1457/Volk i Koyot

Volk i Koyot
Date of Scene:	14 July 2017
Location:	West Harlem, New York City
Synopsis:	Having taken Claire Temple, the Winter Soldier attempts to take Mercy Thompson, but Loki has something to say about it.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier, Loki
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
Plans were devised. Made even. And now those plans are being put into action. Or the potential of them, at least.

That's what brought Mercy Thompson out to Hell's Kitchen.

However, before the coyote left her garage, she made sure to drop two messages. One to Loki and one to Claire.

Loki's was more - hey heading over there now, meet you there.' - while Claire's was a text that stated simply - ' Hey, Claire, Liam and I are heading over for a quick chat. Be there soon.'.

And once those two messages were sent, that was that. Mercy didn't necessarily expect a response to either of those messages; one, Loki doesn't often message back, and two, Claire has a crazy work-life-balance.

Now a certain mechanic is now on the approach of a familiar run-down apartment complex. The brick facade of the building a solidity there against the shimmering waves of heat that still rise upward from the asphalt and pavement underfoot. For that heat Mercy is dressed in summer-standard gear; a short-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of jean shorts and sandals.
Even as she walks and avoids any collisions from the people around, her gaze is slightly far away, as she holds a very in-depth conversation within her head. It's only as she draws close to the front doors that Mercy suddenly mutters to herself. "Two chambers on the inside. If I cast my own bullets I bet I could get it to work then -"

There's a moment of triumph there, for that resolution to a certain problem concerning a certain assassin's arm, but for the moment there's no one to share it with. Isn't that how it /always/ goes. "There's just going to be a lot of compensation for the shooter -" Which is /not/ going to be Mercy, that's for certain and those last words of the mechanic's will be her final mutter to herself. She'd rather not get too many odd looks right this moment.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Mercy's text lights up Claire's phone screen. Someone reads it. But not the someone Mercy intends.

Blue eyes turn down to read the words, not brown. A man's hand, and not a woman's, unlocks the phone and dials the contact 'Mercy Thompson.'

Whenever she picks up, it will not be Claire's voice that addresses her. It is familiar nonetheless, a voice she has heard before: the cold, calm voice of the Winter Soldier.

"Hello, Mercy," he says. "Why don't you turn around and come back uptown? You are not going to find Claire at home."

It sounds like he's outside. Somewhere up high. The wind wails in the background of the call.

"West 145th," he says, "And Amsterdam. I wouldn't keep me waiting. Or try anything funny. I'm watching someone who will be very inconvenienced if you do."

Loki has posed:
Liam Serrure leaves work early. He swings by one of those fair trade places schlepping coffee for the price that most people can obtain a day's worth of parking in the average non-coastal city. Presuming it's not central business district, of course. They know him there well enough to start preparing a drink. The shock apparent when he orders two //and// a short brew of double espresso...

Why, it's enough to make the mild-mannered, grey-eyed woman catch herself and gasp while turning away. Their daydreams do not include a handsome Englishman drinking espresso.

Naturally a disaster involves Mr. Serrure, some piece of essential art for a clandestine client or a long flight he cannot talk about. This is how talk begins. He leaves with his carrier and four cups; the last holds a proper flat white, exactly scalding and a half. Slap on a biohazard sticker and he's armed for space shark.

Never let the drinks get cold, maxim of sorcerers and bartenders and baristas everywhere. They all know alchemy, scale being relative. Not many of them peer into //time//, though. And a bitter black brew is superb for doing that, stirred by a finger that should have blisters. It doesn't now.

The square bleats awake. "//Location, Miss Thompson//."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her phone rings. Which isn't something unexpected. As such, the up-beat jingle causes the coyote to reach into her pocket for her phone. Her other hand, which was on its way to opening the door to the apartment complex, pauses mid-way in that reach. A swipe of Mercy's thumb unlocks her phone and with an ease of someone used to using technology, Mercy brings the phone to her ear.

At first, before she becomes aware that Claire is not the one calling her, Mercy's voice is up-beat, pleasant even, "Claire!" Begins the woman, but then the rest of her greeting stalls as the voice on the other end is finally heard. While Mercy's complexion is dusky it's not quite dark enough to hide the vague paling of her features. Tightness suddenly flares around her mouth, her eyes, as the coyote's gaze turn outward and likewise upward. She's searching the crowd around her, even the rooftops above, though somewhere deep inside her she knows it's a pointless search. A good predator wouldn't be quite so close, not yet, and the Winter Soldier is an excellent predator.

