1116/Contacting A Nurse: After Hunting A Soldier

Contacting A Nurse: After Hunting A Soldier
Date of Scene:	25 June 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	Mercy contacts CLaire Temple to let her know what Bucky said. Only magic interrupts their chat.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Claire Temple

---

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's evening now. The sun has set and darkness blankets the city. The humidity can still be felt with much of the heat radiating from the cement and ground. It's enough that many air conditioners struggle to keep buildings and rooms cool.

For Mercy, she doesn't necessarily feel that heat just this moment. The Winter Soldier just left her garage and the coyote can't quite stop herself from standing there; rooted to her spot. Then Mercy gives herself a hard shake, trying to kick her brain into gear. "Never try to follow him again. Ever." Mutters the dark-haired woman, as she finally moves. It's back to her work bench which holds her regular smartphone and the phone Loki gave her. It's the regular smartphone she grabs and with a quick thumb to disable the lock, Mercy starts hurriedly typing a text.

When the send button is tapped Claire soon finds her phone lighting itself up, buzzing, or ringing (whichever is enabled) with a message from Mercy -

- 'Hey, I just saw our friend. He doesn't seem good. Can you stop over?'

And while normally Mercy will drop names in text messages, tonight she doesn't. She's feeling a bit paranoid for some reason. Whether it's because of what 'Yasha' said, or because her suspicion has increased since 'the incident'. Either way, Mercy isn't taking any possibilities right now.

While she waits for her own phone to buzz with a response, Mercy will busy herself in other ways. Mostly cleaning the shop up. It helps to settle jangled nerves. And yes, after /that/ talk with 'Yasha', Mercy's nerves are jangled.

Claire Temple has posed:
It eventually had to happen.

It's routine. It's several times every week. It's Hell's Kitchen best export. It's nearly finished her shift when a gunshot wound gets admitted into emergency, and with all the attending physicians unavailable, Claire tags in from the paramedics and takes point. It's rote to her, a bullet to the aortic artery, tamping the gouting blood with her hands as she does her dance with her staff, shouting commands on the run to surgery. She's done this a thousand times, holding a man's life in the palms of her hands --

-- as she looks down and sees the face of someone else. The man she shot. The man she killed. Bleeding out. Corpse eyes begging her for an answer she can no longer give him.

The heart beating into her palms feels so much like the kick of a gun. She can hear it. Or maybe that's just her own pulse. Her own blood rushing past her ears. She can't think.

The patient dies in her hands before they can reach surgery. Not the first time. It's routine. She's done this a thousand times too.

What's new is how Claire, the first instant she's free, is to beeline to the bathroom and vomit her guts out. She throws up until she tastes bile, until her eyes are stinging with tears, until she feels empty enough she can breathe again. She sits on the closed toilet seat, head in her hands. Goddamnit.

She leaves her shift a bit early, hollow-eyed and still lingeringly dehydrated, when that text message reaches her. Claire, too out-of-body to even properly feel the oppressive heat, checks her phone. The message makes her eyes pinch. She types a reply: Be right there.

It's over a half-hour until the nurse finds her way to a familiar mechanic's shop in West Harlem, knowing well enough now to try to bypass the front office to peek into the garage exit. Still dressed in her scrubs, her coat draped on one arm, and looking very much like she came here straight from work, Claire looks a bit pallid but not without her perpetual urgency. A woman forever needing to be somewhere. "Hello?" she calls.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The work benches have been cleaned, the shop swept and Claire still isn't here yet. Which is understandable. She has a far weirder schedule than Mercy, after all. That allows the coyote to move over to the half-overhauled Volkswagen Rabbit. The hood is lifted and with an vague stink-eye at the guts, Mercy reaches for a wrench. "Suppose I can tinker on you." Mutters the dark-haired woman and with that, Mercy turns her attention to the engine.

She'll only pause when her phone buzzes. Reading the message, Mercy will text a quick reply: Okay.

Pushing the cellphone into the pocket of her jeans, Mercy plays a dangerous game with her non-coveralls and the potential oil and grease held within the engine. Not that she really cares. A shirt is a shirt and jeans are jeans. They can be replaced.

Still, when Claire finds her way to the garage she'll find Mercy still half-deep within the Volkswagen, muttering to herself about stubborn bolts. She might even /throw/ in a cuss word there, which is saying a lot for Mercy. She rarely cusses. "You better pop loose." Growls the coyote, before she pauses as her sensitive ears hear the scuff of foot and then the humid breeze brings forth a familiar scent. Easing out from under the hood Mercy will turn, wrench still in hand, her gaze finding Claire as she steps inside with that tentative hello of hers offered. "Claire -" And then the coyote really gets a good look at the nurse, perhaps even a faint whiff of something within her scent. "- Hey, you don't look good."

