1024/Hunting a Soldier

Hunting a Soldier
Date of Scene:	19 June 2017
Location:	West Harlem, New York City
Synopsis:	Mercy Thompson seeks out the Winter Soldier after witnessing (and disrupting) his reconditioning, only to find he has already been seeking her.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Loki pulled Mercy away from those dark thoughts, eventually, as all things do, they returned. As such, Mercy now finds herself out in the city, on her own and searching for a familiar scent. Or rather, scents. Mostly she's looking for the man known as Yasha's, but should she catch a snippet of Claire's, she'd also have followed that.

She started at the place she figured Yasha would most likely be at, Hell's Kitchen. Specifically, Claire's apartment complex. She didn't go inside, however, instead choosing to stay outside and typically across the street, or even further down the street. While Mercy isn't necessarily a pro at avoiding the perceptions of assassins, she does have some talent in the skill of stalking and effectively hiding. After all, she was raised by werewolves.

Either way, Mercy lurked in two forms. Her human form and also her coyote. It was easy enough to shift thanks to the gas station down the road, or the convenience store up the road, which both held bathrooms. Who cares that a 'dog' somehow managed to find its way inside and then back outside several times. While in 'stray dog' form, Mercy found herself flopped down next to the entrance of the apartments, playing the part of a beast trying to find a cool spot in the oppressive humidity. The only odd thing about this particular stray dog is the fact that it had a little satchel around its neck. Similar to how St. Bernard's carried their little barrel of alcohol around.

Now, the time likely draws late and Mercy is back in human form. She's settled in the darkened mouth of an alleyway that affords her a good view of the apartment complex while keeping her mostly in shadow. And while she'd like to fidget, or tap her foot, or do something, she doesn't. She simply waits in stillness like any good little coyote (predator) does when stalking prey. Like a mouse for instance.

Only a few more minutes, that's all she'll give it and if he doesn't show, Mercy might try and hoof it to the abandoned bank; which isn't necessarily a place she'd like to return to.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier is adept at appearing and disappearing like a ghost, but his talents are oriented towards the dodging of man. It doesn't occur to him that he might also have to avoid the keen senses of a woman who can sometime be a coyote-- in his few interactions with Mercy Thompson, he has not become privy to her unique abilities on that front.

So it does not take too long before her keen senses pick up the familiar scent of steel and blood. The soft, soft step of a man who can move far more quietly than most others-- but still cannot move quietly enough to escape the notice of a pricked-up coyote ear.

He appears presently, one of many in the crowd, a man dressed nondescriptly in jacket and jeans. Average, casual attire. He passes by Claire's apartment building. He looks up as he goes by, studying it for a few moments, before-- with a slight small shake of his head-- he moves on, quickening his pace as he heads uptown.

He moves by in plain line of sight of Mercy's alleyway across the street. If he notices her and remembers that there was a coyote present at his fever dream of an interrupted 'maintenance' session, he shows no indication.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The wind. It's always her friend.

The familiar scent of man, blood and metal is picked up by Mercy's keen nose and carefully, Mercy will cast her gaze outward. It takes a few seconds, but eventually Mercy's eyes will land on the familiar form of 'Yasha'. She watches him glance at that specific window and sees that shake of his head. While she could step out of the alleyway and try to play catch-up, she doesn't. Not yet, at least. .

Instead, the woman lets him pass by her alleyway and then, she'll let him get even further ahead of her. The amount of space she allows between the two would likely never work in the real world, but thankfully Mercy isn't average. Her senses will allow her to drag far behind him. Or, so she's banking on.

Once he's a comfortable distance away (because let's face it, he's still pretty scary), Mercy steps out from her alleyway. Her gaze will cast over her shoulder a moment, before she's moving. It's a quick trot across the street and then she follows the scent trail her coyote nose can smell.

Idly, deep in her hindbrain, it whispers - 'this is such a bad idea, don't do it', but the hindbrain is easily ignored by the more logical side. She can break off any time she wants; really!

Winter Soldier has posed:
The scent trail is plain as day. He is not even trying to hide it.

That could inspire a number of different reactions. Pride in being able to track such a legendary assassin, perhaps. Disdain that he does not seem to be all he has been talked up to be. Or maybe... unease at how unnaturally easy it is to track him. This man was a whisper, his existence disbelieved by the majority of the intelligence community: who should have been the people with the best shot of positively identifying him. He was such a wraith that he became a horror story, a fairy tale told to frighten people over the course of a whole century.

Yet here he is, leaving a trail she does not even have to try that hard to follow. Even given the benefits of her beyond-human senses, it is simple.

Her reaction might start tipping more towards unease once the trail starts to lead her past familiar landmarks. Down familiar streets. Hell's Kitchen gives way to Midtown West, which gives way to the Upper West Side. She's being taken back home.

A few blocks away from it, the scent trail suddenly runs sparse, and then dwindles to a trickle. That trickle points towards her garage.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Reactions.

Mostly for Mercy it's primarily unease. While she isn't in the assassin market by any means, she's seen some of what Winter Soldier can do, and that's enough to cause the coyote to feel definite unease.

Her subconscious brain only makes it worse as it kicks up her anxiety, as it whispers; this is too easy. Too easy.

Especially when the area bleeds away from Hell's Kitchen and back towards familiar West Harlem. It's only when the trail starts to wain that Mercy will pause right there in the middle of the sidewalk she's upon. There's a few jostles at her shoulder as people push past her, but Mercy doesn't quite pay attention to that. No, she's simply staring at the low rise of her garage, a grimace flattening her lips to thin lines.

"You are so stupid Mercy."

That's a mutter that's completely for her ears alone and then with a deep inhale, Mercy starts moving again.

It only takes Mercy a few minutes to make it to her parking lot, then she's warily going around to the side door, not the front. That'd be stupid. Possibly.

Then if no monsters jump out at her, she'll ready her keys to unlock the side door and step into the spacious garage port.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Nothing jumps out at her. No shots fired. No sudden knives in the dark.

There's only the man she knew first at the Winter Soldier, and then subsequently as Yasha. He's sitting right in the middle of the garage port, in a spot that must be painfully exposed and out-in-the-open to any trained spy. It is an obvious concession to her-- perhaps even a tacit apology for how he led her here.

It is also a statement in another way, because it's the chair where he sat when she repaired his arm, and it's in the exact same place.

"I meant to come here," he says slowly, as if not accustomed to discourse with another human. From what she knows about him, he is probably not. "Before. But now I find... that you have already been watching me."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There's the jangle of keys from outside, but before Mercy unlocks the doors, she'll pause. Her ears pick up the faint sound of breathing from within as well as a beat of a heart; and not one that's a terribly familiar pattern either.

So, she knows he's already there. That almost cause a second mutter of 'stupid', but she refrains.

The soft sound of tumblers falling into sync might be heard by the Soldier as the door is unlocked. Then Mercy's stepping inside. Unlike most, Mercy's gaze doesn't need much time to transition from outside light to inside. It also doesn't hurt that the Winter Soldier purposely left himself out-in-the-open either. Upon seeing him there, settled in that same chair, Mercy's expression shows surprise. She wasn't expecting him to be there, or settled in that chair. Automatically her hand moves to the light switch and with a quick flip and click the fluorescents shine harshly bright.

Slowly, carefully, Mercy takes a few steps further inside, though not necessarily closer to Bucky. Instead, she'll go for a work bench that's closest to her and across from the Soldier. The satchel that she carried over a shoulder will be dumped upon the work bench, really just for something to do. Because she's nervous now.

His words don't seem to help either. "I was." She'll finally say, completely honest, because that's who Mercy is, "I was worried. For you and Claire."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier's head turns and dips a little bit as the harsh lights come on, but otherwise he makes no particular reaction to her entering and making herself at home, as she usually would. He lays no particular claim on any space he enters, not seeming to have in his mind any particular thought or concept of ownership. He serves, and that is all.

She confirms that she was watching him. But the reason is transparently not what he expects. He thought she would speak of espionage, of knives in the dark, of a desire to kill him. But instead, she says she worried about him. Him and Claire.

He seems to struggle with her statement. It is outside the bounds of his ability to understand. He understands the worry for Claire. But not--

Me?" He sounds tired, a man wracked day and night by a simple question that nonetheless has no answer. "Why? I needed... maintenance. I was getting it. Without it, I..."

He doesn't finish. His brows knit. "Why did you stop it?"

There is a part of him sometimes, a small insane mad voice in his mind, that shouts at him-- in defiance of all he knows, all he has been taught-- that what he is and what is done to him is wrong. Usually he is able to dispel that disturbing thought, and his handlers are patient to help him get his head back on straight, but now he is receiving outside confirmation of that stray thought...

Mercy Thompson has posed:
For now, Mercy stays on her side of the garage. Her hands will busy themselves with her little purse; it'll be unzipped and a few things pulled out. Mostly two smartphones, both will be set near the purse. Once has a yellow post-it note upon it with a short message written on it; Say Call Liam. You know, in case she's ever found as a 'dog' and needs to be 'retreived'.

That's neither here nor there, however, it's all about the Soldier currently. She can see the struggle within him, but more importantly she can smell it. That's what holds her tongue while she waits for the man to find his words and when he does -

It's enough to cause Mercy to blink, her head cocking slightly to the side. Surprise flickers across her expression again, as she grapples with what he just said. "Maintenance?" Is the first word out of her mouth, her tone incredulous, "Maintenance? Are you a car?" She asks, her tone grim and slightly sharp, the irony of that word not lost on her. Not with the two sitting here in her repair shop.

But really, it's that last sentence of his that push Mercy's brain over the cliff. "Why did I stop it?" She's incredulous again, voice rising slightly in pitch. Her eyebrows likewise pinch downward as she takes a step towards the seated man, "Because what they were doing to /you/ was wrong. That's torture. Torture!" She stresses that second torture, "No human being should be put through that - whatever that really was - /no one/ should be put through that."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier's sharp blue eyes automatically notice little things about her as she moves. The smartphones. The post-it. The purse. The steadiness of her hands despite the tension and nervousness in her demeanor. It is not something he does consciously, nor something he is thinking about right at the moment. It's old habit from a career decades long.

His mind is elsewhere right now, transparently stuck on a question like a record that has hit a sudden snag and keeps repeating the same few notes. Perhaps that is literally what is happening in his mind. /Something/ was being done to him, and it was interrupted. And now, he is like an unfinished program trapped in an infinite loop.

He knows what he is supposed to think, however, and he parrots it aloud-- though he is uncertain now, and it shows in his delivery. That uncertainty only increases when Mercy responds just as she did before-- with incredulity and disgust. Maintenance? How can he call it that? He is a man, not a car. What she saw was torture-- it was wrong--

The Winter Soldier knows she is wrong. But there is some other voice in his head that won't shut up, and it thinks she is right.

"Not a car," he says, after a moment. "But I am... important. The things I have done... you have no idea what I have prevented, over the years. But I need to be kept together. My mind... comes apart otherwise. I think-- wrong things. They have to fix it."

His expression knots in confusion. "But you and... Claire... say different." He doesn't say it aloud. But the fact he is here suggests that he cannot help but wonder if there's any truth to what they say.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The coyote will watch the man struggle again, her steps paused.

She's not stupid enough to go near someone so conflicted. That's the correct word there; conflicted. His scent is one part acrid uncertainty and another part sharp frustration.

"I don't know what you've done." Begins Mercy, her tone lessening now, moving towards something gentler. Quieter. "And I don't know what you've prevented, and honestly, I don't care. What they were doing to you wasn't right."

The mention of his mind coming apart causes the coyote to look worried, but without knowing the full scope of what was done to the Soldier, all she can do is feel that worry. She could try to offer platitudes and affirmations, but she doesn't. No, instead, Mercy says, "What wrong things? What do you think that's so wrong? What thoughts are so bad that those people would /do/ that to you. I've seen animals treated better than that."

When his scent and expression turn to confusion, Mercy will take a couple more steps towards him. "Then maybe you should listen to what Claire and I say then. I know we don't have the whole story of what's going on with you, or know everything, but we've both been around the block and I'd like to think that gives us a good perspective on what's right and wrong."

"And what happened in there, that was wrong - wrong."

Winter Soldier has posed:
It's wise not to approach. Mercy has no doubt known her share of wounded, wary wolves. The Winter Soldier's scent is not too dissimilar to theirs in these moments, and a weak cornered wolf can bite hard if provoked.

