milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Another day, another city. He's not sure how long he'll be in this one - weeks, maybe a month or two, if he's lucky. He hasn't been lucky for a half-year or so now, but there's nothing to do about that except stay ready, and move when he needs to.

He'd picked the apartment because it was high up in the building. He prefers it that way; it lets him watch from various angles and lines of sight when he needs to, and gives him quick access to the roof and escape.

Not that he can see much from inside at the moment, of course, having just finished taping newspaper -- multiple thicknesses -- over the windows. It helps; the lines of text and distortion of blurry newsprint photos disguise any shadows that he might cast from within.

James takes a moment to look around. It's got everything he needs; sleeping bag unrolled on the cheap mattress in the corner, the windows (now covered), washroom no bigger than a closet, kitchenette barely bigger than that, even complete with the unimaginable luxury of a full-size fridge...

... ah. Food. Right.

He's not hungry, but food's the fuel that's necessary to keep going. It's too late to go to the market now, though. Instead, he goes to the apartment door, and opens it into Milliways.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And there it is.
Cold yet burning.
The gaze of green eyes from a place that can't yet be seen.

They watch.

When one's survival depends on hypervigilance, a person becomes extremely aware of even the smallest things.

A shift in the air currents.

The unexplainable feeling of being observed.

A sense of threat.

The Winter Soldier's had a long, long time to refine his skills.

Even as tension spreads through him, he stays still, observing with every sense he has.

No one moves.
No one breathes.
Heck, not one but braids even blinks.

Such is the level of control being exhibited by the remaining Rogue Loompas.

But even they cannot stifle the very air around them.
There's a pressure differential from the opening of the door in the wall.
One that someone sensitive to such things could pick up.

And the lingering smell of chocolate on the air.

Just there, off to the side.
Just below line of sight for an average man.

It's a smell he'll never forget... even if he couldn't remember why for several decades.

"Better think twice," he warns, low and sharp. "I'm not easy prey."

They're quiet for a good long while, but then, ever so slightly a very soft chant begins.

"kick'em when they're up.
kick'em when they're down."

Over and over again, until finally another voice joins them:

"Dirty little secrets
Dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers in everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love dirty laundry

We can do "The Innuendo"
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done we haven't told you a thing
We all know that Kraft is king
Give us dirty laundry!"

One moment he's sitting perfectly still, and the next he explodes into motion, off the barstool and down to the side in a fighting crouch.

The mechanics of his left arm whir as he punches through the hidden door panel, smashing it back off its fastening and shattering it into pieces.

His grasping fingers find purchase around an upper arm, and in the next instant he yanks the being forward, into the light and high into the air, slamming him down into a seat on the nearest table.

Still holding the captive Loompa in a hard grasp, he draws a semiautomatic from the hidden shoulder holster with his right hand and aims it at the broken door, then waits.

"

The world is moving too fast for Braids. Way too fast. And the light, suddenly he's out in the light and it's too bright and his eyes don't adjust. It's all too fast and the shock is too great that the pain in his arm from being wrenched as he has hasn't even registered yet.

But as soon as he realizes where he is, when he is, and what else is going on....he babbles.

High pitched and fast.

Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in If you're Rin Tin Tin or Anne Boleyn Make desperate move or else you'll win And then begin to see What you're doing to me This MTV is not for free It's so PC it's killing me So desperately I sing to thee of love Sure but also rage and hate and pain and fear of self And I can't keep these feeling on the shelf I've tried, well no, in fact I lied Could be financial suicide but I've got too much pride inside To hide or slide I'll do as I'll decide and let it ride till until I've died And only then shall I abide by this tide
Of catchy little tunes Of hip three minute diddies I wanna bust all your balloons
I wanna burn of all your cities to the ground But I've found, I will not mess around Unless I play then hey I will go on all day
Hear what I say I have a prayer to pray That's really all this was And when I'm feeling stuck and need a buck I don't rely on luck
Because the hook brings you back...

His voice cracks, and in spite of his best efforts to be brave, a single tear breaks free and streaks down his cheek.

I ain't tellin' you no lie The hook On that you can rely...

About midway through his screed there's slight movement from the shadow within the wall.

Dreads emerges, hands raised where Bucky can see them.
He attempts to soothe his fellow Loompa.

It's oh so quiet
Shh shh
It's oh so still
Shh shh
You're all alone
Shh shh

He makes, and holds, eye-contact with Bucky.

Edited 2017-02-02 05:08 (UTC)

His grip on his captive loosens; not enough to free the orange man, but enough to not cause pain or harm.

Holding the gaze of the one who's standing as leader of their dangerous little band, Bucky jerks the muzzle of the gun sharply to the side, indicating one of the seats at the table in rough invitation.

(The seat he himself is standing beside has a damn clear view of the hole in the wall ... and as much of the rest of the bar as he can manage.)

Dreads nods once, and moves towards the chair. All the while he keeps his hands where Bucky can see them.

If there's one rule to this game
Everybody's gonna name
It's, be cool!

He cocks his head slightly towards the hole in the wall, emphasizing the cool again for good measure.

If you're worried or uncertain
If your feelings are hurtin'
You're a fool if you can't keep cool
Charm 'em
Don't alarm 'em
Keep things light
Keep your worries out of sight
And play it cool
Play it cool
Fifty-fifty
Fire and ice

That last bit? Yeah, that might've been intentional.

His eyes narrow at the last lyric, but he doesn't say anything about it.

Once their leader reaches the chair, Bucky returns his gun to its holster with the kind of easy familiarity that says louder than words just how fast the weapon could appear again... if needed.

(He counts himself extremely lucky that Security hasn't stepped in over this little disagreement - yet, anyway.)

