2593/Splintered Futures

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Splintered Futures
Date of Scene: 24 September 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier, Claire Temple




Mercy Thompson has posed:
Earlier in the Day:

Lunch time brought food and a few minutes of breathing room for Mercy Thompson. That break lasted long enough for the coyote to remember to send a text to Claire. That text went something like this -

'Hey Claire, I have beer. Why don't you both come over after work? I could also use your help with a project.'

And while she didn't necessarily need to add that last part, Mercy does. Honest to a fault that's the coyote.

The Now:

The battle between a crushed Ford Fusion and Mercedes Thompson has finally ended for the day. The score is currently 1 to 0, with Mercy on the losing side. As such, when the clocked ticked over to quitting time, Mercy did just that. All work on the crumpled car stopped and the woman shut the shop down. The sign within the front door was flipped to CLOSED and the lights turned off. It's only the side entrance, that leads directly into the garage itself, that remains open. The light from within spilling outward into the parking lot.

And Mercy can be found where she typically is always found; inside. She's standing near a work bench and atop the work bench sits three cold bottle of beers. Near the bottles is an open large gray shipping and inside dozens of books can be found. Two piles of books can likewise be seen stacked neatly near the crate and beer. Three in one pile and seven in the second.

While Mercy waits her gaze can mostly be found upon the Ford Fusion.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Bucky doesn't spend all his time at Claire's. What he does when he isn't at her place is probably... not someone anyone really wants to know, and he does not offer details. It might take someone getting cranky with him before he shares with the class.

Her place is a touchstone of sorts for him, though, a way to keep in touch with those who risked themselves to buy him his freedom. The ones who aren't Steve, anyway-- Bucky keeps in touch with Steve himself quite closely, his offer to assist Steve in anything his brother might be involved in being one he assuredly /meant/. Steve likely wouldn't stand for Bucky staying off the radar anyway, offers of assistance notwithstanding: having unexpectedly regained his best friend after thinking him dead for so many years, he's not liable to let go now.

Such it is that when Claire gets a missive, Bucky eventually gets the message too. When they arrive, it's to the now-familiar sight of the metal-armed man escorting the nurse, Bucky letting Claire go in to meet Mercy first as he does a quick sweep of the area outside. Because paranoia.

It's not long before he comes in too, his gaze tracking immediately towards the devastated car. He whistles between his teeth, shoving his hands in his pockets. If he's armed, it's not obvious at all; he's dressed casually, and looks shockingly normal considering how Mercy first got to know him.

"What in the hell happened there?" he wonders, mostly rhetorically.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire's text back comes prompt and matter-of-fact:

'Don't think I told you. Officially between jobs now atm. But you got it.'

Sending the message, she tosses her phone aside and returns to what she was previously doing. Sprawling along the length of her couch, staring up at her ceiling, and burning her eyes into a ancient water spot browning the stucco. This is Claire Temple, trying and failing to figure out how to get her life on track.

Without the long shifts at Metro-Gen, she has too much time on her hands. Too much time that she spends absolutely not thinking about the past seven weeks, because she's not ready to, and she's just not going to -- she feels fine, right as rain, no sense digging into something that'd only upset and worry herself again. The worst thing right now is the denouement of it all. The quiet and implacable boredom of no longer needing, minute after minute, to worry about her own life and imminent death. Without survival to distract her, and her left arm slowly healing away its injection pains to little more than the blackened scarring of her radial veins, Claire feels like she's gathering dust.

Her apartment stays quiet, possibly because it's helped in part by the ex-assassin who seems to be lingering close-by. Claire cannot account for all of James Barnes's time, and many times he's like the wind again -- current taking him mysteriously away -- until he's back again. She has questions but won't yet ask him. She cooks him meals instead.

Her savings is dwindling. Sam taught her alternate routes to compensate zero income, but Claire's still gunshy on appropriating credit cards off the backs of the dead. She puts the rest of her attention back into Hell's Kitchen, the return of its night nurse to New York City trying to inject some much-needed hope into it all.

Her neighbourhood, this time around, doesn't scare her like it used to. She keeps trying to go out alone just to see to her responsibilities. James doesn't like that.

He's set on escort duties, even now, far after Claire suggested a visit to Mercy and posed whether he'd like to join her.

At first glimpse, Claire Temple looks -- surprisingly normal. Like herself again, two months ago, and not that brittle, half-dead thing they found deep in that hospital complex in Staten. Even her eyes look similarly sleepless, if not now for different reasons.

