887/Down the Rabbit Hole

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Down the Rabbit Hole
Date of Scene: 13 June 2017
Location: East Harlem, New York City
Synopsis: Claire Temple enlists the aid of Mercy Thompson to find out more about the Winter Soldier. The two wind up discovering far more about what is done to him than they expect.
Cast of Characters: Winter Soldier, Claire Temple, Mercy Thompson, Lois Lane
Tinyplot: Tayaniye


Winter Soldier has posed:
The strange creature known as the Winter Soldier has been a rather unwanted but consistent fixture of Claire Temple's life for the past few weeks. Whatever odd business keeps him in New York City also seems to keep him circling back to her doorstep, like an occasionally shot-up stray cat.

Sometimes he shows up even when he's not shot up. The motives of such visits seem to be a mystery not only to her, but also to him. Pointed interrogation tends to yield either blank confusion, or a blase shrug. He avoids her inquiries, instead opting to lurk around her fire escape, go through her food, take her oranges-- he seems to have a particular fascination with those-- and otherwise be obnoxious.

Its almost tempting to find him endearing, especially as he has failed to engage in much more violence in her presence. Violence that wasn't directed towards her protection, anyway. The news of a bombing and attempted assassination at a foreign embassy in Washington D.C. comes and goes, seemingly unrelated to anything-- just another marker of how violent and unstable a place the world has become.

And then, just the other day, Claire found out who was responsible.

It's been about fifteen minutes since his last visit, which was very short, because it started with Claire asking, 'What the fuck about this embassy business?' and ended with him clamming up in response, and immediately leaving again. This might be about the time a certain Night Nurse finally gets fed up with not having answers... and now, she's got allies.

Claire Temple has posed:
Then, one balmy Manhattan night, a text lights the screen of Mercy Thompson's phone.

It's from Claire Temple.

> Dick move on my part seeing I owe you a favour, but I hope you can help me. Can I stop by the garage asap?

If given the affirmative, the nurse messages back a quick apology that she'll explain in person -- probably doesn't want to say something sensitive over distrustful data highways -- and heads off to the trains just before midnight.

When Claire arrives uptown, just in a stone's throw of her old Harlem stomping grounds, she detours to the now-familiar pathway to Thompson's garage. New York never sleeps, but it's well past any good shop's open hours, and she knocks urgently on the door. Her clothes look vaguely slept-in, her dark hair sloppily tied back, and down to the fidgety way she occupies space betraying restlessness and a pacing urgency.

The woman is even wearing her trusty leather messenger bag, the same thing that accompanies her on all of her clandestine travels. This isn't just Temple here tonight; it's the night nurse.

When Mercy would let her in, the coyote will be /assailed/ in breathless apologies.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing blurted out of Claire's mouth. "I'm so sorry, but there's no time, and you might be the only -- will you help me?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy saw that news story about the bombed embassy; it made her frown. This world. It's just crazy anymore. Does she realize who was behind it? Hardly. But if she does find out it would likely make her frown more.

As it is, the mechanic is oblivious to the world of assassins and terrorists and so, she can be found settled in her workshop, tinkering. She does that when she needs to think and this whole magical business has her brain in overdrive. It's going to come to a head soon, she knows it. That's enough to cause the woman to sigh in-between tightening bolts, loosening others and pulling out rusted parts. Her thoughts are interrupted, however, with the rabid buzz of her smartphone. Setting aside a wrench the mechanic will reach over to a workbench and snag the buzzing phone. The text will be read and with a slight frown of concern, Mercy will promptly text back: Sure, get here when you can.

Then she waits. And while she waits she continues to work upon the rabbit that's /slowly/ being rebuilt. So slowly.

Soon enough that knock is heard and Mercy will set her tools aside once more and find her way to her front office. The door will be unlocked and opened to admit Claire inside and as soon as the woman hears her tone, as well as those apologies, she immediately looks concerned. "Hey, it's okay - no worries -" Begins Mercy, even as she offers a quick nod, "If I can, what's going on?"

Claire Temple has posed:
Let inside, Claire Temple is a lean, small-boned, underslept caged tiger looking likely to pace a hole through Mercy Thompson's poor floor.

What's going on? is a great question. Such a great question. And Nurse Temple, for some reason, doesn't seem inclined to immediately answer it.

She pulls uneasily on the hems of her sleeves, scrubs a hand through her black hair, then shakes out her hands anxiously, as if trying to flick away whatever might be stopping up her words. Probably your conscience, Claire. Remember you got one of those?

"It's hard to..." she begins, unsure of what words to use to even phrase her request. "It's complicated -- Jesus Christ, this is bullshit." Claire stops in her tracks, agitated with her /own/ cageyness, because she hates seeing this crap in anyone else. "You know that man with me, Yasha?"

Of course she would. How does one forget a metal arm. Or all the murders attached to it.

"First off, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to even draw you into this, because it's dangerous. I know it is. Dangerous enough that I'm giving you a way out, OK? You can tell me no, because I wouldn't live with myself to get /anyone/ twisted up in --" Just spit it out, Claire.

"I have to get to the bottom of this. He might've been the one who bombed the embassy. He's got /burns/ on him, and scar tissue here and here," her antsy fingers touch her temples, "and -- back at the hospital. It's a long shot, but you smelled something before -- I couldn't. And... I've seen a fair amount of abilities. You wouldn't have one, would you?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The coyote watches the caged tiger within her midst. Her eyes track back and forth or wherever Claire paces. For Mercy, she stays relatively still, as she senses the need for Claire to walk off this nervous energy; or perhaps it's a combination of nervous and angry energy. Patiently, because Mercy can be patient, she hunts after all, the coyote waits for Claire to offer up whatever words she's finding so difficult to say. A corner of Mercy's mouth will twitch upward when the woman offers the expletives for this whole situation. "Yes, I remember your friend." Is what the coyote will finally say and as Claire continues, Mercy will automatically straighten from her slightly casual stance.

A frown tugs the coyote's mouth downward now, with that revelation that 'Yasha' might be the one behind bombing of the embassy. Her words are held, however, until Claire's said all she came to say. Once the other woman is finished, Mercy will say, "One - don't be sorry for asking for help. Two - yes, I'll help. Three - And here I thought my life was /complicated/. Your life sounds a tinge worse." That third is said with a splash of humor, more self-deprecating versus actual amusement of Claire's situation. "And yes, I have a small ability - I can shift into a coyote. Heighten senses, speed, all that."

"I take it you want me to help you find him?" Mercy hazards a guess.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire arrests mid-step, all her pacing stuttered into unmoving silence. Her dark eyes stare at Mercy Thompson.

