This is an independent Rule 63 RP sideblog for Bucky Barnes. Mixed MCU and Earth-616 canon. See my notes page for more details on how I blend the two universes.
Follow-backs come from my main blog, @tnott. Mun is 30+.
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a collection of dialogue prompts for or about characters who have been treated or trained as weapons by others, valued only for their capacity for violence, destruction, and harm. trigger warnings for mentions of murder and violence. change & alter as needed.
THE WEAPON:
"I'm not proud of the person they've turned me into. But it's all I know. And it's too late for me to change now."
"If there was ever any good in me, there's none left anymore."
"I don't know where the blood ends. Where my hands begin."
"I do what it takes to survive. And I don't care if that makes me a villain."
"I'm good at hurting people. I'm not going to apologize for doing what I'm good at."
"I'll never know who I could have been if they hadn't made me into this."
"This is your fault! You did this to me! You're the reason I'm like this!"
"Don't try and get close to me. You'll just get yourself hurt."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm... I'm not very good at being good."
"I don't really know how to be gentle."
"I'm not nice, and I'm not going to pretend to be. Deal with it."
"They made me a monster."
"They're all afraid of me. And they're right to be. You should be, too."
"I know I'm a villain. I don't need you to tell me that."
"Look at what they did to me! Look at what they made me into! It's their fault! They ruined me!"
"I wish they'd just killed me. I wish they'd just killed me instead of turning me into this. Being dead is better than being a monster."
"I know you're scared of me. It's okay. Everyone is."
"What does it matter whether I feel guilty about it or not? I still did it. Being sorry doesn't change that."
"Who am I if I'm not a monster?"
"No one could ever love me after everything I've done."
"Why aren't you afraid of me? How can you not be afraid of me?"
"I don't even know who I am without them pulling my strings."
"You want me to be the villain so bad? I can damn well provide."
"I don't want to be like this anymore. I don't want to hurt people. I want to be gentle. I want to be good."
"Who am I if I'm not what they've made me?"
"I don't need a weapon. I am one."
"Do you think I have it in me, to be good?"
THE WIELDER:
"You look so beautiful covered in somebody else's blood."
"And where did this little crisis of conscience come from all of a sudden?"
"You don't get to say no to me. Not after everything I've done for you. You owe me."
"You belong to me. You're mine."
"Where would you be without me? Who would you be without me? ...That's right. So let's try and be a little more grateful, hm?"
"I gave you everything, and this is how you choose to repay me?"
"I made you! You're nothing without me!"
"You don't make the rules, darling. That's my job."
"You are a dog, and I hold your leash. Never forget that."
"I didn't make you a monster. I just brought out what was already there."
"Look at you, coming when I call, eating out of my hand, doing everything I tell you... such a good dog, aren't you?"
"You think you can just walk away from me? Where are you going to go? Nobody else could possibly love a sick thing like you!"
"Monster is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as... helping you reach your fullest potential."
"I've got you trained so well, don't I?"
"I thought you knew better than to disobey me."
"Do you really think you can be a hero? After everything you've done?"
"Well, then, if I really ruined your life like you say, why don't you just kill me? We both know you're good at that."
"This is all you're good for. Don't go getting delusions of grandeur on me now."
"You couldn't survive without me. Don't ever delude yourself into thinking otherwise."
"I give the orders. You take them. Not the other way around."
"Destruction is really the only thing you're good at, darling. Take that away, and what's left?"
THE OBSERVER:
"You don't have to be what they tell you to be, you know? You're not stuck. You can change."
"You're not a monster. You're my friend."
"Being gentle doesn't come easy to you, does it?"
"You're a good person. I'm sorry they made you think you aren't."
"You kind of have a little... blood... on your face. ...Don't worry, I'll get it for you."
"I'm not scared of you."
"So, have you ever... you know... killed somebody?"
"You're sick, you know that? You're really sick. I can't believe you seriously do this kind of shit."
"Look, I know who you are. I know what you've done. And I'm not running away from you. You can't scare me off."
"You really are a monster."
"Why do you listen to them? Why do you take orders from them? You don't have to obey everything they tell you."
"So, let me get this straight: you know how to kill a man fifteen different ways, just with your bare hands, and you wouldn't even break a sweat... but you don't know what to do at a party?"
"You're not as mean as you want everyone to think you are."
"You say you're not a dog. So why do you blindly follow orders like one?"
"You don't have to do this. You don't have to be like this. You can choose your own path."
"You really are as bad as they say."
"Don't touch me. You have blood on your hands."
"I know you won't hurt me. I trust you."
"No! Stay away from me! Don't come any closer!"
"The world isn't just heroes and villains. You don't have to be one or the other. And just because you've been one doesn't mean you can't be the other."
"You don't have to listen to them. You don't have to obey."
"They don't get to decide who you are. No one but you gets to decide who you are."