Concern colors the coyote's expression now, as Mercy moves towards the Night Nurse, "Come on in. I have cold beer if you need one? Possibly two?"

Her tone may hold a note of humor, but the offer is honest. The thought of 'I should have checked up on her sooner' quickly zips through Mercy's mind and it's enough to cause her to feel a spike of guilt, but that can be remedied enough. "How've you doing?" Is the serious question now, even as Mercy pulls a simple folding chair out for the woman.

Claire Temple has posed:
That curse word pops up Claire Temple's eyebrows. The look on her face, however, suggests appreciation rather than offence.

She's from Harlem. This is basically her first language.

A bit of the darkness lifts from the nurse's eyes at the sight of Mercy Thompson, peeking out from underneath the Volkswagen like a sunrise. It hits Claire in this moment, more than ever, how much she needs to see a familiar face: and especially one aware of her particularly variety of trouble. It's like a weight off. It helps.

Something is definitely off with her scent: it's usually tired, exhausted really, but quietly forbearing -- grounded. Today she's alkaline with anxiety, worry -- something else. Whatever it is, it leaves the nurse looking a little more sunken under the eyes.

"Yeah, I think I gave up on winning beauty contests a few years ago," Claire answers affably, and with a familiarity that suggests her growing trust of the coyote, sets her coat and handbag down in an eased comfort. "Beer sounds -- like heaven. I might take three if you got it."

She accepts that folding chair with the most grateful of looks, easing herself down with the quiet, windy sigh of someone who's been on her feet for twelve hours straight. But she doesn't lean back, doesn't get comfortable, doesn't do much more than nervously push her dark hair back behind her ears, having not forgotten the reason why Mercy asked her here at all. "I'm fine. I'm -- me, burning the candle as many ends as I can find it, I guess. So -- he came by here? Did something happen?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy will consider the other woman for a moment; the scent telling her a whole other story versus what Claire says. For now, however, Mercy won't rip that band-aid off. Not yet. There needs to be beer first. Definitely some beer. "Let me go grab a couple bottles first."

And Mercy will disappear within that third door that sits in the back of the shop. It's only a few minutes and then the coyote returns, several cold beers in hand, the tops already popped. As soon as she's within arms-length Mercy extends the first bottle to Claire. "Here. Drink. Then we'll talk about him." And there's a certain emphasis on the way she says him; a combination of wariness and concern.

Mostly concern.

The coyote will wait for Claire to take a few drinks, even taking a sip or two of her own, before she'll finally speak again. The majority of her senses will be kept on the other woman, as well, as she considers how to start this particularly odd story. "I had the great idea to track your 'Yasha' down -" Begins the woman, her expression turning to a wince, "- to see how he was doing. And let's just say our game of hide-n-seek went as well as you could except." Which is to silently say not well; Bucky totally saw through her paltry attempts at skillful stalking,

"Anyway ... I don't know how much he's talked or told you, but he asked me why we stopped his maintenance." Mercy's eyebrows rise upward slightly with that last word of hers. "He said it like he was some sort of car, in need of a tune-up."

Claire Temple has posed:
"You are my favourite person," declares Claire, the instant she has that precious lager in hand. Her overtired eyes crease at the corners in brief, wordless thank you.

She leans forward in her chair long enough to tap her bottle against Mercy's for good luck, a simple 'cheers', before she swigs a third of it down. That little voice in her head nags her it's not the best thing for her empty stomach, messed-up electrolytes, and basically her everything else, but the voice can stuff it. She's desperate.

And it's just what she needs. She exhales in relief, and chases that feeling down with another liberal swig that warms her throat and chills the rest of her. Her eyes lift to Mercy's words, and the nurse goes silent, allowing her the time and opportunity to just -- say it all.

In the end, Claire looks worried, concerned, but... not too surprised. And she, with a wince of her own, decides to reveal why. "He found me not too long ago. I should have told you. I was... everything's a shitshow and I still remember that look on your face. I was scared of dragging you into more than you wanted. I still feel bad asking you..."

She bites down on her bottom lip, eyes angled down, staring at the concrete between her bent knees. She ruminates Yasha -- /her/ Yasha, Mercy attests -- thinking himself no more than a car. "What he told me is he's messed up. We stopped -- whatever they were doing to him. But it's good he found you here. It means he remembers."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The clink of bottles is returned by Mercy.

