6192/A Painful Truth

A Painful Truth
Date of Scene:	12 May 2021
Location:	An Undisclosed Location
Synopsis:	It is a fight to stay alive for the good doctor Jemma Simmons, while her captor and would-be murderer runs away from the prospects of an angry mythological horse and an avenging angel in the form of Daisy Johnson.
Cast of Characters:	Jemma Simmons, Daisy Johnson, Jane Foster
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

---

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Life asked death, 'Why do people love me but hate you?' Death responded, 'Because you are a beautiful lie and I am a painful truth.'

-Author Unknown


A gunshot rings out in the darkness. A dark, forboding structure, built in the days when electricity was a new-fangled invention, reverberates, the sudden cacophonic clap echoing in its empty halls. The forboding structure appears straight from a horror movie, certainly the kind of structure to host the dead and their restless spirits.A door opens, and an individual...a brunette in a labcoat...walks calmly out, into a waiting car to speed away.

But within? That same brunette, strapped to a chair in a room with no windows, lays on the floor. A hole in her shoulder, with precious blood spilling onto the hard linoleum surface. Yet, even in her state, the female reacts, pressing that wound into the floor, the sudden pain causing her to cry out, her own voice mingling with the remnants of that echoing shot, until it disappears into the void. Pressure, to try to stop the bleeding. But, who knows how long that will hold...

So close to the secret facility known as the Playground. Yet, just outside of its known perimeter. Is it happenstance? The question is unanswered, though the direction that the car takes, with its single occupant, betrays the destination. It is obviously returning to the Playground. The driveway from the building, housing its single resident trying to stay alive, shows fresh tracks and frequent tracks. Someone had been visiting this abandoned building often.

And...it is doubtful that the person is an architecture buff.

A car heads towards the Playground. A captive struggles valiantly to stave off certain doom. Death is in the air tonight.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
It's been a few difficult days for Daisy. As if days were ever easy in SHIELD! But now more than ever things are getting tense, what with actually living in a damn bunker, her roommate appearing to be going through some kind of stressful episode and now they get news that a few Agents are missing during a mission. Some of those being like family to her. So..., she came to her room. In a way she is relieved that Jemma isn't in the room. She knows she needs to have a talk with her, but why is she postponing it?

"These days it's just easier to talk to some magical bowl, uh..?" She lets out a mirthless chuckle, roaming inside her drawer to bring out the bowl and set it on the floor in front of her.

What would happen this time? Perhaps flood their room once more? Hopefully not..

But she focuses, taking in a few breaths, cross-legged on the floor and focusing on the bowl as she tries to get to that 'zen' state, one with the song of the universe, focusing on the vibrations all surrounding her...

A brief break on her focus. Was that a shot? Certainly not. She resumes her focus and takes in a few more deep breaths.

Jane Foster has posed:
Meanwhile, the world turns, moving on as it ever has and probably ever will. The plodding course of traffic channeling up and down I-95, the feeder highways stretching from Maryland into the Delaware Peninsula proof that weird state of existence is real. Delaware is apparently a place that other than companies live in.

Though admittedly, a woman shot by her genetic twin marks a poor state of affairs for the Wednesday trundling towards its peak. Elsewhere people perish in the act of foolishness or bravery, struggling against cancer or other myriad illnesses. The misplaced problems only take a bit longer to culminate, unseen by most. Unheard by most. A snag in the lazy confluence of creation, when certain people don't go where they exactly should.

Weird philosophical matters these are, and are not. Troubles on a cosmic scale rarely bother anyone day-to-day. Until they reach out and poke someone, and that gnu-gnu-gnu danger of a shark in the water is slowly approaching.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
With her alternate self gone, Jemma Simmons usually doesn't find a need to speak. Most times, she found that being silent and observant helped her more than speaking to the spirits that surely inhabited this place she was in, if she believed in that nonsense. From what she could tell, from what little glimpses she could sneak when that infernal door opened, she was able to determine that she was most likely in some sort of abandoned hospital or something of the sort. The room that she was in was relatively clean, though without windows and almost certainly an internal room. Perhaps an old surgery room or something similar, only, with a locking mechanism on the outer door. While the idea of a locking mechanism may have frightened her in the past few days (weeks? Month?), that was not on her mind now.