Jane nodded in agreement with Rogers' assessment. "Helmut won't get his own hands dirty unless he has to," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "He enjoys that whole 'gentleman of leisure' aesthetic too much. Not like his father. That son of a bitch loved killing, especially up close and personal."
She still wasn't sure which was worse -- the open sadism of men like Heinrich Zemo and Vasily Karpov, or the frigid, utilitarian violence of men like Arnim Zola. The former was certainly easier to understand. Both Karpov and the elder Zemo had hated Captain America and Bucky, so when presented with the opportunity to harm the two of them, they had happily seized it. That at least made sense: Cause and effect; motive and crime. But Zola hadn't even known Jane's name when she'd first been dragged to his laboratory, nor he had he seemed to take any great pleasure in the pain he'd caused her. She'd simply been a convenient body, one more data point in his experiments. He hadn't hated Bucky Barnes. He'd weighed her life on his own crooked scale and, dispassionately, had deemed it worth far less than whatever knowledge he might gain from her death.
Even though seventy years had passed, Jane still had a hard time wrapping her head around that particular Weltanschauung.
Tapping her fingernail against the empty bottle, she said, "It shouldn't be too difficult to get a message to the Black Widow, since we know where she lives. The biggest challenge will be making certain that her colleagues at SHIELD don't intercept it."
“Which first?” Jane asked. “Find the Widow, find Rumlow, or find Zemo?”
It would help to have Natasha on their side in their search for Rumlow and Zemo both. There was no question that Natasha might betray them back to HYDRA; after all, she’d nearly died trying to take HYDRA down. The bigger question was whether she’d turn them in to what was left of SHIELD. And Jane’s gut said that the answer to that question was no.
At least, she hoped it was her gut. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But the look in the Black Widow’s eyes when they’d faced each other in DC had been one not of fear, but of pain, as though fighting the Winter Soldier was causing her anguish.
She remembered. Jane was sure of it.
Draining the last of the whiskey, she said, “I think we could use Rumlow. Kill him and use his death as a trail to lead Zemo into a trap. Whaddaya say, pal?”
“Widow first. She knows current era better than us.” No matter the era, it was risky to depend on a spy. Their allegiances could be to a bigger picture, zoomed out to a sky rather than a flag. Romanova could sell them out to someone she believed would help. She may not. Rogers was willing to take that chance based on Jane’s gut. Hardly any other person would be trusted with her life. Jane was as skilled at her own craft as Rogers was at his. Call him an old fashioned man. Rogers only had Jane.
He would rain hell down on anyone who tried to lock them down or separate them again.
‘Pal.’ Rogers tapped Jane’s shoulder with his own. Rumlow’s slavering hyena face swam in the glass’ reflection against the rooftop. Zemo’s – both of them – purple balaclava floating in city smog. “Zemo’s gonna send loyal – or bought – soldiers instead of going himself. To Zemo’s prestige, Rumlow’s an overgrown tool loyal to the cause. Once we find Widow and kill Rumlow, we climb the HYDRA ladder.”
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Bucky listened hard as Stella spoke, and she only realized that she was gaping open-mouthed at her friend when a glob of oatmeal fell from her stationary spoon, landing in her lap with a soft plop.
She didn't know what to think. On the one hand, this was Stella, and of course she'd jumped at the chance to be able to join the fight against fascism. She wouldn't have been the friend Bucky knew and loved if she'd turned the opportunity down. But on the other hand…
It sounded an awful lot like Stella had volunteered to be someone's lab rat.
Bucky knew a thing or two about being made into a lab rat. She'd been on burial detail in the factory sometimes, dealing with the bodies of the soldiers killed by the work or by the guards, and, worse, the bodies that had come back from that little doctor's laboratory – if they could even still be called bodies after the way he'd mutilated them. Then she'd been taken into the same laboratory herself, to be drugged and tortured and cut open alive. She'd lain strapped down on that gurney and prayed to God and the Virgin Mary and every saint she knew for a swift death. But instead of death, God had sent her Stella.
She was still staring at Stella with wide eyes, and now she slowly put her spoon down. While she'd wanted to finish the oatmeal while it was hot, it was making her a little nauseous, and she figured she'd better slow down. Instead, she sat in silence for a moment and studied Stella's face, thinking over what she'd said.
The serum amplifies what's in a person. Good becomes great; bad becomes worse. That explained Johann Schmidt for sure, but Stella Rogers was nothing like Schmidt. Another person might even have told Stella that she had nothing to worry about, but Bucky had never been blind to her best friend's faults. Stella was a good woman – the best Bucky knew – but she was also stubborn, cynical, and often angry.
