6054/Falling Frost: Recalibrate the Programming, Y or N

Falling Frost: Recalibrate the Programming, Y or N
Date of Scene:	26 December 2018
Location:	New York City
Synopsis:	The first time is never the charm. Steve squares off against HYDRA's calibration of the Winter Soldier with memories to aid.
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Captain America
Tinyplot:	Falling Frost

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Winter Soldier has posed:
It's been a week, and supersoldiers heal fast. So Buck's no longer in a hospital bed with his leg tractioned, but in a walking boot. The room he's in now is more clearly a cell, rather than a hospital ward room. The only furnishings are a mattress without sheet or blanket or pillow, and a tiny steel sink and toilet. Buck himself is in a plain t-shirt and pj pants, lying on his back on the mattress, hands laced over his belly. To all appearances asleep.

Captain America has posed:
No more bedrest for Captain America! Thank Erskine's serum and some unusual (read as: sedated) patience on Steve's part for his release from the doldrums of his recovery room. What might have been weeks or perhaps lethal for a normal individual took merely a week -- though that week was spent in deep bouts of introspective gloom between the visitors and check-ins by staff.

There's another hill to surmount yet in this battle. Steve's donned appropriate gear for it. A favor called in and a cross-my-heart sincere promise that the garments come back undamaged. Poor museum curators, spending all those hours fixing up the vintage look after the debacle with the Helicarriers in the Hudson.

That being said, there's no missing the Captain on approach to this particular room, not with the stage-approved, poster-famous suit circa 1940. SHIELD personnel blink and wonder -- but no one stops him, not when he's wearing that bulldog-set to his jaw and hard blue eyes. He's got a small cardboard box in-hand, no larger than four-by-four inches, light-weight and sporting a red bow atop it. A Christmas present! At the door, of course, one of the guards lifts a hand. He uses an apologetic tone despite his reminder that,

"Sir, Director May hasn't auth -- "

"Son...just don't," replies the blond tersely, booking no argument. The man falls silent after giving his partner a glance; no reaction from him as well to bar Steve from entering. "Keep half an eye on us if you want," Steve adds, not wanting to completely undermine the men at their //extremely// important and dangerous task. One of them takes out a set of keys and within the room, the sounds of locks upon locks disengaging. Then the door opens to admit one spangled Steve Rogers, most annoyingly-difficult to kill, small box and all.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The man on the mattress opens his eyes, then sits up slowly. Buck's hair is loose - even a rubber band might be a weapon, in those hands - but clean. He's got a week's worth of scruff, though, and dark circles beneath his eyes. Who would want to get near the Winter Soldier with a razor, after all?

He looks at Steve with that animal lack of inquiry, no glint of human curiosity there. Just a tired patience, the wounded leg stuck out before him.

Captain America has posed:
A nod over his shoulder to the guards and they close the door. No locks engage; that's too tempting of a scenario for chaos. Steve can handle himself when properly prepared, the whole of SHIELD knows this well. The blond then hazards a step into the room more, never dropping eye contact with the man he knows so well.

"Buck." His voice is steady enough. "I'd say you look good, but we both know that'd be a lie." A glance around the room, spartan as it is, and back to Winter. "Seems like they're treating you well enough." He doesn't want to accept their current state, that much is made crystal-clear by the taut undertones. "D'you know who I am?" He continues to stand, holding that little box with red bow loosely at his side while his free hand goes to rest at his belt. He wore no helmet to block any part of his face.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He looks down at himself for a second, then back up. "You're Steven Rogers. Known as Captain America." The same low, rough voice. No glint of the old humor or affection - it's dull, flat. No urge to get up. In his condition, he couldn't take Steve or escape....and if they come for him, he wouldn't be able to resist. So no attempt, no gamesmanship.

Captain America has posed:
Steve's jaw can be seen to grit side to side before he composes himself, looking back up from the sterile floor to Winter again.

"It's a start," he murmurs. "Though you don't call me 'Steven' unless you're about to tell me I'm an idiot." After informing the man of this with a wane smile, he then drops to one knee slowly. "Here, I brought you something. I'm going to open it right here and show you," he explains, telegraphing his movements very clearly for the bedraggled Winter.

The small cardboard box is set on the ground. Steve removes the bow and pauses, blowing a sigh as if attempting to compose himself. His breath stirs across the glossy star-like foldings. Then, pulling up the lid, he then reaches into the box.