"You /turn/ into a coyote?" she echoes slowly, incredulously. "And you call that a /small/ ability?"

Claire runs a hand through her hair. "Here I just thought you might have -- I dunno. I know a guy who has a real keen sense of smell too, but... damn, sister."

But the good thing about Temple is her readiness to just /adapt/, while others -- normals, like her -- would be more inclined for more slack-jawed staring. She digs into her messenger bag with that same urgency. "I was hoping you could do /something/, in fact I bet you could -- I brought along... here."

She proffers a wrapped handkerchief -- through the fabric Mercy will smell its contents before she can even unwrap it to see inside. It's blood. Semi-fresh blood, on gauze dressing. "It's from him. Yasha. Think you could -- I don't know how this works too well. He took off on me when I tried to question. And that's the thing, that's the -- risk I took. I was afraid to ask him about it, because there'd be nothing stopping him from removing me from the picture. Because why not, right? But my gut -- he didn't. The asshole /took/ off, and something is so messed up about all of this, that I need to find him. I need to figure out what the hell I've got myself into. What the /hell/ is up with him, because he's -- he's covered in scars. He loses his shit so much as seeing a needle. He looks like someone's been torturing him. Something isn't adding up."

Her mouth purses. "All you need to do is point me true. I won't ask you for anything else. I can't... if it's dangerous..."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Again that self-deprecating humor might be heard from Mercy, when Claire refutes her ability as being small. "If you knew some of the people I know -" Well, if she knew all their secrets at least, "- you'd realize how small my ability really is." A smile is flashed then, even as she steps closer to Claire, her sense of smell already picking up the coppery notes of blood. "And yes, I can probably track him. I'd suggest starting somewhere he's visited often. If we start there I'll likely be able to find his trail easier, otherwise we could be randomly roaming around the city for hours. Though I've done that and you can get lucky, but time seems pressing with this."

So, possibly they'll need to go to Claire's apartment, or someplace the Winter Soldier has been around lately.

One of Mercy's hands will reach for Claire's arm, to try and offer a quick and light reassuring touch, "If there's danger I'll be staying. Let me grab a few things." Says the coyote and she'll motion for Claire to follow her. Once inside the garage proper, Mercy will snag a small to-go bag that sits upon one work bench. Her cellphone will be added to the already packed contents; money, credit card and a change of clothes folded into a very compact (wrinkled) bundled. Even as she grabs that small bag, Mercy will continue to speak, "Your friend, he reminds me of a hurt animal. An abused animal. I've seen some wolves act in similar ways; ready to lash out everything, confused." The to-go bag will be slipped over a shoulder as she turns back to Claire. "I'd like to think he wouldn't hurt you though. His scent -" Is sometimes different around Claire, though Mercy doesn't quite finish that thought.

Instead she ends with, "Okay, ready. Let's get going."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Claire's apartment is a good place to start; that scent of him still lingers around there from his previous visit. It's a unique smell, hard to miss and hard to mistake for any other: the sharp metal of his arm, the sweat of exertion, the leather of his holsters, the burn of gunpowder, and underneath it all, blood, blood, blood. Old blood, the kind so caked on by years and years that it has long since stopped washing away.

The trail leads uptown from Claire's apartment in Hell's Kitchen, veering east towards the sparser parts of Manhattan. Somewhere in East Harlem, it takes a sharp turn down a side street towards a squat, abandoned building. It probably used to be a bank, up until its tenants vacated for whatever reason, and the interior has not yet been overhauled.

The lobby is dark and derelict, dust over all the surfaces, windows darkened by the FOR LEASE signs posted up that have so far garnered no interest. Of course, it would be too simple for their quarry to be upstairs, politely within easy sight: the scent trail indicates a door that leads downwards, presumably to the lower levels where the vaults and safe deposit boxes reside.

It is quiet. There are no apparent threats around. But Mercy's sharp senses would tell her that people recently passed through here, and not just the Winter Soldier. People walking the same path as she and Claire walk now. Their lingering scents smell harried, put-upon, and above all nervous.

Claire Temple has posed:
Even after expressing the danger involved -- the implicit danger of going to look for someone who /may not wish to be found on these terms/ -- Claire meets Mercy's ready agreement with a mix of surprise and apprecation.

"You know, there's not many people out there who'd still want to help," she says, as the mechanic packs some things. "That makes you pretty rare. And pretty precious. Thank you."

Her eyes crease against the comparison of 'Yasha' to some wounded wolf. Claire's wincing face bears little argument. And then mention about how Mercy believes he wouldn't hurt her --

-- the remark stops at 'scent', which Claire meets with a furrow of her eyebrows, but lets it go. "I'd like to think that too. My gut says that --" she ends that thought on a gusty sigh. "Here's hoping you're right, because I need an answer either way."

And, just like that, they follow Mercy's very keen nose. Claire follows the woman along with an implicit trust, leading her first to her not-so-glamorous apartment in Hell's Kitchen, then onward by the nebulous trail of a man whom, to Claire, seems to exist as a shadow and disappear without a trace. Except he does leave one.

And it brings them here.

"Where to?" Claire asks, and probably not as quietly as she should -- the fresh scents escape her.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I've a feeling you'd do the same thing if our roles were reversed." Comes Mercy's words when Claire offers her thanks. "And always trust your gut. It'll never lead your wrong."

And just like that the two women are off. Old blood. It's enough for Mercy to crinkle her nose slightly, but it doesn't dissuade Mercy from following that heavy coppery scent. The two go down a sidewalk, across a street, through various alleyways. Mercy continues to follow the trail to wherever it leads. It's only as they draw closer to the abandoned building that the coyote will say, "That's where the trail is leading to." Her tone sounds cautious as she considers the building before them, "In there."

Not that she really needed to specify, right? Both women can see what's before them. A creepy building. Almost Mercy sighs, but instead she'll mutter, "If this were a movie the scary music would be playing right about now."

Once inside, Mercy will look around the dust laden space, and at Claire's question, Mercy will point towards the door that leads downward. "There, but others have come here too. Not just us, or your friend and this group smell nervous. Annoyed too." States the coyote, her voice dropping to almost a whisper, even as she moves towards that specific door. "I don't hear anything, but that doesn't mean they're not just out of my range. Let's try to be extra quiet." Then with a look to Claire, Mercy will reach for the handle of the door.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The door opens to the stairs down to the vault. The heavy door and its inset gate, at the end of the hall at the bottom of said stairs, are slightly open, which isn't really that unusual given that the place is derelict.

What is unusual is that, as they proceed down the stairs and towards those open doors, the sound of voices reaches Mercy's keen ears. Two men, sounding exhausted and nervous and very put-upon. The sound of metal clicking closed. The slight, background hum of electricity.