No. Now was a matter of life and death. Hers, precisely. And Jemma found she didn't want to die silent.

"Help?! Is there anyone there??" The force of the cry causes her to shudder, with pain radiating from her shoulder. No...no. No good. Can't do that. Need to focus, to conserve her strength. There was still the matter of bullet wound that will surely kill her if she doesn't do something. But...what can she do? The wooden chair that she was strapped in, such as it was, shattered with the fall, but her hands were still bound behind her. And there was nothing in this room that could help. She had many hours to contemplate.

And, in the middle of that windowless room, the shoulder pressed down as hard as Jemma could bear to staunch the bleeding, Jemma just speaks out into nothingness. "I...don't want to die here. Not like this. Daisy....Jane...."

A shake of the head, as hot tears threaten to spill out. Talking...is worthless. It means nothing here, when there is no one to listen. Jemma is going to die. Alone. And the thought scares her more than anything

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Daisy's training at Afterlife, both with her mother, and what she has been learning through with the more recent bowl have made her more attuned to the world, to the shifts. That there is more to who she is than simple vibrations. The world pulses in a song that is very beautiful to the young Agent's senses. So she lets herself go..., senses roaming... Entering that communion with the old master in the bowl.

Something *does* feel wrong though. Foreboding? A sense of loss?

She can't quite shake it, distracted in that communion, one that brings the powers of the bowl to threaten flooding the room again. No comraderie from the old master Fu apparently!

"It feels like there is somewhere else I was supposed to be, where I am needed. Not here on this room." to anyone watching from the outside she would be talking to empty air. But to her this is all real.

Jane Foster has posed:
The way into the world is grueling. No nice way to put it, being shoved out through a dangerous rush or cut free of a safe harbour. Life begins with death waiting in the wings, its handmaidens walking at every turn. Modern medicine that would withhold the reaping might ease the way in, but even the decline of a living being into a deceased state is a fight. Jemma hangs in the balance, whatever struggle awaits her. Blood pools. Silence. The air, at least, isn't freezing. The ground serves as a stopgap bandage, though the bullet bits splattered through flesh and muscle adding a sublayer of problems. No doubt she's calculated her own mortality and the odds at some level? Shadows shift, turning.

She's left to her devices, bleeding out in a place presumably where patients were tended and treated, a goal always for improving conditions rather than cutting them off with a pair of shears.

-----

Vibrations ring wrong in a bowl, the peels whatever they are to Daisy spelling doom. Tyres on the highway ripple, thrumming with urgency, as a woman stealing lives is faced with a particular issue before she can get to the safety of the Playground.

Another Jemma Simmons is confronted by the sudden appearance of a very large, perfectly mannered white horse about a hundred meters ahead of her. Arched neck lifting, the mock Andalusian -- clearly inspiration for Shadowfax when Tolkien met him, if he ever did -- obstructs the way for that car. Whomever drives might floor it or swerve but the road is only so big. Mr. Horse is content to be patient as long as other traffic behind him isn't getting in the way, trotting a few paces forward to see what happens. Hellooooo!

A shod hoof hits the ground. If anyone is monitoring that vehicle from the Playground, it's possibly going to come to an abrupt stop, speed up or slow down erratically.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Tires squeal as a steering wheel is yanked violently to one side. Fresh skid marks mar the surface of the two lane road leading back towards the Playground proper. It is a gut reaction...one not unlike what another doctor, facing her mortality in abandoned solitude, would have done. To run over a horse, out here, would bring more attention than desired, even in a somewhat remote setting such as this. Better to try to get around rather than knock through. The driver shudders, taking a few deep breaths, to calm her nerves.

