onlyforthedream | if you can hold on, hold on

if you can hold on, hold on

This isn't a scene I ever wanted to witness.

The run to the Compound was brutal, and Tony was on his way out to get Xavier when I was on my way in. At some point, I took the Shield off my back and set it on an unoccupied bed.

There are doctors moving deftly from the table Bucky's stretched out on to the sink, or trays of gauze and utensils and back again. I didn't let anyone get near the arm until Dr. McCoy was there. I know the kind of technology he's worked with. He removed it, and I felt something wrench in my gut. I was vaguely aware of someone at my elbow speaking with concern before I shrugged them off and went around to watch them peel away the Winter Soldier's uniform. It would take a soldering iron to cut through it. He's covered in superficial wounds- severe bruising, mostly, damage to his ribs. With the arm gone, they manage all right.

Oh, God, Bucky.

I beg off questions, agree to let McCoy take care of the knife wound in my side after another reprimand I barely register. I'm numb to it, whatever he's doing. I don't bring up the gash on my leg. There's enough blood and dirt that I can't imagine anyone noticing for a while, anyway.

"...you'll want to restrain him," I say, as the thought occurs, though the words are hard to get out. I catch Rory frowning in my peripheral vision, bagging the ruined and blood soaked t-shirt I'd been wearing before depositing it in the trash.

"Just- until-"

There's a sound in the hallway of heavy metal on flooring and I'm up, off the spare bed, ignoring Dr. McCoy's curse of frustration.

"Professor?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tony looked up, neck extending slightly to move his head from where it had been resting against the armor.

"Could you be a little more specific on 'means'?" he said, not precisely ignoring the fact Dr McCoy was talking but filtering it out to be referred back to later. He could multitask, it was an asset. "Could we get the means? And by we I mean... me, if it was some kind of hardware. I can add to our means, if I know what we need. Are we talking some kind of chemical compounds, or directed electrical stimulation of the neurons...?"

Edited 2012-05-23 23:25 (UTC)

And now the scientists are talking over each other. As if my head wasn't already ringing from the possible concussion.

"I don't know," I say to McCoy, my voice sharp to my own ears, before frowning at Tony.

"It can't be replicated here. It was a cosmic cube." There's a moment of what can only be described as skeptical silence and I want to put my fist through a wall.

"A containment matrix that has a reality-warping engine built into it. And is at least partially sentient. It's not an option."

Edited 2012-05-23 23:32 (UTC)

"...can't be replicated here easily," Tony said, after a quiet moment in which he ran through a couple of ideas, and considered where he could get more information on this. He had a certain reaction to the word can't, especially as it related to making things.

That hadn't been a bad breakdown of what that thing was, actually. Scant on the technical details, but it was just an overview, it did the job.

"No, okay, barring greater scientific documentation and quite likely additional resources, we can't make -- cosmic cube? That's the name they went with? -- we can't make one of those. In a reasonable timeframe. Alternative methodologies, then. Back in your court, Charlie."

"Induced psychological changes tend to occur on a wider scale when our mysterious benefactors are the culprit," says Charles, having to backtrack now that they've run into a wall. "I've not heard of any other cases today... It's certainly a possibility, but I would rather operate under the assumption that this is something in our power to fix."

Eyes narrowing in thought, he frowns. This would be much easier if he could get inside Barnes' head and take a look around to see what's missing, what's buried. Dr. McCoy's scans, impressive as they are, eliminate the human element he's accustomed to manipulating, a tangled web of thought and memory resorted to lines on a screen.

"We need to wake him up."

"...What?" McCoy says sharply, giving Charles a look that implies he thinks he's being a complete idiot and the only reason that he hasn't actually said as much is because he's got other pressing matters on his hands. He digs out the hypospray that contains the dye, waving it around in the air. "Okay, well, if we're going to go forward with a stupid idea, I might as well get something out of it. If he's awake, I want some baseline questions asked so I can see the reaction."

"Are we really doing this?" he asks once more, just in case someone has a lick of sense suddenly.

I feel myself start. I lift a hand as though to hold McCoy off from following anything through and look with some incredulity to Xavier.

"Why?"

"Because we don't have the slightest idea what we're dealing with," says Charles, eyes falling on each man in turn. "We don't know what's triggered him -- if he was triggered at all -- and our medical history is dangerously incomplete besides that. The human mind is as fragile as it is resilient, and by your own admission, James' has been manipulated more than most. If we're not careful, we could end up causing more damage than good by blindly choosing a course of treatment.

"Moreover, Dr. McCoy, I'm used to my patients being conscious. Had I my usual... resources, I could circumvent that issue, but unless one of you has a better suggestion for determining how deep this conditioning runs -- again, assuming that's what we're even facing, which is not guaranteed -- then ensure these restraints will hold, and wake him up so we can get some bloody answers. I will not risk this man's life on a hunch."

Edited 2012-05-24 01:06 (UTC)

"Doctor's orders," Tony said, standing up and, after a frowning look at the unconscious Barnes, picking up his helmet. "McCoy's got his roofie-in-a-can and I'm in armor, I'll hold him down. We can handle it. He's unarmed."

"Why don't I get a goddamn helmet," he mutters, not paying attention to the pun. He's lived with Jim long enough to develop a fairly strong immunity to wordplay like that. He takes a deep breath and gives Charles one last desperately pleading look. "I'm injecting a neutral dye so I can read the activity in his brain while you talk to him. If you could get him to state his name and something else baseline, some facts, I'd appreciate getting that information before I go to my death," he notes, chipper in his wry sarcasm.

He steps back, gesturing to Charles to be on the front lines for when they wake up sleeping beauty.