"You want something," he says, flatly. "Don't you."

There are a lot of possibilities, not many of them anything like good. Still, there's a chance that this doesn't have to end in blood.

(Or chocolate. Whatever.)

Dreads looks decidedly uncomfortable.
Way less comfortable than when he had a gun trained on him.

His eyes dart over towards Braids, who looks imploringly in his direction; large, wide, green eyes on the verge of nervous tears again.

Dreads doesn't dare look towards the hole in the wall, where he knows Billy and Glasses are stashed away in a shadow waiting in case this goes...poorly.

He sighs, lowing his eyes and steeling himself.

"Help!
Help! I need somebody,
Help! Not just anybody,
Help! You know I need someone, help.

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self-assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind I've opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being around.
Help me get his feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?"

It's safe to say he wasn't expecting anything like that.

"You need ... help." Confusing song code or not, that much comes through pretty clearly.

"From me."

He nods toward the upset Loompa that he's still got a grip on. "You want me to let go of him, that it? Okay. But we're gonna have to come to terms on this wall-stalking дерьмо."

He nods.
He nods again.

And then...he stops nodding.
His head tilts to one side, a puzzled look crosses his face.
Crosses both of their faces.

"don't wanna be an american idiot, Dreads mutters under his breath.
He takes a deep breath, ignoring anything about "not stalking," and tries again....this time slower.

"When WE were younger," he sings again, this time gesturing between the two of them.

"So much younger than TODAY."

Bucky stares at him for a second, and then the look in his eyes turns flat. His expression smoothes into absolute blankness as he lets go of the Loompa squad member. His glance doesn't waver from the Loompa leader.

"You need help," he repeats again. "For something that's already happened. My help."

A beat of silence.

"Why?"

Braids is startled to be dropped, but doesn't make it more than a three-count before he bolts over to the chair Dreads is in.

"Now that the smoke's gone
And the air is all clear
Those who were right there
Got a new kind of fear."

Dreads holds out a hand, and on cue Braids reaches into one of the pockets of his jumpsuit and retrieves a hat.

A bloodied hat.

"You'd fight and you were right
But he was just too strong.

That's why we say, hey man: Nice shot.
What a good shot, man."

Edited 2017-02-02 06:09 (UTC)

Flat and cold:

"You want me to kill somebody."

Now both Braids and Dreads are looking at him funny.
Dreads opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He's...quite literally befuddled.

But then, Braid's face lights up with an idea. He holds up a finger to Bucky, before standing up on his tip-toes to whisper in Dreads' ear.

Dreads blinks.
Pulls a face.
Gives Braids a look as if he thought the other Loompa was crazy, but eventually shrugs.

"This is the tale of Winter Soldier
Winter Soldier is who?
He is the subject of our tale
and the predicate tells what Winter Soldier must do

Winter Soldier walked down the street
Winter Soldier walked
Winter Soldier talked to his Cap
Winter Soldier talked
(Hello, Cap. You look good.)
Winter Soldier was lonely
Winter Soldier was

Winter Soldier is the subject of the
sentence, and what the predicate says,
he does.

Dreads stops, just to see if Bucky is keeping up.

Edited 2017-02-02 06:31 (UTC)

If looks could kill, the two Loompas might well be lying dead on the ground from the force of his icy glare.

But the message is clear enough: they want him to do something, and they're having trouble figuring out how to use their damned code-language to tell him what it is.

(All the languages he knows, and now he's having to learn interpretive song. пииииииздец, бляяяя....)

He jerks his head in a single sharp nod, indicating that they should continue.

Okay, well that's some headway at least.
Though, that look? They've seen that look before.
If not from the High Commander, than from the Wonka himself.

Braids cowers a bit, but Dreads stays strong, mostly because someone has to.

"We Oompa Loompas are a peaceful sort,
We Oompa Loompas are.
Who the Slenderman used for sport.
Who the Slenderman used.
Find a sacrifice he did bid
The Slenderman bid

The Ooompa Loompas are the subject of this sentence,
and what the Slenderman said we did.

The Winter Soldier was himself asleep.
The Winter Soldier was.
In his room Oompa Loompas creeped.
The Oompa Loompas creeped.
Even though the rules did forbid.
The rules did forbid.

The Ooompa Loompas are the subject of this sentence,
and what the Slenderman said we did.

His expression doesn't soften, exactly, but the lethal edge to it fades.

The merest flicker of memory teases his mind, of talking about this with someone - the bartender. Right.

"Right," he says aloud. "Okay. I'm listening. Go on."

Yeah, this is where the plot gets...difficult.

"The Winter Soldier was a real good shot.
The Winter Soldier was.
The Oompa Loompas found that they were caught.
The Oompa Loompas found.
But one called Hat was the one he hit,
The Winter Soldier hit.

The Winter Soldier is the subject of this sentence,
And it was our friend Hat he hit."

He draws a sharp breath.

James flicks a glance at the hole in the wall, then back to the two Loompas in front of him.

"... Hat. That's his name? Is he ...?"

He's not sure how to ask.

Braids, ever the empathetic, interrupts.

"Oh, oh he's still alive."

But Dreads cuts him short.
Don't get ahead of the story, says his expression.

"Now free he took a gun and a stand.
He took a stand.
To Slenderman he tried to command.
He tried to command.
But the Slenderman overpowered the kid.
He overpowered the kid.

The Slenderman's the subject of this sentence.
And rest of can't say what he did."

Thus, you see, their problem

Realization dawns, and with it, a thunderous expression.

"Are you telling me that мудак still has him?"

There's a swell of what can only be called Death Metal music, as all four Loompas very emphatically respond:

"NEIN!"