Sensitive ears pick up the sound of wind over the line, but all Mercy says instead is, "If you've /hurt/ her." Because if he can do threats, so too can Mercy. Probably not as witty or scary, but she'll still offer them right back.

"I'll be there." Are the final words from the dark-haired woman and while she could have tried to plead or keep him talking, she doesn't. Instead she jerks the phone away from her ear and stabs the disconnect button. Her phone is stared at for a long silent second, but before she can get too lost in her spiraling thoughts the little black square from Loki finally awakes. It's enough to cause the coyote to jump with surprise, "Dammit." Mutters the mechanic and with angry movements she'll rescue the little square from her other pocket to answer that question-that-was more statement. "Change of plans." She'll finally answer with, before dropping the new address over the line. "He has Claire."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The threat meets the brick wall of the Winter Soldier's silence on the other end of the line. Then there's a chuckle, low from the back of his throat, and the vague rustle of movement.

A click comes over the line. A voice, scratchy and tinny, can be heard-- first softly, then growing louder, as if something broadcasting the voice is being brought to the phone's mouthpiece. It's that of an older woman, Hispanic by her voice, speaking with patience and warm conviction. "Claire? No, she has not called me back yet. But I know she is fine. Mother's instinct."

The voice disappears again, with a rustle of the listening device being drawn away again.

"No tricks," he reminds.

Mercy angrily hangs up on him. The Winter Soldier cants his head at the suddenly-silent phone, blue eyes bright in the dark, and then he puts it away.

Loki has posed:
No tricks. Good luck with that, James Buchanan.

Rounding a corner and following the street, Loki overlaps two folds of space into one with contemptuous ease. Granted, the jump is a fairly short one and not really that taxing on his personal reserves. It barely disturbs the fragrant clutch of coffees brought to share. One moment he is strolling through TriBeCa, next Hell's Kitchen.

Searching for the Native American mechanic takes a few targeted sweeps among the detritus of human life cluttering up a perfectly nice estuary. He dismisses the brownstones and street signs, focused wholly upon anyone matching irate, dark-haired vision of sanctuary and frazzled relief.

"Shall we hasten out of this wretchedly overwarm weather?" Liam's greeting is, of course, certain. "I would rather finish these while they are still fresh. And she'll probably care for the mocha, if I had to guess."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy can be found walking doggedly down the street away from Claire's apartment complex. When Loki arrives, with that coffee, there is definite relief in her gaze. Also anger. That anger was enough to almost cause Mercy to throw her traitorous cellphone down onto the pavement, but she stopped short of destroying the poor innocent thing.

After all, it's not the cellphone's fault that an assassin used it to deliver his message to the mechanic.

There's also not too much surprise at how quickly Loki arrived. He teleports, after all, and that notion is no longer startling to Mercy. It's the carry-all of coffee that earns a second look from the coyote. In fact, it earns a vaguely crooked grin from the woman, as she transfers her gaze from travel cups to Loki and says, "Brought extra ammunition, eh?" Obviously referring to the night he and Bucky took the Wendigo down with but a bullet and caffeinated drink.

Then she's amending her previous statement, "And I should have said hostages. The person he put on the phone wasn't Claire - someone else, they didn't sound familiar to me." She states the very last with a grimness to her voice and likewise to her expression.

Now it's to the proposed meeting place, no tricks, at least not on Mercy's part.

Winter Soldier has posed:
It's quite a journey up to West 145th, from Hell's Kitchen. But the Winter Soldier is patient.

Along the way, however, Mercy does get another text. <<Since you don't believe in polite conversations,>> the text mourns, <<I have to give you instructions this way. Leave your friend behind. No need to get anyone else involved.>>

The threat is implicit.

Upon arrival at the location in question, however, there is absolutely no one in sight. The late hour ensures that the streets are bare even of the locals. The intersection itself is unusually open for Manhattan, perhaps because the surrounding buildings aren't any more than five or six stories in height.

Are they at the right place?