"Mercy," she greets warmly, glancing back, no doubt waiting for Bucky to finish his perimeter round. His question makes her glance back at the car. She exhales amusement. "Looks like it's called why you don't drive in New York."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The text about being in-between jobs is seen. And while Mercy responds back with a 'see you then', that's about all she says. She realizes Claire is likely between jobs. That much time missed with no apparent call-in rarely leads to a person keeping their job, but Mercy isn't going to unintentionally rub salt in the wound by talking about it via text.

Their arrival is noted by Mercy's coyote senses. That knowledge pulls the mechanic's gaze off of the vehicle in question and over to the side entrance. When Claire appears, Mercy offers a quick smile of greeting, even as she straightens from the casual slouch against the edge of the work bench. "Evening, Claire." Mercy states, her gaze sharp and assessing as she takes in the Nurse's expression and mien.

And while Bucky's appearance a few seconds later isn't surprising there still might be an awkward (for Mercy at least) pause. Thankfully, her good manners soon kick in and Mercy adds a hasty, "Evening, James." And while she'd really like to sigh at her own discomfiture, Mercy instead stifles that sound.

That question of his may be rhetorical in nature, but Mercy chooses to answer it like it's not. "You know, I forgot to ask. The woman who brought it in was some sort of powered individual, so I'm thinking there was a fight. A big one." Which leads into Claire's comment about driving and New York City. That earns a nod from Mercy and a quirk of a grin, "Right."

Two of the bottles are snagged from the tabletop now and walked over to Claire and Bucky. Mercy offers each a bottle, "How're you both doing?" She asks, an automatic question of said between friends, but one that's still said with sincerity.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The former(?) assassin does not seem surprised at Mercy's hesitation in greeting him. His blue eyes flick up to her in that brief silence, passing her a look that both understands and forgives the awkward pause. He'd pause too, trying to greet someone who attempted to kill him a couple times. Someone whose goodness remains mostly theoretical, whereas his cruelty and murderousness have been proven many times over.

He'd pause too. Yet, there is no matching hesitation in his own voice when he answers, "Evening."

There is a pause, then. He adds afterwards, "All clear."

His gaze tracks immediately to Claire, afterwards. It seems like a practiced thing, and is -- he's been looking to her constantly over the past short while, looking at the fading injection sites on her arms with more and more worry in his gaze. He didn't tell her, but many of his sojourns were silent efforts to find out what that 'media' was and what was done to her. Part and parcel of the whole 'burning Hydra to the ground' thing. It's slow going.

When her funds started dwindling, he started bringing back money, even if he couldn't bring back answers. There was little talk of where he gets it from, except this: Hydra can't move all its assets /that/ fast.

All of that circulates, briefly, in the look he gives her. Then he looks away, and makes some meaningless small talk about the car. His tongue feels frozen, talking through such banal things -- he has not done the ritual of social filler in a long time -- but he forces himself through the motions. It seems to set everyone at ease. The bottle Mercy hands him seems to set HIM at ease.

How is he doing?

"Better, now you gave me this," he says, typical of a taciturn guy like him, flipping the cap off the beer with a trivial push of metal fingers. He reaches over and does for the ladies' bottles as well. "You've had no trouble?"

Claire Temple has posed:
That same pause doesn't go unnoticed by Claire Temple. She gives it her own understanding, with the memory of Mercy Thompson's reticence and caution around James Barnes -- and the Winter Soldier -- still fresh in her memory. Even then, there seems to be something new there, something unspoken -- something neither she's yet had the heart to ask Bucky. Something happened to further ice Mercy Thompson's bearing toward him, but what?

She knows far too well than to ask here and now. Something left for another time.

Instead, she tries to position herself both physically and spiritually as something of an intermediary, a go-to for either or both of them to buffer that awkwardness and distance. To Mercy's greeing, Claire replies with a look of appreciation and welcome, the garage and her implicit trust in its owner gentling and relaxing her once inside. To Bucky's glance, constant like the many more she's becoming used to him doing, she meets it with a silent turn of her own eyes, looking at him, a silent thank-you spoken as much as soothe.

She does not know yet of all of his worries, but Claire knows where they source: that guilt. And he needs a break from it.

"I hope it was just the car that bought it," she speaks instead into that small-talk, accepting that cold bottle of beer. She takes it in one hand; the other reaches out, however, and clasps Mercy briefly, meaningfully, around her hand. A too-long, unspoken thank you is in that touch -- for before, for this, for her kindness to James, for everything.

"I'm better too," Claire answers. "I think I'm back to normal, really. Back to the routine, at least."

THat metal hand sees to the lid of her beer, and bemused and fond both, Claire watches those articulated fingers pop it away. There seems to be no trace of fear in her, neither for Bucky Barnes or that left arm of his. In fact, she seems used to it -- of course, wasn't the Winter Soldier sheltering her for nearly two months?

