Alright, To The Wookies We Go, She Accepted And Began Walking In The Very Direction She Pointed. Though

“Alright, to the wookies we go,” She accepted and began walking in the very direction she pointed. Though if it was necessary, they’d take a break in a couple hours. Not just a break, but for Shima to figure out what she was gonna do with all that armor. She couldn’t imagine anyone being comfortable in that armor, let alone for long period of time.

Even clones couldn’t be comfortable during all of that could they?

A few hours later...

The rain kept pouring with no end, despite making some headway. While Shima could tolerate the heat, she couldn’t tolerate the thought of Sev suffering any further in that armor, even if he didn’t say so himself.

“Hey Sev, do you wanna take a break?” Shima asked her companion looking back at him. “It must be really hot under all that armor.”

Sev, ever the Commando, is servicing his gun in the jungle of Kashyyyk of all places, trying not to think about having no idea what his next move is, when he hears the snapping underbrush coming towards him; he doesn’t know who it is, but the lack of Wookie noises isn’t comforting him, and he’s leaning towards the likelihood of his visitor being Droids as he quickly reassembles the blaster rifle, scopes it, and aims at the oncoming sounds.

he’s stranded here, no Republic forces remaining on planet, and uncertain of the outcome of the Battle thus far, having stayed in the woods since his being left behind by his squadmates- so he knows he’s got nothing but the fight in his bones and his wits to keep himself safe. however, luckily, he’s got plenty of both of those in his favor...

breath holds in his chest, a mausoleum of ribs and red-stained armor- he stills his finger against the trigger and squints through the visor that synchs to his sniper-scope, waiting for the indication of whether to fire or hold to explode through the bushes ahead...

sweat slides, all tickling droplets, down his hot skin under his plastoid armor, but he doesn’t waver, and doesn’t speak- his deep, snarling, gravelly voice would only serve to reveal his location, and that would not do until he’s sure of who- or what- is coming through the jungle as he waits there in the clearing.

 One of the perks of becoming one with the Magpie? She could easily give off the appearance of a normal person, without her mismatched eyes or her mangled hand. Times had changed, and Dana changed with them more than she ever had. But there was a confidence she had, especially now that there was peace. 

Even though there was peace, there would always be ghosts. Abraham Erskine was forever an immortal ghost. His immortality came in the form of his legacy of Captain America, aka Steve Rogers. And now he would be gone, with another taking his place. The question was who, and many had their ideas. Personally, she would have Bucky or Sam, but the government had already decided the name John Walker would become part of that legacy immortalizing Erskine.

It didn’t work out so well. despite everything she poured towards Ross and the bastards of the federal government, they failed John and now he probably beared the scars of their failures. She needed to make it right not just for Erskine, but to John as well. Which was why she was out here at night, in the middle of Georgia parked outside a diner. She then exited out the car and headed into the diner momentarily looking for John. When she did she headed his way.

 She wasn’t wearing her trademark trenchcoat. Rather, she wore punkish floral with her hair in a ponytail which was a change from her suit or her casual 90s punk. Peace provided a wonderful time for floral and the time for nice things. Nice things including a simple saunter rather than a rushed stride. She realized she had nothing planned to say, or how to approach him.

What she did instead was to gently tap the table to get his attention and say:

“Hey.”

the memory is a snapshot; a diamond in the rough, a singular moment that he remembers like poetry dripping in holy metaphor. he had never before been so reverent of the path he had taken, and never would he again; all his life he had suffered to become, and that becoming, after a single divine moment, had led only to further decline. 

now, only recently released from a series of efforts to rehabilitate him so that he might be an effective apparatus for heroism again, he is being handed a new shield- not Captain Rogers’- and being told to find a path and walk it, separate from the Captain America identity now beholden to Wilson. he’s fine with that.

what he doesn’t know is who’s going to walk that path with him, so he’s sitting in a diner in Georgia instead, shield in his bag wedged into the booth beside him and staring pensively into a coffee mug at the reflection of strands of dirty blond hair he really needs to cut to stay within the strict military regulations he tries so hard to govern himself by. 

John Walker is feeling a little lost, but that’s okay. he’ll figure it out. he has to.

Blue Moon

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