into bed, boots still on his feet, blood on his knees and in his hair and mouth.]

[ Sam's already stripping his shirt off, hissing a little as it sticks to his skin, but he watches to make sure Bucky actually gets in the bed.

Bucky deserves a hell of a lot more than a bed, but that's another later thing.

Thanks to his symbiote ability, the gunshot wound's closed up enough that he doesn't think it needs stitches, but he hauls out his kit to clean it out and bandage it up anyway. He kicks out of his own shoes and then turns his attention on Bucky.

Exasperated affection swirls around their mental link as he unlaces Bucky's boots and tugs them off, then drops down on the bed. ]

Gonna let me clean that up a little?

[Bucky can hear Sam moving around, the shift of fabric on skin, but the mental link is still so wide open he doesn't need to listen for the sounds. He knows it's Sam untying his shoes and Bucky makes to sit up, but only gets halfway before he sinks back down to the bed. The mattress shifts beside him. Bucky doesn't want to bother with cleaning anything up. There's still glass embedded in his scalp but he doesn't care.

Instead, he grunts something noncommittal. It doesn't matter.]

[ There's a part of Sam that's not sure he's gonna be able to remember how to close their connection back up again after this, but honestly, right now he doesn't really care. There's not a lot he feels like he's gotta hide from Bucky anyway - at least at the moment.

He lets out a little huff at Bucky's non-committal murmur, but it doesn’t feel like Bucky's really opposed to it, so Sam does it anyway. Might as well, while he's got his kit open.

His hands are warm and gentle as he combs through Bucky's hair, pulling out the glass - he sure as hell doesn't want to roll over on that if it works loose - and cleaning up the blood on his face, neck, and arm best he can.

There ain't a point trying to get Bucky to change, so Sam leaves it there. He stands back up just long enough to put his kit away, pull on a clean shirt and tug off his pants.

This time when he drops down onto the bed he does so face first, hauling up the blankets over both of them. ]

Better not be a cover hog.

[Bucky huffs and quietly fusses at the gentle care paid to his wounds. By the end of it, he's tempted to nudge Sam away, but then the ministrations finish and he settles again. He grunts again at Sam's comment, as he honestly doesn't know if he hogs covers or not. It's not often he has bedfellows.

Not since arriving at the Waypoint, at least; the studio necessitates sharing.]

[ There's definitely a few chuckles at the way Bucky huffs at him, a teasing hum across their mental link, and when Bucky settles again, Sam tucks himself against him.

Before the Station, it'd been a long time since he shared with anyone - but these days Sam finds it hard to sleep without someone he trusts to watch his back. He's gotten used to sharing. And he could pretend like he's gonna be able to keep to his own side of the bed, but, well. He knows better.

Hopefully Bucky doesn't mind the way Sam gravitates towards him in the night, arms wrapped around him and pressed in close. ]

[Bucky doesn't so much as stir during the night, much less complain about the extra warmth at his back. It's only after a good ten hours or so of solid sleep that he feels prickling on his arm. Bright chirps fill the otherwise the otherwise silent studio. His head is throbbing, though he's not entirely sure why, but opens his eyes anyway to squint at at the source of the light pressure on his arm.

What had Sam called them? He doesn't know, can't for the mind of him recall a name as he stares at the small feathered creature perched on his wrist.

For a moment, he doesn't remember the night before. For a moment, he's quietly content to watch the creature on his arm bounce and chirp. Must be hungry.]

[ Aside from wrapping himself around Bucky, Sam doesn't stir, either, and if he dreams - they're quiet, peaceful. Memorable only because of their nonmemorability. It's not always like this, but he's grateful for the nights that are.

His arm is draped over Bucky's waist, curled up against his chest, and there's a warmth along his front that he's incredibly reluctant to pull himself from. Even the chirping can't quite do it, and Sam's still more or less asleep even as he smiles slightly and buries his face more into Bucky's neck. As a content amusement drifts sleepily around their connection. ]

[Blinking a touch more awake, Bucky watches the tiny creatures hop and skip along his arm toward the still-snoozing form of one Sam Wilson. Bucky's not entirely sure how they ended up so tangled up overnight, but he doesn't mind. Like his mind, Sam is warm and it's strangely nice to be so wrapped up in someone else. He flicks his wrist in an attempt to deter the birds from waking Sam up, but they hardly slow down as they flutter to Sam's cheek.

So much for that, he supposes, and shuts his eyes again. Not his problem.]

[ There's a mumbled protest when he feels little claws in his cheek, immediately turning his face more into Bucky to attempt to hide. Which only makes them hop over to the top of his head, and he huffs out a soft laugh. ]

Can't feed you, I'm not awake.

[ Despite his grumbling, he is definitely starting to wake up. Doesn't mean he's inclined to move, though, and he mumbles against Bucky’s shoulder. ]

If we ignore them you think they'll go to sleep.

[Underneath the weight of exhaustion, pain is beginning to rise. His eyes are burning and sore in a way he doesn't recognize and at his temples, a constant throbbing intensifies the longer he's awake. Something happened. Bucky's not sure what, but something happened. There's an oppressive stiffness to his bones that usually only comes after a fight.

The birds continue to chirp and peck at Sam as Bucky swallows thickly.]

