Despite his usual prerogative to keep others at an arm's length, Barnable had to admit frankly this: it had been pleasant intermingling with people again. People people, of a variety of flavors and the like, not just those in the selfsame situation as his. It was honestly a nice departure from the crushing monotony that had become his day to day life, a routine in scavenging and trekking the many faces of the city for scraps just to survive.
It really was nice to have had some semblance of a life outside the microcosm of the homeless, even if the hours whiled away were fleeting. A small act of kindness and compassion truly did mean the world to those in need.
At the night's end, Barnable left, though not without making his appreciation, in his typical stoic fashion, known to Iroh and his employees. Especially Yang Xiao-Long, for she had been the impetus in his decision in remaining. A promise, perhaps half-empty, to visit -- instead of creeping in for the food -- was made.
The cover of the night cloaked Barnes well on the trip back to Fieldspans, by way of alleys and back-roads whenever necessary. Call it paranoia; just as there were the good few, there were the
few he elected to bypass. Dissenting ne'er-do-wells enthralled by word of mouth propaganda cropped up on occasion to badger Barnable.
It was a small wonder why Barnable grew more and more cynical by the day, just as he had hopeful.
Hours later, in the dead of night, he'd returned to the location of fellow vagabonds, still there. As he'd predicted, Barnable having memorized their roving patterns. He did not stay with them often but on occasion he would for those were the kindly souls that helped him along in the beginning.
First came the distribution of his prize, along with a quick apologetic grunt of his having by delayed by hours thanks to a certain fiery barista. Which one? Good question. With that out of the way, Barnes swiftly retreated to his own private location, outside the nomadic homeless's camp. It was his custom as former army sniper and soldier to have a vantage point and to stand guard. The homeless were oft left alone but on occasion there'd be a few to trample the already downtrodden. Fortunately, that rarely happened in Parrel. Still...
His selection in his sleeping location was exquisite; upon a fine bed of gravel/asphalt and debris -- disintegrated refuse and trash -- surrounded by small brush, if any, rested a used and worn sleeping back. A tag that extended from one end marked that it was a Gander Mountain product. The exterior was smocked with patches of brown and grey, from dirt and dust embedding into the waterproof fibers, with the interior heavily worn. There were small rips inside, readily revealing its constant use.
Barnes removed his ballcap, sighing with some modicum of relief as he ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair, keeping them back. A brief, cautionary glance around his vicinity followed, despite his brief lapse in his alertness, before he removed his rucksack and set it to the side. It was late, beyond late, and well into the morning. He had better get a start on the day and that meant he needed to go to sleep now. Fortunate he was used to that thanks to his previous life...
A few moments later and there was Barnable, snug inside within the sleeping receptacle, facing upward with steepled hands supporting his head. He'd a habit of staring into the night sky, despite the city's light pollution (if any), counting the stars.
Minutes later, and sleep took hold of him, as he passed unto the unknown and to the land of dreams.
So would it have been imagined for any living soul save for Barnes, and as he would later discover, his fellow flipsiders.
An abstraction, a concept, a figment that shouldn't have existed whatsoever had laid claim to him, horrifying so. A most jarring experience, memories were shattered... and worlds crossed over. He was simply taken, wrenched from a much needed rest. Whatever would follow would make the life of Barnable James Buchanan seem paltry in comparison...
---------------------
The last he remembered was seeing stars. Quite literally, and now it felt as if he was seeing stars figuratively, eyes flickering open in rapid pace. His skull was throbbing, a pulsing bulge wreaking havoc inside, as he leaned forward from his prone position into sitting in rapid pace.
A deep, terribly inconsolable exhale followed as James "Bucky" Barnes gripped his skull, as if the act would assuage the merciless throbbing. He shook his head, muttering unintelligibly to himself now as he tried to make sense of it all now.
Thoughts that were not his ran amok in his mind, intermingling with thoughts that were. Nothing meshed cleanly, wiring crossing over upon even the scantest similarity between distant, cloudy memories.
Steve, you don't have anything to prove--
Come on Steve, you aren't going to make it as Captain of the platoon if you keep getting knocked down. By me, ha!
Steve...?
I... I know him. Why don't I recall him? It was... during the war wasn't it. The great war.
World War II? No... I was overseas in Syria-- Steve's my best friend, wha...
H Y D R A.
My memories-- they were lies. All of them. Forgeries.
No. Not all of them.
Why... why can't I make sense of any of this??? All of it--
You were a soldier, remade into an assassin.
I was a good soldier. A good friend.
Not again.
M-my arm?!
Eyes flashed opened as he simply stared, for the briefest of moments.
"No... wha--"
Then came the realization: He was not alone. Barnes immediately kipped to full standing, his left arm extended front in a defensive posture. His frame was twisted, turned to the side as to reduce his profile as his right hand instinctively flickered to small of his back, where the Vz.61 Skorpion was holstered.
What should have been smooth, graceful articulation in movement befitting that of an elite assassin were instead jagged, groggy and affected. His mind was still at full throttle, speeding through the torrent of memories, that coincided and yet conflicted.
A sharp intake of breath shattered whatever imposing image his aggressively defensive posture implied, as he visibly relaxed, partially with his features displaying a mix of uncertainty and surety. Strangely enough.
The eyes would tell it all, just why he stopped.
He recognized at least three of the others here. Or did he? But he felt nothing from them. They had intended no harm toward him. Yet. Yet. Why would they? They were in the same position as him. Cornered animals did anything to survive.
Conflicting ideologies ran amok in mind as two... no, multiple lives converged together. The life of Barnable James Buchanan, the life of James Buchanan Barnes... and the many brief memories of the Winter Soldier's.
A scowling growl escaped his lips as his eyes bolted shut, as he focused intensely. Something was going on. This took precedence over his own predicament, naturally. If nothing was did to resolve the current situation, they were in danger he thought. He needed a temporary resolution, to forcibly bring the splinters of his mind together for now. The common, unifying components of... of his personas came together, that of a soldier's mentality. A fractured psyche.
It'd have to do.
He regarded first those he recognized, yet didn't (???).
"You... I know you." He uttered, his voice quiet yet strong.
This to Azula, who'd by then already vamoosed to assist another. A man he vaguely recalled.
Vaguely. There was again the lack of certainty. For Azula, she looked different. Colder in her demeanor and her attire, almost as if she were of royalty. And the other, a darker past than expected. Wasn't he a cop... no, that couldn't be. A person that appeared like so couldn't have been kind.
Ironic.
He broke his eyes from those in question, regarding each and every one with intrigue. Barnes knew instantly they weren't of his world and what little conversation he overhead only cemented this sneaking suspicion. There was a loud-mouthed man in red with sandy blonde hair, he seemed to mean no harm. A gargantuan entity entombed in obsidian black armor, fitting the visage of a knightly giant. A girl that certainly fit the description of an old fable's protagonist, in red and black with a hood. There were more...
He tore his eyes from the others, immediately taking in his surroundings. A domed area with a dangerous laser field in the center, doors off to the side, and a control room elevated out of reach. It seemed the others had the control room well in hand. If one could even say that.
Another survey of his surroundings, to glean anything he might have missed, before he turned to approach the ruined blast doors. Perhaps he could just scout ahead, see if the way was clear obstructed... and a moment to himself wouldn't do any harm in trying to clear his head further. Of course, in doing so he armed himself with the Colt M4A1 that hanged awkwardly on a strap off his left side, slinging it around to peruse the weapon.
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