1776/Who You Gonna Call

Who You Gonna Call
Date of Scene:	02 August 2017
Location:	New York City Library
Synopsis:	Blackagar and Mercy Thompson get ambushed by the Jabberwocky and Toto.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Black Bolt

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
The New York Public Library.

Most people are familiar with this building, whether from visiting it, or from its use within a variety of movies.

As such, during the library's working hours a steady stream of traffic can be found entering the building and leaving it.

That steady stream of people typically fall into two categories; tourists and actual library goers. The tourists are easy enough to spot. They're usually taking selfies in front of the steps, or in front of the two large stone lions that almost give the sense protection. Or guardianship. For those that are coming to actually look at books or return books, or even do some sort of research, they can be found trotting dutifully up the steps and entering one of the three large doors that lead inside.

Once inside a person's gaze is met by a vastness of space. That space filled with shelves, desks, chairs, people, displays, artwork; really, just about everything can be found within. Except food or drink. That is a definite no-no in the library. While there is an overall hush within the hallowed hallways and rooms of this library, one can still pick up the background noise. Paper moving, keys tapping, the soft murmuring of voices, and people moving between the shelves, desks and chairs.

One of those moving people is Mercy Thompson. She's here for some research and currently the young woman is setting a small stack of books upon a table. Most of the books are on more geared towards advanced techniques of metal working and engineering.

For now, all seems quiet within.

Black Bolt has posed:
For a man condemned to nearly perpetual silence for the good of the world, a library probably seems his natural environment. How not? The hushed interior and lowered voices promise a refuge where knowing looks and gestures prove sufficient communication. Someone can go all day in a library without speaking.

He does not linger in front of the old granite guardian lions hosting all kinds of indignities. Tourists try to ride them, stick their arms and heads around the muzzles. He shakes his head in passing a pair of teens distorting their faces in the most unbelievable ways.

Blackagar's nation-state contains its own vast archives. It possesses a wealth of knowledge unrivaled by most. But here he is, and moves smartly to avoid being tangled up by a crowd gathering for a tour. From the way he navigates, he knows exactly where he wants to go.

He eventually will reach a section devoted to the harder sciences, as humanity reckons. The books call. Titles and numbers, row on row, beg to explore. The monk resists, reaching for one on civil engineering. Another on bridges. Another on New York State's attempts to build a hyperloop. Three volumes go forth for a table, conveyed under the crook of his arm.

One table down from Mercy, as it happens. He puts the books in a line quietly. Everything about him is done quietly. Sitting. Flipping open a volume. Checking diagrams or references.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Even for those that have a voice and can physically speak, the library is likewise a refuge.

A refuge from worry, from stress, from the daily grind of life that picks away at a person's soul. Cellphones are typically silenced here, or turned off all together, and while there's a vast array of DVDs and other videos to pursue everything must be watched with earphones, or earbuds in.

For Mercy, the quiet here is definitely soothing for the coyote. There's been too many days of stress and work, and wondering how they're going to manage everything against the Winter Soldier for her. So, when the opportunity arose that required her to seek out some knowledge she chose to go to the library versus scour the internet.

The movement one table down from her earns a distracted stare from her. She'll even offer a distracted seeming smile to the rather tall man, before her attention is back upon her books. One of the larger volumes from within her stack will be pulled forth and opened to the table of contents. This one geared more towards electrical engineering versus structural; which might be good as suddenly the lights within the library wink out with a pop, fizzle and crackle. The sudden darkness causes the background noise within the library to suddenly swell, as dozens of people gasp or offer some sort of soft noise of surprise. Along with that cessation of light comes a heaviness within the air -

Something that offers a palatable pressure to even those that aren't magically or psychically inclined. It's something that causes the hairs on the back of a person's neck to stand straight up. A warning that something unnatural is here.

That unnaturalness comes in the form of spell of wild magic, which skims along the shelves and specifically the books. Tendrils of magic reach out to touch specific spines and with each touch the book falls from the shelf.

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

Three. Not always an auspicious number when it comes to magic.

For Mercy Thompson, her senses give her a two second warning before the lights go out as she feels the vague touch of magic near. It's enough to cause the coyote to mutter, "Now what." And while normally the emergency lights would have popped on by now they stubbornly stay dark. Thankfully, there's enough light coming in from the windows to afford some degree of sight to those around.

