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It's Hard To Make Peace With The Mirror; [Winter Soldier]
Topic Started: May 1 2014, 10:32 PM (439 Views)
Stacy X
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Neurochemical Control/ Reptillian Traits
Evening, Wednesday March 26th, 2014
Location: Wythe Hotel, Brooklyn, NYC




Stacy decided she liked the Wythe even if she didn’t like the company she’d been entertaining there. Back in 1901 it had been built as a factory; it served its purpose then was slowly left to crumble. The decades churned by while it sat forgotten, until the Generation X’ers picked it out for trendy conversion. Suddenly the site where so many regular joes had toiled away for a meagre wage was reborn as a ‘boutique’ hotel, a gourmet restaurant, an aggressively arty cinema and ‘The Ides’ bar (where the sign outside proudly proclaimed “We do not have a dress code, entry is first come first serve”). It was all a little shabbier than the places most of her other clients sprang for, but that was half the charm.

Things had only gotten ugly when her punter refused to pay up. It was like the man had psyched himself up to screw her and then screw her over to make some kind of weird misogynistic mutant-phobic point. He was the kind of guy who probably used to beat up kids for lunch money in high school. Bullies were just one of the occasional pitfalls of working alone, but she’d dealt with it. He was slumped on the floor unconscious, drooling into the carpet. He’d still be feeling the kick to his balls when he woke up. Stacy had already claimed the money and credit cards in his wallet, a nice-looking silver watch and a class of ’72 graduation ring which had split her lip when he backhanded her.

Now she was browsing though his Smartphone, by far the most valuable item he had with him. Checking his browser history she found her own website and the string of Google searches it had taken to find her. But then she found the site that had sparked his little hunt in the first place. It was a ‘Friends of Humanity’ forum, specifically a discussion called ‘genejokes know their place’. A few replies down was a video linked with the comment “This snake knew her place was on her knees – Los Angeles 2001”. Her hand was shaking when she tapped to bring it up.

Stacy found herself staring back at a nineteen year old reflection of herself. The teenager had short spiky hair and dark make-up smudged thick around her eyes like someone had punched her. It made the yellow of her eyes stand out all-the-more and she was staring up at whoever was holding the camera.

“You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout filmin’ this!” A hand reached into frame and pushed her back down when she went to stand up. It was evident there was more than one person lurking out of shot.

“What of it?”

“…”

“You make a fuss, you try usin’ them powers, you so much as hiss at me - I got a fat-ass wrench in the car trunk. Knock those fangs right outta your skull. Gums slide a whole lot easier. You get me?”

“…”

Part of a figure in tracksuit bottoms and a white vest moved into frame, seemingly pulling a handgun from the back of the waistband. Right away, it was thrust into Stacy’s face, point blank.

“Fuck!” Someone else unseen shouted. “What you gotta go waving that thing around for, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up!” The original voice growled and nudged Stacy’s face with a free hand. “Look at me.”

It took a long time for the girl to force her eyes into place. They roamed wildly but eventually she found herself looking down the gun barrel.

“Suck it.”


Sat on the hotel bed, the present-day Stacy swallowed hard. Even now she remembered those scents with crystal clarity. The taste of salt quickly replaced by metal. Tang of cordite. A hint of blood. Another thick scent like liquorice, rising from warm skin.

“Smile.” The voice added.

The girl’s open jaw made it almost impossible but the gun twitched, a tell that its owner was about to underline his order somehow. She breathed in through her nose and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze slid to the camera. The look she gave was like a silent acceptance of a dare – if they wanted to stick death in her face she’d show them all exactly how little it bothered her, even if it was the last thing she did. Her lips formed a tight seal around the gun and her look became a spiteful smile.

There was an audible snigger. “Look at that. Natural born cocksucker.”


The video was only about a fifth of the way through but that was precisely where Stacy hit her limit, closed the browser and deleted the history. She forced herself off the bed with a grimace and stretched out. She was maybe a little punch drunk still but that wasn’t why she felt unsteady on her feet.

She couldn’t go back to the Vanderhorn in her current state. She needed some kind of buffer period before she could handle being surrounded by detectives and film-makers again. Through the window she could see the Williamsburg waterfront glittering in the last light of dusk. Brooklyn actually managed to look pretty.


***

The first part of Stacy’s evening centred around gagging and cuffing ‘Mr Class of 72’ to the bed before he woke up. Part two entailed picking her way through the minibar drinks (and Toblerone bar). The third part involved getting dressed and trotting down to the 6th floor where the Ides was just starting to fill up with the first drinkers of the evening.

Catching her reflection in the mirrors lining the corridor walls, Stacy smoothed back her hair, reassuring herself that Los Angeles was a long way behind her now. Her jaw ached but one of the advantages to having scales was that she didn’t bruise easily. When she did, it rarely showed. The split in her bottom lip was a doozy though, it already looked a touch lopsided from swelling.

“Fuckin’ sapes!” she growled and slathered a thick layer of black gloss over the cut until she decided it was as covered as it was ever going to get. Throughout the process she avoided looking her reflection in the eyes.

The Ides looked to be about half-full. The way it had been renovated to leave most of the original factory’s industrial features was clearly a draw for the hipster-types. She was just about to step over the threshold when a large hand landed flat over her collarbone, holding her back.

“Hey! Don’t touch what you can’t afford.” She growled.

The hand belonged to an overly-muscled bouncer in an immaculate black t-shirt and tight black jeans that seemed to be stopping his enormous thighs from bursting. “You’re not comin’ in lookin’ like that. Find somewhere else.”

Stacy didn’t bat an eyelid. She wasn’t particularly fazed by men like Strong Guy, Anansi or Sunder and they would have dwarfed the human. “Sign says no dress code!”

“That a snakeskin onesie you got under y’dress?”

Stacy’s tail rattled and she swore silently at herself for getting too used to living in Mutant Town. She’d completely forgotten to switch her image inducer on. “No…”

“Then you’re not comin’ in.”

