#wintermerc

[jackedknives]

Though the god spent most of his time off Midgard, in other realms and on other worlds he thought most of his fellow heros here could scarcely imagine, he loved his time here. There was good company, good revelry, and his friends were all so very odd and different.

Even after the tragedy that had befallen them yesterday, the scalding feeling of such scheming little enemies - like wicked little biting ants - fooling him and his fellows, they came together.

Thor had felt a sense of comradery, working to put things back together, help people find their way to medical attention. He kept his surprise of the state of the bodies to himself. His experience did not encompass what he had been told of Rogers friend.

It was being woken after this -after the work, the shame of being tricked so by such tiny villains, the quiet drinks with good friends- that surprised him. It wasn’t that he was not used to people coming to his door (the oddly nice accommodations that Stark provided, and kept always waiting for him, that felt -as oddly as it seemed, as it was never something he would have supposed all those years ago banished here- like a home away from home) it was the knock. He realized, as he trudged to the door, curing quietly to himself when he knocked over and broke yet another lamp, that he knew their knocks by sound.

The always nervous knock of Banner; the polite and firm knock of Rogers; Starks enthusiastic banging. This one was...new. It was nearly nervous, perhaps more frantic, but at the same time it was insistent and annoying. Like they knew he would open and he wasn’t doing it goddamn fast enough.

It was very, very obvious the only person who could possibly belong to that knock was the person on the other side as soon as he had flung the door open.

There was Jack, in pajamas, hair a conspicuous mess, half distracted like she was much more concerned about other things than his answering - which she knew he would and hadnt been doing goddamn fast enough. She kept looking down the halls.

“Ha! You! You’re still here. Thats great, good, good. Great. I need some help.” She started. The large man looked...very confused. This didn’t make sense, not at all. From everything he had come to believe, she wouldn’t ask for his help if she were falling into a volcano. And then she would yell that he didn’t help. Perhaps her head had been more severely injured in the previous days battle than they knew. Perhaps he should call someone, alert them to her situation, she was after all acting mighty strange--

“Can I borrow that?” Jack pointed behind him suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

If he had time to think when he turned to look at what Jack could possibly mean, and if he had time to registered that she cold cocked him the moment he turned, he would have thought “this makes much more sense”.

----

God, he’s stupid, Jack thought, as she dragged the large unconscious god across the hall by the underarms (she had thrown a sheet over the hammer. He wouldn't leave without that, and she wasn’t going to humor being ‘worthy’, specially considering her current activities), pausing to punch in Bucky’s door code to his room and kick the door open. Of course she was loud and hit things a lot, it didnt mean she wasnt as sneaky as all hell - it was adorable how they all thought she’d need to break into their rooms and didn’t just memorize their codes.

She lugged Thor like the massive sack of potatoes he was into Buckys bed, struggling to get him in and more than once knocking his head into a wall. Ah, he was a god, he’d be fine. It took her another few minutes to get the wig she had stolen from Romanoff’s room onto him just right (she changed her code once a week, as if it mattered. Jack regularly liked the challenged of stealing Romanoffs lingerie and sending it to Wade. God knew what he wore it for, but she knew it was probably hilarious and Romanoff would hate it) and duck tape a bloody tracker to his arm. She pulled the covers right up to his nose.

Ok, not bad, but not perfect.

She grabbed Bucky’s phone she had found still on his nightstand and texted Rogers:

im sad. going 2 sleep a while

She paused in thought

text u later, pal.

Yes, that sounded lame enough to pass as normal Bucky, and buy her a few hours to drag his not-yet-aware-hes-dead ass back to the tower. It only took ten or so minutes to throw on some actual clothes, and another 15 to get down the tower, she had to use the goddamn stairs - the elevators were still either non functional, or sitting at the bottom of elevator shafts in a crushed mess. She passed Rogers on the way, who paid her no attention, but instead -to her relief- looked glum. Yes, she had time to think, glum. The man didnt look upset he looked glum. God she couldn’t stand him. But he always looked glum when he was worried about ol Buck. He’d bought it. She only prayed he gave his ol pal time to rest, after what he probably assumed was sadness over Hydra, and didnt get up to his way-to-pushy self and find a Norse god in a wig in Buckys bed.

He’d probably blame her.

Thank bloody god she always parked a few blocks away. Sure, the parking at the tower was amazing, but it got attacked by shit way to often.

She had already made one call by the time she had gotten to her bike, to a woman that could get whatever information she needed for the price of Starks best whiskey. The woman had only taken so long to call her back with the needed info because she was clearly hung over - or still drunk. And it had taken a few minutes for her to translate Jacks cussing and shouting about what info she needed and why, and what particular can of whoopass was going to be opened when she found what she was looking for.

