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JANUARY TEST DRIVE MEME
You awaken to godawful static overlaying a female voice that's too monotone to be anything but a recording. The static makes it difficult to understand the warning, but it's clearly a warning if your surroundings tell you anything...
You're buckled into a sturdy seat bolted to the wall behind you. Around you, there are dozens of others like you, some awake and others still unconscious, but it seems most of the seats lining the walls are occupied. The lights are dim, likely auxiliary lighting, leaving you mostly in the dark. You smell smoke and hear the sizzling crackle of electrical systems popping and shorting out. Some of the seats were jarred off the wall, leaving the occupants either wounded or dead. Count yourself lucky all you have is a headache and various aches accounted to whiplash.
You appear to be in a drop ship or an escape vessel of some form but the pilot is dead and the hull bears a massive gash where it buckled under the impact and sheered off. Through the door-sized opening, you can see vegetation. The air that wafts in is heavy with a humid heat, but it's obviously breathable.
Once you make your way outside, you'll see greenery: Trees, grass, and shrubs tangled with vines that grow wildly and suffocate the trees they climb. In the distance, behind the ship, you can make out a sandy desert that seems to stretch on endlessly. Forward through the trees, however, you may see a crumbling wall, but more importantly, you'll see signs of civilisation. Buildings and other structures seem contained within those decrepit walls. Maybe the natives can fill you in on what's going on, because the last thing you remember isn't being in an escape shuttle. As a matter of fact, you don't remember much about your arrival or where you are. But it's going to be a bit of a hike, better get moving. Though you might want to grab the backpack of supplies under your seat before you go.
With that, the power dies, leaving the drop ship in the dark, crackling and groaning as the hull cools from its catastrophic re-entry.
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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.
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When the man spoke, Daryl clutched his make-shift weapon all the tighter. And when the man pulled a seat up and twisted it off like it was little better than a turkey leg, Daryl braced himself against another seat and reassessed the threat the man held. He had the look of someone trained to fight. And while Daryl hadn't seen many prosthetics in his day, he knew they weren't nearly that advanced before the outbreak. At least not for the everyday folk. Which meant this guy was military. And that supported Daryl's suspicion of being picked up by the wrong group of survivors at some point. When though?
He remained where he was, watching the man for several moments before giving a grunt of acceptance at the help he was clearly providing in getting the rest of the wounded and unconscious. Whoever the man was, he wasn't out to hurt anyone. Not immediately. Daryl would have to watch him, but he could use the help.
"Making sure they stay that way," he answered like the man was stupid. His own voice gruff, accent pinning him from somewhere south of the Mason Dixon line. "Grab the backpack off the bottom of that one and put it outside with the others."
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"Do they usually not?" The question was out before he could mull over whether he should even speak again or not. Well, okay then. He'd spent the past several months avoiding people, trying to put his own mind back together, and now he was just going to carry on a bizarre conversation with Mr. Backwater Gent with a heart of Gold.
Upon the order, he immediately acted, picking up the backpack and carrying it outside. He dropped it off and only then did he realise that he'd followed through without question. He'd have to focus on shaking that lingering twitch of the programming. Not that Daryl had been wrong in the command or that he would have disagreed with it, but had it been something worse, he would have still acted.
He returned to Dixon's side, moving to help him carry whomever he started dragging out now. "Do you remember boarding this craft or who owned it?"
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He stood up as best he could and watched the other man do as he'd said. Acted like he was used to taking orders. Was it possible the military had kept some of their own in the dark about the virus? For that long? Naw, that didn't make no sense. Of course, Daryl had just woken up in the middle of God knows where, surrounded by God knows who, for God knows what, and God knows how it happened.
And then golden boy was asking the same questions Daryl was asking himself, which halfway shot his theory to hell. So maybe the military did have their ways of making people forgot. Really forget. Or maybe it was a group of survivors who got their hands on enough military tech and supplies it didn't make much difference. Only thing Daryl knew for sure was he didn't have enough information to make a good educated guess. Not yet. That, and if the anyone else didn't know what was going on with the dead, they would have to learn fast. Not if any of them were going to survive for long.
He shook his head and got his arms under the shoulders of the next person, "Nope."
After another few seconds of silence, he offered, "Anyone dies, you get 'em in the head as fast as you can. Gotta be the brain or they'll be up and walking and you'll be the only thing on the menu."
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Given the man's response, Bucky was starting to get the feeling he might have found himself in cryo again somehow. Frozen but not wiped? Maybe whatever happened had left HYDRA without the time to reprogram him. Tossed him in storage and something else went wrong. Who knew what year it was now. He'd go with that for the time being.