In retrospect Stacy would blame her reaction on the last two miniature bottles of booze she’d knocked back… His hand was already on the skin of her chest. With a thought her power kicked in and wrapped itself around his brain. A few brutal tweaks sent him collapsing to the floor. Carefully stepping over his prone form in her work shoes, the snakewoman realised an uncomfortable number of people inside the bar were staring at her. “Oh, what?! He’s not dead… He’s asleep!”

After an awkward moment of hesitation she added, “He started it!”
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Winter Soldier
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Brooklyn didn't change. That was pretty much the best thing and the worst thing about it. He'd spent much of the day wandering around everywhere but his old neighborhood, almost like he was afraid to see young Bucky and Steve running through the street, ghostly memories that he didn't entirely remember. A few places sparked a glimmer of something, and he pulled away from those places. He wasn't ready to remember everything yet. There was a part of him that felt that until his past as the Winter Soldier was dealt with, he didn't deserve all of his past as Bucky. It was a stupid and foolish idea, self flagellating, punishing himself for what wasn't his fault, for being a victim.

But, the trouble was that Bucky had never been a victim, not as a child, not as a young man, not as Sgt Barnes of the 107th. Yeah, he'd taken his lumps, he'd been beaten, he was poor, he'd struggled, been a prisoner of war, an experiment. But he wasn't a victim. He was a survivor. He did what he had to do to to live and to keep living, but at what cost? So that he could be turned into a killing machine and shape the century to the liking of evil men? No. He could not have known this would happen.

That didn't matter though. He still bore the weight of his actions.

So, in the absence of any real resolution or any hint of mental peace, he ended up in a bar that had been built in the factory that his 'uncle' had worked in. How many of these people ever even thought about what this place had been? Probably not any of them.

"Another pitcher, cutie?" asked the waitress, as she looked him over.

"Yeah," he answered. "Whatever this was. It tastes like lukewarm piss but it gets the job done, I guess."

"I don't know about that," the waitress smiled, "You've had three pitchers already and you're as sober as a judge."

Bucky smiled, "I have a high tolerance." He looked her over, and for a moment, he considered asking her to join him. She was pretty. He was lonely, and there were things he missed about the world. "You know, I..."

A commotion at the door stopped him cold and he looked over to see the bouncer fall, apparently knocked into convulsions by what looked like a cross between a woman and a rattlesnake. "Ugh," the waitress muttered, "Mutants."

Bucky flicked his eyes to the waitress, her attractiveness fading in his viewpoint. He didn't understand mutants, not really, having had limited experience with them, but bigotry got to him. He'd fought so that all men could be free, and if that man... or woman... had snake scales, he failed to see why that made them ineligible for it. "Someone should probably call the cops," he muttered.

"Cops don't do shit when it comes to mutants," muttered the guy next to him, who had been sucking down rotgut like it was going out of style, "Lookit her, she's a whore, by the looks of that outfit."

"Shut your mouth," Bucky grumbled, "Where I come from we speak of ladies with respect."

"That ain't no lady," the drunk spat, "It's a freak with tits."

"Getting real tired of you, Mister," Bucky said. He looked over at the door, and swore in Russian, "ебать..." There were men advancing on the woman, probably to kick her out, or worse. He slid off his stool, and looked over at the waitress, "Hey, Miss, cancel that other pitcher. I don't think I'm going to be here much longer."

He headed over the growing group and said, "All right, all right, break it up, you idiots." He crouched beside the fallen bouncer and rested two fingers on his throat, "He's got a pulse," he reported, "The lady didn't hurt him. Why don't one of you lunkheads drag him over to the benches and let him sleep it off, and the young lady is going to go find another place to drink, all right? No one wants a fight here."

"Stay out of it, buddy," snarled one of the group, "You think we're just going to let Medusa walk away like that?"

"Fucking Gene-joke freaks think they can do whatever they fucking want because they have super powers. If I had superpowers, I'd be just as good," some other guy said.

"If you had super powers," Bucky smirked, "You'd be a mutant too." He straightened and said, "Now, take a step back."

"Oh, I'm beginning to want you to make me, Mutie Lover," the guy said, and he swung a hand that was suddenly holding a switchblade.

By instinct, and seventy years of conditioning, Bucky swung up his mechanical arm, and the blade sank into the grooves of the plating. He twisted his elbow and it wrenched the blade out of his attacker's hand. He pulled the knife out of his arm in a shower of sparks and looked the damage to his arm in dismay, "Черт побери, do you know how much that costs to fix?"

The man stared at him, in shock. "Where the hell did you get that arm?"

Bucky glared back, "In the war."

"What war?"

The Winter Soldier's eyes went dark and he said, "All of them."

Then, he punched the man in the face.
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Stacy X
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Neurochemical Control/ Reptillian Traits
Stacy eyed the furious humans with an equally venomous glare. She was about three seconds away from taking out her hoop earrings and beckoning them to come and do their worst when another bystander waded into the whole mess like an off-duty cop. She was relieved but at the same time wary.

“He's got a pulse," he reported, “The lady didn't hurt him. Why don't one of you lunkheads drag him over to the benches and let him sleep it off, and the young lady is going to go find another place to drink, all right? No one wants a fight here.”

“Oh I dunno…” Stacy said, which was about to be followed by ‘I already kicked one dipshit in the balls and left him in cuffs’, when she realised that if this peacekeeper really was a badge-carrier she’d be better off not blurting out admissions like that.

“Stay out of it, buddy,” snarled one of the group, “You think we're just going to let Medusa walk away like that?”

“Keep gawkin’ at me like that I’ll do worse than turn you t’stone, dick-weasel!”

“Fucking Gene-joke freaks think they can do whatever they fucking want because they have super powers. If I had superpowers, I'd be just as good,” some other guy said.

“If you had super powers,” Bucky smirked, “You'd be a mutant too.”

Stacy laughed at that. “Sure you don’t have some power of super-assholery? Maybe oughta get tested for an x-gene, I’m really feelin’ the voodoo pourin’ offa you.” She sneered.