Then, when Claire talks, the coyote takes her own turn at staying silent, as well as drinking. Though her pace is /considerably/ slower than Claire's. In fact, seeing the woman down a third so quickly causes a new flash of concern from the mechanic. While she can't quite say she knows Claire all that well, drinking that fast is never a good sign. Especially with all her scent has to tell Mercy.

"Don't feel bad." Mercy says, her voice quite firm on that particular subject, "I'm glad I could help. /Really/. No one should be put through whatever all that was. /Maintenance/." Mercy says, her tone lacing with a growl.

Consideration will line her expression now, as Mercy debates whether to ask Claire how she's really doing with her own part in that particular play. And while it's right there, at the tip of her tongue, Mercy's decides to play it safe for now. "He did remember me. He remembers you too. He said we're the only ones that don't cause him pain." And saying that cause Mercy to grimace, "I told him he should trust us then. Or trust you at the very least. And not to go back to those sick bastards." Another swear word from the coyote, even as she continues with. "I don't know if he told you this, but he told me they do that 'maintenance' because he has bad thoughts. Or memories. I don't know what you want to call it, but he said sometimes he thinks he's someone else and that's why they do those .. sessions."

A hand will rise to rub the side of her face, seriously. It's all sorts of wrong what they were doing to him. "Sessions. Like it's some sort of /therapy/."

And while more could be said Mercy's gaze will turn unfocused for a second. The hair upon the back of her neck rises now as a swell of magic settles upon, or rather within the garage. While Claire might not feel that actual sensation, perhaps she'll feel a new heaviness within the air, and even if she doesn't, Mercy's next words should alert her to something not quite right.

"Claire." The coyote says as she snaps back to the present, "There's trouble." Because the magic /does not/ feel familiar to her. Or, she should say, it feels familiar enough that she knows it's not going to be good. And she's starting to get better at sensing what sort of spell is being used and this one screams teleportation. "This is going to sound crazy, but we need to move. Probably run, really."

Mercy's free hand will reach for the nurse's arm, intending to pull Claire to her feet, but before that hand of Mercy's can even touch the nurse's arm, the trouble reveals itself.

Four beings suddenly appear within the corners of the garage.

While they have the basic shape of a person a close enough look will reveal the creatures could /never/ pass for human. Their bodies are a mishmash of human and animal, with more animal really, than human. One looks bird-like, with feathers for hair, claw-tipped hands and the black on yellow eyes of a crow. The other two look lupine; one wolf or coyote, the other fox. The fourth, however, is different. She, for she looks more feminine than the other three, looks almost reptilian. Her skin holds a glossy sheen to it, while her eyes dip towards a metallic silver. The pupils are a slash of black against the brightness of her eyes; slitted, much like a snakes.

Claire Temple has posed:
Don't feel bad, says the very patient mechanic, with the patience of about /fifty martryed saints/, after finding herself trapped in a bank vault between one corpse, one pleading monster who deserved to be bleeding out just the same, one officially-homicidal nurse, and a man-turned-experiment locked in a torture chair.

Claire just gives Mercy a long, pained look like her own guilty hasn't been completely assauged. She can't remember fast or easily how /shellshocked/ the woman looked -- and she's a woman who can turn into a /coyote./

"You are something else," she says, not cynically -- but with genuine awe. Anyone else would be -- would be doing anything but /this/. Willing to keep helping.

But she listens, something stricken crossing her eyes the longer Mercy speaks about their mutual friend. "You did what I did, pretty much," she confirms. "I think -- whatever it is, I think he's not going back. He's messed up, but he seems certain of that. He wants to hide from them. He... doesn't want them on my doorstep, so same would go for you. Whatever happens, and if you're in -- he's going to need our help. I'm not sure how, because I don't even know what the hell we're /fighting/, but, I'll keep you in the loop. On everything." Claire's expression seems to declare, not without some apology and strain: welcome to my circle of trust, please ignore the mess.

"I suppose --" she starts, and then goes quiet, interrupted by Mercy's sudden sea change. Her spoken caution. They're going to need to move.

Still a bit green at this, Claire does the last thing she should: nothing. She pauses, still holding her beer. Her eyes narrow: what?

And then they have company. Just like that, out of nowhere, and with such abruptness it stands Claire out of her chair, her lager dropped with a shatter of glass. Instinctively, guard already up, Claire backsteps toward Mercy, wanting the woman in arm's reach, as her eyes turn, counting being after being. They widen. She's never /seen/ anything like them before, anything like this, this Dr. Moreau gestalt of human and animal. Her scent spikes with confusion and panic, and she opens her mouth to speak --

-- yet as her eyes find the snake woman, crossing by, briefly meeting her slitted eyes, Claire never speaks. She doesn't do much of anything else. Arrested in place, unmoving, lips left slightly parted, she locks up like a statue. She stares into eyes that will not let her look away.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Apparently Claire has now been introduced to Mercy's circle of trust too.

