#wintrb0rn

[redcr0ss]

x ❚❙❘ don't do that, don't act like you give a damn.

admittedly, the sentiment catches him off guard. while there's a momentarily stutter in his movement, eugene seems as present an unmoving as ever ... a sea without waves, glassy and even on the surface - turmoil beneath well hidden under the reflection of surroundings. words dig into him, mug brimming with hot water and bobbing tea steeper rest before his companion all the same. is that really how @wintrb0rn feels ? like this is all some kind of grand facade ? eugene inhales quietly, lungs ballooning as he exhales with some visible exhaustion.

his hands ache and his shoulders feel heavy, but if atlas can carry the world, who is he to complain under the weight of one or two lives ?

❛ admittedly, though you might go findin' this hard to believe, i ain't much of a liar. ❜ not for fun at least, anyway. any fiction he'd had spun up for him over the past few decades settled in protective measures from shield ... later grandfathered into busy hands of a much more preoccupied government. despite the idle nature of tone, eugene makes a conscious decision not to sit down. perhaps it's better to let the other sit alone for a bit. ❛ but i ain't in the business of changin' minds, i fear. ❜ hands settle at his sides, head bowing absently as he turns back toward kitchen.

he's exhausted, perhaps too much so to properly argue his own case in the moment. ❛ drink it if ya want, barnes. it'll warm you right up if you do. ❜ but who is he to make demands.

[redcr0ss]

nose is poised in the center of face, a bright shade of red, skin angry from the continual rub of sleeve to combat the persistent sniffling that lingers in a climate only growing colder. his hands are the same way, dusted with a shade of pink that cannot be avoided, darkened only by dirt and blood encrusted beneath nails and in cuticles. fingers are stiff as they work to roll scrapped sheets collected from the village nearby that had turned their church into a place for the wounded ... and while their supplies weren't much more generous than the dwindling stock of the other men, he wasn't one to complain.

besides, anything was better than nothing at this point; torn sheets, scrapped linens, medical supplies picked off surrendered germans - long as it did the job.

x ❚❙❘ how about a kiss before i go ?

❛ ah, sergeant barnes, 'fraid i'm all outta those. ❜ he shifts stare out toward @wintrb0rn from beneath the wide-mouthed brim of well-worn helmet. tired eyes & doe-lashes set idle on the other man as if he isn't damn near freezing and plenty in need of a good night's rest ( a good year's rest at this point ). the humor isn't lost on him, he welcomes it's chattering nature with a sort of fondness. when men were laughing, they sure as hell weren't screaming - a trade-off he'd give up damn near anything for all things considered. stained sleeve rises, it wraps tight in his fingers, hot breath blooms around the corners of mouth as he wipes at flesh before fingers move on to seeking the comfort of lucky strike poised behind ear.

❛ outta an awful lot of things, actually. ❜ cigarette roles between frigid figures; he hangs it betwixt lips, paper clamped lose between teeth. sure doesn't make him easier to understand, not that such seems to impede most of the men he works beside in making out what he's saying. ❛ you bring me some morphine, and maybe i'll find a spare. ❜

[r0-z3]

heard over comms: be advised—unknown contact. single individual, no PID, not wearing friendly FF.

son of a bitch. the echo of comms bounces between ears with a disdain she cannot fully name. of course its on the tail end of milk run - fucking russians and their friends could never come out of the woodwork earlier on when she wasn't ready for food not from a bag and a scalding hot shower. jaw sets, eyes kept focused out window as driver glances her way, as if seeking response that she had full authority to give with graves tapped into things. " sooner we get back behind the wire, the better. i don't wanna hang around and find out the dog we're about to kick is fuckin' burning. "

[goldbiz]

are these the same people that came after you last time?

prompts: are these the same people that came after you last time? // established connections / creating history between characters. // @wintrb0rn

he paced around some some crummy motel room with it's simplistic necessities. the boots booster had on made squeaky sounds against tumultuous floorboards which were the least of his problems. even though he yearned for it, going back to residing headquarters with it's marble polishing, and state-of-the-art gym equipment, a spa and with it's own steam room--- you got the idea. ---- would blow his cover. since leaving the year 2465, michael jon carter's life had only propelled itself into splendour, and everything else he only dream of achieving. the irony itself gnawed at him : a past that he tried so hard to abandon, even going as far to instruct his own mind to forget traces of it---- could be sole the reason for his undoing. admittances didn't come easy for him, especially not to some stranger who had been in-the-wrong place at the wrong time jumping in for the assist with this current escapade.