Black Bolt has posed:
The day started out so well. Meditation practice to silence Blackagar's mind. Then the usual rigorous routine for an hour or so to condition his body to that rigorous iron control. He dared to smash an avocado on toast despite the judgmental look of the dog, hungry for his own meal, and ended up making another for Lockjaw because he's that kind of man who loves his best friend.

Now, embarrassingly, the library provides no more refuge because someone violates the borders. Someone or something.

He sits up straighter in his chair. Reluctance stifles his movements, as though he really would rather not be doing this task. The task in question, removing his coat. Tailoring in evidence for his particular build - strong, broad at the shoulder - doesn't match to the almost wooden, creaky way he pulls his arm out. Maybe he's playing for time. Just maybe the city isn't under assault by a forty-limbed metal octopod or something.

His study of the hyperloop isn't even seven pages in when the nascent headache becomes distinctly noisier. Mercy might note the thin metal circlet he wears. Pretty much impossible to miss, against his dark hair. Her preoccupation becomes his. He looks in the direction she does. At times seeing how the herd reacts is the best indicator of trouble, direction, and number.

His somber expression grows even more so as he concentrates, weeding out the extraneous distractions. Then he goes to pick up one of the selected books. This may not end well.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
This is New York City. Days never start or end well. Or so it might seem to a good portion of the population.

Either way, the herd isn't quite moving. Not yet. It's going to take a minute or two more as the danger hasn't quite shown itself.

That danger resolves itself within the walkways of the shelves that the three books fell from. Invisible fingers opens each book and the pages flip until it lands upon a picture, or a specific word.

The first book lands upon a small picture of a dog. A dog named ToTo. As soon as the picture is touched by that spell it immediately animates and the dog leaps from the pages. While the puppy looks as insanely cute as it does within that specified story that cuteness doesn't last long. Not when the dog's eyes turn red and the teeth within its mouth turn to large fangs. When the change is complete the little brown furry dog will throw its head back and howl; though not the howl of a small yippy-dog, but something more along the lines of a wolf. A wolf that wants to hunt.

The second book's actions is similar to the first as it opens and page-flips. Eventually it lands upon a specific page the title of said page simply reading Jabberwocky. The word upon that page glows and when the light fades a terrible form begins to coalesce together. One suppose it could be called a dragon, as it has scales, wings, claw-tipped hands and a long neck with a very scary head. When that form is quite solid it too offers a sudden roar of anger -

It's that roar that finally gets the people within moving. More gasps can be heard and also fearful cries and shouts raise the level of noise within the library. Small squares of light likewise appear around the tables and within the shelves as people pull out their cellphones and use them as flashlights. The crowd begins to shift, moving towards known exits, even though they've yet to exactly understand what the trouble is.

While Mercy Thompson did note that circlet around the man's brow, she barely batted an eyelash. This is New York and there are some crazy fashion trends at times. Besides, it's also not polite to stare. For now, however, that's neither here nor there, as the coyote's senses suddenly flare with the appearance of those two creatures. While the creatures can't quite be seen yet by Mercy or those near, she still unerringly turns in the directions of those beasts. "Oh no." She mutters, her gaze sliding back to the man at his table.

And whether it's her words or just a coincidence finally the wait is over, as the Jabberwocky and Toto make their appearance. Both creatures step out from the shelves and into the main area of the library; where all the tables and chairs are and also the people, including Blackagar and the mechanic.

Black Bolt has posed:
It's a conundrum of chicken or the egg. If Blackagar gets to the book first, does it stop the magic? Or has the magic already begun and the book is merely a proxy? An evil version of himself running around might be a problem.

He navigates very well in the dark. He sees well enough in the dim glow of the cellphones used by other patrons to get out of dodge. He circles around the chairs to get to the stacks where the ominous thumping of books hitting the carpet originated from.

Someone is surely screaming about hauntings and poltergeists about now. The trendy literary and cinematic experience for ghosts and zombies changes when one might be in their actual vicinity. Speed tinges the exodus to a degree of panic, probably. Should be!

