thearena | Your circuit's dead

Entry tags:

Your circuit's dead

Who| Steve Rogers & Open w/ some closed prompts
What| Here in lies his arena adventures
Where| Many places
When| Super Backdated to Week 0 & Week 1
Warnings/Notes| Warning for violence, nightmares, and character death
Prose or bracket formats both welcome! Feel free to ask for a prompt if you'd like one.

Steve hadn't really planned to start this arena injured, but it seems that's what was in the cards for him this time around – not that he was in tip top shape last time either. Even with his healing accelerated back, there's just too many serious injuries for his body to heal fast. No, he's still sporting cautious movement and a sling to hold his left arm, his yellow suit stained with aging blood on his shoulder.

Even in pain, it didn't escape his notice that the gamemakers learned their lesson from last cornucopia – for this arena at least. They stripped them of identity and speech, making it impossible to have a repeat of last time, to put people on edge and ensure a bloodbath. Forcing the issue of what the arena is about. Killing for entertainment.

Makes him wary of what all this one has in store.

A. Cake

Steve swears he knew what he was doing. Swears on his mother's grave he was moving to the right pad to solve the puzzle and move on to the next room. It's not his fault one wrong movement blindsided him with pain enough to catch his balance on the wall, which just happened to be another pad.

The one he wasn't supposed to touch.

The one that causes the room to go into lock down and effectively trapping him.

After days of being taken care of by his friends, he just wanted to take care of them in turn. To go out and get food, look for supplies, maybe explore a little and possibly help others if needed, just move and be useful at the same time. A couple hours out and he was on his way back with the cakes he found. And a potato.

Yet, for all his good intentions and trying to stay out of trouble, he winds up trapped in a puzzle room. For at least five hours now, maybe more. Eventually someone or something will find him.

There's a good chance he's waiting to die. He knows it, he's just done with caring about that. He's going to die one way or another this arena, despite his friends and allies efforts.

No, he's done, he's in pain, and he's hungry. Eyeing the cake, Steve know which one of these problems he can solve while he waits.

B. Science Labs

The labs have been the closest thing to a home base here as they can get, especially with Banner and Sam making a clinic of one of them. The puzzles can be a bit frustrating at times, but it seems to keep some of the bumps in the night at bay, so it's worth it.

After being stuck once himself, Steve has taken to wandering through the rooms he's most familiar with and checking for others who have found themselves trapped in a locked down room. Maybe even help them through a few more to where they're going. It's better than them staying stuck and Steve idle in the clinic. Injured or not, he's not one to just sit around and heal while others are getting hurt.

So, this is something he can do within his physical limits while not making his friends and allies worry too deeply.

When the door opens to whoever was trapped, they're likely to be greeted with a small smile and an unblocked exit. “I come in peace.” And a bad joke.

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Sleep never comes easy for Steve in the arena. Even with his body trying to heal, he can't seem to find a way to be comfortable enough to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time sporadically – not that he needs much more with the serum at full capacity.

He often finds himself staying up on watch while the others sleep, something he can offer to keep them safe. It's not like they haven't had a couple run ins with robots already, so it's better safe than sorry.

So, he understands Bucky's reluctance to sleep, but Steve won't have the man running himself into the ground while he's still around. It took some convincing and promises to keep watch and not leave, to wake him up at the first sign of anything (good or bad), but Steve got Bucky to get some rest. Even if only for a few hours.

He'll take that victory.

The persuading, from anyone else, would've failed before it had started. He might take calls to eat and rest, have his wounds bandaged, from others in what accounted for their team but sleep? That was only a thing Steve could talk him into when Bucky was wound up with seeing threats and danger on every side, eyeing up every single vulnerability to their location like it had personally offended him. The space was too open, the door not secured and the pieces of furniture insuffient cover, leading to the feeling that daring to close his eyes would be the moment an unseen foe burst in to take them down.

But since it was Steve, who was as strong and fast as he was even injured, and the person he trusted most, Bucky reluctantly agreed to rest. He needed less sleep now than he did out of the arena but an hour (or more if Steve had his way) would be beneficial.