Loki has posed:
Loki chooses the latte. Because there really never was a choice in the first place, and his poison imbues him with the faint zing so pleasant on the tongue, so exhilarating. He may dislike Midgard; fairly, though, he //does// delight in its arabica beans and French pressed goodness.

He doesn't read the text message. He only surveys his surroundings, watching Mercy terribly calmly. Concern for his own well-being is decidedly absent, but then, one has that leisure in the company of finer souls than the average. "Your lead, my dear. You know it's all relative to me."

All relative indeed. Either Claire just got upgraded to family or he presumably has something up his sleeve.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The faint alert of a text message is heard and it's enough to cause the coyote to reach for her cellphone again. The offending smartphone is pulled from her pocket and with a light touch to the surface the screen alights. For the few seconds it takes to read the text message the blue-tinted light allows for an odd shadow of color upon the coyote's complexion.

And what she reads causes the mechanic to grip her phone tightly. While her strength isn't crazily superhuman it's enough to cause the vaguest creaks of discontent from the body of the phone. "Polite conversation." She states sharply, but whatever else she might say is shifted away when the rest of the message is read. "He doesn't want you here." The coyote finally states, her gaze shifting to Loki now. "I'm glad you're so calm about this -" Because Mercy certainly isn't, a combination of dread and anger rolling within her gut currently, "- But let's play it safe for a second? I can go out by myself and if things turn hairy you can come in and save us all?" There's humor there, quite forced yes, but that's all Mercy has in her arsenal currently.

"I don't want to get anyone killed." Is what she'll finish with, "So, let's see what he wants first." She might be going into a slight babble, but that doesn't stop her from voicing her plan. If one can call it a plan.

Either way, when the two arrive there, Mercy gives Loki one last look, before she replies with a terse message back. - I'm here. What now? -

While her powers aren't flashy or very visible, already Mercy is reaching out with all she has. Hearing, sense of smell, eye-sight and yes, even her magical sensing abilities. Not that she expects anything to pinge off that particular sense of hers.

Winter Soldier has posed:
I'm here. What now?

Mercy's phone lights up, after a moment, with an answer. <<I told you, alone.>>

Half a second later, the night splits open with the deafening crack of an anti-materiel sniper rifle. It's a tank-piercer round.

It's aimed, with rather astounding precision, at Liam's right eye.

Loki has posed:
The bench, a place where judgments are executed by men in black robes, and time stretches out, long, long, long for those who wait on the inevitable. Loki sets down the drink container and enjoys the benefits of his latte without someone distracting him by threats of murder and abduction.

There's just something fabulous about foam and silence of the mind. He makes a light, easy gesture that sees Mercy off, sharing none of her grimness outwardly. Concern, yes. The appropriate degree of reluctance for letting her pass.

He crosses his legs. The self-satisfied smirk plays out...
...and such is the moment of being slain.

Struck by a bullet as he reaches his fingers up to flick away his hair, surely. Metal has a funny way of penetrating bone and flesh when accelerated past the speed of sound.

And so James Buchanan crashes to the ground, knocked over by the force. But the latte is safe, so there's that.

Loki has posed:
He may even utter some shamefully artful last word like "Claire," too.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The message is read.

Her expression shifts from unsettled to something more -

A mistake made on her part, yes, but that text message also allows Mercy the tiniest of warnings that something bad is about to happen. Already the coyote begins to pivot upon her heel, moving to turn back to Loki. "L -" That's all she can get out right before the deathly silence is shattered by something much more deafening than their two voices.

The crack of the bullet is immediately heard by the coyote, doubly so even thanks to those sensitive ears of hers, and with a jerk, Mercy's head snaps upward. While her subconscious brain is busily trying to triangulate just where that shot was fired from, her eyes widen when the target is realized. While she knows Loki can survive /many/ things, she isn't aware of just how much he /can/ survive and as such, when the man goes over the bench Mercy freezes for one second -

Then she's moving. "Loki." She says hoarsely as she drops down next to the body, but when she rolls him over Mercy can't quite help the startled gasp that leaves her lips. It's a sound of surprise and shock when she realizes who now lays upon the ground.

Confusion begins to crowd upon her features, her expression saying it all; what just happened? Is this really Bucky? Is he really dead? Where is Loki?