The one guy trying to keep the peace moved to separate Stacy off from the building crowd and it took her a few seconds to get the hint and make way for him. She was her own worst enemy when it came to dealing with mobs. He straightened and said, “Now, take a step back.”

“Oh, I'm beginning to want you to make me, Mutie Lover,” the guy said, and he swung a hand that was suddenly holding a switchblade.

The attack and counter all happened so fast Stacy barely had time to comprehend what was happening. One second the two men were snarking at each other, the next there was a knife being yanked out of an arm that wasn’t bleeding and that had been really close to hitting her and… “What the shit?!”

"Черт побери, do you know how much that costs to fix?”

The exchange about where he’d gotten the weird robotic limb was baffling to say the least, but she couldn’t argue with how the guy punctuated his explanation. Mr Switchblade dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks, blood gushing from his nose. The guy standing up for her probably wasn’t a cop then.

“Ho, shit!” Stacy crowed; part shocked, part unbearably thrilled. “That’s what you get, fucker! That’s. What. You. Get!” Before she could do anymore deeply unattractive gloating she took an unexpected backhand to the face and staggered backwards. “Jeezus, what is it with you sapes breakin’ out the atomic pimp hand today?” she growled, blinking away to clear watering eyes as she tested her jaw.

It seemed like the crowd were angrier with her good Samaritan than with her. Not that he couldn’t handle it (the way he handled himself, clearly the guy was into what she would classically call ‘some serious shit’), but if a stranger was willing to go out on a limb for her, she didn’t want them getting arrested or tazered in the eyeball on her account. The tazer image sprang to life because one of the female customers, maybe Mr Switchblade’s girlfriend, was frantically digging around for something in her purse. She couldn’t taste even a trace of mace on the air… So it was probably a tazer she was packing. Or a handgun…

Looking around she saw a CO2 extinguisher holstered near the mirror where she’d been doing her make-up before. Without giving it too much thought she grabbed the canister from the wall and pointed the nozzle at the humans who’d refused to get the hint and simmer down. A loud “Chhhsssshhhh!” noise was audible over the music still playing from deeper within the Ides and the air filled with thick clouds of dry ice vapour. Several of the humans squawked in protest when the white powder crusted over their faces. It gave Stacy just long enough to grab her strange ally by the belt and tug him back to face her.

“That was mad! Thanks!” She gulped, a little breathless from the odd, fizzy taste of carbon dioxide in the air. “Wanna leave?”
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Winter Soldier
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Someone flailed and caught the woman across the face. She shouted and Bucky rolled his eyes, "You want to knock off the name calling, Lady?" he snapped, "You're really not helping things."

There were a few more fists thrown at him, though the revelation that he had a mechanical arm had caused more than one of the drunken idiots to back away. Unfortunately, not all of them had that kind of sense.

"Metal arm or not, you can't take us all," growled one of the throng.

"I think I can," Bucky said, "In fact, I know I can."

His cold and empty tone was enough to cut through their drunken rage, and for a moment, there was only the men, staring at each other, no one certain what to do next. No one but the Winter Soldier. He knew exactly what to do.

"Why... why do you even care, man?" the guy stammered, "Even if she wasn't a mutant bitch, she's still just a whore."

Bucky's eyes narrowed and he said, "Doesn't matter what she is. What matters is that you have no right to judge her on it. We fought to protect all people, to give them their rights. and you've all forgotten that. None of you even give a damn anymore that people died for your freedom..."

Suddenly there was movement, and he saw one of the women fumble for something, but the snake lady struck as quickly as... well, a snake, and suddenly she was turning a fire extinguisher on the crowd. Amidst the screams and the protests and the panic that came from the drunks not knowing what the hell was happening, he felt a tug on his belt. “That was mad! Thanks!” the girl cried over the clamor, “Wanna leave?”

But before they could make their escape, a meaty hand landed on Bucky's arm, spinning him around, attempting to jerk his arm backwards up between his shoulderblades. Moving too fast to be entirely human, the Soldier hand turned the movement into a twist, kicking forward off the wall and flipping over the man's head, still clasped in his assailant's arm. There was an audible snap of the attacker's arm and he screamed in pain. Exerting a little more pressure on the broken arm that he should, he growled in the man's ear, "Besides, I have a real problem with bullies."

Then he forced the man forward, and smashed his head into the wall.

Grabbing at the girl's hand, he pulled her out onto the street, "We need to get out of here," he muttered, "I don't relish the idea of ending up in a lock up to sleep it off, you understand me?"

And, though the bullies almost immediately spilled out onto the street after them, there was no sign of them.
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Stacy X
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“Why… why do you even care, man?” the guy stammered, “Even if she wasn't a mutant bitch, she's still just a whore.”

Stacy stood behind the Winter Soldier, staring at the human who’d said that. For a second she looked like a browbeaten dog just kicked by its master. Jibes about the scales she was used to; she told herself if anyone wanted to be that superficial, well fuck them. The hecklers who knew she was worthless no matter what skin she came packaged in though, those were the kind she’d been raised and abused by, the kind who could still get to her on a bad day. After watching the video she’d found upstairs, it was definitely a bad day.

Even as she was turning for the fire extinguisher to douse the rabble, she couldn’t help but note her defender’s odd counter-argument. “…We fought to protect all people…” Wasn’t he Russian? She’d definitely heard him cuss in something East-Europeany. And yet his attitude reminded her of an old Korean War Vet she’d known back when she was sixteen and homeless. He’d been her first veteran but sure as Hell not the last. The years had seen her take on a trail of disillusioned and shell-shocked souls willing to lay down retirement cheques or disability severance pay for the peace her powers brought them.

Before they could make their escape, a meaty hand landed on Bucky's arm, spinning him around, attempting to jerk his arm backwards up between his shoulder blades. Stacy let out a loud serpentine hiss at the interruption. Some folks just didn’t know when to quit. She needn’t have worried though. The guy went off like a mousetrap, flipping their positions and snapping his attacker’s arm in the process.

