cursed-with-knowledge

[cursed-with-knowledge]

She chuckled, "Three? Seems too many if I'm honest"

"I mean Tony Stark. Big guy. Iron man and what not" she gestures with her hand, drinking her coffee.

"I only applied for money. Only place that'd pay me a decent wage considering I dropped out of highschool" she tells her.

"This coffee is good" she hums, "where'd you get it?"

Deyanira was pacing around her "lab" when she heard the door open.

She caught a glance of you but didn't stop, picking up tools and working from one table to another.

"You know caffeine doesn't work on me" she says in a hurry, "I digest it too fast or something. But who needs caffeine when you have this" she points to her head.

"Some days it just goes boom! And now I have a talking toaster and 3 half machines. They are half because I don't have enough money to finish them but just you see once I get my pay cheque this will look so much cooler" she rambled as she worked.

"so what brings you here?" She asks, still focused on her crafts.

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Nana just stood there, paper bag in hand, listening to her ramble about something. "Paycheck? I thought Ms.Deya just worked for herself" she chuckled. "It might not work, but it sure does taste good" she handed her the bag. "It's coffee by the way. And some cake"

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Well working for yourself doesn't get you much money" she grins, "I got a job under Stark"

She takes the coffee and sips some, "For as useless it may be I still love a nice sweet coffee, so thank you"

Deyanira was pacing around her "lab" when she heard the door open.

She caught a glance of you but didn't stop, picking up tools and working from one table to another.

"You know caffeine doesn't work on me" she says in a hurry, "I digest it too fast or something. But who needs caffeine when you have this" she points to her head.

"Some days it just goes boom! And now I have a talking toaster and 3 half machines. They are half because I don't have enough money to finish them but just you see once I get my pay cheque this will look so much cooler" she rambled as she worked.

"so what brings you here?" She asks, still focused on her crafts.

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Nana just stood there, paper bag in hand, listening to her ramble about something. "Paycheck? I thought Ms.Deya just worked for herself" she chuckled. "It might not work, but it sure does taste good" she handed her the bag. "It's coffee by the way. And some cake"

[cursed-with-knowledge]

She hadn't had the job long but God was it exhausting.

She placed a cup of coffee on his work bench, "Glad to inform that no labs will be catching on fire anytime soon" she says.

"What ya working on?"

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony didn't look up immediately, but the scent of coffee had him reaching blindly with one hand, mumbling a low, grateful, “You’re an angel, Deya.”

Only after a long sip—one that visibly brought life back into him—did he glance up, eyes a little red-rimmed, hair a mess, grease smudged across his cheek like war paint.

“No fires? What, are we finally running out of volatile chemicals or just interns dumb enough to play with them?” he quipped, half-smiling.

He gestured at the open casing on the bench, wires spilling out like metallic guts. “Trying to recalibrate the dampening interface on the new micro-reactor. It’s twitchy. Like a toddler with espresso levels of energy and a death wish.”

He blinked at her. “Why, you volunteering to babysit it?”

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"And have it explode in my face? No thanks. Not in my job description" she says but she leans forward, checking it out either way.

"I rearranged some of the labs. Put proper warning. Some scientists assume the new interns just know stuff. Surprise surprise they don't" she says as she squints her eyes at the machine.

"You’re probably getting feedback interference from the flux regulators. Reroute the phase couplers through the tertiary stabilizer and invert the polarity on the containment coils—just enough to realign the harmonic sync. That should bring your dampening interface back into equilibrium." She advices

She hadn't had the job long but God was it exhausting.

She placed a cup of coffee on his work bench, "Glad to inform that no labs will be catching on fire anytime soon" she says.

"What ya working on?"

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony didn't look up immediately, but the scent of coffee had him reaching blindly with one hand, mumbling a low, grateful, “You’re an angel, Deya.”

Only after a long sip—one that visibly brought life back into him—did he glance up, eyes a little red-rimmed, hair a mess, grease smudged across his cheek like war paint.

“No fires? What, are we finally running out of volatile chemicals or just interns dumb enough to play with them?” he quipped, half-smiling.

He gestured at the open casing on the bench, wires spilling out like metallic guts. “Trying to recalibrate the dampening interface on the new micro-reactor. It’s twitchy. Like a toddler with espresso levels of energy and a death wish.”

He blinked at her. “Why, you volunteering to babysit it?”

[cursed-with-knowledge]

Open Starter

Deyanira was back in her "lab". Which was just an abandoned warehouse she had turned into her home and lab.

She needed to do something. Whether it was make or jump off a building to test her flight or explode something.

Just anything. As long as it didn't force her to think about herself

If she did all she'd come to is the realization that she doesn't quite know what she's doing. All she has done is create, create and create.

That she threw herself into this trance of inventing and disassociating for so long after her father's death that she didn't realize that she wasn't doing anything of purpose

Everything she created has a purpose but what's the point when it doesn't serve anyone else?

When she never lets it serve it's function because the purpose it really holds isn't it's work but holding her together.

And she was thinking again. Too much.

God this is why she liked being here. She hated knowing the date. She hated knowing exactly how long it had been.

She hated that the earth rotates and that humans had made a time where every year it came back to the same day without fail.

She heard something drop.

Her head snapped to see who was standing there....

No pressure tags (ask to be added or removed)

@under0-0s @official-james-b @oh-to-be-a-murderer

And anyone else

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Actually you never told me what I was tired to do" she says.

"I was just told to bring you coffee and just decided to tell you that you need to decide your physics and engineering from your chemistry sector because" Another BOOM.

"Aren't these guys scientists?? Does everyone devolve to a toddler in a crisis" she asks, not even sure what was happening anymore.

"Give me an official title or job description and I can promise you no lab will explode again" she leans forward.

"Am I a crisis manager or do I bring you your coffee?" She asks hurried, hoping to not hear another explosion.

Places coffee

"Here's your coffee and lab 14 is on fire but lab 7 made a freeze ray or something so it's under control....maybe" she says.

