►►►01 : Arrival
A: [Action]
Location: 462 Stone Street
Approximately 0600 hours.
[The other resident of the house, and possibly anyone passing by, probably heard a growl early that morning when one James Barnes awoke to a strange, cheery woman in an old-fashioned nightgown in his bed. Well, not his bed, but the bed he's in. Needless to say, he's a little startled. There's a bit of a struggle as drone wife is abruptly shoved and locked into the closet so Bucky can get his bearings.
He's sitting at the breakfast table downstairs a little while later with a cup of coffee, ignoring the cheery protests from upstairs. God that's creepy.] This must be some kind of nightmare... Must be the prison food.
B: [Phone]
Location: 462 Stone Street
Later that morning
Right, so. I doubt I can get onto the Avengers' frequency with this antiquated piece of shit, but let's give this a go anyway. [That comes out kind of mumbled, as if he's talking to himself and fiddling with the phone. When he raises his voice to a normal speaking tone again, he sounds grumpy as hell, and no surprise why.]
Anybody out there mind telling me what the hell is going on and why I've got one more arm than I should have? And why I'm not in Siberia where I went to sleep? I'd guess the time period to be in the fifties, not that I remember much of the fifties, but that doesn't make any damn sense... I wasn't even in America in the fifties. [But everything points to him having lived here all his life... Except he hasn't.]
If this is time travel bullshit again, I'm retiring.
C: [Action]
Location: Park
Evening
[Bucky's already tried to leave town. Didn't work. After a little more obsessive wandering to get his bearings, he's settled down on a park bench as the sky darkens above. He's silent, aware of his surroundings but seemingly lost in his thoughts; the sleeve of his shirt (well, not his shirt, but he supposes it was put there for him; it's about as old-fashioned as everything else, but it's close enough to his childhood to be comfortable) is rolled up to his elbow, and he's just...
Staring at his completely normal, flesh and blood, scar-free left arm, occasionally flexing the fingers. It's so goddamn alien.
Feel free to make fun of him for looking like a crazy, unshaven hobo.]
Location: 462 Stone Street
Approximately 0600 hours.
[The other resident of the house, and possibly anyone passing by, probably heard a growl early that morning when one James Barnes awoke to a strange, cheery woman in an old-fashioned nightgown in his bed. Well, not his bed, but the bed he's in. Needless to say, he's a little startled. There's a bit of a struggle as drone wife is abruptly shoved and locked into the closet so Bucky can get his bearings.
He's sitting at the breakfast table downstairs a little while later with a cup of coffee, ignoring the cheery protests from upstairs. God that's creepy.] This must be some kind of nightmare... Must be the prison food.
B: [Phone]
Location: 462 Stone Street
Later that morning
Right, so. I doubt I can get onto the Avengers' frequency with this antiquated piece of shit, but let's give this a go anyway. [That comes out kind of mumbled, as if he's talking to himself and fiddling with the phone. When he raises his voice to a normal speaking tone again, he sounds grumpy as hell, and no surprise why.]
Anybody out there mind telling me what the hell is going on and why I've got one more arm than I should have? And why I'm not in Siberia where I went to sleep? I'd guess the time period to be in the fifties, not that I remember much of the fifties, but that doesn't make any damn sense... I wasn't even in America in the fifties. [But everything points to him having lived here all his life... Except he hasn't.]
If this is time travel bullshit again, I'm retiring.
C: [Action]
Location: Park
Evening
[Bucky's already tried to leave town. Didn't work. After a little more obsessive wandering to get his bearings, he's settled down on a park bench as the sky darkens above. He's silent, aware of his surroundings but seemingly lost in his thoughts; the sleeve of his shirt (well, not his shirt, but he supposes it was put there for him; it's about as old-fashioned as everything else, but it's close enough to his childhood to be comfortable) is rolled up to his elbow, and he's just...
Staring at his completely normal, flesh and blood, scar-free left arm, occasionally flexing the fingers. It's so goddamn alien.
Feel free to make fun of him for looking like a crazy, unshaven hobo.]