When Bucky slept he had started off stretched out, then the moment he actually drifted off his limbs had curled up tight as they always did, like he was trying to make himself small and unobtrusive. This was normal, habit, and no indicator for the nightmare about to take hold of him, probably spurred on by the accelerated healing his body is putting his mind through, digging up the dark pieces of the past alongside the good.

At first it's just a twitch in his expression, then a developing frown. His jaw clenches, his hands tighten into fists and his limbs try to draw themselves in even tighter at the first hitch in his breath, defensive against whatever horror he's reliving inside his head. A quiet cry, then a louder one escapes his throat.

Nightmares were nothing new to Steve. He's seen soldiers have them in the midst of war, seen family have them even on peaceful nights, even had some of his own, but he still wasn't quite expecting Bucky to be having one now. It's not so much a surprise as unexpected, he didn't really think the man would fall into that deep a sleep. But the movement of Bucky trying to curl smaller and the hitch in his breath tells him differently.

At first, he almost thinks his friend is waking up, but no, just looking at the man tells him that he's fast asleep. A troubled sleep. He could let it continue, hope it'll stop, but Steve doesn't have that in him, he can't leave Bucky to relive something terrible when he could stop it.

He's already moving to try and wake the man up when Bucky cries out, turning this situation into something that could draw unwanted attention. Placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, he gives it a gentle shake, "Bucky, com'on it's time to wake up, pal."

Edited (Dumb thing submitted before I was done) 2015-01-24 07:20 (UTC)

If he doesn't wake soon those cries might turn to screams, it had happened before, always mercifully in the Capitol. Out here in the arena it's a call for something or someone to come and hurt them.

The nightmares are usually fragmented, pieces of the worst parts of his life playing out of sync. He could be in the chair or the cryostasis tank, out in the snow. Perhaps looming over his victims in so many places he didn't know the names of. Sometimes there were fists and batons striking at him when he failed to perform to specification.

Other times, like now, he dreams about when they modified him physically. The hum of the saw that cut through even the bone before they pulled him open and shoved cold hard metal in the place of his flesh and blood, bolting it to his ribcage and beyond.

Someone touches him and he snaps open his eyes, seeing the blue-coated doctor above him and Bucky lashes out on instinct, his metal hand closing around the man's throat. There's fear and anger in equal parts in his expression, "No!"

This wasn't Steve's first time dealing with Bucky's nightmares, not when the man pretty much lived with him for half a year. Especially, when at times Bucky wouldn't sleep unless Steve was sitting there on guard, like some watch dog. It never bothered him, not when it gave Bucky the peace of mind to sleep. And waking him up has never gone too badly. Bucky's never not snapped out of it fast enough to stay his actions. Steve's never been too injured to properly get out of the way when he hasn't.

Seems Steve's shit out of luck this arena.

Not when Bucky's cries start to become screams, not when Bucky startles awake, not when he looks at Steve like he's the enemy. Not when Bucky's metal hand closes around his throat, tightening to strangle.

Injured or not, both of Steve's hands shoot up to try and pry Bucky's hand off, but getting purchase on the metal as it sinks into soft flesh is harder than it sounds. His nails bite into his own flesh as they try to get a hold and can't. Struggling, one of his hands moves to grab at Bucky's shoulder, try and push him off, something, as he gasps Bucky's name, but it comes out more a strangled sound than anything.

Bucky only see's the past. He see's a doctor, a guard. He see's the men who came at him with needles and knives, batons and hard fists to break him down into his component parts, ready to be put back together again into the perfect soldier. His mind has him locked in the vision of the nightmare, different memories warring together to create one horrifying scenario that it struggles to wake up from.

He needs to wake up.

Those metal fingers squeeze all the tighter as he registers that the doctor is fighting him and he knows that if he falters and fails in this moment they will come, they will hurt him even more. He has to kill the doctor so that he can escape this hell. Escape this hell and get back to... to... he can't remember and that's their fault as well.

Shock.