She looks up at Bucky's question to Mercy, needing too an answer -- unable to stomach the idea of Hydra skulking around the garage. Her life. "I think we all have some things to talk about too. That -- happened before. We never really discussed that night that happened. With all that." Claire's lips press. "Magic."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Perhaps, someday, the awkwardness won't be a problem. For now, however, that day isn't quite here.

That look of his, of understanding and forgiveness, is seen by Mercy and from it, the coyote can only offer what might charitably be called a smile. In reality, her expression borders more on a grimace than actual friendliness. And Mercy realizes this, she really does, but she still can't quite get her expression to turn around.

The mention of the area around the garage being 'clear' earns a nod from the mechanic. A second nod is added at the remark of better, thanks to that beer. Truly, beer, a universal language. That particular sentiment is enough that Mercy's expression smooths out, allowing for a more natural look from her.

Until, that is, he pops the caps off of the bottles with that metal arm of his. That earns a look from Mercy and almost the mechanic allows her uneasiness to reassert itself. It'd be easy enough to do. Just step back and let the wall form, but a quick look at Claire causes Mercedes Thompson to pause. To take stock of this whole situation. That internal review causes the mechanic to find some sort of answer. Some type of resolve.

The situation /has/ to get better. It must. For herself, for Claire and for Bucky. Or, at the very least, Mercy has to try to attempt to get past this.

Turning her attention back to Bucky, Mercy manages to say, "Nice trick." Those two words are (clearly) meant as a joke, but the inherent humor doesn't quite make itself known. More than likely the joke will fall spectacularly flat, but still, in Mercy's mind, it's a start. A beginning.

A note of self-deprecating humor momentarily flattens Mercy's mouth to a thin line, before that expression mostly disappears. "I haven't had any trouble." She'll add in a more natural voice, "It's been quiet." That's added to the overall conversation at hand and while she hears that question of Claire's, about the car and whether it bit the dust, Mercy shifts away from that particular subset of small talk. Instead, the mechanic focuses upon Claire and her response to how she really is. "Good." The coyote says to Claire's answer, "I'm glad. Sometimes routine is the best thing for a person." The brief hand-clasp from the Nurse earns a brief smile from Mercy. It also receives a return squeeze from the brown-haired mechanic.

With the mention of having things to talk about Mercy nods again, a sober expression settling back upon her features. "Agreed." When Claire evokes the m-word, magical, that causes Mercy to turn away from the two and retrace her steps back to her previous spot. Near that work bench that holds the crate of books and also the two stacks. "I called in some favors." She begins slowly, not relishing that fact that she's called in /more/ favors with the pack, "And had some books shipped here. I'm hoping we'll be able to find some mention of the artifact somewhere in here. Something that old had to have crossed paths with other magical beings at some point. We -" At that we a look is given to both Claire and Bucky, "- just have to find it."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The soothe seems to have a marked effect on Bucky. He quiets visibly, some of that guilt subsiding. Certainly some of his wariness subsiding, too, if only because his sweep detected nothing out of the ordinary. He's been worried about reprisal against the people who rescued him for some time. That Mercy says it's been quiet draws obvious relief across his features.

He relaxes enough to do something as indulgent as open the bottles of beer for the ladies. Claire's fond look draws a glance, at first answeringly fond, and then abashedly guilty. He drops his gaze rather than hold that bafflingly affectionate look, an affection that is more than he deserves...

And Mercy's reaction? He doesn't miss that. First the grimace... then the somewhat forced joke. Nice trick, she says, and he sort of awkwardly drops his hand away and tries not to let the reason he's capable of 'nice tricks' write its trauma across his face. "Yeah, it's good for something, sometimes," he says, which probably doesn't help at all.

Awkwardly, he lapses into silence and drinks his beer, letting the women take point on the conversation. His gaze tracks to the books as they're pointed out.

"Just say the word on whatever I can do," he says quietly.

Claire Temple has posed:
The ex-assassin cannot hold Claire's eyes for long, which look on him with silent, unspoken affection; his guilt turns his eyes away. She looks after him even as he does this, gazing on for a moment more, that fondness still couched in her face even as it sifts with patient worry.

She hopes he at least relents out of enough mea culpas to enjoy his beer.

Because Claire is sure going to enjoy hers. She tilts her head and indulges in a good, long drink that empties half her lager. Her eyes close to the chill taste of it. It's been too damn long since she's had a beer. Weeks and weeks -- and let's just not think too hard on the rest of that.

