1168/Missing In Action

Missing In Action
Date of Scene:	26 June 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	Loki comes upon Mercy's garage and realizes bad things (tm) have happened.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
The time is edging towards late. The hand of the clock creeping towards midnight with each passing second. And while the witching hour approaches it's not such an odd thing to see Mercy's Garage lit up from within. After all, Mercy is prone to working odd hours, whether from stress, insomnia, a visitor, or simply because a project is going well. When she feels the urge to work, she will and does.

What is odd, however, is the fact that the garage door stands wide open, the light from within offering a beacon of brightness against the darkness of the parking lot. While movement should typically be seen within, tonight it's a different story; not a single step can be seen from within.

Nor clang of tool or rumble of an engine, or even the soft sounds of music from a radio. It is simply still and silent.

Inside the garage the story of that stillness is easily seen, easily read to an experienced eye.

There was a struggle within. Bolt-cutters lay tossed upon the floor, while shattered glass from two broken beer bottles can be seen; one pile of shards with corresponding spilt beer found near a folded chair, while the other bottle shattered in a corner of the garage. In the opposite corner from the glass a wrench lays upon the cement floor, tossed and forgotten.

Tools that could have been casually dropped, yes, but when has Mercy ever shown such a degree of carelessness with her tools. Never.

Other things also lend itself to a struggle - a woman's purse and bag sit near the folding chair, while another smaller hobo-style-purse sits, unzipped, with the majority of its contents strewn across a work bench. While Mercy's regular cellphone isn't found among the items strewn across the floor, the black rectangle that Loki bequeathed to her sits forlornly upon the floor; a tattered little post-it note still valiantly sticking to it. Written in neat script the post-it note reads: 'Say Call Liam'.

Finally, the tang of magic still resolutely hangs heavily in the air. Giving it a heaviness that is quite palatable.

Loki has posed:
They live their own lives within greater rhythms of activity. Hers is ruled by the seven to six rush as far as Loki Odinson can tell. A business runs to the needs of its customers dropping off death-bombs on wheels early in the morning and fighting upstream against traffic clotting Harlem's streets. Mercy Thompson, respectable figure of the community, probably doesn't keep banker's hours when the majority of the town is stuck at work. His absences trek out a greater series of tasks in the background, diving back and forth through the realms in pursuit of things he refuses to speak extensively about when called upon. Better she think of Liam Serrure as a respectable individual, instead of the rogue Asgardian prince and the light of his character sometimes unleashed in the most unsavory of locations.

Absences, however, must be made up for. A certain steakhouse in the midrange feel of things tilting to Brooklyn is a stopover. A certain chocolate cake ordered in a box comes along with a pair of books, something he can carry easily in a paper bag thoughtfully provided by the amused hostess. Paper rustles against his side, a steady cadence beating out his pace.

Long before he darkens the doorway - garage way? - the bright light attracts attention. Moths to flames, as they say. That this one happens to be made of ice and Asgardian-tempered gold is not important. His pace quickens slightly at the prospect of coming upon the copper-skinned mechanic bent over some arcane piece of metal or hidden beneath the undercarriage, rolling around on one of those sledges better suited for taking hairpin turns and frightening adults. Finding no immediate answer to an inquiring review of her whereabouts settles a number of curiosities and brings out a tighter narrowing of his eyes. Open doors, in a neighbourhood where any of those tools might be a tempting target.

The attached living quarters receive an equally sharp survey as he approaches, though he's wiser than his brother. Loki doesn't barge right into her quarters, not without a thorough check around. Broken glass and fallen tools, devices ignored and ruined beer - has she ever spilled that? No! - speak to a certain violence.

Time creeps slower as he darkens the threshold without crossing it. His fist closes and opens unconsciously at his side. Not unlike a snake, he breathes in that poisoned air and allows the magic to settle over him. His mortal illusionary guise is already starting to melt away as he holds out his hand, and one of the great relics of an alien place is simply there.

Laevateinn may not be quite so impressive as Mjolnir, but it wasn't ever intended to look so damn flashy. Some swords don't need to compensate.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That cake.

Perhaps one day Mercy and Loki will actually be able to enjoy it.

For tonight, however, it'll be once more placed aside. Forgotten for other things now.

