743/The Wendigo Hunt

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The Wendigo Hunt
Date of Scene: 03 June 2017
Location: Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis: A Wendigo stalks the hallways of a hospital in Hell's Kitchen. Mercy, Claire, Loki and Winter Soldier work to defeat. Or Claire and Mercy run like hell and Loki and the Soldier kill the beast.
Cast of Characters: Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier, Loki, Claire Temple




Mercy Thompson has posed:
The day started as normally as one can except within the hallowed halls of a hospital within Hell's Kitchen.

Patients were seen, patients were admitted and patients were discharged. There were those that lived, died and lived again thanks to the skill of the doctors, nurses and emergency room equipment. Now the hospital has settled into its typical nightly routine. Floors quiet, shifts change and the struggle between life and death continues.

A shame, that the struggle will become true for those that work in the hospital too.

Outside near the ambulance entrance a man can be seen. His voice crackles with repressed energy as he says, "Yes, yes, this is perfect. Here my pet." Is the soft-sing song chant from the man and with a particular wave of his hand a spell is enacted. While there aren't any flashes of lights, or pretty displays, the space beside the man suddenly fills the gigantic form of a beast. It's bipedal and looks a cross between a man and beast, with razor teeth, razor claws and eyes the the color of jet. The man will nod languidly towards the hospital, "Go. Eat. Enjoy." Then he's gone with a faint crackle of magic and laughter.

With little need for encouragement the beast starts to make its way towards those doors that read 'emergency personnel' only.

Soon the people will realize the danger they're in. One of the people within the hospital is Mercy Thompson. She's standing in a small curtained-off room, tucking discharge instructions into the pocket of her mechanic coveralls. Idly, as she does that, she'll flex her other hand. The one that now sports nearly a dozen stitches across the palm and while that flex should hurt it, thankfully, it doesn't. Numbing agents are a wonderful thing. "Way to go, Mercy." Mutters the woman to herself, "Made yourself look like a total amateur with this accident." And it was an accident too, a tool slipped, so did her hand and the rest is history. Damn stray thoughts that butted their head in so rudely to break her concentration.

Still, it's fixed now and the coyote must figure out how to get home. Driving with a numb hand is completely out of the question and while she could take a cab ... there are other means of transportation. From another pocket Mercy will pull a slim black phone from it. She'll give it the vaguest of evil eyes (there's a love hate going on between the coyote and the phone) Mercy will consider calling a certain individual.

Decisions. Decisions.

The curtain around her little room will be pushed aside, as Mercy steps out from the treatment room. Her eyes will automatically flick towards the nurse's station and the people to be found here, before she scans the area around herself in an automatic gesture. It's as Mercy's taking that moment to look around that the faintest of smells begins to curl throughout the ER. The scent is a mixture of rotting meat, decay and foul putridness. It's worse near the ambulance entrance and might have stayed outside if it weren't for the fact that the doors have swished open, anticipating someone, or something, to come through.

Winter Soldier has posed:
He follows her on occasion, now. Not just because he has an interest in keeping her intact as a repair station, or because her routes to and from the hospital are on the way to whatever job he has to do, though these are the reasons he usually cites aloud to himself. There is something about being around her that is wholly novel as an experience to him, because it is pleasant and nonpainful and even comforting.

None of these things can be said about his usual state of being.

It is a reason the Winter Soldier is not typically deployed for too long. The man beneath the conditioned machine inevitably begins to question the difference between observed reality and what he is told by his handlers. To question why so much pain is mandatory, when out in the world there are hands which are gentle. But sometimes, it cannot be helped. He is simply needed for work that drags on for some time.

Besides, they think they have the conditioning down now. There has not been a lapse in fifty years.

Such it is that even if the Winter Soldier is a little off-course from his job today, sitting atop a building with an overview of the hospital and clear line-of-sight into the window where a certain nurse is working, he's still thinking about work for the time being. Presently, he'll probably remember himself and move on... but for now, he seems content to stop and ensure one of his resources in the area remains in one piece.

Loki has posed:
Did Loki Odinson bother to measure every magical anomaly in his immediate presence within the boundaries of the five boroughs, he'd have a permanent migraine. It explains the need for self-medication via caffeine, and failing that, a proper bottle of alcohol. Not the sort found in any liquor emporium in the fine city, or even ordered off Starkazon. This calls for the special stash, the one requiring distillations involving honey stolen from hyper-venomous cosmic bespins (bee-wasps, horrible), wine from the Summer Isles of Avalon, and some other equally unlikely concoctions.

So he drinks. A glass in the hand is worth three bottles on a shelf.

He drinks with that utter clarity that mischief be afoot, and every divine sense speaks to a need for //him// to be out there causing mischief. Not enough to be dispatching letters in the name of, idly warning the Grand Duke of Luxembourg to stay out of a brewing conflict in a Pyrenesian territory he has his eyes on. Though this happens. Or something about a Twitter feed and suddenly have his name up for the Duma, in the President's constituency, polling ahead of a handpicked oligarch by eighteen basis points. Nor to throw a few cursed pieces onto a grid to see where they go.

No, in this case, he's abandoning the handsome lounge to seek out the open air, and more importantly, all the untrustworthy, petulant humans going about their minor, dull lives with no more creativity and candor than ants. At least ants serve a strangely hive-like purpose, a singularity of order that means nothing and everything to him. Flicking his loose dark hair from his face, he ignores the looks and the sway of people accepting their better in their midst.

The god of chaos knows the brooding taste of something gone awry in his frost-licked, fiery bones, and leaps almost carelessly into that wild embrace.

