“Oops!? What do you mean, ‘OOPS’!?” Mari squeeled out as her auburn haired friend wore the biggest shit eating grin possible while holding the bluenette’s phone high above the other.
five minutes prior to that screech, Alya had convinced her best friend Mari to swap phones with her for a few minutes after the to-be-fashionista lost a bet. The stipulation had been that Alya couldn’t confess Mari’s undying love for a certain model friend, to said certain model friend. Alya had agreed, but since when did she let a little rule like that stop her?
So there they were, five minutes later, when Mari asked if Alya had kept her promise. Naturally when she replied with ‘Oops’ the bluenette panicked. Mari wrestling her phone from her best friend’s hand, only to see the worstmessage in the history of messages, addressed to one Adrien Agreste. “Dear Adrien, I was wondering if you would by chance be available this weekend to go and see Moana with me. I heard it was a rather good movie and would absolutely love it if you could attend with me so we might get to know each other a little better. I already asked Alya and Nino about going, but They said they were busy and couldn’t attend.
With love and best wishes, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. “
There was a split second of hope that if Adrien messaged Nino, it would blow Alya’s plan, but the next message sent was to nino, with the line “Hey Nino, it’s Alya. I’m on Mari’s phone, just set her up on a date with sunshine child. If he asks, you’re busy this weekend. and BTW, your busy this weekend with me, so hope you got some aspirin.”
“ALYA WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” Mari screeched with the furry of the banshee queen at her soon-to-be ex-bestfriend.
“Oh calm down! It’s not the end of the world!” But Alya’s words never reached her. The bluenette was too busy pacing back and forth as she mumbled plans under her breath. “m-maybe he hasn’t seen it yet… i could steal his phone, delete the message, and no one will ever knoooOOOOOOOH NONONO” Her plans died in a horrible fire as a new message blipped to life on her phone.
“Dear Mari, I’d love too! If you don’t mind, i’ll cover the expenses so you don’t need to be so worried about it. I’m glad to actually have a chance to talk to you without the stuttering and all that.
See you at 4 o’clock,
It’s a date,
“Mari? Mari? Earth to Mari? Girl are you-”
so ya, i didn’t like the one i did last night, so i redid the answer, hope it’s better then before xD
Send me one sentence and i’ll write a story in 5 sentences (or more. Probably more cause i cant control how much i write.)
Derek’s mom told him that love is beautiful, with one of those same smiles that everyone got when they talked about Peter’s wife. That sort of past-tense sad reserved for loss that’s worth bringing up again.
Because love is beautiful.
He believes it, that’s the problem. He sees it in her eyes when she plays, mixed up in petty anger and dusky browns. He sees it in the way she leans towards him when they talk, and the way his chest opens up when she’s near by. Derek thinks, This is beautiful.
But, it’s not. Because his mom said—she said love is beautiful—and Paige is vomiting black on to the dirt floor, writhing in pain, babbling out promises and pleas no teenager should ever have to speak. No one should have to ask for help to die, it shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this ugly.
He breaks her, and it breaks him.
Love is ugly.
He believes that for months. Long months of time that crawl by with the ever present memory of black, acrid love in the back of his mind. Derek learns to avoid touching people, learns to filter the guilt-induced hallucinations from reality.
He wakes up to inky black in his bed. Not real. Not real. Not real.
The girl touching his arm after the basketball game has black hair—too much like his sisters, yuck—but nothing more. Nothing Paige.
There’s a young boy watching him from the woods. He doesn’t feel real enough for Derek to acknowledge him.
Life goes on like this for a year, and it’s fine. He knows people can survive without love, he’s watched his uncle happily survive for this long.
Until someone sneaks in. No, Kate pushes her way into his life with groping hands, secrets, and little promises that sound more like demands for love and sex and so many good things. She’ll make him feel good, make him strong, make him love her.
Derek doesn’t love her, love is a black mess spewed into the dirt. Love is a dead girl under a tree.
But he takes everything else she offers, because he’s never lived as easily as Peter has, and he’s young. He needs attention, feckless affection with no consequences. Meaningless feel-good. No one will get hurt.
The boy from the woods is back, staring at him across busy police station. Derek’s too fucked up to care if he’s real or not. The next time he looks up, there’s a KitKat on the floor in front of him, and the boy is gone.