"Getting real tired of getting yanked out to all kinds of random-ass places at short goddamned notice," one voice grouses, short-tempered. "Why don't they just set up a permanent post, staff it fulltime with people who don't have other shit to do?"

The other voice is more measured, but equally tired and none too happy. Its owner blathers on, transparently nervous. "Who knows why they choose to do anything? There've been a lot of raids lately, maybe they just wanna keep more mobile. Harder to get caught if you do it somewhere different every time. It's a pain in the ass lugging this thing around, though. It's what, the second time already in five weeks? The manual for this thing never said it'd need to be serviced this often. You think it's something about being back here in America? Or just too long outta the ice chest?"

The first speaker snorts derisively. "They don't pay me to speculate about that," he says. "Just to keep this thing in working order. Here, put the blinders on it. It's looking at me. Freaks me out. Clamps on? Charge is ready."

There is one thing that is decidedly missing from this: the voice of 'Yasha,' himself. Which is odd, given that he's obviously there. His scent is unmistakable.

Claire Temple has posed:
The mechanic's comment about scary music earns a huff of a laugh from Claire; never so serious she can't enjoy being a smart-ass in all sorts of dangerous situations.

Helps to keep the nerves in check.

She hates her own fear, her oldest and most dogged old friend, pressing its weighted hands down on her shoulders the deeper they wade into the building. More than once, Claire asks herself why? Why is she doing this? For someone whom she met when he broke into her house? Someone who's undoubtedly killed -- hurt innocents? This is beyond the vigilante thing; this makes her an accessory to murder. She's putting her ass and her life on the line, and she doesn't want to do this, she doesn't want to be here -- she just wants to be /home/ where it's /safe/ and /quiet/ and /simple/ and --

Claire bites painfully down on the inside of her cheek to keep those thoughts in check. It's just the fear, and she told herself -- she's done being afraid. She could go home, make sure Mercy goes home too, pretend none of this happened -- and to what end?

Mercy leads them on to that door going down, and though Claire looks on it uneasily, her gut tells her to go down. And as her mother always told her, as Mercy even tells her now: trust her gut.

Talk of others earns Claire's eyes and attention both. Her lips thin, and her guard goes immediately up. "All right," she answers, and now her voice is a whisper. "Let's do this."

She tries to soften her steps as much as she can that descent down, and freezes the moment she begins to hear those voices for herself -- though that instant comes far later than Mercy.

Claire frowns to herself. She makes a staying gesture toward Mercy, then reaches into her own messenger bag. And out from it, pulls the strangest thing in a nurse's arsenal --

-- it's a small revolver, which she handles with a grim resolve, though the indecision in her eyes questions whether she needs this escalation. Still, it seems Claire came prepared... for something.

Lois Lane has posed:
The coyote's nose finds Claire's fear easily enough, and then that confusion-second guessing herself, as well. It brings Mercy's light-brown eyes to the other woman and should Claire look towards her, Mercy will offer a smile of encouragement. She gets the fear. Hell, there are still many times she gets scared, shocked, or just plain surprised. And she's lived in this world for the majority of her life.

Well, a world. Not necessarily the assassin world.

As for those voices, Mercy does indeed hear them first. Those silent footsteps of hers will slow, even as her head cants slightly to the side; an obvious listening posture from the coyote now. Her dark eyebrows furrow with what the men have to say. It takes a few seconds, but eventually Mercy realizes that they're talking /about/ Yasha. Or rather, talking over Yasha. It's only when they refer to him as a /thing/ that Mercy's expression changes.

Hearing that word and the men's tones immediately causes Mercy's upper lip to curl back away from her teeth, a silent growl there, as the vaguest hint of her coyote instincts come out to play. Her gaze swings back to Claire now and when the nurse brings out the gun, Mercy's eyes widen slightly. She'll look at the gun, then Claire, then back to the gun, before she finally ends with her gaze upon Claire's face. A quirk lifts a corner of Mercy's mouth upward and if one were to try to decipher that expression it might read something like: Well, at least we've got something.

Still, Mercy can't quite stop the silent wish that she had more useful powers for just these types of situation.

A finger will be held up by the coyote, obviously asking for a moment, as she whispers, "Let me shift and go in first. They won't expect that and hopefully I can pounce one if need be." And she means that quite literally.

And while it's not much of a plan, or a very good one at that, it's all they got. So, the little purse that holds her phone, money and change of clothes will be set off to the side. Then it's a quick disrobe and where Mercy was a russet and cream coyote now stands. Her hearing is even more exceptional in this form and so, those large ears of hers swivel towards the open door. She's trying to pinpoint just where each man stands, or is at. Scuff of shoe, rub of clothing, even their breathing will help tell Mercy where they're at.

When she has some understanding of where each person is, the coyote will move towards that open door.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The men seem to be in a small cluster. Presumably standing over Yasha in the course of whatever they are doing. One is on his right, the other on his left. The one on his left seems much closer, and from the sounds of metal clicking on metal, is likely doing something with the man's left arm. The other is maybe two or three feet away, working on something that crackles with electricity.

There's only two of them in there. A bit of a thin showing, but then it's like they said: big, fixed operations draw attention.

"You done?" the one on the right says. "I got the charges hooked up. Probably doesn't need a full reset. Most of the conditioning is still in place. Just enough to patch the cracks."

"Yeah, I'm good," the other says. There's the sound of a chair pushing back. "Though you'd think by now they'd have figured out a way to stop it remembering."

"Not my problem," the first man says. "All right, three, two -- "

Yasha finally starts making sound. It's a thin, shallow panting, the conditioned response of an animal that is expecting pain and is bracing for its inevitability. There's no sound of struggle, though. Just the flip of a switch, the surge of electricity, and the screaming howl of an animal in profound pain.

The other men sound and smell bored. This is rote to them.

Claire Temple has posed:
That smile from Mercy -- it helps. Claire sees it, and though her expression wavers little, too focused to sacrifice a lot of peripheral attention --

-- her own scent loses some of that terror. It helps more than one realizes... just to know they're not heading into hell alone.

She misses out on some of those particular words Mercy catches, most of them out of the woman's far more fallible earshot, but the coyote's reaction puts her own nerves on edge. When they do descend deeply enough she gleans some converstion of her own --

-- that small gun goes into play.

Claire hasn't the greatest relationship with guns. They took her father away, then they took her uncle. Made her childhood in Harmen's projects like life in a warzone. They taught her fear, soon as she understood that it just took one bullet to take someone's life away. And yet here she has one, and not bought legally: a 'gift' from one of her more masked clientele, and after the first time the Russians broke her in their chair -- it's something she reluctantly accepted. Hasn't used. Hasn't kept anywhere save for hidden under her sink in her bathroom. Until now.