Hounds he knows. Jabberwockies aren't that much different from a cousin, come to think. Blackagar pushes the thought away. Now is not the time for antics. He plants himself at the end of the aisle and he waits, his hands loosely to his sides and his dark shirt helping him to blend in. The man rather does like his black attire. Goes really with the name, if anyone knew it. Beasts are on their way to face the Midnight King; he can at best be a gate before they get to anyone else.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
In this case the chicken and the egg are happening at the same time. No matter if Blackagar reaches the book and even touches them, which he could and can, the spell is already in play and /nothing/ will stop it now.

Not unless there's a wizard, sorcerer or some other person that can actually work magic is around.

Much like the Midnight King, Mercy is on the move as well though she's several steps behind him. Her books are forgotten, as she winds her way around the desks, chairs and now the people. Because the people are moving rapidly now. And when the beasties make themselves known the rush to get out turns into a veritable stampede. Pushing, shoving and possibly trampling starts to occur.

And again, much like Blackagar, Mercy has no trouble moving in the darkness. Her own coyote eyes heighten what ambient light is available and while he does mesh so well with the shadows and the darkness, he can still be seen by her. And the beasts, as well. Magic is a powerful thing and it allows the impossible to happen quite often. Like today.

The Jabberwocky towers above all, its body close to nine or ten feet in height, and while it's tall and quite heavy it moves with an almost serpentine grace. And that grace is evident when its sights land upon the Midnight King and it attacks. With a slight flare of leathery wings and an almost pounce-like-hop, the Jabberwocky moves to bring itself close to the man. One hand lashes out with sickle-shaped claws, intending to try and filet the man from head to toe with that slash.

The demonically possessed dog is likewise moving, having honed in on the same target. Whether because the two creatures work in tandem or just bad odds for Blackagar is hard to say. Thankfully, Toto doesn't necessarily make it to his target. Not when Mercy suddenly makes an appearance and lunges for the dog in a classic tackle. "Watch out!" The mechanic shouts, which is probably totally unneeded warning at this point as it's pretty clear the creatures are quite dangerous.

The woman and the red-eyed dog go tumbling to the side, head over heels, as Mercy struggles to keep a hold of the dog.

Black Bolt has posed:
Wouldn't it go well for the whole kingdom of Attilan if their reigning leader died in a library to a 'conjured book monster of some kind.' That would really look fabulous on the obituary. "Snickersnack" is bound to be exactly, embarrassingly, what gets stuck on his tombstone.

Blackagar dresses for trouble. True fact. His sleeves do not impede the slim bracelet of a fitness tracker on his wrist. It's substantially more than a glorified Fitbit or Apple-Samsung Wear. It may be crushed in the ensuing violence.

For there will be violence.

He breathes in deeply and exhals. The manner might remind someone of a Shaolin monk, a practice to centre ki and prepare. His hands lift to intercept possible danger. Palms face outwards, his stance shifting into a deeper, looser bend. It only helps his cause to look vaguely competent if anyone screaming in the background cares.

Two on one isn't fair. It oughta be closer to three, five. The faintest shimmer afflicts the notch in the middle of the circlet, where two pieces of metal descend in a vee. Mercy tackling something over his shoulder, the dog biting, the jabberwocky, all happens in very slow motion.
His clawed appendage flies for his face. He grabs at the equivalent of a wrist, behind the claws, to continue the swing down from his shoulder. Or where his shoulder was. The monk turns somewhat sideways from the arcand slides his guiding hand forward to pin the ghastly beast's limb on the downstroke. Forcing it down means the magic Jabberwocky is probably off-balance and there for the man to bend and smash into the floor on its back. Winged creatures do suck on their backs, don't they?

Mentally he might be tallying the donation he's making to the New York Public Library in an hour. Are the banks open? Yes. They probably are.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, banks are definitely open.

And after all of this the library surely wouldn't ignore any type of donation; smallest to largest. There's going to be quite the clean up when it's all said and done. Not to mention a PR nightmare.

It's good that the man seems so at ease, or perhaps that's so mentally and likely physically prepared. For the Jabberwocky isn't pull any of its strikes. It wants to rend and tear, rip and shred, and while it tries to just that to Blackagar, it finds its wrist caught. Trapped in the much smaller (compared to it) man's hand. While its features aren't necessarily like humans a look of surprise, of consternation, might still be seen upon its features. Then that just leads into anger and fury.

