Bucky had been in and out of consciousness for several minutes now, but he was finally pulling fully out of his daze. The soldier took stock of his position, the straps around his chest, and the ache of his body. A helicopter crash? Had the Handlers found him again? He couldn't give away his awareness. He evened out his breathing before opening his eyes, which adjusted quickly to the darkened interior. Not a helicopter, then. Some kind of carrier?

The man across from him stirred and the soldier instinctively reached for his knife--it was gone. All of them were gone, as well as his guns and various explosives. But as he watched Daryl move and react, he seemed just as lost. Then he made sure the dead stayed dead and began moving the unconscious and wounded outside. Somehow the man's actions felt... right. So when Dixon passed him, he ignored the programmed instinct to lash out like a concealed snake and instead, cleared his throat subtly then unbuckeled his harness.

"Those men were already dead." James commented coolly, voice rough with disuse. He grabbed a backpack and rifled through it to take inventory of what he had.

He opted to offer Dixon a hand and wrenched a mangled seat out of the narrow path so Daryl could reach the rest of the survivors. The metal plates in his arm shifted and locked, preparing for the stress of the weight before he twisted it from the bulkhead completely to relocate the mess of metal and pleather out of the way.