logsinthenight | Making the Rounds [Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA]

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Making the Rounds [Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA]

characters: Bucky and Various (Closed prompts + Wildcard OTA)
location: Around Beacon
date/time: October 19 - 29
content: Catch-all for Bucky stuff
warnings: Just the usual occasional disassociation, swearing, and bickering with himself

I. Closed to Matt

The Soldier stops by the general store once a week to check the level of supplies and, on rare occasions, actually pick something up that someone in the house needs. The remains of the costumes are still strewn about, some on display, some just a mess in the boxes. The Soldier eyes them thoughtfully, something prodding at the back of its brain about scraps and raw materials, but fuck if it can work out what to do with that.

So it's there, picking restlessly at costumes with all the metal-scent and quiet mechanical arm-noises that entails, when Matt comes in.

II. Closed to Daylight

The Soldier has more than once spied Daylight visiting with spirits, and, thinking about its own spirit-friend, approached (somewhat nervously) to offer to see if any of Daylight's friends know Morse Code, in order to perhaps translate more phrases in their musical language to something the residents of Beacon can be taught to understand.

So here it is, following Daylight to the woods, bearing a pot of coffee securely in its metal hand (which can't feel the heat of the pot as "pain") and a bunch of very small cups and dishes it scrounged up, to see if these spirits appreciate its favorite drink. Always best to bring a little peace offering when planning to ask anyone to work on something, right?

III. Closed to Aziraphale

It takes a while to work up the bravery to come to Aziraphale with the request. But the Sergeant swore up and down that Aziraphale had offered, and seemed earnest about it. Seemed like he wouldn't mess with anything they didn't want him to. Like he would be polite and helpful and above all careful.

So one day when Crowley is out of the house and Aziraphale is finishing puttering around the kitchen, the Soldier sidles up a little and says, carefully not actually looking at him, "The Sergeant said. You could see happy memories."

Sucks to have the actual Soldier back, in some ways, don't it, Aziraphale?

IV. Closed to Bruce

There are a lot of odd people around Beacon, for a given value of "odd". Some of them are odd because they aren't human, or have obvious trauma, or particular reasons that they're obvious about telegraphing. The sneaky young man who avoids contact most of the time and visits the general store and Invincible when he seems to think no one else will be around doesn't fit into any of those categories. He hides and avoids people, he moves like he's more well-trained than he should be, and the Soldier is having a hard time pinning down just how old he actually is. He reminds it a little of Eleven, which makes it worry.

So the Soldier keeps a distant eye on him for a few days, or tries to. Occasionally it loses track, but always manages to pick it up again eventually. At least it does work out where the young man is staying, so it waits outside one late morning (ish; for a given value of "morning" in a place with no sun) to intercept him on his way out for the "day" at the time he usually appears. It doesn't do casual well, so it's just sitting on a tree stump within view, obviously waiting and watching the door.

V. Wildcard!

Got something you wanna say to the Soldier? Want to come to one of its classes at the gym? Got some other idea based on his daily routine? Just hit me up here!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Soldier takes in the tension, and looks away, itself, over the boy-slash-young-man's shoulder. Not far enough off that it can't see if Bruce moves (or bolts; that's always a possibility when surprising and cornering a target, after all), but enough that it's not pinning him down. De-escalate, always de-escalate, if it isn't a kill mission.

And this obviously isn't a kill mission, even though the Soldier is definitely armed. It's always armed. There's no reason to hold itself differently because of weapons, because there are weapons literally everywhere. Mostly knives, rather than guns, but still. Look at part of the Soldier's clothing, there's probably a weapon there.

Also, in case Bruce had been looking (of course Bruce would have been looking), the Soldier did not ever actually snoop inside and look for signs of Bruce's occupation there. It focused almost entirely on signs of entrance and exit, and the most regular times of those things. Since this is just a check to see if a kid is in need of help, that much invasion of his space hadn't really been necessary.

