capeandcowllogs | Titles, chumps, et cetera.

Entry tags:

† james barnes | bucky

Titles, chumps, et cetera.

WHO: Toro, Winter Soldier, later on surprise special guest.
WHERE: A shadowy building!!
WHEN: Immediately after this log.
WARNINGS: Violence, trauma.
SUMMARY: See above.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, Kitty can follow however.

Normally he would have fled the scene, burned it, maybe. Homeless people set fires all the time. Have to live outside. The state doesn't care for them, here, here it is America and people are free. He isn't sure who told him that.

But: the tracking device. Someone was coming, and he needed to find out who. And anything else he could. That was why he left the body out, why he let it empty slowly on the ground. Like a lake, like something you could peer over to see your reflection. He had a reflection, he was sure. He looked in the mirror to shave that morning.

So what he did then was sit in the corner and wait.

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Tom was a hothead. It was a joke, usually, a nickname the Invaders tossed around because gee, wasn't it neat to make fire jokes at the boy who literally caught flame? Truth of the matter was, he kept as much of a seal on his temper as he could, letting it flare and then stamping it down before it got out of control. Bad things happened when he lost control; people hurt, homes destroyed. Pappy had taught him that. Control. No one likes a hothead, Thomas.

When his communicator started making a high-pitched little squeal and refused to stop, all bets were off and all seals popped. It wasn't anger what did it, it was fear. Rikki had set up a precautionary measure or four before they'd split, telling him that if that alarm went off she'd need him there.

The beacon told him where to go, but not what was waiting for him at that flashing red dot. Tom switched directions mid-air and streaked toward it, pushing himself to go faster, to think clearer, to be ready.

But really, he couldn't be. Not for this. That man who'd had only the rough approximation of Buck's voice was out there and Rikki was in trouble.

He kept to form and went in hot and hard and without thinking.

He wasn't expecting fire. That was ostentatious. It probably wrote a whole line in the sky, a great cursive swoosh that would end right in the building where he was, there in a corner, where he thought the shadows would blanket him. But the light ripped all his cover away, left his eyes glowing. Made the red on the floor catch other, stranger colors.

But no part of him moved.

He didn't open the door so much as he ripped through it. No time, the jangling-high alarm cautioned, no time. Old wood lit up under his hands, charred and brittle enough to break.

Tom lit up the room like a thousand candles, trying to make sense of what he saw there. He found Rikki first---no real wonder. She was blue and gold and red all over, her uniform soaked black and sticky.

He'd seen enough dead people to know when someone was gone. There was never any doubt. Real death, death like this, it wasn't pretty. She looked anything but asleep---anxious, maybe, still strung tight despite the relaxation that took over when the soul was flung loose. He burned hotter, whiter, scared.

"No! No!"

What a compelling argument.

This was why he left the corpse, instead of hiding it away. Finding a blanket. Stealing one from a bum. The sight of it would provoke reactions. Make whoever showed up angry and stupid. Easier to shoot them that way.

But he wasn't sure if he could shoot fire, so he hesitated for a second. Counted up his options.

He didn't hear the person in the room, really. It was more like he heard the lack of him in the room, the unsettling gaze coming from the man in the corner. Toro was beyond raging, beyond hurt, his thoughts cluttered up and stupid.

Don't be a chump. Keep your eyes open.

It was ironic that was something that Bucky had told him, going on a hundred years ago. He'd gone into the war with basic brawling skills and new command of fire. Bucky had supplemented his training with jabs and put-downs and the odd pearl of wisdom. Maybe that'd impressed his younger self---that Bucky Barnes, with all his natural talent for scrapping and too-smart mouth.

He knew that the man in the corner was Bucky. Didn't want to know, a hoarse sob of denial trickling down the back of his throat, but knew just the same. If the Bucky he knew was just easing into being a man, this one had hit his stride. He was big, built. One of his arms was covered in a metal cast, light up bright from his flame. He'd stepped neatly around the pool of Rikki's red-black blood.

Tom froze. His fire flickered, banking.

"Buck," he croaked, but couldn't get anything else to come out.

"Not that crap again." There were some two and twos his body wouldn't let himself put together, and the who and why of himself were some of them.