Isn't it all great. Trading one more physical horror, for something more magical.

There might be some group therapy needed soon.

For Mercy, those four 'people' read as magical constructs, but the woman, that causes the coyote to pivot slightly. There's something there, something that causes the coyote's figurative fur to be ruffled. It's enough that her gaze instinctively shies away from that shining not-so-benevolent gaze.

The one that reaches out and seemingly urges 'look at me'.

Look. At. Me.

And just like that Claire is snarled. Whatever thoughts Claire had about running, or fighting, are gone. Instead she feels a great lassitude to stand there. Just stand there. No speaking, no thinking, nothing. Her existence is a singular spot frozen in time.

While Claire's ears hear everything around her, her mind doesn't necessarily process it properly any longer. It's snippets of things now. The words are muffled, like she's under water.

"Claire?" Mercy says, even as the mechanic raises her mostly full bottle of beer upward and hurls it at the nearest corner. To the Fox. While the bottle doesn't hit the Fox, it causes the creature to flinch and duck away, something of a growl leaving its lips. Out of bottles, Mercy reaches for the wrench that lays upon her work bench. "Claire!" She shouts now, when the other woman doesn't respond, "You need to run." The tool is likewise thrown, this time at another beast. The coyote-wolf. Sadly, the trick is really only a one-shot, as each creature is now forewarned of that particular tactic of Mercy's. As such, the coyote-wolf neatly dodges, his recovery time from that dodge infinitely quicker than the Fox's.

It still gives Mercy a smidgen of breathing room and so, she turns to look at Claire. The coyote, well the good coyote here, can easily tell where the nurse is looking. And again, the silver-eyed woman is given a side-eye. That side-eye is enough to feel the pull -

Look. At. Me.

"No!" Shouts Mercy, then she's whirling back to Claire and with a hard shove, Mercy moves to break the eye contact between the two women. "Run!"

Though will they be able to? Possibly. The crow is still watching the others of its flock, as well as Mercy and Claire. There's an intelligence there that the others might lack, well the Fox and Coyote-Wolf lack. The snake, she's got intelligence in spades.

And if Claire needs a little extra incentive, Mercy will shove again. "Don't look at the woman." Then with one last reach, Mercy's grabbing that second phone from the work bench.

And even should the two move towards the garage door, Fox and Coyote-Wolf are doing the same. It's a race now, to see who gets there first.

Claire Temple has posed:
Her eyes meet those slitted pupils. And Claire finds oblivion.

The woman's hands fall slack at her sides. Her shoulders slump, lessened of so much weight. Because there's no thought here. No feeling. No worry. No guilt. Nothing.

It is such a relief.

Her half-hooded, empty eyes do not even blink. The only sensation feels distant and transient, the chill of being caught in the grasp of a snake, and she --

-- comes to, sobered of it, broken free when Mercy bodily inserts herself in the way of those eyes, and a rough shove of the mechanic's hands jerk Claire back to life. She doesn't even know -- what just -- those eyes --

With enough memory to be quietly horrified, at least Claire learns startlingly fast, with more than enough sense /not/ to look back. She avoids a second glance at the snake woman, her eyes rounded on Mercy's face, and tightening in response to her repeated command to RUN.

Something flinty crosses Claire's face, hard and stubborn. Mercy's seen this before, maybe not on the nurse, but on the face of every single rusted-shut bolt she's ever come across in her life, that hold with implacable immobility against any amount of strength or any size of wrench.

That kind of /stubbornness/. Claire isn't leaving Mercy behind to this -- not ever.

Not looking at that woman, she instead focuses on what the mechanic is doing, where she's going. And she's not alone.

Claire doesn't have any abilities. Doesn't have Mercy's strength, doesn't have the Soldier's metal arm, but she's not something else: /her reckless fury./ She moves without thinking, the action raw and automatic, not even stopping to grab the heaviest pair of boltcutters free from Mercy's tool table. She joins that run of coyote versus fox and wolf, and here to provide support. With a snarl, she swings it violently at one of the two intercepting assailants, wanting to provide a diversion, wanting to MAKE IT HURT, to slow them long enough for Mercy to get what she needs: a clearer way out.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The woman's eyes are dangerous. Terribly dangerous, even when not looking directly at them.

Those silver-hued orbs try to entreat the two to look back at her; a peek over their shoulders, a side-eye even, just something to meet even the edge of her gaze.

For now, however, Mercy and Claire resist. That causes a look of frustration to flicker across the snake woman's features and then she's moving. She'll begin to circle around the garage, taking a round about way towards the two women. Her steps are measured and slow, seemingly unworried that her prey might escape.

Though she knows better, prey never escapes her clutches. Not with her gaze.

Mercy will lead the mad dash from the back of the garage to the door. Her gaze flicks over her shoulder to Claire, to make sure the other woman follows. When she sees Claire so close behind and with those bolt-cutters, Mercy can't help but feel a sense of relief. That relief of Mercy's is short-lived, however, as her attention moves back to the garage door and the two heading their way.

Before Mercy can say anything more to Claire (from that initial run), the Fox and Coyote-Wolf are upon the two. It's the Fox that Claire tangles with, while Mercy slides right up to the Coyote-Wolf. While Mercy isn't anything like the Winter Soldier, she does have some knowledge and skill in a mishmash of martial arts. From that, the coyote lashes out against her assailant with a foot. It's a sweeping kick to the Coyote-Wolf's ankles, intending to drop the lupine man to the ground. Sadly, it doesn't quite work, as he nimbly leaps out of the way of that kick.

For Claire, that boltcutter swipe would have likely taken a regular human down; but what they're dealing with is no longer human, and their reflexes are fast. There's also a strength within each of them that's more animal than human. As such, the Fox will allow that swing of Claire's to swipe at him, only dodging just enough to allow him to grab the sharp end of those 'cutters. Then, with a feral-etched grin, the Fox will yank upon the cutters. He's intending to pull Claire towards him, so that he might simply grab and capture her.

Claire Temple has posed:
Time is never a friend for Claire Temple.

Surely, if she had just a little more, she'd be able to shout the /growing/ list of questions she has ready for Mercy Thompson, namely:

Who the HELL are these guys? Why are they here? What do they want? And what's up with bitchaconda back there?!

But so little time, and even less breath to spare, as Claire devotes both lunges to moving at the most breakneck speed she can, detouring only to grab the closest thing as a weapon she can. She can't match Mercy's speed, but she has all that shared intent and survival instinct to get out, hot on the coyote's heels. When the two come into their peripheries, the nurse finally does speak, but can only manage a strained:

"WATCH --" before her voice breaks into a snarl, and she twists to the side to engage one of them, to at least keep ONE of those assholes off Mercy's back. There's no finesse or coordination or training in the way Claire fights, no skill imparted from a devoted trainer, just the meanness of growing up in Harlem's projects and the pitbull tenacity of a woman who will never give up the ghost without some bloodspatter.

She swings the boltcutters in a violent arc, all her strength keyed into the blow, that the tool whistles through the air. It's a valiant strike, but not enough for a creature that doesn't even /look/ entirely human --

-- and whose hand intercepts it with pronounced strength and easily wrenches Claire forward. Already overextending herself, she stumbles forward, her dark eyes widening, instinct tightening her hands on her weapon rather than letting go. It unfortunately bears her in close.

Crying out with dismay and fury alike, at the least, Claire doesn't make it a treat to have a grasp on her, as she struggles balefully, letting go of the cutters to try to claw her fingers desperately at his face. If she had time, she could even be better at this -- she knows all the nerves, all the joints, all the body anatomy to make someone /hurt/ -- make them /wish they were dead/ -- but she's not thinking, not remembering, not existing as anything but this hysterical moment.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Time is never a friend to any person.

But it especially is so for Mercy and Claire.

Claire's frantic 'watch' is heard by the coyote and while she'll flash a look of gratitude towards the Nurse, there's not much she can say in return; though likely she'd love to give Claire any answers she may have, sadly, there's not many she does have, nor is the nurse able to ask her questions. Not when the Coyote-Wolf is lashing back with his own attack at Mercy, as well as the Fox. That cause Mercy to swing her attention right back to the lupine-man. Then she's trying valiantly to block and side-step everything he throws at her. While Mercy holds her own against those first few initial strikes, it'll becomes quite clear that the Coyote-Wolf is stronger and faster. Perhaps not as /skilled/, but his strength and power is enough to start driving Mercy backwards. "Dammit." She spats, even as she brings a forearm up to block a punch from the man. The vaguest of grunts is heard from the woman, as the fist hits solidly against her arm.

That's definitely going to bruise.

For Claire, the Fox offers a mocking grin now, when he's able to pull her so close. With her being this close she'll be able to pick out the more inhuman aspects to the creature; golden-irised pupils, teeth that are more fang than omnivore and the vaguest sheen of coppery red upon his skin. Her attempt at clawing the man's face earns the vaguest of head-tilts, before the Fox leans away from those feeble 'claws' of Claire's. Then with a careless toss of the boltcutters, the Fox throw them away. The clatter of metal upon cement floor rings through the Garage.