It inclines its head at the last, with a very small upturn in one corner of its mouth, acknowledging the truth of it. "We do. But not many people. Seem to know you're here, and know to check. I have people who constantly ask me if I'm okay." Way more than it's used to, thanks.

He's here to check.

It sits strangely over Bruce's shoulders not because he's angered by the suggestion that he might need that- isn't concern universal? Shouldn't everyone have a person who thinks of them? Who wants to know they're safe? But it wouldn't be the first time that Bruce has made himself an exception to the rules. When he'd made the decision to leave his family home and spend some time living with Selina, she'd taught him to view Gotham in an entirely different light. Until that point his life had been meticulously ordered. He'd always stayed on the main roads. He'd always had his parents, or Alfred. There was someone to drive him, to look after him, to bring him home safely.

He doesn't believe that Gotham is any more or less dangerous now; but he sees more than one path in and out. He sees how people enter as one thing before they become something else, and he sees how someone without money and security can find their way too.

If he were more like his father he would express genuine gratitude for the show of compassion. He might be less guarded and come down the stairs to cross into the grass. But Bruce knows that he'll never be his father, that person, the one he could have been had died in that alley too.

"What do you tell them, when they ask?"

Gratitude might be a bit much. The Soldier is not expecting any gratitude for this-- suspicion, maybe, or discomfort. Hopefully truth, but that isn't even always necessary. Even a lie ("yes, thank you") tells someone observant things.

"Functional," the Soldier says, unknowingly mirroring Bruce's previous thoughts. "Usually. Then they look exasperated and ask me to answer again." It glances back at Bruce briefly, then away again, making a point. "There have been times I wasn't functional, by the standards of a person, but that isn't always safe to share with most people." And it understands that. Even in Beacon, there are a lot of people not designated as "safe"-- almost everyone, honestly. The people the Soldier counts as "safe" it can number on one hand. Even one is more than it can remember ever having. Four is an absolute embarrassment of social riches.

It seems like Bruce has no people designated as "safe", though. The Soldier isn't even an actual person, and it has four. An actual person should have at least one or two designated "safe" people.

"I'm not sure I believe that honesty is the best policy."

He takes the first step and no more, but maybe that says enough. Maybe the willingness to close the distance, even this small amount, will say the things he doesn't articulate. The man's gaze lands on Bruce intermittently and then, as if proving a point, it drifts away. He suspects that too is meant to serve a purpose. To allow the veneer of privacy, to reassure.

"In my experience, people ask because they're looking for a specific answer." He doesn't mean to disparage. He's met many people in his relatively brief life and there are few he would consider evil. He's unconvinced that any them are truly so. That they're irredeemable or uncomplicated. Even Malone, who he had spent years thinking of as a monster, was just a man. "When they don't hear it, they want to believe they're capable of changing it."

Oh, the irony. The Soldier's very long life has only taught it that some people really are evil, and so very few of them are safe. Of course, it never did get the chance to get to know any of its captors or the doctors that did their experiments. (Hell, maybe it could learn something about that from Bruce, someday.)

"Sometimes," the Soldier agrees after a moment of thought, trying to reconcile Misty asking how it's doing with he idea of her only wanting a specific answer. "But sometimes it should be changed, if the honest answer is 'not functional'. Because it seems to me like a couple people do want to help." It tilts its head, looking skyward rather than at Bruce. "Weird, I know."

"I'm perfectly functional."

It's the kind of reply that might be cavalier with anyone else, but the man outside the museum has bypassed any possibility Bruce might have of manipulating his own appearance- the way he would be perceived. For that reason, the answer is even-keeled, as if it's been measured out precisely to say no more and no less. He doesn't, after all, disagree with the assessment. It's a thoughtful gesture, but also a necessary one, give the circumstances. He knows that people are still reeling, recovering mentally, physically, emotionally from the hallucinations- there's evidence of this inside the museum itself, in the figure Bruce had kept tied upstairs for several days.

