5494/Thousand Faces: Death Sentences

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Thousand Faces: Death Sentences
Date of Scene: 08 March 2021
Location: New York-Presbyterian Hospital, Hudson Heights
Synopsis: The first reaping: SHIELD loses one of their own to unknown causes, and Bobbi suspects a serial killer or an evil moon.
Cast of Characters: Jane Foster, Bobbi Morse, Melinda May, Jemma Simmons




Jane Foster has posed:
Upper Manhattan. New York. 2000 hours.

SHIELD isn't without risk. Its agents get caught in the line of duty. In Agent Brian Campbell's case, an investigation for strange traffic among disused ports in Connecticut and Massachusetts ended successfully, but at a cost. A nasty run-in with toxic, illegal chemicals being funnelled from Madripoor to American buyers left Campbell and his partner sufficiently injured to require in-depth care.

New York-Presbyterian Hospital prides itself on a peerless reputation, ranked among the best hospitals in America. The complex on West 165th Avenue, in spitting distance of the Hudson Parkway and the river beyond, hums purposefully at all hours of the day and night. While the Triskelion can work miracles, NY-P is the kind of place delivering innovations and excellent outcomes across many disciplines. Agent Campbell sleeps in the ICU in a medically-induced coma, his prognosis monitored by a welter of experienced nurses, orderlies, and physicians.

Reports sent through the SHIELD security net indicate a 75% chance of regaining mobility in his damaged left arm and leg look. Artificially grown skin grafts due next week have a delay for a concerning infection at the burn site, but nothing beyond what NY-P can handle with ease. An image of placidity in the sick ward, then. Several stuffed manatees, Campbell's favourite animals lie piled up neatly near a window. A coat is thrown over a large chair facing the bed where Agent Campbell reclines, pillows comfortably plumped. The tablet blinks insistently, bearing various charts. Machines integrated into the very room offer up to the minute monitoring.

They're all collectively screaming to the timbre of A#, while relayed blips match the pace of two nurses loping the long hallway. Another ICU orderly moves purposefully out of a second patient's room, fellow tablet in hand. The trio burst past a cart of medications left in the hallway.

...Now...

"Look, I need you to get /someone/ on the line. Right now-- no, I don't know his superior! Call sign Proteus, he's in Tampa. Repeat, Proteus is in Tampa." It sounds so stupid to him to say, if he weren't so desperate, repeating the trigger phrase for an agent emergency. "I'm his son, Sebastian Bradford Campbell. Please, he just stopped-- everything just stopped-- and the nurses are doing their best but jesus this is a code blue or something."

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    Bobbi is not dressed like she normally would be. She's dressed in suit pants, a suit jacket, white blouse. No armor, just an ICER on her hip and a badge on the front of her belt. Shades, of course shades too. She looks like law enforcement. Why? well, she's not meant to go on any STRIKE like mission right now, not in her current medical state. May's recommendations to Fury sealed that fate regardless of what Jemma's previous evaluation had said - things changed in Afterlife.

    Behind the wheel Bobbi is trying to feel useful. She can't help but realise this is how Phil must feel a lot of the time when taking agents on a mission. At least she called dibs on driving. She's driving with purpose. There's also the neat emergency vehicle signal that changes the lights ahead of them, so as traffic doesn't slow them down too much.

    The big SUV with SHIELD logo on doors and bonnet and even roof weaves smoothly between cars as the team races toward the hospital. They have their medical specialist who may be the only person who can save their agent. When push comes to shove, they rely on Jemma for far too many miracles.

    "Hold on," she says as the traffic gets a bit thicker and she rides up on to the side walk briefly, scaring some pedestrians. She gets back in to the road and rounds the corner to the hospital and pulls up in front of emergency to let the team out, "I'll park and join you. Go."

Melinda May has posed:
Interestingly enough, May didn't protest when she found Bobbi behind the wheel earlier. She was entirely too calm about the whole thing. She stopped, observed the situation, and silently got into the passenger seat. It's not the first time she's ridden shotgun. It won't be the last. The priority here is getting to Agent Campbell, not squabbling over who should or shouldn't drive.

