10359/Where We Come Alive

Where We Come Alive
Date of Scene:	08 December 2019
Location:	Suite A3 James Barnes, The Triskelion
Synopsis:	The remains of the day will be a mess.
Cast of Characters:	Winter Soldier, Magik

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Winter Soldier has posed:
Russia was never home. Never somewhere he wanted to be. So that little spit of land full of its expatriates should be uncomfortable to him.....and yet, there's *something* there. Winter, perhaps, comforted in his icy sleep by the scent of black bread baking, Cyrillic on the signs. A feeling of a mission completed and well, and if he can just get back, he can lie down in that cold and *rest*, one of the few pleasures in the construct's life.

So Buck's walking along, little bag over his arm, and even that walk is the assassin's. Like he's dangerous and he doesn't care who knows it.

Magik has posed:
Russia was home. Somewhere she wanted to be. Even when memories washed in the golden glow of childhood remained a dim, barely graspable star, dissipating into mist whenever she reached too hard for them, it called. It still does, somewhere deep in the blood, rich in the black soils of the motherland. Slipping through the streets to Little Odessa is about as close as she can get to the land of her birth, though it's a far cry from the dismal farm ruined by the collectives collapsing or the scarred countryside spontaneously stripmined by oligarch after oligarch for its resources. Those long and faraway plains she once played in are transformed, shifted, reflected through a dark and flawed prism here among the many hair salons, bakeries, and dubious shops with Cyrillic signage going right to her heart. The barber shop where everyone loiters, the place serving up coffee with no flavour and a patina of age, these are somewhat familiar. Some part of Illyana knows them, and finds comfort.

Now if only she weren't quite so caught up taking a short cut past a locksmith and down a narrow alley. The shop on the other side of the street is open, some kind of electronics place selling slapdash kits and repair services by the hour. Where laptops come and go, where expats and second generation kids gather to peer into the annals of Russian social media and decry change, or liberty, or a lack of posters with bare-chested leaders riding bears and tackling Amur tigers. The kind of place where an argument is a hushed thing, and means guns are drawn or knives shown to make a point. Where one thin man steps in with a phone call, and the scattered remnants of protest die down. There's a reaosnably posh sedan parked on the curb, a crap one parked illegally in the alley impeding the blonde's way. The smart choice would have been to go back and around. It's not flattening up against the wall and sliding sideways, especially with the chain-smoking driver watching that man with a military build sauntering down the street like what he is. A muttered curse, a text into a cellphone screen give warning. They're caught. Target unknown. Trouble.

And then there she is by the door, trying to squeeze past, maybe ready to hop over the hood if he won't move.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Even if they don't know the Soldier, even if they're not some satellite of the Red Room or HYDRA - he's got that American baby-face, but the eyes, the eyes give him away. The way he moves, that he's probably armed to the teeth. Trouble he is.

The flash of blonde hair makes him glance over. He's without his dog, that fuzzy ambassador to the rest of humanity, that ambulatory personification of Steve's abiding love for his mutilated friend. Nothing to make him look more harmless.....and then he's simply eyeing that driver with a wolf's neutrality. How much of a problem have you decided to be?

Magik has posed:
Trouble tends to have a look. Tracksuits with a slouching ease, close-cropped hair and eyes hooded by dark deeds, mark out the men for the most part. One wears a suit, to be fair. Another favors a hoodie with jeans but they all have that bearing of men tied to better things, the sort not to be fucked with. Of course, Little Odessa has its embassy and outposts of the mafiya, less organized crime, and bored emigre's kids who need to reclaim their place in an uncertain world. So when they are left to peer at a vestige of the old world order, reshaped and reforged to something equally as scary, there's a decision to be made.

The driver peers at the shopping bag. A heartbeat of pause. Scary person... shopping. Assessment of risk and tactical threats apply. A squish of the accelerator becomes the obvious answer. Headlights off, but taillights burn lurid red. It's not a car to go zero to sixty in two seconds, but cagey old Detroit steel and Chinese plastic lurches with a growl of the engine, a totally reasonable pedestrian accident two ways over.

"Mikhail!" snaps the thug in the doorway, roused to stop looking at accounts and figures while his compatriots bicker inside. He manages to shout just as the side mirror swipes Illyana, pinning her, threatening to drop her. She doesn't make a noise other than a grunt, squashed up against the building wall and knocked onto her belly instead of taking a blow to the back of her skull. Ow.

Winter Soldier has posed:
That's enough. Buck's decided to wade in. No stealthy approach, this. He doesn't know her *well* and Lili is no judge of character, considering. But he does know the look of those men, knows their species if not their individual pack....and he's not leaving her to them.

So that mirror gets summarily removed, the gloved metal hand reaching over and yanking it right off the side of the car with the ease of a man plucking a leaf from a tree. He flicks it contemptuously behind him, sending it skidding away down the pavement, gaze never wavering from the driver.

Magik has posed:
The car should be spilling onto the street by now, one bump and two thuds down. There should be a driver with a content smirk on his face, mouth stretched, eyes cold and amused. The cinematic explosion of revenge and dark passion deserves to come to a rather unremarkable end, complete with cranking the wheel and touring Little Odessa. Let the others wait on him, grouchy and pricked, their opinions met with a flicked middle finger. If only.

It doesn't really happen that way, of course. The narrative in his head takes an entirely different turn. Pulling off the side-view mirror should halt him. Instead, Mikhail -- a fool, really -- turns his sights on Bucky. He keeps on going, perhaps fear quelling any sense of reasonable intelligence in there. Why not? He should know better. Oh, he absolutely should. But there are classic response of the criminal is fight or flight. When those wires get crossed... presumably Bucky is going to be a man down, thrown or stumbled out to the street, preferably visiting the undercarriage. He can't hear the snarled curses in Russian, the raspy "What the hell are you doing" from within, not with his eyes on the prize and hands on the wheel.

Doesn't see the girl leaving that protective position with her hands over her head and neck, either, gone flat to a wall on her side. Her sweater is filthy, her mouth curling in disdain at a kiss to the bricks. What vituperative comments she makes are between her, the saints that didn't believe in her, and a god she doesn't believe in either. They're blistering, paint-curling accusations, even as the tires bulge on the filthy ground too close to her for comfort.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He's not going to kill this fool. Not here, not now. He's got a pistol riding at the back of his hip, it'd be the work of an instant to bring it to bear, rendering all those foolish ambitions mute and moot in a flash of gunfire, a spray of red mist.

No, poor Mikhail has this thing deciding to climb onto his hood, persistent as a hungry cat, and reach *through* the windshield to take the wheel....and turn it to slam it into a building corner. Not yanking it off. Not this trip.

Magik has posed:
Little Odessa alleys aren't that big. Big enough for a sedan, big enough to let a dumpster and a fire escape live side by side without lying atop one another. Therefore smashing through the windshield and introducing the bumper to the shuttered business beside the electronic shop -- or the electronic shop, for that matter -- is perilously easy. Not the hardest mission one has, but Mikhail is left swearing, slamming both his fists clasped together against Bucky's wrist as though he might fix things. Perhaps fighting for the wheel would be a better idea. Gunning the engine again to screech past on the side is the next option, if throwing the car into reverse and then drive again won't dislodge the troublesome flea.

Of course, the buddies next door aren't ignorant about what goes on. For one, two dash out the front of the building and one out of the side door. A piece is the smart thing to pull, messy but useful. The suit-wearer and the tracksuit watcher reach the sidewalk to see the damage, the pair behind the car confronted by the accident, and Illyana getting up, unfolding herself with disgust at her mouth and annoyance in her expression. She swats her bangs out of her eyes and stares them down, all five and a half feet of her bristling bit by bit. <<You owe me a new sweater. And pants.>> This is bound to earn a laugh.

Little girl talks back after all. Someone's probably already pondering the wisdom of screwing around with a man on the hood of the car, arm buried in the glass. "Eh! Mikhail's a fucking hammer, he deserves it. The car, not so much."

Winter Soldier has posed:
What kind of hopped-up maniac punches through safety glass? It begs the question. James is riding the hood with a surfer's ease....and Mikhail is treated to that warped little grin, Winter's one expression of satisfaction. <<You need driving school,>> he informs him, pleasantly. <<You nearly hit that young lady. Gotta be more careful.>>

A glance back over his shoulder at the newcomer, but he's still focussed in on the thug in the car. Relinquishing his hold on the wheel to lean in further and take him by the throat.

Magik has posed:
Hopped-up is probably the key word there. Not like they aren't familiar with the varieties of junkie around here, those selling and swilling poisons to deaden their pain not all that far removed from one another. Bucky's presence might prick the lizard brains of a few brighter people, the suited businessman knowing when to back up and let his muscle fall in line. Apparently trying to throw Bucky off by jerking the car onto the road and over the curb, its side crushed in, hasn't really done much. Traffic isn't heavy but in front of the row of shops, it has to come to a complete halt for the sedan sluicing drunkenly at an angle through oncoming lane and over the yellow line.

It's as good a place to fall as any. Mikhail keeps scrabbling, jamming the brakes, alternating to the accelerator again, as fingers clamp around his neck. He sweats his confessions in curses, beads on his forehead, bulging veins starting to show. Somewhere is a gun, but can he really reach it in the console when choking? The mind does funny things, then.

This delicate alchemy of unburdened cares and vicious control is impressive to see. The two men in the alley confronted by a scrappy girl in a smeared sweater probably might laugh if not for how serious their driver's situation is. The other Russians aren't stupid; mafioso rarely are. The criminal venture breaks up, scattering, letting one of their own pay the price without too much involvement as yet. Thug #1 in front of Suit #0 spits out a mirthless laugh. "Fuck the lady, that car didn't deserve that. Sir?" That, over his shoulder, is a signal to go. Maybe. No one's jumping the madman. The pair might be wondering about Illyana, who repeats herself when there's a black laugh in her direction. She flaps her torn sleeve in their direction, and stalks up towards them. <<A hundred dollars. Now.>>

Winter Soldier has posed:
Another shift of grip - chokehold turns into a palming of skull, slamming that face down on the dashboard with brutal disregard. Then Buck's hopping down and lifting the car by reaching down to the undercarriage, setting it properly parked against the curb like a parent shoving his toddler's tricycle into a corner. Murder the average New Yorker might well condone, depending, but blocking traffic will have him coming out with torch and pitchfork. Then he's reaching in through the side window, finding the keys, turning off the car, and wrenching them out of the column. Only then does he look around at the other thugs. <<Whose are these?>> he inquires, sweetly.

Magik has posed:
Never get in the way of a crosswalk. New Yorkers will turn murderous eyes on the car lying there in drive, its driver spasming and slumped on the dashboard. Bucky's consideration earns a passing nod from a little old steel-backed lady in a babushka, trundling down the street with her onion bag full of groceries and an unbreakable spine for proper behaviour.

She might be rather disturbed by the petite blonde making a statement when neither of her bystanding mafioso produces a wallet. Those standing outside the electronics store are well on their way, hastening a path for somewhere safer without the neighbourhood friendly assassin man giving them frosty gimlet looks. The two bastards are facing a girl with a genuine issue with the notion they won't pay her back. Such that she grinds her teeth, almost audible, and plants her hands on her hips. <<Last warning.>> It's almost funny, really. A chuckle and a turned heel are all she might receive.

Until one turns, and she's standing right there, holding out her palm. <<One hundred.>>

And from Bucky's vantage, there are exactly two Illyanas. Two versus two.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Well, he has sense enough to reach down in and shove the thing into park. One last smack for the driver, then Buck's walking away. ....turning his back in the mafioso with that feline contempt. To hell with that guy.

Instead, he's rolling up on Illyana. Not that she seems to need his help, but honestly, he's more curious. <<Pay the lady,>> he directs, in that raw-voiced deadpan.

Magik has posed:
Two thugs have better things to do that tangle with someone who just wrecked a car and parked it to the side of the road opposite their electronics shop mafioso hangout. Neither are they particularly willing to fight when their number escape like cockroaches into the dirt. Not directly. The smarter course of action is, of course, to pull out a wad of cash from a bespoke leather wallet found at Barneys and probably in the price range of a gift for people other than Tony Stark. Nonetheless, the emblazoning on it is as fancy and unpleasantly tacky as their track suits. Adidas, baby!

Money is thrown at Illyana, the wad of it fluttering in the wind. The laughing brute backs away. His friend, clearly knowing the gig is about or just because he's bored, pulls a piece and just about disregards aiming for the joys of firing at them. Why not!

Winter Soldier has posed:
It may be meant to be intimidating. To drive them off, or to prove how tough he is. But the fool with the gun has picked the wrong set of people to play that game with. For any hint of humor is gone from the pale eyes, and Buck's coming at him with that Terminatorish inevitability. The smooth, unhurried stride, the gloved hand held out as if he expected the shooter to just gently hand over his gun.

Magik has posed:
In life, people make mistakes. They choose the wrong path. They say the wrong thing. They shoot the wrong man.

Illyana stares at the fifty dollar bills fluttering into the grimy alleyway. More than she probably makes legitimately in any place in a day, the windfall something that might bring a heightened heart rate in another situation. She shoots a look back over her shoulder, finally noting Bucky's presence advancing on her. Hackles might be going up, hair on her nape rising. What's more telltale is the pale, frozen blue gaze immediately shifting back and her weight distributed to her back foot, going to the wall. Either to let him pass or possibly smack him with a trash can lid... if only there was a trash can lid to be had. Not likely then.

Wrong choice Illyana. It opens her side at least. The semiautomatic pistol brought to hand by the Russian thug opens up a retort of loud sparks. Pop, pop, pop, the spray of bullets begins in a short arc cutting center to left towards both of them. Flaunting his accuracy is an impressive thing, the smooth firing pattern balanced by a wide stance. If the spattered bullets don't stop Bucky, then nothing like throwing the gun at him for good measure, if necessary. His companion is jogging in retreat, prepared to cut onto the next street with its smoke shop, cafes, and other detritus.

In plain daylight, the spray is enough to throw the blonde to the ground, hitting the pavement.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Does this fool know what he's trying to fight? HYDRA's golem, stowed in the attic between missions, dusted off and fired up, Meth to Emeth. A creaking archaism from an analogue age....and yet....and yet.

For Buck flows into motion like poured quicksilver, hand held out, fingers spread. The bullets spark off it and carom down the walls - then he catches the gun and hurls it back at the man's head, calculated to take him down. No change of expression, just that inexorable forward motion.

Magik has posed:
Fire, withdraw. Simple principles. Shoot it until it dies. When it doesn't die... the options are more limited. Children of the X gene or the mutates from a hundred different sources of trouble might have alternatives, they might have better choices. Unleash fire, raise a defensive ring of force. Adopt the face of Bucky's best beloved or worst memories and inflict terror. The mafioso is just that, faster and hardier than the average person. He is not the creation of an accursed rabbi of the HYDRA faith, steeped in the tyrannical ambitions behind a red star, to make his guardian protector that would punish from the shadows. All the enemies of Old Prague, transplanted in metaphor to Moscow, to Mother Russia.

The irony that someone committed to the new image of Russia as supreme is brought down by the Cold War's answer. He swears in bitter, lyrical Russian, a poetry that brings out shocked looks, horror slow to come in. The math is plain as Bucky advances; he turns and runs, even with a bullet lodged in his shoulder, breaking as fast as adrenaline will let him go. Light and life is only a string of buildings away. His companion hasn't learned; he stops, pulls a Glock. Weaker by far, but he's muscle of a different kind. "Go, go, go!" is a shout even as he aims for the torso. Isn't that right?

Illyana doesn't lift from the ground, stretched out and prone. A mirror-bright wave is already sliding over her exposed side, compromising with her spilled arm, locking it into the same bright armour wielded by her brother in some odd sense.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Not for him the quick quip or the well-meant admonishment. Not now, not these days. No. But he lets the wounded runner go in favor of dealing with the man with the Glock, turning on him with that absurd grace. He hasn't drawn his own pistol. He doesn't particularly want to kill them. Not yet. No, cripple and capture it is - assault of a SHIELD agent is a crime, after all. More bullets deflected by the curve of that alloy arm, and then Buck's bullrushing him, aiming to take him down in what's more or less a tackle.

Magik has posed:
Assault - there's a balance in the word that doesn't apply here when the man crashes into the thug. Not with an agent of SHIELD, former assassin and current patriotic blade, hits. The Russian's mass isn't meant for that much density or weight, though another shot aimed low, desperate and fierce, then high might seek to inflict any damage. A clipping at best, a winging to halt the juggernaut descending. Bucky collides with him and sends them both to the concrete, short of the sidewalk on the other side of the buildings. The wounded one keeps up a pace that isn't long-term sustainable, but he will survive for now. The situation is evolving and he will be happy to melt into the crowd even if his hand is bloody and shoulder a ringing miasma of pain.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Wing him it does - a graze on the leg. Those jeans ruined, he won't bother to mend them, not even with that Depression-era thrift ground in to him like old dirt. But he was made to fight through far, far worse than that. He's batting the Glock out of the guy's hand with a tiger's contempt, and then backhanding his temple with alloy knuckles. Once he's satisfied he's stunned this prey, he's rising to scoop up the Glock and go in search of the wounded one, gaze skipping from face to face.

Magik has posed:
Fighting is a backward affair. The thug punches and kicks with the talent of someone who wishes they learned spetznaz or better. He knows how to defend himself, but the gun's removal doesn't worsen the odds, they plunge them into a matter of seconds of second. Slapped and struck, he eventually bounces his skull off the concrete. Wounds split open: nape, brow, over the ear. Hey, it's a hard hit and a bonk ends the lights in that particular measure.

Meanwhile, the wounded shooter is well into the light traffic of Little Odessa. Power to be found in the masses, especially by melting into one of the shops. A run for the subway isn't doable. Someone seling up sandwiches, with a light crew, sees him running for the kitchen.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He's in hunter mode - that he might stop and tend the girl hasn't occurred to him. Winter's rolling over in his sleep, and he *wants* this one. Running with that supernatural speed, unwinded, unhurried - ducking into that sandwich shop, dodging through patrons and staff, and following, relentless as a wolf after wounded deer.

Magik has posed:
Want is a powerful goad. Almost as much as hate, love, need. Doors open and diners grumble in their way, clattering plates and forks answering. A waitress of about fifty sighs as Bucky rushes through, calling after him. "Hey! You cannot go back there!"

The chefs in the kitchen work on the typical fare of a place like this: soup pots bubbling at all hours, black bread sliced up and slathered in Russian dressing, kraut, thick marbled slabs of meat. Maybe a few pieces of cheese. The galley setting is narrow, the dishwashers taking up more space, and getting past them is tough. Fox in the henhouse, the bleeding Russian already has them shouting and shaking mops, shaking knives. He's rushing for the back door but it's a near thing. He flings open the supply closet door, sending chemicals rolling out, like it might by him precious seconds against Bucky.

Outside, a girl bleeds. She clutches her side, wrapped in armour. Numb fingers wrap around a shaft of light that coalesces into a blade too large for her to surely wield.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Oh, but he can. He can. If you move that fast, no lead-footed server or weary cook is going to catch you. Though some part of him notes, inconsequentially, that it smells *wonderful* back there. Maybe he'll come back sometime, gorge himself on solyanka.

He manages not to trip on the cleaning supplies, picking his way neatly over falling brooms and rolling cans of spray. Catch up, catching up. Not calling out to his prey. He *should*. Should give him the opportunity to surrender, if he were doing this in real law enforcement style. But is he? Oh, no.

Magik has posed:
Move, move on. Run and cut. The scents are familiar, surely. They are the stuff to ease the belly but not the fires of rage or revenge, such as they may move with leaden slowness. Jumping, advancing, Bucky can close on the man whose endurance flags and the jolt of adrenaline is going into shock from being shot. Only so far he can go with the hot pursuit of an inevitability.

"What are you?" he snarls in Russian. "What the hell do you want?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
Now, despite himself, he smiles. It's almost fond, paternal, like a father who just knows his kid is going to love the surprise he's about to reveal.

He has him cornered, finally. "Don't you know?" he retorts, sweetly. "I'm the Winter Soldier."

Magik has posed:
A street away, the girl gets to her feet. She picks up the money, too bound to the curse of penury and need to avoid it. Bills stuffed in her pocket help, but the damage is pieced together. Urgency is lacking as she staggers one step after the other, getting her footing. Armour enshrouds her, and that glowing sword might be a problem. Then what choice has she? Walk. Search, search for the unconscious one lying up the way. Her boots click off the ground with the knell of death, even though the blade hums with its own soft song. She considers him, lying blank and still. Fingers check his pulse. As he mutters and turns his eyes to her, she sends the incorporeal point into his arm opposite his heart. Enough to send pain in waves that put him under again.

Cleaner would be better. A kick, a struggle from the staggering, bleeding Russian. He listens for a moment to Bucky. Words percolate through. It's enough to laugh, mouth wet with saliva, with fear. "The fuck you are. He's not real." Liar, liar. Not real. Not more than a bogeyman. Of course they know. He backs away, out into the cigarette-laden halo of the back door.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Something out of myth, a post-Soviet fairy tale to frighten children, conflated with the killers that moved cloaked by the myth of a perfect state. I'm Father Frost. I'm the Tooth Mousie. I'm Snegurochka or one of Baba Yaga's knights.

Lazily, deliberately, Bucky stalks after. "Are you not yet tired of running?" he wonders, voice still sweet.

Magik has posed:
The man hits open air. "I don't believe you." Don't believe; can't believe. In the end, he is dealing with Bucky in an alley, one that won't help. His shoulder bleeds and his hand clamps over it, suffering and shaking from the effort to stay upright. Not a choice, he snarls in defiance for all it hurts, and he can barely stay up.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Deliberately, he draws off the glove, exposes the metal hand in all its weird glory, the finely worked plates of alloy. "No?" he wonders. "You're a lucky guy. I'm gonna let you live. Not many of those the Winter Soldier went after can boast of getting away alive. Don't make me hurt you more. Surrender. Or I can just knock you out."

Magik has posed:
Off, off, off. The thug growls at him, and shakes his head. "Surrender? They'd shoot me for doing it." He has no other answer that can be given, aware much too well of the dangers he faces and the struggles ahead of him.