But it isn't the first time something or someone has tried to control his thoughts- that altered his sense of reality. To put it mildly. Bruce wasn't immune to what had been happening around him, the things he heard and felt- but he knows that he had a better vantage point to see outwards than many others. That he'd created reminders to keep himself focused while they happened.

"I don't think my age has made me more vulnerable, or affected, than anyone else. But I don't want to disregard your concern entirely. It's a very kind gesture."

He takes a second step forward. A third. Until he's standing on the forest floor; they aren't quite perpendicular, and they aren't quite parallel.

"How did they make you feel? The hallucinations."

The age was part of it, but it seemed like even the adults all had at least someone they talked to. Even if it was just to argue with them. (Everyone except that Will person, anyway. The Soldier has yet to even see his face, and it's been looking.)

Being told the checking-in was kind gets a blink, and a long pause with a mildly taken-aback expression. Kindness hadn't really factored into it. Had it? Weapons aren't generally known for their kindness, after all. (Apparently this one is. Shut up. He's right, it's nice of you to ask. You could've just come here and demanded answers, why he's a hermit, whatever. You didn't. It's not my business why. He just needs to know he doesn't have to go it alone. See?)

The brief internal conversation derails at the question, as it registers that Bruce has come a little closer. Thankfully. It would rather answer questions than let the Sergeant prod at it. "Terrified," the Soldier answers frankly, not even considering saying anything other than the truth. "I don't have many memories. All of the ones I have are pretty bad. The hallucinations brought up more. They were all pretty bad, too. I wound up having to have Crowley take my fear away for the last 54 hours, or something regrettable would have happened."

Edited (redundancy correction) 2019-10-31 19:47 (UTC)

Bruce has been asking questions for most of his life but it might be fair to say that curiosity became a need to know after the murder of his parents. He wants details, he wants facts, he wants to know who and how and where and why in an attempt not just to understand a chaotic world but also so that he might prepare for the many possibilities he might face. But asking questions doesn't mean he's used to hearing the answers.

No one and nothing in Gotham gave up the truth easily. There's a power in secrecy that can be rivaled by little else- there is blackmail and leverage and fear. It's strange by extension, to find himself in this place where people surrender so much so readily. Perhaps the reason for it is that they assume this is the afterlife, and that people believe they have nothing left to lose. That there are no mysteries in death.

Beacon itself would prove them wrong. There are no shortage of mysteries.

"A friend once told me that fear is good."

The man's reply is candid but not cavalier. Bruce watches his face, the small crease that appears between his brows as he follows a thought, a memory. It's easy for Bruce to find his own- how small he'd been after coming down from the rooftop, the burns on his palms still healing. I'm learning to conquer fear, he'd said then.

"It tells you where the edge is."

Whoever said that doesn't live with fear 24/7, obviously. It's hard to find the edge when the fear is on all sides. That much, though, isn't safe to share with a boy the Soldier has only just met. Bruce is interesting, smart, wary, and acting far more mature than the age the Soldier is guessing he is, now. All of which might mean potential ally, but also might mean danger. Doesn't mean the Soldier can't like him-- but "safe" isn't there yet. Some honesty is okay, especially in response to direct questions, or when sharing important information for a potential ally to know, but that's personal.

"I know where the edge is," it promises instead. "I would have gone off it with that much fear. Someone would have died if they startled me at the wrong time. Almost happened a couple times." It shrugs, plates in the metal arm shifting with a soft mechanical hum. "How did they make you feel?"

Turnabout is fair play, right? If Bruce asked, he ought to be ready to answer it, himself.

Someone would have died if they startled me he says, and Bruce reconsiders the figure in front of him. The way he holds his limbs, the places his hands land, how much of his feet remain on the ground. Bruce has met his share of assassins; he's met hired hitmen and thugs, he knows thieves and kingpins. There's something about the way that he doesn't truly settle, about how watchful his gaze is even when it makes a performance of not watching. It reminds him of Bane, of Jim Gordon when they first met. Both had been soldiers once.