"Actually I thing the chemicals used for the freeze ray might make the fire wors-" BOOM

She pauses, "So you have 2 less labs now-"

- @cursed-with-knowledge

“Deya, remind me again—did I hire you for crisis management or just to narrate the downfall of modern science with a latte in hand?”

BOOM echoes again, louder.

“...That better not be the espresso machine. That thing cost more than my first car.” pauses. “Okay. Slightly less than the car. But still.”

He finally glances up, deadpan expression.

“You’ve got five minutes. Either salvage what's left of the freeze ray or convince Fury it was a ‘planned demolition test’. Your call, firestarter.”

[cursed-with-knowledge]

She takes that in, still not sure what to do.

"I don't know what scares me other than the possibility that I can make all of this yet there's a chance it all means nothing if I don't do anything about it" she says.

"And personal doesn't help people. Personal doesn't help make stuff. There's a reason people get stuck in cycles of grief, hatred and heartbreak. It's because they make it personal" she states simply with a shrug.

She lets her gaze wander, not really looking at him, "I don't believe I'm special but..."

"There has to be some reason I exist. I don't create anything without a reason or purpose so how can I assume the opposite for myself I just-"

She what?

She doesn't quite know what she's doing? That all she has done is create, create and create.

That she threw herself into this trance of inventing and disassociating for so long after her father's death that she didn't realize that she wasn't doing anything of purpose?

Everything she created has a purpose but what's the point when it doesn't serve anyone else?

When she never lets anyone else be served by it because the purpose it really holds isn't it's work but holding her together.

"I don't know" she said simply.

Good news I don't half ass anything nor do I belief in signs.

Bad news I don't know what scares me. I've jumped off buildings and exploded my home more times than I can count

- @cursed-with-knowledge

"So, what's left? What's new that makes your heart race a little?" He leans forward. "If you've done it all, maybe it's time to break your own mold. You gotta make it personal. Find something that doesn't just scare you, but something that makes you want to fight for it."

Pause.

"Maybe you don’t know yet, but when you do, you’ll feel it. And then you’ll run with it."

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Hired?" She looks at him confused.

"For what? Do I bring you coffee and print papers? Or can I go to the labs?" She asked, hoping her excitement at the thought of getting to see the lab wasn't obvious.

"Actually ignore that. I'm getting paid, I'm not asking questions" she shrugs.

"How do you like your coffee? I'm assuming black"

"While I get that most of my interactions with you haven't left the best impression I'm here for a job"

"Not because of any reason other than I need money and your company has the most livable wage"

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like he’s trying very hard not to enjoy this too much.

“Alright, Deya. Let’s cut the formalities. You’ve got sarcasm, honesty, and questionable taste in employers—three things I look for in an employee. Let’s just hope your skillset makes up for the fact that you roast your boss before you’re hired.”

“You’re hired. Don’t touch the arc reactor prototypes, don’t microwave anything with metal, and do bring coffee. We’ll be fine.”

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Heart's still beating."

NARRATIVE RP : READ-ONLY MODE : JAMES' JOURNALS.

PLEASE LISTEN TO THE MUSIC TO ENHANCE THE READING EXPERIENCE.

The nightlife was pulsating, but not for James Barnes. Velvet Hour, the upscale nightclub that was a shimmering hotspot among the city's elite, pulsed through its speakers with deafening music that vibrated the floor where he walked through its doors. The thumping beat shook his chest, but James was not here to experience the flashy lights, packed dance floors, or wild atmosphere that almost emanated from every inch of its walls. He was not here to experience any of that.

No, James was there for a single reason only—Viktor Sokolov. The feared kingpin of smuggling who had slipped through his grasp during their previous run-in, and now he was tracking him down. Sokolov had been transporting guns illicitly, operating through coded messages and back-channel negotiations. But now, James was on his trail, and his prey was right there, concealed amongst this sea of lights and music.

He moved through the nightclub purposefully, his cold, analytical eyes sweeping across each face, each shadow, each corner. The smell of liquor mixed with the rich, saccharine sweetness of cheap perfume filled his nostrils. James didn’t mind the chaos; he was a seasoned veteran of places like this. But that didn’t make him a fan of it.

“Yo, Bucky!"

The voice cut through his reverie, and James automatically glanced in its direction, coming face to face with Carson, a gangly frat boy sporting a goofy grin on his face at all times. By his side stood Lucas, a guy who had no concept of having a personal space bubble around him. The two of them were beckoning him over as if he was being summoned by them specifically to meet up all evening.

James didn't smile, though. His eyes darted back across the room, towards the packed VIP area. There, he caught a glimpse of Sokolov, tucked away among the bodies, reclined at one of the private booths. His lackeys stood around him, casual, assured, unaware of what was gathering around them. But James was not going to lower his guard once. Not for a moment.

I am not here for this, he muttered to himself. I am going to get a quick drink and go.

"Oh, come on!" Carson laughed, thumping James on his back hard enough to make him stumble. "This is Velvet Hour, Bucky! You've got to get in on this! Drinks are on us, man!" Lucas chimed in with a over-the-top cheer.

James scarcely reacted, his face unreadable. He felt the call of the mission, the urge to pursue Sokolov right away, but he needed to fit in. It would take a while before his target would make a move, and James could indulge in a couple of minutes, play along.

"I do not wish to be here," said James, folding his arms across his chest. "The lights are too intense, and this music makes my head ache."

Carson smirked, taking James' reluctance as a challenge. "Oh, come on, Bucky, I already know you are that kind of guy who tells you he doesn't want to have a good time, but then goes on to make that party blow up."

Lucas nodded eagerly. "Right! We need you here! Come on, man, you are the best at making everyone think you don't care, but we know you're just faking." His words were a bit slurred, alcohol now beginning to take its toll.

The harder James tried to shut them down, the harder they pressed on. "Just one drink," teased Carson, taking James by the sleeve and pulling him into the packed bar area. The flash of lights, the yelling, the bodies jostling against his own—it was all a jumbled mess now. But even as his frustration grew, James couldn't shake a gnawing sense that he needed to have his eyes fixed on Sokolov.

“Okay, okay,” James finally gave in, making a tiny scowl. “I'll have a drink, but then I'm gone.”

