Steve Rogers

Steve never considered himself a voodoopunk. Not really. They're friends of his; he enjoys the rituals, even if he's not sure he believes in them and doesn't really take part, and they don't mind being used as models when he brings his sketchbook. Bucky spent less time with him then Steve did, but they knew him, in passing and through Steve's stories; and Steve, well, he was there at least every couple of weeks, if not more often.

Often enough that when he doesn't turn up for a month, they come looking for him. And when he tells them what happens, they practically drag him out of the house to that night's meeting, and things start happening, and nowhere along the way does Steve have the chance to say no.

No, that's not true. He could have. But he never does, never stops to think about the dolls that lie in the streets and what might have happened, never considers how it might turn out. All he knows is that they're offering him a way to get Bucky back, and he doesn't have the strength to say no to that. Not when the wound is this fresh. Maybe if he'd had a chance to heal, but not now, when the only thing he can think every minute, every time he sits in the suddenly-empty apartment they shared, every time he looks at sketchbooks full of idle drawings, every time he thinks about talking to anyone he knew, because they all knew Bucky too -- the only thing he can think is, he's gone, and it still hurts so much he can't breathe.

He doesn't say no. He just lets them move things along. And the first time he worries, wonders what it will be like, wonders what Bucky will think, is when Byron is opening the door and shooing the technicians out and telling them to give Steve a moment alone with his friend.

And it's too late to do anything but step inside.

He closes the door behind him with his eyes on the table, on the doll sitting there, looking like any other doll and somehow so different because of who he is.

"Bucky?"

It's a small planet they've parked on this time; so small and so far from the Alliance's reach that there's no need to worry. The ones who might cause problems have been left on the ship, people left to keep an eye on them, but most of them are free to go off, in pairs and small groups, to explore and stretch their legs and get a little bit of a change of scenery.



Jane has volunteered to stay back with the kids still on board. She hasn't been cooped up on the ship for as long as some of the kids, or even some of the staff, and she's got some work to do. Because of that, she's still in her office, but the door is thrown open, making her usual open door policy into something less understood and more literal.

She doesn't mind the company of the former students on board, be they people they're trying to help heal or ones that are together enough to give them a hand. She's not always sure how to help them, especially the ones having a bad day, but she does what she can.

Of course, if any of the other chaperones, for lack of a better term, left behind want to visit, that would be appreciated too. Getting her eyes off her work for a few minutes might actually help it make more sense when she goes back to it.



Loki isn't allowed off the ship. Loki is never allowed off the ship, not even to the point where they feel comfortable finding somewhere for him to stay. He can't be trusted, he's too dangerous, too liable to try and win people over when he's sane enough to be charming and then kill them the next time the mood strikes.

Despite that, he's remarkably sane today. Never completely sane -- he never will be that again, maybe never was in the first place. But closer to it than he normally is, closer than he has been in months, than some people on board have ever seen him be.

He has pens and stacks paper and is sprawled somewhere out-of-the-way, on his stomach. The paper in front of him is packed with tight spirals that sometimes turn seamlessly into words. It may be his way of thinking out loud, it may be psychic gatherings; it happens with both, and he can't entirely tell, today.



Steve is enjoying the sunshine. He hasn't wandered far from the ship, or at least he hasn't yet, but he's leaning against the side of a building -- worn and clearly seen better days, but about as respectable as they seem to go around here -- with his face tilted up towards the light, eyes closed, smiling quietly to himself.

He doesn't mind being in the black, but it's nice to be on land again and outside for a little while.



Clint is waiting, sitting at a bar with his comm in his ear. Coulson is off making arrangements, making deals, and getting them what they need; he's been instructed to stay close, not get into trouble, and wait to be contacted. There shouldn't be trouble, but he has his bow and he's ready for it if it comes. Other than that, he just gets to wait to play moving man and help load the mule.

It could be worse, though. The food is good, the bar's not as bad as some of the local places he's seen, and when the job is done and he can come back and actually enjoy himself, there's darts and pool to hustle people at because old habits die hard play for a while.