Bruce lingers. He doesn't come closer but he doesn't make any attempt to withdraw either. Perhaps that also means something. The truth is that the question makes him think of Silver St Cloud- who told him not to pretend he wasn't afraid, when they had both been too young to understand the enormity of anything. Of their own futures.

"Alive."

It's fitting. After all, Bruce had seen no visions of his own, had only listened to conversations already passed- things that couldn't be changed. A different kind of ghost.

"I felt very alive."

Not an expected answer. It doesn't seem like a lie, though. Too calm, but at the same time not quite easy enough to be flippant. Almost has a shade of pleasure to it. (Maybe the young and the brave like being afraid. Or else the hallucinations didn't show him anything as bad as what we saw. Maybe. With any luck, weird kids like him don't have anything that bad to throw at them.)

The Soldier considers that for a moment, and the stillness while it does so probably fits best with the mental category of "sniper" if Bruce has categorized any of those, then nods acceptance. "Maybe you'll do better in this place than I will, then. Good." Anyone who reacts to fear by feeling alert and alive has the advantage in just about any situation, but one where people can be thrown their worst nightmares at any moment it will be especially useful.

It's pretty sure this one actually has a name. He seems like a complete person. So he asks, "Can I ask your name." It'll be fine of the boy-slash-young-man doesn't want to share. But it would be nice to have something to use to refer to him, in its own mind at least.

Like most things with Bruce, it isn't as simple as a matter of like or dislike because his preferences are irrelevant. The hallucinations had reminded him of the many times before when he has been confronted by things that can't be adjusted, negotiated, or stopped. But in doing so it has reminded him also of the difference between his own voice and those he'd heard on repeat. There is still potential in the former, the latter cannot be changed. It isn't just liberating, it's a powerful assertion that there's still a course to be altered here and by extension, it keeps him focused. It makes him stay present.

The moment stretches, heavy not with uncertainty but with consideration. If the circumstances were different he might casually bridge the gap between them and extend his hand to shake, or fit his face with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Instead his footfalls are very, very quiet- even on the forest floor. And Bruce closes the distance until only an arm's length remains between them. It's a kind of handshake in and of itself. A truer one perhaps. It means something else.

"Bruce."

The man before him falls into unnatural stillness again, as if this is the state he lives in between one thought and another. Bruce suspects that it has been cultivated, but can't guess yet at why, or by whom.

"Can I ask yours?"

That would be one reason it took the Soldier so long to even figure out there was a kid sneaking around-- he moves about as softly as the Soldier itself does. It's impressive, and disquieting, and makes him seem more like they might have things in common beyond not being able to talk to people easily. They both also seem to have a weird kind of tactful respect: not actually reaching out and touching is appreciated.

Though the Soldier does sit up straighter, closer to on the same level without actually standing up. The boy-slash-young-man-- Bruce; his name is Bruce-- isn't small, but the Soldier is still bigger, and has no wish to loom. Looming is generally more threatening than just sitting up straight.

"I don't have one." That's going to be its version of the handshake, another unusual truth. "You can call me Soldat if you like. That's what I tell most people." It just means "Soldier" in Russian, if Bruce knows Russian. It doesn't auto-translate like most things, since it's meant as a cover name of sorts.

The difference in their angles isn't profound but Bruce knows that's only the case because the man, the soldier remains seated. That choice is deliberate in the same way that coming out here, waiting for him to exit first instead of coming directly into the museum when it is, after all, public property. Bruce hasn't decided if he accepts the motive that he's been given. This isn't to say that acts of compassion and general care are unheard of in Gotham, or that he's been exempt from them either.

But this is different.

Bruce watches his face, the strangely still absence of emotion. That's what I tell most people, he says. I don't have one. He's met very few people that don't have a name, even an unconventional one. But instead of agreeing or repeating the word, Bruce asks, simply, "Are you sure?"

