Johann Schmidt, Brock Rumlow

“What the fuck kinda bullshit-? I already opened it!” He squawked, not at all afraid of the gun pointed at his face. With everything so burned, it was only their long familiarity that allowed Jack to recognize him. Even still, Brock’s vision was still blurred and discolored at inopportune times and his hearing was impaired. Barely able to stand and hold the knife, though he tried not to show it. Jacks voice coming to him from miles away as he tried not to let on how bad off he still was.

‘Yeah, we are.’

The gun lowered, though his grip stayed ugly around it for a second longer, fingers locked too tight to pretend he had any of this under control. Jack stood in the doorway, breathing hard through his nose, eyes dragging over Brock’s face, the limp, the bruises fading into sick colours, the knife held like pride was doing more work than muscle. What hit him came colder than panic. Guilt first, then relief so sharp it made him want to be sick, then anger because Brock had been here, breathing and bleeding and waiting, while Jack had been out there thinking the bastard was ash. ( He looked like he had crawled out of the wreckage on spite alone, and the stupidest part was that Jack believed it. ) The voice cracked, but it was his. No one else could sound offended about nearly being shot.

‘Jesus, you look like shit. And yeah, I know, hello to you too.’

He stepped inside and knocked the door shut behind him with his heel, quieter than the entrance deserved. His hand came up, then stopped just short of Brock’s shoulder, fingers curling once because touching him felt dangerous in a way the gun never had. If he was real, Jack might fall apart. If he wasn’t, he was already losing his mind and could add that to the list of ways this week had screwed him. ( The list was getting long. Too long. Long enough to wrap around his throat if he let himself think about it. ) He swallowed it down and reached anyway, palm landing on Brock’s shoulder with a care that would have pissed them both off under better circumstances.

‘You waited here all this time? I thought you were dead, Brock. I thought you were fucking gone.’

His voice broke at the end, and he hated that, hated the way his throat locked and his chest pulled tight like some bastard had got a fist inside it. The knife, the bruises, the ruined state of him, none of it mattered as much as the warmth under his hand. Brock was standing there, barely, but standing. Jack’s thumb pressed once against his shoulder, grounding himself through the contact because his head was already doing stupid things with shock and hope.

‘Tell me this is real. Tell me I’m not losing it.’

“What do you mean all this time?” He asked after a little too long. The pain was getting worse, but he tried not to show it. Betrayed by a fine trembling easily felt beneath Jack’s hand, “I woke up in the hospital and got away when some jackasses tried to kill me. Grabbed what I could and came here. It can’t have been longer than a month.”

He wanted to feel relief, but mostly he felt suspicious. Jack was acting like he thought Brock had died. Brock wouldn’t admit to the same thing. Lots of people had died, the Triskelion their tomb, but he’d dragged himself here despite his fear.

writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.

using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.

long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.

“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.

italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.

stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.

because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.

One minute Bucky was down in the void with his new team and the next, he was back in New York City. With the others nowhere to be found, confusion rose within and without knowing exactly why, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was off, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Eventually, he started wandering the streets in search for his team and didn't fail to notice how deserted the city seemed. A very stark contrast to the New York City he remembered: always buzzing with life, even back in a time before the war.

It wasn't until after he rounded the corner to Times Square that he finally came to realize what was wrong. And Bucky froze in place the moment he found himself looking at a giant Hydra flag staring back at him.

"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.

More confused than shocked, he turned on his heels, ready to head back when he was suddenly confronted with the real nightmare that was only just about to start. Before he'd even have a chance to process what was happening or where he was, he found himself confronted with Brock Rumlow and his entire STRIKE team. Bucky stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, let alone run when they began to surround him with their guns trained on him and next thing he knew, he was trapped with no way to escape.

One minute Bucky was down in the void with his new team and the next, he was back in New York City. With the others nowhere to be found, confusion rose within and without knowing exactly why, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was off, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Eventually, he started wandering the streets in search for his team and didn't fail to notice how deserted the city seemed. A very stark contrast to the New York City he remembered: always buzzing with life, even back in a time before the war.

It wasn't until after he rounded the corner to Times Square that he finally came to realize what was wrong. And Bucky froze in place the moment he found himself looking at a giant Hydra flag staring back at him.

"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.

More confused than shocked, he turned on his heels, ready to head back when he was suddenly confronted with the real nightmare that was only just about to start. Before he'd even have a chance to process what was happening or where he was, he found himself confronted with Brock Rumlow and his entire STRIKE team. Bucky stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, let alone run when they began to surround him with their guns trained on him and next thing he knew, he was trapped with no way to escape.

He'd had it all: control over his mind, regained his freedom, found his happily ever after with Steve and yet.... instead of getting to enjoy it all and lead a happy life, he was trapped in a world or universe he didn't really belong.

Brock was screwed.

And soon enough, Gabe, Brock, Steve and himself were searching the train for any sign of where Zola might be. Bucky couldn't say he felt comfortable on the fast-moving train, but he pushed it aside and out of his mind, just as he always did when it came to missions Steve was a part of. Regardless of their mission, it would always be his top priority to make sure his best friend made it back alive. This very mission was no different.

With his focus on Steve, Bucky noticed the approaching Hydra soldier a second too late and next thing he knew, Steve was on the ground, the shield right at his feet. Picking it up and stepping between Steve and the Hydra soldier, he fired once or twice at their enemy but it didn't take him down.

All he did was fire again and this time, Bucky didn't stand a chance. The blast of their opponent's gun hit him square in the shield and within seconds, Bucky felt the wall behind him give way upon impact. The ground gave way beneath him and before he even knew what was happening, he was thrown outside and towards the side of the train. A horrifying realization that had him grab the closest thing he could reach, anything really to keep him from falling to his death.

It wasn’t enough.

He saw the captain go down and the sergeant pick up the shield. Broc was moving before his brain caught up to him, nearly throwing himself out of the car to catch Bucky. He couldn’t believe he’d managed it, hand clamped down on the soldier’s and clinging for dear life. His other hand clinging to the car wall and one leg dangling in space.

It took noticing the precariousness of their position for Brock to realize something much worse. Turning his head as he tried to see if the captain had gotten up. Brock couldn’t move. He had over extended himself grabbing Bucky and he didn’t have the leverage to bring them both back.

Half-dangling out of the train car himself. He needed someone to help, but the only options were the HYDRA agent bearing down on him or the captain on the ground. He swallowed thickly before looking at Bucky with wide fearful eyes. He didn’t know if it would work as he tried to rock with his hand and foot so precariously placed, but it was all he could do.

Muscles screaming in protest as he sacrificed his stability to try and give Bucky a chance to make it back onto the train. His other foot slipping off as he used the momentum and threw Bucky behind him, feeling his grip on the car slip away and hoping that he’d done enough as he felt gravity take hold.

He whined, already hard and leaking as he was suddenly pushed away, going down on the bed like a sack of bricks and looking up at the Asset with upset in his eyes. This quickly turned to another moan when Tyler followed him. Crowding close and not giving him a chance to get free.

Brock was screwed.