His balance is off as he hits the ground. That's the first red flag. The trachea tube sliding out against the gag reflex feels familiar, stasis fluid draining slickly down his skin, a sterile room — the cylinder depositing him on its floor seems to have gotten an upgrade, but it's not like he's never seen one before. Practically homey, at this point. But when he moves to brace himself again the floor on impact, his weight falls too far to the left, and he shifts right to correct.
Seem to be missing an arm. Huh.
Quick, careful eyes flick up to scan the room, its inhabitants, others being dumped out of stasis chambers onto the floor. Young, old, in between, people at varying levels of fitness and going through varying degrees of panic. Some not panicked at all. He watches those first as he pushes himself back on his heels, unhurried, giving the nausea and disorientation a chance to pass, but their reactions are varied; irritation, indifference, acceptance, calm. He notices, too, the numbers tattooed on each of their arms — 006, 020, 016 — the calm ones, most of their numbers start off lower; he doesn't see any of them with his 025 marking their forearms. It could be a pattern. It could be nothing. One thing is clear: these aren't all Red Room agents.
Not Lukin's, either, if he had to guess. Lukin. The cube. (Mr. Red White and Blue, so convinced—) No. He'll worry about that later. What's important right now is that he's awake, not where he expected to be, and surrounded by civilians instead of scientists. (If he feels a split second's relief at the latter, he doesn't acknowledge it.) Maybe it's a drop-off point. Maybe it's a mistake. He definitely needs more information.
Wayward arm nowhere in sight, the soldier gives a half-hearted grimace and stands. As he falls into step with the flow of the crowd toward the showers, he dons on an expression somewhere between frustration and patient resignation, looking for all the world like he's done a thousand times, and once too many. (The best lies are couched in truth, after all.) Once clean and toweling off, he finds his way alongside someone who looks to have actually gone through this a time or two. He can't hide the shrapnel-shorn tangle of a scar or hefty metal socket at his shoulder, nor indefinitely obscure the number tattooed on his good arm, but confidence, misdirection, and careful towel use can go a long way toward feigning normalcy.
"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" he says with a nod back in the direction they came.
Arrival: Take 2
Seem to be missing an arm. Huh.
Quick, careful eyes flick up to scan the room, its inhabitants, others being dumped out of stasis chambers onto the floor. Young, old, in between, people at varying levels of fitness and going through varying degrees of panic. Some not panicked at all. He watches those first as he pushes himself back on his heels, unhurried, giving the nausea and disorientation a chance to pass, but their reactions are varied; irritation, indifference, acceptance, calm. He notices, too, the numbers tattooed on each of their arms — 006, 020, 016 — the calm ones, most of their numbers start off lower; he doesn't see any of them with his 025 marking their forearms. It could be a pattern. It could be nothing. One thing is clear: these aren't all Red Room agents.
Not Lukin's, either, if he had to guess. Lukin. The cube. (Mr. Red White and Blue, so convinced—) No. He'll worry about that later. What's important right now is that he's awake, not where he expected to be, and surrounded by civilians instead of scientists. (If he feels a split second's relief at the latter, he doesn't acknowledge it.) Maybe it's a drop-off point. Maybe it's a mistake. He definitely needs more information.
Wayward arm nowhere in sight, the soldier gives a half-hearted grimace and stands. As he falls into step with the flow of the crowd toward the showers, he dons on an expression somewhere between frustration and patient resignation, looking for all the world like he's done a thousand times, and once too many. (The best lies are couched in truth, after all.) Once clean and toweling off, he finds his way alongside someone who looks to have actually gone through this a time or two. He can't hide the shrapnel-shorn tangle of a scar or hefty metal socket at his shoulder, nor indefinitely obscure the number tattooed on his good arm, but confidence, misdirection, and careful towel use can go a long way toward feigning normalcy.
"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" he says with a nod back in the direction they came.