"Very sure," the Soldier assures him. There aren't a lot of things it's sure of, but not having a name is one of those things. That's absolutely not allowed. "Though if you prefer, you could also call me the Asset, or the Soldier. One of those people who insists on asking me if I'm okay calls me Tinman." It shrugs. "It doesn't matter to me."

This is different. It's actually probably one of the most careful conversations the Soldier has had with anyone so far, and that's saying a lot. If Bruce weren't so young, if he hadn't reminded the Soldier in odd ways of itself and of Eleven, it might have slipped him into the role of handler without even thinking about it. But it really feels more like Bruce would need to look for a handler, not be one.

Or look for something, at least.

None of these things sound like a name. It reminds him, unfortunately, of Eleven and by extension also of Karen- who had to name herself, because she deserved better than Forty-Four. Is it naive to think it? Bruce knows that not every child comes into the world with parents who do or can love them because he'd met those same children living on the streets of Gotham. And then there are those that do- but find their lives abruptly diverted. Their trajectories become something else, owned by someone else.

Which category then, does the soldier fall into?

He's right of course, Bruce does look for things. But it isn't a handler or a weapon. He looks for understanding. He looks for the truth.

The options float through the air and he sounds as unattached to each new offer as he had been to the last. It's curious to hear him say that it doesn't matter, but that what he chooses to use in this circumstance and perhaps by extension, the majority of his interactions, is Soldat.

"Why not choose one for yourself?"

The actual, physical twitch at the concept is automatic, as is the answer, "That's not allowed."

That's the first thing that wasn't measured and careful about this interaction. It's wanted to put forth at least a veneer of being stable, at least, for Bruce-- if not entirely a person, because it's pretty sure it could never pretend to be that. There's just too much missing. But sometimes there's nothing to be done.

So, sounding vaguely apologetic, it adds, "There are some things I can't do. Having a name is one of them."

Allowed, he says.

Bruce might remain still but his eyes land not just on the man's face, but his shoulders, his hands, his feet. Allowed. A word that a parent, employer, or even legal system might use, suggesting the presence of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors. Suggesting consequences.

Perhaps the implications they're making, the things they aren't saying, make the tone of his voice strange- not because it's riddled with complex inflection, but because there's something even paced and conversational about it. Something calm and measured, the way any two people might discuss the weather.

"What are the others?"

Some of the things it can't do aren't safe to share, because they're personal safety protocols. Talking about memory malfunctions, letting exits out of its sights, admitting to preferences and wants out loud. (Getting better about that last one, though. Not with an actual handler. Well, who'd want to tell the good Inspector about anything you want, anyway?)

Some things, however, are fine-- operational protocols were public knowledge among those who kept it, after all. Ironically, they're probably the worse things.

Its tone isn't precisely conversational, but it is uninflected and unemotional. Just reciting the rules. "Disobey a handler. Disobey field command. Leave living witnesses while on a mission. Engage in threatening behavior towards technicians." (Did that one anyway.) "Fail a mission or leave it incomplete. Make excessive eye contact. Resist returning to base. Ask for things. Remember." A shrug, a little tilt of the head. "A few of those are getting better. Some I'm sure will never go away."

Edited (whoops italics everywhere) 2019-11-06 05:29 (UTC)

It's a very revealing list and Bruce wonders at the motivation behind disclosing it to begin with. Has he been conditioned to unroll this list and is obeying the conditioning itself? Is he trying to work against it? Is it an entirely autonomous decision? Perhaps more relevant is that he chooses to finish with the phrase 'a few of those are getting better.' It carries the implication that he wants change. That he sees change as a positive thing, to become 'better.'

"Then you're attempting to change those."

Bruce wonders if better has any other definition. If it's synonymous with words like human, or normal, or civilian. He wonders where the impetus for this journey began, or if necessity was, as the adage goes, the mother of invention. There is a marked absence of inflection in his voice, he works through the points by rote. And then he shrugs. It is a fascinating shift from one to the other. A visual signal that separates two halves.

"Perhaps the name is only a matter of time."