She holds it semi-inexpertly inside her hands, catching Mercy's smirk with one eye. Claire glances back. If her eyes could speak, they'd say: god, I hope so.

At mention of shifting, her eyebrows lift but the nurse doesn't argue. She pauses minutely at the disrobing -- because it's just so out-of-place, with them knee-deep already in danger -- but then there's not really anything she can think of, nothing save for the momentary shock of seeing an animal occupying the same time and space of a woman. She really wasn't lying.

On Mercy's instruction, with gun still in hand, Claire waits in cover. She holds herself in silence. She listens. She listens now to two men talk, close enough to hear, her eyes creasing: full reset? Conditioning? Why --

Then the screams.

Claire stops thinking. She can't wait, not at that, not when every ounce of her blood screams to DO SOMETHING. After Mercy, she pushes in through the door, gun pointed, and -- her face absolutely twisted in shock at what she sees.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
So many thoughts are currently running through Mercy's head right now. The way they speak of a human being like a possession, not even a prized one - so blase, so nonchalant, so bored. It's terrible.

Cruel, even.

The buzz of a thousand angry bees is heard by the coyote, as that electrical charge is readied. And while it's heard Mercy doesn't quite parse exactly what that's going to be used for. She only begins to get an inkling when she hears that faint fearful panting of Yasha's. That terrible sound almost pulls a corresponding whine from Mercy, but before she can utter any sort of sympathetic noise, the switch is flipped.

Then everything seems to happen all at once.

His howling immediately triggers a reaction from the coyote (and Claire!), as the four-footed animal darts into the room upon swift feet. Those highly intelligent yellow eyes turn to the man who toggled the switch. A crinkle of muzzle and a growl and Mercy launches herself at him. She's forty-odd pounds in this form and while that's not necessarily a lot, it's still a good chunk of weight being flung at the man who stands to the left. If she hits she's definitely going to bite -

- Not the throat, or the face, but the hand, forearm, or even upper arm. A deep enough bite to try and cause the man to drop down to the ground in pain.

Her focus is such that she has yet to really understand all of what she sees, but soon she will. And maybe her howls will join with the screams of Claire and Bucky's, but for now Mercy's on the attack.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The electricity turns on. Fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds.

And then Claire and Mercy are storming the room, and the electricity switches off.

The man on the left cries out as the last thing he ever expected -- a coyote, of all things -- launches herself at him. He doesn't seem armed, or even any kind of combatant: his upraised arm in self-defense is all he's got, and it takes a deep bite from those bared fangs. He falls backwards, off his chair, onto the floor.

"What the FUCK?!" the other man is yelling, backpedaling away. "How the f-- wasn't the door SHUT? Swear to fucking God it was shut! Oh, holy shit--" His distress seems twofold: fear of the intruders, but also fear of something else. Fear of what will happen when his own masters find out.

Yasha has nothing to say for himself. He is bound and strapped into something that looks like a dentist's chair from hell, with an apparatus clamped about his head and secured firmly against his temples. A heavy magnetic cuff holds his left arm. The aforementioned blinder is bound tightly about his eyes, a bite guard between his teeth, giving him the look of an animal muzzled and blinkered.

Claire Temple has posed:
It happens so fast.

Claire tracks Mercy's lunge and attack, the way her teeth sink through clothing and flesh -- and how in that smaller coyote form, still has the momentum and fierce violence to yank the first man bodily from his chair.

It leaves one left -- just two men, she thinks -- whom she points her gun at, her stance widening and shoulders squaring as she tries to hold him by the end of her barrel. "Back up!" she snarls. "Get back!" Claire's eyes flash, but there's so much stimulus from so many sides, and she can't quite focus on it all at once -- can't quite keep her eyes in one spot --

Overwhelmed, her hands trembling where they hold her weapon, finally, and heartwrenchingly, she takes in the last sight of Yasha, that man with the metal arm who broke into her home one night and changed everything --

-- tethered into a chair, manacled down, locked in, with /something/ on his fucking /head/, and he was /screaming/, she heard screaming /and it was him/.

There's a blinder covering his eyes. He's getting tortured, and they won't even let him SEE.

Claire's hands shake worse as she swallows back nausea. She feels sick. It's so wrong, it's so fucked up, how can people do this to each other, how can they reduce someone to such helplessness, and all she can think, looking back, seeing Yasha fettered there, unable to do anything but receive more pain --

She can't think. Her mind goes blank. Her eyes see red. She fires straight into the man's chest.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That arm that's beneath her teeth might be savaged a bit longer than actually needed. Then when that first man stays relatively down Mercy will turn her attention away from him and toward the room at large. A look will be spared towards Yasha and if she were human her face would surely have become drawn and pale; bronzed skin or not. The chair itself invokes a level of anxiety in the coyote that causes the softest of sounds from her, but it's seeing the man strapped within it that causes true horror to be felt.

Angry yellow eyes turn back to the second man now and with a snarl, Mercy will slowly pivot upon her four-feet. She was intending to stalk the second man into a corner, but those movements of hers stall, as something within the air causes Mercy to pause -

- Those yellow nearly-lupine eyes will now find their way back to Claire. The vaguest of whines might be heard from the coyote as the other woman's scent suddenly pierces through the smell of fear, anger, pain, electricity and blood. A step and then another will move the coyote closer to Claire and while she was just about to offer a yip, the gun within Claire's hand suddenly barks. A bullet released from the pistol.

The coyote's ears immediately lay flat against her head as Mercy instinctively crouches low, belly almost touching the floor in reaction to a shot fired so close.

When she can, the coyote will straighten to look towards the second man; to see the outcome of that shot.

Winter Soldier has posed:
Whether the second man had any kind of weapon will remain a mystery for the ages. Claire, gun already drawn, fires far faster than he could ever hope to recover and try at some sort of self-defense. The bullet takes him square in the chest, dropping him instantly. He writhes, choking on his own blood as it froths up from his pierced lung, and then he is still.

The other man, his arm mangled by Mercy, shows zero interest in fighting back. Especially when he hears the gunshot. He goes death-still under the coyote, open hands up, full-body trembling shaking him on the floor.

"W-whoever you are," he manages, "y-you can have it! Just let me go! Jesus -- Jesus Christ, you killed him--"

Yasha still has nothing to say for himself. His head lolls uselessly in the contraption, the 'reset process' -- whatever that was -- clearly interrupted midway through.

Claire Temple has posed:
The revolver kicks in her hands. Kicks harder than Claire ever thought it would. Its hard corners abraise the skin between her thumb and forefinger.

