2726/Flap Flap Murder Death

Flap Flap Murder Death
Date of Scene:	07 October 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Mercy Thompson, Insect Queen (OMara)

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Loki has posed:
There are parts of New York famous around the world. Everyone knows Hell's Kitchen and Midtown. They see videos and films about Harlem and Queens. Even Yonkers, freaking //Yonkers//, has its own minor claim to fame. But some places lack for abundant love. But who gets no love in the New York of today? That would be Rockaway Beach.

What does //Rockaway// have that makes it so unpalatable? Tourists just don't care about the Rockaways unless they mean to go to the beach. Every last storm that rolls up flattens gardens, swamps bungalows, and no one gives a damn. Community leaders forget the place. No one local can afford those cheap summer homes snapped up by outsiders in China, Saudi Arabia, places that locals are pretty sure don't exist. They can't even get a decent bus line.

The last town meeting hours before was a disaster. No new services for transportation. No restrictions on a perfectly reasonable civic bill to basically toss anyone who doesn't live in the Rockaways out of their houses to open it up for actual residents who need housing. Hell, even the High School shut down twenty years ago could be used for low-income residences but that got passed off too.

Well, Yaakov Zedek, local resident of 51 years, submitter of many bills, just isn't going to take it anymore. He mutters phrases from Qabbala and invokes the names of angels. Of God. Of righteous indignation that no one else seems to have. The ashes of all his proposals over the years, he's brought those and burnt them as offerings. Paper and smoldering wrack fill the little firepit on the beach overrun by seagulls. The breeze picks up.

One of those opportunistic gulls, no better in his eyes than the vulture politicians, eyes the burning flames and charred paper bits uncomfortably. Then it happens.

The wind that isn't there picks up. The sparks fly into the air and swirl around their neglected paper contents, and rage, rage against the dying of the right (and left and political center)! Hopping away on orange feet, the gull squawks but too late! Yaakov throws his arms high into the air and shouts, "Yes! Take revenge on our neglected town, these poor, unfortunate souls!" So sad, but true: the spell kicks into place. Mostly because its seller works on wrath and neglect.

Up go the paper butterflies, turning more translucent, and mostly grey and orange due to Yaakov's many, many proposals involving street signs and protests at road construction. And they fly. One flies right into the gull, which squawks again in protest, flapping around.

"You are an abomination too!" shouts the angry man in his sweaty white shirt. He shakes a fist. The gull makes it ten feet and beak-dives into the sand. No more gull. No more developers squabbling over scraps. Life is good!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
West Harlem. It's not the closet neighborhood to Rockaway Beach. Honestly, most would deem it not close at all.

And while Mercy Thomspon's garage sits within that well-known neighborhood, today, she finds herself absent of that area. The blame can be laid upon the Ford Fusion that sits within her garage. The tear down has started and with each panel and part removed, Mercy finds even more damaged. Expected damage, with the car's crushed countenance, but damage that will still need repaired.

As such, Mercy finds herself roaming further away from West Harlem than she normally would. Her movements take her from this shop and that, looking for various used parts in good condition. Should those 'gently used' parts found to be unacceptable to the coyote, well, then, all Mercy can do is buy new instead. While some might find this part of the job tedious, Mercy doesn't. Well, mostly. She enjoys it when the seller haggles with her, where negotiations can happen and be made, and when they can't Mercy simply hands over her credit card. Then the arrangements are made to have each and every part delivered to her Garage. There's no way she's going to carry them, or task anyone else to carry them for her. Not with the number of items she has to purchase.

Stepping out of the last store Mercy pulls her smartphone out and ticks a few more items off her list. "Two more stores and then I'll be done." Mercy says, her words more for her companion than herself. "Promise." Which is what she promised three stores ago, but who's counting. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Either way, Mercy turns her gaze to her smartphone for a minute, ticking off a few items from the list that's been entered upon it. "It's even in walking distant." She adds lastly, just in case that's needed too. Once everything that was just purchased has been marked completed Mercy will finally lift her gaze from the face of her phone. Automatically the coyote looks around herself, getting the lay of the land and the people around her, and what she sees causes Mercedes Athena Thompson to stop in her tracks.