Alright then. Now, where did that horse come from?

Brown eyes peer out from within the car, regarding the Shadowfax proxy. And...no. Not him! It can't be!! The other Jemma may have only met the illustrious Mr. Horse once, in cramped quarters, but you don't forget a horse when it stands upon the ceiling. There may be a particular paling of the skin...but this Jemma doesn't leave the car. Instead, the mind races. Is there a way around? Perhaps. Better to avoid this regal steed than to talk to him directly.

Almost surely a sign that this is not the same good doctor that the mystical stallion has met so long ago.

-----

Despair colours the wounded's thoughts. But, it does not break her spirit. Not yet. There is still some fight left within the good doctor. There is no one here, in this forsaken place. That much seems evident. But...she is not going to give up so easily.

Jemma shifts on the floor, keeping that seal between her shoulder and the floor as much as she possibly can, while her fingertips seek out something, anything to allow her to free herself of her bindings. Her other self did not use zip ties, but instead had actual rope, so the usual tricks that Jemma picked up from her research (YouTube is a life-saver, really) would not work. But....with a broken wooden chair at her disposal, perhaps there is a piece with enough of an edge to cut herself free. And...if she get use of her hands...perhaps, just perhaps, Jemma has a chance.

The mind clears. With a task at hand, there is no room for lamenting, for wishing for spirits to just somehow be real and to come to her aid. Jemma will rescue herself, if only so she can prove her doppelganger wrong.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
There are no coincidences. That much Daisy knows. And there is no way Daisy will be staying on her ass, sitting here and talking to her mystic bowl when she feels there is something inherently wrong. She doesn't even let the Master protest. Instead she simply gets up to her feet, "Back to the closet with you." she stashes the bowl away amidst her things.

And fetching her leather jacket, slipping into her boots and getting her hoodie up she makes her way out of the base. And to be honest, if there is one thing to be said about this base being in rural Delaware is that there's barely anyone out on the streets. Specially at a late hour...

So when Quake flies up and away from the base there is noone to register it. Visually or otherwise. Maybe she is just feeling suffocated for being such a long time inside the Playground. Yet even now, out here flying in the wind, there is still that sense of something being off. Wrong.

Jane Foster has posed:
Mr. Horse is an imposing figure, his tail swishing idly like a banner of frothy moonlight on the silvered sea. His height is not the sort of thing alone to be concerning, but if a full-grown stallion marched off an equestrian statue to show up and visit the good doctor in her pursuits. When the steering wheel turns, thick black marks left on the highway, he hardly shifts much. A concerned whicker figures after when the car rolls to a stop, and he then trots over with a surprisingly quick, light-footed gait. He might be hard to ignore when aggressive, or present by sitting on a questionable doctor.

Where indeed did Grani go? He isn't exactly trying to be stealthy in his approach, moving up to the passenger side door. Head lowered, he deigns to peer inside just in case of any damage. Nothing too serious, perhaps? If there is, a hoof smashes open said door. Otherwise, he knocks much more nicely.

"Lady physic?" he asks.

If she isn't given to responding, another knock. "Art thou well?"

-------

The dark colours of life dim to a beautiful jewel tone. No ravens stand on a rail watching over Jemma. The tiptoe towards agony doesn't reveal an open door with shrouded black curtains. Sadly, she isn't Sirius Black. The slow drumbeat of a pained heart tries to tie the threads of the extremities, keeping everything moving, contracting essentials together to keep them alive. If she can move, then she might have salvation around the corner. It's nice to think. Scratching at the bindings doesn't release anything too long.

Slender arc of a smile is a faint, delicate thing. There are places to be drawn, called in. Ghosts of past and present, an impossibility, skim the skein of reality. In blood is a reflection, barely visible, eyes shining through those much finer than her own.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
It is one thing to avoid a head-on collision with a majestic white steed of (literal) legend. It is quite another when that same example of equine perfection is talking to you, inquiring as to your well-being. This, as well as a myriad of other thoughts, swarm through a certain Jemma's head as those brown eyes, wide with alarm, turn to regard the horse at the passenger window. Should she lower it, before a hoof smashes its way through? Perhaps. That what *she* would do. Can't have them suspect.