She doesn't notice the sting.

All she can see, spreading right in front of her in a heap of limbs and spreading highway of blood, is how she just took a life. Her eyes blink rapidly. The gun slips in her fingers, her hands too sweaty. But she still aims down on that first corpse, barrel pointed, something in her not yet finished -- wanting to deliver more vengeance for the fury she feels.

Claire's eyes slip toward Mercy, still in her coyote's form. Then, sightlessly, she glances back on Yasha still shackled into that chair. And then --

The remaining man speaks. No, doesn't speak -- begs for his life. You killed him, he said, and Claire absorbs that fact facelessly, wearing the quiet shock of someone who isn't letting that yet sink in. The mind can only take so much...

She turns the trembling gun in her hands on the remaining man. Her voice is as cold as a hypothermic dunk. "Get him out of that fucking thing."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Death then. Not unexpected.

That sharp gaze of Mercy's turns back to Claire in time to meet the other woman's eyes. Understanding might be seen in the coyote's gaze, but that understanding soon morphs to anger as the living man opens his mouth to speak.

Sharp ivory teeth will be bared even as the coyote offers a low growl to the man. If her growl could be translated it'd likely say something along the lines of: Stop talking.

Then the coyote is retreating backwards towards Claire's position.

A side-eye will be given to the nurse and while the trembling gun is seen that cold voice of Claire's is what's really heard. Combine that with the first man's fearfulness and it's enough to allow Mercy to step towards the door and hallway. She'll disappear for only a handful of seconds. To shift back to a woman and dress. It won't take long, simply because Mercy has this whole skinwalker thing down to a science.

Her reappearance might be heralded by the sound of bare feet moving quickly upon the concrete floor (shoes would have taken too long!) and when she does step back inside the room, Mercy will automatically say, "Do what she says." While her voice isn't quite as glacial as Claire's, there's still a wealth of emotion to find within. Mostly anger.

And horror.

Automatically, Mercy's eyes will turn towards Yasha and that chair.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The man gets up slowly from the ground, one hand still upraised in an attempt to placate. The other drags, bitten and limp. "I... I cannot account for its behavior if it's let out before the procedure is fully completed," he cringes. "It might kill us all. It is... it is erratic in this state, and it is not fully reset..."

He seems more frightened of the certainty of the gun, however, than the the uncertainty of a potentially unstable Winter Soldier. After a pointed hesitation -- and a double-take when the coyote returns as a woman -- he starts to do as he's told. There is a small terminal accompanying the chair which seems to control most of its functions. A few manipulations on it release the magnetic restraint locks, and then the clamps.

The clamps, when they come away, reveal a series long thin needles lining their interiors. There is really only one place those needles could have gone while the clamp was secured.

The blinder, he leaves on. This seems to be the extent of what the man is willing to do. He certainly doesn't want to get close enough to touch the Winter Soldier, much less ACTUALLY touch it. He cringes back, though as he does he hastily presses something on the terminal display that makes it go dark.

Yasha doesn't make any move to remove the blinder for himself. Nor to leave the chair. He doesn't do much of anything, in fact, other than say without affect or emotion, "Ozhidaniye zakazov."

The tech seems mightily relieved by this. "It wants your orders," he explains feebly.

Claire Temple has posed:
"HE is a god damn MAN and you GET HIM OUT OF THAT THING!" Claire snaps furiously, her voice like a door slamming.

Her gun tracks the way the tech, however reluctant, goes to the tethered, tortured Soldier, Claire's eyes burning, like black fire, behind the barrel of her revolver. Her gaze only slants askance for a moment, distracted, when Mercy makes a quick exeunt, aware and ready to cover her in swift guard --

-- only for the coyote to return as a woman, the skinchanger able to do so in handfuls of heartbeats.

Her attention narrows back on the way the tech unbrackets Yasha, cuff by cuff, lock by lock, from that nightmarish machine. The clamps come free in rows of needles, and Claire's hands strangle her gun more tightly, her eyes burning as she tastes bile.

How dare they. How /dare/ they. How does such a thing exist in the world? How do people do this to each other? Who HURTS someone this way?

"Yasha?" she calls hopefully. "Are you OK?" Tell her he's fine. Tell her he's still alive.

But the Soldier seems rooted to the chair, even freed from those clamps and shackles. He speaks in Russian. He won't even uncover his eyes.

Claire slants him a quick, helpless glance. Then she glances at Mercy, her eyes begging her to go see to him. Because, from her point, she cannot with the gun in her hands, and --

-- the tech is calling him an it again. Something snaps. Claire sets her jaw, her finger curling over the trigger. Gun pointed at him, she's had enough.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It. It.

That's enough to cause Mercy to step in a threatening manner towards that living technician. Before she can do anything, however, Claire is stepping right on in and setting the man straight. That doesn't stop Mercy from offering her own scathing retort and follow-up to the nurse's words, "What kind of people /are/ you? What kind of /monsters/?" Snarls the coyote, her voice rising an octave as her anger seethes through. "How can you be /okay/ with doing this? What is wrong /with/ you?"

And while she's not certain what exactly /this/ is, Mercy knows it's wrong. Terribly wrong.

When the restraints are released and those clamps reveal the needles, Mercy can't help but offer a wordless sound of protest. Horror also held within that noise of hers. Claire's pleading looks is seen by Mercy and with a nod, the coyote begins to move towards Yasha. Only she never makes it over to that chair of hell, not when she hears the trigger of the gun starting to be depressed by Claire.

Pivoting upon her foot, Mercy says, "Claire. Don't. Don't shoot him. Let's check on Yasha. He's the priority now. He needs /our/ help." The coyote's voice is quiet now, her words simple, her tone gentle - like what a person might use for someone who's standing at an edge of a cliff waiting to jump.

"Yasha needs you now."

Winter Soldier has posed:
The man jumps and cringes more at Claire's yelling. It sure hastens him in his unbinding and unbuckling of the tethered-down Winter Soldier, however. His eyes flick back and forth between Claire and Mercy when they're not needed for his work, nervous and uncomprehending of this censure. "It-- he... he has a purpose. A greater purpose. He does important work. It would not be anything either of you would understand..."

But he clams the hell up when Claire, enraged beyond reason, points the gun at him again. Only the intercession of the aptly-named Mercy might save him; he looks beseechingly at her, registering her as perhaps his only hope of surviving this encounter. "Jesus... lady, I won't say a damn thing. I -- I'll have to run for this, anyway. Get out of the goddamned country -- fuck me! I won't say a word! Just let me go!"

Yasha continues to be very uninterested in the unfolding drama. He only responds when directly addressed. Is he OK? Claire asks. It's not the usual format of the questions he gets, which leads to a slight pause before he answers, "Yes."

