( He shows up sometime after Steve. Could be hours, could be a day. In either case, he manages to piss somebody off almost immediately. They brought him out of the well, sluggish and disoriented, and the lady in charge didn't make it halfway through her greeting before he had a metal hand wrapped around somebody's throat. Turns out, you don't have to be in top form to almost choke somebody out with a vibranium fist. Steve might catch rumblings of it — some salty guard with a bruised throat complaining hoarsely to anybody that'll listen about the crazy man with the metal hand.
They show him the barracks and the mess, and while nostalgia eats at him, it's taken a back seat to wariness. The first place he really goes for any significant amount of time is the training yard. Not because he's suddenly in the mood for a pleasant, meditative workout, but because apparently they're just handing out weapons to any idiot that happens to wander through.
He's pretty sure they're loaners.
Take bets on whether or not he cares. Three guesses, and the first two don't count.
He's already squirreled away a knife into his boot, and he's half-way through eyeballing a crossbow when the guard with the bruised throat spots him and comes over with a couple more buddies in tow. The scene looks a little something like this:
One salty, overcompensating guy pretending he's not a little scared. Three less uncertain people behind him, hands casually resting on their blades. Hoarse guy's saying something along the lines of, "You're not taking any of this outside of the yard. You still feel like a tough guy?"
And then there's Bucky, standing deadpan and unruffled, who drawls back a dry — )
Do I know you?
( The guard bristles and bites back a frustrated, "Funny. It's been five hours, I'm sure you can take a guess."
His flat, monotone reply isn't doing much to de-escalate the situation. )
ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴀᴅᴇɴs
They show him the barracks and the mess, and while nostalgia eats at him, it's taken a back seat to wariness. The first place he really goes for any significant amount of time is the training yard. Not because he's suddenly in the mood for a pleasant, meditative workout, but because apparently they're just handing out weapons to any idiot that happens to wander through.
He's pretty sure they're loaners.
Take bets on whether or not he cares. Three guesses, and the first two don't count.
He's already squirreled away a knife into his boot, and he's half-way through eyeballing a crossbow when the guard with the bruised throat spots him and comes over with a couple more buddies in tow. The scene looks a little something like this:
One salty, overcompensating guy pretending he's not a little scared. Three less uncertain people behind him, hands casually resting on their blades. Hoarse guy's saying something along the lines of, "You're not taking any of this outside of the yard. You still feel like a tough guy?"
And then there's Bucky, standing deadpan and unruffled, who drawls back a dry — )
Do I know you?
( The guard bristles and bites back a frustrated, "Funny. It's been five hours, I'm sure you can take a guess."
His flat, monotone reply isn't doing much to de-escalate the situation. )
Doesn't ring a bell.
( New phone, who dis. )