He does seem to respond to the gentling of her tone, even if in a confused way-- as if he were uncertain about the kindness, and unsure if anything that makes him feel safe and at ease is /right/. The man known as Yasha is an austere personality, absorbed in his duty to country and master, a man shown over the course of his long life that existence is harsh, cold, painful, and full of brute necessities. Necessities like the painful recalibration of his mind, for example.

Except here are a bunch of people telling him that it is wrong, and on some visceral level there's a part of him agreeing.

What does he think that is wrong? He knows he should not answer the question, but he's been doing a lot of things he shouldn't be doing. He hasn't even checked back in with his other handlers, after he cleaned up the mess at the abandoned bank. He is sure they are looking for him now, but he just doesn't... want to go back, yet. Not until he has answers to these questions. "I sometimes think I am someone else," he admits, after a long while. "They fix it. My work is too important for interruption..."

Maybe he should listen to her and Claire, Mercy insists. The Soldier looks down at the ground. It's the first time he's fully taken his eyes off her, and perhaps in that way it's a test to see if she'll try to hurt him when his guard is finally down. A way to gauge her intentions.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Patience. Mercy has a lot of it.

She understands on some level what and what not to do; especially with world wary souls.

Because that's how Mercy is seeing 'Yasha' currently. Someone who's been stomped upon by the world -

- Yes, he's killed and in cold blood, but for now that echo of a thought is ignored. And who's she kidding, there are some wolves within her pack that have done similar things in their long-lived lives.

Either way, the coyote waits for the Soldier to answer her question. His answer, however, isn't what she was expecting. Honestly, it's hard to say what she was really expecting, but to say he thinks he's someone else -

Definitely not expected.

"Someone else?" She asks, her tone taken aback, "What do you mean?" And while she would typically kick herself for such a stupid question, asinine really, Mercy is amazed at his answer to give herself the proverbial kick for that. But perhaps she redeems herself with her next question, her voice still pitched quiet, "Who do you think you are?"

When he drops his gaze to her cement floor, Mercy's movements stop. And she waits. A wolf would have done something similar and perhaps even offered an affectionate cuff upside the head; but for all that he smells of 'wolf', Mercy knows he's not. And she knows this isn't really about who's alpha, beta and omega, so she just waits.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier is shaking a little. It's not something he seems to notice, because his gaze still has that faraway quality, his mind lost in a knot of questions for which he has no idea. But there is a slight tremor to his hands, a little trembling to his head. It is shocking to witness, given the circumstances under which she first met him. Comparing the confident, cruel creature he was then with the broken and addled thing he is now is stark and disheartening. It also says a great deal about the apparent necessity of these 'maintenance' sessions.

She has smelled the scent he's giving off now, before. It's the scent wolves give off before their endurance for pain breaks, and they cut and run from whatever is hurting them.

Who does he think he is? "I don't... know," he admits, and his scent runs clean with truth. He honestly has no idea. "I just know it's not me. Thoughts and memories that aren't mine..."

He trails off, in the attitude of a man who realizes he has probably said too much. He takes his eyes off her, and he waits. For what, he isn't sure. An attack, perhaps. An assault when he is weak and unguarded. But she doesn't move. She waits with a patience that speaks to her sincerity. It's as he feared. Her kindness seems genuine. But that means...

He starts up from his chair. It's a sudden movement, but not a hostile one. "I should go," he mumbles, blindly seeking the exit.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The shaking is seen. The light tremors. A bleakness enters her gaze, that emotion crimps her mouth. Those involuntary movements of his and his scent reminds her of the pack. Specifically when a person underwent the change, but found they couldn't control the change; that their wolf controlled them. That's what this makes her feel.

Though she knows this particular situation isn't necessarily the same thing.

This wolf is more metaphysical versus physical.

When his gaze returns to her face he'll find her expression still holding an edge of sorrow within it. When he refutes those snippets of memories and thoughts as not his, almost Mercy says 'are you sure', but she doesn't. Instead, she'll say, "How would they get in your mind though? Why would they be there?" And even with those questions asked, Mercy can already see the Soldier beginning to pull back. That's not unexpected; many wolves would have done the same thing.