It's...a baseball. The coloration of its genuine cowhide is yellowed and crackled with age, stained with honest dirt scuffs in places. On it, in barely-intelligible ink: //Pete Reiser - May 25, 1941//. Steve hold it on display on his palm, half-offered out to the man. "...remember this, Buck? We were at the game. You threw elbows to get it when he hit it into the stands," explains the blond in quiet earnesty. "Ol' Reiser, he saved the day for the Dodgers. You got it signed for me after the game ended."

In the air, bourne on the soldier's earlier sigh...jasmine, sweetly-narcotic -- someone broke a vial of the oil underfoot so many decades back when the platoon was fighting near Grasse.

Winter Soldier has posed:
There's no recognition at either sight or scent. But there's something - a stirring of unease in the blue eyes, like the gleam of a fish moving in deep water. Puzzlement, maybe. A groping for lost memory. But either way, a fissuring of that reserve.

Buck looks at the ball in confusion...and there's the flare of nostrils at that scent. These are supposed to have meaning for him....and while they may not at the present, the outline of absence is clear. Like the imprint of a fossil in stone. There's Steve kneeling, like a man trying to coax out a starving dog....and for a wonder, the Soldier doesn't attack. He doesn't take the ball, but there's no protest from him. Just a darting of his gaze - the ball, Steve's face, the door beyond. The unlocked door....but he'd have go through Steve to get it, and there's no going through Steven in this state.

Captain America has posed:
The internal buckling of hope in the super-soldier is bolstered by that break in the monotonous expression of the man on the bed.

"C'mon, Buck, I know you know these things. It's in there. We got you back before, we're gonna do it again," Steve murmurs, trying to capture and keep Winter's flitting gaze with his own again. "You're not gonna get far if you try runnin'. I'm not gonna let you hurt anyone again. You know you're gonna have to go through me and I won't let you." He informs Winter of this as if it were a fact of life itself, like gravity and the sunrise.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He locks eyes with Steve....but it's Winter himself staring back. Blue and opaque, but with the tiniest crack of fear. They've got him, they're going to try and make him something else. Someone else....and that's a death, of a kind. STeven can see his muscles tense, for an instant....but the drag of the leg in its cast and boot is reminder enough, and the tension leaves him again.

It's like watching shutters come down, that dullness descending, the fractional angle of the head changing, like a caged wolf. At least no one's trying to poke or prod him, again.

Captain America has posed:
The descent of the stoicism is disheartening, but Steve reminds himself that it wasn't an immediate fix last time. Patience -- he councils himself to patience. He gives Winter a sad little smile and drops his chin, eyes averted off to one side.

"I never figured out how you scored the tickets to the game. You never told me. I still think you stole 'em," he tells Winter with a passing look of mild disapproval. He turns the baseball over slowly in his hand, now considering it with half-lidded eyes as if it would suddenly turn into a crystal ball and give him all his answers. "I remember when Ike Pearson threw the ball. The crowd was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Reiser hit the ball and everyone just...erupted. I was showered with popcorn from someone two stands up. It was a tie, 4-4, until that home run. Made it 8-4." The scent of jasmine still lingers. It's hard enough for Steve to not descend into memories smelling it.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He's looking at Steven again. Not puzzled, but blank....though there's still that faint something at the back of his gaze. Like a spark that's falling on stone, rather than the proper tinder, but still there. Winter's training has no programmed response for this, no answer for kindness and reminisce. There's the object of his mission right there, scarcely more than arm's length away, but....what can he do.

Captain America has posed:
"We didn't have enough for popcorn, so we collected all of it that got caught in the pockets of my coat," Steve continues, gaze gone distant as he disappears into the memory. "Wasn't much, just a handful, but it tasted like victory." A small laugh. He tosses the ball gently once, no higher than half an inch, wherein it makes little sound returning to his palm. "You see this here?" He rotates it show the autograph, now looking up at Winter again. "He apparently shook your hand too, told you that you had a future as a boxer with how you already had a shiner growing. Guess somebody elbowed you back when you went for the ball."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The hand that's lost, somewhere, bones in the Alps. Obediently, he looks at the ball again....and that little indent has graven itself between his brows. A look up at Steve. Why is Steve telling him these things? The Captain is apparently sure that they knew each other, then.