The door that leads into Mercy's living area is still locked-up quite tight. The only spark of life within being a certain grumpy cat; who currently sleeps; because cats. She may have been unsettled earlier from the noise, and the shouts, but with the quite restored, the cat returned to her interrupted nap. Only once her food bowl empties will she truly understand something might have happened.

While Loki has called forth Laevateinn, for now, it seems wholly unneeded. The struggle within has passed and the two women taken are (for the moment) out of reach to his and the sword's aid.

And when Loki allows that magic to settle upon him, he might notice a certain familiarity with it. It holds a particular scent of blood to the eddies of magic that continues to lay upon the stagnant air of the garage. The power is similar to the person who changed and corrupted the mirror from weeks before. With the shards of that mirror still kept within Mercy's living area, still surrounded by salt and doused with now dried holy water.

Only that salt and water didn't quite stop its creator from reaching forth, using the shards as something akin to a beacon. A homing beacon, if you will. As such, a new strand of power has now joined the malevolent energy with in. It's a singular thing; a small silver strand of gossamer which shines upon another plane of existence all together. The thread of power glimmers like a water-laden web and the end of the thread is nestled around a large shard of the mirror, while the other end disappears off into the ether; the end somewhere outside of the city.

Loki has posed:
The cake is cursed. He'll remember to bring Mercy the cake when he wants to make life more interesting for the pair of them. Boredom? Chocolate cake will be the answer. Something he can choose to stow away in the fridge, if he can remember.

<<Medea.>> The call rings out in the feline spectrum, though he speaks in perfectly human tones. He happens to sound like he's speaking Greek for a moment, there.

The sword may not be needed for its obvious purpose. Loki has it for another reason: a magical focus, unparalleled of all his choices in the vault except for a particular stone or two. No one needs those here. The blade brought up edgewise gives an opportunity to concentrate sensations and finely attune his magic, as needed.

Corruption all but reels him in. Somewhere under his skin, shadows stir.

Familiarity is enough to breach the signs of humanity, the blaze in his emerald eyes too vigorous to ever be normal. Lips pull back from bared teeth in a rictus snarl of a lion. He growls in tempered wrath, the seething emotions brewing from some herculean pillar banished beneath layers of self-control broken by a fault line under too much stress.

When it snaps, the natural reaction is lashing out with the sword hard enough to slam the blade through whatever facade greeted the exterior of the building. Brick parts as easily as chaff.

By comparison his voice is pitched to seductive silk, controlled in so many fashions. It's to the shard he speaks, as though fully aware the sympathies that connect pieces to others convey the warning. It might.

"You //will// suffer in the most exquisite ways when I find you," he murmurs. "I have no reason not to hone my techniques and craft on you. And I //will// have you."

Pity the spell. Pity its maker, if any.

Pity James Buchanan Barnes.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When all is said and done and should Loki tell her of the cake, Mercy might likewise agree the cake is cursed.

Obviously cursed with the saying 'may you live in interesting times' surely.

Either way, when the call of her name rings throughout the more feline medium, the cat in question will open her feline eyes. The vaguest noise emits from the cat, as Medea raises her head, offering the soft sound of a purr-ip. A sound of question and curiosity from the cat.

Thankfully, neither Mercy nor Claire, or even Bucky are here to see Loki drop the veneer of Liam Serrure and allow his true self to be seen; Loki of Asgard. It might be shocking to all. Though perhaps Bucky would be the only one able to hide it with his seemingly unflappable expression.

The bricks that are hit by that sword of Loki's fall neatly to the ground; the chips and chunks having no defense against the sharpen edge of Laevateinn. Later, when again, things are settled, there might be a question about just what caused the bricks such wounds, but for now -

- The pieces of baked clay will lay there.

Whether the creator of the spell hears that silky threat of Loki's is hard to say. There's no overt response; no redacted spell, or a second spell added to send reinforcements to try and take the man down. Instead, it just holds silence from the person who's behind this.

The malevolent energy within the box does quell, however. It's already had a taste of Loki's temper and once was enough. Now it simply simmers tightly within those pieces of glass and pewter.

For that person who kidnapped Claire Temple and Mercy Thompson, he is quite unaware of just who holds these two women as their 'own'.

And all pity to him.

Yes.