Hazy images. Above people's heads. Not everyone though, only some. Not spirits, they don't move. They don't feel like spirits.

Over there an image above a young girl - an angel with halo. Floating above a young man a ragged-cloaked Grim Reaper and over another a white-haired woman wearing red, a fourth shows a white-robed figure, a fifth a shadowy priest.

It's enough to pull an astonished exclamation from Mercy, "What!" That surprise is enough to cause Mercy to reach for Loki, intending to ask what's going on, but words (for this second) fail her.

Loki has posed:
"I'll believe it is walking distance when I see someone other than a coyote traversing the route," comes that distinguished English voice, wrought in wry humour. "Perhaps I would listen to a young lady overloaded with her purchases or someone in very high heels. You, however, might walk halfway to Tierra del Fuego before calling it quits. Your shoes might cry mercy before you do."

Loki, today, is a dapper gent, surprise! Though to fit in among the Rockaways, where suits are rare and attitude common, he's deigned to go for the leather jacket and crisp jeans of an ensemble that serve admirably to blend in only slightly. It's better than not at all, which is the going rate, some days. "I hear there is a junkyard somewhere within thirty miles. It is my duty to assure myself that you will not dissolve into time's embrace in search of the unknown, raiding a Buick or Saab." The fact he knows what these things are, that's merely beside the point. Loki isn't one for pressing a point too finely when he can simply overdo it otherwise. His nearness to Mercy is relative; a few good strides put him in arm's reach without fail, the smartphone vanished simply into a pocket. "My hankering for a Caesar salad somewhere authentic seems misplaced."

His emerald green eyes flash upwards, burning bright against the pallor of his face. "Mm. That looks poorly. The weather was entirely fine up til now." He waves his hand about, but none of those clouds of spiritual benedictions intending woe stop flapping about in a huge, vast mass of fluttery ruin.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Mercy is often honest to a fault that doesn't mean she won't occasionally stretch the truth a bit. Like today. Specifically with how close (or far) those storefronts have really been. This time, however, she wasn't lying. The next store was truly only a few buildings downward. Three to be exact. It was a local hardware store that sells a variety of goods for repairs; wood, metal, flooring, nails, etc. This store Mercy had intended to buy lumber, though why she'd really need that is hard to say -

And likely won't be known, not now with the impending swarm of paper insects slowly making their way in the sky above.

Before that doom above is seen by Mercy she has enough time to see those ghostly images above the people. It's enough to cause her steps to slow even as she tries to make sense of what she's seeing. Death sense doesn't necessarily come with a neat little handbook. There's no Valkyrie 101 for Mercy to attend, as such, she's at a loss.

While that loss for words stays with her that doesn't mean she doesn't hear what Loki says.

The fact that Loki /knows/ some name brands of cars (beyond Volkswagen) would be shocking to Mercy. Shocking. Not to mention the fact that he's looked for a junkyard relatively close. That's truly the quickest way to the coyote's heart, but for now, other things take precedence. When the Asgardian Prince looks upward Mercy manages to pull her attention away from the hazy heralds of death around her and then to the sky above. "Weather?" She echoes, even as her eyes begin to track the 'clouds' above. It takes a second, but the unnatural movements of those 'clouds' is seen and the coyote's steps stop. "That's not normal."

Loki has posed:
It's mischief on his part, tempt her with what she can't have. Test to see whether she goes running off instead of answer the calls of the souls attendant upon their transfer to the rightful place in the world. Perhaps she might be comforted knowing that her responsibilities start and end, largely, with the faithful of Asgard and those of her own particular heritage. Gods are jealous, sure, and especially in death, they have their territorial squabbles. But the gift of a horse and status afforded her by the Trickster prince //do// allow for something else; notably, an arrangement to share.

She's not so much a cause of a squabble as a bridge between powers and Powers.