That anger and fury only becomes worse as its thrown off-balance and then upon its back. While something else might stay upon the ground shocked, for a few seconds at least, the beast doesn't. While its upon its back and almost looks like a poor turtle stuck there, the beast still manages to unfurl one wing. It's the opposite wing from Blackagar and with a quick unfurl and jab, the wing moves to slam into the man's chest; trying to off balance the Midnight King and push him away from the Jabberwocky.

For Mercy, she's still in the background struggling with the dog. Small and yippy it might be, but it has very large teeth. "Oh seriously, Toto." She yells, as she puts a headlock around the poor thing, "You're supposed to be /nice/ not rabid." The dog squirms and wriggles and snarls and snaps and it's only as its teeth catch part of Mercy's arm and digs deep that the woman shouts out in pain. That pain causes the woman to drop the dog and as soon as the dog is dropped it scampers away. In fact, it's going right for Blackagar. His ankles and legs to be exact.

So, no longer one on one, but two on one. Still not even, but it is what it is.

Black Bolt has posed:
Pain and fear are sounds a warrior usually blots out if they're not coming from him. The woman in her own struggles over there in the dark briefly pulls Blackagar's attention away from subduing the towering figure. That he enjoys tremendous strength to his advantage is apparent, though his arms flex and legs bend in an effort of no small proportion.

Mercy struggles. He frowns, more of a grimace. A quick shake of his head won't be enough to convey anything useful without some kind of superpower. Not enough to tell her to run, nodding at the door.

The ten foot horror has a lot of bulk on its side and scales. No easy grapple awaits as he refrains from going to one knee. The wing slams into him and the force ought to knock him askew. Pretty hard to tell when they both go down, but he unleashes a flurry of open-palmed blows to pressure points around the jabberwocky's torso, neck, and head at speeds that really should invoke a ticket for something offensive.

08.02.6554: citation for speeding fist.

He might seem so incredibly distracted but it is the opposite, hyper focused on the space around him. Electrons in a field do give a bit of forewarning as they strengthen his blows. Toto joining the fray might find a bit more trouble. Enough that he'll have to slide into a pinning position and toss puppy somehow. He's working on it.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Even if the man did say to run, escape, flee, most likely Mercy wouldn't.

She's just not that type of woman.

Nor is she the type to curse, even when Toto manages to escape from her grip. Her bleeding arm is ignored, thankfully the furrow into the flesh light, versus deep. Stitches won't be needed. Just a lot of bandages and band-aids.

Rolling to her feet, the coyote jumps up. Her gaze goes to the man, widening, when he flips the Jabberwocky over and onto its back. Her gaze stays wide for those few seconds when the wing strikes home and the man barely budges.

The Jabberwocky, however, isn't having that. That wing that initially hit will rear back again, intending to slam home again, but before that second attack can happen the man's strikes hit home. While it's hard to say if magical creatures have the same sort of pressure points, or weaknesses, there's enough force behind each blow to shake the beast. The head blows seem to do the most damage, or perhaps cause the most pain, as the Jabberwocky recoils its head away from those terribly quick hands of Blackagar.

And whether both stay up on their feet, or down upon the ground for long, that doesn't seem to phase the larger creature from once more attacking. Like some dragon-python, or perhaps more aptly a wrestler, the Jabberwocky flips about. Both arms and legs, even tail, move to entwine the so focused man. Intending to pin his arms and legs tight, so he can no longer attack.

As for Toto, he doesn't quite make it all the way over to bite and nip at foot and ankle. Not when Mercy finally shakes her stupor off. Then with a speed that's somewhat faster than your average New Yorker, Mercy is giving chase. She arrives just in time to punt the little dog away with a well-aimed kick. It goes flying with a yelp-snarl-growl and while Mercy should feel guilty for kicking such a beloved character, she can't say she does. She keeps her momentum going forward, however, not stopping to help Blackagar. Because, really, there's not much she can do. Well, perhaps she could try to hit the Jabberwocky with a chair, but with their close quarters fighting she might accidentally strike the man instead. That wouldn't be good.