The frat boys clapped, unaware of the tension broiling below his calm exterior. He joined them at the bar, his hand lingering against the inside of his jacket where his weapon was hidden. His thoughts were not on the alcohol or on the raucous crowd—it was focused on his target, still seated far across the room, engrossed in conversation amongst a couple of high-profile players. The bartender set a drink in front of him, but James hardly noticed, taking the drink down in a single swallow before slapping down the empty glass on the counter.

“Know what?” Lucas said, still a bit too loudly, “I have no idea how you maintain that cool demeanor so well. You should absolutely get involved out there and show everybody you are capable of having a blast, too."

James said nothing. His eyes snapped back to Sokolov’s former booth, but Sokolov was gone. He stood there unmoving, his eyes raking back through the crowd. Then he spotted him. Sokolov was making his way across the room toward the rear exit, his bodyguards by his side, a hint of hasty purpose in his stride.

Time to move.

James pushed past the frat guys with a muttered excuse, his body already switching into go-mode. Stay low, but not lose sight of his prey. He weaved through the throng of people on the dance floor, the thumping music reverberating around him like a hammer blow. The bodies pressed together, sweating against each other, lights flickering, strobes flashing—all of it providing ideal cover. Nice for a guy like James to slip in undetected, but not quite ideal to conceal a man like Viktor Sokolov.

Just as James was approaching the rear door, he spotted it—Sokolov was already half through the door, and a bodyguard was peeking around his shoulder, alert. James ran, dodging through crowds, his legs pounding furiously. He couldn’t lose Sokolov again.

Before he could advance any further, a voice snapped from behind him.

“Yo, where you going?”

James' instincts took over, and around he whirled, grabbing at the individual by the collar before he was able to grasp James. "Not now," he snapped, shoving Carson's hand from his arm. The frat boy was too inebriated to be aware of the deadly undertone in James' voice.

James gave a final push past the other student and ran towards the door once more.

Sokolov was slipping through the door. James glimpsed him now—so near, yet so far. His quarry was quick, weaving through the crowd with skill, but James possessed skill enough to match his speed. His heart rate increased as he rushed through the nightclub, dodging around patrons, the pulsing lights a maddening blur.

It then occurred.

A gunshot pierced through the music, a burst of light. There was no time for James to react, really. The bullet clipped his side, a biting pain. The crowd didn’t blink, didn’t break stride. The shots weren’t even real to these people.

But James was aware that it was. And it was not a random shot. Sokolov hadn't merely raised a weapon and shot at him.

James ducked behind a vast pillar, his heart racing rapidly. He muttered a curse, taking advantage of the instant to analyze what was happening. Sokolov was indeed moving. The individual was nearly at the door, making his way towards the back alleyway.

You're not escaping again, he muttered to himself, already noticing the blood trickling down his side. His instincts went into high gear, and he emerged from behind a column, his eyes on the smuggler.

James sprinted like lightening. As Sokolov opened the door to make a getaway, James acted.

He reached Sokolov in a matter of seconds, slamming Sokolov into the rear wall, his forearm pressed into Sokolov’s throat. Sokolov gave a stifled cry of shock and desperation.

"Thought you could run again?" he hissed, squeezing his grip around her harder. "No. Not this time."

Sokolov strained, attempting to free his arm, but the grip only grew stronger. The weapon in his hand shook as he tried to raise it, but James was stronger, quicker. Sokolov’s wrist was twisted, stripping Sokolov of his weapon in a single, smooth motion.

"I don't think so," said James. The smuggler was perspiring, his eyes wide with fear.

Within a single, swift motion, James brought down the smuggler. It was fast, effective. No mercy. No hesitation.

The task was accomplished.

But as he stood there, panting, bleeding from his side, he was able to catch a final glance around at everything. The nightclub was still thumping, still filled with frat boys who were laughing, still partying, oblivious to what had almost become a deadly struggle in amongst them. James exhaled a deep breath and walked away. His work here was complete. The club went on raging, the party never ceasing—ignorant of the violence and death that was a part of its evening.

NO PRESSURE TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @thund3randrain @3thereality @lunamarvels

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Definitely one of the worst ways to go. Imagine the last thing you hear before leaving this word is "dude that's crazy" " she did a stupid voice, still working on the wound.

"All of the fights in bars means you should get handy with a first aid kit but I learned this myself" she pulled out the bullets with her gloved hands and started closing the wound.

"This might hurt but "you've been thought worse", haven't you?" she mocked before stitching the wound.

"I wasn't stalking you just didn't want you seeing me and letting my manager know I'm 17" she says, focused on the wound.

"Heart's still beating."

NARRATIVE RP : READ-ONLY MODE : JAMES' JOURNALS.

PLEASE LISTEN TO THE MUSIC TO ENHANCE THE READING EXPERIENCE.

The nightlife was pulsating, but not for James Barnes. Velvet Hour, the upscale nightclub that was a shimmering hotspot among the city's elite, pulsed through its speakers with deafening music that vibrated the floor where he walked through its doors. The thumping beat shook his chest, but James was not here to experience the flashy lights, packed dance floors, or wild atmosphere that almost emanated from every inch of its walls. He was not here to experience any of that.

No, James was there for a single reason only—Viktor Sokolov. The feared kingpin of smuggling who had slipped through his grasp during their previous run-in, and now he was tracking him down. Sokolov had been transporting guns illicitly, operating through coded messages and back-channel negotiations. But now, James was on his trail, and his prey was right there, concealed amongst this sea of lights and music.

He moved through the nightclub purposefully, his cold, analytical eyes sweeping across each face, each shadow, each corner. The smell of liquor mixed with the rich, saccharine sweetness of cheap perfume filled his nostrils. James didn’t mind the chaos; he was a seasoned veteran of places like this. But that didn’t make him a fan of it.

“Yo, Bucky!"

The voice cut through his reverie, and James automatically glanced in its direction, coming face to face with Carson, a gangly frat boy sporting a goofy grin on his face at all times. By his side stood Lucas, a guy who had no concept of having a personal space bubble around him. The two of them were beckoning him over as if he was being summoned by them specifically to meet up all evening.