Mercy nonetheless has a swarm of shady curls of flaming paper that are half ephemeral and half floating flame cause their own brand of havoc. Touch one and voila, ignition of soul-flames. All people have souls, with very few exceptions. Those exceptions tend to be things like single-celled organisms or trees. Sentient beings, though, are fuel to the wrath imbued into every typed word, every carefully justified and double-spaced proposal sacrificed to the pitiless God of justice. Man, what would anyone give for Tyr or Athena to wander past and put those out?

"No," he agrees, shielding his brow with his hand. "It's //festively// colored. Since when has anything in New York been less than grey and gloomy? They're awfully garish for a people with no taste for balance."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Temptation is something Mercy Thompson is quite aware of. What she wants versus what needs to be done is an old battle for the coyote.

The more practical and logical side of her self often overpowers any mischief that might be present. Even ones that are long-limbed and handsome.

The knowledge that she's a bridge between worlds is thankfully not known yet. It's hard to say how she'll react to that knowledge. It's likewise hard to say how long it would take for her to understand the responsibility that particular status comes with. Probably not long. Likely not long at all.

For Mercy, her gaze stays upon the animated paper above for a few more beats. It's only when Loki agrees and then offers those next words of his that the coyote's expression twists slightly. Her gaze drops to his face, "Really." She says with a note of amused incredulousness to her voice, "That's what you're basing your agreement on? That it's too colorful to be a natural part of the city?"

That amusement soon leaches out of her expression, however, when her gaze turns back to the people and she sees those omens above them. "There are specters above people." She finally admits, "Not everyone though. Only some. I'm feeling pretty confident that it's not a coincidence those things above us appeared around the same time." A side-eye is given to an elderly man who walks past the duo, above his head sits a hazy picture of a soldier.

"I suppose you couldn't just poof them away?" She asks, even as the foot traffic behind them begins to jostle.

Loki has posed:
"A preliminary question for you, my dear. Do you ask me to banish the spectres or the massive cloud of unimaginable colour?" Because who can believe orange of this magnitude would ever naturally gather in New York? Every wing detailed in milestones of liquid reflective orange coating or iridescent blue, a ballast of rainbows burning in ephemeral witchfire. Not the Trickster Prince.

Okay, maybe the Trickster Prince.

He really has no comment to the issue of spectres otherwise. Better that Mercy discover on her own the terms of involvement with a pretty, shiny horse with an attitude, flashy tail, and way too flashy hooves. Seriously, she'll need to keep around an anvil just to trim them, and the trimmings are probably worth their weight in equivalent currency. Not even pesos; real money. Has she considered she's a wealthy woman and need not be an auto mechanic?

"We don't have these things in Asgard for a reason." Paper? Butterflies? Curses on the wing? They have the latter, certainly. "I like to think that perhaps we can pursue this business under cover of an awning, or perhaps elsewhere. They look rather unfriendly, and while I could blow them all away, you might yell at me for turning them on, say, the President. Even if your capital deserves it."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy turns slightly to watch the older man continue down the sidewalk. She considers the soldier that hangs above him. The uniform, while difficult to make out completely, is still clear enough for Mercy to know it's not from recent times. IT's primarily one color, so it seems to her keen eyesight, and there's no pixelated camouflage upon it. It's definitely from another time. A different era, a different place.

Soon enough the man is lost within the crowd and the coyote's attention shifts back to Loki. As well as the swarm above.

HIs initial question is answered first, even as she squints back to the sky, "The butterflies in the sky - though if you can make the specters disappear too, I wouldn't mind that either."

And it's likely Mercy has no clue she has a plethora of untapped wealth back at the Garage. Glaer, while infinitely silly, seems to have not clued her into that fact. Nor the fact that his hooves will need care. Hell, if we have to be honest, Mercy is still figuring out the whole 'riding a winged horse' thing. Accomplished rider, she is not.

That remark about Asgard allows an eyebrow to quirk upward, but it's his last words that cause the coyote's expression to shift again. It's one part amusement (at the mention of the President) and another part concerned with the mention of taking cover. "If we take cover then everyone else should." States the coyote resolutely and unless he plans on picking her up and carrying her to cover, Mercy won't budge.

Especially when finally another person looks up (it's hard to do these days with smartphones) and finally spies the crawling mass of 'butterflies'. Already that pesky smartphone in their hands is being raised upward for a picture. At least it's not a selfie?