“Besides, I have a real problem with bullies.” Bully or not, she couldn’t help but wince a little in undeserved sympathy. Then he forced the man forward, and smashed his head into the wall.

“Baby-lion-jeezus-garrett-hedlund!” She gawked at the unconscious body on the floor. “…That was some ‘Haywire’ shit right there. If security got that on camera it’ll get like a bazillion hits on Yo-whoa!” Before she could reel off anymore nervous chatter the soldier took hold of her hand and practically dragged her to the exit stairwell.

“We need to get out of here,” he muttered, “I don't relish the idea of ending up in a lock-up to sleep it off, you understand me?”

“Yeah, sure…” Stacy tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible for once. “I mean, who does?” As they barrelled down the stairs and towards the lobby she was acutely aware of being gripped in the clutch of a weird prosthetic hand that had just messed up a gang of angry men with very little effort… She’d had her fingers broken in a car door once and the memory of that made her twitchy as metal pressed around snakeskin. She couldn’t even use her powers for an advantage – the limb was surely connected to the man’s brain but there was no affecting something that wasn’t made of living tissue. The urge to jerk away was only overridden by the sharp desire to not add crushed metacarpal bones to the day’s list of things she could have done without.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” She babbled in something a bit like a stage whisper. “Down there, back door, the fire exit!” She’d always been in the habit of scoping out buildings for con jobs, but time with the Thieves Guild had made her pick up her game for her more mundane work as well. On her walk in she’d seen the service alley running down the back of the hotel shared by the club opposite, it would let them make an exit onto 11th street rather than the more obvious Wythe avenue their pursuers were surely heading for. She wasn’t sure what the Winter Soldier’s intentions were, but avoiding angry drunks and summoned cops was smart in any case.

“Maybe I oughta set your expectations here…” She said as she was pulled along. “I’m real obliged and that’s great if you’re a mutie-love an’ all,” she gave a thumbs up from her free hand for emphasis, “But I’m done workin’ for tonight. I just wanted t’chill my beans before I headed back ta M-Town.” A hint of sorrow crept into her voice on that last point because really she hadn’t come out looking for a fight. Fights just had a way of finding her. She glanced nervously over her shoulder to check they weren’t being tailed then turned back.

Trotting along in ‘work heels’ her pace was almost double the guy’s, just to keep up with his strides. Her mouth ran off quick enough for the both of them though. “I got a friend in Hell’s Kitchen who’ll give you a good rate, tell her Stacy sent ya. She can look like anyone; long as you don’t mind how they all still got her thick-as-mud accent… She’s Ukrainian but you can talk Ruskie to her. That was Russian you cussed in back there wasn’t it? Oh shit, wait, you’re not one’a Mirkov’s guys!?”
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“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” She babbled in something a bit like a stage whisper. “Down there, back door, the fire exit!”

She knew this place better than he did, and he took her advice, pulling her along with him until they were out on 11th St. Bucky took stock of their location, and looked at the passing crowd, New York always busy no matter the time of day. Confident that he'd gotten the girl out of harm's way, he realized he was still holding her hand in his metal one. She was talking rapidly, and he came back to himself, pulling out of the almost instinctual mode he had been in before.

Her words gave him pause.

"...great if you’re a mutie-love an’ all,” she gave a thumbs up from her free hand for emphasis, “But I’m done workin’ for tonight. I just wanted t’chill my beans before I headed back ta M-Town.”

Bucky opened his mechanical hand, and released her.

She kept going, “I got a friend in Hell’s Kitchen who’ll give you a good rate, tell her Stacy sent ya. She can look like anyone; long as you don’t mind how they all still got her thick-as-mud accent… She’s Ukrainian but you can talk Ruskie to her. That was Russian you cussed in back there wasn’t it? Oh shit, wait, you’re not one’a Mirkov’s guys!?”

"I don't know a Mirkov," Bucky said, simply, "and I'm not try to... buy your services... or anyone else's for that matter. I told you. I don't like bullies, and I don't care if you're a mutant, an alien, or some weirdo with a snake fetish. You're a lady, and I've never believed in treating ladies like dirt." He took a step back, giving her distance, and he lifted his hands in disgust. "Never mind. I did a good deed because I've spent the past seventy years doing bad ones. I was stupid enough to cling to old fashioned notions when clearly you didn't need a knight in shiny armor..." He cast a glum gaze at his mechanical arm and muttered, "... tarnished armor."

Shaking himself from his reverie, Bucky looked back at the girl and said, "I'm a Defender. That's what they tell me, that's what they want me to be. I'm not very good at it, and I don't really know why anyone thinks I ever will be. But once, long ago, I had a friend, a really good friend, who had so many problems, who was bullied so much, that if I'd been him, I would have grown up to be one bitter s.o.b. But he never stopped doing the right thing. Even when it was hard. Even when it got him bullied and beat more. He grew up to be something that I can't even describe, something... something great. I can't be great like that man, all that was ripped from me so long ago that the people who did it are dead now. But... maybe... maybe I can at least been good like that boy was, and I can take my lumps, my beatings, and make it so that I can stop the bullies who would do it to someone else... maybe starting over is how I can find my way back."

Suddenly realizing how much of himself he'd exposed, his face went purposefully blank and he said, "Sorry. I guess I'm drunker than I thought."
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Stacy X
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“I don't like bullies, and I don't care if you're a mutant, an alien, or some weirdo with a snake fetish. You're a lady, and I've never believed in treating ladies like dirt.”

Stacy stopped to pull a distinct 'are you for real, guy?!' expression. She looked like a freak and dressed like a slut – about as far as it was possible to get from anyone's idea of a lady. Bucky seemed not to take the sceptic glare well.

He took a step back, giving her distance, and he lifted his hands in disgust. “Never mind. I did a good deed because I've spent the past seventy years doing bad ones. I was stupid enough to cling to old fashioned notions when clearly you didn't need a knight in shiny armour...”

Seventy years? The snakewoman thought. Her face softened and shifted to a confused frown.

