James "Bucky" Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
a_survivor) wrote2012-02-26 05:47 pm
a_survivor) wrote2012-02-26 05:47 pm
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writers_muses 136.5.D - picture prompt
Prompt
We ride by a graveyard, and a figure is standing in it, tall and thin and the setting sun's shadows make it look as though it's carrying a scythe. The road is empty, so I turn to look without worrying about a kick on my shin from Nat. For now. Until she notices me seeing that, of course.
An image of death. Almost cliché at it, too.
Maybe I should be frightened. Or worried.
But my relationship with death is rather more complicated. Anyone who has been dead - actually dead, not nearly - twice has a complicated relationship with it. White lady, dark lady, the man with the scythe, whatever.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not blasé about it, or careless. Well, I do tend to be a little bit on the careless side, but there are situations where the only way out is forward and the only way forward is risky as all hell, and I'm not going to leave things be, even when charging head-first into danger is the alternative. But I'm not careless about getting killed. It just... worked out that way. Twice.
But I'm not going to get worried about dying just off a death omen, or even something that's possible to interpret that way. For one thing, the other two times, there was no warning. Well, if you can call World War II or a God-level variety of somebody who hates me powered up by a hammer with incredible power as 'no warning', that is. Death has never looked like a robed figure with a sharp implement. It looked like a bomb-holding airplane, once, and big and green and furious the second time. I've seen it look like a bullet, like fire, like a bathtub full of water. An icy ocean. A father's embrace.
Hell, death's looked like me a few times, too. Where 'a few' times counts in the dozens.
I lean forward, Nat following my motion without hesitation, and speed further.
There are real things to worry about, after all. Three people I trained, conditioned in bone-deep propaganda and placed to make it possible for them to be invisible. Three people who are most definitely in hostile hands - and I know just how hostile - stirring up trouble of proportions we don't even know yet with an entity which is very much on the powerful and genius side of things.
And I know who they are and where they start from. So we can pick the trails, and hopefully stop them before they bring ... many innocent people to their graves, at best. This country - and possibly a lot of the democratic faith around the world - toppling at worst.
Those are actual worries. Not the play of the light in the gathering dusk, or a graveyard by the roadside.
Although I still want to know if I can do that gorilla in. And if I say that out loud, I'm definitely getting a kick on the ankle. And Nat can pack some kick.
Muse: Bucky
Fandom: Marvel/Captain America
Word count: ~500
A/N: Spoilers for up to Winter Soldier #2
We ride by a graveyard, and a figure is standing in it, tall and thin and the setting sun's shadows make it look as though it's carrying a scythe. The road is empty, so I turn to look without worrying about a kick on my shin from Nat. For now. Until she notices me seeing that, of course.
An image of death. Almost cliché at it, too.
Maybe I should be frightened. Or worried.
But my relationship with death is rather more complicated. Anyone who has been dead - actually dead, not nearly - twice has a complicated relationship with it. White lady, dark lady, the man with the scythe, whatever.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not blasé about it, or careless. Well, I do tend to be a little bit on the careless side, but there are situations where the only way out is forward and the only way forward is risky as all hell, and I'm not going to leave things be, even when charging head-first into danger is the alternative. But I'm not careless about getting killed. It just... worked out that way. Twice.
But I'm not going to get worried about dying just off a death omen, or even something that's possible to interpret that way. For one thing, the other two times, there was no warning. Well, if you can call World War II or a God-level variety of somebody who hates me powered up by a hammer with incredible power as 'no warning', that is. Death has never looked like a robed figure with a sharp implement. It looked like a bomb-holding airplane, once, and big and green and furious the second time. I've seen it look like a bullet, like fire, like a bathtub full of water. An icy ocean. A father's embrace.
Hell, death's looked like me a few times, too. Where 'a few' times counts in the dozens.
I lean forward, Nat following my motion without hesitation, and speed further.
There are real things to worry about, after all. Three people I trained, conditioned in bone-deep propaganda and placed to make it possible for them to be invisible. Three people who are most definitely in hostile hands - and I know just how hostile - stirring up trouble of proportions we don't even know yet with an entity which is very much on the powerful and genius side of things.
And I know who they are and where they start from. So we can pick the trails, and hopefully stop them before they bring ... many innocent people to their graves, at best. This country - and possibly a lot of the democratic faith around the world - toppling at worst.
Those are actual worries. Not the play of the light in the gathering dusk, or a graveyard by the roadside.
Although I still want to know if I can do that gorilla in. And if I say that out loud, I'm definitely getting a kick on the ankle. And Nat can pack some kick.
Muse: Bucky
Fandom: Marvel/Captain America
Word count: ~500
A/N: Spoilers for up to Winter Soldier #2