Love is a dead girl under a tree.
Love is a home turned tomb.
Love is a lie told to his last family member.
Laura comforts him in their loss, and Derek loves her too much to tell her the truth. They’ve run away from the blackened wood and burning flesh to a city that smells just as bad. It’s not home.
Their first night there is spent in a one room apartment, no electricity, and one mattress on the floor that they collapse into, both of them sobbing so hard Derek fears his heart will finally rip free of his chest.
It doesn’t, he survives.
Derek’s sister tells him that she needs to go back to Beacon Hills with one of those same smiles that she got when they talked about their family. She tells him she wants to visit Peter, to see how he’s doing. It’s a lie, but Derek lets her go.
Because love is beautiful.
He’s there, again. In the woods. He knows it’s him, even years later. Scents don’t change much, unless you lose everything that makes you you. Which is why his immovable uncle Peter smells like something different, something more dangerous than the man he once knew. The boy, however, is the same.
KitKats and a sad smile from the woods.
Derek makes him leave before he thinks too much about events leading up to those memories.
The problem is, they’re persistent. These damn teenagers are everywhere, stepping into his business, getting bit by the rabid alpha, doing stupid, stupid things. A lot of it, in the name of love. Friendship. Family.
Love is a dead girl under a tree, Derek tells himself.
Love is a tomb turned home.
Love is a lie that killed his sister.
He finds himself thinking the words at night, while wounds heal and the dust settles. Peter, Scott, Argents, Alphas. Fight, kill. protect, promises. Screaming and arguing, throwing barbs.
KitKats on the doorstep of his tomb-home.
Stiles remembers. Stiles, somehow, sneaks in. And this time, it’s actual sneaking. He moves into Derek’s life like a thundercloud. A low, warning rumble as it moves across the sky, a crackle here or there to let you know what you’re getting into.
Stiles is a spark in a bleak world.
Love is a mistake, ill-informed choices taken out of a dead girl’s hands.
Love is memorial, no, a memory.
Love is the lie his sister used to save his life.
He finds Jen.
She’s a blip in his life, the seconds between one extreme and another. Toxic wasteland meet ice age.
It still hurts, but she’s a blip.
Love never even comes into it.
When he finds Stiles in the dirt, screaming, he knows this is it. He’s invested, he’s given away parts of himself again, he’s believing again.
So when Stiles—skinny, defenseless Stiles—brings a plague of murderous amusement to Beacon Hills, he’s already decided what to do.
And he does everything he can to bring Stiles back from wherever he went. Somewhere in the black, under the roots, is that spark.
It takes some time, but with no hesitation, they drag Stiles, kicking and screaming, back to reality.
And it’s not perfect, that’s not how life works. It’s as messy as black rejection spilling into the dirt. It’s as trembling and fragile as the burnt-out-shell of a home in the woods. It’s as many twists and turns as a well told lie to protect someone you love.
But it’s too late for Derek, and it’s too late for Stiles.
Because Derek will do anything to save that stupid kid frowning at him through the trees. He’ll kill everyone before he hurts that confused boy who leaves KitKats for crying murderers. He’ll die for guy who will die for him, because love is…
If you’re gonna send hate or hijack Chris-positive posts, I will block you. Immediately. Without a second thought. I’m not playing your little games. I will not be responding to or dealing with childish people who get off on being bullies and think harassment is funny.
God, our faces look young. Mark, your goof-smile, teeth overlapping your bottom lip, belying how incredibly smart you were—how tinged with genius, and yet unhinged.
Your eyes, not looking into the camera, but down and to the left. Watching the floor. Were you planning your untimely exit, even then?
Your arm is around Christine. Ah, Chris. You’re staring right at the camera and there’s no fixing your red-eyes. You’re looking at the guy taking the picture, my then-boyfriend.