"How long?" Full sentences, Barnes. "...has this been going on? My memory's been full of holes for--a long time." He opted against dropping the WWII bomb just yet.
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"Not sure," Daryl answered, taking a deep breath while they got the body laid out so the person could wake in relative comfort. When he straightened, he stretched his back and looked from the other man and to the transport. He didn't have knife, just the metal bar, but the man seemed strong enough not to need one. Could be useful in salvaging something other than the back-packs.
"We lost track of the days pretty quickly," he continued, voice getting quiet. His thumb came up to his mouth as he started back into the ship. "Can't give you anything exact, but it's been about two winters and three summers."
With a lot of the lower seats cleared of bodies (except for the dead ones), the backpacks they held could be grabbed. Or the seats themselves. Which is what Daryl wanted. That and what was under them or in the ceiling. He waved a hand along the isle, "Think you can rip all these out? Be easier to cut them up if they are. Need to get to the wiring under it all, too."
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Buck nodded an affirmative at the question and flexed the metal arm, servos giving off a soft whirr and plates shifting. "What are you using the wiring for?" How long had it been since he'd been able to actually question an order given to him? He was effectively a brainwashed weapon for HYDRA until that programming began to fall apart, thank you Captain America.
Barnes moved back into the drop ship, working on the first row of seating. A combination of the metal arm, his Serum enhanced strength, and the training he already had before being turned into a living weapon, he made short work of the first few seats, carrying them out to set on the ground without breaking so much as a sweat.
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Daryl paused and lifted a hand to his chin, thumb rubbing under his lip before he chewed at it a moment. When he let it go, he let out a huff of air, "Least it was last I can remember."
He went back to pulling out as much of the wiring and cable as he could, wrapping it around one hand, "This is for snares. Got nothing to cut the rope with even if it weren't too thick. And I ain't seen anything else thin enough or long enough. If any of us are gonna survive this, we're gonna need to eat something other than what was left us."
And someone took his crossbow, so he couldn't easily go on a more proactive hunt anyway. And he wasn't going to stay at the wreckage, either. Those dead bodies and all that blood would begin to smell too good for the local wildlife to stay away from, no matter how cautious they might be over the noise of the crash. Assuming there were any predators around. And if not predators, well Daryl wasn't going to bank on there being a lack of walkers. The noise alone would draw them in and he didn't know how much time they had. Wreck wasn't in any shape to be used as decent shelter, neither.
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"Wait." Buck pulled away and moved back outside after a moment, unzipped his back and brought back both a torch and a knife. "These were in my bag. I don't need either." Well, he liked having a knife, but he didn't need it to be a threat. "I have night vision as sharp as in daylight. There's a spare battery too." He added and nodded to the flashlight he'd handed over.
"I can smell fuel, too. The ship obviously has a leak. We should get everything we need and evacuate everyone as quickly as possible. I've been out of the technology loop for a while, but I'm guessing it's still pretty explosive. Show me what you need and I can work on the bulkhead behind us."
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"As many plates as you can get down," he answered after going through his head the fastest way to get everything moved. "There's a building or the remains of one not far. Can see it through the trees. We make ourselves some sleds out of the hull, we can drag the supplies, the wounded, and anything else we can pull off this heap over there to sort through."
With the first seat stripped of cloth and the belts, he made fast work of the cushioning under it and any loose wiring he could find. Tossed it out toward the backpacks. The insulation the cushioning provided could be useful if it got cold at night. And if it didn't, it would burn a lot easier than the trees. The backpacks were mostly empty, so there would be plenty of room for it if they couldn't make the sleds.
"Thanks," he said after another seat was stripped. "Name's Daryl."
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"Looks to be a good hike, especially with the wounded. If they have a chance of making it through on their own, they'll need to set the pace for the rest of us." He worked on another panel while he spoke, hissing when his fingers brushed a live wire, lighting the darkened cab with a spark.
"Some of this is still active. If there's a communication system left on this ship, it might still work. We could get in contact with whoever sent us here and get some answers."
"I'm..." He paused, thinking that one over long and hard. "James. I think." He leaned back and held out his flesh hand to shake Daryl's hand. "Thank you. You're the first real human contact I've had in a long time."
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Daryl stopped in the middle of his own work to stare at the hand offered to him. The guy didn't even know what his name was and admitted to having no contact with the living for a while. Hell, that sounded almost as fucked up as what they group had been through.
He wiped his fingers on his jeans and reached out to take the hand, give it a single firm shake before he let go. Was about to move on again when he squinted over at 'James', considering a moment, then said, "Got some questions for you. Three of 'em."