That stilted, slightly-awkward interaction between Mercy and Bucky -- Claire hangs back and drinks nonchalantly through it, not wanting to disturb or rock already-dangerous waters. Her brown eyes are encouraging. All of this is promising; from what she can tell, Mercy deserves her time to adjust, and James deserves a second-chance for actions forced into his hands beyond his will. They both seem, at the start, to give this respect to each other. It's not friendship, but it's something.

It's more than enough to keep her hopeful.

"I'm happy for quiet," Claire answers Mercy with audible relief. "You deserve /all/ of it. For what you've done for everyone."

But, as thse telling stacks of book suggest, in consensus with Mercy's explanation, the coyote appears not to be taking any breaks. Not from what happened -- what's still happening. Not from the work that's ahead, if they all mean to keep pace with the people who hurt them. Talk of called-in favours lifts her eyebrows. And Mercy has been looking into uncovering what that /thing/ was -- that piece of glass -- that --

"You've done all this already?" she asks, surprised and touched. "That's -- wow. Damned incredible."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The joke definitely fails.

And also hits an awkward note again.

It's good that Claire is optimistic here. She might be the only one.

As to Claire, her words about deserving the quiet earn a vague hand wave from Mercy, "You two deserve it more." She says with honest conviction and then it's onward to those stacks of books and the potential research that is needed. "If by 'done' you mean get the books up here to the garage? Yes, I definitely did that very easy step." Comes the wry humor from the woman, "Have I figured out which books we really need to read? No, absolutely not. That's the project I texted about. I'm hoping you both can help with it." With those words Mercy touches the smaller stack of books first, eyes moving to Claire, "I'd like you to look at these ones Claire. I noticed these few hold a lot of sketches of artifacts. I'm hoping something will look familiar to you."

Now comes the larger stack, "These are in Russian." Which automatically brings her gaze to Bucky, "We're going to need help translating anything that might possibly sound like the artifact. Potentially anything that might be glass, crystal or stone." That last bit is said to the both of them.

The coyote's attention returns to Claire, even as Mercy offers, "We don't have to start looking at these tonight, or even tomorrow. When you feel up to it that'll be fine."

Winter Soldier has posed:
He at least seems to enjoy the beer. Whether he stops mea culpaing while he's drinking it, well, that's another thing.

Whatever the case, he drains it in short order and sets the bottle aside, avoiding Claire's affection as something he does not quite deserve. He doesn't reject it, at least -- that would just be rude, in his view -- but he does not seem ready to think himself worthy of such fondness, even if he was objectively responsible for her not being put to the firing squad the second day of her captivity.

He didn't will it because he was Bucky Barnes. He willed it because he was the Winter Soldier. To him, that still makes a difference.

The joke... it doesn't quite hit right, but it's at least a start. He acknowledges that much by answering in kind, if a little stiffly and self-deprecatingly. He seems to feel a little more at ease when she turns the conversation to work, even though a grimace flits across his blue eyes at the mention of Russian.

"Kuy zhelezo, poka goryacho," he says, the Russian in itself a concession of resignation, moving forward -- cautiously, as not to startle Mercy -- to try to pick up and page through one of the books. "No sense dawdling on something this pressing." His gaze flicks towards Claire, and now it is transparently worried.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire's quiet optimism can sustain everyone. She's ready to be it's source and bearer for all involved.

They need it.

She can't drain her beer with that unnatural, untouchable quickness Bucky Barnes does, with his imbued body, but the nurse labours a speedy second place. She finds herself /missing the shit out of beer/, and her own bottle is quickly emptied to nothing. Sighing with quiet pleasure, she leaves the bottle neatly behind his.

"I don't wanna hog all the quiet," Claire replies, wry but gentle, not sounding too different from some months ago -- like the last seven weeks never happened. Maybe she's got some extreme coping mechanisms. Maybe she's still in shock. Maybe a little bit of both. "I think I got too much of it already. Making me a bit stir-crazy. And, yes, even getting these books is a trip. I wouldn't even know where you'd even /get/ these things. I'm still in catch-up that all this magic stuff is actually real."

It seems, though, Mercy's allocated them each a pile of reading material -- with Bucky's in Russian. That earns him a glance of Claire's eyes, curious and concerned, gauging how he takes that -- a re-route back in that fake life he lead for so long -- and she doesn't miss that grimace that comes and goes. He speaks the language flawlessly, the words quick and beyond her comprehension, and goes for the books.

She looks after him, then determinedly follows, reaching for her smaller stack, picking up the first tome to appraise the cover and open it curiously. "I'm up to it," promises Claire, with a glance toward Mercy that comes ensconced with a quick, reassuring uptic of her mouth. "I need to work on /something./"

She desn't miss Bucky's eyes; they land and settle like a weight. Claire meets them briefly, and all that worry. Her own eyes tighten. Nothing to worry about, seems to be her silent promise.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A faint note of apology might be seen within Mercy's eyes. The coyote understands translating the Russian books might not be high on his list of things he'd like to do. And really, she can't blame him.

