Winter Beast

April 16, 2015:

Hank and Winter Soldier have a discussion whilst Hank offers medical care

MTown - New York


NPCs: None.


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

With the mutant drug epidemic running somewhat rampant, Mutant-Town is a bit quieter and much more wary than it's been in the past. The streets are somewhat bare and those that are walking about are doing so quickly so that they can get to their locations quickly and, they hope, without incident. One of the places that has seen a bit of an increase in visitation is the clinic.

While Hank McCoy isn't a medical doctor, he's offered his help for any triage cases or if they need extra hands in the lab. He recently spent a few hour helping with getting some results from the lab and while some have gone home, he's decided to finish up a couple of things. It means eventually venturing out on his own, but he's fairly confident that he can handle what might come his way.

The Winter Soldier is not a drug addict, or even a mutant, and he certainly isn't a doctor. He is, however, a person in need of medical advice— once he uses one of his knives to leave a bloody, but ultimately superficial slash along one of his palms, anyway. The bloody rag wrapped around it should, he hopes, help to sell it to any casual observers. He's also a person with a pretty decent disguise wardrobe, thanks to HYDRA. Tonight, he's in a fading Mumford and Sons shirt mixed with beaten, perforated blue jeans and a shaggy blonde wig; it is not a great wig, but he did what he could to make himself look appropriately broke by matting some dirt and assorted grime into it. Add in a few pieces of magnetic jewelry and a fauxtee, and he looks reasonably enough like a person who might be inclined to drop in on a clinic in search of free treatment— even a mutant clinic.

After getting himself admitted, he waits for the first possible moment alone to slip away from his exam area and commence searching the clinic for signs of Hank McCoy, the man he's been following off and on for the past few weeks— the man he knows is here. There is a gun tucked in against the small of his back, but if the clinic has any metal detectors, they'll remain silent about it.

There are no metal-detectors in the clinic…they trust that the people coming there actually need help and aren't looking to harm them. Of course, there are those against mutants, but there's the hope that anyone seeking to harm them won't make it this far into Mutant-Town.

Hank isn't that hard to find, especially as he seems about ready to head out. He's just finished locking up the lab when he catches sight of the dirty blonde 'patient' skulking in the hallways. "Excuse me, can I help you?" Blue, bespectacled eyes glance at the bandaged hand, "Have you been seen by a doctor yet?"

"Not yet," the Winter Soldier says, stopping as soon as Hank addresses him. He sounds tired, or stoned, or perhaps both; now that he's speaking with Hank, his eyes are even looking kind of heavy.

His empty, distant gaze is not an affectation, but it might help the act a ittle.

"I mean, kinda. There was this nurse lady? She saw me, but I didn't come to see her, or even one'a them other doctors, y'know? I heard about you comin' in and puttin' in work over here, man, I'm a big fan! The other dudes in the band were like, 'you gotta go get that looked at, you're fuckin' bleedin', dude!' but I probably woulda just slapped some band-aids on and called it good if I hadn't heard you might be workin' here," he gushes while weaving closer to Henry. "I was a science major back in college, man; you're like my hero!"

"You heard about me?" While he's well-published and well-known among certain circles, he never would have guessed that someone might actually recognize him, especially not a science major who looks to be not that much younger than him. Sure, he graduated at fifteen, but that doesn't necessarily grant instant fame. Warily, Hank take a step forward, towards the other, before he gestures to one of the nearby benches, "Why…don't you take a seat and I'll look at your hand." Surely there's a tray or an exam room nearby which will have basic supplies.

"You don't got an office or nothin'?" the Soldier wonders while heading for the indicated bench. "I got questions, man, about, like, your work, an' genetics, an— just— everything, y'know?"

There aren't any trays of supplies sitting out, but there's an exam room that nobody's using; presumably, nobody would mind if a few supplies went missing.

"It'd be real cool, bein' able to tell my boys I met a fuckin' genius and, like, had a conversation with 'im…"

"I volunteer here…I don't actually work here," Hank explains as he goes to fetch a drawer full of the basic supplies. He then brings it back to the bench, "Questions? Really?" That causes another bit of hesitation before he sets the drawer between the two of them and he sits on the other end of the bench "Ok, give me your hand…how did you hurt it?"

