[Bucky feels the connection buckle for a moment before intensifying, curled about him like a lasso and pulling him from the ocean of static. Inch by inch, he's dragged free until he can breathe--- seven eight nine ten eleven. There's something in his pocket and the familiar grooves offer a comfort he's never known. Beneath him, behind him, the static roils and crackles without restraint, but it's somehow more distant, almost like he's watching through a window.
He breathes. Seven eight nine ten eleven.
He thinks he can feel his left arm again, but it isn't cold.]
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He breathes. Seven eight nine ten eleven.
He thinks he can feel his left arm again, but it isn't cold.]