If this had happened sometime last week, not only would May have insisted on driving, she'd have told Morse to get her ass off team before she put everyone in the field in danger *again* just by being in proximity. The woman has had to be carried off the field in almost every mission she's been on over the past couple of months. Last week, May would have said it meant she should be confined to a desk and stay there. And some part of her still believes that.

However, in the interest of efficiency, she's not arguing now. She *will* take steps to sideline Morse if she becomes a liability on the field. And she won't feel at all badly about it. In fact, she won't feel anything at all. It'll be a purely practical decision.

God help them all.

Thus, as they pull up in front of the hospital, she jumps out as wordlessly as she went into the car, waiting only long enough for the others to join her before she heads up to where Agent Campbell is supposed to be resting.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
And that miracle worker is seated in the back, her lab coat practically a part of her now. Jemma Simmons is watching...but she isn't watching out the windows of the SUV, while Bobbi does a spectacular bit of driving to get through New York traffic. No...presently she is watching a tablet on her lap, with the screen split into two halves. On the right? Information on their agent in NY-P, a dossier of his work, past medical history, recent information. All the information needed to get at least an idea as to what is going on.

However, on the left? Satellite imagery of Manhattan, with NY-P in the center. Somewhere within the image of the hospital, a weak signal flashes. Related? Perhaps...though Jemma seriously hopes not. For...that signal, for her, means someone has died...and she certainly hopes she is not too late for Agent Campbell.

Yet...Jemma hopes there is still a chance. A chance to find her. To find Jane.

As the SUV pulls up, Jemma leaps out of the vehicle almost at the same time as May. The somber, silent May is not picked up by Jemma. The too-silent May. Not yet. No...Jemma has much on her mind. First of which is saving a life.

"See you inside, Bobbi." There isn't even a second glance to see if May is following. Jemma is on a mission....directly to Agent Campbell's room. And woe be on anyone getting in her way.

Jane Foster has posed:
New York-Presbyterian Hospital. 2210 hours.
Sebastian isn't that old, mid-20s and most. His father can look forward to retirement and those cushy benefits that come with a SHIELD job in another ten, maybe fifteen years. His pale brown hair sticks straight up where mussed by running his palm over it, conscious of every second ticking through an hourglass as the orderly response takes over the mundane structure in the ICU. Machines beep-beep-beep with angry alacrity to demand an answer from one of the clinicians. It won't be silenced while they go through the routine motions to escort a patient back from the brink.

"Whoever you report this to, make sure they know nothing was happening." His voice cracks. "Absolutely nothing. Just breathing, and then it all stopped. He's been the same for days," Sebastian insists. "I was sitting there when all the alarms went off all at once. No, no one was around. The machinery just stopped and all hell broke loose." The StarkPhone's good enough to pick up on the chaotic warbles down the hall, an intrusion on the generally quiet ICU hall.

"Yeah, by the fire exit. What? Why would you ask that? I don't know, in case Batman flies in through the door! My dad's in there, and I'm staying put!" He almost flings the expensive mobile phone, and turns away, gripping it so tight his knuckles turn white and the silicone case bends.

Emergency Department. 2222 hours.

Parking isn't that difficult even for buildings as large as NY-P. The SHIELD logo must have something to do with it, giving them a clear shot to move through the great revolving doors and past a nurse's station. Directions to ICU aren't complicated, though it involves snaking through the labyrinthine halls and corridors separating emergency from critical care beds on higher floors.

The place feels purposeful and controlled, hardly an image of chaos. People, of course, come in all flavours and stages of concern. Their pathophysiology mirrors the trouble within, so these agents of order strive to create an environment comfortable to patients and their families. All this to say: nothing feels remotely off.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    Bobbi watches the team deploy. They know where they're going and hopefully what needs to happen. She pulls around in to priority parking reserved for law enforcement. The perks of being SHIELD. With the car emptied, Bobbi pauses behind the wheel and takes a breath. Nervously she glances at her heart rate monitor - everything is within norms.