Still, the research must be done and so -

His cautious approach to the work bench is seen, but thankfully doesn't immediately cause any other reaction from her. Instead she'll glance at the book he selects, before her attention shifts back to Claire.

The title for Bucky's particular book might seem somewhat innocuous: The Syllabus. It's only as a person gets past the cover and to the first page that the full title is revealed: Destiny's Syllabus.

A look at the pages of the book shows neat handwriting. Each written line is carefully inscribe in black ink and the worlds themselves read much like a recipe: Step 1: Cleanse work area. 2: Gather listed ingredients. 3: combine in the order of - Water, Coin, String and Blood. The outcome of the spell seems to be some sort of charm. Specifically a good-luck charm bound to the person that contributed the blood. The further into the book a person reads the more odd the spells become. Possibly disturbing to someone not accustomed to the magical realm.

Claire's mention of where one gets books like these earns a faint smile from Mercy. "Why from a witch, of course." And while she could leave it at that, Mercy expands just a bit more, "The pack employees a witch. These all come from her library."

And with that said Mercy will likewise reach for a book. "I just wish we had a better way to locate it. Track it." Those words bring a considering look from Mercy, even as her attention momentarily shifts back to Claire. A question is possibly there, but the coyote (for now) doesn't speak it.

The contents of the book Claire selects is easy enough to decipher from its title: Beasts and Relics. When she opens the book it'll seemingly go to a specific page within. Claire can immediately see why, a feather is pressed between those two pages. It seems someone used it as an impromptu bookmark. The shape and look of the feather is similar to a peacocks', though without the typical blues and greens. Instead the time-ravaged plume is mostly white, with only the faintest traces of orange and red upon its form.

And while the feather has stayed inert for all these years, decades even, something within it finally stirs itself to wakefulness. It can sense that echo of power so near itself. That residual magic that's still found within Claire Temple's body. That reflection of magic so similar to itself, that it awakens.

And whether Claire reaches for that feather or not, before it can be picked up, or a page turned, it animates. Like the bird it came the feather suddenly darts out in one quick movement, striving to reach Claire's hand. Or more accurately her wrist. It wants to wrap itself around Claire's wrist like some new-age-hippy bangle bracelet, only this bracelet is more than just a pretty bauble.

It's Fire. Burning. Death.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Taking one of the books, Bucky lets it fall open to a random page, seeming to think that with magic there's probably no use trying to read it in any sensible way anyway. He seems to be handling it rather well, at least -- the former Winter Soldier has an odd relationship with his forced Russian heritage. He knows it's not his, he knows it's a lie, but after living eighty years as a Russian, you start to feel a little schizophrenic about national identity... to say the least.

There are still some things that feel like 'home' to him despite being culturally Russian. He doesn't know what to do with the feeling-- what to do with having two homelands-- so he just boxes it up and doesn't deal with it, as is no doubt healthiest for anyone to do.

Whatever page he landed on, it doesn't make much sense and it kind of freaks him out (he does not want to know what the spell wants him to 'flense'), so he decides to try from the beginning after all. He frowns at the title, perhaps thinking it overly pretentious, before he starts to leaf through the rest of the book. Nothing he sees seems relevant yet --

--and he's immediately distracted by the sudden twitch of movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze snaps up in time to see something /catch/ at Claire by the wrist.

He reacts without thinking. Dropping his own book, he lunges forward, trying to intercept or stop that feather in some way.

Claire Temple has posed:
"They employ a witch?" is all Claire asks, and not so much in incredulous shock or quiet disbelief, but resigned good humour. Her eyes half-hood. Should've known. Everything /else/ in this world seems to somehow exist. "I guess it's refreshing to hear /someone/ out there gets paid for all this."

Thumbing through the pages of a book, certain that she only understands maybe a third of the words inside written, she intones conversationally, "You know, my abuel -- my grandmother was actually a --"

Something lances out from between the pages and encircles her wrist. It happens so fast that all the nurse can do is backstep a half-pace, a low shudder huffed out from between her lips; she drops her own book, her offending hand outstretched, as her eyes stare in shock as the feather /burns/ where it bracelets the bones of her wrist. She looks at Mercy. Her eyes try to ask what, what is this --

Bucky reacts far more quickly than she can, there before she's even uttering the first, confused, and pleading, "What --"

That wreath of fire haloing the feather begins to burn. The flame is pure magic -- and brings no heat to the touch in attempts it pry it off, but to Claire Temple, it seems to be agony. She tenses up and cries out, magic braiding with the magic in her body, in her blood, setting it briefly afire with searing pain like she was back on that metal bed, being fed poison into her arm, a continuous, serpent's-venom drip no matter how many times she begged it to stop.

