milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Shuri's made a few changes to the last version she'd had him test, and has sent him back out with instructions to try smaller things with the new arm this time, as she is looking for fine nuance and haptic feedback results.

As a result, Bucky's decided to settle in the bar at the ends of the worlds for a bit with a good cup of coffee and see what he can figure out to test next.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'll have to give it a try," he returns. "I've had a picnic or two, but I don't usually lie in the sun like that."

"I'm Bucky, by the way."

"Hi Bucky, I'm Simba."

He doesn't continue moving at all, just settles down where he is and pulls his dinner to him (if you eat near humans sometimes humans scratch you).

But before he tucks in, because he was raised a good and polite prince, he says:

"Do you want some antelope?"

Humans always say no, which is another reason he doesn't mind offering.

"No, thanks," Bucky says, "I'm good. Nice to meet you, Simba."

He lifts his coffee mug with his left hand, moving carefully. So far it's going well, but he'd rather not accidentally shatter anything.

"Nice to meet you, too."

Humans are very strange, but it does mean all the more meat for Simba, who shrugs his - well, his haunches - and settles down right where he is to tuck into his food.

He starts by sinking his teeth right into the neck of the animal, and even though it is definitely dead, enough internal pressure somehow remains to give a particularly satisfying spray of blood across any bystanders.

He reacts fast, but not fast enough. Coffee goes flying as he jerks his left arm up by reflex to shield his eyes, and the mug shatters in his hand with the sudden pressure. The unfortunate antelope’s blood spatters across the lower half of his face, the front of his shirt where it mixes with the spilled coffee, and all along the metal of his forearm.

Bucky sighs, long and deep, as he lowers his arm and gives Simba a resigned stare.

“Bar?” Several soft cloths appear. He picks one up and starts mopping his face.

Hey, now there's coffee on Simba's dinner! In conclusion: everyone loses.

Simba scowls and looks up, only to meet the full force of Bucky's stare, and the Crown Prince of the Pridelands, personification of bravery, laugher in the face of danger, cringes.

"Uh," he says. "Sorry?"

"It's okay," he reassures him. "You didn't know it would spray like that." A single beat of silence, and an even more pointed stare. "Right?"

"...right?" Simba echoes, uncertainly.

In his defence, he didn't know Bucky would mind, and definitely not that he'd break his... um...

"Do you want some more of the hot dirty water?" he offers in compensation.

"The hot..." Realization dawns, and he shakes his head. "I'll get a refill in a bit," he explains. "I'd better clean the arm first."

Bucky finishes getting the blood off his face and picks up a fresh cloth, then begins to wipe down and polish the metal of his arm. The shirt's a lost cause, but he might as well wear it until the cub's done with his meal.

At first, Simba considers the arm cleaning a strange action, partly because humans are very weird about the way they cleans themselves, but as he watches it, he realises that it's not responding the same way arms are supposed to, so he inches closer, curiously, and sniffs at the inorganic smelling limb.

What's a polite way of saying what's with your arm?

He rotates his wrist, sending a ripple through the plates along his forearm as they adjust, and starts following along the edges of each one with the cloth to ensure he gets every trace. As Simba sniffs, he holds still for him to examine.

"Yes, it's metal," he says, matter-of-factly. "Vibranium."

It smells weird, but also a little like blood, and sorry not sorry, Bucky that bit of blood you hadn't wiped off yet? That's getting licked like... well exactly like a kitten licking food remnants off your finger.

Simba looks suspiciously over at Bucky's other arm, confirms it's made of Bucky like an arm should be, and back at the metal one.

"...why do you have a metal foreleg?"

He's startled, but holds still as the cub starts washing his arm. "Thanks," he says, amused.

"I have this one because - well, I lost the original in a fall from a mountain. A long time ago."

"You're welcome," says Simba, who is more than happy to have had some fresh blood, and now turns his attention back to the rest of his food.

"I didn't know humans could do that," he says. If lions fall off mountains, they usually die.

"What, fall? We're pretty good at that," he says, dryly. He turns his hand up and starts polishing between the fingers. "No, I was lucky not to be hurt any worse than I was."

Simba rolls his eyes - of course he didn't mean fall.

"I meant, use metal body bits," he says. "If we lose limbs we just lose them."

And probably die, but maybe you could get by with three legs.

"I think it depends on the world," he says, after a second's consideration. "And sometimes people use other things than metal, fastening it in different ways."

"But," says Simba, his mouth now full, but looking at the arm again, "it moves?"

"It does." He goes through a slow performance demonstration, flexing his wrist and elbow, opening and closing his fingers, all of it.

It helps to make sure he doesn't have any dried blood anywhere, too.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only