Claire Temple has posed:
"One year into your masters, huh? That makes you like to learn. Can you tell me something you learned tonight?" Claire Temple asks with crossed arms and the patience of drowning saints. Drowning under a sea of stupidity.

Someone mumbles something back.

"Didn't quite catch that," she helpfully prompts.

"Don't stick things in my mouth," answers a frat boy with stitches at the corners of his mouths that enhance his frown.

"Like?" Claire isn't finished.

"Stuff that isn't food."

"Like...?"

"Lightbulbs."

"Fantastic!" Claire approves with a Good Boy! pat to his shoulder. "I give your thesis a perfect A+. Seriously. Don't do dumb shit again, got me?"

The kid looks half-way to looking like the first death via crushing embarrassment in recorded civilization. Claire, certain the punishment is well-enough to ensure she'll never see his dumb ass again, leaves that end of the emergency, stripping off and tossing her gloves without a glance back. It's a deft and perfect three-point basket.

With that, she wades into the usual din and clamour of what is a late-night shift at Metro-General, succeeding in all of seven steps before she's bumrushed by colleagues on either sides, asking for her opinion on stat checks or correct dosages. Claire's bear-trap memory keeps her talking, and she even multitasks it with the way her eyes catch the glimpse of something -- familiar. Her eyebrows knit. She excuses herself a moment.

"Mercy?" comes a voice at the mechanic's back. It belongs to the woman who happened upon her garage a week or so ago -- with a strange, metal-armed friend in tow. It's Claire again, dressed in her blue scrubs, and unable to disguise her surprise. "Remember m -- are you all right?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There's so many sights and sounds competing for the coyote's attention, not to mention antiseptic smells, that almost, Mercy misses Claire working within that ER. Thankfully, the other woman recognizes her and when Mercy hears her name being called she'll turn. Claire isn't the only one looking surprised, as Mercy says, "Claire!" Which means, yes, she does remember the other woman and her friend. That stray thought brings Mercy's sharp gaze around as she looks for that friend; and perhaps within her brown eyes there's just a little bit of suspicion there too. Is he lurking around a corner somewhere? Still, there's a question to answer and Mercy will bring her attention back to Claire as she says, "What? Oh! Yes, I'm okay." She'll motion to her injured hand, "A little accident on the job, that's all. Couple of stitches and I'm right as rain." It was more than a couple of stitches, but who's counting? Better than eating a lightbulb, after all.

"I didn't realize you worked in this hospital." Begins Mercy, and while she would have said more the smell has finally started to make it's way back into the main compartments of the ER. Mercy likely smells it much sooner than the others around, as she stops mid-sentence to say, "Do you smell that?"

And while that question still remains between the two, suddenly, because it's always sudden, the vaguest sound of stomping can be heard. It's almost like that movie, with the large T-Rex, where the stomping is forewarned by the jumping of a puddle. The same can be said here; there's the echoing sound of large heavy footsteps and then, through the swinging doors that lead to Ambulance Entranceway a shadow appears. The shadow is large, hulking, and dark and while a few employees begin to look over towards the doors, they're not quite prepared for those doors to literally be ripped off their hinges.

There's a loud squeal of metal and wood, as the doors shatter inward and a beast nearly nine to ten feet tall steps through.

It's definitely not a man, even if it's stands like one; as it's whole body is covered in long white fur, it's face has a short-muzzle upon it and atop its head sits a pair of sharpen antlers.

For the moment, the majority of the people freeze; shocked into a stillness that likely won't help them in the end. The primordial part of their brains start to immediately scream: RUN! But their higher functioning brain just roots them to the spot, shock and surprise warring within them.

Winter Soldier has posed:
At the wrong angle to cover the entryway the creature uses to get in, the Winter Soldier is quite unaware that it's there at first. He's distracted, at any rate, sitting in a quiescent state. His conditioning affords him a false personality and a passel of fake memories, to be sure, but they're really rather sparse compared to the full landscape of a true human mind, and in the absence of any stimuli that would necessitate interaction... his default state is, really, just to sit. Like a gadget conserving battery.

That changes the moment there IS a stimulus to be had. Namely a crash, and the sudden sound of screaming.

Usually he's the one causing crashes and screaming, so this temporarily confuses the Winter Soldier. He jerks back to alertness, looking around, before his senses pinpoint the source of the noise. He checks the window through his scope. Yep. Claire's still in there. If the Soldier was prone to emoting, he would be sighing.

As it is, he's launching into motion, his rifle temporarily slung back onto his back as he takes a running leap from his perch to clear over onto the roof of the building opposite, on the other side of the street. He works his way around in this fashion, trying to get a better angle on the doors through which the thing went, hoping to find a vantage point where he can fire on the creature without having to go down there and make a scene.

Of course, this will get hard the farther the thing goes into the building...

Loki has posed:
Lattes hawked by the myriad fair trade coffee shops don't stop Loki on his walk. He follows a different piper, the one of the awry leyline and the noise burrowing into his back teeth. Offness, an unnameable but palpable presence, announces itself, a thorn in his side. It insists on burrowing deeper as he cuts through a less gentrified section of town where tenements replace towers, and bodegas outnumber organic supermarkets. Where the wicked Pied Piper plays, he follows just long enough to find his bearings.

Screams are good for that.

The irony of the wanton name for so insolently tame a place never fails to give a smile almost bordering upon smirk to his mouth.