For an instant, she fixes Bucky with a single look that begs him to stop this. Then, Claire's eyes slide unfocused.

Reality splits and fissures in front of her eyes, Claire shocks back, terrified, as Bucky Barnes stands still in a fractal world, webbing apart at countless seams. She glances over and Mercy Thompson is the same, a woman standing still among pieces, the world cracking apart --

"What's happening?!" she screams, panicked, even though the pain. "What IS this?!"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Oh yes, she gets paid. Handsomely too." Remarks the coyote with just a touch of dry humor now, even as her gaze cuts over to the Nurse. While her attention would have likely stayed upon Claire, as the other woman starts to mention her grandmother, the faint pop of magic is soon noticed by Mercy. It's enough for the coyote to start lowering her book back to the work bench, her features clouding over with surprise.

Her expression soon changes from surprise to concern as the feather darts out to encircle Claire's wrist. That concern of Mercy's soon turns to outright worry at the sight of Bucky moving to intercept the feather. She can't quite stop the half-shout of warning to the ex-assassin, "Wait! Don't touch!" Those words might be said too late to stop Bucky, but one thing is for certain, it's already too late for Claire.

The magic within the room ratchets upward to Mercy's senses, as the faded feather wreathes around the other woman's wrist. That 'bracelet' of Claire's is downy soft against her skin, but that's where the softness ends, as the fire forms throughout Claire's body. The remnants of Hydra magic and the feather's magic resonating so unpleasantly with one another. It's like two sour off-key notes competing to be heard. A dissonance heard and felt for that brief time it burns.

Then the feather's magic settles and the world around Claire changes. Cracks and fissures appear, reality looks to be shattered, a web of crackled reflections shines back at her. It gives the visions before her the feel of a Church; of looking up at a stained glass window. The thick boundaries of lead clearly defining and separating each panel from the next. That is how the world looks.

Each jigsaw piece beckons to Claire to focus upon it and when she does, the image upon that particular segment will suddenly come alive. The images each piece shows almost acts like a damaged video - sometimes it runs smoothly through the whole loop, whereas others jump and skip ahead, sometimes stuttering to a stop before it fades to black. It's showing the Night Nurse bits and pieces of the coyote and the ex-assassin.

Some is known - the past, the now, the current, but the majority is not known. The future. The probable and the ones that aren't. Happy and not. Short and long. Easy and hard. Good and bad. All that could be, might be, or will. Everything is there before the panicked gaze of Claire Temple.

Mercy, for her part, asks, "Tell us what it's doing!" The volume of her voice automatically raises upward with fear, worry and concern, even as she finally steps away from the work bench and toward Claire.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Don't touch, Mercy calls out. The assassin, tuned to such physical grace that he can stop on a dime, does so -- but the urge to go to her, to rip that thing off her, is still so strong that he trembles visibly in place with frustration to obey what he sees as an impossible request.

"If I can't touch her, then how the goddamn fuck do I get it off her and how do I make it STOP?" he demands, because Claire screaming in pain is the last sound he can or will tolerate on this earth.

That Mercy asks Claire to tell what it's doing just adds to his frustration. He lapses into restless pacing back and forth in front of her, not touching but close enough to the minute he's allowed.

Claire Temple has posed:
Magic repels magic, and it /hurts./

"Not again," Claire pleads, and her voice gutters out with something low and sick, the hopelessness of an animal dead-ended back into learned helplessless. Back into a cage with its shock floor, never to be let out, never to be allowed escape. Her blood moves like ignition fluid, searing her from the inside-out, and her voice catches, light and shallow and in pain. "Not this." She pleads, "James --"

Mercy warns not to touch, and Bucky stops short -- just enough that Claire can see the blue of his eyes, and he can see the transparent begging in hers. She looks like she wants to reach back too, with only Mercy's warning to restrain her equally, afraid to subject him to whatever this /thing/ is doing to her.