His gaze wanders a moment, blank confusion. Reaching back and bumping up against that wall of white light and pain, lightning from temple to temple. Is that what's behind it? Two boys at a baseball game, with war on the horizon?

Captain America has posed:
"You even got us a small bag of peanuts, for all your elbow-throwing. One of the mothers nearby was impressed with how you shared the ball with me. You had that shiner for a long time." Steve watches the other man carefully and tries very hard to keep up that nonchalant, almost melodious telling of the past. "Your mother wasn't impressed. Winifred. Your sister laughed at you every time you came into the room until it went away. Rebecca. She called you one-half of a pole-axed raccoon. I kept the ball someplace safe, away from where anyone could else could see it and try to take it."

Winter Soldier has posed:
He shakes his head, slowly, tentative denial. This doesn't jive with what he is, who he is, the fist of HYDRA. The alloy hand tightens, light running over the fine scales of the fingers like water. In that rasping voice, he tells Steve, firmly, "You're my mission." As if it were important that Steven be reminded of what they really are to each other.

Captain America has posed:
Steve's nostrils flare at this informative statement, the first sign of his composure flintering. He doesn't pull the ball away, half-offered as it is, but he does stop fidgeting its rotation in his fingers.

"And you're my friend, James Buchanan Barnes," he reminds doggedly in turn. "I will get you back even if it means you take another dip in the Hudson River. It's really damn cold right now, so I'm hoping we don't have to go that route. I don't want you getting hurt."

Winter Soldier has posed:
"I'm only the Soldier," he informs Steve, patiently. There's a sense of retreat, of another door shutting. "I serve HYDRA." The equivalent of 'name, rank, serial number' apparently. All he has to offer....at least, no one here's devoted any time to try and make him scream or break.

Captain America has posed:
The Captain retorts just as calmly, "You don't serve HYDRA. You hate HYDRA as much as I do, Bucky. You spent all of the war turning the heads of every HYDRA goon you saw through your scope into red mist." Steve straightens his back in his kneel as he rests his forearm on his bent knee. "You're not the Soldier. You're Bucky Barnes. And you're my friend. Steve Rogers' friend."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Even half-crippled and loopy from painkillers, he moves like a striking snake. For next thing Steve knows, Winter's lunged forward off the mattress, and those alloy fingers are latched around his windpipe, cutting off his air. His pulse beats against the encircling metal. The Soldier's face to face with him, as he hisses like a conspirator, "You're. My. Mission."

Of course the guards at the door are through in an instant, and one of them's got a needle round in the Soldier's shoulder. Another trio of hearbeats and his grip slackens, the pale eyes fluttering and rolling up, before Winter's limp body topples to the side.

Captain America has posed:
Thank god for those guards. Steve's trust is battered and bullied as much as he is. There away rolls the baseball, knocked free in the scuffle, to huddle lost in the corner of the spartan room. He chuffs through bared teeth in shock and then threadily inhales while the men scramble, taking seconds to arrive that last as long as hours to his adrenaline-jumped mind. He's got a handful of that thin t-shirt and his other hand about the obdurate metal wrist when the sedative boost is jammed into Winter.

He inhales hoarsely once and then coughs, feeling at his throat as he stares at the fallen Soldier. "No, don't -- " He slaps out a hand at one of the guards about to roughly grab up the man. "I said //DON'T//," he barks raggedly again, full-on Captain now. The man tries to say something, but Steve's already getting to his booted feet. He gathers up the hefty limp weight of the Soldier carefully. "Punk," he rasps.

Winter is deposited back on the mattress by the Captain. He makes very certain to move the booted foot carefully, but otherwise leaves him lying face-up and heavily sedated once more. Steve then clears his throat, his chin tucked and eyes shut. "I know. Visiting hours are over." How bitter he sounds. He then strides to gather up the lost baseball.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Soldier's a limp form on the mattress, left just where Steve set him. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest betrays that he's still alive. One of the guards says, gently, "Sorry, Captain." There's pity in the eyes behind the tactical goggles....and neither of them moves to hurry Steve out.

Captain America has posed:
"S'not your fault. I'll try again later," the blond informs the guard quietly. He's got the baseball all packaged away again inside the cardboard box, with its red bow smelling of jasmine, and then walks to the doorway. He pauses and turns to look at the unconscious Soldier. "You'll know me...in the end." A whisper almost to himself and an ironclad promise. Then, Steve leaves the whitewashed room entirely to its occupant and the stoic guards.