    "Don't let May's paranoia get the best of you Bobbi," she murmurs to herself, then gets out of the car and heads in to the hospital. Several agents had made their way purposefully through the hospital which security wasn't quite sure what to think of, so Bobbi stops to talk to the most confused looking security guard and flashes her badge at him. No names are given, "SHIELD, we got a priority code from one of our agents in the ICU."

    A friendly pat on his shoulder and a confident nod of her head she says to the man, "Don't worry, we know what we're doing." Nothing more needs to be done, he can write it down in his day log. Bobbi heads on up to the ICU not too far behind the rest of the team.

Melinda May has posed:
May emerges into the ICU and steps out of the way long enough to pause and sweep the area with her eyes. She notes details -- where staff are moving, which machines are going off, who looks panicked, who looks like they know what's going on. Most of the staff headed to Campbell's room look focussed in that we've-got-work-to-do sort of way common to first responders and high-stress environment workers everywhere. That tells her where they need to go. The agitated behaviour of the young man by the fire escape tells her where the call to the Triskelion came from.

Once she's determined all that, she breaks off from Jemma to approach him. Jemma, she expects, will go straight to Campbell's room to insert herself into the care team. That means someone else should take care of Campbell's son.

May may not be the best choice for that. Still... "Mr Campbell?" she says, showing her badge as she approaches.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Agents May and Morse may be higher ranking. But, with the way that Jemma is carrying herself, lab coattails fluttering behind her, it is apparent that, currently, Jemma is in charge. And.....May's assessment is correct. There isn't even a pause. It is just a direct line to Agent Campbell.

Once in, Jemma adopts a demeanor only few have seen. She is all business. Her British accent cuts the words off short and crisp as she enters. "I'm Doctor Jemma Simmons of SHIELD. I need to know all that you know in regards to Agent Campbell and I need it now if we have any hope of saving this man." If it wasn't the words used, it would certainly be the weight of them...the way that Jemma carries herself that states she is not one to be trifled with.

Jane Foster has posed:
Sebastian paces around in a corridor with nothing else conceivably to do. His boots slap against the polished linoleum in an irregular tempo. It's no matter for the slumbering patients locked in their own unconscious realms among the endless sleep that claims them, fed by a steady drip or their body's own reaction to untold trauma. He paces as far as the second set of patient rooms and then turns away, frequently looking back over his shoulder. Shades of his father, Brian, in there. Agent Campbell has a slightly too quick gait that favours the right side. A habit of stopping quite suddenly, but not quite lurching. The kid has the knack, and the same creases to his forehead when troubled. Plenty to be troubled by.

That May swoops up takes him less by surprise than to a quick, complete halt. He backs off a bit, sliding his sole across the spotless floor. "Pardon." Colleagues of his dad get a look, the badge barely bothered with. "You here for him? He's in there." A quick sweep of his hand almost sends the phone flying. He snatches it at the last minute. "Don't worry about me. He needs you guys now." Craning his neck to check the door to the ICU room for the fourth time in a minute gives him away.

Bobbi's security guard takes her tacit permission to flee back a few stops closer to a nursing station where he can be of some use. They all know when law enforcement rolls into town. Proximity when alarms sound in those hallowed halls never strikes anyone well. "Thanks, ma'am." His greeting and parting farewell have too much relief. It's not his life on the line.

In Campbell's room, a trio is more than going through the motions. A swift professional appraisal may tell how hopeless it is: flatlined heart beat, minimal activity across the wires strapped to cooling flesh. No vitals, but miracles have happened. The clinician performing the resuscitation uses jarring force on the man's bandaged body, a nurse calling out the count in a quiet, steady voice. A slap to one of the monitors silences its alarm. They are pictures of rushed efficiency.

"Unclear," says the nurse midcount. "We haven't seen signs of respiratory or cardiac distress."

"It's just stopped," the orderly replies, without turning, struggling to find a pulse.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    Bobbi approaches the nurses station in the ICU and asks for Campbell's chart. She flicks through it with the eyes of a biologist trying to appreciate the shorthand doctors and nurses use day to day. Everything seems like it's in the normal range. The sounds of emergency in Campbell's room make her frown a touch.