His voice continues in that flat sort of affect. It seems that he literally will not do anything without being instructed, in the current state of 'complete compliance' that he has been conditioned to assume when in the chair. Though--

"You have trouble," he says. He is speaking English now, because Claire is, though Russia still lies heavily on his syllables. "Shall I dispose?"

Claire Temple has posed:
"Won't say a word to WHO?" snarls the nurse.

In that moment, all Claire can feel is fury. In that moment, every inch of her burns like some avenging angel, sick of watching, sick of waiting, and ready to descend and deliver punishment to the deserving.

She is so tired of doing nothing. She is so tired of being passive, a ride-along in a world gone to hell, that she can't sit and bide a /man/ being treated and tortured like an animal. There's no answer to this but to murder. Erase the lives that condone these unspeakable acts. Erase them from the world -- give Yasha his dignity and humanity back on a platter of spilled blood.

Those vague explanations the tech offers Mercy are meaningless to Claire. She stares through it all, finger on the trigger, her own dark eyes burning with unshed tears. Decision made, she points the barrel, and --

-- stops when Mercy speaks. Claire slants her an indescribable expression, a woman on the moral precipice, already having murdered and ready to commit it again. She stares through the other woman, trying to comprehend reason through rage, and at first she shakes her head no, because she has to /stop/ this, has to /fix/ this, has to make someone pay, and, and, and...

Yasha needs them. Yasha needs her, and something about that breaks through Claire's fury. She falters, the nurse remembering herself, like her nature come back, and blinks her eyes, lost tears quietly streaking her cheeks. She relents, then offers Mercy her gun, handle-first, to hold, to wield, to decide. That tech's life is her decision now. In her hands.

She moves to that chair and the man still within it, awaiting commands with the patience of a machine. Claire reaches to take the blinder off his eyes. "No," she answers his request hollowly. "Yasha, do you remember who I am?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, who.

That's a perfect question. Who would do such a thing like this? The question might be why. Why would they do such a thing to a person. A human being.

Those questions, however, are held back as Claire straddles the precipice of killing to protect, versus killing in anger. Mercy's gaze stays locked upon the other woman, as Claire struggles with what to do, what actions she should take. That initial head-shake of no, causes Mercy to reach a hand upward; the coyote's gesture pleading in nature. "Claire -" Don't. That's what she was about to say.

Don't do it. It'll take you down a path you'll never be able to return from. A darkness that will never leave your soul. Those words, however, stay locked behind lips as Mercy sees the beginning of sanity returning for the other woman. Relief floods Mercy's expression now and when that gun is offered to her, Mercy will step forward to take it. While she's not a fan of guns by any means, she knows how to hold one and even use one. Her grip upon the small revolver is firm and true, and with a frown Mercy turns back to the technician.

She's not stupid enough to think he won't try anything, bleeding arm or not.

"Tell us who did this. Who do you work for?" Asks the coyote, even as she keeps a sliver of attention on Claire and Yasha - monitoring how that particular conversation is going. Specifically how Yasha is acting, which in short is odd, well, odder than normal.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The questioning brings the tech to cringe. Claire's shout makes him outright jump. He licks his lips nervously, looking back and forth between Claire and the gun, now in Mercy's hands. "I... can't say. They'll hunt me out for sure if I say anything!" But he glances reflexively at the body of his erstwhile compatriot.

Claire, meanwhile, reaches to take the blinder off the Winter Soldier's face. The eyes that are revealed are placid and empty as taxidermy, the eyes of a machine patiently awaiting commands. He looks automatically at Claire once vision is restored, a visible sort of imprinting process taking place in those blue irises. His gaze focuses a little, taking in her face.

Does he remember who she is?

"No," he says. The answer is without affect, flat and emotionless.

"He'll-- he'll be in this state at least five, ten more minutes," the tech says, as if he could buy leniency with offered information. "Tractable. It's a safety precaution... so he doesn't attack while being worked on. He's supposed to revert afterwards." Minus memories, however, if the commentary from the techs earlier was to be believed.

Claire Temple has posed:
He doesn't remember who she is.

It is fortunate -- so fortunate -- that now Mercy holds the gun. Because a leyline of fury burns through Claire, sudden and white-hot, that she thinks if that revolver were still in her hands -- she would shoot that second technician dead.

Self-defence be damned. How /could/ they. How DARE they.

"I'm someone safe," Claire promises the Soldier who can no longer remember her, absolutely hating the way it is no tether or lasting bind that keeps him still in that chair -- only a perfectly conditioned compliance. She does the only then she can with it, and asks, "Just stay still for me," as she takes his face carefully in her hands, checking his pupils, then gently his temples, before taking quiet count of his pulse as she appraises the sites where those needles went in. Looking for trauma. Looking for any reason that would convince her not to have him move.

Because all she wants is to get the three of them out of here.

During her assessment, Mercy handles the questioning. Claire turns an eye back on the living tech, facelessly taking in his answers. "You're sick," is all she says, voice low, heavy with contempt. "And you didn't answer her question."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Whoever /they/ are don't exactly sound the sort who understands mistakes." Mercy hazards a guess; simply from all the fear that's pouring off of the man. It's not just fear of the women (and assassin) in their midsts, but something else, something more. "And I'm pretty sure there's a /mistake/ happening here. So, cough it up. Who's behind this?" The coyote asks again, her gaze barely wavering, even when Yasha doesn't respond in the best of ways to Claire's question.

Easing slightly to the right, Mercy will keep her attention upon the tech, even as she side-steps to be able to get a side-eye of the nurse and the assassin.

Seeing that Yasha seems physically whole Mercy's expression once more registers relief, before her expression turns to something more sharp. Her expression a little more feral when the technician speaks yet again. "Safety precaution? Are you serious?" Mercy asks, that last question mostly rhetorical in nature and holding so much disbelief to it. "Why? Why would you do this to another person? Another human being?" Her ire is great enough that the coyote will take a step towards the technician. "/Spill/ it. Who did this to him? Who? And why?"

Winter Soldier has posed:
The tech's eyes flicker back and forth desperately as Claire and Mercy hedge him in. Mercy's point that this is already a mistake that will likely cost him his life isn't lost on him, judging by the way the whites of his eyes show in plain terror. "Y...you heard him," he finally says, his head trembling a little from the strain of trying not to dissolve into shaking. "What language he was speaking. The Russians run him... they didn't shut down operations just because the Cold War was over. They've always had their-- their black ops programs, their mental experiments. Anything that might give them the edge. And to get that edge, you need good weapons to wield. /America/ did the same thing. Everyone's the same."