He cast a glum gaze at his mechanical arm and muttered, “... tarnished armour.”

He looked so disappointed with himself. Stacy was rapidly starting to feel bad for the guy, against her better judgement. “I didn't mean t'come over all ungrateful-like. I'll take a tin soldier over a shiny knight any day.” She offered. “Shiny means sun glare. Or staring at my own reflection ‘till I wanna punch myself in the face. Who needs that?” She became overly aware of the fact that they’d stopped and people were starting to look, thinking it was an argument.

Taking advantage of his somewhat daydreamy state she wrapped her arms around his metal one and got them walking again, a more casual pace than before. She deliberately kept him on her right-hand side, helping to block the view of her obvious mutation from the road or the sidewalk opposite. Her head tipped down and she let her hair fall over her face more than usual. She needed him for cover and chatting would help them blend in but also she felt better just having someone around while she tried to calm down.

"So c'mon. You know I'm a hooker but what are you?"

Shaking himself from his reverie, Bucky looked back at the girl and said, “I'm a Defender. That's what they tell me, that's what they want me to be.”

"Oh. Wow..." Her voice stayed quiet despite her surprise. The first she'd ever really heard about those guys was from Remy - SHIELD moving its prize fighters into the New York Flat Iron or something. At least that put to rest her last few little misgivings about whether Bucky had an ulterior motive for helping her out.

“I'm not very good at it, and I don't really know why anyone thinks I ever will be.”

Meeting his eyes she could see the Winter Soldier was slipping back into a fugue state. But experience told her it was better to keep quiet and let him go on rather than interrupt to give him a reality check. After everything that had just happened the least she could do was lend him an ear while he searched for whatever he was mentally groping for.

“But once, long ago, I had a friend, a really good friend, who had so many problems, who was bullied so much, that if I'd been him, I would have grown up to be one bitter s.o.b. But he never stopped doing the right thing. Even when it was hard. Even when it got him bullied and beat more. He grew up to be something that I can't even describe, something... something great. I can't be great like that man, all that was ripped from me so long ago that the people who did it are dead now.”

And didn't that sound familiar? Something in her chest balled up tight and she had to take a long measured inhale. For Stacy that friend had been Strong Guy, no less of a hero in her eyes than Captain America. He'd lost his parents young, been bullied as a scrawny nerd and then hounded as a brawny freak. Before meeting her he'd spent every day in chronic agony... and yet he was still the kindest, most patient person she knew. If she'd had to describe him, 'something great' would be pretty accurate.

“But... maybe... maybe I can at least be good like that boy was, and I can take my lumps, my beatings, and make it so that I can stop the bullies who would do it to someone else... maybe starting over is how I can find my way back.”

Stacy had yet to understand the details behind what the Defender was facing. The raw feeling behind the words though, that resonated with something deep in her gut. She uncurled her right arm from his, raised it to his shoulders and squeezed. She couldn't help herself. It was just a reassuring little hug she wished she'd gotten herself a few years ago.

Suddenly realizing how much of himself he'd exposed, his face went purposefully blank and he said, “Sorry. I guess I'm drunker than I thought.”

“Liar.” Stacy smiled over the tight feeling in her chest. “Part've my mutation's a built in bullshit detector.” She tapped the side of her nose. “You're not even a little bit drunk. And I'm not drunk enough, but hey, we'll muddle through somehow.” She put her right arm back where it had been before, giving Bucky's a conciliatory pat. “Don't sweat it Poker-Face. When people want help blowin' off the crazy steam built up in their heads, there's four main vent points. A shrink, a priest, a barman or a whore. Then the shrinks, priests and barmen come t'me too.” She chuckled bitterly. “I seen sober folks spill their guts as much as the old soaks, heard all kinds'a fucked-up-ness.”

Her breath suddenly hitched when she saw a police car looking like it was going to turn down the street she and Bucky were on. Her grip on his arm tightened just a fraction. But then she noticed the officers inside, a pale guy covered in freckles and a dark-haired girl in purple aviator shades, were too busy arguing to notice the pedestrians. The car carried straight on at the junction, leaving them behind.

“The guy I live with, he's like your friend.” She confessed. “He knows I'm a whore, knows I've done some bad shit. And he says he don't mind but... like I said, I got a built in bullshit detector. I love the big idiot t'death but I've never even told him my real name.”

She cast a sideways glance at Bucky. “Everybody calls me Stacy X. And that's the only name you're gettin' too.” A nervy smile tugged at her lips and then she fixed her focus back on the sidewalk. “It's not a super-big-secret thing it's just, I stopped being 'me' such a long time ago I don't even remember who that girl was. Only way t'really be myself now is... to not. If that makes sense.” Her mind was wandering back to that god-awful video she'd seen of herself. “Been that way for years. What I got now makes me want t'be better... My guy deserves someone better. But where the fuck d'you start when all you've got t'work with is a fancy shell?”

Okay that was more than I ever planned on saying to anyone. Like ever, she thought, feeling the need to shift focus back to Bucky for a while, whether he welcomed it or not. “So what's with this whole 'seventy years of misdeeds' deal? 'Cause you're kinda spry for a pensioner.”

She glanced at the spot where the tin soldier's fake bicep had taken knife damage. “Does it hurt?” She asked. “When someone up and stabs you, d'ya get feedback from whatever's lettin' ya move it 'round like a regular arm?”
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The girl, a working girl, yeah he was aware, made a comment about not wanting to see her own reflection, and he frowned, "Why wouldn't you want to see your face in the mirror, you're lovely? Yeah, you aren't Gene Tierney or Greta Garbo, but the world is a lot different now, and people have to start getting used to that. I have a partner, a mutant like you, and she's a pretty girl, but she looks like anyone else, until she does that thing that only she can do. Then, she's spectacular." Bucky looked at the girl and said, "Scales, fangs and all, I think you're stun..." his voice trailed off and he said, "Oh. You don't mean your appearance, do you? You mean something more inward, huh? Working gals... sometimes, you ladies have seen things.... done things..."