James didn't smile, though. His eyes darted back across the room, towards the packed VIP area. There, he caught a glimpse of Sokolov, tucked away among the bodies, reclined at one of the private booths. His lackeys stood around him, casual, assured, unaware of what was gathering around them. But James was not going to lower his guard once. Not for a moment.

I am not here for this, he muttered to himself. I am going to get a quick drink and go.

"Oh, come on!" Carson laughed, thumping James on his back hard enough to make him stumble. "This is Velvet Hour, Bucky! You've got to get in on this! Drinks are on us, man!" Lucas chimed in with a over-the-top cheer.

James scarcely reacted, his face unreadable. He felt the call of the mission, the urge to pursue Sokolov right away, but he needed to fit in. It would take a while before his target would make a move, and James could indulge in a couple of minutes, play along.

"I do not wish to be here," said James, folding his arms across his chest. "The lights are too intense, and this music makes my head ache."

Carson smirked, taking James' reluctance as a challenge. "Oh, come on, Bucky, I already know you are that kind of guy who tells you he doesn't want to have a good time, but then goes on to make that party blow up."

Lucas nodded eagerly. "Right! We need you here! Come on, man, you are the best at making everyone think you don't care, but we know you're just faking." His words were a bit slurred, alcohol now beginning to take its toll.

The harder James tried to shut them down, the harder they pressed on. "Just one drink," teased Carson, taking James by the sleeve and pulling him into the packed bar area. The flash of lights, the yelling, the bodies jostling against his own—it was all a jumbled mess now. But even as his frustration grew, James couldn't shake a gnawing sense that he needed to have his eyes fixed on Sokolov.

“Okay, okay,” James finally gave in, making a tiny scowl. “I'll have a drink, but then I'm gone.”

The frat boys clapped, unaware of the tension broiling below his calm exterior. He joined them at the bar, his hand lingering against the inside of his jacket where his weapon was hidden. His thoughts were not on the alcohol or on the raucous crowd—it was focused on his target, still seated far across the room, engrossed in conversation amongst a couple of high-profile players. The bartender set a drink in front of him, but James hardly noticed, taking the drink down in a single swallow before slapping down the empty glass on the counter.

“Know what?” Lucas said, still a bit too loudly, “I have no idea how you maintain that cool demeanor so well. You should absolutely get involved out there and show everybody you are capable of having a blast, too."

James said nothing. His eyes snapped back to Sokolov’s former booth, but Sokolov was gone. He stood there unmoving, his eyes raking back through the crowd. Then he spotted him. Sokolov was making his way across the room toward the rear exit, his bodyguards by his side, a hint of hasty purpose in his stride.

Time to move.

James pushed past the frat guys with a muttered excuse, his body already switching into go-mode. Stay low, but not lose sight of his prey. He weaved through the throng of people on the dance floor, the thumping music reverberating around him like a hammer blow. The bodies pressed together, sweating against each other, lights flickering, strobes flashing—all of it providing ideal cover. Nice for a guy like James to slip in undetected, but not quite ideal to conceal a man like Viktor Sokolov.

Just as James was approaching the rear door, he spotted it—Sokolov was already half through the door, and a bodyguard was peeking around his shoulder, alert. James ran, dodging through crowds, his legs pounding furiously. He couldn’t lose Sokolov again.

Before he could advance any further, a voice snapped from behind him.

“Yo, where you going?”

James' instincts took over, and around he whirled, grabbing at the individual by the collar before he was able to grasp James. "Not now," he snapped, shoving Carson's hand from his arm. The frat boy was too inebriated to be aware of the deadly undertone in James' voice.

James gave a final push past the other student and ran towards the door once more.

Sokolov was slipping through the door. James glimpsed him now—so near, yet so far. His quarry was quick, weaving through the crowd with skill, but James possessed skill enough to match his speed. His heart rate increased as he rushed through the nightclub, dodging around patrons, the pulsing lights a maddening blur.

It then occurred.

A gunshot pierced through the music, a burst of light. There was no time for James to react, really. The bullet clipped his side, a biting pain. The crowd didn’t blink, didn’t break stride. The shots weren’t even real to these people.

But James was aware that it was. And it was not a random shot. Sokolov hadn't merely raised a weapon and shot at him.

James ducked behind a vast pillar, his heart racing rapidly. He muttered a curse, taking advantage of the instant to analyze what was happening. Sokolov was indeed moving. The individual was nearly at the door, making his way towards the back alleyway.

You're not escaping again, he muttered to himself, already noticing the blood trickling down his side. His instincts went into high gear, and he emerged from behind a column, his eyes on the smuggler.

James sprinted like lightening. As Sokolov opened the door to make a getaway, James acted.

He reached Sokolov in a matter of seconds, slamming Sokolov into the rear wall, his forearm pressed into Sokolov’s throat. Sokolov gave a stifled cry of shock and desperation.

"Thought you could run again?" he hissed, squeezing his grip around her harder. "No. Not this time."

Sokolov strained, attempting to free his arm, but the grip only grew stronger. The weapon in his hand shook as he tried to raise it, but James was stronger, quicker. Sokolov’s wrist was twisted, stripping Sokolov of his weapon in a single, smooth motion.

"I don't think so," said James. The smuggler was perspiring, his eyes wide with fear.

Within a single, swift motion, James brought down the smuggler. It was fast, effective. No mercy. No hesitation.

The task was accomplished.

But as he stood there, panting, bleeding from his side, he was able to catch a final glance around at everything. The nightclub was still thumping, still filled with frat boys who were laughing, still partying, oblivious to what had almost become a deadly struggle in amongst them. James exhaled a deep breath and walked away. His work here was complete. The club went on raging, the party never ceasing—ignorant of the violence and death that was a part of its evening.

NO PRESSURE TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @thund3randrain @3thereality @lunamarvels

[cursed-with-knowledge]

Deyanira wasn't one for parties. Which was why the only reason she was here was because she was bartending. Easy to lie about your age when they are desperate for workers.

She had noticed James with a few frat boys. It was hard to imagine him knowing the two loud and obnoxious guys being friends but she guessed she didn't know him that well.

