It's familiar in a very strange way, this life on the edge of nothing. Gamora is out of her depth with it. They hide in places that are almost as persistently cold as most of space is, in buildings that seem ramshackle to her, yet remind her so much of a life long gone on a planet far from advanced. The way he slips them through the cracks of territories feels like her own deep undercover missions to take out someone here or there.
There is a tentative... peace between them. Gamora isn't sure she'd go so far as to call it trust. Why Bucky did this, threw his life in service of SWORD away to do this for her and with her, she doesn't understand. Right now, she doesn't see the point in questioning it. They're here, they're surviving.
She's sitting at the rickety table, one leg drawn up on the equally rickety chair. There's the smooth 'thwing' of her unsheathing and unfolding Godslayer, her retractable sword. But while she's busying herself sharpening its horrific edges, Gamora's eyes keep tracking to Bucky. He's a puzzle, and she hasn't met many people who are that without vexing her. There are many things Gamora doesn't understand - but few she wants to.
"Yes." She never volunteered the information, but he's asking, now, and she sees even less point in lying than she does in sharing. "I'll get it fixed when I make it back up."
A distant future. They both know that. But she's not flippant or optimistic when she says that - her flesh has already sealed over the vexing piece of metal, and the worst she's dealing with is the pain of the way it lodged in between two parts of her skeleton. The metal of her joints grinding up against the lead of the bullet. She suspects if her organs weren't working harder than human ones do, she might have to contend with such archaic woes as sepsis. As it stands, she's just in pain. She's just slower - and that would be a death sentence against most things she faces usually. On earth, against humans, the odds are still stacked in her favor.
"You don't need to look for canned rations. I saw tracks out in the woods, of some beast or other. I can secure us food."
Read: She's offering to kill the likes of a bear or wolf for dinner. As you do.
no subject
There is a tentative... peace between them. Gamora isn't sure she'd go so far as to call it trust. Why Bucky did this, threw his life in service of SWORD away to do this for her and with her, she doesn't understand. Right now, she doesn't see the point in questioning it. They're here, they're surviving.
She's sitting at the rickety table, one leg drawn up on the equally rickety chair. There's the smooth 'thwing' of her unsheathing and unfolding Godslayer, her retractable sword. But while she's busying herself sharpening its horrific edges, Gamora's eyes keep tracking to Bucky. He's a puzzle, and she hasn't met many people who are that without vexing her. There are many things Gamora doesn't understand - but few she wants to.
"Yes." She never volunteered the information, but he's asking, now, and she sees even less point in lying than she does in sharing. "I'll get it fixed when I make it back up."
A distant future. They both know that. But she's not flippant or optimistic when she says that - her flesh has already sealed over the vexing piece of metal, and the worst she's dealing with is the pain of the way it lodged in between two parts of her skeleton. The metal of her joints grinding up against the lead of the bullet. She suspects if her organs weren't working harder than human ones do, she might have to contend with such archaic woes as sepsis. As it stands, she's just in pain. She's just slower - and that would be a death sentence against most things she faces usually. On earth, against humans, the odds are still stacked in her favor.
"You don't need to look for canned rations. I saw tracks out in the woods, of some beast or other. I can secure us food."
Read: She's offering to kill the likes of a bear or wolf for dinner. As you do.