It is /an/ answer.

His frightened eyes turn to Claire as she bends over the asset, touching it, tending it, talking to it. Disgust wars with the fear in his eyes. "You should be the ones worried," he says. "Meddling with an asset like this. You may have cut one head, but two more will rise."

Yasha responds a little to that phrase. His gaze moves to the tech, but Claire moves and it's instantly back on her. She claims to be someone safe and he looks blankly and patiently up at her, the phrase seeming to mean nothing to him. She asks him to stay still and he complies with all his might, completely docile as she makes a thorough inspection.

He seems fine. Even despite those needles. They are super-fine, made to thread into extremely pinpoint locations, and there seems to be no physical trauma. Just the mental trauma induced by the currents they direct through those needles.

Claire Temple has posed:
Russians, he says, and Claire exhales noisily. Always with the fucking Russians.

Apparently they are serious with the safety precautions. Seeing it first-hand, before her eyes -- that dangerous man who rolled into her life, unpredictable and incorrigible and an absolute smartass emptied, hollowed-out like some doll --

A fresh wave of sickness rolls through Claire. The only anything that keeps her hopeful is the evidence the Soldier seems unhurt; however the hell that's possible, she doesn't know, considering how nightmarish that machine looks -- how macabre it looked iron maidened around his head. Though insofar as the flesh seems healthy, she cannot speak for the state of his mind. And she's no neurologist. How would she even begin to treat him?

There's a hundred things she wants to demand. Fix it, being the first. Bring his memory back. Make him stop acting so lifeless and dull. Take her and Mercy both to whomever decided this would be done to a man. Give Claire opportunity to make this stop once and for all.

But not even she's sure what can be done -- what should be done right now. They might not have much time. There's a man bleeding out. A man she killed.

Trying to sort her thoughts, Claire meets Yasha's blue eyes. "We're going to take you out of here," she decides.

Her attention wavers back onto the technician, and the nurse judges him with frigid silence. Her eyes then cycle last on Mercy. "What do you think?" Claire asks, unafraid to speak her mind freely, and aloud, considering their audience. There's a slight distance in her eyes to suggest she can care less the technician hears, or she's simply in shock. Probably in shock. Autopilot. Time to tie every loose end. "What should we do? Let him go?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Light-brown eyes narrow slightly when the technician speaks. Those first few words of his bring forth the scent of nerves, but beneath that over-arcing smell of fear are other emotions. It's enough to cause Mercy's nostrils to flare slightly, as she tries to decipher what more the man is hiding. And he's definitely hiding something. He left off just enough to speak both the truth and not. Of course, those thoughts of hers aren't said. Not when Mercy finally parses the man's explanation of the 'who' and 'why'.

"An edge." States the coyote, her gaze turning furious again, "So, you-the Russians experiment on people to get that edge. Unwilling people." She adds, because in Mercy's mind there is absolutely no way anyone would /willingly/ go through what Bucky just did. And while Claire might not have heard the electrical charge zip through the chair and into Yasha, Mercy did.

It was a terrible sound.

Something that might give nightmares, all be told.

"Cut one head off, but two more will rise?" Mercy says with a tone that just screams 'what the hell is wrong with you people', "And enough with the disgust -" Which Mercy saw and scented, thank you, "- He's a person like you. Oh wait, not like you, because he's the victim. You aren't."

Her words could have continued, they could have, but they don't. Not when Claire asks those questions of hers. Her gaze turns to Claire for a silent second, then to Yasha and finally back to the technician. "Let him go." Mercy says, even as she starts to step closer to Claire and Yasha. "Let's get Yasha out of here."

And later Mercy will likely have the shakes, but for now she's all business. She can thank the werewolf pack she was raised in; always get the situation under control, get people to safety, then collapse.

"Let's go."

Clean-up of this particular scene isn't even on Mercy's radar right now, no, it's all about getting to safety.

Winter Soldier has posed:
The tech seems to have little to say for himself, flattened mutely against a far wall as his fate is decided. There is nothing about him, despite his claims this is a Russian op, to suggest he might be Russian himself. "Whatever person was there before is long gone," he says. He seems to genuinely believe that. "There is no person left. It was done to him long before I ever came on the scene."

Despite temptation, however, they ultimately determine to let him go. The man doesn't need any second word. He scrambles away, clutching his mangled arm, lighting out like a shot.

We're going to take you out of here, Claire instructs 'Yasha,' after.

It seems to activate something in the Winter Soldier. He rises smoothly, the movement so sudden after his long passiveness that it might come as something of a shock. He leaves the chair with his usual light grace, stepping clear, his incurious gaze taking in the chair-- the body-- the spreading blood. The women might not be thinking of cleanup, but whatever algorithms run coldly through the Winter Soldier's mind certainly are.

"Compromised," he assesses, to the two women who he seems to have assumed for his handlers, in his temporary docile state. "I will return later to clean. Leave now," he says, and all but drives them before him back up out of the abandoned vault.

He closes the steel gate to the vault behind them. Then he latches the grip of his left hand onto the heavy vault doors. They've got to weigh at least a ton or two, but he shifts it grindingly closed without apparent strain or complaint -- only the whir and hum of his left arm, working dutifully away.

Claire Temple has posed:
Either way, Claire hands the decision to Mercy. Perhaps some part of her knows -- is aware, and fearfully so -- she cannot trust herself. Cannot trust her own thoughts or her own hands while the fury coils through her blood. She cannot trust what is right, when every /ounce/ of her soul begs her to end this violently so it can never be repeated again...

So she trusts Mercy instead. She does not know the skinchanger long, the woman who can shift herself into a coyote, but she makes the quiet decision to trust her heart and let it guide her through this brief, ineffable darkness. And Mercy decides on clemency.

"Stay out of my city," Claire warns the surviving technician, her voice clear but still brittle -- very soon, the center will no longer hold. "Stay away from him. Or I will kill you."

And then there were three. Without an outlet, and with her eyes turning helplessly between the too-quiet Yasha and that corpse -- the corpse /she shot/ -- Claire lingers in quiet indecision. For a moment, not even she is sure what to do --

But Mercy directs them all to go. And, like a sleeping machine pulled out of stand-by, the Winter Soldier rises to his first task. Claire looks up as he stands, careful, slightly on guard, but does not brook argument as he begins to see all of them out of that compromised room -- that vault. That torture chamber.

She looks back in Orphean curiousity to watch him pull tons of weight shut with that metal arm. It does not even seem to bother him. It bothers her. "Is everyone --" all right? Claire wants to reflexively ask.

Of course not. Yasha is broken and hollow. Mercy looks like she's barely holding it together. And Claire?