That's probably the best word to describe how Steve feels right now.

Maybe he shouldn't be. He knew they were different from each other, drastically so, nearly strangers, but this is Bucky. It doesn't matter his form or universe, he knows his friend when he sees him, he'll always stand by him, always fight for him, that won't change. That's a constant over every dimension.

Yet-

Steve feels a numbness spread over parts of his body, feels how his chest aches sharply with emotions he's too overwhelmed to feel. He doesn't need to look down to see the hand on his abdomen is failing it's task.

That James-

Maybe it was the build up, how Steve decided to give in and let Bucky kill him, that he couldn't hurt his friend to save his own life, that it was those thing that made it easy to bear. Maybe it's how he confronted James this time, didn't realize the severity of the situation, hadn't noticed he was dealing with the Soldier again, hadn't seen the sharp metal move to gut him, how it happened in a blink and then another and the man was gone.

His knees start to weaken and buckle even though he wasn't aware he was still standing. Little things are becoming more clear: how warm his blood is while his hand grows cold, how his eyes sting, how the aches and pains in his body are gone in comparison.

So yes, shock is a good way to describe it.

Shock that James- no, that Bucky didn't even blink.

Sam's smiling as he walks down the metal hallway, looking at Natasha sidelong, though whether he's grinning at something she said or something she said or just at her doesn't really matter anymore when he picks up the sound of what might be footsteps and what's definitely some kind of thump up ahead. His focus changes, from keeping an ear out to putting his full attention on what's up ahead, already clicking his switchblade out.

But it turns out he doesn't need it, because the guy on the ground definitely isn't in any shape to attack them, and whoever'd done him in is nowhere in sight - though that doesn't mean they're not still around. Sam gets another step closer before he realizes exactly who's on the ground up there. In an instant he shifts from 'who did this they might still be here' to 'oh god no, no, he has to fix this, has to help him.'

"Steve!" He's shouting without realizing it, voice a raw yell with a desperate edge as he starts running forward.

He slides to his knees as he stops, right up against Steve as he reaches out without a second thought, trying to assess the damage, hoping like hell it's not as bad as it looks, not as bad as all that blood says it is. "Steve, man, you with us? You gotta stay with us."

Nat takes one look at him and understands that he isn't going to make it. There's just too much blood, too much damage and they have no resources at their disposal whatsoever. Steve is not going to make it and that knowledge hits her hard, almost knocking the breath from her lungs. She is no stranger to grief. She's lost everything at one point, stepped out of the ashes of her old life to rise again, but this is something different. Something terrible.

Steve Rogers was the first person to tell her that he trusted her, after Clint. He's...the kind of reckless that borders on stupid, always the first one to take a blow because he knows he can handle it. Grabbing her and holding the shield up above them while flames licked the edges of it. Steve carried her out of that compound and she had asked him - if it were up to me to save your life, would you trust me to do it?

But it doesn't matter, because she's too late. Because even as Nat falls to her knees and looks for something to staunch the bleeding, she knows he's already half gone.

"Don't do this to me. C'mon, don't you do this to me too --"

Not after Fury. She had thought it was real at the time. Her feelings were real. Her voice catches at the edge of her throat as she takes the hand on his abdomen and helps him press down. He needs -- a full medical facility. A team of doctors. Enough blood transfusions to bring him back to stable.

They don't have any of that.

His life is a mess.

Just one ill fated mistake after another - a burden on society (a legend among heroes), a nuisance (a symbol), unwanted (coveted), shunned (looked up to). Either made to be below or above the world, never a part of it. Only people with the fortitude to face the worst of the world could stay by him, stand there and watch it come at him from all sides and try to tear him down. And he never yielded, he stood fast against it, a misshapen man who has no place.

Yet, these two fall by him like puzzle pieces that were made to fit together. Even with how the future has made his edges jagged and sharp, they fit. Just how Bucky and Peggy always did.

And they're here with him as he's dying.