Patrick. Your now-husband. Looking at my easy grin, looking forward to the after-grad party at Jim’s house, not realizing Pat had already fallen, and you had fallen back, with him. My eyes can’t see the
energy between you. How could they? How could any of us see what would happen next? Chris, your arm around me, my pink graduation dress, gladiator sandals, my eyes a happy mixture of box-wine in a flask and the promise
of a back-seat dry-hump with Pat later in the evening. My eyes and smile time-stamped at 6:43 p.m., May 3rd, 1987—our moment, thinking back at the confusion in my eyes Mark must have seen, the tremble in my lips at the party
when Mark told me, goof, gone from his smile, that you and Pat had left the party together. No good-bye. Then me, fucked up on pot and shots, fucking Matt Wells in the back of his karmann ghia,
and what a fucking trick that is, if you know anything about those cars, to feel better. To not think of Pat’s promises to you, instead of me. You wrote in my yearbook,
I don’t ever want to hurt you. I read that, and thought it a testament to our friendship. How could I know it was a preemptive mea culpa, a “sorry, not sorry,”
even back then. Pat didn’t write in it. Was that a show of dignity, or cowardice? I smile into the camera, but my eyes are green, not red. It’s funny, Chris, the import I placed for so long, on your red-eyed image, after graduation night.
As if the camera pronounced you “demoness” for me, while my tear-stained cheeks stared at our group for weeks after, smiling, hats still on, tassels on the right side of adulthood at last. And then you, Ted.
Teddy. Your arm around me. Your eyes didn’t have green or red. Brown eyes, soulful, your smile subdued. Yours didn’t look left and down like Mark’s did. But both of you were gone by 1990.
Both of you had forgotten our promise to stay friends forever. Forever friends, a promise as sacred as I do, but only as hallowed as the hearts that vow. Mouths lie, hearts don’t, and they don’t always know what the other has planned, do they?
We can’t be friends forever when you’re dead, Ted. Mark. You broke your word. Fuck you both, for leaving me to watch the cans tied to Pat and Chris’s getaway car as they started their new lives, law school, together, Oregon.
Fuck you both for leaving me alone, and Teddy, fuck you for not telling me you loved me when you had the chance. Fuck you, Chris, for telling me you did at all.
But that was ages ago, wasn’t it? Pat is my Facebook friend, now, how many years later? Too lazy to do the fucking math. Thirty years, Yeah. Something. Chris, you aren’t. And that actually feels pretty honest.
I have that photo in with a bunch of other promises, sacred vows, in our senior yearbook with the “keep in touches” and “have a great summers.” And the message from you, Teddy, telling me to “stay cool and cute.”
I didn’t do either, Ted. I became jaded and sucked at promises, too. Three marriages later. Maybe I’ll get this one right. And I sucked at finding my way in the world I wondered, still wonder,
time and again, the way you and Mark chose, and why. Well, I guess you found something you didn’t like, maybe, and that’s why you just stopped looking.
I guess we never promised to call when we wanted to blow our brains out, huh, Ted? Never promised to “keep in touch” with a fatal necktie around our necks, did we, Mark?
God I loved you both. I fucking miss you. And fuck you. And fuck me, too.
I close the yearbook, and indulge. I look Pat up on Facebook. I look at pictures of Chris and wish she’d gotten fat. (She didn’t. She hasn’t. She isn’t.) Then I remember how I told my kids that high school
is no big deal. Trust me, I’d said, it’s a tiny blip on the screen of Life. And it won’t matter one day, all the high school shit. Not even friends who you thought were “forever.”
I told them that, and I tell myself that, too. I tell myself that, and so many
Have you ever considered the vastness of the universe?
It’s massive, and awe inspiring. That vastness is incredible, a beauty unerring and unstoppable that tethers you in. It puts you into your space. Just thinking of the galaxy, everything feels so small. That discomfort or hurt you feel melts away in the face of an entire GALAXY. Maybe there’s life out in our galaxy, life that thinks like us, and will eventually ebb away, like us. Die out in a blaze of glory, or silently choke out. The possibilities that space holds are effectively endless.
And while that is certainly beautiful and humbling, it’s also terrifying.
Nothing that is done on our planet can effect anything beyond our SOLAR SYSTEM, let alone our galaxy. All of our history is a little tiny blip. Every single life that is lost every day of every year for all of human history was and is nothing. Everything is so amazingly insignificant, it hurts. Life loses its luster to space and its vast endless void. The stars we see are probably all already dead, the planets we find are probably all gone. We see everything too late to act. Nothing we find is close enough to even consider going too. We are tethered to our small, insignificant planet.