There's a pause before he asks, a little incredulously, "Your 'boys' would actually care that you met -me-?"

"I dunno," the Winter Soldier says with a brisk shrug. The cloth is unwrapped and dropped into his lap, and then he offers his hand for examining. "Maybe; one of 'em was a bio major before he jumped over to music."

The cut is not terribly deep, and the bleeding seems to be pretty well under control by this point; he probably won't need stitches, but it could still use some cleaning and covering. "You sure we can't just…" His eyes visibly turn towards the exam room Hank borrowed from. "… borrow a little privacy, or somethin'?" After a beat, he tacks on, "Just feels a little weird, sittin' out in the open and doin' this."

There's a pause as Hank looks to the 'musician' but then he gives a shrug, "All right. We can go into the exam room if it makes you feel better." He picks up the tray and moves back towards the room to return it to its place and get prepped there.

He knows that this feels a little off, but there's a downside to him appearing as human as possible — his senses, while still stronger than that of a normal human, aren't as strong as they could be.

It might be worth noting that despite his apparent excitement, the Winter Soldier's heart maintains a steady, almost metronomic rhythm.

"Awesome!" he exclaims while hopping up to follow Hank. Once they're both in, he nudges the door shut, then heads for the exam table. "Look, man, I really appreciate this, alright? Like, really, totally; you're, like, a doctor'a the people, or somethin'."

Hank McCoy doesn't lose his wariness and does note that the door is closed behind them. "I'm not that kind of doctor," is noted, even as he moves closer to look at the cut on the hand. "It's one of the reasons why I don't really work here. But I can handle a cut on the hand. Think of me as more of a Field Medic."

There's a moment as he looks to the other, "So, are you a mutant then? I mean, most folks don't come here unless they are…I guess they're afraid they'll be found out or something by the regular doctors."

Wariness isn't so bad. The Winter Soldier can handle wariness; depending on how good Hank is at keeping a lid on such impulses, he might even be picking up on it, but as long as he cooperates, everything is basically fine.

So of course, once they're in the room together and Hank resumes his examination, he risks pushing wariness into full on alert. Between two precisely spaced heartbeats, the Soldier's expression shifts: eyes widen, the dopey grin flattens into a blank line, his posture straightens; he leaves his hand out for examination, though. It would be nice to have it cared for by, if not an expert, someone who isn't him. Convenient, anyway.

"No. What do you know about cutting edge genetic engineering techniques?" is his answer to Henry's question, delivered in a calm and toneless voice. His left hand comes up, then, just so Henry can see that it's empty— and perhaps not immediately register him as a threat despite the seismic shift.

Hank McCoy might have been waiting for a shift like that. He actually doesn't seem overly surprised, but there is a brief muscle tic in his jaw. He's paused at one of the counters and slowly turns around. "I suppose it depends on the technique. Do I know what everyone is publishing and working on? Possibly. Possibly not. But I know what -I'm- working on." He doesn't come closer yet, "Why?"

"This is— an old technique, perhaps," the Winter Soldier says, hesitant even after the shift. "Maybe technique is not the right— "

The former Ghost of the Cold War swallows, takes a deep breath, and gives himself a moment to let a wave of anxiety wash over him before opening his mouth again.

His heart is beating just a hair faster, now.

"Hypothetically," he begins, "could a person who's about to die be saved by the introduction of— of another person's genetic material? Their— structure?" After a beat, he mutters, "I am not a scientist."

Hank McCoy is still another moment before he hands over an alcohol wipe and a bandage for the cut on his hand. Obviously, this conversation is going to be deeper than one over cleaning a shallow cut. "It depends?" He gives a shrug before turning to lean backwards against the counter. "I've known people to be healed by a touch from another. Or do you mean injected with someone's blood, for example?" There's another pause then, "Theoretically, I suppose. If it was the right genetic material and maybe depending on what the other was dying of. I mean, I don't quite know that something like this could cure disease. Again, why?"

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