He shot twice, aiming for the knees. Not to kill, just to immobilize. He had to know how many people were out there, if this had anything to do with the Cube. The killing would come later.

The shots hit their mark. He'd gone too cool, not hot enough to melt the bullets even if they had been standard army issue. The pain slammed up to his hips and sent numbness below. Tom fell hard, not even a couple feet from Rikki. His flames stuttered, reaching out in wild licks as he fought to keep alight, but the pain overrode his concentration---and his ignition was nothing but concentration, control, and pixie dust.

Agony and surprise warred for supremacy in his head. When had he fallen? What had happened? He'd barely even heard the shots, so close in succession that they'd barked together.

His heat dimmed, then disappeared altogether. All he could smell was the awful, too-familiar stench of burnt blood now. Tom reeled, trying to look away from Rikki's corpse. She was too close. His forearm had smeared through the puddle of her blood when he'd hit the ground. He fought not to get sick.

Edited 2010-03-12 09:05 (UTC)

That had worked better than he'd expected. Not that he was complaining. He was never supposed to complain. Orders. He followed orders.

He walked up close to that fallen thing, the arms and elbows spread almost artful across the floor. He stood so that his shadow crept over Tom and the corpse. It found holes to sink into; shadows often do.

Pressing the advantage of his height, he kept the gun bright and obvious. "Hi there," he said, someone else echoing in his voice. "Let's talk."

Had it been anyone else, Tom's eyes would have been stuck on that gun and nothing else. He would have been at least trying to anticipate the next shot and whether or not he could avoid it.

But it was Bucky. That little upturned twang of amusement was him, but it was all stamped down hard. What was left was just a ghost of his particular brand of humor, twisted into such a shape as to be almost unrecognizable.

Tom shook. He was going into shock. Knew enough to know the signs.

"Bucky, Bucky you gotta---" he pulled in a breath that burned for all new reasons. "---you gotta fight this!"

Torture was actually an awful way of extracting information. The bullets were just to keep this guy in one place. Being threatening might work. It might be working a little too well, come to think of it.

He didn't think of it. Thinking didn't occur to him.

"Oh, I am fighting. You've just got to tell me who it is I'm up against."

"You goddamn well know who I am!" Tom barked, because he was too afraid of what it'd mean if he didn't.

Bucky'd been right. Something was deep down wrong with him. That wrong had reared the ugliest of heads, killed Rikki, and was looking over him like the longest black shadow imaginable.

"No idea. You were the one who came after me, remember? You really think I set out to do this?" There was a pause there, a breathing in. "So tell me what you want with me. And I won't have to do this anymore."

"It's me," he said, pushing up with blood-slick hands. His chest was on fire, but not the way it should have been. Ironic. Terrible. It didn't hurt this bad the last time he got shot and that'd been clean through the heart. "Tom."

Tom was the name that he didn't give, even if it'd been put on his birth certificate. It was the name only his trusted ones got, after Toro became a hero's name and not just a nickname. "This ain't you. This ain't who you---" his leg spasmed, hard. "---you---you know me."

"If I knew who you were," he said, "you'd be dead."

There was no way to seem honest that wasn't untruthful. So he didn't bother. No point in putting any frills on.

"Tell me about the Cube."

He wasn't lying, and that sent such a chill down Toro's spine he could have thrown the towel right there.

But---no. If this had been anyone else, maybe. But it was Bucky. His best pal. He had to talk to him, to reason, to---to save him.

The first two shots were starting to heal. It was sluggish, but still there. He was knitting, healing, putting himself back together because that's what his body did. Raw nerves screamed at him.

"What cube?"

Edited 2010-03-12 10:30 (UTC)

He wasn't paying attention to the way the kid was mending. Better that he didn't know, there were ways he could exploit that. None of them pretty colored. Seeing parts of this other person open, the mouth, the eyes going white round the edges. People had so many pieces, they fit together so clean. It was fascinating. There was an itch, you could call it, running him up and down like needles, telling him that there was maybe a time he could have been open, too.

It was only an itch. There was nothing for it to blossom into.

Was obvious the kid couldn't lie. "If you're not after the Cube, why the hell track me down? And don't give me any of that Bucky crap. I'm tired of being confused for somebody else."