She feels blood on her hands. "We can go -- to my place. If you want. Go, and... figure out."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The technician is watched, as he runs out of the vault.

Eyes closing, Mercy will try and center herself with a deep breath, before she's opening her eyes and looking back to Yasha and Claire. Her look is just in time to catch those words of Claire's, as well as the movements of Yasha. The coyote can't quite stop the sound of surprise that leaves her throat at the suddenness of it. So passive and now so not.

Compromised. That word causes Mercy's gaze to swing around the room; dead body, another man savaged, Yasha hurt, sick, or something and Claire, fury and numbness wrapped up into one bundle. Those thoughts of Mercy's are pushed aside, however, when the two women are herded out of the vault by Bucky. Mercy's eyes widen with surprise and with a quick look to Claire, Mercy says, "No, wait -"

Too late. All Mercy can do at this point is watch Yasha close the gate, then the vault door. All by himself.

The coyote will stare a long silent second, before Claire brings her attention back to the present. "Yes, let's go." She'll say, even as she looks at Claire now. "It'll be ok."

That's all she can offer the other woman just this moment. Then the coyote is padding barefoot to her purse and shoes. The shoes will be pulled on and the purse slid over a shoulder. With one last look at the vault, Mercy will say, "Come on. We'll figure this out. Something out."

Winter Soldier has posed:
Out of the vault, away from the chair, Yasha is unhelpfully passive. There's still a few minutes left on what the tech said would be the enforced docility period. Finished with his immediate task, he turns and follows Claire mutely: stopping behind her when she stops, moving to trail after her when she resumes.

He will do whatever he is told, for the time being. That much is obvious in his patient, waiting eyes -- eyes reduced to the expectant obedience of a dog.

What he will do once the docility of his maintenance mode is over, however, and he "reverts," whatever that means -- well, that's a total mystery.

Claire Temple has posed:
For her own part, Claire offers no word against the Soldier ushering them out of that -- room with a corpse.

It probably comes testament to the frayed state of her mind; she can barely think of what 'cleaning' means. She can barely comprehend the fact she just harmed another living being, and cannot even spare thought to the reality that someone will have to /clean up/ after her crime.

Because it is a crime, isn't it? One Claire does not regret, not really, because to revisit that anger --

There's no time. With the closing of that vault door, she leaves all thoughts behind, in there, with that body. Save for later. One thing at a time.

It'll be OK, Mercy promises, and Claire shares a quiet look with the other woman. She decides to believe those words the best she can.

With that, she decides to steer them back toward midtown in direction of Hell's Kitchen. The too-hot night sweats the way back to Claire's crumbling apartment building. She checks constantly over her shoulder the entire way, and -- there he is. The Soldier. Following her with that emptiness.

Her stomach tightens and stays that way on the walk up to her floor, where Claire lets the three of them in to settle. "In here," she says for the Winter Soldier's benefit. "You'll be safe here, all right?"

A glance to Mercy. "You too. You can sleep here tonight if you want."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's gaze turns to Yasha now. Sure, she doesn't know the man well, but this enforced docility of his isn't normal. Mercy understands this.

However, that doesn't stop the trio from double-timing it up and out of that derelict bank. Once outside, Mercy will automatically scan the area for anything odd. All senses are in use now and when nothing overt strikes her as dangerous, she follows after Claire. Much like the nurse, the coyote will take to glancing back over her shoulder to check on Yasha every now and then. Her attention will only shift away when Claire leads them into her apartment complex. Up to the correct floor and then inside Claire's apartment.

The inside of the apartment is given a brief look, but really Mercy's whole attention is on Claire and Yasha now. At Claire's offer to crash at her apartment, Mercy will say, "Thanks. I might call a friend -" To pick her up. Teleport her away. Something.

"I think we should get Yasha settled first."

Winter Soldier has posed:
He said several minutes. But that docile period lasts much longer. Maybe it's something about the calm presence of the two women, the absence of pain from their guiding hands. Too often the touch of his handlers, finishing their maintenance and their check-ups and their many manifold tweaks and tests, hurt abominably, and that in itself is a shock to his system sufficient to get him shaken out of his compliance fast.

Here there's no pain, no fear, no dehumanization. Just gentleness. It keeps him sedate and dreamlike through the strange trip back to the familiar environs of Claire's apartment. In that time, he says not a single thing nor offers any resistance, and anything he is told to do is done immediately with no protests or arguments.

But good things cannot last forever, and so it is with this state as well. Sitting quietly in the corner where he was left, he might not be immediately noticed by the talking women when he starts to blink. To look around. To look profoundly confused.

Their first hint might come in the sudden movement that is him jumping to his feet. He's breathing shallowly and quickly, eyes darting from side to side, clearly uncertain how he got here or what he's supposed to be doing and probably, even, who he is.

"This-- this isn't right," is all he manages, his expression wild and confused. "Where--"

Mercy fears, and rightly so, the bite of a confused wolf unable to tell friend from foe. But that isn't what happens-- this time. Panic suffuses his expression and he chooses flight instead, bolting immediately for the open window in order to slip out.

Claire Temple has posed:
The suggestion by Mercy to call a friend comes met with a sympathetic pinch of Claire's eyes. Truly, the coyote has already done more than enough. Far more. Than enough.

She opens her mouth to reply --

-- and already the Soldier is moving. Up on his feet. Speaking.

Claire sensitizes immediately to all of it, her reaction torn between a startled uncertainty and a more genuine, raw /relief/ to hear him sound anything but that faceless automaton. But as all things most end, and too, too soon -- so does this.

Because before she can even answer, even move to him -- he's already escaping. Fight or flight are the only two actions of wild animals, and perhaps fortunately, the Winter Soldier chooses the latter.

The urgency he takes toward her window, however, freezes Claire's heart. It's not safe, is all she can think. Not safe, and he might be hurt, and and and --

"Wait!" she calls after, even as the man disappears like a wraith. "Stop, Yasha -- wait!"

But what can she even do? Nothing, save to watch him disappear into the night.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's the change in the scent from that corner that Bucky is helping to prop up that alerts Mercy. It's enough to give the coyote a millisecond of warning, before Bucky speaks, or moves, that something is about to happen. "He's -" Awake? That's what she was going to say, but the word never makes it out of her mouth. Not when Bucky jumps to his feet and all but runs to the window; looking to escape.

All the coyote can do is watch the man leave. Then her attention shifts to the nurse, pleading for him to wait.

Those words of Claire's earn sympathy and understanding from the coyote. Mercy will reach over to place a hand upon the other woman's arm, saying as she does, "Give him a little bit of time, he was confused -" She smelled the confusion pouring off of him, "- If he takes too long to return we'll find him again. I promise."