    "Excuse me," she says to the duty nurse, "when we got the call about Agent Campbell, we were told everything onset suddenly with no indications?" Exposed to strange chemicals in the incident, still, his vitals all look fine, "Much of that going around these days?"

    Her mind is roaming to assassination. But why? She takes out her tablet and opens up his field reports to see what he was poking his nose in to - who might want him dead and by what means are they trying to kill him. She leans against the wall to give her visual coverage of entrance and egress from the room just in case somehow this situation puts Jemma in danger - and she can watch May from here too with Sebastian.

Melinda May has posed:
"I'm not a doctor," May tells Sebastian. "The best experts we have accompanied me. They're in with your father, now. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you observed. It may help them." She's calm, reasonable, and quietly in control. She's not particularly warm, but neither is she cold or aloof. Just very on the level.

It's really NOT May's usual manner. Her bedside manner has never been good. And it's not that it's bad, now. It's just... neutral. Not comforting, but not distancing either. Nor even offensive. Very businesslike. Which, okay, can be May on a normal day. When there isn't weirdness afoot. She should have more edge to her.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
"Just stopped..." The words are spoken out loud, but Jemma doesn't seem to notice. No, her first priority is to get this agent at least stable. There is just no time to waste. Those brown eyes of Jemma's fall onto the emergency cart that was in place when she arrived, scanning for....

Yes! There they are!

Without bothering to ask, or even announcing her intent, Jemma reaches over and snags four different vials and a syringe. "Propafenone, ibutilide, verapamil, and an emulsifier." There is no mixing of substances in test tubes here. Each drug is simply added to the same syringe, with an even, practiced hand that betrays years of experience seemingly beyond the youthful appearance of Dr. Simmons. As the emulsifier is added, Jemma taps the side of the syringe, adding just enough agitation to combine the elements together into one solution. Then, after a quick tap of the plunger to remove any air, Jemma reaches up...and injects the solution directly into the IV port, much to the verbal outcry of the medical staff in the room.

"Maintain chest compressions, but be prepared to stop once the chemical cardioversion takes place. Continue to monitor lung capacity as well. Hopefully, if we are lucky, we should not need to wait long at all." No apologies at all from Jemma. She is doing exactly what she was brought along to do. It is only after the chemical cocktail is on its way that she takes a moment to examine Agent Campbell's body. And...his condition is all that she briefed herself upon.

Save one item.

"Do you see his eyelids? Why are they bruised?" A finger reaches out, pointing to the unusual shapes of the contusions. "Do you see? If I didn't know any better, it resembles a drachma..."

Jane Foster has posed:
"I train service dogs and perform physiotherapy," Sebastian mutters, more to himself than May. "No use now." He drops his hands, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his jeans. Arms hanging limply at his sides keep an open posture to her, his frustration and panic checked. Reasonable means watching her. "It wasn't much to see. I came after dinner, so around 6:30, 7:00, in there. Dad was resting." His mouth twists, stifling a bitter laugh. "Like he's been for two weeks, no difference. I'd be kidding myself saying he listened but I was reading a book for work to him. Then just reading when it got quiet. The nurse came and checked on his side. For bedsores, maybe. He tucked Dad in and we talked about the Rangers. I went back, got about a chapter in. Dad wasn't moving when all the machines went off at once. Like, all of them, really loud. It scared the living daylights out of me, I jumped up and checked we still had power. Lights were on in the hallway."

Another restless look at the door shows his agitation. "I hit the call button. Ran over. He wasn't doing anything. Lying there, not even a spasm. I wouldn't even know what was wrong except his chest didn't move."

He can't continue, but he doesn't have to.

The testimony for actual efforts plays out in the chamber shrouded in purpose. In urging the heart to beat, and lungs to move. Plastic mouthpiece and squeezed bottle apply oxygen to dying organs in a failing shell. Jemma's instructions align with the experienced team working their best, moving aside for another clinician. SHIELD's own expert hurries them on with a dogged purpose. No immediate miracles sprout, as Campbell lies there inert except as their compressions jerk him and the machines lend their faded support. IVs, tubes, needles. In the end, a life's a quantifiable series of actions.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    Coin markings on eyelids? that's a hitman calling card if ever she's seen one. She flicks her finger across her tablet screen to open up a search for other deaths using the same M.O. It doesn't take long for the SHIELD servers to come back with a definitive and disturbing result.