So, Mercy keeps moving. She's heading towards the aisles, where those three books lay and while only two have emitted their beasts, she doesn't necessarily ponder why the third didn't. Instead the woman skids to a halt near the first book. The Jabberwocky's. With quick movements she picks it up -

And at the exact moment she touches the book the Jabberwocky stiffens. Its attention shifts away from the Midnight King in that second.

Black Bolt has posed:
At the end of the day, violence is not the answer. It's a symptom rather than a cure. Blackagar would tell anyone this, probably in a neatly typed letter or sign language. He is happy to be the punching bag while others run for cover and flee the library.

When they will not turn and run? The best he can be is the target deemed most dangerous according to the rules of the battlefield. His shirt tears, sleeve ripped along a seam. His fine shoes and pants are in better condition, but for his general clothing things are going south.

That's before a winged python with a head full of serrated teeth takes a swipe. He moves fast and yet going too far beyond the pale would threaten others. So staying inside the battering constriction of its coils and claws will be the business at hand.

He stares up at the beast with implacable blue eyes. The psychic field around him strengthens to the point the mystically sensitive probably see it, feel it, hear it as is their preference. A sheen of pale frosty light passes around the circlet. It's almost as if he dares it, 'bite.'

While this happens, Mercy has a book apparently and lost her friend Toto. The snapping which ends in a yelp and a kick almost makes him smile. If he weren't finding out if his ribs are as resilient as they say they are, you know? He twists and squirms to make it that much harder to loop him up and run him through. It's a struggle to twist but his strength keeps redoubling as he pushes more of his psionic energy to reinforcing his natural abilities.

When the jabberwocky shifts its attention to her, stilled, he strikes. Largely by jumping, a hop that might throw it off guard and then pushing his enhanced strength against it to teeter and fall. Simultaneously his arms push apart to open up a space, a hand hold on scales, and something he can start tearing at. Over here, snickersnack beast, let her work.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
All that might be seen within the beast's gaze is anger, fury and the need to crush and hurt. Higher thoughts, or more sentient thoughts aren't necessarily there, just the need to rip, rend and tear. And to say alive. There's always that.

Most everything has a need or will to live, and these creatures are no different.

Whether the psychic field around Blackagar is seen, or felt, doesn't seem to stop the Jabberwocky from trying to crush tighter, hold its prey tighter. The twisting and the squirming from the King only causes the dragon to retaliate with more strength and a growl, as well, though all for naught.

For with its attention shifting as such, the man in his tattered shirt, takes full advantage of that inattention. Tossed off balance the large beast staggers slightly, its grip upon the man loosening and leaving, as it struggles to right itself again. Regaining its balance will take a second and that's enough time for a swatch of scales to be pulled upon and torn off. The pain is sharp and bright and it earns a roar from the beast, a quick turn, an even quicker swipe. If it could talk it'd scream 'Get Off!', but it can't and so, it moves to push away the man and his attacks. And it's also clear that its focus is no longer fully on the man; even with his attacks. Unraveling the beast will move to dart towards the shelves, specifically the one that's Mercy's down. Though who's to say how many steps it will get, what with the Monk King there to attack.

Toto, for his part, is scrambling back towards the shelving and Mercy this time too, thanks to the book in her hands.

Rifling through the pages, Mercy will shout, "I have no idea how to shut this spell down." Which she can tell is from a spell, it causes her hands and arms to tingle wherever it touches. A spell of living, of breathing, of bringing to life something that's two or one dimensional and make it three. Unaware that both beasts are coming to protect the books, Mercy continues to search the book, muttering as she does, "Destroy the book. We need to destroy it. Hopefully that'll stop the spell."

Black Bolt has posed:
"Destroy the book" is simple enough. If he weren't grappled or fighting off a giant jabberwocky, he might have a suitable answer for that. But he cannot spare the time to give Mercy much instruction.

Or he is- in the most graphic lesson he can offer. Blackagar is literally tearing at the serpentine horror. His hands clutching the body of the beast pull the jabberwocky back spool by spool of its sinuous form. It has no intention for allowing the thing to strike like a cobra at another living being.