Loki has posed:
"I'm afraid you are quite on your own recognizance, as far as spooky ghosts go. Isn't that part of your inheritance?" Loki brushes a bit of hair from his brow using a careless flick of his finger. The lush manifestation of wrath on the air has a pungent odor to him, anyways, something metallic and burnt, the sickly proof of miserable intent lying everywhere he can see.

Of course, Mercy would make it difficult. Because she would be the better part of their two halves, intent on rescuing people. He shrugs under his jacket. "I suppose we could make it rain and hope they took cover. It might put out the flames." It might. If they were strictly flames. He allocates a shred of care for them. Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening, but so very Thor.

He rakes his hand through his hair again and makes a swift gesture, the phone affected almost immediately. See, selfie with the butterflies, and now a spinning blue screen of doom. Actually, it's black and the screen smells suspiciously of ozone, the hint of a lithium battery fire about to begin. Because that's how Loki Odinson rolls.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her own recognizance? Inheritance?

Mercy slides a quick look to Loki, "They're not ghosts. They're something else. I just don't know what yet." She states, before muttering, "But definitely not ghosts."

Loki and Mercy are settled upon a sidewalk within a small borough by the name of Rockaways. While the two are mostly stopped within the middle of the sidewalk the pedestrian traffic continues to flow, mostly around them. Sometimes it jostles them too.

The two have their attention turned upward where high above them sits a mass of paper butterflies. The variously-colored bugs are alight with what looks to be fire, mystical in nature, not actual. While the majority of the people around have yet to look up (the dangers of cellphones!) one has.

In fact, that young woman was just attempting to snap a picture of the moving cloud of color above, but before she can even put the pad of her finger to tempered glass, the screen shifts. Suddenly all she has is that terrible blue screen of death and then the acrid smell of an igniting battery within.

Immediately the phone is dropped and the only thing that saves the screen from being shattered is the case that sits around it. "Ack!" That's what the young woman likewise says as she automatically drops the phone from her hands.

"I'm down with rain." Mercy adds, definitely the half that's intent on rescuing people, especially as more begin to take note. It's almost like a domino effect from that one young woman, another person looks up, and then another. Mercy can't help but note the ones that do typically look up have the specters floating above their hands. For the ones that don't, well, an image soon reveals itself to Mercy. "Let's go with the rain. I don't think they're real bugs. The sound they're making isn't exactly right."

Insect Queen (OMara) has posed:
A very human Violet steps out of an art supply store, brand new blank canvas under her armpit, and a worn, long, fabric sack-like container slung over her shoulder. "No, thank /you/ for the discount! I'll recommend this shop to all of my friends!", she says, as the sound of the door chime dies out. She takes just a few steps along the sidewalk, looking down at it, probably fascinated by the pattern of the tiles, hum-mumbling (hummumbling?) a tune to herself, until she reaches an indentation where two buildings join to form an alcove. She thinks for a moment, nods, and steps in, determined. She puts the still shrink-wrapped to lean against a wall, gets the container off her shoulder, and pulls two wooden structures out of it. A couple of quick gestures, and they widen into a stool (which is quickly placed on the floor), and an easel, which is set up more carefully. The shrink-wrap is removed from the canvas, balled up, shoved inside the sack, and she sits down, ready for action.

"Finally!", she exclaims, as she sets up a couple of pencils on the bottom support board of the easel. "Time for my weekly realistic painting session. After two weeks straight of fantasy creatures, I need a break. Ugh. Commissions for furry-cat-dragon-people with rainbow-lightning-energy-auras may pay the bills, but man, that messed-up anatomy is a nightmare. Glad I get to draw some plain, simple, run-of-the-mill-"

When Violet cut off, she had just cracked her knuckles, picked up her trusty pencil and, for the first time, she had stared right ahead of herself, getting a glimpse of the sky.

"...no..." she whimpers. And winces. "No. No. No. Why. Why?"

She sobs ever-so-quietly.

Couldn't they at least /not be on fire/? Fire is /hard/..."