It was difficult to concentrate. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in Tom's ears like some nauseatingly loud gong. He could hardly hear Bucky-but-not over it.

"Not---confusing---" A long tongue of flame arced from his hand, mouthing its way up to his elbow. The red-orange light made the man even more ghastly.

"If it's not confusing, you should have no problem telling me." He fired another shot, this time at the arm that had started up and burning. Had to keep the guy immobilized. Didn't like the fire.

The third shot was agonizing. Tom didn't mean to scream---could have told himself that he'd been through worse, that he could take the punishment---but it was the shock of it that did it. What little direction he had over his heat spiderwebbed, smashed, and the tears it brought to his eyes hissed on contact with his skin. Still hot, but not hot enough. His chest heaved.

"Came to save you," Tom hissed, pressing his good hand to the new wound in his bicep. The slug had dug deep into the meat of his arm. He needed help. He needed backup. He had neither.

"This is weak."

He was beginning to think he had no information at all, that these were just two idiots who came looking for trouble. What a waste. Casualties attract attention. They needed plans. And he didn't have orders for this. He didn't have orders. He should have just killed them both without talking. He shouldn't have let anybody find him in the first place. No orders for this, no orders.

It made him angry, angry enough that it turned the lines of his face. His voice caught on its own syllables. "Tell me who else there is, who's coming to—"

And then something rushed in from the shadows, quick. She knew she was faster than him, but she also knew she'd only get one opening, one chance at surprise. In a few seconds she was almost close enough to touch him, her gauntlets aimed at his head. And she whispered something, too low for Tom to hear, and the other man's eyes rolled back and he fell like leaves into a pile.

He was drawn out thin, his consciousness ebbing---so much so that it took him a few horrible seconds to realize that the woman was real and not some redheaded angel come to gather him up. His faith wouldn't have accepted an angel all done up in leather, but he'd take an ally in it any day.

He hadn't seen her coming, hadn't expected anyone to be there to save him. He was alone, wasn't he? Rikki and Bucky were all that he had. Who was this?

Toro trembled bodily, wracked with shock. His breath came in shallow gasps, never drawing in enough to alleviate the growing numbness in his arms and legs.

But Bucky was down. He wasn't moving.

"Didja---" his voice cracked, strained. "---kill him?"

"No. Of course not," she said, shaking her head. "He'll wake up in a few hours." She was saying that for herself, more than she was saying that for him. After a moment, she turned her eyes at least to look at Toro.

"It's a shut-down word. A failsafe, if he ever goes out of control. But it'll only work once."

There were a lot of things for her to notice, here. The blood on the floor, the heavy texture of the air. How it felt to breathe in. But those weren't the things she was noticing. Just the bodies, the two of them. And the dilemma of what to do next.

He wasn't going to be able to get up. The thought was more than he could handle. He couldn't stop staring at the big black heap of Bucky, that ugly metal arm. His brain was stuttering---gears grinding, getting nowhere. This couldn't have happened. This was a nightmare.

Tom couldn't move. He moaned, pulling his injured arm to his chest.

"He killed her."

"I wish I had gotten here in time." She hadn't been watching Rikki. That was her mistake, she should have been tracking both comms instead of following the fire cross the skies. If she had planned it better, this whole thing could have been avoided. She could have— no. That was all useless to think about. She'd get nowhere second-guessing herself.

"Don't move if you can't." Orders, orders. She tried to make her words softer. "How bad are you hurt?"

Toro shuddered, throat working. How badly was he hurt? He couldn't even put words to it. He caught red out of the corner of his eye---Rikki's back, uniform crusted dark---and lost the fight against nausea. The couldn't have been messier, more embarrassing. Horrible. So, so wrong.

"Bad," he croaked, dazed.

"You can't stand, huh? We're going to need to get away from this building. You need a hospital." She looked at Tom, because Tom was the easiest thing in this room to look at.

"If it you can't speak, just shake your head. The wounds aren't fatal, if you were wondering. Extremities only." She didn't add, "lucky you." She knew luck had little to do with it.

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Titles, chumps, et cetera.

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aaaand /returns to this log