I was crying for 4 hours because my math final is tomorrow and I'm so failing this exam
you’ll do great, I believe in you and I love you so so much. just know that if you fail this exam, it won’t be the end of the world. the earth will still spin, you’ll still be alive and school is just a blip on your life, there’s so much more than getting failed on exams. I know it seems huge now, but you’ll be fine, whether you pass or fail xx
Last year, Kevin Parker released Currents, his third album under the Tame Impala moniker. It was the moment where he moved beyond the dense psych-rock of Innerspeaker and Lonerism and embraced a shimmering, humid mix of dance and pop and rock. In our cover story about the making of the album, he described its lead single/mission statement, “Let It Happen,” as initiating “this kind of grand transition of someone.” That was an apt description in general for the version of Tame Impala that would develop after Currents came out. Aside from the stylistic departures, Currents also laid the groundwork for Parker capitalizing on the Lonerism festival jams “Elephant” and “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” to attain a different level of clout than any of us would’ve reasonably expected earlier on in Tame Impala’s existence.
This year, the music world had such an overflow of excellent, invigorating work, major surprise releases, and tragic, surprising deaths that the significant releases of 2015 can already feel like ancient history. That wasn’t the case with Currents. Tame Impala was on the festival circuit playing these songs all year, now sitting at that second- or third-tier headliner status. Some of these songs had become part of the atmosphere — by the time I heard “Let It Happen” repeatedly blaring from the outdoor speaker of an Italian restaurant in Reykjavik this November, I was already used to encountering that, or “The Less I Know The Better,” or “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” in all manner of public spaces. They’d garnered some degree of ubiquity, even if Tame Impala still isn’t a household pop name. The buzz behindCurrents proved legitimate: There wasn’t a new Tame Impala album this year, and yet Parker and his music seemed ever-present. It was a year where the man who once could’ve remained an insular space-rocker from the distant edge of Australia fully entered the mainstream.
There was that Snapchat commercial featuring “The Less I Know The Better,” following on the heels of a 2015 Apple Watch commercial that had also used the song. That in of itself isn’t new for Tame Impala — “Elephant” found prominence partially due to its appearance in a spot for the Blackberry Z10. And this century is littered with examples of indie artists licensing a song to an Apple or car commercial; sometimes it’s one step in an upwards career trajectory, sometimes it’s just a random blip in an artist’s life. For Parker, it’s surprisingly proved to be the former, signaling the wider proliferation of Tame Impala.
It’s expected for Wayne Coyne to love Tame Impala. Less so for, say, John Mayer to Instagram the cover of Currents and write, “Best record of the past two or three years. Proven many times over in my mind.” (He then compared it to “Radiohead 1996″ and, amusingly, “Coldplay 2003,” before concluding with “Phoenix 2008.”) Mayer wasn’t the only pop star enamored with Tame Impala. Rihanna recorded a very, very faithful cover of Currents closer “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” for Anti — the biggest stylistic departure was renaming it “Same Ol’ Mistakes” — and just as it served as a crucial conclusion to the emotional journey of Currents, it too became an important linchpin in Rihanna’s most personal album. (Meanwhile, Tame Impala’s original also appeared in a teaser for Atlanta, one of the best and most popular new TV shows of the year.)
Elsewhere, you had the Brit-rock doofiness of Last Shadow Puppets’ special Tame Impala song at the 2016 iteration of Poland’s Open’er Festival. Alex Turner — a rock artist with the stature of a pop star compared to many of his contemporaries working in the idiom — sang aseemingly improvised paean to the upcoming headliners, offering up gems like “There’s a storm brewing/ In the form of Tame Impala” before proclaiming, “Kevin Parker controls the weather system.” (Not an unfair statement about much of Tame Impala’s music, if we’re being honest.)
Shout-outs and licensing are one thing, but the bigger deal, and the bigger left-turn, is how Parker has started to have a direct interaction with the pop world. Rihanna covering a band that sounds like the evolution of a ’70s stoner-rock dream is a start, an opening salvo. Then you have Yasiin Bey (FKA Mos Def) previewing a Tame Impala collaboration for one of his final pre-retirement albums. Then you have an honest-to-God collaboration between Parker and Lady Gaga on “Perfect Illusion,” the lead single from her new album Joanne. The video features Parker in the maelstrom dance sequences, drumming as Gaga pulls back his head by the hair.