A casual examination determines no poisoned souls, no shells hailing down, and no signs of a mutant apocalypse in the making. Easy then to push his hands into his pockets, deep, and make more casual an approach to the sprawl of a building devoid of charm or architectural flourishes. In short, he marks an oversized boxy growth on the horizon and deigns for a moment to wait. A brief shift of concentration on his part throw his senses wide, capturing the raggedy route of whatever mischief's at play.

And to be sure, that power stinks in a way, grease fat and clay and wet hair and rot. "Would it be too much to go for something //nice//?" Ask not whom he addresses. In truth it's probably another iteration of himself.

Claire Temple has posed:
"Sure do," Claire answers tentatively, with half of a strained smile directed on Mercy. Her dark eyes, however, see only that bandaged wound on her first, assessing it in a pensive way --

-- while some part of her almost seems ready to fear for the worst. So much of a coincidence, seeing that mechanic girl here, so soon, and injured on top of it? It couldn't be because... no. No, no, he wouldn't. He even said he owed her a debt. And --

Relief dawns, however, when Mercy explains it away as something on-the-job. Ye of little faith, Temple. "It wasn't one of the students who did that for you, was it?" Claire asks with a slight hook of a smile. "Looks a bit sloppy. I could check it --"

Smell something? She feels like her nasal passages, on most days, are acid-burned through from years of antiseptics. Still, with the question writ visibly across her features, the nurse gives a sniff.

Something stinks, rot-sweet, like flyblown meat, and it hits her like a fist to the face. Claire flinches to it. "What the hell is--?"

And there comes an answer.

The blood drains out of her face. Her pupils narrow to pinpoints. That panic doesn't miss Claire Temple, who cries out at first sight of the thing, because she's never SEEN anything like -- like -- whatever the hell -- WHAT IS IT?

Run is a good impulse. A SMART impulse. However, for Claire, who sees herself as a protector of these wards and halls, does something else. She tries to hook an arm around Mercy, as if to bodily interpose herself between the mechanic and the way that THING is coming, all to try to PUSH the woman in the other direction, dead-set to cover her back. "GO!"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Seeing all the food standing so still around it, the beast will offer the faintest of grunts, before it opens its mouth and roars.

It's an echoing sound, one that will bounce upon the walls and reverberate back into the room for several seconds.

And whether it's that roar that finally nudges people into action, or their own flight or fight instincts kicking in, that moment of absolute stillness will find itself passing. Then the screaming starts. Shouts and cries of terror will now fill the Emergency Room, as people react viscerally and jerk back and away from the beast. Curtains will likewise move, as the people behind them yank them back to see what all the noise is about. Eyes widen, faces pale, and now even more voices join the cacophony of terror within the large room of the ER.

Like most, Mercy finds herself frozen for that same instant of time, as she stares at the beast before them. It's only when the thing roars that she too shakes off her shock. "Oh my God." Whispers the coyote, her voice holding a horrified note to it. "What is that?" And while she asks that question, already her senses are pulling information towards her; magic, rot, stench and something even more terrifying than either of those previous thoughts. Hunger.

The beast is hungry and that scent of hunger only intensifies when it turns its gaze to a person.

"Oh no." Mercy manages, both disgust and alarm heard in her voice, but before she can tell Claire the beast is hungry, the Nurse immediately interposes herself between Mercy and the Wendigo. The push is enough to cause Mercy to stumble a few steps away, but that doesn't stop Mercy from reaching out to Claire. "We're both going. That thing is hungry!"

And whether it's from Claire's shouted go, or Mercy's own sharp movements to pull the other woman with her, or perhaps a combination of both, the Beast's attention shifts away from a cowering doctor near it and to the two women just ahead. When both begin to move the thing will offer another one of those eardrum splintering roars, before it drops to a more quadruped stance. Then it leaps.

LEAPS at the two women.

It covers the distance between the three in that one lunge and with a flash of sharpen teeth, the beast lash out with a sickle shaped claw. Its aim is for Claire's torso and while Mercy isn't quite as super-powered as some individuals, her reactionary time is far better than the average human. She sees that claw coming for Claire and with a quick, "No!", the coyote will reach out to Claire with a speed and strength that bely her size. While her grab might be a pinch too late, it'll be quick enough to lessen the injury Claire sustains to her side, as that curved claw misses any internal organs when it scraps along the ribcage. Thank god for ribs..

"Dammit!" Shouts Mercy, when the copper tang fills the air around Claire denoting an injury sustained. "RUN!" And to make sure the other woman does, Mercy will loop an arm under her arms and drag her away from the Wendigo.

At Mercy's shouted 'run' a stampede begins, as people try to dash away from the scary monster within their midsts. The monster ignores all the morsels closest to it, as its gleeful eyes stay focused upon Mercy and Claire's retreating forms.

Running prey is always so much more fun than stationary prey; especially when one is injured. Fresh is better than old too.

As for Bucky, the beast is already heading further inside the hospital, making it far harder to track or even shoot. Perhaps he could get off one bullet, or two, but he might also hit the frantic people trying to escape, as well.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The Winter Soldier, from his vantage point, looks through his scope and tries to line up a shot. The Wendigo is moving too rapidly, however, and it'll soon be out of line of sight. There's also the concern of hitting other people, but that doesn't really bother the Soldier much in the way it would bother most people. Mostly it just means his shots will get blocked and be ineffective.

With a growled curse, he puts up the rifle and vaults over the edge of the roof, his metal left hand bracing him in his long, smooth slide down the side of the building. Sparks shower around him from the grate of metal against brick, but he takes no notice.

Twenty feet above the the ground, he pushes off and hits in a dead run. He moves through the panicked crowds with the slicing efficiency of a shark slashing through a school of fish, largely unhindered, the people around too freaked out by the Wendigo to take much notice even of an armed man in a mask.

The trail of blood is easy to follow. He traces it with his eyes, calculates a trajectory, and then hangs a sharp left down a different corridor.

For a few moments, the monster chases Mercy and Claire largely uninterrupted. There is nothing to advertise any particular danger to it -- up until a black streak blows out of the shadows on the thing's left at top speed, emerging from a hallway in an attempt to collision-course his steel left fist with the side of the creature's shaggy head.

He's not all firearms and bombs. Sometimes, a supersoldier just has to go the old-fashioned route. Especially when he's got a freakishly-strong left hook.

Loki has posed:
Loki carries right along to the hospital, taking perhaps the most indirect path imaginable. Ambulances, cars, fleeing pedestrians and perplexed staff make for barriers to pass around. When he stops one of those people in a white coat and scrubs to demand an explanation, the response is so broken he gives the orderly a good little shake.

"Explain. Did someone rise from the dead again, or has a snake sprung out of a person's open chest cavity again?" he insists at a low, pointed volume that usually does the trick of terrorizing or enamouring everyone. The orderly manages to bleat out something to the tune of 'Everyone else was running, I ran too.' Sparing his life from the unknown monstrosity, the god sighs and shoves the orderly aside.

Let the Soldier do his wintry job most impressively. He walks through the swishing doors into the emergency area, since the red sign and instincts suggest this is the finest choice. Let it be said he still has a damn latte in hand, and deeply wishes for that alcohol. It might make the fuss worth it. Especially when the clamour and violence involves an enraged trash panda confronting the equivalent of the victor of the everpopular "Who would win, a polar bear or a shark?"

Fool, idiot beast. "Why would you bother //here//? The food they serve here is terrible," Loki mutters under his breath. Probably loud enough for the Wendigo to hear, if no one else. In the eye of the storm, he can afford to look wonderfully unbothered, and his fair trade, organic milk, perfectly foamy, pretentious drink sipped accordingly.

Claire Temple has posed:
It's a strange impulse; later, Claire will blame it absolutely on all those goddamned stupid martyring vigilantes and how they're rubbing off on her, how they got /her/ pulling this now --

-- but, for now, she's too busy acting on sheer reflex to protect Mercy with her own self. Mercy's a patient of Metro-Gen, and for that reason alone, puts her within Nurse Temple's fierce protectorate. But like all gutsy, senseless, dumb DUMB heroism before it, this act earns its just reward, and the woman cries out in shock and pain when the monster lunges forward and catches her deep with its meathook claws.

Two things save Claire for death. The first is the blindingly agonizing way the claws catch on the bones of her ribs; the second is Mercy's surprising rescue in turn, pulling with breathtaking strength to wrest the nurse from worse injury.

She comes free with a shudder of pain, staggering; Mercy's arm around her back holds Claire partially upright. She reaches mechanically, reflexively, her opposite hand crossing her own body to clasp along her lacerations, trying to hold the flesh together as through the splits in her scrubs, she trails blood.

Claire isn't sure which she's doing. Running. Being dragged. Probably both. 'RUN,' she hears the mechanic say, and it's the smartest idea she's ever heard.

Fuelled by pure panic, and trying to find her own feet to share the burden, she runs with Mercy, her gait only hampered by the painful pull on torn muscles, adrenaline and terror only able to impart her so much.

She uses what breath she has to scream at others, those still staring, still fumbling, to GO, and they do, the hospital halls emptying out of the more mobile patients and workers alike. Not that the monster seems to care about them --

Claire does something she quickly regrets: she looks back.

It's chasing /them/. It's RIGHT THERE. And it's --

-- being /cold-cocked/ by the metal arm of a masked -- HIM?!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's both. She's running and being dragged by Mercy; the mechanic's grip like a vise as she keeps a hold upon Claire.

"How bad is it?" Asks Mercy, even though she can tell it's bad enough. "Try to keep pressure on - oh for the love of, ignore that, you're a nurse. You know what to do." And then the two come to a fork in the road, or hallway, and the coyote will look at both avenues of escape. "Which way? Left or right?"

And then, just like Claire, Mercy will risk a glance over her shoulder. Her gaze will find the beast just as Bucky comes streaking out of the shadows, opposite of the beast and the women.

While it may not seem it, the beast's own senses are quite keen, especially its' smell and hearing. And though the Winter Soldier's steps might be light and barely heard, there's still enough sound for the beast to pick up upon and so, its great head begins to turn in Bucky's general direction. It's senses allows it to realize an attack is coming, but it isn't enough time to avoid the attack. As such, the beast's head will be solidly hit by that several-ton sucker punch. A grunt can be heard from it and from that force the body of the beast is pushed backwards by a few inches. It's body is too heavy to move quite so easily, and its claws allow for it to find traction and purchase where others might not. The floor, however, can now be considered a casualty this night, as great furrowed gouts appear in the linoleum.

It takes a half a second, no more, for the beast to shake itself out of the stupor caused by that punch. Then it roars. Because all angered beasts must roar. Blood drips from the beast's nose and mouth and while most creatures blood is red, the beast's is not. Instead a viscous black liquid slowly drips downward, in a long disgusting rope.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

Seeing that blood only seems to enrage the beast further, as a heated look is now placed upon Bucky. It offers three short, sharp barks, possibly a quick unintentional warning, then it pounces. The creature's claw-tipped hands will lash out with a speed that blurs, a triumphant howl heard when it grabs the tall assassin within its grip. Now Bucky will find a tooth-filled maw descending upon him - a precursor to a bite, because yes, it wants to eat the food within its grasp. It's only as the beast's mouth draws near that the smell that permeates Bucky's being causes it to abruptly stop. What happens next might be comical in a few days, but right now it might just be confusing, as the beast rears its head back; a look of disgust, astonishment and confusion apparent upon its features. Then with a noise of extreme repugnance the Wendigo will heft the man upward, no matter if he struggles, or fights, and casually toss Bucky away. Like some damaged piece of fruit; tossed aside for the bruises upon its flesh. One thing to note, however, is the fact that a casual throw from this beast is actually quite strong; meta-human, or mutant strong, thanks to the magic that resides within its body. So, while Bucky won't necessarily smash through three walls, there's the possibly of going through at least one. And to make matters even better, that toss will have Bucky being thrown in the opposite direction of the beast, Claire and Mercy.

While Mercy rarely swears, right now, this second, she does when she sees the beast go after Bucky. "Shit."

Once Bucky is out of its hands the beast pivots upon heel, eyes back upon the women. One bleeding and one swearing again, "Dammit."

That trickster God, a spot of calm when the rest of the world is losing its mind, sipping latte and asking those questions of his; answers might be found as he draws closer to the chase. A familiar flash of power taints the beast's form; glyphs and words written once more in familiar blood, only seen with other eyes. And while the sigils are still quite crude and infantile with how they're placed and positioned, one can still see some holding a more refined edge. The caster is learning and quickly too, it seems.

Each gl

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Each glyph, each word that can be seen commands the beast - one for hunger, one to cause death and a third to obey the scribe. The leash of that last sigil wraps tightly around the creature's neck, several times, before the glittering ribbon of magic disappears into the ether.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Midair en route to slamming his fist into the beast's face, the Winter Soldier chances one look left to check on the two women. See which one was bleeding. Mercy seems intact, but Claire--

If that contributes to the degree of fury involved in his strike when it ultimately connects, well...

The moment he hits, he knows this thing isn't going to be taken down bare-handedly. It registers the blow, certainly, but it's too sturdy to be deterred for long. In close, the Soldier can't quite get clear quick enough when the beast retaliates with a greater speed than he anticipated. Caught in its grip, with fangs bared for his flesh, he lifts his left arm in a block by instinct while his right reaches behind his back.

The monster really doesn't like that left arm. Not palatable at all! An affront!

Rejected, the Winter Soldier is hurled away. He smashes through a wall before he can right himself, plaster and drywall and God knows what else flying everywhere in a shower. Twisting in the air, he hits the ground on all fours like a cat, skidding to slake off the remainder of his momentum, his narrowed eyes focused through the jagged hole in the wall at the receding back of the Wendigo. "All right, asshole," he mutters, reaching behind his back again for what's holstered there.

The Wendigo is allowed to trundle onwards a few moments longer without any interference from its odd, metal-armed assailant. Then, quite suddenly, the deafening crack of a gunshot splits the air. It's a 12.7mm anti-materiel round, Russian make, the kind of thing used to kill tanks, and the bullet is aimed at the back of the creature's head.

Still standing where he was thrown, many yards distant, the Winter Soldier lifts his eye dispassionately from the scope of the Degtyarev sniper rifle braced against his shoulder.

Loki has posed:
There's always someone in the midst of madness, strolling along or doing their grocery shopping at the supermarket, as though utterly oblivious to the mayhem engulfing their surroundings. They seem unbothered by the mob descended into a melee of fists and bottles, and they merrily test produce for ripeness through a hail of gunfire and falling barrel bombs full of insidious chemicals meant to melt the lungs.

Tall, dark, and devilishly handsome, Loki in his hip-length Belstaff coat probably does not fit the idea of the typical mensch grandma in a babushka grumbling about the price of oranges per pound, no matter that Florida got devastated by hail in January. He raises his latte to his mouth, drawing in a sip while the Winter Soldier hammers an artificial fist into the meaty carcass of a spellbound creature. His eyebrows rise slightly towards his widow's peak when the nasty delivery ends not with a bloody creature lying on its side, ribcage staved in or skull crushed, but with the equivalent of an angry linebacker for Shamanic Blood Bowl XXXIV.

The Wendigo rises slightly in his estimation. The caffeinated milk froth runs over his palate as he walks past two abandoned stretchers, one tilted at an alarming angle, and lightly kicks aside a bottle abandoned by a nurse or orderly. With the light boot, he scores on the nursing station, a neat plastic wobble crashing into a disposable cup. Recycling matters to Mercy, so precision matters to him.

Bravery makes for an idle meal, evidently, though there might just not be enough soulstuff pristine for a wendigo's appetite when Bucky gets hurled through space and plaster and eco-friendly insulation. The crack and crash normally might warrant a grin from Loki Odinson, god of mischief and stories and chaos. Tonight, it renders him a bystander flicking dust off his collar. A few steps get him to some kind of serviceable doorway, where he casually leans.

"You know," he tells the creature over the span of admiring his fingers, dust-free and meticulously groomed. It matters not what language he speaks, for his speech is All-Speak, and thus as comprehensible to robots as to disembodied purple mushroom people from Ktyhmasha'r. "Is all that noise necessary? Look at the fuss you started. He's going to blow holes in a perfectly nice wall because of you."