Jacks contact, of course, was rude as all fuck and talking to her was like talking to a boxer who’d bet on themselves to take you out in the first round...she was one of Jacks favorite people in the the whole city (she had a great fashion sense. If anyone could find a buff guy in a bar, it was Jones. And if anyone could do it in five minutes, it was Jones being paid in expensive whiskey stolen from a rich asshole.

Jack knew where Bucky was by the time she put the keys in her bike.

[little-blood-witch]

Jack had learned, long ago, from a Maester who had studied the stars and the heavens, that when the Moon passed between the our world and the Sun, it blocked the Sun and created what they called the Black Sun. It was no more than a normal passing of the bodies of the heavens. It happened as indifferently to humanity as the passing of seasons, and had no meaning to them.

For nearly 11 years now she had run, hid, lived like the animals of the woods and was hunted by the animals that called themselves men,and it was all because they believed the movings of the indifferent cosmos existed solely as signs for them. Fools that thought a strong breeze was a message for them that a banshee was coming.

She had learned early on, though, that she could fight back. But there had been cost. The family that she had been given to, secreted away in the night to, had been lovely. A farm, she remembered, where she tended to chicks and fluffy snow white sheep, learned to ride their horses and even the fat funny pigs were a joy to tend to. But then the her blood had come. Most considered it a sign of womanhood, hers was a sign of evil. Because with that came the power, and the deaths. First was her foster father (though she did not know that at the time). It had taken her years to stop dreaming of how the blood came out of...everywhere. But not many years, not when there was more of it to come.

She ran then, ran to the screams of the woman who she had called mother, screams about the Black Sun, how they should have let them kill her. It was months before she learned what that meant. About the same amount of time it took Stregobor to figure it out as well.

It was on the run, alone and terrified with little more than her riding cloak to keep her warm at nights, her last piece of a home lost. When she understood what her powers did, she tried to just subdue people, make them pass out so she could steal what she needed to survive. That took several attempts and several deaths, though she still stole from the homes, careful to keep her cloak out of the blood. Later, with more control, she was able to do as she had hoped in the beginning.

The men sent after her weren’t given the same careful treatment. No, those ones were left stark white on the ground, their blood feeding the earth. This garnered her the name Blood Witch, and she took it with pride, and wondered if the other 59 babies murdered in their cribs had lived, if they could well have, together, filled the rivers and valleys with blood. She herself could fill at least a small pond.

But magic was not unlimited. It had to rest, recharge, when used to much to quickly, and it took a toll on body and spirit. And currently she was losing her strength. Through all the stories whispered about her, it was always “the Blood Witch in her blood red cloak” they spoke of. One she refused to give up, a gift from a family who had once loved her, her last memory of a home. She would die with it on if she had to. And at the moment, she thought she might.

This time he had sent at least 30 mercenaries, and they’d identified her by that piece of home she’d never give up. They’d given chase through the forests, and for the first while she could outwit them. She knew the forests like no one else, and she’d been able to save her magic in lieu of simply knowing the land. But her land had run out, and now she was in the deepest parts of the woods, where the trees grew so wild the ground was more roots than earth. The trees grew high and thick the leaves allowed no sun to pass through. She couldn't tell what was ground or root or rock, the moss grew so thick. She slipped and stumbled, and lost her lead in the chase.

Ten men at once, the closest to her, she pulled the blood from their hearts, wrenched it all out with such force one eye flew from its socket. She didn’t stop to gloat, and ran deeper in to the forbidden wood, surely there was nothing there without blood she could use to kill with. She started to feel the weariness settle into her bones when the next dozen burst out from the wild and confusing landscape, theyd thought to surround her. Perhaps thinking it would be harder if they weren’t grouped together. She only found it marginally more difficult.

But shock came to her with a sting, one had gotten close enough, and by the fates intervention he had slipped on a mossy rock, and his swinging sword only slashed her side. But the rage was still utter and complete, and this one paid dearly. She pulled his blood up through every vein and artery, all the way to his head, until it popped like cherry. But when the blood lust wore off, the panic set it. She had used to much, and she was injured. She could have fixed it, but they came for her so quickly, she had been forced to run without her bags, without her herbs and bindings, and all the things that grew here were foreign to her.

But she had to keep moving, as slow and weary as she did it, to tired to notice the trail of blood she was leaving like breadcrumbs in the woods, stark and clear against the green of the moss.

It wasn’t long before she slipped herself, and fell down into what must have counted as a clearing in these thick and dense woods.

There were 8 more mercenaries by her count, and it was easy to count, she could see them approaching through blurred eyes. If only I had time to rest, I would end them all she thought at first, and then at least I’ll die wrapped in home

[jackedknives]

“You little …”

[all-jacked-up]

#this is why i wont drive a car anymore, Buck #the desert is bumpy #riding on the hood to look badass isnt practical #i got shot three times going back for you