So he plays tug of war with a fanged, clawed, winged skipping rope. Some days it's not worth getting out of bed. But if he can get a hand hold under the wings, then he'll snap the Jabberwocky around in a circle to use its tail to whip over Toto. And probably several chairs.

Man, to be able to shout "Cut it" or "Rip it." But every kingdom for a nail.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Pulled back inch by inch. It's an affront to its own nature. Truly!

It's the great Jabberwocky! The horror of horrors. A beast used to scare people. To cause fear!

And it's slowly being pulled away from its prey. Before it can turn back upon Blackagar, the man himself gets his grip beneath the joints of where wings meet body of beast. Once the grip is as secure as it can be the man will find it easier to fling the beast around. Chairs, a few tables and Toto suddenly find themselves flattened by the tail of the beast. The poor red-eyed dog goes flying again, though not as far as the last toss. Instead it goes head over rump, as it rolls into a wall with a solid sounding thunk.

When the circle completes the Jabberwocky manages to get its hind-feet beneath itself. Needle sharp claws dig into the carpet and go deeper into cement or wood beneath the carpet. That clutching of the floor might cause enough drag to trip Blackagar up, but even if it doesn't the Jabberwocky still whips its head back around. A maw full of teeth and sharpness now descends towards the man's head, neck and shoulder. It wants to take a harsh bite out of him - make the King bleed, if it can. Inflict upon him what it has felt from those hands.

And while that mouth descends, Mercy isn't idle herself. No, she can't quite burn the book, because fire hazard, but her mind goes similar to Blackagar's. Tear or rip. As such, the coyote's nimble fingers grabs the page with the title of the poem upon and rips it out. Then to make certain the spell ceases, she rips the page in half.

When the page is finally sheared into two that's when the spell will find itself null and void. The form of the great beast losing all of its substance, weight and height.

Black Bolt has posed:
Cue an atmospheric intake of breath and the absolute determination to answer the harsh, cruel mouthful of fangs and pointed nails, hinged ruin like-for-like.

Blackagar ends up instead being held by thin air. Nothing! The empty spread occupied no more by the jabberwocky proves insufficient to hold him up. He drops to the ground and tucks into a roll, coming up in a defensive position with his arms lifted to intercept a possibly very yappy little puppy. Evil puppy. Some kind.

Okay, guarded against something inbound. He will track Toto down and leave Mercy to ruin the other book, or page, having no qualms himself about pinning down the little monstrous beast.

An explosive burst of movement brings him rapidly to movement again. His expression stays somewhat saturnine and a touch frowny; he's got important things to worry about.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Oh yes, Toto is still running around like a mad, angry, rabid little yappy beast.

Instead of making its way to Mercy, however, he's caught up by Blackagar. If the Jabberwocky wasn't quite so serious a situation the picture the two present might be seen as amusing. Large man with small wriggling red-eyed dog. As it is -

It's still serious.

Once the page is ripped into two Mercy will take a peak out the aisle and when she finds the dragon-beast gone she looks quite relieved. Now it's onward to the second book. Rising to her feet once again the coyote dashes to the next book upon the floor, the picture of Toto still glowing somewhat eerily upon the page. While she'd had to disfigure the library book that doesn't stop her from reaching for that second page, ripping it out and then ripping it in half. Like the Jabberwocky when the page is ripped the squiggly Toto suddenly goes still, as its body turns ghostly and disappears.

The third book ... it sits on the floor, still closed, apparently no paged turned to. Does that mean whatever spell enacted was unable to pull forth a third beast, or is it something else. A question that's not easily answered, even when Mercy picks that third book up. Unable to feel a trace of the spell upon this particular book, Mercy frowns. That frown doesn't stay long on her features though, not when there are people to check upon. Especially the man who helped.

With that thought in mind Mercy quickly pivots upon her heels and trots out of the shelving. "Are you okay?" She asks, the darkness possibly concealing any injury the man may have gotten. Her own scratch upon her arm is only sluggishly bleeding now.

Black Bolt has posed:
Down one bad dog, and one naughty serpent. That grab, if any, will seek to pin down a wriggling dog until it ceases to be a problem. He's wrestled with a teleporting dog since he was literally a child, this isn't unreasonable. Never mind that he's bound to be adding zeroes to the initial sum in his head for all this damage. How to put the best face on all this?