Then she saw it all happen. She had kept an eye on him, not wanting him to see her

Her eyes widened and she looked as the clock struck and she was off shift, she threw off her apron running towards where she has last scene Bucky.

She found him, shirt covered in blood and trying to get on his bike.

"Are you dumb?" She exclaimed, pulling him back and into an alley, "you can't drive like this you-"

She examined him, nope, not good. Not good at all.

She opened her back and pulled out a first aid kit and more, "Not the best way to start a family. Practicing medical malpractice on your pseudo dad" she muttered, pulling up his shirt and applying pressure.

"Heart's still beating."

NARRATIVE RP : READ-ONLY MODE : JAMES' JOURNALS.

PLEASE LISTEN TO THE MUSIC TO ENHANCE THE READING EXPERIENCE.

The nightlife was pulsating, but not for James Barnes. Velvet Hour, the upscale nightclub that was a shimmering hotspot among the city's elite, pulsed through its speakers with deafening music that vibrated the floor where he walked through its doors. The thumping beat shook his chest, but James was not here to experience the flashy lights, packed dance floors, or wild atmosphere that almost emanated from every inch of its walls. He was not here to experience any of that.

No, James was there for a single reason only—Viktor Sokolov. The feared kingpin of smuggling who had slipped through his grasp during their previous run-in, and now he was tracking him down. Sokolov had been transporting guns illicitly, operating through coded messages and back-channel negotiations. But now, James was on his trail, and his prey was right there, concealed amongst this sea of lights and music.

He moved through the nightclub purposefully, his cold, analytical eyes sweeping across each face, each shadow, each corner. The smell of liquor mixed with the rich, saccharine sweetness of cheap perfume filled his nostrils. James didn’t mind the chaos; he was a seasoned veteran of places like this. But that didn’t make him a fan of it.

“Yo, Bucky!"

The voice cut through his reverie, and James automatically glanced in its direction, coming face to face with Carson, a gangly frat boy sporting a goofy grin on his face at all times. By his side stood Lucas, a guy who had no concept of having a personal space bubble around him. The two of them were beckoning him over as if he was being summoned by them specifically to meet up all evening.

James didn't smile, though. His eyes darted back across the room, towards the packed VIP area. There, he caught a glimpse of Sokolov, tucked away among the bodies, reclined at one of the private booths. His lackeys stood around him, casual, assured, unaware of what was gathering around them. But James was not going to lower his guard once. Not for a moment.

I am not here for this, he muttered to himself. I am going to get a quick drink and go.

"Oh, come on!" Carson laughed, thumping James on his back hard enough to make him stumble. "This is Velvet Hour, Bucky! You've got to get in on this! Drinks are on us, man!" Lucas chimed in with a over-the-top cheer.

James scarcely reacted, his face unreadable. He felt the call of the mission, the urge to pursue Sokolov right away, but he needed to fit in. It would take a while before his target would make a move, and James could indulge in a couple of minutes, play along.

"I do not wish to be here," said James, folding his arms across his chest. "The lights are too intense, and this music makes my head ache."

Carson smirked, taking James' reluctance as a challenge. "Oh, come on, Bucky, I already know you are that kind of guy who tells you he doesn't want to have a good time, but then goes on to make that party blow up."

Lucas nodded eagerly. "Right! We need you here! Come on, man, you are the best at making everyone think you don't care, but we know you're just faking." His words were a bit slurred, alcohol now beginning to take its toll.

The harder James tried to shut them down, the harder they pressed on. "Just one drink," teased Carson, taking James by the sleeve and pulling him into the packed bar area. The flash of lights, the yelling, the bodies jostling against his own—it was all a jumbled mess now. But even as his frustration grew, James couldn't shake a gnawing sense that he needed to have his eyes fixed on Sokolov.

“Okay, okay,” James finally gave in, making a tiny scowl. “I'll have a drink, but then I'm gone.”

The frat boys clapped, unaware of the tension broiling below his calm exterior. He joined them at the bar, his hand lingering against the inside of his jacket where his weapon was hidden. His thoughts were not on the alcohol or on the raucous crowd—it was focused on his target, still seated far across the room, engrossed in conversation amongst a couple of high-profile players. The bartender set a drink in front of him, but James hardly noticed, taking the drink down in a single swallow before slapping down the empty glass on the counter.

“Know what?” Lucas said, still a bit too loudly, “I have no idea how you maintain that cool demeanor so well. You should absolutely get involved out there and show everybody you are capable of having a blast, too."

James said nothing. His eyes snapped back to Sokolov’s former booth, but Sokolov was gone. He stood there unmoving, his eyes raking back through the crowd. Then he spotted him. Sokolov was making his way across the room toward the rear exit, his bodyguards by his side, a hint of hasty purpose in his stride.

Time to move.

James pushed past the frat guys with a muttered excuse, his body already switching into go-mode. Stay low, but not lose sight of his prey. He weaved through the throng of people on the dance floor, the thumping music reverberating around him like a hammer blow. The bodies pressed together, sweating against each other, lights flickering, strobes flashing—all of it providing ideal cover. Nice for a guy like James to slip in undetected, but not quite ideal to conceal a man like Viktor Sokolov.

Just as James was approaching the rear door, he spotted it—Sokolov was already half through the door, and a bodyguard was peeking around his shoulder, alert. James ran, dodging through crowds, his legs pounding furiously. He couldn’t lose Sokolov again.

Before he could advance any further, a voice snapped from behind him.

“Yo, where you going?”

James' instincts took over, and around he whirled, grabbing at the individual by the collar before he was able to grasp James. "Not now," he snapped, shoving Carson's hand from his arm. The frat boy was too inebriated to be aware of the deadly undertone in James' voice.

James gave a final push past the other student and ran towards the door once more.

Sokolov was slipping through the door. James glimpsed him now—so near, yet so far. His quarry was quick, weaving through the crowd with skill, but James possessed skill enough to match his speed. His heart rate increased as he rushed through the nightclub, dodging around patrons, the pulsing lights a maddening blur.

It then occurred.