And while his sharp movements isn't necessarily unexpected either, it still brings a reaction from Mercy. Her surprise shows in the flare of nostrils, as she automatically scents the air, trying to get a feel for what's going on. "Wait -" She says, even as the man moves towards the exit, "- You have to figure out what's going on. I've a feeling if you don't it'll only get worse. The confusion you're feeling -"

Winter Soldier has posed:
It is both like and unlike her experiences in the past, with men who became wolves, only to find themselves mastered by the beast. The Winter Soldier has a wolf of sorts within him too, dogging at his heels, though less in the explicit sense and more in the sense of a split mind. A schism of the soul that seems almost to suggest two creatures in one body.

Mercy asks him an incisive question-- how would such thoughts and memories get into his mind? Who would have placed them there, if they are not real in some way? He has no answer, and the question seems to make him even more distraught by its sheer unanswerability.

"I don't know," he repeats. Then he laughs-- probably the most alarming thing he's done this entire time. The sound is empty and bleak. "Maybe I'm just crazy. They've told me that I am, and that's why I need to be-- managed. I lost more than just my arm on the Eastern Front." ...He cannot mean the Eastern Front of the Second World War? That was eighty years ago.

Seeming to have hit a breaking point, he stands abruptly and tries for the door. He stops briefly on the threshold for her injunction to wait, but he does not look convinced.

"I mean to figure it out," he says, but in his voice is the tired realization of just how impossible a task that might be. "I can't exist like this."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That laughter of his -

It causes that bleakness to return to Mercy's eyes. She's heard that type of laughter before. When the person realizes what will have to happen if they can't figure out how to control it.

That's enough to cause Mercy to rub one hand against her arm, trying to dispel the feeling of finitely with that sound of his.

"You're not crazy." She says, though does she believe that? Possibly, rarely does Mercy lie, perfering honesty over anything else.

The mention of his lost arm causes Mercy to cast a look towards that arm that was lost, but really it's at the 'Eastern Front', that causes Mercy's eyebrows to twitch downward. She has a degree in history and while others might not catch that reference, Mercy does. "Wait -"

She begins, but her words soon fall silent as the man pauses right before he leaves.

"Let us help you." Mercy states, "Or Claire, at least. She's your friend, even if you don't realize it. Just don't go back to those people. Whoever they are, don't trust them."

Winter Soldier has posed:
You're not crazy. The Winter Soldier stares off at nothing, his expression broadcasting loud and clear that he certainly feels crazy. The interrupted session did a number on his mind, that is for certain. Enough that he's refused to return to his other handlers. Enough that's he's started to want to figure out what there is sometimes a voice in his head that doesn't feel like his own.

Or at least, 'his own' as he understands his own voice should be. Which he cannot even be sure is true, not anymore-- not when his handlers say it's how he should be, but Claire and Mercy tell him not to trust his handlers--

He scrubs a hand aggressively over his face, through his long hair-- the agitated gesture of someone who is frustrated beyond endurance at the conflicting 'truths' warring in his own fractured mind. This man who claims to have been at the Eastern Front (except sometimes his mind whispers that it was the Western Front instead--), despite not looking a day older than thirty.

Let us help you, Mercy's voice interjects into his addled state. Or Claire. Just not those people who hurt him.

He is silent. The kind of silence that promises nothing. "I don't know who I trust," he says. "But you-- Claire... You don't hurt," he admits, as if the idea of such a thing is a revelation to him.

It is probably all he can give, at this point in time. Hunching his shoulders as if against a sudden chill, he bows his head and turns to the door.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, the Eastern Front (or Western) will definitely have to be asked about. Later though. Not just this second.

Especially when Mercy can see he's readying himself to leave. To escape the confusion he feels.

When he rubs his hand over his face and then through his hair, Mercy will wait and watch silently. She wants to see what he might do, or might say without her interrupting him. And upon hearing those very last words of his the coyote can't help but offer a mixed expression; part smile, but part sadness too. She heard the spark of an epiphany there within his voice.

"Then trust those people who don't hurt you." And while she could say more, something about how motivating through pain is never a good thing, she doesn't. She'll leave it with those last words of hers -

- Trust those that don't hurt you.

To Mercy that's all 'Yasha' needs to do.