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[ It's not something that really ever becomes routine, it doesn't matter how often he wakes up someplace strange and uncharted. The voice on the line sounds about as scattered as he feels. ]

My name is Will Graham, it's- [ He's pulling back his sleeve to look for a watch that's not there. ] I don't have the time. I don't- I don't have the time.

[ Hang on, don't get too lost. ]

It's not clear to me exactly where I am, but- [ a dry laugh ] you probably already knew that. This isn't even my phone. But you probably knew that too.

[ He's missing details. He's missing plenty. His voice trails off for a short while before he can get his bearings enough to speak again, and even then it's almost unconsciously. ] I don't know. I don't know.

[ It's as if the fact that he has no idea sparks him back into the present. His voice grows more composed, if somewhat cracked. ] So if you're hearing this, if anyone is hearing this - [ is anyone hearing this? ] - any singular indication will be key.

[ Another beat. ]

I feel as though I've strayed a long, long way from home.

[ The air goes dead, and then so does the line. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Better a how-to brochure than what's straight from the horse's mouth? Either way, it's going to sound like a whole lot of crap. Seems like you could use a revamp on your indoctrination system.

I didn't come up with it. Believe me, we know about as much as you guys do when we first get here.

Then why bother coming at all?

Because it beats being dead.

[ Not a bad point. Though: ]

Aren't we supposed to be anyway?

In which case, it certainly does beat being nothing.

Exactly. Might as well be keeping busy.

How, exactly, does one manage to do that here anyway? It's still a prison. Fruitful as reading might be, [ and with a hell of a library to back that up, ] I can't imagine it not getting stale after long enough.

There's a gym, a pool, a firing range, this place up on the upper deck that makes it seem like you're wandering around on a beach or in some forest or wherever, an art room, I think they've got a friggin' piano in there if you wanna pick that up.

It's still boring as hell after a while, but seriously, beats doing nothing. [While getting shot at and shit, so. His standards are probably a little fucked up.]

[ It should feel like a vacation after how his life has been moving as of late, a slow plunge into the deeper and darker. Instead it feels vaguely like a cage. ] At least they've given a wheel to the rats.

[ Okay, so he's still cynical about it. In his defense, it's all still new to him, and he was most certainly not finished with particular business back home. He feels cut short. ]

I can't imagine the firing range in particular is a hangout they'd be lending towards the inmates. Gun access seems a recipe for certain disaster.

You bring your own weapons and ammo, and the door's locked to any inmate who doesn't have permission to go in. We're not that stupid. [Although it is a little surprised the Admiral thought that far ahead given... everything.]

Sergeant James Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky. You got any more questions, I can do my best to answer 'em.

- So I suppose that one's more or less out. [ The stipulations aren't exactly uncalled for. But it would have been a nice distraction. ]

There's an awful lot of military here, Sergeant. [ A beat, and then: ] Bucky. Military, and doctors. Kind of gives a sense of foreboding for what's to come.

Yeah, well, there're a lot of teenagers, too. If that helps.

[It's a joke. And it's not, because there's nothing funny about this.] In all honesty, you might wanna hold on to that.

[ Teenagers, he does know about. Or at least one of them. ]

I've gotten very used to looking forward to the - ominous. From what I'm hearing, it's something I'll be putting well into practice while I'm here.

What'd you used to do, before this happened?

I - was -

[ He nearly laughs to himself, scrubbing at his hair before he answers with that same sort of amused tone, as though the idea's still funny to him. Ironic. ]

I am still an - informal, very informal - special agent. With the FBI. [ He pauses, keeping it in layman's terms. ] I seem to have a certain proclivity for psychological profiling and evidential interpretation.

Then you'll probably fit in just fine. [What with all the crazy bullshit and criminals wandering around here.]

How'd you get involved with the Bureau?

[ There's a whole story in here, homicide division to teacher and back, and maybe Bucky will hear it some time. For now, Will just keeps it simple. ]

They asked me?

[ Maybe not that simple, though he does let out a half a laugh. ]

Ah, Jack Crawford - that would be the head of Behavioral Sciences there. He needed a consult on a case. From there, it snowballed.

[Bucky chuckles, and it definitely doesn't sound forced or bitter. He does know something about that, after all.]

Things kinda have a way of doing that.

Swiftly, and without much warning.

[ That's not entirely true. Will rubs tiredly at one of his eyes. ]

No warnings heeded, really, if it's the right kind of job.