A gunshot pierced through the music, a burst of light. There was no time for James to react, really. The bullet clipped his side, a biting pain. The crowd didn’t blink, didn’t break stride. The shots weren’t even real to these people.

But James was aware that it was. And it was not a random shot. Sokolov hadn't merely raised a weapon and shot at him.

James ducked behind a vast pillar, his heart racing rapidly. He muttered a curse, taking advantage of the instant to analyze what was happening. Sokolov was indeed moving. The individual was nearly at the door, making his way towards the back alleyway.

You're not escaping again, he muttered to himself, already noticing the blood trickling down his side. His instincts went into high gear, and he emerged from behind a column, his eyes on the smuggler.

James sprinted like lightening. As Sokolov opened the door to make a getaway, James acted.

He reached Sokolov in a matter of seconds, slamming Sokolov into the rear wall, his forearm pressed into Sokolov’s throat. Sokolov gave a stifled cry of shock and desperation.

"Thought you could run again?" he hissed, squeezing his grip around her harder. "No. Not this time."

Sokolov strained, attempting to free his arm, but the grip only grew stronger. The weapon in his hand shook as he tried to raise it, but James was stronger, quicker. Sokolov’s wrist was twisted, stripping Sokolov of his weapon in a single, smooth motion.

"I don't think so," said James. The smuggler was perspiring, his eyes wide with fear.

Within a single, swift motion, James brought down the smuggler. It was fast, effective. No mercy. No hesitation.

The task was accomplished.

But as he stood there, panting, bleeding from his side, he was able to catch a final glance around at everything. The nightclub was still thumping, still filled with frat boys who were laughing, still partying, oblivious to what had almost become a deadly struggle in amongst them. James exhaled a deep breath and walked away. His work here was complete. The club went on raging, the party never ceasing—ignorant of the violence and death that was a part of its evening.

NO PRESSURE TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @thund3randrain @3thereality @lunamarvels

[cursed-with-knowledge]

Deyanira was not in the mood to bump into someone.

She had just fallen out of the sky and was covered in dirt.

She sat there on the grass, groaning and hoping she didn't break anything. So much for trying to be energy efficient.

She thought she could fly without using more power boxes than she had food but guess not.

She let herself fall back in the grass, laying down only to see someone standing behind her.

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony tilted his head, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he looked down at her. Dirt, grass stains, and the unmistakable aura of "I've made some choices" radiated off her like cheap cologne.

"Well," he said, voice dry, "looks like gravity's still undefeated. Tough break, rookie."

He crouched down beside her, not enough to actually help — just enough to loom with maximum judgmental presence.

"Energy efficient, huh?" Tony tapped an imaginary calculator in the air. "I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure the cost of a busted tailbone outweighs saving a couple batteries. You want me to call you an ambulance, or are we just adding 'public humiliation' to your fitness goals today?"

He smirked, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — something that said yeah, he knew a thing or two about falling flat and pretending it didn't hurt.

"Take your time. I'll just be here, silently judging."

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Really? Flexing your wealth to a broke teenager? I thought Earth's mightiest heroes would have better things to do" she rolled her eyes.

"I know it's not about money just saying it'd help if I didn't need to fix every hole in my roof made from my projects exploding with an old table I found in the trash" she says.

"Uni isn't for me. Pretty sure you need to graduate high school for that" she looks at him.

"And sure I'll call Tony Stark the next time I need someone to flex money on me. Because I have his number" she rolls her eyes.

Deyanira was not in the mood to bump into someone.

She had just fallen out of the sky and was covered in dirt.

She sat there on the grass, groaning and hoping she didn't break anything. So much for trying to be energy efficient.

She thought she could fly without using more power boxes than she had food but guess not.

She let herself fall back in the grass, laying down only to see someone standing behind her.

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony tilted his head, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he looked down at her. Dirt, grass stains, and the unmistakable aura of "I've made some choices" radiated off her like cheap cologne.

"Well," he said, voice dry, "looks like gravity's still undefeated. Tough break, rookie."

He crouched down beside her, not enough to actually help — just enough to loom with maximum judgmental presence.

"Energy efficient, huh?" Tony tapped an imaginary calculator in the air. "I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure the cost of a busted tailbone outweighs saving a couple batteries. You want me to call you an ambulance, or are we just adding 'public humiliation' to your fitness goals today?"

He smirked, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — something that said yeah, he knew a thing or two about falling flat and pretending it didn't hurt.

"Take your time. I'll just be here, silently judging."

[cursed-with-knowledge]

She let out a groan, "for a grown man you take way too much pleasure in my pain"

She got up, "definitely can't afford an ambulance. And nothing is broken so I'll be fine" she rubbed her back.

"Unlike you I can't afford the things it takes for half my blueprints to come to life" she says dusting off some leaves from her hair

Deyanira was not in the mood to bump into someone.

She had just fallen out of the sky and was covered in dirt.

She sat there on the grass, groaning and hoping she didn't break anything. So much for trying to be energy efficient.

She thought she could fly without using more power boxes than she had food but guess not.

She let herself fall back in the grass, laying down only to see someone standing behind her.

- @cursed-with-knowledge

Tony tilted his head, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he looked down at her. Dirt, grass stains, and the unmistakable aura of "I've made some choices" radiated off her like cheap cologne.

"Well," he said, voice dry, "looks like gravity's still undefeated. Tough break, rookie."

He crouched down beside her, not enough to actually help — just enough to loom with maximum judgmental presence.

"Energy efficient, huh?" Tony tapped an imaginary calculator in the air. "I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure the cost of a busted tailbone outweighs saving a couple batteries. You want me to call you an ambulance, or are we just adding 'public humiliation' to your fitness goals today?"

He smirked, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes — something that said yeah, he knew a thing or two about falling flat and pretending it didn't hurt.

"Take your time. I'll just be here, silently judging."

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Yes it is" she grinned.

"Makes me wanna get a tattoo"

Dinner Night.

OPEN RP - For the Barnes Children. All are welcome in their own ways.

Please listen to the music to enhance the reading experience.