The window lowers, as a rather shaky British accent speaks out. "Mr. Horse....you had quite startled me. I apologize for almost striking you." Is she really sorry? Can this horse read minds? More thoughts run through her head as she struggles to try to find that conversational tone amidst the chaos in her mind. "Apart from the shock of your arrival, I'm well. I hope you are, too?"

Yes...good. She would ask that question. Just get through this and get out of here...

-----

Wooden shard in hand, the careful motion of sawing begins. The shoulder, pressed hard to the floor to try to staunch the flow of vitae from the open wound, screams in anguish, forcing a responding cry of anguish from Jemma's throat. But...she doesn't stop. She needs her hands free, in order to save herself. Unlike her counterpart, Jemma's mind is amazingly clear. Focused. Free the hands, then tend to the wound.

Physician, heal thyself.

The fibers of the robe bindings start to fray, then snap. It won't take much longer, but time is of the essence. Jemma knows all too well. The spirits of the abandoned building watch on in silence as the agent works to free herself. Will she succeed, or will she join the ranks of the restless that are already present, one more soul to be lost within the crumbling walls?

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"You are letting it get to you, Daisy..." Quake murmurs to .., herself? Which brings out an instant groan, followed by a sigh. "Exactly what I was talking about, now I am talking to myself.." a shake of her head and she exhaling slowly. And sure, be like that considering she talks to a damn magical talking bowl, there's magical horses that often pop around and .., she pretty much has a crazy life as an Agent of SHIELD. Talking to herself should be the minimum of her worries!

But a moment later she again looks around, stopping mid-air, hands pointing down from her sides as she uses vibrations to keep up and afloat, above the night lights, gaze turning here and there on the surroundings below. It was undeniable she had felt something..., just a nudge. A disturbance in the Song. It was something she hadn't really felt before but .., her mother did say there was a lot more potential in her powers than simply shaking things.

There. She turns in a specific direction, letting her own senses expand and feel, the vibrations of the world around her, looking for familiar signatures ... She starts to fly again, now with more purpose.

Jane Foster has posed:
Goodness, such manners in the face of being in complete disarray. The vehicle is in a state less than great, though the fine design should be enough to take a little off-roading unless the back axle suffered an unexpected meeting with a rock. Perhaps the other elements of the curiously antiquated technology require a thorough review. Grani is hardly of the mind to offer such technological and engineering observations upon a woman of another class of profession entirely, for it would be impinging on his acceptable role in this whole matter. His dark, liquid eyes track across the interior. They take stock of a good many things, not the least of which is one Jemma Simmons, doctor and SHIELD agent, about her business while hesitating to roll down the window. Not even a mechanical grind of gears or the humming window motor perturbs the great horse, though his ear flicks to the strange accumulating sounds from within the vehicle. From within the woods, too.

He is, after all, respectful. "I would be remiss in my duty not to inquire after your wellbeing, lady physic, particularly as you have departed from your route with that questionable conveyance. I wonder at its safety. Are you capable of exiting this box safely? It would seem to have many limitations when damaged." Only _posh_ ponies go on and on about the superiority of Asgardian everything, and he delicately avoids the matter. Instead, he nudges the door with his finely shod hoof, which possibly rocks the car enough to emit a hiss somewhere from a broken line. Does the engine still run? He is alert for that explosive fire inside the hood doing wretched things, proving once and for all everyone on Midgard needs proper pegasi to get anywhere.

"Whilst your manners are impeccable, you need not worry overly for my health. After such a shock, perhaps it would be best to sit down and permit yourself a few moments of repose. Come, I see a fine patch in the woodland that might suit. Anyone else unfortunate enough to encounter troubles on this road must surely have used it in the past."