He might want to worry about the shirt that's earned its fair share of tears and cuts, shredded and otherwise reduced to something best described as rags. He'll be glad for the jacket not being subject to the same, given he probably has to purchase most of his clothes custom. Life just isn't fair all the time. Truthfully he brushes off the danger when the creature comes, prepared to hold it flat out the ground as needed. Toto then vanishes, as the story went, and he'll have to purse his lips slightly in thought.

The third book in Mercy's hands is enough to move him to trust her ability with it. He nods smartly and gets up. Quick swipes of his hands straighten his clothing a bit and then he wordlessly might sigh. The question isn't given verbal response. He nods, and gestures at the woman.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That poor shirt. Seeing how tattered it has truly become the coyote can't quite stop the wince that flashes across her features. "Sorry about your shirt." That apology is offered to the mute man, even if she wasn't the one who abused it so.

Stepping further towards the man, the mechanic will cant her head slightly to the side. Listening for any more trouble, but for now the library is quite silent. The background noise mostly gone, thanks to the crowds of people having fled in panic. Without the power the more subtle sounds of technology are likewise silenced. It allows for Mercy's voice to echo back to the two, which only seems to highlight the man's non-verbal response. Still, it's not something overly odd. They, well he, did just fight the Jabberwocky. Perhaps the cat has his tongue for a minute. His gesture is read for what it likely means, a 'and you' or perhaps 'are you hurt', or something equally along those lines. A glance at the scratch upon her arm is given, then a shake of her head, "It's nothing. Just a scratch. I've had worse." Comes her honest answer, even as she adds, "I'm Mercy. Mercy Thompson. Thanks for the help there. Not sure if you realized who or what you were fighting, but it was the Jabberwocky."

Further away and outside the muted sirens of the police might be heard. Depending upon Blackagar's senses; clearly someone called the cops. An appropriate action, even if the cops likely wouldn't have known how to handle this particular situation.

Black Bolt has posed:
Blackagar has a reasonable amount of field medical training. Nothing certainly expert, but enough that he can use his shirt as a bandage where necessary to staunch blood or at least protect skin until someone better gifted with the basics of emergency care can deal with them. It's not easy to see even with the relative calm, and his faintly marked brow speaks to that limitation. It's almost too hopeful to see if his fancy watch-bracelet-gizmo survived.

A thumb pressed to its surface brings a pause on his part, anticipation a drain at the best of times. But the thing produces a multidimensional interface of light. He applies his fingertips inside a round circle quartered by several data points. Turn here, turn there. Hey, look! It works!

A bit of actual typing and swiping becomes a fundamental necessity. "Will you be all right, then? I can escort you down safely," says a neutral voice, clearly the product of the application on the device instead of the actual man himself. "I am sorry for the damage and not intervening sooner. Your actions were - - -"

He taps the device twice. Come on, process.

"- - - You were quick thinking. What is a Jam-wookie?"

Oh seriously, app. He rolls his eyes at it.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Really, the wound her arm isn't terrible. Not with the wound clotting now. So, she'll wave aside any medical care.

"It's ok." The dark-haired woman says, even as her gaze shifts slightly to the side, sensitive ears picking up the telltale wail of police and probably more. "I can hear the cops coming. Shouldn't be too much longer." Her gaze returns to the man just in time to catch his touch upon the bracelet at his wrist. Her own gaze turns quizzical now, uncertain with what the man is doing. It's only when that interface lights that Mercy allows a blink of surprise. That blink turns to an equal look of surprise when the device 'speaks' for him. While she's not so uncouth to say 'are you MUTE' that question is easily seen upon her face. And then realizing that's what is likely showing for her expression, Mercy quickly rearranges her features into something far more polite.

"Yes, I'll be fine. Just a scratch." Mercy quickly answers, even as she unconsciously looks from device to Blackagar and back again. Realizing how that likely looks, as well, the coyote resolutely fixes her eyes upon the Midnight King's features. "And we both should probably get down to the entrance, before SWAT pounces in. I'd hate for them to think we're the culprit behind this -" This being the claw marks upon the floor, the torn books and the general disorderly air around the place. "And hey, don't be sorry. Seriously. If you hadn't been here it would have been /so/ much worse." Probably people would have died, but she doesn't say that.