The kitchen smelled warm and rich, the soft sizzle of peanut sauce and grilled chicken filling the air like a quiet promise of comfort. James Barnes stood by the stovetop, the last skewers of chicken satay neatly arranged on a wide, chipped white platter. Steam curled upwards lazily as he turned the burner off, grabbing a clean towel to wipe his hands.

The clock on the wall, old and faithful, ticked exactly to 8:00PM. Saturday, April 26th, 2025. Right on time.

James hummed along to his gramophone tunes under his breath, low and quiet, as he moved about, setting the table. Plates clinked softly against the wood as he worked, laying out four mismatched sets—one for Nat, always reaching for the blue one; one for Kayla, who insisted on the plate with flowers; one for Lumi, who didn't care as long as there was extra sauce; and one for little Deyanira, who was still mastering the art of not throwing her food across the table.

He had told them no dessert tonight—just popcorn for movie night. But the bag of popcorn was nowhere to be found (and he knew he’d checked every damn shelf twice), so now, there was a small pot of raspberry porridge cooling on the counter. A backup plan he hoped they’d like. Or at least not complain too loudly about.

Winter, his loyal wolf companion, was curled up right against his feet, big body trembling slightly every time James shifted. Separation anxiety, or just an excuse for warmth—James didn’t mind. His free hand dropped instinctively every so often, brushing over thick, soft fur for comfort—both his and Winter's.

From the nursery across the hall, Arabella's cooing floated out, the soft, curious sounds of a five-month-old busy taking in her world. James smiled to himself, setting down the last fork, then tossing a quick glance at the open door to make sure she was still where he left her—propped up safely among her plush animals, wide-eyed and alert like the tiny queen of her kingdom.

Dinner was ready. Home was warm. For a moment, everything felt... right.

He wiped his hands one last time, straightened the salt and pepper shakers, and sighed gently.

James chuckled to himself, turning back to the table just as the music swelled, and the house brimmed with life.

TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @itzzkaylaaa @cursed-with-knowledge @3thereality

[cursed-with-knowledge]

"Now that is really awesome" she grinned.

"You can have any tattoo even before 18"

Dinner Night.

OPEN RP - For the Barnes Children. All are welcome in their own ways.

Please listen to the music to enhance the reading experience.

The kitchen smelled warm and rich, the soft sizzle of peanut sauce and grilled chicken filling the air like a quiet promise of comfort. James Barnes stood by the stovetop, the last skewers of chicken satay neatly arranged on a wide, chipped white platter. Steam curled upwards lazily as he turned the burner off, grabbing a clean towel to wipe his hands.

The clock on the wall, old and faithful, ticked exactly to 8:00PM. Saturday, April 26th, 2025. Right on time.

James hummed along to his gramophone tunes under his breath, low and quiet, as he moved about, setting the table. Plates clinked softly against the wood as he worked, laying out four mismatched sets—one for Nat, always reaching for the blue one; one for Kayla, who insisted on the plate with flowers; one for Lumi, who didn't care as long as there was extra sauce; and one for little Deyanira, who was still mastering the art of not throwing her food across the table.

He had told them no dessert tonight—just popcorn for movie night. But the bag of popcorn was nowhere to be found (and he knew he’d checked every damn shelf twice), so now, there was a small pot of raspberry porridge cooling on the counter. A backup plan he hoped they’d like. Or at least not complain too loudly about.

Winter, his loyal wolf companion, was curled up right against his feet, big body trembling slightly every time James shifted. Separation anxiety, or just an excuse for warmth—James didn’t mind. His free hand dropped instinctively every so often, brushing over thick, soft fur for comfort—both his and Winter's.

From the nursery across the hall, Arabella's cooing floated out, the soft, curious sounds of a five-month-old busy taking in her world. James smiled to himself, setting down the last fork, then tossing a quick glance at the open door to make sure she was still where he left her—propped up safely among her plush animals, wide-eyed and alert like the tiny queen of her kingdom.

Dinner was ready. Home was warm. For a moment, everything felt... right.

He wiped his hands one last time, straightened the salt and pepper shakers, and sighed gently.

James chuckled to himself, turning back to the table just as the music swelled, and the house brimmed with life.

TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @itzzkaylaaa @cursed-with-knowledge @3thereality

[cursed-with-knowledge]

Deyanira was...well not exactly there for any purpose that was criminal.

She knew where to be and where you'd get shot. You learn that much when you don't have a home to go back to. No locks. Nothing to close and know you're safe.

But she had heard a commotion and when you hear a commotion you turn the other way, only this time she heard a familiar voice.

One she recognized instantly.

She had her bracelet ready in any case she might need to use her blaster. As she took careful steps to the area.

There. She saw him. Just in time as he put something small in his pocket. A ring.

"Didn't know you were allowed a small prize after taking down criminals" she said, letting her arms fall beside her.

"Not very heroic"

Knife to a gun-fight.

NARRATIVE RP - ONLY READ MODE - INTERACT IF WANTED.

PLEASE LISTEN TO THE MUSIC TO ENHANCE THE READING EXPERIENCE.

James didn’t have a destination in mind, just the need to get away. The rumble of his motorcycle engine drowned out most of his thoughts, but not the beats of the phonk music coursing through his headphones. The low hum of bass, the gritty sound of underground rhythms, was the only company he really needed. He flicked the MP3 player’s wheel, letting the next track take over as he maneuvered the bike through the empty streets, the night air biting at his face.

The streets gradually narrowed, the city’s glow fading behind him as the road grew quieter. He steered his bike left down a forgotten path that led him to an overgrown, abandoned area at the edge of town. The Hollowbrook Bridge, a rusted behemoth that arched over a river far below, loomed ahead like a giant watching over the empty side-land beneath it. This part of town had been left to rot for years after the factories shut down, and now it only served one purpose — as a place to hide from the law, to do what needed doing in the shadows.

James wasn’t new to places like this. He’d found more than his fair share of chaos and trouble hidden in the quiet corners of the world. But tonight, something felt different. The stillness wasn’t quite right. A faint sound, muffled voices, drifted to him from beneath the bridge. He cut the engine of his bike without a second thought, coasting to a stop at the foot of the bridge’s rusted pylons.