His tail swishes, a merry little endeavour to normalize running into a full-grown Aesir steed on the road, which probably constitutes a hallucination or a Lord of the Rings re-enactment gone horribly awry if there's no Gandalf to speak of. Not even a proper hobbit.

Perhaps they can find a cut-rate wizard if the Maiar are busy. That brown one was a loss. Maybe a grey one who got lost on an island somewhere.

Grave as the situation may be, the horse flutters. A sheen of light dances over his folded wings, feathers gracefully fluffed up against the cold. Might he even be offering a place for the Englishwoman to shelter? This cannot possibly go wrong, not at all. "For one so far from home, the small comforts must be the least can I offer one of your standing." So he waits for her to emerge, if she will, to the kind arc of his protective stead. Nothing to worry about here at all.

Even if the moment he emerges, the war horse will damn well bite her.

Jane Foster has posed:
Elsewhere in the circle of affairs, blood flows, bandages are torn, and pain remains an old, dangerous friend. The spirits in the abandoned building, such as they are, do not bide their time too long.

They, but for one, remain utterly at bay. Madness and poverty condemned a good many to marching the same tune, walking the same unwelcome path over and over. Little better than echoes of their unhappy lives, true, these gossamer things know entirely what they are seeing. What sees them.

<<Wouldn't it be convenient if you came when I called you?>> A protesting thought heard by none accepts the futile efforts. <<Why couldn't it be //you// over there in the corner?>>

They hollowly stare. She stares back through borrowed eyes, the calculated efforts of a doctor to fix herself not at all unfamiliar. Perhaps that's the cruelest jest of all, to see another physician die before her and not a damn thing she can do. A child then. An adult now. Not the first medical professional to be trapped within, but Jane Foster ticks off exactly what she would do with her medical experience in this situation and it's not much different from Jemma's choice.

Other than the whole 'not die' business. Too late for that. A rictus grimace forms.

It might be felt.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Departed from her route? Well, yes, of course she has, because a damned horse just appeared out of nowhere! Does *she* have to put up with this? How in the bloody hell??...

The thoughts taper off as the doctor in the crashed vehicle takes a deep breath to settle herself. While, a moment ago, the engine was running, albeit slightly roughly, the knock from a probing hoof seems to have taken the engine completely out. And, it is no good to sit in a dead car. "Yes, perhaps you are right. It does appear I'm going nowhere in this." Is that a commentary on the vehicle, or the overall situation? The answer could very well be for both. "I should be able to leave the vehicle rather easily. I wouldn't worry about me. I best be walking on to find a phone to get this towed."

What, Jemma without her phone. Highly unlikely. Yet, the statement was given about as conversational as she could muster. With the labcoat still on her form, the doctor moves to open the door...on the driver side. She manages to get out...only to earn herself a rather nasty nibble from the Aesir steed.

"Bloody Hell!?!"

Oh, yes. The jig might very well be up for false prophets and physicians.

-----

There are no thoughts heard in the stillness of the room other than Jemma's own. Genius though she may be, Jemma has yet to unlock that particular mystery. Still, her own thoughts are singular in purpose. A constant litany of 'keep going, keep going' finding pacing with the sawing motion that causes, finally one of the strands of rope snaps, and with it the tensile strength of the rest of the woven strands. The sudden jerking free of the arms jolts another bolt of fire through her ruined shoulder.

A voice, weak but resolute, breaks the silence. With only the ghosts of the deceased to hear (plus one not quite dead), Jemma groans as she rolls to her back, a hand shifting to press against her left shoulder. The blood-soaked shirt is shifted, just enough to help apply pressure, as Jemma finally is able to sit up.

Time for some first aid.

The sound of tearing fabric soon fills the silence. Strips for a tourniquet. Must stop the blood flow. Then time to leave. The thoughts are vocalized, though for whose benefit is sketchy at best. Perhaps it is just to calm Jemma down...to keep her focus.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
There is an urgency calling her, Daisy's vibrations making her fly fast. She knows she needs to go this way, her attunement to her surroundings growing, picking up a faint vibration. Familiar? Very much so... But then, what is this?