No. [He bites at his lip, growing more nervous.]

[ There's an echo of Bucky's pain pulsing in Sam's own head as they both drag more towards wakefulness, and Sam reaches up without thinking about it, pressing gentle fingers against Bucky's temple to rub in tiny circles.

But he can't pretend to be asleep anymore, and he can't pretend that last night's "later" has become now. ]

All right, I guess we're gonna do this now.

[ He shifts enough to gently dislodge the little alien birds, murmuring at them to wait a moment, but he's reluctant to separate himself from Bucky. He's warm and comfortable, even despite Bucky's growing nerves. ]

You still mad at me?

[At the touch to his temples, memories burn through him. Looking up at the sound of the door chime and then waking up in a bed of glass, surrounded by corpses. He remembers reaching up for Sam's side where his shirt sticks to his skin. Bucky pales and both mentally and physically withdraws from Sam. As soon as he's upright, he can see the mess of blood staining his shirt. He's not sure who it belongs to and that sends a shrill pang of fear up his spine.

Pieces of their conversation the night before rise to the surface and the urge to run turns on full blast in the back of his mind.]

What did I do? [His voice is suddenly very quiet.]

[ There's a sense of protest across their mental link - Sam couldn't hold it back if he tried, not with how connected they still are. His shields have more or less repaired themselves over the night, but it doesn't seem to have affected the strength of their connection. He doesn't try to stop Bucky pulling away, just pushes himself up until he's sitting upright, too.

His own shirt is mostly clean, though there's some faint traces of blood, probably from pressing so close up against Bucky and his blood-stained clothes. ]

Most of that is yours. [ Sam'd cleaned up his, and a brief check at the bandage under his shirt shows it hadn't bleed through during the night. ] I think you used your symbiote ability, we gotta talk more about that. You killed two robbers. I shot you, but it turns out I don't got as good of control over this thing as I thought, because it healed you. And then you got upset at me 'cause apparently we had two different ideas of what I was promising to do.

[ An abbreviated version, yeah, but Bucky'd asked what did I do, not what happened, so that's what Sam goes with. ]

[Bucky doesn't believe Sam. He's not sure why, but he doesn't. There's some base level of distrust that's corrupted their bond, something that has cracked their foundation. His breathing picks up as he looks down at himself and then at the bandage on Sam's torso. The explanation does little to calm him. Symbiote ability? He assumed he didn't have one, considering others seemed to practice using theirs. Killing others means the Soldier came out, which explains the memory loss to a certain degree, but the scalding heat of the guilt building in his gut is unavoidable.

The fact that he's alive right now is frankly alarming.]

You said next time would be the last time. [His voice is still quiet and he can't bring himself to look Sam in the eye.]

[ It cuts him deeper than he'd ever thought, that Bucky doesn't believe him. That he can feel distrust burning through their bond, and he has to pull in a few breaths to calm himself down. To prevent himself from reacting out of fear that he's messed this up irrevocably, or out of a desire to get that trust back no matter what it takes. ]

I did. I promised I'd protect the others from you, that HYDRA'd never make you hurt an innocent again. That's why I shot you, why I bashed your head against the ground so you wouldn't get out of the building and into the crowd. [ He swallows, heavy and rough, and his own voice goes quiet. ] I didn't promise to put you out of your misery.

[And there it is. The reality of it all. Bucky feels like he's been punched in the gut and all of the air leaves his lungs in a moment. He expected to be taken out, not knocked unconscious after he killed two strangers and shot one of his dearest friends. Yet he's alive and covered in blood again. It doesn't matter if Sam says it's his.

He's just now coming to realize how much hope he'd placed in the promise, in the vow that he wouldn't have to live with killing another. In fact, he'd been almost cheerful in his approach to others, knowing that he could trust Sam to kill him if it came down to it.

Without that... he can't seem to find his breath and he doesn't want to be here. Not right now. He needs to be anywhere else but here.

He surges up from the bed, heart in his throat. The room is so small, too small. The walls are folding in on him. He has to get out of here.]

Damn it, Barnes, will you listen to me? I shot you, I killed those guys, stop taking the choices I made and making them about you.

[ Maybe that's not fair to either of them, but it's out before Sam can stop it. He gets it, he does, Bucky thought there was an end coming, thought he'd never have to deal with something like this again. But Sam'd tired of Bucky acting like Sam didn't have a part in anything that happened last night, like everyone's blood is on Bucky's hands and Sam did nothing.

Nothing expect destroy Bucky's trust in him, apparently.

And then Bucky's up and trying to get out of there, and Sam's heart launches right up into his throat along with Bucky's. ]

Don't run from me, sunshine, please.

[It doesn't matter, in Bucky's mind. None of it does. The Soldier caused those deaths and he doesn't believe Sam when he says he killed them not the Soldier, not Bucky. The programming shoves rods in his feet, stiffens his shoulders. Listen is forced down on him like a collar and don't run chains on his ankles. He can't breathe. He can't breathe and he can't move and he can't speak.

He still doesn't look at Sam, instead directing his gaze down to the floor, nostrils flaring even as the programming eats up his emotions. Weapons don't have feelings, weapons don't disobey.]

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