whipping his head around, booster's blue eyes locked with his enigmatic, metal-armed alley who had barely uttered a single word in the past 24 hours.  jolted by the sudden question, he snapped into an immediate defence. ❛ --- the last time ? oh, you mean that tussle i totally had locked down ? thanks, bro. thanks for the assist ! i didn't need you to go all commando over here, ugh ! ❜ he threw his hands up, an exaggerated gesture as the voice reached a fever pitch, sharp with the familiar bravado crackling under strain. nobody in their stable mind would actually want to help him but civilians had been involved, and those enforcers from his timeline ---- they didn't care about who they had to mow down to get to him. while he wasn't talking about death, the people from this 21st century timeline were not mentally equipped to handle the barricades of 25th stun mechanisms. the arsenal in his timeline had been since replaced bloodshed with control, blasting through it's resistances --- literally think disorientating pulses and neural overrides that would leave most 21st century minds reeling in it's wake. 

edging towards the window, hands gripped the worn frame ; peering out as his blue eyes darted around the darkened lot below ---- the coast was clear for now. the suit booster had on was in a state of disarray ; torn in places with scorched out sponsor patches.   the ear piece he normally relied on for skeets's aid dangled from it's collar, it's faint crackling sounded off with a dimness. he tugged at the damn thing for comfort, suddenly relieved that his companion's data was transferable and that his hovering form was back at headquarters on standby. 

❛ look -- get outta here. ❜   turning away from the window, his tone shred the bravado from moments before, now dejected and unhurried and the midst of low pants. the adrenaline his body had prior to this was coming to an all-time low.   ❛ -- this ain't your fight, it's me they want. ❜

[castlevowed]

🏠

sent in for a [lost in an eerie town] starter.

the silent echo of dark clouds interwoven with open cornfields [for miles] caused a tight sensation to unfurl within her chest. maybe it was the lack of familiarity, or the eerie standalone fuel station planted in the middle of leatherface’s backyard. “pull into the gas station. maybe someone inside can give us some insight on where the hell we are.” there’d been barely any evidence of civilization for awhile now — safe for a few abandoned, decrepit houses that screamed STAY OUT. fingers curled around iphone, holding device up in hopes to gain even one bar of service, but it was useless. this whole town was a dead zone. “dammit.” releasing a frustrated sigh before gaze falls on bucky. “you wait in the car. friendly conversations aren’t your thing.”

[honeydevice]

056: a police station in the middle of the night. -`♡´- › @wintrb0rn

the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a hollow,  mechanical rhythm,  casting the police station in a sickly,  artificial glow.  clea sat across from him,  legs crossed,  fingers lazily tracing the silver charms at her wrist — just another rhythm,  another pattern.  her hazel eyes gleamed,  not with kindness,  but calculation,  drinking in every micro-shift in his posture,  the way his metal fingers curled,  the tension in his shoulders that never truly left.  ❝you don’t have to talk, ❞ she murmured,  her voice velvet-soft,  but edged with something serrated.  ❝but silence is a language,  too.   &  i’m fluent.❞ the two-way mirror behind her reflected their tableau in distorted light,  an audience lurking unseen.  she didn’t bother looking.  let them listen.  this conversation wasn’t for them.   

it wasn’t the police holding him here.  not really.  the moment bucky barnes set foot in this station,  the real players had taken notice.  ghosts in government files,  voices that operated just beneath the skin of the world — people who didn’t believe in loose ends.  he fit the profile too well: a relic of war,  a weapon out of time,  a mind too dangerous to be left unchecked.  if he didn’t walk out of here soon,  he wasn’t walking out at all.  clea tilted her head,  a slow smile ghosting across her lips.

 ❝they’re waiting you out,  hoping time will wear you down.  but you  &  i both know — time’s never been their weapon.  it’s always been ours. ❞ her voice dipped,  quiet,  sharp.  ❝you don’t have to trust me.  but if you let them keep you,  you’ll be theirs.   &  you weren’t made to be kept,  were you,  soldier?❞