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Alias: Tyson
Age: 30s (100)
Codename: The Winter Soldier
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Joined: 26-October 17
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Last Seen: Today at 10:12 am
Local Time: Feb 23 2018, 08:56 PM
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Feb 6 2018, 11:37 AM

They'd decided to meet at one of safe houses that Bucky had from his time under. Perhaps that was ironic, but no one was going to point it out. It was already lucky they'd found somewhere in the States instead of having to fly back to Wakanda. Together or sepearately, it would have been a mess getting three fugitives from one country to another, even with Steve's reputation still at least somewhat in tact from a civilian stand-point. And to boot that Wakanda wasn't the type to have flights in or out of it was just frosting on the complicated-to-get-there cake.

The place was upstate. In a little town outside of Ithaca where the snow was deep all season long, the temperature was brutal, even compared to the city, and the sky never seemed to stop being an endless grey that might have been a nice color for a Greek goddess' eyes, but cast a dreariness over the entire area. The people looked tired; the cars looked worn; the so-called town looked deserted.

It was perfect.

In an attempt to make this event not nearly as uncomfortable as it certainly had the potential to be, Bucky had swung through a store and picked up some chips and dip like they were going to watch a ball game instead of tug at his mind to see if they could make any of the programming slip.

He was the first to arrive and he felt his heart sink when he saw a machine in the corner. It wasn't his, but he recognized what it was for. He ran his hand through his hair as he sat down in one of the chairs in the kitchenette. This was going to be a long day.

@WANDA MAXIMOFF @STEVE ROGERS | Figured I'd just start this up, since we all said we were down. XD Lemme know if either of you need anything changed!

Dec 13 2017, 02:40 PM

Bucky didn't have the gall to proclaim himself a hero. He wasn't one. He wasn't the Winter Soldier, either, though; and that's where everything got so confusing. Most of the time when he walked down the streets of New York City, he felt like he would have on the streets of Hong Kong. Today was no different.

He recognized landmarks from his visits here over the last few months, but that was about it. Even when he visited someone he knew, it was like talking to ghosts in shells of pictures he had been shown, wrapped in wrinkles of age that should have resided on his face too.

On his way back from seeing (and it wasn't visiting; he didn't dare visit, he had a habit of attracting trouble. He didn't need targets on any backs that weren't his own) his siblings and their children? They didn't know him from Adam anymore. Still, he wanted to see them if he could -- now and then. Maybe that was stupid.

It was when he was hailing a taxi and tugging open the door that he heard someone shout for help. There wasn't a hesitation as he closed the door, patting the top of it quickly to say that he wasn't interested anymore. He rounded the corner just to see two guys dark over a fence and he started to run after them when he heard the pathetic noise of the person on the ground, hesitated, and turned.

A purse you could replace. A life, not so much. "Hey -- everything's going to be alright." he whispered it as he got onto his knees, looking at the stab in the gut. He tugged off his jacket and then the shirt that was beneath it, forgetting the jacket where i was except for the phone in his pocket. "There's a clinic just up the street. Can you walk?" he asked. "Put pressure on that."

They managed to make it down the block; he'd passed it on his walk here -- it wasn't some long term memory, just a stroke of luck and by the time that they got half way there, Barnes had put the guy over his shoulder. He had to kick the door open after he turned the knob so that he could enter.

"Hello? Anybody home?" he hollered, "It's an emergency." He didn't sound panicked -- not like a normal man who had found someone stabbed in an alley -- but, well, like a soldier, whose response to violence and pressure was easy after so many years of dealing with it.


Dec 7 2017, 01:27 PM

[dohtml]<center><img src="https://thumbs.gfycat.com/AlarmedGenerousDrake-max-1mb.gif" style="width:95%;"></center>[/dohtml]
[encrypted message]
figured id txt
in nyc til mon
((Bucky is a lazy texter. Now we all know my head canon.
anyhoo lemme know if there's anything you need fixed~))
Nov 5 2017, 07:59 PM
It was a rainy afternoon, but not the kind of rain that warranted an umbrella. Instead, it was like a fine mist that washed all the way across the landscape. It was a risk, he knew, but he had to see the pictures again--read the articles one more time and see if he could really put anything together.

So here he was, standing in the Captain American and Howling Commandos exhibit that still graced the halls of the Smithsonian. There was a baseball cap on his head, black with a stylized panda on it that he had picked up at the zoo. His clothing was baggy -- jeans, a t-shirt, and a baggy tie-dye sweatshirt that attracted the eye in the most impressive way to distract from the face that was above the neck line.

There was nothing about this man who stood with his hands tucked into his pockets and his metal hand hidden from site that said he was anything that could possibly be important -- unless of course you looked from the sharp nose and bright eyes of the picture to the mirror that was in front of him in flesh and blood.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here, but he couldn't help it. Everything was so damn confusing and if anything or anyone was going to clear it up -- well, history seemed like the place to go.

((Let me know if anything needs to be changed!))
Nov 3 2017, 02:36 PM

Bucky still wasn't sure that he belonged in this place, but he'd been learning about it. The language wasn't too complicated, he'd gotten to the point where he could ask simple questions, hold a conversation if the person talked slow enough and made enough gestures to fill in the blanks. Still, there was something easier about the sparring matches that he'd been having with the King.

If he had written it down, he might realized how insane it sounded that one of his few friends (if that was a word that could possibly be used) was the king of a secret kingdom somewhere in Africa, that specialized in vibranium, and had--up until moments before allying with him--wanted to see his head on a platter for the accused assassination of his father. Really none of it had a ring to it.

He was seated, however, waiting where they usually sparred. One arm was distinctly missing, the metallic shoulder all that was left, wrapped at the bottom still like a wound that would never heal. His other rested on his knee as he watched and listened a fountain rotate water with a soft thrumming. Someone might have thought that he wasn't paying attention -- even that he was lost in thoughts; and they would have been wrong.

The Winter Soldier never turned off, whether he wanted to or not and the smallest noise, while it might not have turned his head or drawn his eyes, was noted and marked like a lion in the summer sun.

((Let me know if anything needs to be changed!))
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