The substitute for Jabberwocky earns a grin from the coyote, "It's a poem in a book about a fictional creature - though not quite so fictional anymore, it seems. Do you have supers-strength then?"

Black Bolt has posed:
"Are you mute" is probably the most obvious question of the day. He can almost anticipate that and nod grimly, right as her expression - shaded, sure, but there- gives away the obvious. He gestures to the tables where their books were, and he starts in that direction after Mercy does. It would not be right to make someone trail after him.

Once they get there, he grabs his jacket. Not leaving that behind. He grimly assesses the damage and then proceeds to tidy up the books in a small stack, as if it will make the shock at all better for some poor librarian tasked to clean things up. He might leave to chance the other bits, like a possible spray of fallen books. Otherwise he's taking the steps two at a time to get back to the lobby like they just decided it was worth coming out to be safe.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
An apologetic look is given to the man now; when she realizes he saw the question upon her face. Thankfully, for Mercy, nothing is said about it, beyond that nod of his. When he gestures for her to go first, she does, with that third book still in her arms. When the two return to their forlorn and forgotten tables, Mercy will likewise clean up her small space. A small bag, which was to be used for the books, is snagged from a corresponding chair. "If there were a way to check you out -" Mutters the coyote to that third book, but there isn't not with the workers outside. And so, the third book is put down. Not before she memorizes the title: Silent Fear.

Then it's back to the thing of it.

Like the two just decided it was safe to come out.

That might be a good conclusion, if not for the ripped up shirt a certain man sports, but perhaps his jacket will make that less of an issue. One supposes an explanation of 'I fell down' could also handle it. Either way, Mercy begins to move, only pausing to make sure Blackagar is moving too. Once both are on the move, the coyote will say, "Not sure if you're familiar with magic, but that's what pulled the creatures out of the book." She'll give a bit of side-eye to see how he accepts that explanation of hers, "I'm not sure why that third book didn't pull anything forth, but hey, I'm not going to complain. Right?"

And even knowing that he is mute, even with a technological means to talk, that doesn't seem to stop the woman from continue her chatter.

Black Bolt has posed:
He nods sharply at the reference to it, reaching up to check the circlet is still squarely in place. It seems to be the nature of the day that he's disheveled with nothing to show for it. Oh well, sometimes that's how the cookie crumbles. Blackagar Boltagon, man of torn shirt and lovely jacket, the kind of James Bond that Daniel Craig could never be. Maybe the idea is playing out over his face since he manages a grim smile for no apparent reason after a few moments.

Silent Fear. Maybe he has his reason for side-eyeing the book if the cover is flashed. Probably not.

Into the lobby, where chaotic scenes are probably thicker, he makes the point of raising his hands like someone who escapes danger rather than invites people to shoot him. It might be really awkward if they both fell to a hail of gunfire, the victims of their own willingness to help. Oops. He shakes his head again, looking back over his shoulder at the higher level. Maybe something is lurking up there. Maybe it went crazy bringing out TV images in Times Square.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Good. The mention of magic didn't make him give her a crazy look. She didn't think it would, what with him being powered, but one never knows. Some can accept the idea of mutants and meta-humans easier than magic.

While she could have continued in that vein of chattering-talk, she doesn't. Not when the two are suddenly in the lobby and surrounded by several SWAT teams. Clearly, NYC pulled them from other police stations when the amount of emergency calls came through. While Mercy wasn't one to readily hold her hands up, she does when Blackagar raises his, and when her gaze falls upon all the men and women bristly with gear and guns.

Thankfully, for both, no gunfire cracks through the lobby, instead the police can be found pulling people aside and ushering them where they need to go. Three officers do just the same for Mercy and Blackagar. Immediately questions are said to both of them, "What's your names? Are there any more inside? What about the beasts? Were there beasts?"

Yes, it's going to be like that for /several/ hours it seems. Especially when Mercy answers some of those questions about the magical critters.

As for that last look upward it all seems quiet. Peaceful. But beneath that peace lies a spell that's mostly dormant, quiet, muted and one that slowly crawls through a book about fear. It'll stay there absorbing what it can from the book, growing stronger and when strong enough then will it awaken.