There was some precedent for this, but it seemed like an outlier at the time. On Mark Ronson’s 2015 album Uptown Special — the one with “Uptown Funk!,” which also seems like ancient history after 2016 — the British producer enlisted Parker for three tracks. Two of them, “Summer Breaking” and “Leaving Los Feliz,” were plays on late ’70s lite-funk and yacht-rock that fit into the album’s overall hybridized retro aesthetic. The best of them was “Daffodils,” a psych-funk track possessing an irresistible, unhurried swagger. Like “Let It Happen,” this is another piece of Parker’s 2015 output that still lingers. At least in my experience, it’s one of those songs you just seem to hear in random places, without any given logic — that subtle ubiquity a song can have without having been a major hit like, say, “Uptown Funk!” Released earlier in 2015, Uptown Special offered a prelude to the disco-fied Tame Impala we were about to meet on Currents. It’s also what eventually lead to “Perfect Illusion”; Ronson’s the guy who got Parker involved with Gaga.
Parker’s new endeavors are part of a general movement we’ve seen in recent times, with indie-rockers alighting from their niche to try their hand at a bigger canvas. There were little grey areas, like Ariel Rechtshaid straddling the pop and alternative worlds with his 2013 trilogy of albums by HAIM, Sky Ferreira, and Vampire Weekend. Fast-forward a bit, and that’s blossomed into Rostam departing Vampire Weekend to pursue pop music full-time, and Ezra Koenig, James Blake, Jack White, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Father John Misty, and Animal Collective all, somehow, being tied to Lemonade. The latter might’ve been a bit of an extreme reaction — more “Let’s avoid another ‘Blurred Lines’ lawsuit” than “Look at all the inspiration we took from the indie world” — but it still marks a moment where indie artists’ names are mingling with the biggest stars on the planet. Like Parker, after all, Josh Tillman is actually contributing songwriting to these albums – he helped with “Hold Up” on Lemonade, and “Sinner’s Prayer” and “Come To Mama” on Joanne, right there alongside “Perfect Illusion.”
What’s notable about this is that, once upon a time, rock stars and singer-songwriters could’ve been major pop forces on their own. Once upon a time, they would’ve been the more critically respected artists, and their choosing to work with a pop artist could’ve legitimated the latter. Now, it’s something like the other way around. An artist like Tame Impala, for as unlikely a rise as they’ve had on their own, are still not going to totally crack the mainstream on their own. But here’s another path: Make your spaced-out synth-drenched coke-rock comedown album, then work with some pop stars, and a career of some notoriety comes into focus.
It’s specifically notable with Parker, because Tame Impala seemed destined to be the band always playing the late-night tents at Bonnaroo. They might’ve been beloved, they might’ve had a cult following. They might’ve been very successful for their sphere, and they might’ve kept churning out woozy ear-candy like Lonerism. And that would’ve been great! But there’s something potentially more interesting on the horizon for Parker now. In a recent interview, he talked of Tame Impala taking a bit of a hiatus. “What comes next is very much a blank canvas,” he said, “but a blank canvas in a good way — I’ve got all the paint!” He’s also spoken about further collaborations he wouldn’t name. Even after Uptown Special and Currents, this is a surprise: the idea of a Tame Impala recognized by pop stars, and Parker as an in-demand co-writer. Who knows whether that’s the path Parker will follow, or what might come of it. But given the creative bounty he’s already reaped from the unexpected detours in his career, the idea of a future version of Parker known for guesting on rap songs or taking a pop single further out into the unknown is just as exciting as hearing him let loose a mind-warping solo as the sun sets over a festival crowd.
Dipper still couldn’t get over finding Maddie abandoned on the side of the road like she was nothing more than garbage. If she hadn’t been pulling on their bond like she had, too young to know what she was doing, just wanting somebody to make things better…
She was still just so very tiny, he could almost hold her in one hand. Not that he would, of course. No, he wasn’t going to take a single chance with his Mizar, so fresh and new and already with one near death experience to her latest name, to chance anything with her.
Well, he had taken one chance, introducing her to Toby. But, well…Bill’s soul had gotten on well with Mabel’s in its last incarnation. It wasn’t that he worried about how Toby would take suddenly having a little sister, or how much more openly affectionate he was towards her and worried about how Toby would take it, of course not.
That was just…it was silly.
A problem was starting to arise, though, and Dipper still wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.
So much fucked-upness Anthony has inflicted on his daughter.