    Bobbi's eyes roam over the Autopsy period study from October 2020 to present. Sudden death, no apparent causes, bruises on palms, eyelids, mouth.. her eyes move over to Campbell and she sets her tablet down, pulls on gloves and steps up. "Dr. Morse - SHIELD," she introduces herself briefly on the far side of where Jemma is working. She lifts up a wrist to check for bruising, then tilts his head enough to shine a pen light in to his mouth. There, another mark, just like in the reports.

    This many deaths? this isn't the M.O. of a hitman. It's more like the M.O. of a serial killer. Bobbi steps back from the maelstrom of medical care and steps out of the room with her tablet, "May."

    When her colleague joins her she shows her the article. In a quiet voice she says, "We need to check security footage.. I think there might be a serial killer." There's nothing she can do to help the Agent now, she has to keep her fingers crossed that Jemma and the crash team have got this. Unlike the other deaths, they've become aware of this case well before the autopsy.

Melinda May has posed:
May listens to what Sebastian says. She nods thoughtfully. "Alright, thank you," she tells him. "If I have more questions, I'll let you know." She recognizes that he just doesn't know enough to really be helpful, but still thought it important to get his take on things. Thoroughness is helpful when trying to get information.

Thus, she gives him another nod, this time in a sort of farewell, and retreats to follow Bobbi and Jemma into the agent's room. She stays at the door, mostly out of the way. Listening. Watching. Considering.

"Drachma?" she says, catching the tail end of something. She walks into the room. "Is he dead, Agent Simmons?" Again, that calm tone. Mildly curious. Not sharply concerned.

But then Bobbi's talking about security footage and she nods. "I'll find the security station and see what they've got."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
A finger raises up...held aloft by patience and more than a little hope. It is an indication to May (and Bobbi) that Jemma is not quite ready to answer that question yet. The question about death and mortality. The eyes are upon the EKG monitor, watching and half expecting a blip, a twitch...anything, really. However, as the seconds drag on towards minutes, there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a murmur, nor a twinge. Not even a death rattle heard when taking a last breath.

There is simply silence.

The finger finally drops down, as the gravity of the situation just falls upon Jemma. The shoulders slump as Jemma turns to look back towards the pair of fellow agents, nodding solemnly. "He...is dead." Nevermind that May is emotionally flat. Jemma has enough emotion for the both of them. "We were too late. I have never seen massive total shutdown on this scale before."

Not even with Jane's body. There was a distinct difference. While, known only to Jemma, Jane's essence seemed removed from her corporeal form, her body remained functioning perfectly. This....was as if a switch was flipped. Agent Campbell simply shut down, completely.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Sure. Yes, of course. I'll be out here." Sebastian slouches back against the wall. His use ends, the limits of his knowledge tapped. Grief slowly bleeds over his face, a crestfallen look deepening into very real concern when more people go into a room that no one seems to emerge from. He grips his hands for lack of anything better to do.

A flashlight in plastic gloves sweeps over Campbell's body, getting some side-eye from the NY-P staff. They mostly work on principles of saving lives. Inspecting the agent's face shows those lightly forming purple bruises. Split capillaries add a reddish spider-vein tinge. The organic outline carries a profile of a face, the emerging helm tipped back. Similar, reversed symbology rests on the agent's tongue in fuzzier terms. (https://www.coinweek.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/obol1a.jpg) The bruises still take form but show clearly enough.

Of course in a few minutes it doesn't really matter. The marks are there, permanent, button-sized abuses of a man's body. Bruises like coins, with all the cultural baggage that carries.

"Serial killer" acts like a password to send a ripple through the trio working under Jemma's guidance. The clinician almost drops his needle. "What? You can't be serious."

May doesn't have far to go for the security station, requesting records. They can show her sooner than produce a second copy, given the nature of the request. An empty hall, the cart of medicine and a tablet pushed by a nurse who checks room by room. No signs of furtiveness or alarm show as he goes about his rounds. Then out runs a distraught Sebastian, phone to his ear, trying to hurry someone off-camera. The orderly heads inside a room that he later appears from, to run to Campbell's. In go the crash team.