She needs to take it off, she thinks -- she needs to rip it off her wrist and throw it away. But Claire looks down at her hands and they're already fissuring, her palms and fingers pulling apart into so many disparate pieces. She shudders in horror, looking down at herself, seeing something there they do not --

-- and she's fighting, moving in a way she's never thought herself possible, her body a whipcord and her hands weaponized, and she is all the strength she always wished for herself made form -- made true. Her hands heal more than simply flesh now: they mend the body of a greater organism, that being her city, her protectorate, her people, and she takes their fear from them and adds the weight to her own. She is still afraid, when it is dark, and when she is alone, but know she knows how to /bear it/. He is a shadow with hers, and she looks back on him --

-- and she is one figure wreathed in fire, fire of her making, fire of her rebirth. Fire heals too, the truest cleansing force life knows, and she turns it on the world gone rotten. It is heavy with gangrene, black and fetid and foul, and she will destroy it all to allow its rebirth --

-- and she is dying, because she took a bullet fired from a still-smoking gun. The hand what holds it shakes, perhaps with regret, perhaps with shock, perhaps with acceptance, because she falls, and the shock numbs her before she can feel her body drop, and for the first time in years, Claire is peaceful. This is what is meant of her, and this is right, and this too is how she can heal one last time --

-- and she comes to, like a shock back from gazing into middle distance, confusion and grief hollowing out her dark eyes. Tell us what it's doing, says a voice, Mercy's, and Claire tries to answer. However, when she turns to look on her, instead she can only see --

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The garage is in chaos.

Some of it controlled, but most of it not.

Bucky stops just before he touches Claire. That allows Mercy to feel a moment of relief, but that feeling is quite short-lived. That relief soon turns to tension again, as the assassin demands answers. "I don't know yet!" Comes Mercy's hot retort, her head snapping around to Bucky Barnes, "Give me a second to think!" The coyote continues with even as her mind furiously goes through everything she knows about magic. Spells. Bindings. Is this a spell and a binding combined together? That thought prompts Mercy to push her coyote senses outward as she tries to figure out what the feather is really doing.

Even as Mercy takes that precious time to try and ascertain what is happening, Claire turns her attention to the mechanic, and here is what the Nurse sees -

Four children ranging in ages from ten to three can be seen playing. The woods are filled with laughter, their shrieks of joy, their happiness. Their tone only changes when suddenly the youngest calls out, "MAMA!", and the happiness reaches a higher note. Along with that one word the vantage point seen changes and now, Mercy is revealed. Similarly aged as she is now, but heavily pregnant with a fifth child. At the sight of her children the dark-haired woman grins, arms extended towards them. By her side is an unknown man, handsome, and with lupine yellow eyes. He watches his family, a family he never thought he'd have.

The son is lost. The daughter not. Where the son failed the daughter succeeded. The blood of their father was consumed and the power made her own. By the woman's own hand those nearest her were felled, their power and strength claimed as her own. Onward the deadly coyote strode intent with her purpose.

The garage is prosperous. Her family and friends near. Instead of howls and yips, Mercy hears laughter and jokes, the carefree ease of friendships long had. It may not be the pack she knew, but it's the pack she now has, and she's happy. This life of hers is good.

For those not immersed in these images, it may seem like minutes have passed whereas in reality it's only been a few seconds before Mercy finally speaks up again. To Bucky, the mechanic says, "The metal of your arm - what's it made of? Please tell me there's some type of iron in it. Lots of magical items hate the touch of cold iron. It's intolerable to them. Hell, even if it isn't let's try it anyway, it could still work."

Winter Soldier has posed:
That Mercy yells back actually stops Bucky short. He looks at her as if he's never seen her before, but he does shut up and give her the requested second to think. He's certainly got no context for anything to do with magic, and he's afraid to somehow make it worse should he touch it.

Of course, he doesn't have to touch it for things to get worse, though it is not for him to know how. It is for Claire --

There is a shield on his back, and he knows its colors without looking. He bears it. One day, he may even deserve it.

There is a gun in his hand, fully loaded. He is alone, and has been alone since memory returned to him. In the silence, the voices of the past are too much. He puts the gun to his own head, and quiets them.

There is a body dangling from his left hand, metal fingers twined in black hair. He drops Claire, her neck broken, on the heaped corpses of the others he has already killed. The Winter Soldier has deleted all trace of his lapse, and it is past time to go home.

None of these things are for James Barnes to know, and perhaps for the best; they would be lost on him now, frantic as he is, standing impotently and watching Claire suffer. His blue eyes track instantly to Mercy when she asks that question, but the moment she says that magical items hate the touch of cold iron --

"It's steel, and it's cold enough," he snarls, and without hesitation reaches to rip the feather off Claire's wrist.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire's stricken, sightless eyes find something, and cannot look away.

Mercy is first whom she sees, but not as she wishes she could, not the woman, her shape, her face, but instead something that breaks away into so many shattered pieces -- forcing Claire to see a glimpse of each.