(Oh Daryl, this isn't going to go well...)
When Daryl stated he had three questions for him, Bucky pulled away from his work and turned to face Dixon fully, to give him his undivided attention. "Okay. I'll try to answer if I can remember the answers."
(Things never really do)
He held up his other hand, one finger up, "How many walkers you kill?"
Daryl already knew the answer, if the guy didn't even know what they were, but he still needed to ask. To see how James answered it.
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"That's the dead getting back up? None." Something about the direction this was going, the way Daryl was looking at him, analysing him, it didn't make him squirm, but it made him uneasy. In the short time he'd been talking with Daryl, he'd fallen more in touch with who he used to be. Now he was falling back on the support of what HYDRA made him for stability.
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He lifted a second finger, "How many people you kill?"
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"I don't know." The answer was honest. "I was a sniper in the war. But..." Barnes shifted, subconsciously moving a bit further away from Daryl, as if he wanted to run. He'd become very good at running from his problems lately. First HYDRA, then Steve, now... "I was captured by the enemy." He flexed the metal hand, pulling the arm close to his chest. "I was erased and turned into a weapon. Since then, I couldn't tell you how many people I've killed for them. Periodically, I was erased over and over again to keep me blank. Controllable."
He edged backwards, foot hitting one of the dislodged panels. The scraping sound made him flinch, sharp to his enhanced hearing. "I'm not--they don't control me anymore. I'm not their assassin. I'm James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant of the 107th Infantry. I was born March 10th in Brooklyn. 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8. 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8. 3-2-..." He breathed in sharply, closed his eyes, and focused on calming down.
"S-sorry... I'm sorry..." There might be a bit of PTSD there, Daryl.
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"Easy, kid," Daryl murmured, tone soft like he was talking to a spooked animal. He hadn't let go of the knife, but he had it held loosely, where it could easily be seen. Both hands were up and he was crouching a little as he approached. He knew closing in on him was dangerous, but he didn't need someone like him running and making things worse for himself.
He attempted to put his empty hand on the shoulder that wasn't metal, "You should sit down. Get your head between your knees. Deep breaths."
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His back hit the bulkhead behind him when Daryl approached, but it seemed to steady him and draw him out of his panic to a degree. Grounding him and pulling him out of the overwhelming flood of memories he'd accidentally opened up upon himself. Fragmented and all terrible. Daryl's touch melted the tension out of his shoulders and he nodded. Buck slid down the bulkhead and pulled his knees close, bending forward and closing his eyes. Several deep breaths later, his head was clearing, the tremble of adrenaline rushing through him was calming down.
He wasn't sure how long it took him to pull out of it, but it made him feel pathetic that he'd dissolved into this to begin with.
"You've dealt with this before?" He asked slowly, almost warily.
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And hell, if what he and his people had been through the last couple years couldn't count as trauma enough to drive a person crazy, he didn't know what did.
Daryl gave a single shoulder shrug and leaned back on his heels, thumb coming up to his mouth again. Stayed quiet. It wasn't an outright yes, but it wasn't a no. And James could draw his own conclusions from there. Kid was smart.
Instead, he said, "Guess that answers my third question well enough."
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"What's the third question? Did they deserve it?" He shook his head. "If this is a personality quiz, I'm probably not the best candidate. If they're here--HYDRA--if they find me and wipe me again, I'm dangerous." Too dangerous. The only person that had ever stopped him, was he even here? Probably not. "If we're stuck here for a while, and something happens... If I start killing, don't fight me. Run. Take everyone you can and get as far away from me as possible. Don't try reasoning with me. It won't matter who you are or what you say. I'm a weapon." He let out a breath and rested his hand on the metal plate. "I wish I could give you more than that. A kill switch or a trump card..." He shrugged.
"We all have our demons." His were different than Daryl's, but he had a feeling they were just as potent as Daryl's.
"So, snares? You're an experienced hunter?" Yep, subject shift. Assuming Daryl still wants anything to do with the assassin.
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He cocked his head to the side after James tried changing the subject. Stayed real quiet for several long moments. Kept eye contact.
When he spoke, it was a single, simple word, "Why." That was his third question. Didn't need a long explanation. Just wanted to know why. And James had answered that just fine.
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"Good set of questions." He added after a moment, leaning back against the bulkhead.
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"I've been hunting since I could walk," he said in answer to the topic change. "You know anything about it?"
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"But I can boil whatever you catch to beat hell until it tastes like mama's finest." They didn't seem to have any herbs or spices to make it presentable, but he could make it edible.
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(Giving you a sneak peek at what to expect. ;D )
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