She reacted to his revelation about his team affiliation with surprise and his lips twitched. It had been so long since someone admired his membership to any group, that he felt... well, almost like himself again, twenty and righteously hopeful, standing proudly next to Cap, and if there was resentment that he had been made less as Steve was made more, it had never been because Steve made him feel that way. Brave, strong, brilliant with tactics, and still, at the end of the day, Captain America had called him Bucky and brother. Even in his darkest depths of brainwashed evil, there had been Steve, fighting for him, fighting for his soul. This guy that she was telling him about. It sounded like he was her Steve.

And, from what she said, it sounded like she was having the same amount of trouble believing it that he did.

Bucky stopped and as she put her arm around his to steer him along, he said, "Soldiers and working girls... we're both just fighting a war, huh, doing what it takes to keep ourselves alive, but the dreams, I imagine they are the same, aren't they?" Leaning into her as if he was about to impart a big secret, the man with the metal arm said, "I'll tell you something though. Ain't no one better for that guy. Not in his eyes. He knows you, knows what you do, knows who you are maybe better than you know? You're the cherry on his ice cream sundae, 'cuse the expression."

Whether or not she believed him, there was no telling, but she did reveal her name was Stacy X, a dramatic enough name, he supposed. "My name... is James Buchanan Barnes... but... I'm usually called Bucky. I'm over ninety years old. It's a... super soldier thing. Back in World War Two... I was Captain America's sidekick, I guess. Until things happened, and I ended up a slave and a weapon for most of a century."

She asked about his arm and he said, "Yeah, that's the biggest part of my slavery. Turned me from man to machine, until eventually, I couldn't remember what it was like to be anything different." He tapped his flesh fingers on the pertinent limb and said, "It hurts, Stacy. It hurts... and it will probably always hurt. That's a good thing though. Hurting means that no matter what else we are or have been turned into, hurting means there is a way to heal."



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Leaning into her as if he was about to impart a big secret, the man with the metal arm said, "I'll tell you something though. Ain't no one better for that guy. Not in his eyes.”

“...Maybe that's the problem.” Stacy said back in an equally conspiratorial stage whisper. “We got a lot've other eyes on us too.” Maybe not that stupid MTV show but the other members of XFI, certainly.

“He knows you, knows what you do, knows who you are maybe better than you know? You're the cherry on his ice cream sundae, 'cuse the expression.”

The knot in Stacy's stomach unravelled just a fraction as she burst out laughing. “Oh, honey, ha ha ha, I don't think I've been the cherry on anyone's anything for like twenty years but that's really sweet've you t'say!” She had to wipe at one eye carefully with a knuckle while he explained who he was. “Ninety?!” She glanced up at his hair and didn't see a single grey streak. Hearing he was a sidekick of sorts to Captain America, Stacy reached her own conclusions about what he'd been talking about earlier and wished she'd read more vintage comics.

“Yeah, that's the biggest part of my slavery. Turned me from man to machine, until eventually, I couldn't remember what it was like to be anything different.” He tapped his flesh fingers on the pertinent limb.

“Slavers'll treat you like a machine whether you got actual robot bits or not.” She muttered with a bitter kind of sympathy. Her early years running around California, she'd dealt with her fair share of pimps and traffickers. There were only so many times you could get away with biting their kind before they threatened to start pulling teeth out...

“It hurts, Stacy. It hurts... and it will probably always hurt.” She frowned, creasing up the markings on her face as she looked at Bucky's shoulder, trying to picture where, under his clothes, it joined his torso and how. “That's a good thing though. Hurting means that no matter what else we are or have been turned into, hurting means there is a way to heal.”

She looked up from his shoulder to meet his eyes, to see if even statements like that had to be accompanied by his poker face. It sounded like something he told himself to get through the day and she was wary of contradicting that. “Y'know, I didn't have y'down for an optimist that way.” Emotional pain was one thing – she really did believe things like hurt and anger were better than nothing because people who stopped caring wound up dead. But a constant physical reminder of how his body had been somebody else's commodity to rent out and mutilate? “If I got a souvenir like that, I wouldn't be havin' this conversation with you right now. Reckon I'd be halfway t'crazy, down in Florida helpin' Typhoid Mary cut guys t'ribbons for Kingpin or somethin'...” She shuddered slightly, thinking of what life could have been.

“I kill people's pain, y'know.” She ventured instead, clumsily trying to offer something positive. “Part've my power, like that thing 'only your partner does' I guess. I mess with brain chemicals for a livin'. Yeah, it's mostly sex stuff but you saw me give a guy an instant nap time back at the bar, right? And pain's less to do with nerve endin's, more t'do with hormones y'brain pumps out and soaks up. I've met a few of them 'healin' factor' types who just couldn't get anythin' else t'work for 'em. But nobody's immune ta their own brain.”

She offered a mischievous little smile, hint of fangs underneath dark lips. “I think I wanna get drunk but you can just have a free break from the arm-ache if you want. Take a couple hours time-out before we both go back ta puttin' on a good show for people too damn stupid t'give up on us... Don't you want just a little rest from being a big-shot Defender? I mean, you must've come out to Brooklyn for somethin', right?”
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“Y'know, I didn't have y'down for an optimist that way.” Stacy said to his words, and Bucky frowned down at her. He was not a particularly tall man, not six feet, but he was powerfully built, which made him look bigger than he was. So, he felt looming, but that was in his own mind, really. He was used to being something intimidating, something scary. A boogey man. A ghost.

But an optimist?

Bucky thought for a moment and then he said, "I don't think I'm an optimist, but I don't know that I'm a... what's the word? Pessimist? Yeah, no, I'm not either of those things, because that either sorta requires a belief in an unchanging life path. Either you walk in the light or you walk in the dark. I don't believe that, not for everyone." He shrugged, a lopsided hitch of the shoulder he had been born with, and said, "Oh, sure, there are some shining examples of humanity. I was... am... whatever... best friends with Captain fucking America, excuse my french, but I knew the guy when he was a scrawny ten year old. That's a guy in the light, hopeful, righteous, strongest man I ever met, even before he was what he is now. And, as for the dark, well, I've been ripped apart and rebuilt by monsters. If I didn't think there was a way to change, I would have eaten a bullet by now."