The only reason I don't launch myself at Tony Stark is that I know him well enough to tell he's not actually making a joke.

It doesn't mean I don't start to. I do. There's a moment where my knee jerk reaction is to take half a step in his direction before I realize it, and then I do, and then I stop myself. Swallowing thickly, I force myself to back away from the table, to give them space, and to stay out of Bucky's sight, even his peripheral vision.

Edited 2012-05-24 02:32 (UTC)

"No one is going to die," says Charles, feeling the need to stay serious if only for the Captain's sake. Were this Erik on the table, Charles can't imagine he would be in any mood for glib remarks, either, though unfortunately, his friend's actions were entirely and undisputedly his own. Taking a hypospray from McCoy, he has a half a mind to ask if the doctor's got anything in his collection of chemicals that will keep Barnes calm, yet cognizant, but ignores the impulse. Any drugs they inject might interfere with their readings; they'll just have to trust that Stark's armor proves a sufficient enough deterrent.

Edited 2012-05-24 02:48 (UTC)

The first thing that registers is the pain. The second, the coppery taste of blood. The third, the firm, unrelenting pressure of cold metal bearing down on half of his limbs. It's the last that finally startles him awake, a grunt pushing through his dry throat as his eyes flutter open and he takes in the strange scene with a confusion that runs right past fear and straight to anger.

"Wh-- You," he chokes out when he realizes just who is holding him down instead of what, straining against red hands. "Get-- Get off of me, you son of a bitch."

Well, that was... promising.

"Yeah, no," he said, applying enough pressure to make sure Barnes wasn't going anywhere without actually damaging the man further. Hopefully more than that wouldn't be necessary, but he didn't exactly seem cooperative. "Your therapist wants a word."

They won't have much time. Charles casts a brief glance towards Stark before focusing his attention to the struggling Barnes.

"My name is Charles Xavier," he says quickly and calmly, hoping that by providing some information he'll get the same in return. "I promise I'm trying to help you, but I'll need you to cooperate. Do you know your name?"

Under the circumstances, he doesn't trust this Xavier any further than he could throw him -- not very far, going by the telling absence at his shoulder. They've stripped him, humiliated him, and he's meant to buy that they're trying to help?

No. He was supposed to avoid this, supposed to get up after that damned repulsor hit him in the back, but the seconds leading up to his blacking out are missing. It's only when his head slams against the bed in his attempt to break free, stars exploding in his field of vision, that he realizes Rogers must've got him with the shield. He bites down a scream, breathing hard through his nose as he continues his futile fight with renewed fervor.

"Don't have one."

Edited 2012-05-24 03:46 (UTC)

I step in, leaning into Xavier's space, and pitch my voice very low. As badly as I want to talk to him, call him back, Bucky isn't at the wheel, here, and I know I would exasperate things were my presence known.

"Ask him what he's called," I suggest, then step away again.

Edited 2012-05-24 03:54 (UTC)

"Alright. Then what are you called?" Charles says promptly, this time for Barnes' ears.

"Don't play dumb with me, Chuck," he replies, baring his teeth in a cruel, ugly smile. Though his body doesn't relax against the constraints, he gives up on squirming, instead keeping his muscles taut, ready for any window of opportunity that might come his way. "You already know."

They need a straight answer -- something, anything -- to get a clear reading on, but if even the simplest of questions is met with a dead end, Charles is no longer quite so confident this idea of his will work. Desperate to get something out of the man, he searches for a different approach. The conditioning was meant to be done by the Soviets; perhaps something as simple as a change of language might jog his memory?

"Humour me."

His eyes widen in something like surprise. It's not the first time that he's heard Russian today, though Xavier sounds more fluent than that kid.

'You don't know what you're doing.' That's what he'd been told earlier, isn't it? For the first time, he's got to wonder if that wasn't the truth, the thought alone enough to send his mind reeling. His lips curl around a sneer all the same.

"...Winter Soldier."

As much as he hadn't cared for it at the time, Charles is suddenly very grateful for all those instances he had to step inside a Soviet soldier's mind; it just might give them the edge they need to get through this. While it's too small a triumph to feel much relief, it's still a step in the right direction.

"And do you know where you are, Winter Soldier?"

There's nothing to force him to answer truthfully, save for the ongoing threat that Tony might start to apply lethal pressure, and for about a second, he considers lying through his teeth just to test his luck. He doesn't know where this interrogation is going, still doesn't trust that they don't intend to kill him when all is said and done, but while every instinct would have him turn away from asking questions, those same instincts are less clear on answering harmless ones.

"...no."

"His objective," I prompt quietly, concern lacing my tone for all that I try to keep it flat. Bucky's got a dark streak a mile wide, but that's not the same as this kind of hollow viciousness. Watching his features twist up that way doesn't just make me angry, it... hurts. It's wrong.

He's observant. He's always been observant, though his memories extend only to that morning -- if it's even the same day. No longer thrashing around on the table, his breaths leveling out, it's easier to really listen. He missed it before, but now it's so obvious that he can't believe it slipped him by in the first place: there's someone else in the room and he's got a good idea as to who.

The illusion of calm shatters in an instant. His heart jumping up against bruised ribs, he fights to turn his head in a wild bid to see his real captor.

"Where is he?!"

Edited 2012-05-24 05:12 (UTC)

Damn it.

"Not hiding anywhere," I say, and walk around to the side of the table that Tony isn't standing on. The side that's emptier on account of his arm having been removed. I can see McCoy reacting to something on the screen he's looking at, but I don't bother asking what. Just keep my eyes level on Bucky.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject