855/Wendigo: Clean Up On Aisle (Floor) 1

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Wendigo: Clean Up On Aisle (Floor) 1
Date of Scene: 09 June 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Mercy Thompson, Winter Soldier, Loki, Claire Temple




Mercy Thompson has posed:
When last we left the group the assassin, god, nurse and mechanic were discussing their next steps.

The Wendigo still lies dead within the bloody hospital hallway its corpse rapidly cooling; with the thing stationary its unpleasant smell will start to thicken the air around the four. It's much worst than any skunk ever smelled. Even if there were hundreds of them packed into one room it's still worse.

Mercy, who's in complete agreement with Claire about gun and security and with feeling a sense of relief when the two men are seen, will assess the three so near her. While the scent of the dead beast is the majority of what she can currently smell, there's still enough cues from the three nearest her to provide some insight upon their emotional state. Which causes Mercy to turn her attention to Loki for a silent moment. That tight-rope of emotions sensed from the man.

"I'm with Liam." Mercy says, clearly indicating she knows the latte throwing man, as her gaze turns back to Claire and Bucky, "We need to get out of here and quick." Her attention shifts fully onto Claire now, as Mercy continues with, "And we need to get Claire cleaned up, her wounds treated." The coyote will tilt her head slightly as she considers Bucky; having noted the way he reached for the injured nurse. "Do you want to carry her?" Sure, she could have said 'can you carry her', but Mercy is quite strong enough to lift the other woman up with little effort.

And while security and the police forces are mobilizing there's still enough chaos and confusion around the hospital that their little hallway is relatively quiet. As long as you ignore the codes being called out on the hospital PA system; though really, what code do they use? Code B for blue; cardiac arrest? Or perhaps Code F for fire, but finally the hospital system settles upon Code S for Silver; hostage situation.

Which might make it worse for the four. SWAT will surely arrive for that.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The assassin does not seem pleased with any part of the situation he has found himself in. Least of all the stench of the Wendigo, which seems to be affecting him quite severely, even through the mask he wears.

Despite having been thrown through a wall or two, he seems to still be in fine condition, however, which is... surprising given that he doesn't look all that remarkably different than your garden variety human. He hefts his rifle back up and reseats it in its sling across his back, folding his newly-freed arms as Mercy says it's their turn to get the night nurse to safety so her wound can be treated. Odd role reversal.

The forefront of the Winter Soldier's mind urges him to turn and leave, ditch these people, cut the tie right now. But something else, buried more deeply, stops him. He looks at the gashes in Claire's side. 'Do you want to carry her?' Mercy asks.

He doesn't answer, at first. Then with a roll of his eyes, he stoops down and hefts Claire up, taking just enough care not to jostle her injury, handling her as if she weighed nothing at all. "This way," his curt voice rasps, as he turns towards the exits least likely to be immediately covered by incoming authorities, with the experience and unerring instinct of a man accustomed to quitting sticky situations without getting caught -- or even seen at all.

Loki has posed:
Some men won't hurry along for the all the warnings in the world. You know the ones. They take their damn time to queue. They proceed off lifts and boats with some internally mandated clock seconds slower than everyone else. Rather than exude inevitability, it just suggests they have no rush for anything short of a nuclear fireball aimed square at them. They are the ones who bring down SWAT teams and the kind that inevitably slow the team down to face the evil monster. Never accuse Loki of being that bloke, thank you very much.

The thinning line of his patience probably ebbed away with the foaming pale brown puddle mixing with the blood of a dead cryptid. Stench mixing with coppery tang only makes things worse, and his eyes water against the horrific fumigation from the nasty beast.

"Miss Thompson," he insists, and his gaze shifts to the scratched up nurse and the assassin, "and company, may we continue this conversation outside?" //Evacuate, dammit.// Patience itches at the back of his nape and leaves the dark oil-slick of his raven-dark hair rising.

It really won't be an issue, all said and done, when the Winter Soldier carries off Claire or something else. Nudge to Mercy and he will sling her over his shoulder, if needs must.

Claire Temple has posed:
Nor does Claire look particularly pleased, leaned up against the wall, her scrubs flecked with the monster's ichorous blood, and still using her own left hand to hold together the lacerations down her right side.

Whatever that thing was, it seems to be dead. No one unlucky seems to have bit it in the hospital, at least not that she could see -- God help no one was hurt, well, other than her -- and Claire's eyes turn away, watery with the pain that comes with her own loosening adrenaline. She slows her breathing to try to control it --

-- and nearly dry heaves, herself, at the nauseous stink of the Wendigo dying. Claire Temple, of the indomitable iron stomach, tries formidably not to throw up. She hears something asked about someone getting carried, and realizing it's her, balks a little. "I don't --" she tries to argue, but the Soldier is already pulling her into his arms.

The nurse holds still, like she can't decide which part is more shocking: that's she's /this/ close to him, or that he's actually being exceedingly gentle with her. Maybe it's just the blood loss. Maybe it's just some fever dream. In that case, Claire, girl, we need to have a talk, because you've got some weird ass fantasies going on.

Some part of her wants to pipe up, just say the obvious: she /is/ already in a hospital, where she's on shift. Leave her behind and she should be fine. Unless the cops come with questions. Some of those cops might be on payroll. Some might get ideas, and -- in a position where she has little left but to trust, Claire's tired head is heavy in the cradle of his shoulder.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Light brown eyes narrow at Winter Soldier; really, if they weren't in such an awful situation she might say something to him. She /saw/ that eye roll and /after/ all Claire had done for the man when his arm needed repaired. Indignation starts to color the coyote's expression, but nothing is said. For now.

Clearly, what few points Bucky earned with Mercy tonight are surely lost, as the woman now rises to her own feet. Unlike Claire, however, Mercy doesn't need to be carried. She needs a shower, yes, but carried no. The slight nudge from Loki will be nodded at, even as she glances over a shoulder towards the beast, the hallway and the newly created hole in the wall. Then with nearly silent footfalls the coyote turns back around and follows the lead of Bucky and Claire.

Bucky's path will lead the four through the back hallways of the hospital, where the hospital staff traffic is much less visible and which affords them some degree of privacy for an easy escape.

Which is good, because moments later up in that hallway a large group of SWAT officers suddenly burst inward. All are heavily armed and armored and all have their guns drawn, ready for some sort of fire fight. Only no fight can be held. Just stench and beast. The echo of their footfalls and clack of armor and gun causes Mercy to turn her head slightly, eyes glancing over her shoulder again. "SWAT arrived." She says to the group, even though they're far enough away that they shouldn't be found. Or so Mercy hopes.

Finally though, an exit is near. It's one of the various side entrances that staff primarily use, but it's card reader free and an easy way out with but a simple push of the door.

Once outside Mercy will take a deep breath, trying to clear the smell out of her nose, her gaze automatically seeking out Loki's for a brief minute. There's definitely questions and things she'd like to say, but for now she keeps silent. Everyone has their role to play for this moment and she's not going to rip those masks aside.

Winter Soldier has posed:
There's a bit of a side-eye for 'Liam' at his continued sedate suaveness. The Winter Soldier swears the man looks familiar, but he can't quite place him.

He doesn't fuss his head too long about it, because the man is right about one thing -- it's not smart to hang around any longer than necessary. Prompted to carry Claire, he hesitates a moment for some unknown reason -- and then complies, though with apparent ill grace. For all his eye-rolling and grumpy silence, however, he is very gentle, and his stride does not jostle her slashed-open side.

He glances down briefly, blue eyes puzzled, when her head tips against his shoulder. His expression struggles briefly for some recollection, as if this sort of thing were familiar to him once, but lost long ago.

Then he looks back up. His focus redoubles on getting out without being seen, particularly when Mercy alerts that the SWAT team has arrived. He acknowledges with half a glance back at her. His head turns periodically, listening for the progress of the SWAT team as they set up a perimeter and prepare to breach. He turns away whenever any of their noise gets too close. Along the way, he snatches a few supplies. Clean gauze. Bandages. Saline for irrigation.

Eventually they gain some safety through a relatively unguarded side entrance. The Winter Soldier stands still a moment as if uncertain, his wary eyes flickering between Mercy and Loki with the cagey quality of an animal trying to decide whether it's safe to remain.

After a moment, he must decide that it is, because he puts Claire down and starts to check her injuries with the brevity and competence of a man accustomed to combat field triage, setting down his pilfered supplies. "Don't got anything to do any stitching with," he grumbles, as he applies pressure to stop the bleeding with some clean gauze. "Didn't pass by any. Probably don't need any, anyway."

Loki has posed:
Yes, he's that monster who spills a perfectly decent cup of coffee in the name of taunting the fuzzy spiritual murder ball. Horrors. Liam, as Loki is occasionally called, is not going to shirk his duty as the icon of chaos and suave diplomacy among the weird and strange. Even if that duty is not called upon.

The peculiar arrangement between nurse and assassin, life and death personified, holds his eye for a moment longer than necessary. Eventually he shakes his head. Whatever questions he has are kept behind his teeth for now. An opportune time might arrive in a few minutes after the men bristling with kevlar vests, ammo, and more guns.

As an aside, he whispers, "Keep him moving. They may be too tempting." That's right. Can the Buckybird resist feathering his firearms nest with another few black, matte additions? Even an expert on the matters of homo sapiens, and their various subspecies, is forced to consider if this is likely or not.

No one is going to be fooled, anyways, by the seeds of fondness lurking in their connection -- Claire and Bucky, that is -- short of someone who has no clue about human dynamics. He instead plays the role of highly calm art appraiser, giving a look back over his shoulder. Just in case, you know, the Winter Soldier cuts his nursely losses and runs to get those extra points. He //might// be a completionist. Who knows?

"Stop acting as though we're out to betray you to the enemy," Loki says flatly. "You insult the lady and I have no issue with you." He then taps his finger against the cuff of his coat, straightening it. The requests for something to stitch with are plain enough. Mother is, after all, a goddess of domesticity along with kicking one's ass and collecting magic and defenses of his home realm. "You need a needle?"

Barbarians! It's practically sealed on his tongue. "Use that sticky substance instead. Glue." What delicious wrongness the situation has.

Claire Temple has posed:
SWAT. In her hospital. Claire files a mental note to feel pissed as all ten hells about this later on; for now, she hangs on listlessly as the Soldier carries her through the too-familiar winding hallways and corridors of Metro-Gen.

Every one of his quick steps should jar her wounds, but no such thing happens; he moves with a strange, liquid-like ease that makes her feel like she's being rolled on a stretcher. Not to mention, he's furnace-warm. She could fall asleep like this, and after the blood she's lost, the thought doesn't feel half-bad.

It's really the night air, slightly cool -- if at least thankfully ventialted of that horrible dead-beast smell -- that sobers Claire back to cognizance, frowning along at Mercy's mention of the SWAT team and making a silent head count of who's here, who's alive, who's all right. From what she can tell, she's the one with the worst prognosis, and even her wounds aren't going to kill her.

Still, they hurt like shit, and the nurse's breathing catches as she's set down. It's more her own moving that does it, too; the Winter Soldier's handling is steeped in that strange, gentle care.

And then, as if her night can't get any more weird or incalculable or INSANE, that's when the metal-armed assassin she's watched take down an entire mob hit squad -- start to /tend to her wound/ like a seasoned field medic. Claire's dark eyes are equal parts shock and incredulous and -- God help her, soothed by it. Her expression, patient and dubious and awkward, suffers to receive such gentle treatment, because if the asshole didn't already confuse her enough -- damnit. He says she doesn't need stitches, and she glances down to check. Her eyes close briefly. Ugh, he's even /right/.

She sighs into the pressure he applies, her guard letting go little by little, until Claire props herself up with one hand steady on his shoulder, her watchful eyes taking a long look at the Soldier. It's Loki's voice, however, that pulls her attention like a tide; somehow seeing him there, reconciled with the memory of him in arm's reach of that /thing/ and holding a /latte/ --

The shock passes. Denouement over. It hits her hard what just happened, and -- "So what the hell was that?!" Claire demands out loud, to no one in particular, to everyone. "What the hell was that thing?! Where did it come from?! /Anyone/ have an idea? And what's up with Shakespeare in the Park over here?!" Liam is talking some /fancy/ words.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Mercy can't quite claim to know much about Bucky, or his moods, his scent still betrays that note of wariness. As does his gaze. The coyote will stand there, waiting for him to decide what his next move will be, her expression holding the vaguest of frowns. She's seen similar actions from damaged wolves and usually the best practice is to allow them to decide; allow them to feel as if in they're in control -

- Of course with a wild card named Loki, that doesn't always happen. At the trickster's words, Mercy will turn a look towards him. While his words hold absolute truth the tone could have been gentler, or so Mercy things. Antagonizing a wound animal isn't always best practice. Still, with a cant of her head to the side, Mercy will add after Loki's flat words, "Liam's right. We're not going to toss you to the police." Even if Bucky did kill someone. An innocent even. "Especially since they'll likely want to know why they've a rotting monster in their hallway." A grimace then, for that particular thought and then another pops up in her head. And it's probably all her fault, since these disturbances are somehow focused around her. The frown upon Mercy's expression deepens now, guilt edging into her expression, even as her gaze shifts to Claire.

Thankfully, between the talk of glue (Loki!) and demands to know what's going on (Claire!), Mercy's attention is pulled away from those feelings of responsibility. "Liquid bandage." Mercy says, "We could -"

Get some. That thought isn't completed when Claire suddenly pulls herself together and asks those ever-so-pertinent questions of hers. There's relief held within Mercy's gaze now; when the other woman seems somewhat out of the woods.

It's also Claire's last question that causes Mercy to blink, the edge of a giggle (vaguely hysterical there) trying to break free from her. That sound is pushed aside, however, as Mercy tries to answer the other easier question first, "Some kind of monster, definitely." She'll look to Liam, "It smelled like rotting meat." Human even, which is left unsaid. "A wendigo?" She hazards, the only creature she can think of that would possibly eat humans so readily.

And then, Mercy will take a step closer to Loki when she introduces him, "And this is Liam. He was coming to pick me up. The stitches on my hand, I didn't want to drive." Which is the truth, she was going to call him, she just didn't quite have the time.

Winter Soldier has posed:
It is not too far-fetched of a concern that Liam expresses. The Buckybird is a predatory bird, and occasionally cannot resist attacking things that move like prey. But for now he seems to have something on his mind more interesting-- or more important-- than picking a fight with some SWAT teams.

That something is carried with surprising gentleness out to relative safety. On their exeunt, he turns his gaze back to Liam and Mercy, appraising them both with that animal wariness that is by now familiar to the mechanic.

Of course, Liam isn't having any of it. Mercy adds her own assurances about them not turning the Soldier in-- though more because none of them really want to talk to police right now. Those blue eyes widen briefly in surprise, before the Winter Soldier-- laughs, and turns to set Claire down. "'Scuse," he says, with a voice that rasps from obvious disuse. "I'm used to working alone and keeping my cards close. Keeps me alive," he shrugs. "If you're looking for a guy that don't 'insult ladies,' though, you better look elsewhere."

For that matter, he better look elsewhere if he wants someone who doesn't insult gentlemen too, because the look he turns back on Liam when he impatiently suggests 'gluing Claire back together' is frankly incredulous.

Apparently unsure whether Loki is taking the piss out of him, he just turns back to Claire. Experienced hands assess her wound, then start care. Apparently they can do something other than delete life. Once the bleeding's stopped, he starts the saline irrigation, cleaning out the gashes; more gauze follows, to mop up the fluid and stanch the bit of bleeding that restarted. Whatever else one could say about the wendigo, it had sharp claws that went through flesh and left straight, unragged slashes; the reason the Soldier assesses no stitches necessary becomes plain when he just forces the clean-cut sides of the wounds together, and starts to bandage them tightly so they'll hold together for swift healing.

Once the shock wears off, Claire starts asking all the pertinent questions. Angrily. The Winter Soldier doesn't add his voice, but his eyes do lift, curious about the answers. A wendigo, Mercy hazards to guess. "Bastard made me use two rounds," he grunts, because of course that's what the Soldier cares about.

Loki has posed:
"Liam Serrure," announces the black-haired man. As far as manners go, that will do. "A friend of Miss Thompson's."

Further explanation about particulars awaits later, when the possibility of angry law enforcement personnel bursting out from the building with guns pointed and helicopters incoming is still a real likelihood.

He runs his thumb up his cheek and idly scratches one of the loose strands around his angular face. Assessments made subtly determine how much information to share and how. Mercy's guess he nods to. "A spirit forcibly bound into the animal, as you saw. It had its orders to obey unto death." His lips thin. Dark eyebrows gather together in deep thought. "It may need another host, or be freed. We'll take certain precautions afterwards."

That sentiment alone shines with promise and a heap of fresh duties to be performed, likely involving salt circles and burning eagle feathers. Like to like.

"Allow me at least to check there isn't any corruption in the wound, if you would?" It's the closest that Loki ever comes to saying please, short of a certain coyote. She isn't human and vaguely related through a complex blend of things. Claire Temple, standard human, on the other hand... "Your competency is not under question. Simply neither of you are educated to know where to look or what symptoms."

A pause to consider whether this is a possibility he leaves to them. Not without a bit of a comment on the matter of gunfire. "A better made one wouldn't go down at all. It would likely find another skin or take yours."

Claire Temple has posed:
Wendigo, hazards Mercy's first guess. "Wait, a what-igo?" Claire replies, not missing a beat, her features knotted up, one eye squinted.

She's still getting used to a world rounded-out with things like superpowers and vigilantes doing dumb shit in masks -- this takes things to a whole different level. As if Hell's Kitchen had /enough/ to do with.

But one thing at a time, and Claire's own reeling thoughts break up with the careful work the Soldier makes treating her wound. Don't think she's forgotten about that either, an added incomprehensibility in the rest of this insanity, and later on when she's alone, she's going to frown down on all that bandaging and wonder -- how. /How/. For now, she nips briefly on her lower lip against the cleansing sting of saline on her wounds. Her hand tightens on his shoulder, but not to push him away; on the contrary, her grasping, bracing fingers are grateful.

Her eyes avert back up as this 'Liam' introduces himself as a friend of Mercy, which: sure, Claire doesn't know the mechanic that well, or really at /all/ past that one afternoon, but the earthy, blue-collar mechanic keeping friends with someone so... not that... gives her a beat of pause. More than a little haughty, the nurse concedes, with a bit of a glance turned on Mercy.

The look, both knowing and sympathetic, says, in a way: I see you have one of those too. Some implausible /ass/ of a man hanging around.

"Corruption?" Claire asks instead, enunciating the word skeptically. "Wait, did you really say 'corruption'? Can you hold up, Mr. Darcy -- what /symptoms/ are you talking about?"

And then the Soldier is saying something about rounds-- "And -- what is with your priorities!"