And seconds later the Fox's hands snap out to grab the Nurse's wrists. Seeking to entrap them in an iron-like vise grip.

The crow continues to watch, but seeing the others fight, he'll begin to likewise move. Drawing closer to the two women who have yet to realize they've already lost. Especially as the snake woman steps into both women's field of view.

Her eyes will seek out Claire's first, trying to stop the woman's frantic struggle.

Claire Temple has posed:
There is a breathless moment from Claire, stunned and paralyzed, forced a perilously close witness to such inhuman features. For all she's seen in her burgeoning vigilante career, this is new, and it speaks against /everything/ she knows about medicine and human anatomy, and all she can see are those unnatural eyes and carnivore's canines and carnassials as -- as the asshole /grins/ at her.

That moment of terrified awe derails faster than a Jersey Amtrak, and Claire just tries to put a backhand right into that grin.

From her periphery, she can catch glimpses and frozen moments of Mercy's own battle against the Coyote-Wolf, and though the mechanic has herself a mean host of skills, it appears she's also in over her head. They /both/ are.

Claire needs her own phone. She needs to call Yasha. She needs to --

-- not be in this situation. But it happens so fast, and with her weapon torn away, her wrists suddenly grabbed in hands so strong they feel like steel, the woman still twists and wrenches and struggles, doing everything to try to ignore that sick, cold panic that it's too little, too late. So many of them, and only her and Mercy, and they're all alone, and these people aren't even /people/, and and and --

She tries to remember old, vague self-defence lessons from years ago, spoken in memory in the deep, fond, tired voice of her uncle, and Claire tries to stomp feet, tries to put her knee into his kidneys, tries to do anything but /show/ them she's not going to be a victim again so easily. She tries and tries... but all in vain, and in the end, ceasing like air sucked out of a room, when crossing her eyes returns that snake woman.

The snake woman wants their eyes again. Claire cries out in shock, and ever the quick learner, turns her head and squints her eyes shut. Tears sting their corners, because she's caught and now cannot even see, cannot even use her eyes, but she's not going to let these bastards take her mind. "MERCY!" she tries to yell with what little panicked breath she has left. "Don't look!"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And and and -

- Or in Mercy's head 'if only if only if only' -

If only she had more power, if only she were stronger, if only she really understood WHY these creatures were after her. Oh, she knows they are, just not the why. Why.

Another blow lands upon her left arm and the shock of it radiates up her whole arm; it's enough to cause the woman to gasp in pain. The phone that was held in that hand will drop from nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a soft kerthunk of sound.

The loss of that phone is felt deeply by Mercy, but there's nothing she can do. Not when she's forced a step backwards, into a retreat a blind retreat, as the Coyote-Wolf presses forward. The opening is there, he can sense it, the turning tide of battle; for the creatures, not Mercy and Claire.

Even as Mercy retreats the coyote will risk a look to Claire and what she sees causes the woman to feel actual fear. Sure, she'd normally fear for herself, but with Claire here? Getting wrapped up in this too? The coyote can't help that blossom of actual terror that starts to bloom within her chest.

As for Claire -

- Oh, if these were normal average people those kidney punches and foot stomping would likely hold true, but these creatures aren't normal. Instead they move like lightning and every stomp, hit, punch and gouge is avoided. And when the nurse finds her gaze trying to be captured by the snake, the Fox can smiles again. That smile only grows when Claire shouts that warning to Mercy. Then the Fox lashes out -

- It's a sweep of his foot at Claire's ankles and far too casual hit of his hand to her chest. He's moving to overbalance her and drop her to the ground with those two quick strikes of his.

The snake just laughs, that sound full of sibilant echoes of the animal she was create from. Seeing the Fox doesn't quite need her help, the Snake turns her attention to Mercy now. And while she strives to catch the coyote's gaze, she can't quite meet it. Not when Mercy heard that shout of warning; not when she can sense that creature-woman's presence. Still, that doesn't make dodging the onslaught of attacks coming at her from Coyote-Wolf any easier. In reality it makes it harder; as she simultaneously tries to avoid the Snake's eyes and the Coyote-Wolf's strikes. Eventually something will fail and for Mercy it's dodging a punch to the face. She jinked when she should have juked and it allowed the punch break past her defenses and hit her square in the chin.

Stumbling backwards, the coyote tries to shake the stars out of her vision, but it's going to take a moment. A moment the two don't really have. It's what allows the Coyote-Wolf to pounce upon the actual coyote.