He slid off the bike, boots hitting the gravel with a soft thud. The only light came from a few scattered lamps, their yellow glow too dim to pierce the thick fog creeping in from the river. Everything about the scene seemed eerie, out of place. Something told James that he wasn’t just about to witness a regular shady deal. No, this was something bigger, more dangerous, and definitely more valuable.

He moved slowly, stealthily, as he approached the shadows cast by the bridge. The closer he got, the clearer the scene became: men, dozens of them, unloading heavy crates from an old, beat-up van. The van itself was a wreck, covered in dirt and grime, but it seemed to hold treasures beyond measure. The crates had foreign stamps on them, logos and writing he couldn’t place, but the way they were stacked so carefully told him these weren’t ordinary goods.

A chill ran down his spine as he took in what was being smuggled. There was a Ming Dynasty porcelain vase, the kind that could fetch millions in the right hands. Not just any vase, but one that had been painstakingly restored and would go for top dollar at any prestigious auction house. There were Roman gold coins, meticulously stacked in a velvet-lined chest, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. He spotted a pair of Egyptian golden scarabs, shining even in the dim light, and nearby, an entire Greco-Roman bronze shield stood, waiting to be whisked away.

Every item in sight screamed of history, culture, and priceless value. Greek jewelry, ornate with emeralds and sapphires, nestled in a crate next to Chinese jade sculptures, their smooth surfaces reflecting what little light pierced the night. Ancient scrolls, wrapped in cloth, peeked out from one of the boxes, probably filled with knowledge lost to the ages. He could already imagine the bidding wars, the ruthless auctions where these relics would be sold to the highest bidder — all stolen, all ripped from the hands of history.

James wasn’t in this for money. He wasn’t interested in any of this. But what he was interested in was the danger that seemed to ooze from every corner of this scene. These weren’t amateurs. These men were professionals.

The leader of the operation, a tall man with a weathered face and a scar slashing down his neck, barked orders at the others. His voice was sharp, commanding, as he directed the men unloading the crates. The man was dressed in dark, heavy clothing, his eyes scanning the area, always alert. Beside him was another figure, wiry and lithe, carrying a metal cart loaded with Roman relics — coins, swords, and shields all resting side by side like an ancient arsenal, waiting for the right buyer to claim them.

James stayed hidden, watching from the shadows. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for, but something about this felt off. He needed to find out more. He needed to know who these people were and why they were doing this here, in the dead of night, beneath the rusting skeleton of Hollowbrook Bridge.

It didn’t take long for one of the smugglers to spot him. A lanky man with a rough face and a cigarette dangling from his lips took a few slow steps in James’s direction. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of James standing alone, too calm for someone who was supposed to be a bystander.

“You lost, friend?” the man asked, his voice thick with suspicion, his north-asian accent piqued.

James didn’t flinch. He simply lifted his chin, eyes locking with the smuggler’s, then returned to flicking his cigarette between his fingers. “Nope. Just here to see the show.”

The man’s eyes shifted, calculating, and before James could blink, he saw the glint of a gun being drawn from the man’s jacket. It wasn’t a surprise. It was the logical next step in a world like this — a world where people disappear, where life is cheap, and the stakes are high.

But James was quicker. He reached for the small knife strapped to his belt, flicked it open, and with a practiced motion, threw it at the smuggler’s hand. The blade lodged into the man’s wrist, and the gun dropped with a clatter to the dirt. A shout rang out, and the rest of the smugglers turned, weapons drawn, moving in on him.

The first smuggler, a thickset bruiser, charged at him, swinging a heavy fist. James ducked under the wild punch, his knee coming up into the man’s ribs with a sickening thud. The man stumbled back, gasping, but James wasn’t finished. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it, and threw him into one of the nearby crates. The wood splintered, and artifacts tumbled out, crashing to the ground.

Another smuggler rushed him, wielding a crowbar, but James dodged the swing with ease. He elbowed the man in the throat, and the smuggler dropped to his knees, gasping for air, struggling to breathe as his face turned purple.

The leader, enraged, drew a gleaming machete. He swung it with deadly precision, aiming for James’s neck. But James was faster, ducking under the swing, rolling beneath the man’s legs, and kicking him square in the back. The leader went down hard, the machete slipping from his hand and landing with a dull thud in the dirt.

One by one, the smugglers realized they were outmatched. The ones who didn’t try to run were quickly incapacitated — left writhing on the ground, clutching wounds or gasping for breath.

James moved swiftly, grabbing the phone from the leader’s pocket and dialing the cops. Yeah, sometimes the NYPD was the better option, really. “Yeah, it’s James,” he said casually, leaning against a bridge support, his voice calm despite the chaos around him. “Got a little situation down by the old warehouse. You might wanna check.”

He hung up, tossing the phone aside, and lit another cigarette, the smoke curling up into the night air, mixing with the faint scent of gunpowder and sweat. He glanced over the wreckage: stolen artifacts scattered across the cracked earth — Ming vases, Roman swords, Greek jewelry, Egyptian scrolls — all priceless, all lost to greed and absolutely nothing more.

But it was something else that caught his eye. Something smaller, tucked in a corner beneath an old crate. A box, old and worn, covered in dust, but intricately carved with symbols he couldn’t place. He knelt down, curiosity overtaking him, and opened it.

Inside was a ring. But not just any ring. It was a thing of beauty — a model of the Milky Way galaxy, a tiny, perfect rendition of the solar system itself. The ring had multiple layers, each one rotating in different axes, as if suspended in time. It was craftsmanship on another level, a creation lost to history, hidden in plain sight.

James slipped it into his pocket, a grin pulling at his lips. He’d saved so many priceless artifacts from being destroyed in the fight, and this… this was the one he deserved.

He turned and walked back to his bike, the night’s silence returning around him like a second skin. As he revved the engine, he headed back down the road, the hum of his phonk music filling his ears once more. The fight was over. The police would be here soon. And the box in his pocket — well, it was just the beginning.

NO PRESSURE TAGS: @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @thund3randrain @itzzkaylaaa @3thereality @lunamarvels