And somewhere beneath all of that is another thought - go find cover. Right now. Just in case, but that's a slow thought.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier has lived one hundred years on the dot.

He has never seen something like this happen. It's artfully poetic, actually, having the Winter Soldier execute James Buchanan Barnes. Unfortunately, the man is not... shall we say... in a state where he can fully appreciate the joke.

He actually jerks back from his rifle, eye tearing away from the scope. His regained field of vision sweeps left, then right, up and down, behind. Paranoid. Furious. Extremely confused.

The Winter Soldier pushes aside the sniper rifle and hefts something else. The second report of a firearm is much softer, in large part because the round that's fired isn't a bullet. It's a tranquilizer round, custom.

It's aimed at Mercy.

Loki has posed:
It's a round that never lands. A measure of the trajectory being wrong and a miscalculation. Even for the best of snipers, it happens. The wind kicks up between the cavernous effect even in low buildings. Someone bends down in total horror, hands dipping into blood and rough flesh marred by an exit wound. The gun kicks, the round wasn't poured right.

It's good luck. It's bad luck. All depends on your perspective.

The round swivels in its course about a foot away from where Mercy bends in the whims of chaos. The soaring swell of pain resonates on another wavelength for the dead. Requiescat in pace isn't quite guaranteed when dealing with the blunt force trauma of bullet intersecting body. Hence why a foot and not centimeters. Not as though precision mechanics are so important on the fly, executed by a seizure of far too much energy mashed into a narrowing punch of angles and forms. Momentum slung on an inverted course sends the bullet right back. Same speed. Slightly altered trajectory, say a half degree down and a mere nudge to send it on its way.

The Winter Soldier might be pleased it's much softer, in large part because the round that's fired isn't a bullet. It's a tranquilizer round.

It's flying right back at him.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Confusion and horror hold Mercy's reflexes still. Or, at least, slower than what she would normally be.

That second softer crack of a gun being fired is heard, but Mercy's brain is too slow. Her reaction time hindered by the sight before her. That uncertainty of what just happened hobbling her.

Even as she struggles with the events upon the ground, Mercy's brain finally kicks it into gear and warns of her impending doom. The whistle of the dart coming her way is heard, but all she has enough time for is a tensing of her muscles. In preparedness of the dart hitting home; only it never occurs. The sound and trajectory changes to sensitive ears and it brings the mechanic's head around and up.

Her gaze goes towards the rooftop that Bucky is likely upon, those two shots allowing her to better figure out just where he is.

But again, instead of jumping up and possibly going for that rooftop and the assassin, Mercy stays rooted to the spot. Kneeling near that horribly disfigured body.

There are so many questions right now for one Mercy Thompson.

Winter Soldier has posed:
This time, the Winter Soldier expects something funny. He's nothing if not a fast learner.

Such it is that he's not /terribly/ surprised at the sudden burst of pain that flowers in his own shoulder as the tranquilizer flies back to bite its own originator -- just moderately surprised, because of all things he still was not expecting a precision deflection. With a snarl he digs into his own flesh with steel fingers, ripping out the spent projectile with ill grace. The sedative's mixed for someone of Mercy's constitution, not his own, and his quickened metabolism is already burning the drug away, but the blood drooling in ugly lines down his shoulder is damage enough.

There are no further communications. No further shots. The rooftop where he must be is silent, the night undisturbed. Thwarted, he vanishes in silence, without parting vows or last taunts.

If they should care to investigate, they will find that Claire's mother is indeed in the area, in a motel room, the window of which has a perfectly open and clear line of sight to the rooftop the Winter Soldier was on. He's no longer up there, of course, neither him or the sniper rifle he had trained on her.

Might want to do something about the incendiaries laced throughout that motel building, though.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Oh yes, they'll investigate.

Well, once Mercy figures out just what the hell just happened.

But Claire's mother will be rescued from the highly flammable building and eventually taken somewhere else to be safe.

First, however, Mercy says to the body so laying upon the ground, "Loki - this better be some sort of macabre joke -"

And then perhaps, when everything is said and done Mercy will return to that rooftop to possibly find a blood splatter trail. A potential lead, though it'll likely go no where, but it's something she would definitely look for.