Actually, he wondered about that. He had vague memories of trying to kill himself years ago, forty years? Fifty? It had been in his programming to be unable to pull the trigger, but... he was no longer programmed, was he? How badly did he want the pain to end?

Stacy offered him a way to end it, explaining to him about her mutant abilities, and Bucky was surprised. He figured she was just a snake lady. He didn't really know a lot about mutants. Namor had been a mutant, and so was Toro, but it was so new then, such an anomaly. Considering the other strange people in their little gang of do-gooders, no one really thought about it. But now, every other person he knew was some sort of genetic evolution. Didn't mean he understood any of it.

She offered to stop the pain in his arm, the phantom pain that was caused by the damaged circuitry pulsing electric alarm through the cybernetic implants that allowed him to control this metal monstrosity. It was a tempting offer, generous, and god, he so wanted to say yes to her. But Bucky knew his mind was not going to just allow this to be a one time thing. His was a mind that had been forced into a malleable shape, it was quicksand, and if she gave him the peace that she promised, he knew for dead certain that he would want nothing more. He was addicted to being controlled, and there had been too many similar rewards when he was still nothing but the soldier.

"I appreciate it, Stacy," Bucky said, "If I trusted myself to stay in control, I might take you up on it. But I don't know that I can, and I just can't chance it." He smiled at her and said, "Besides, I'm already mesmerized by your pretty face, I think it's pretty selfish of you to want to make me more in love with you."

It was a little bit of a joke, but still mostly true. "I came out to Brooklyn because I was looking for the man I used to be," he explained. "Couldn't find him, though, so... maybe, I should try to be the man I am now, I guess. A bit broken, a bit in pain, but willing to jump into a pile of drunk bastards to come to a lady's aid. I guess that's going to have to be good enough, right?"
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When Bucky excused his 'French' Stacy just had to shoot him a wry smile and an arched eyebrow because, seriously, she'd been cursing up a storm all night. And it was hard to picture Captain America as a scrawny ten year old from the very neighbourhood they were walking through...

“If I didn't think there was a way to change, I would have eaten a bullet by now.”

“Okay, so maybe not an optimist then.” Stacy conceded. It wasn't a particularly shocking statement to someone who'd been involved in the fallout from several friends who'd come to that conclusion. She was the type who preferred that matter-of-factness most times. “How about a debonair-as-fuck pragmatist?” She shrugged.

At the offer of a pain killer dosing, she didn't feel him tense up since his metal arm wasn't capable of the subtle reactions she was used to gauging. But she did get a scent off him that tasted like temptation. It was in the same flavour group as desire but just that little bit softer, like comparing the taste of mango to blood oranges.

“I appreciate it, Stacy,” Bucky said, “If I trusted myself to stay in control, I might take you up on it. But I don't know that I can, and I just can't chance it.”

“Okay, no problem.” Stacy nodded her understanding with a sad smile. If there was anything beyond empathy for the soldier's situation, it was actually rooted in a situation well beyond meeting Bucky. It was a feeling of regret over never offering Guido the same chance to opt out before she started cutting his pain down. It was impossible to see someone you really truly loved wandering around in so much agony. But it was worrying that she'd maybe never know if he felt the same way. There was a chance she'd just created an addict who was blissfully living on endless freebies by keeping her around.

He smiled at her and said, “Besides, I'm already mesmerized by your pretty face, I think it's pretty selfish of you to want to make me more in love with you.”

Stacy descended into a fit of giggles, completely unfettered. Her grip on the cyber-arm was the only thing keeping her upright for a couple of seconds. “Flattery, old man, will get you absolutely nowhere.” She grinned. “But feel free to keep tryin'.” It was the kind of laughter flatscans didn't often see the 'deformed' mutants burst into face to face since usually those kinds of mutants didn't have much to be happy about outside of Mutant Town, Sanctuary or Xavier's school. Maybe it was because she was still a tiny bit punch-drunk. And drink drunk. But Stacy had lived most of her life outside of the typical x-gene ghettos, so she had a lot of practice with not giving a tiny rat's ass. “And I'll try t'be less of a selfish bitch.” She finally managed in a semi-successful deadpan. “But I make no promises.” Dabbing at the corner of her reptilian eyes with a knuckle, she asked what Bucky had come out for.

“I came out to Brooklyn because I was looking for the man I used to be,” he explained. “Couldn't find him, though, so... maybe, I should try to be the man I am now, I guess. A bit broken, a bit in pain, but willing to jump into a pile of drunk bastards to come to a lady's aid. I guess that's going to have to be good enough, right?”

“Right.” Stacy said imperially, raising her head up. It felt like they'd wandered a path through Brooklyn far enough away from the Wythe to avoid getting pulled up about the fight. So she wasn't going to stay bowed down, hiding her scales under a curtain of hair. Especially not after hearing such a resolution.

“I feel like I need to toast that or something.” She said. Since they were passing a little grocery store she held up a finger in a 'one minute' gesture. “Wait for me?”

She disappeared inside, an electronic 'bing-bong' sound signalling that the door had been pushed open. It wasn't long before the same noise hailed her exit. Stacy was already unscrewing the cap on what was a modest size bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in a paper bag. It was small enough to fit in her purse and carry home since she didn't plan on getting anywhere near finishing the thing in one session. Unless Bucky wanted it. “To being exactly who ya are now. Because maybe it's more than good enough.” She took a swig and handed the bottle over. As the liquor called up a mild, familiar burn in her gut, she pondered how much she'd changed since settling in New York. Going forwards, how much could the people around her, like Bucky who'd seen and survived so much, teach her about acceptance, hope and a myriad of other things she perhaps lacked?