Claire Temple has posed:
It happens so fast. And what's worse, the Fox's speed and strength makes it look so /effortless./

The hit to her chest, even careless and brief on his part, is more than enough to knock the air out of Claire's lungs. It hits simultaneously with that sweep on her feet, and the woman hits the cement ground in a painful crack of her hip bones, vertebrae, and a ricochet of her head. White-hot pain blots the vision out of her eyes, and unable to even breathe to cry out in pain, all she can do in those few, pathetic moments is to blink fresh tears and tremble with shocked pain.

There she sprawls, perhaps down for the count. Easily enough that the Fox can dismiss her -- small, unskilled, human, /fallible/ -- as already taken care of.

Realizing her eyes are again open, unthinkingly so, Claire's quick mind assesses that, well -- she still has her mind. She's not staring into that snake woman's slitted eyes. In fact, those dangerous eyes are turned off her, angled instead on --

-- Mercy. Mercy, still fighting. Mercy, who catches a punch to the jaw so suddenly that Claire can /hear/ it, echoing against the walls and ceiling of the garage. Her blood feels like ignition fluid in her veins. No -- NO. She's not finished. She's NOT fucking finished, she's not going to let these sons of bitches come in here and HURT one of the few good people she knows, one of her /friends/ who was /there for her/ --

Perhaps to the Fox's surprise, Claire lurches back up with a surprising quickness, an audacity borne of nothing but pure will and last-ditch desperation.

He may need to move quickly to catch her, because this time she's not going for /him/ -- her aim is entirely at the Coyote-Wolf about to overpower Mercy. Unless stopped, Claire lets go a mindless snarl, trying to bodily jump up onto his turned back, all to want to wrap her forearms over his throat and ferociously try to /choke him off her./

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Pounced upon.

That's what Mercy is currently dealing with.

The Coyote-Wolf is grappling with her, trying to get his arm around her throat, to put her in a choke-hold - to knock her out ...

And it was working, it was. Mercy's vision went from stars to encroaching darkness, as the blood going to her brain was slowed enough to cause consciousness to begin to slip away. It's only as Claire jumps upon the Coyote-Wolf that oxygen returns to her half-starved brain. The arm that was around Mercy's neck is suddenly gone as the Coyote-Wolf whirls around, the slip-of-a-nurse hanging onto him for dear life. A piggy-back ride gone terribly wrong.

A disgruntled yip-howl might be heard from the Coyote-Wolf, as he literally spins himself in place, trying to get to Claire, but her arm stays in place, as her rabid choke-hold crushes into his windpipe. It's only after a moment of that spinning that the Coyote-Wolf will regain his wits and with a half-choked snarl, he'll reach up to Claire's arm. Intense pressure will be felt then by Claire, as the Coyote-Wolf wraps his fingers around her forearm. He's squeezing with only a portion of his strength, but should Claire let it go on /too/ long she will feel the bones within her arm begin to creak, before potentially cracking.

For Mercy, she's staggering slightly away from the Fox, the Coyote-Wolf and Claire, as she tries to get her bearings. Her stumble leads her right into the Crow and that feathered man simply smiles. "You lose." He-it says, the vaguest note of a caw held within those guttural words of his. The Crow's fist lashes outward to Mercy's chin and with an even louder crack, Mercy once more finds herself sucker-punched. Though this time it's enough to cause the woman to be tossed backwards, landing with a thud upon her back.

Her last coherent vision is of Claire, trying so valiantly to take the Coyote-Wolf down - it's enough to cause Mercy to mutter a broken, "Claire -"

- Unspoken there was '- run. Just run!', but those words aren't said. Not as unconsciousness quickly slips away from the coyote.

The Crow now turns its gaze to Claire and the Coyote-Wolf. "Take care of her already." The Crow snaps, even as it nods to the Snake Woman. With a nod of her own, the Snake Woman steps forward and with an ease, she'll pick up Mercy's limp form. Mercy is tossed over her shoulder much like a sack of potatoes would be.

The Fox at this point jumps into the fray with Claire too, intending to help the Coyote-Wolf, should it be required.

Claire Temple has posed:
That howl is music to Claire's ears.

She might not know karate, but she knows /this/, uncoordinated and raw brutality, and she locks her arms an instant -- hands grabbing down onto her opposite forearms -- before her new perch twists, spinning with such strength that her shoulder joints creak to hold on.

But the nurse does hold on, adrenaline fuelling her wiry strength, because even if this is going to go down, even if this is going to happen, if she has any life left in her, she's not going to let them hurt her friend. It hurts to hang on, but in the moment, Claire barely feels it, clinging on like the veritable jaws of a pitbull as she's whipped back and forth.