Unblinking green eyes crackle with mischief and a deadly undertone, the kind of foxfire that men ought to dread and women run from. "Well? What are you waiting for?" Is he giving permission to the wendigo or the Winter Soldier, and more importantly, is there a fundamental difference at this point? The question of the latte is considerable, though, and more distracting.

Yes, fuzzbutt, you're being ignored.

Claire Temple has posed:
"It's fine," Claire rasps of her injuries, her voice tight and chalk-brittle. Shock and adrenaline make beautiful bedmates; she can barely feel it.

But what she does feel is her own blood, hot and thick and greasy through her fingers -- not enough there to be immediately critical, some distant, factual part of her thinks, but still dangerous, dangerous given too much time -- and tightens her hand to hold those lacerations shut. The sharp sting of pain is sobering.

It helps galvanize her down the hall on that breakneck run, entirely helped by Mercy's supporting arm around her back, and despite all her pride, she leans heavily into the woman's side, needing her there. Someday that is not right now, she'll question just how the mechanic is so /strong/ her steps feel gratefully light, but for now -- Claire concentrates on staying alive. Them both staying alive. In her hospital. There's a THING in her HOSPITAL.

But it hunts them, chasing trailing blood, and as the monster lunges close --

-- it's him, register Claire's eyes. 'Yasha', the Soldier who helped himself to her life only weeks ago, and her eyes reflect the way his metal fist slams straight into the creature's twisted face.

A shocked sound blurts out of her, a huff of air somewhere between disbelieving and incredulous and /relieved/ -- that is until the creature grabs and HURLS him straight through a wall. Claire's reaction is immediate and visceral, and despite her injuries, she takes a lunge as if to move for him, immediately afraid those moments he's out of sight. It will take Mercy, and her greater -- and insistent -- strength to corral the nurse and force them still on their flee.

Especially as the Wendigo has not left its want for that trailing, fresh blood.

Speaking of that, as Claire falters, maybe she's lost a bit too much -- because she swears to God she sees some man just /standing there/ absolutely /unhurried/ and holding /a latte./ And then the Soldier is back, to her crippling relief, and shouldering up --

"...oh shit," is apt, breathed out of the nurse, as she gets an eyeful of the biggest god damned gun she's ever seen.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The tensing of Claire's body is an immediate forewarning for Mercy; she knows what the woman's about to do and so, when Claire lunges, Mercy grabs the other woman. Mostly by Claire's arms. "NO!" The coyote shouts to the Nurse, "That's suicide! Escape first, then we can come back for him." And while Mercy was just getting ready to bodily drag Claire away, Bucky's reappearance causes Mercy's steps to pause. "See! There he is. He's ok! Let's move!" States the mechanic firmly, as she moves to pull Claire away from that too close beast, and this particularly bloody swath of hallway. Only those steps of Mercy's find themselves likewise faltering, as her keen eyes and ears pick up on a familiar presence. Similar to Claire, Mercy feels a sense of relief at the sight of Loki and that relief shows in her expression. Surely with the four of them (alright the two at the other end of the hallway) the tide of battle will start to turn.

And then, just like that, that gun is seen and Mercy likewise feels the falter in Claire's steps. "Come on! Around the bend."

The crack of gunshot echoes throughout the hallway and even further outward; likely everyone within the hospital heard that shot. Whether the beast knows the sound of gunfire seems a moot point, as the sharp retort causes the beast to reflexively duck down and away. It's movements are quite fast, but not quite fast enough to avoid this particular attack.

However, neither is it too slow, as the thing's head stays stubbornly intact. Instead, it's the beast's shoulder that explodes outward, as the bullet buries itself within its joint. A shower of black blood and flesh will reign down around the beast, the hallway, and yes, even towards the two women. The force behind that shot causes the beast to stagger drunkenly forward, its large body only a few feet away from the two now. Savage pain twists the creature's expression and soon an equally pained howl leaves its lips.

One might feel sorry for it. Kind of. If it weren't trying so hard to eat them all.

Slowly, because the great beast hurts, the Wendigo turns upon its large feet to face Bucky and Loki. Its right arm hangs uselessly at its side now. Other creatures might stop, or run away, but not this one. The scripts upon its flesh burn too brightly, with too much power. It must eat and it must kill and it must obey. Obsidian eyes will look to Loki now, the All-Speak allowing the creature to understand the God's words. The vaguest of whines, chuffs and growls comes from the beast, translated simply to 'Hunger. Must eat.'

And obey. That pause in its actions causes the glyphs to flare brightly to magic senses and with a snarl of rage, it'll move.

Goaded like some mad animal to rush towards Loki and Bucky, it's steps barely faltering even with the loss of its arm. The speed it can summon is far more than a normal human could ever manage, and while the form doesn't necessarily blur in that typical speedster way, it's still quite fast. But, it's also running headlong into a man with a gun, and an Asgardian God.

This likely won't end well for it.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The shot hits home, blowing its way into the beast's shoulder rather than its head, thanks to its quick reflexes. The Winter Soldier grunts a sound of displeasure, but he's already pulling the bolt handle, cycling in a fresh round. Tough bastard. He'd expected the bullet to blow straight through, and he'd aimed deliberately to avoid hitting anyone beyond it as such.

Namely, the two very important women beyond its massive shape.

It's about this time, as he's chambering a new round, that the Winter Soldier finally notices Loki and his latte. It's debatable whether he actually registers the doublespeak aspect of the god's goading, too sly for his singleminded nature to grasp. He does mouth to himself something that looks very much like 'What the god damn fuck?' though.