Dying because James-

"Bucky!" His voice is desperate, worried, his body trying to bolt up right to warn them, protect them. The man gutted him and ran, he could still be here, Natasha and Sam aren't safe. He needs them to be safe because he won't be here for much longer. But as his abdomen constricts to sit up, searing pain laces through his body, blood quickening it's escape, stopping him as he chokes out a cry and falls back before he he makes it an inch off the ground.

It doesn't matter what they're saying, he can't give up, it's not in his misshapened nature. So, if he can't take action, words will have to suffice, words that come between pained gasps. "Please, watch out for Bucky." It doesn't even occur to him they might think of the wrong Bucky, might hear it as a plea for them to take care of his friend.

His life really is a mess.

“Lay your ass back down, Rogers, let me…” But he cuts off, because as much as he wants to deny it, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Steve’s bleeding out too fast, and they don’t have anything, not even the bare bones med kit they’ve got back at the infirmary, and trying to move Steve there will just make this go even quicker.

They’re too late.

His mind’s a mess right now, and that’s exactly how he takes Steve’s warning. The last words of a guy who knows he’s dying, still trying to protect the people he cares about. Technically, he’s not wrong.

“Shut up, man, you don’t even have to tell me that.” He takes one of Steve’s hands in his, lacing their fingers together the way he had when Steve’d gotten injured at the start of this goddamn arena. Except then Sam'd been able to do something, he'd-

“Steve-” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t know what to say. Sam’d never said goodbye to Riley, all he’d been able to do was scream his name as he watched him fall. They said that Riley hadn’t heard him, that he’d died on impact, before he was even out of the sky, but Sam remembers Riley screaming back, he does, he-

His eyes flick up to Natasha, and he leans over Steve, like he can shut out the world to just the three of them, even if he still can’t figure out what he’s supposed to say here. For the first time in a long time, he can’t find his own words.

Can’t do anything but rest his forehead against Steve’s.

It's a few hours in when there comes a tentative shuffling on the other side of the door. Gary is suspicious of these puzzle rooms; they're kind of fun, jumping around from platform to platform, and it was definitely worth it to get the half a cake cradled under his arm, but he's had one too many close calls with getting locked in already to feel like he shouldn't be here. Unfortunately, there's still the matter of getting back out, and this particular door is standing in his way.

The handle jiggles experimentally. Locked? Why is it locked? Has he done something wrong? On instinct, Gary knocks.

The jiggling handle catches his attention first, but it's the knock that has his eyebrows starting up towards his hairline curiously. He sets the cake he grabbed into aside and moves to stand by the doorway, knocking on it in return.

"I'd say come in, but it's locked from my side," he calls through the door. Steve is almost amused as he brushes some crumbs off his hand. Part of him wonders if he should try helping whoever this is get through, it could be just about anything or anyone, but the fact they knocked has him too intrigued to turn them away.

"There might be a panel to the side, to release the lock."

Gary wasn't necessarily expecting someone to answer, but at least the answer he gets sounds friendly. This does not stop him from jumping half a foot back from the door.

"Shit!" He recovers quickly. "Uh--yeah! Maybe. Huh." Looking, looking...there's definitely a thing that looks like a panel there, at about handle-level. Not a button or a lever or anything immediately recognizable, though, which means the procedure on how to make it open the door goes completely over Gary's head. He pensively scratches his chin. "What should I do with it?"

It was bound to happen at some point, of course. Between making their sort-of home base behind one of the puzzle rooms and wanting to explore the rest of the labs, the amount of puzzles being solved in this arena was just staggering. Sooner or later, something had to go wrong.

Honestly, Sam isn’t sure which of them caused it, because right around the time he’d been fiddling with switches he apparently shouldn’t have been fiddling with - even though he was certain they’d worked last time - and gotten a tiny electric zing for it, Steve’d let out a pained grunt, and the room had gone into lockdown.

Pretty much the exact opposite of an ideal situation, but shit, there’s nothing they can do about it now, except wait.

Wait and apparently eye the cake stash they’ve got with them, in Steve’s case. Sam considers that for about half a second, and then scoops a handful out of the one cake he’d managed to find - less than Steve’s hoard, yeah, but considering Steve’s metabolism, Sam’s calling it even.