"Amplifies everythin'," Bucky echoed. "This mean I'm gonna have to work twice as hard to pull you outta trouble?" One corner of her mouth was quirked in a crooked smile, and she was aiming for her usual teasing tone, but she didn't quite make it, and there was a slight furrow between her eyebrows. More quietly, she added, "Tell me this Erskine fella at least made sure his serum wouldn't kill you 'fore he tried blowin' you up like Conan the Goddamn Barbarian. And that it wouldn't make you all–"
She broke off and mimed pulling her face from her chin up over her scalp. "That– That happened, right? I wasn't seein' things?" she asked, needing confirmation. "'Cause I saw a lotta things that I don't think were real, 'fore you showed up. Wasn't even sure you were real at first."
Bucky took the bowl gratefully, the warmth of it seeping into her hands, and when she got a whiff of the aroma, it took all her self-control not to gobble it down in one gulp. After the starvation rations that they’d all been on in that damn factory, she knew full well that if she ate too quickly she’d just throw it right back up.
“Best oatmeal of my life,” she said after swallowing her first spoonful, feeling it warm her from the inside out. “That sainthood is deserved, Stel.” She couldn’t even remember the last time that something she’d eaten had tasted so delicious. Probably the hot dogs she and Stella had eaten at the Stark Expo the night before she’d shipped out. Everything since then had been either army rations or the stale bread and sour-tasting water the prisoners had been forced to survive on – or die on – in that HYDRA hellhole.
She was still in a lot of pain, bruised and battered and far too thin, but right now she was just enjoying the fact that she was still alive, enjoying her oatmeal, relieved to be out of that factory and happy to see her best friend, even if Stella looked significantly different than she had the last time Bucky had seen her.
God, she hoped they would let her wash today. She was still in the shirt Gabe had given her weeks ago, not to mention the trousers she’d been wearing when her unit had been captured. Both were crusted with blood and filth, and she was itching to get clean.
First though, she had some questions. She took another bite of oatmeal, marshaling her thoughts, and finally said, “You gonna tell me how you ended up growin’ three times bigger and showin’ up in the middle of Austria with a set of workin’ lungs? ‘Cause I gotta say, I am real damn curious to hear this.”
She was trying hard not to sound accusing, but she couldn’t completely keep the edge out of her voice. Seeing Stella like this beggared belief. Add in the hallucinations brought on by the doctor’s concoctions and that Schmidt fellow peeling off his own face over a pit of flames, and she felt like she’d spent the past few weeks stuck in some kind of hellish fever dream.
Being alive was swell. Bucky being alive had Stella’s smile, watching like a mother hen over Bucky’s spoon against the bowl, noting the way she held herself, and the first bite of oatmeal. They had been in this position before; Stella sick in bed, Bucky at her bedside. Stella relishing having taste back, when simple food tasted like what the Rockefellers would have.
Before Bucky had been drafted, the only warfare they had been exposed to was children defending their blocks with rocks, bricks, and debris and memories of their fathers’ war in bottles and old men on the street corners with missing limbs and broken faces. How Stella had scoured newsreels and papers for signs of her sister and home over there. Her worry whispered – she had found Bucky isolated. What sick experiments had the doctor done to Bucky?
Pulled away from the whisper, Stella laughed. There she was! Bawling Stella out for another harebrained activity. ‘Joined the Army’ wasn’t going to cut mustard!
“Right.” She glanced down at herself, expecting her own scrawny form in her WAC uniform. Tired, sore legs longer than Katharine Hepburn’s stretched under Bucky’s cot. “I did change. Doesn’t feel like it when I’m with you.” Sharp ears listened. Guards were posted further away; nurse on duty turned her Bible’s pages. Gesturing to the bowl, “Eat. I’ll talk.”
Leaning forward, she kept her voice low. “After we went our ways at the Stark Expo, I met a doctor.” Stella’s artistic mind, sharpened by the Serum, held up Sergeant Barnes saluting Corporal Rogers in her WAC uniform and the Bucky in front of her. Yes, this was her sister, sickly and abused, one of the survivors.
“A good one.” Lump gathered in her throat. Dr. Erskine had been a part of her life for a short time; in some ways, he was her father, recreating her. “He asked why I wanted to go overseas. Told him I wanted to do my part. Next thing I know, he was telling me I was being offered a chance at a different position. Turns out, they were wanting to create a unit of super soldiers to beat Axis. They’ve got...The Skull.” Confirming hellfire and a man ripping a perfectly good face off was real.
“We were put through physical and mental tests. Loads of strong guys with nothin’ goin’ on between their ears. Brilliant gals but….” Shaking her head, “People started droppin’ out. Some thought it’d be a ‘who was the toughest’ type of test. Dr. Erskine picked me. Told me the serum amplified what was in a person. ‘Good becomes great; bad becomes worse.’”
Looking towards the ceiling, then down at her boots, “There were supposed to be more of us. I was picked to be the first. After the procedure, Dr. Erskine was assassinated….An’ the Army wasn’t too pleased about me.”