Some things can't be brainwashed away fully. The Soviets decided it was easier to just leave pieces of the original Bucky intact, rather than try to stitch some new personality wholesale. In all incarnations, the Winter Soldier -- James Buchanan Barnes -- has a hell of a foul mouth.

"What am /I/ waiting for?" he grumps, as he lifts the rifle again and sights at the charging creature with obscene aplomb. "YOU gonna do something?!"

The Winter Soldier certainly does something. He pulls the trigger again, aiming dead-center at the thing's heart.

Loki has posed:
How many treaties would it violate to hurl this thing into the heart of Jotunheim, and unleash it upon the unsuspecting frost giants? Probably six. Chances it would take down six frost giants, unless children or elderly, seem pensively low. Nonetheless, the notion tugs the corner of the man's mouth higher.

All these people surrounding him limit options. For all the world he's still Liam Serrure, senior consultant on European antiquities for Christie's. And Liam does not do incredibly heroic things like manifest a hyperfuturistic energy weapon and unleash a torrent of electricity or plasma at short range. True, some might worship him, but the damage will lead to investigations, questions, and hard stares from that nurse escorting Mercy or escorted by Mercy back there.

Loki has a good idea of one of their scents, bloody and wet and rich in notes he would rather not be familiar with. Cuprous base notes wrapped around the iron-hot strike calling to the black-collared monster down one arm. A reminder to be pushed to urgency. Taking that in with a flaring of his nostrils, he looks over at one James Barnes almost boredly. "You seemed to have it well in hand."

Seemed. Past tense, imperative distinction there. Maybe he ought to hurry his reaction times up given the angry, slavering thing barrels down onto him with contemptible speed for anything human. A good thing he's not human.

He does the sensible thing, thumbing the plastic rim off the tall cardboard recyclable cup. A casual toss of his arm discards the latte, all twenty ounces of scalding, fair-trade coffee with a milk infusion, frothed and bubbled to maximum potency straight into the wendigo's face. With any luck, the lid will plink off an ear or hang from its distorted face to give the Winter Soldier a helpful target. Assuming a face isn't sufficient, he can hit the broadside of a white plastic circle, right?

Fortunately a renaissance man can do possibly three things at once, including admiring his own work as a freebie for a fourth. He swivels on his foot to swing back three inches, tops, offer much less of a tempting target to something intending to pounce his superb, tailored coat. And then there's a snap to his fingers, like a bloody beatnik applauding Kerouac, with a discreet difference. A subtle warping of space, an invisible blade of something other than force, fills his hand. On the contrary, it's a physically infused banishment spell, in the hands of a duelist who chewed on Vanir wolves (with some reciprocal chewing) in his long ago youth. Might as well hack at the collaring spell with it when presented with an opportunity to jab.

Claire Temple has posed:
The tight hallway holds in the concussive sound of the gunshot, makes it /deafening./

Ventilated by that bullet, the creature's shoulder explodes in a spray of ichor.

That thick, black blood paints Claire, sprayed down her blue scrubs, streaking her turned face, even splattering along her wounds. She tries not to think about cross-contamination; tries not to think about that /thing's/ blood in her, because she'll be sick, and it's already taking everything she has to stay calm, stay centered, stay upright.

She continues to bleed. It contributes to the nurse doing strange things, like buckling once on her feet, or even trying to move /toward/ the Winter Soldier when she feels him hurt or worse. But towed away by Mercy, Claire offers a bleary cry of argument. It's only seeing 'Yasha' back in action, and apparently still in one piece, that she accedes, or at least stops struggling so desperately. Survival instincts are, thankfully, still a thing.

"Wait --" Claire tries to plead Mercy, because apparently there's another man there not yet fled, and certainly not armed like the Soldier is -- certainly not carrying any sort of /weapon/ worse than a cup marked with CAUTION: HOT WATER.

But her voice comes shallow, and the woman's dark eyes go slightly unfocused. But she's still here, still cognizant, still moving with Mercy, trying as ever to match the woman's gait to see them farther down the hall -- out of direct range, and to allow the men room and opportunity to dispatch.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Cross-contamination. That's a scary thought and one that Mercy has thankfully not thought upon.

No, instead, her mind is focused upon the ringing of her ears. With each bullet fired the coyote hisses in pain, but that doesn't stop her from moving. Nope.

Nor does Claire's pleading, either. She'll still pull the two of them back and around that corner, to take shelter behind. "I promise -" Begins Mercy, her voice perhaps a touch too loud, "- They'll be okay."

Bullet and coffee both hit the beast.

Blinded by the hot liquid in its face the beast can't quite manage to avoid the bullet this time.

As such, the bullet slams into the creature's chest, obliterating portions of its ribcage and the majority of its heart. A strangle hoarse roar might be the last thing it can offer, before it begins to fall. Down, down, it goes and with a thump that vibrates the floor the beast hits the ground.

When the figurative dust settles, Bucky and Loki will find it mere inches from their respective positions. Blood, bits of bone and flesh now splatter the walls and floor around it. Clean up is going to be lengthy for the hospital.

The dark light held within the beast's eyes fades; its soul leaving this world for another. While death typically causes most spells to become inert, the glimmering silken line around the beast's neck remains. Though likely not for much longer, as Loki summons that blade of banishment. A flick of his wrist and the double-stranded spell will find itself leaving the Wendigo's neck. The question that might be asked now is whether the practitioner of these foul arts realizes what happened to his or her beast.

That question will remain answerless now, as no imp of destruction suddenly appears, or rattles the world around.