She sees her far away from here, free of this city and its taint, with a family and a man and a /fullness/ -- with home, with belonging, and even with child. She sees her again, full with something else -- not family, not children, but a latent power that reminds Claire of months ago, trapped in that dreaming with a coyote at her side, no longer now a guide but a /lead/, taking what is finally her birthright, her blood. Taking all she wants because she can. She sees a woman who has given up one home to make something new in another, and though it is not the sort of belonging as to the dictate of her blood -- one does not need a pack to have a family.

Mercy in so many permutations. Mercy living so many lives. Claire sees, but she still doesn't understand.

It scares her. What's happening? What's happening to her? Why won't it stop?

Her eyes turn, and reflexively center on Bucky, fixing him with a look -- a familiar look. A look she slanted the Winter Soldier countless times in the weeks of her imprisonment, one that seems to trust he'll fix this, he'll stop this --

And again she sees.

His face, features, and blue eyes split away and become many. And she sees Bucky with a shield she knows sits on the back of another, passed to his claim -- not taken, but given, picked up, earned. He bears its weight on his shoulders, and knows how to wield it with his hands, hoping for the day his hands will truly be worthy to hold this burden. She sees him again shrouded in dark, oppressing on all sides, outward and inward, closing on him and shaping for the broken man his last dead end. Darkness knots the noose around his neck, and he bows his head to slide it that final fetter. Bucky Barnes submits to be controlled by a new master, and he knows death will never let him go. She sees him hold something, and it's familiar black hair through his left steel fingers -- and it's herself, her body, C1 to C4 vertebrae broken in one clean dislocation, and Claire's heart lurches at the way the Winter Soldier drops her body to join the garbage of her friends. He forgets them before he is even ten paces away.

Tears run from her unseeing eyes, before they flutter, and the pain rebounds so acutely that it pulls the images free from her head.

Magic reacts with magic, and it's burning her alive; she cries out again in animal desperation, her stance faltering, muscles failing, as she exists in that moment nothing but a function a pain. She barely feels being reached for -- nothing save for that absolving, freezing touch of metal that grabs onto the feather and tears it free. It turns to ash inside Bucky's metal hand.

Claire, with no strength left, sags forward.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, Mercedes Thompson did yell back. She really did. Perhaps after this is all over Mercy will realize what she did and feel bad, but then again she just might not. His tone and words reminded the mechanic of the wolves. Too much like the wolves, in fact.
As soon as the feather crumbles the magic that courses through Claire's veins abruptly stops.

It's about the same time the Nurse sags forward, strength no longer there.

For Mercy, unaware of all that Claire saw, she begins to step forward. Though with Bucky closer to Claire, it's likely he'll catch her before the coyote can.

The high stink of magic likewise begins to lessen. For this particular magical artifact it smelled of birds, paper, ink and age, but more importantly of fire, of ash, the first spark of a life and the dank extinguishing scent of death. A cycle all creatures of this world knows of.

A cycle seen repeatedly in those visions of Claire Temple, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier and Mercedes Thompson.

"Is she okay?" The coyote asks more to Bucky, her steps still carrying her toward the Nurse and the Assassin. Her expression is clearly worried and her tone of voice holding an equal note of worry for the other woman.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Bucky does, in fact, catch Claire before Mercy can. He's right there, and his reflexes ensure he has her in his arms before she can get anywhere close to hitting the floor. In the act, he drops the remaining ashes of the feather, letting it mist away into the air. He might regret that later, because what if they needed that for a sample of some kind? Like... for magical science?

He has no idea how magic works.

He catches that odd scent associated with the artifact, as it disintegrates, but he doesn't think about that either. Not yet. All he thinks about is lowering Claire to lie down if she wishes, his gaze a little anxious as he studies her expression to try to discern if she's still in pain -- or if any lasting damage has been done.

"I don't know," he says, his voice frustrated. "I can't -- tell with this magical bullshit." He shakes his head, frustrated, before he shoots a stare up at Mercy. "What was that?"

Claire Temple has posed:
Caught up, Claire sags heavily on Bucky, a light, shivery weight -- trembling and painfully-sensitive to the nerves, to the senses -- like she was subjected to some barrage of stimuli neither of the two could see or even know.

Still conscious, the woman darts quick, skipping looks, but her limbs fold easily as Bucky sets her down, and her hands fumble as if they've been shocked of fine motor control out of her fingers.

The nurse blinks fresh, rolling tears free from her eyes. She tries to close them, just to regain where she is, when she is, who she is -- but closing them for very long brings those images back.

So Claire keeps them open.

"Something --" comes Claire's voice, thin and shuddery. "I don't -- hallucinations, I think. Visual -- hallucinations."

It doesn't sound right to her, but it's what she'll make of them for now. "I'm -- fine. It's over. Thank god."