She's always been tall, but this time /not tall enough/, not enough for her feet to find purchase on the ground in this macabre piggy-back. She just tenses all the muscles up her back and tries to /pull/ savagely back, because if she's going to do anything, she's going to choke the shit out of this motherfucker, and then -- and then -- no plan after -- no matter, just do this, just do this and think about it then --

Only whatever hope coils in her heart quickly unravels when the Coyote-Wolf curls a hand around her forearm, and suddenly, as quick as breathing, Claire feels /pain/. She persists stubbornly, because she's tired of relenting, tired of /giving up/, tired of surrendaring to her own weaknesses, and her teeth grit in a wrathful flash of white to hold on. But as all things must -- the moment breaks.

A fist catches Mercy in the chin. The hand on her arm fissures hairline fractures up and down Claire's radial bone. She has only a moment of quiet, broken despair, seeing the mechanic fall, before her vision bleeds out in starry agony.

The nurse lets go, undone by the pain, slipping off the Coyote-Wolf's back to heap again on the cement, tethered where he still holds her by the arm. Wildly, with tears streaking her cheeks, she tries to see through nauseating hurt to catch the way they pick up Mercy -- her limp body. /No./

"Let her /GO/," Claire shrieks, still not finished, because she still has one good arm left. She tries to push herself weakly to her feet, but even the smallest of touches on her fractured arm is more than enough to falter her back down. She's not a threat. She's not a worry. She's pitiful, in her way, save for that undeniable tenacity, and the way she still tries to claw at the Coyote-Wolf's face with her other hand. She sobs, but still she demands, never begs, never pleads: "Get -- off -- "

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That shriek of Claire's, it brings the Crow's eyes to the nurse. A sneer might be seen upon his-its features, as it offers, "No. She is ours. As you now are too."

And so Claire hangs there in the Coyote-Wolf's grasp. Offering those small acts of defiance of hers.

The pressure upon her arm will increase too, as Claire tries to continue to struggle and fight. A valiant effort on her part, yes, but wasted. Especially when the Crow steps forward, his-its yellow-black eyes staring coldly at the crying woman. "You are useless." Those words are harsh, cruel, meant to twist a dagger into a person's heart. And while those words are actually meant for the Coyote-Wolf, perhaps Claire will feel the barb just as much. "Useless." Spats the feathered-man-creature one last time, before it finishes with, "Let us take leave, but first -"

They still need to deal with Claire. As such, there's a snap of the Crow's wrist as the creature reaches out to tap the back of Claire's head. The hit is hard enough to knock her out, but not kill her. And as her consciousness fades, Claire might still hear the next possibly chilling words, "Her life-force will feed the spells just as much as this one's will. The Master will be happy."

With those words said the Crow will step closer to his flock and with several short sharp barks the world begins to turn hazy, as the return spell is activated.

Then the four reappear in a wooded area, the smell of dirt, loam and plant-life easily over-powering the sharp scents of the city.

Claire Temple has posed:
That answer drains the blood out of Claire's face. Mercy is theirs. And so is she.

Fury ties her gut into a tight, neat knot. There's only one response she has armed for a declaration of /ownership./

"Fuck you," she spits, ever so eloquent. She strains, but even the lightest of squeezes around her broken arm breaks through her efforts, felling the woman with a deep, low cry of pain. She fights back the urge to throw up, won't do it twice in one day, not even for this, while fresh tears well her vision. She feels them running hot down her cheeks. Usless, she hears one of those man-creatures say, and even if it's not directed her way --

The nurse takes it as so. She agrees, because it's true, because she's watching them take her friend away, because she /can't/ do a thing to stop it. She can't even reach for the way to call someone who can.

Yasha, she thinks, her heart twisting. She promised him she'd --

The Crow's fist connects with the back of her head. It's so fast -- so fast that there's not even any pain.

Claire crumples, strewn over the ground, her eyes slipping unfocused. Their conversation eels through her consciousness, heard and yet not, understood and yet forgotten -- transient enough that those sinister words bid her one last moment of helpless panic before she blacks out.

For now, she feels nothing more.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And the two will feel nothing further either, as their prone bodies are tossed into a central clearing.

When their bodies impact upon the dirt a web of power will appear. Runes, sigils and blood are worked within those sticky webs, and as soon as the women hit the ground they'll find tendrils affixing to their limbs.

Then, when everything is synced, the web fades back out of sight. The only reminder it was ever there being the crumpled forms of Mercy Thompson and Claire Temple.

The Crow, the Coyote-Wolf, the Fox and the Snake will give one last look to the women, before they continue to move. Their pace brings them to a small cabin, set back against the leaf-laden trees.

After all, Summer is now here, a time of renewal, of growth, happiness.

For some, at least.