Instead, the blood of the beast slowly creeps towards the shoes of both men. It's large, that means it has a lot of blood to pool outward and across slick floors.

While the hallway begins to quiet, Mercy will keep the two cowered behind the edge of a hallway, waiting for an all-clear before making any sort of move. It's also at this time that Claire's shallow breathing and unfocused gaze is seen. The grip the coyote has upon Claire tightens, as she anticipates the possibility of the other woman fainting right then and there. "Hey." Mercy says, her gaze focused upon Claire's face, "Stay with me, Claire. Stay with me here." %

Winter Soldier has posed:
You seemed to have it well in hand, the odd man replies. The Winter Soldier stares, squints, and then shrugs. "Still do," he says, cheeky as ever, before he braces the rifle back against his shoulder, steadies it on the bipod of his left arm, and takes aim again.

He really doesn't seem concerned that this man is an apparent civilian wandering around in danger. Not really programmed to care about that kind of thing. Either 'Liam' has a reason for that confidence, or he doesn't mind being dead, it's all the same to the Soldier.

What ISN'T expected is that Loki's contribution to the entire melee winds up being twenty ounces of perfectly-frothed latte. The Winter Soldier rolls his eyes, before putting one back to the scope, sighting, and firing with the kind of pinpoint aim you get after eighty years of experience added onto an already prodigious natural talent.

The bullet punches straight into its chest and shreds its heart. The Winter Soldier lowers his rifle, cants his head, and steps back just enough to prevent that pooling blood from touching his boots.

He glances at Loki, a silent and measuring look, before his gaze turns towards the reason for his intervention in the first place. Rapid steps take him towards Mercy and Claire, his rifle lowering until its stock braces against the floor. He leans it against a wall, all four and a half feet of it, and he reaches to inspect her wound with hands that don't lack for experience themselves, if only the rough triage experience characteristic of soldiers in the field.

Whether Mercy will let 'Yasha' touch Claire is something else entirely. But he clearly wants to see how bad this hurt is.

Loki has posed:
O come all ye blood pools, corrupted and abhorrent, o come ye o come ye to Loki Odinson.

On second thought, please don't. He doesn't make a point of gripping the sword of antimagic particularly tightly, the better to conceal its presence. A pointless effort given Mercy can assuredly sense something pinging against her perceptions.

And if the Winter Soldier thinks he's helpless? Even better. Nothing to blow here, no cover worthy of the cause, except for the tightly bridled storm of magic eager to leap to the fore and eradicate everything about the blight exposed there.

He turns on his heel instead, and allows the more competent healers to perform their barbaric rituals on the ground. To think they might be attempting to stitch together uncleaned wounds is //dreadful//. Such horrors curl his lip and give a reason for eyeing over the bloodied nurse and the assistant in stead, the state of their clothes as much their complexions assuring him of certain logical facts.

"How long do we have before some kind of security rears its unwanted head lately? Evacuating you three and dismissing the corpse shouldn't be a burden, but is there a likelihood of interference of some sort?" At least he knows the smart questions to ask. Tight questions, a coyote nose is likely to find, for on a tight leash there is a stalking tremor of something distinctly possessive, defiant, angry.

Claire Temple has posed:
Towed into safety, Claire braces back against a wall, metering out her breathing to something careful and slow as she holds her wounds together.

Distant, reverberating shots that she cannot see -- still close her eyes. She feels the shock of each bullet carried up, veining clamour and impact -- through the very wall. Her heart pounds. She can't get an accurate count of her own pulse to wonder if she's going into shock. Because she's already shocked, shocked beyond her wits, because what the hell? What the HELL is that thing? Is anyone else hurt? Did any patients suffer to it? Any of her co-workers?

...And what of the man who calls himself Yasha, firing at it -- shots she can't see but can /hear/. What is he /doing/ here?

It's not long Mercy returns notice on Claire. Her unnatural senses can pick it up: that thick smell of blood that's still gouting from her, the gentling of her heart, and the thinning of her breath come with the dawning advent of pain. Adrenaline, with its sweet numbing salve, cannot last forever.

"Still here," the nurse tries to console the mechanic, something yielding in her eyes despite all her terror. "Barely stage one hypovolaemic shock. It's -- "

The fight goes silent, and so does she. Blinking her eyes to focus them, Claire sends Mercy a questioning look, unable to see beyond the cover of the hall to know: are they OK? She's scared to look, scared to wonder: stupid fool /Yasha/, what was he even doing, do they need to run, or, or, or --

Footsteps come, but nothing that sounds of a creature. It's just a man, and Claire hoods her eyes in transparent relief. She gives the Soldier a considerable look as he comes in close, her eyes searching him in turn for injuries, before his appraisal forces her hand off her own wounds. She grunts a sound, airy and humoured, probably some joke that it's her turn to be looked at by him, before a wave of dizziness forces her eyes briefly shut. The lacerations are not lengthy, but they are deep, splitting flesh and tearing through the serratus anterior, and look like -- if not for Mercy -- would have been fatal. They bleed vigourously, in need of sutures.

Her eyes open again to watch the Soldier as he studies her hurts, a docility to her body allowing him to touch. There's about fifty things she wants to ask him.

"Your gun is too damn big," Claire says instead.

Then the fourth appears, the man who was incomprehensibly there with a /latte/, and Nurse Temple gives him a look like she's seriously considering him a symptom of her own blood loss. It's highly debatable. But he is asking a credible question. "Soon," she answers. "Probably." Her voice marinates with controlled pain. "Who the hell even knows."