Once they were clear of the shop, Stacy got a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a packet of candy sticks. They were the old-fashioned kind, made out of chalky white stuff and packaged to look vaguely like cigarettes. “Clerk-guy back in there was giving me the holier-than-thou stink eye even as I was handin' him my damn money. So I grabbed me a little sugary compensation while he was gettin' my change.” She shook two sticks out and bit the end off one, crunching it loudly. She took the vodka back, took another sip, then continued to chew. “Next best thing to havin' a mixer.” She explained after swallowing. “Tastes like bein' sixteen again.” She held the bottle and remaining candy stick out in offering.
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"What-ma-tist?" Bucky asked, "Not really sure what that means. I can kill a man with a paperclip and a wad of chewing gum, but when it comes to college words, lets just say I left school in tenth grade and never looked back." He shrugged, "Debonair though, pfft. That's for guys like Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn, by way of some time in Russia," he looked around, at the strangeness of the built up neighborhood and said, "a whole lot of time in Russia."

She took his refusal and teasing flattery with good natured humor and a peal of laughter that made her, for that moment, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, scales or no. He smiled, "You can't blame an old man for trying." He thought about it though, wondering just how long it had been since he had spent any real time with a woman, not like he spent time with Jac. She was a kid, his partner, the granddaughter of one of his old friends, long dead while he stayed in his prime. To think too deeply into all this lead to madness. He might already be mad, he wasn't quite sure. He was a long ass way from sane, that was for sure.

He was shaken from his thoughts by Stacy asking him for a moment while she darted into a small mom and pop, and he slouched against a lamp post, wondering to himself exactly why he was waiting for this girl. He should head home to the Defenders HQ in the Flatiron building, but in for a penny, in for a pound, he guessed. She needed an escort home, given how tipsy she was, and he... well, he was enjoying the company of someone who didn't look at him as a weapon, a threat, or a madman.

She returned and handed him a bottle of vodka, toasting “To being exactly who ya are now. Because maybe it's more than good enough.”

"Может быть, это более чем достаточно," Bucky echoed, and he took a swig of the vodka, smiling at the taste. "Latvian. Only used for international export. Russian Stoli is made in Kaliningrad, and you can taste the difference. There are memories in my head where for years it seemed, I lived off vodka. The way I was kept... eh, sorry, more drink loosening my tongue."

Showing him the candy cigarettes, and telling him that she had stolen them because the clerk was giving her the stink eye. Bucky stopped and said, "Hold on, you stole these? Stacy, that's part of the problem. When someone gets treated like shit, they turn around and treat the next guy like shit and then the circle never ends. I died so that everyone could be free, that's what I believed, then... and still now I guess. It's probably old fashioned, but...I think I am a little old fashioned, myself."
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“I can kill a man with a paperclip and a wad of chewing gum, but when it comes to college words, lets just say I left school in tenth grade and never looked back.”

“Hey, you lasted a year longer than I did then.” Stacy nudged him with her elbow, forgetting for a second that the arm wasn't flesh. “And I tie knots in a cherry stem with my tongue. But I also read.” She smiled. “Someone at that Flat Iron place needs to buy you a Kindle.” She wanted to tell him that he could definitely give Humphrey Bogart a run for his money but she had a feeling he might be right about Cary Grant...

After handing over the vodka he came up with a Russian reply to the toast. “...Moj-yet bit, eta bolay chem... dastat-ochna...” She tried to repeat but only succeeded in mangling the words completely. She just ended up laughing. “Man, I sound like I'm talklin' round a mouthful of eggyokes...”

Bucky, meanwhile, was assessing the booze. “Latvian. Only used for international export. Russian Stoli is made in Kaliningrad, and you can taste the difference.”

“Hey, get a load of Mr Vodka Expert.” She decided not to admit that her personal favourite was the stuff Smirnoff dumped 'fluffed marshmallow' flavouring into.

“There are memories in my head where for years it seemed, I lived off vodka. The way I was kept... eh, sorry, more drink loosening my tongue.”

“S'good for ya!” Stacy reached up to take his chin in her thumb and forefinger, giving his head the absolute tiniest of shakes. “A loose tongue that is, not living offa vodka. I mean... the booze should get bottled up, the bad memories shouldn't. Just easier said than done. I get that.”

When Bucky pulled them to a halt over the pilfered candy sticks (of all the things she was guilty of that night?!), it genuinely threw her for a loop.

“Hold on, you stole these? Stacy, that's part of the problem.”

“The problem that he was an ass-weasel?” She asked, completely deadpan. “Missing candy sticks do not an ass-weasel make.”

“When someone gets treated like shit, they turn around and treat the next guy like shit and then the circle never ends. I died so that everyone could be free, that's what I believed, then... and still now I guess. It's probably old fashioned, but... I think I am a little old fashioned, myself.”

“Ain't you just...” Stacy sighed. And then she took another bite of candy stick, crunching it obnoxiously loudly. The freedom he died for didn't extend to what she saw as 'fairly redistributing wealth'. Here then was the root of why the assassin had made it into the Defenders while the whore threw her lot in with the Thieves Guild.

She stopped to take another swig of vodka, contemplating how earnest Bucky was (her senses told her he wasn't really drunk drunk, no matter how much he pretended otherwise). If she let Captain goddamn America's BFF stay appalled at her, she just knew she was going to regret it. So she decided to give the story a happier ending, hoping she could maybe salvage something of their odd encounter as a story to tell Guido later.

“Maybe old fashioned is good... Old fashioned helped me out and called me a cherry on an ice cream sundae.” She looked at Bucky with a roguish smile. “Maybe I'll give old fashioned a try.” Just for tonight at least.

She turned around and disappeared back into the shop. After a few minutes she came out with an unreadable expression. “Told him I forgot to pay...” She explained as they started to walk away. “Sooo...” A smile broke out on her face once more and she produced a packet of bubblegum. “He took the money, thanked me an' gave me a freebie!” She handed the gum to Bucky and took back the bottle of vodka for another swig. “There y'go, soldier. You kinda earned that one.”
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