He abandoned her. Full stop. Right after her mother had passed (correction: RIGHT AFTER SHE TOOK HER MOTHER INTO THE ETHER) and left her with no way to contact him. This alone would justify Annie never wanting anything to do with him, bc I don’t care what world-saving matters he had to attend to, that was a dick move.
Annie spent her first summer vacation alone at the Court, waiting for him. She could have - should have - been with Kat, but she stayed. Because she thought that her father would be hurt if she wasn’t there when he arrived. OW. You goddamn asshole, you couldn’t even call and tell her you wouldn’t be there?
And even after these two instances of shitty treatment, Annie still defends her father against EVERYONE, because she loves him. Let’s not kid ourselves; that entire fiasco at the end of Year Two happened because Reynardine told her that her father ain’t shit. And while Rey was a(angry and b( biased as hell, he was also right.
HER FEELINGS OVER HER FATHER SENT HER INTO A FUCKING COMA. A. FUCKING. COMA.
And he had the nerve to call her makeup - call her coping mechanism, which she uses as the only real tie to EITHER of her parents - “ridiculous”? After showing up out of the blue after three years of nothing?
Did no one at the Court tell Anthony that the majority of Annie’s issues - her constant running away, her stoicness, THE GODDAMN YEAR TWO FIASCO AND THE FUCKING COMA - are all his fault, or does he just not care? Because at this point I want Kat to sic her robot army on his good-for-nothing-ass.
And I just know he’s about to ruin all of the progress Annie has made - the peace with herself that she’s worked damn hard for - and then blip out of her life again.
Really though, if you’re aggressively hating on Carlos for being as devoted to his life’s work as he is–as devoted to science and discovery as he is–it might be wise to take a step back and acknowledge that his life doesn’t revolve around his relationship.
Yes, Cecil is important to him. Yes, he loves him so much (he knows two things: that he loves Cecil and Cecil loves him, remember). But he’s realized he’s got the opportunity of a lifetime and he’s making the most of it.
Carlos has friends in this desert otherworld–and I always worried about him having friends, because Night Vale is so inherently distrusting of outsiders. Now he’s got Doug and Alisha and who knows who else. He’s discovering things and wondering things with these people–something Night Valians inherently don’t do. Carlos is a Scientist–it’s in his nature to ask questions, and where he is now, he can, without being afraid of re-education.
He’s even trying to get Cecil to see the world from his perspective–to visit this strange place and realize there’s more than Night Vale. There’s more than this tightly controlled government-vehicled desert town. Carlos loves Cecil so much that he cares enough to try and open his eyes to that–and that’s so important. Could he be looking for the doors harder? Sure. Could Cecil be looking for doors? Yes. Definitely. But Cecil is just as devoted to his life’s work, see?
They’ll come back together eventually. But a few months–even a year–it’s a short little blip in an even shorter blip called human life on this earth. It’s important for people to grow as individuals. A phone connection doesn’t weaken that bond. Actually, it holds it together. Cecil can be patient. Carlos can be encouraging. They’re both growing from this and that makes me so, so happy.
It was a mission Steve was both ready and not ready for. He was still looking for his Bucky and after persuasion from Sam Wilson, he enlisted the help of his Avengers team. They were two days outside of Murmansk on the boarder of Finland when Stark’s scanners picked up the signal. There was an old abandoned Hydra base where they believed Hydra once housed The Winter Soldier program. Inside the desolate metal warehouse was one blip of life… but no heat signature. Tony melted off the iced-over lock while Natasha kept look out before Steve busted it open with his shield. The ground was dusty and untouched clearly for years yet Jarvis piped in with his latest readings two floors below. But what Steve found in the darkened room was not the Winter Soldier. There were six large cryogenic chambers darkened and dusty from neglect over the years. They checked one by one; each silent and empty; except the third on the right had a small hum. Steve rubbed on the glass to clear the fog and damn near though he was having a stroke. He scratched at the glass faster trying to clear the returning frost in desperation and confusion. “Stark! Get this chamber open! Now!” He wanted to smash the glass but the fear of damaging the life sustaining technology kept him somewhat at bay. Tony was there instantly scanning the controls and working on opening the chamber. He assumed just as the rest that somehow Bucky returned to the base and locked himself in. But when the chamber opened, what fell out into Steve’s arms was not Bucky; but a petite brunette.