“Hey, Steve,” he says conversationally - but he’s waiting, and if Steve turns his head towards him, Steve’s going to find himself with a handful of cake smashed right against his mouth.

If this was the first time Steve was suddenly trapped in this room, he would probably be surprised, but seeing as it wasn't his first time, he was mostly just exasperated when he hears the telltale signs of lock down. He's not entirely sure if who's at fault and he doesn't really care to point fingers. At least this time he's got company?

Not sure if that's a plus though.

Especially when Sam gets his attention and Steve finds himself turning into trap as the other man smashes cake in his face. There's no avoiding the attack, even as he jerks back from the assult and reaches his hand up to his face in surprise, his startled expression reflecting that.

But as his mind catches up, he licks his lips and mischievously grins at Sam, because if the man wants to play that game, then play it they will. He's already bending down to grab a large handful of cake from his haul, though he doesn't look away from Sam. There's no hurry in his movement, not like Sam has anywhere to run.

If it was someone else, Sam might be a little worried in the time it took Steve to go from startled to smiling. But it’s Steve, so nah, Sam’s not going to worry at all.

“That’s for the pillow to the head.”

Because he hasn’t forgotten that, man. He lights up a little when Steve’s expression turns mischievous, even though Steve’s already leaning over to gather up his retaliation. It’s not like Sam didn’t know he wouldn’t be able to get away with it when he started the smashing.

“You are never gonna get me as good as I just got you,” he warns, but no, it isn’t like he’s got anywhere to run.

He can make Steve work for it, though, circling around him with what’s probably a stupid grin on his face.

It had been a split second move. He should've just stayed and killed the goddamn xenomorph. Instead, he'd dove for the door on instinct and now he's caught in another goddamn puzzle room.

He's over the initial terror, even if not the lingering bits of it. The memories. The click of a lock, the rise of the water, the total loss of air. The white room, the surgical tools, the-- he shudders again, but keeps his eyes closed. If he just keeps them closed, he doesn't have to see it all. He can stay here and rest his hornless self until he's feeling apt to go again. He can surf along and over every fear but his own.

He can feel the closest source join his presence and grin. "NOT PIECES? Damn, brother. PRETTY MOTHERFUCKING LUCKY, CONSIDERING."

He gives a breathy chuckle, “No, I'm still pretty intact, though not for lack of trying.”

Getting himself in a spot of trouble seems to be his specialty. The injuries from the cornucopia and close calls from friend and foe has left Steve battered, his neck deeply bruised on top of everything else.

Steve stops short for a long second as he notices Initiate's horns, sawed off, mutilated really, and it immediately raises an anger in him at the Capitol or tribute that caused this. He might not know the troll well or even the significance the damage might mean to him, but that doesn't stop the swell of righteous offense on the other's behalf at what's been done.

“You don't look too hot,” he moves closer, his eyes traveling over what he can see, looking for injury. "You alright?"

He notices that. It's hard not to. Humans take on bruises all fascinating. Makes them motherfuckers look blue, yellow, all sorts of motherfucking rainbow-hued where at they're supposed to be a red bright as rage. There's something amazing about it, some pretty little bit of poetic. Tears as can't be seen and bruises beautiful.

Other than his lack of horns and a dried up scratch of indigo upon his leg, he looks just fine. The wear lies within an exhausted aura. A slight tremble up in his hands. A tightness in his smiles as he goes all to speak.

"Ain't hot up at all. COLD AS FUCK AM I, EVER AND ALWAYS, BY BLOOD SHORT OF THE FUCKIN DEEPS," He jokes. He breathes deep to make good on his steadying. "You ain't know a means out all do you? NOT A FAN OF PLACES AS THESE. All cut down short is my wanting to be."

Maybe he ought keep talking. Talking and that place ain't having none to do with each other.

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Your circuit's dead

Closed to MCU!Bucky

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Closed to Sam & Natasha (warning: Character Death)

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A

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CAKE

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