"Hard to keep from remembering things when your brain isn't being scrambled every few days," the Soldier points out, and it's tone is very nearly dry. Actual inflection can at least sometimes be a thing. "And I have people here who make me ask for things and want me to look at them. Those same people who ask me if I'm okay." Bringing this whole accidental conversational branch back to the point, there.

It's just going to leave the name bit alone. It would have to want a name in order to get past that particular block, but like with Eleven, it can't quite bring itself to admit that to Bruce. These dumb, brave kids would probably never really understand, and it does still want to have a little respect out of them.

Better, in this case, mostly just means "not as awful as usual". And not having a name, not being a person, is safer and easier right now.

People who make me ask for things, he says. Who ask me if I'm okay.

All change requires a period of adjustment, but that he frames it in this way, describes the relationships around him with these words, speaks volumes about how he perceives them. Bruce wonders not for the first time, if he made the decision to pursue personal growth in this way or if it's happened organically. If he made the decision at all or if instead it was a manifestation of human nature- the desire of others to help.

It's a comforting reminder, especially here, in this supposed afterlife.

"As you've done for me."

But as the soldier brings them back to the point it also brings them to this strange impasse. Bruce appreciates that people try to take care of one another, that they want to help where they can. He likes that there are people who make others ask for the things they need and who want to make sure that those around them are safe and whole. But he is not a person who wants to answer. People, as a whole, don't like to be lied to; and Bruce knows that he lies. That he has lied. That he will again. His privacy is very important to him and he cultivates it carefully- not just by finding a home for himself relatively removed from all others, but by making his identity itself a pile of shifting sand. It doesn't matter than he wants to be known, because what he wants is irrelevant. There are other, bigger and more important calls to answer.

It's as his father had said, you can't have both happiness and the truth.
Bruce has made his choice.

"I appreciate the gesture. But there's no need to check on me again."

That was, of course, a possible response. A refusal of further contact, of help. It's not a surprising response, given Bruce's actions so far, even if it's disappointing. The Soldier isn't quite ready to give up, though. Arguing isn't its strongest point yet (it'll get there; stubbornness is in fact a trait it has, just sublimates into things other than arguing), but patience is.

"No need," it agrees mildly. "But may I do so anyway?" It also adds, an offer, "You don't have to talk. I know that's hard sometimes." Probably for different reasons for Bruce than the Soldier, but his reasons don't matter so much as the outcome in this case.

He anticipates the beat of resistance- after all, he'd had similar interactions with others through the years. Not simply Jim Gordon and Alfred, who had been powerful influences in his most formative years. But in Selina, who he had turned away a number of times, who he has hurt and been hurt by in turn. And by Dr Thompkins, who had tried to be kind and who had worried about his safety, but who Bruce would never truly be honest with.

It is, he finds, another thoughtful offer; you don't have to talk. And it's well noted, Bruce is very good at conversation, but mostly that means he's very good at directing it. At deciding where it goes, about talking without answering. He hinges however, on a more immediate concern. The trouble is whether or not he chooses to address it- because there's a degree of vulnerability that comes in acknowledging a weakness. A point at which this other person, a stranger, for all intents and purposes, already as the advantage. It is not in Bruce's nature to roll over, not for the sake of pride, but for sheer stubbornness.

In examining his alternatives however, what else is there?
Bruce hesitates, it's a visible tell and yet very small all the same. His eyes flick briefly to one side, to the lines of trees that separate them from everyone else in town, in the homes. Then they come back.

"I don't want anyone to know where I am."

Is that seriously his only concern. Honestly, Bruce, have you no faith in the assassin that you hadn't caught tracking you for the past week? The Soldier blinks once, slowly, expression quite bland. It says, "I have been hiding the way you hide for a very long time. I am well-trained and I am always vigilant. No one will see me come here." Then, since privacy is a thing it does understand to some extent, it adds another offer, "Or you can show yourself to me somewhere else, if there is another place you go regularly."

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please stop hurting me this way

why would I do that? :B

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