When the genderswap art makes the character skinny and gives them an hourglass body shape and long hair and huge tits and depicts them as soft and fragile and
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Rikki ventured further into the space, she could feel Bucky's gaze on her. Yeah, she knew damn well she would have been caught, nothing got past Bucky, but Rikki did what she did because she felt it necessary. It was one thing when the guy was some contact who maybe helped patch her up some times while having some kind of dubious secret past. Everyone has some kind of contact like that. Punisher had plenty.
That all went out the window when Rikki learned he was HYDRA, and then she thought of John.
As she put her groceries away, she listened, turn to look at the elder Barnes, but she was listening. Putting the last of the refrigerated and frozen foods away, she emptied the bags of anything else. Dish soap, paper towel, a candy bar for Andi to feed Silence later.
Finally, when Bucky asked Rikki why she didn't just come to her, Rikki looked at her. Not stone faced. Not hurt. But...
"Would you have told me if I asked? You never talk about your past. I know you don't wanna talk about being the Winter Soldier. If this medic pal of yours is HYDRA, how the hell do I know he's not gonna try to, I dunno, reprogram you? I've lost enough family to Hydra, I'm not losing you too!"
"He's not gonna reprogram me," Bucky said, keeping her voice calm and even. "I get why you're worrying, but you don't gotta, I promise. He couldn't even if he wanted to, 'cause he doesn't know how. He's a trauma surgeon. Damn good when it comes to bodies, but brains are way outside his wheelhouse. And before you start frettin' again, he won't call anybody who can do that, either. If he didn't hand me back over to HYDRA when I was unconscious on his bathroom floor with six bullets in me, he sure as hell ain't gonna do it now."
And the was really the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Whatever else Yuri might have done -- and both God and Bucky knew that he'd been involved in some nasty shit -- the fact remained that when a newly-escaped Jane Barnes had turned up in his kitchen, severely injured and on the verge of bleeding out, he had helped her. He had treated her wounds, and kept her hidden while she healed, and he'd been passing useful information to her ever since.
He wasn't a good man. No one who had willing given HYDRA over than fifty years of his life could be a good man. But he had one principle, one line that he believed should never be crossed, and when he'd realized that not only had HYDRA crossed it, but that he, though unknowing, had also played no small role in that crossing, he had stood by that principle. Bucky Barnes had been a prisoner, not a volunteer, and that meant that when it came to her versus HYDRA, he was firmly on her side.
She wasn't about to invite Yuri over for dinner, but there had been a time in her life when he was the only person on her side, and that wasn't the sort of thing that Bucky could easily forget.
Bucky waved a hand towards the fridge in a vague gesture of assent, but she also said, pointedly, "Don't think you're gettin' outta this that easy, Rikki. Nothin' stoppin' us from talkin' while you put stuff away."
She knew that her not-exactly-sister worried about her, worried perhaps a bit too much, but even when Bucky found it irritating, she was still aware that Rikki's heart was in the right place. And at least in this case, it wasn't the worrying that had Bucky feeling so unhappy. It was the snooping, which felt to Bucky like a violation of her trust and privacy. She'd had reasons for not confiding in Rikki, but if the girl was really that desperate to know what was going on, she should have asked. Instead, she'd gone ferreting around behind Bucky's back, and Bucky had to say that she wasn't exactly impressed by that choice.
"You wanna tell me why you didn't just talk to me?" she asked. "Could've saved yourself a lotta trouble if you'd just sat down and had a conversation, y'know? And lemme tell ya, if you'd done that, I wouldn't be half as annoyed as I am right now, either."
Bucky shook her head and said, "Not really. I mean, it was a weird moment, but I'm askin' more because...well, you try to hide it, but I can tell that it bothers you. That not-knowing feeling. Sometimes it's like I can practically see it eatin' at you."
It wasn't a feeling that Bucky had personally experienced -- she'd grown up with both of her parents, after all -- but it was one she recognized, because Natasha struggled with it, too. The Black Widow, who had been rescued from a burning building as an infant, knew nothing at all about her birth family. The only clue she'd ever had was the name that the woman trapped by the flames had given to Ivan Petrovich just before succumbing to the smoke, and though Natasha had spent many years searching for some record of her parents, she'd only hit dead end after dead end.
But Andi had been born in the modern age, not in 1928, and though her mother had vanished, she hadn't grown up as an orphan. Her father had raised her -- until he'd been murdered -- and that meant that Andi ought to have a very specific document, one that Natasha had never had.
"Ain't your mother's name on your birth certificate?" Bucky asked. "I mean, I know you were born in the back of your dad's truck, but you and your mother still got taken to the hospital afterwards, right? To get checked over and all that? The hospital would've started fillin' out the paperwork the day you were born. It'd be real weird for the government to issue a birth certificate without her name, considerin' she hadn't walked out on you yet."
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