Though an initial answer isn't promising, "We didn't notice anything odd, you know? The alarms triggered. See? The record of everyone swiping in. Nurses and doctors scheduled to be on their rounds. Just a few visitors; Mr. Shapiro's wife, Mrs. Batbayar's granddaughter there, Mr. Sibarani's caretaker. Mr. Campbell only had his son. Kind of like last time." The guard grimaces. "Nothing there, either. The patient died overnight, and we had the hospital administrators on us like a ton of bricks. Everything's operating normal, IT had kittens trying to show it."

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    Bobbi nods her head and says, "We'll figure out how it's being done..." She looks at the security footage and listens to their retelling. It's spread so far. May be something in the air? in the water? may be a tech working in manufacturing that supplies several hospitals? Perhaps it's a mutant ability behind it.

    She frowns though and sighs at the death of their agent. "Campbell.. he was a smart one, always on the ball." She knows they're going to have to expand the footage gathered. The super computers back at SHIELD HQ can crunch through all the footage looking for connections between the different hospitals over the last half a year. It might take a while.

    "Sorry Simmons," Bobbi says and then looks over to Sebastian, "Did you want to tell him May?" She was talking to the son already after all - she possibly has a rapport with him.

Melinda May has posed:
May cants her head faintly at the guard's words. "This isn't the first time?" she asks. "Has there been more than one other incident?"

She glances up at Bobbi. "Get us copies of the footage stretching back an extra two hours," she suggests. Both incidents, potentially. Because if it's a poison or something, it could be administered earlier. She knows that much, anyway, even if she's not a medical pro.

She's very good at killing. Even if poison isn't her method of choice.

"We need to get a tech team in here, too, with a set of DWARFs. See if there's anything environmental we've missed. And we'll want to see footage of any additional incidents, too. Times and dates of death, the patient conditions immediately before as well." All perfectly good investigative pieces of info to have. It likely won't add up to much.

She looks over to Sebastian and cants her head again, glancing toward his father's room. "I can," she tells Bobbi simply. But May's never been anyone's first choice for breaking bad news that doesn't start with a punch to the head. However, in this moment, she's as calm now as she was in Afterlife. Thus, she gives a faint nod, then, and heads across to speak with the young man.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Jemma steps back...allowing the crash team to finish up their deliberations. As an afterthought, she draws out her tablet, stashed in the pocket of her labcoat. The left screen still shows whatever program Jemma developed to track a certain energy signature. But...it is not that which calls Jemma's attention presently.

Instead, the right side sees Jemma closing the medical records of Agent Campbell, pulling up the ICU death report from the medical examiner, the very same report Bobbi was perusing, and combining it with analysis from Jemma herself. Apparently, she was keeping track of hospital deaths for at least a few weeks now. Then...comparison. "If this is the work of a serial killer, then it is unlike any seen before. The amount of sudden ICU expirations with similar crash marks as noted here is staggering." A frown takes shape as Jemma does her own number crunching. "It...is just too much for one person. There is no feasible way a living person could have pulled off this many deaths without any linkable trace."

If there was any consideration for a supernatural explanation, it appears that Jemma is not of that particular mindset. She cannot be blamed for such. She does live in a world of absolutes and the situation she just failed to resolve would rattle even the most stoic of people.

Well, except for May, it would seem.

Jane Foster has posed:
Security Guard Kyse, per his nametag, scooches his mouse around and brings up another window with a rather clear, soundless video that mostly involves staring at an empty hall. He nods slowly, caught reassessing an assumption. "Yeah. Couple of them? The administrators, the doctors, and IT got a bee in their bonnet. Don't pay me enough to sit in those meetings." Her request about a two hour window takes his partner longer, and there will definitely be forms to fill out. "Nurses will tell you too, people don't do well in ICU. Not really a surprise when they just give out."

He's not good at killing but he can sit alongside May while she calls for things he vaguely understands, for evidence of a crime. The pieces take a while to fall in. By then, she is off to see Sebastian. Off to deliver a killing blow.

Those supercomputers will find a disturbing pattern only in a closing circle: comatose patients, just falling off a cliff one day. Age and gender or race have no bearing. It's entirely a matter of clinical state, those lost to consciousness snuffed out.

For now, a body marked. A crash team looking at one another, going through the essential rhythms. Time of death. Disconnect the IV, the monitors, the oxygen reader. Acknowledge in a clinical point of view the respectful end of life, drawing the sheet up as they go.

"Sometimes it happens. Women come in labour when the moon's full," the orderly tries to fill the gap. "Could just be a bad moon."

Bobbi Morse has posed:
    "Then we're looking for a new kind of weapon. Someone testing it out perhaps. A mutant ability, perhaps an Inhuman, a Metahuman thing.. perhaps some sort of targeted technology. Whatever it is - it looks to be very effective. You were right though, it does look like a greek coin. That's... weird. May be we're looking for some historical or mythological weapon," Bobbi says trying to make sense of it.

    She puts her tablet away and lets out another sigh, "If we can determine the area of affect for such a weapon, may be we can track it. Theories? I'm all ears. Coulson should get looped in. This is bigger than something the FBI can handle.. if it turns out the planet has traveled through a new area of space that changes the laws of death then I'm going to be really cross at the universe..."

    She raises an eyebrow to the orderly, "Figures. Might need to get SWORD in on this too, see if there are any astronomical observations relevant to what we're seeing... and we need to expand the net. As many hospitals around the world as we can get data from. Sadly.. I think we're done here for now. Simmons organise with Fitz to come back with the gear you two need to do proper sensor observations."

Melinda May has posed:
May approaches Sebastian and stands a half dozen feet away until she sees a moment to interact with him. Her expression is still calm, serious. It's not grave or concerned, of course. Nor is it really sympathetic. But she's not being dismissive in the least. He has her full attention. "Mr. Campbell? Unfortunately, I have some bad news..."

There's something in her head that says she shouldn't be horribly blunt about this. Something that says she should try to be... well, gentle isn't really in her thought process, but not abrupt. However, all she's capable of, at this moment, is a sort of calm, matter-of-factness. "They were not able to revive your father."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
There is only the briefest of nods from Jemma at the order given from Bobbi. That bravado that Jemma had coming in, that sense of duty, is gone. Drained from her essence. What is left behind, though, is still an agent....and a good one at that. "Certainly." Then...an afterthought. "I will also run a comparison with former SHIELD cases and abrupt unexplainable deaths. Perhaps the method being used is similar to one we experienced in the past."

Not that for the life of her can Jemma remember anything quite like this. But this is a problem to be solved...and Jemma was always good at homework.

Jane Foster has posed:
The universe isn't paying attention, alas. No helpful nudge sets everything right back on course, wandering past the walls of grief or tangible pathway of sorrow, to a point where it's all better.

The orderly shakes his head. "I didn't really mean..." He gets shushed pretty fast by the nurse, who moves to close Campbell's eyes fully. That gesture is so engrained that stopping himself is a stutter, a look of raw discomfort pooling over the nurse's face. "Sorry," to a corpse isn't really the point. He apologizes in that low tone because that is still a man, even gone.

Sebastian outside is more audible. Just a choked inhale, tearing his composure away as he turns from May to the wall. Something in him will find more consolation from the steady paint than that factual announcement. "Revive? Just like that, he's dead?"

A harsh noise rattles in his throat. Belief is a hard thing to muster. He stalks past another ICU room, curtains turned to the Hudson River, the beltway of low buildings and the highway leading to a black stretch of the Hudson River.

Upper Manhattan. Hudson River. 2258 hours.

The Hudson's banks are wet, damp, and choked in trash and slow-moving water that bubbles up. The current wraps around a void, as water is wont to do, confused as it twists down in a vicious gyre to the muddy shallows. Faces whirl through the mire, drowned by the constant stream of high-speed traffic headed north for the rest of the state, or drawn into the shadow of the megapolis.

None to hear their voices but a fitful flame that winks out.