Grani's teleportation stunt means there's a very familiar 'signal' right under her, and then .., another one? But it doesn't make sense. Not when she is picking a nearly identical one up ahead.. But those songs are nearly equal.

And that's Jemma Simmons' song.

Brown eyes turn downwards, a moment hesitation. She starts to fly down, vibrations felt in the area as she comes to land right atop the maimed car. And ... 'blood hell'? Really?

Though with those two signals flaring up something becomes clear. ".. Who are you?" tone firm, even as she starts to focus on that other one, trying to pick up exactly where it's 'singing' from.

Jane Foster has posed:
Beep, beep, beep! The complaints of technology fail to compensate for unexpected collisions or surprises, one of the reasons flying or self-driving cars are for the likes of Tony Stark and Lex Luthor only. They are the few who can afford American health care in the event they collide with anything or the Lex3 rolls over Grandma at an intersection. Jemma Simmons isn't going to walk away from the momentary accident.

Flaring nostrils pick up the traces violence leaves with an intimate familiarity. For Mr. Horse is, above all, fashioned in service of life and death. His father is ridden by no less than the All-father, and Sleipnir would be a pretty poor excuse for a majestic steed not to impart a few lessons on his son.

For all the horse loves the finer things in life, he most certainly knows blood when he smells it and smell it he does, along with the other proofs of incipient harm and hurt all around the lovely lady physic. Blood without wounds from going off the road or bandages.

Granted, the great teeth biting into her shoulder do not seek to entirely dislocate the joint or crush bone. They very well could. He is no mere lazy Clydesdale mowing down whole fields of oats and barley. (Point of fact, he prefers liquor and proper Asgardian fare, but that is none of their business here.) But he could hurt Jemma if she pushes the point of getting away. He plants his back hooves in the ground and drags her forth, forced to silence by the most ignoble of options.

Usually his rider would take care of this, but the posh ponies up there in the stables would either trample a mortal by accident and call it done or something worse. He is a cut apart! In his own head, anyway. His displeased _Hmmmrph!_ comes around her arm, the low, rolling notes emerging from the impressive barrel chest with emphasis.

Bad woman. She can answer questions later as he opts to trot away with his naughty lady physician in tow. She could of course try to run away.

Really. He's itching for action, like any good son of Asgard would be. In fact, his crown princely uncle is practically known for it. Hence one Jemma and one Grani Sleipnirson of Asgard go forth with a mission in mind!

This isn't going to cause problems if they run into traffic, not at all.

Jane Foster has posed:
Meanwhile, in the bleeding shell of a woman struggling to save her own life, one bystander is left to glare at the other ghosts smeared in and out of her awareness. Few encroach. They have their own indifferent routines to follow, lashing out only when interrupted or driven by some preternatural purpose. Whatever terrible cycle grinds Jane through one life to the next doesn't show any interest in letting her reach out to the unfortunates here.

It prefers she suffer in a totally different way.

She's a distortion in the signal of her own, the silent melody unable to act. Pain bleeds into a new angle, effective as Jemma wraps up the injury. <<Just start tying it off. Spend so much time wrapping this out and it's as good as a winding sheet. Gunshots are ugly. Not as bad as stabbing, in some ways, but I'm sure Dane would say they are about equal.>> Her thoughts crackle with a certain rueful sorrow. The freefall hasn't hit yet. Every step pulls them together to the inexorable.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
If it isn't one thing, it is another.

The bite from Grani had pressure, at first...enough to cause the particular Simmons in his grasp to cry out in a very un-Jemma-like fashion. Then, a rather audible *thud* of feet hitting metal roof snaps her attention over towards that car of hers...and the very angry-looking Daisy Johnson snapping a question, asking who Jemma is. An answer is almost imminent, as well (a rather exasperated 'who else would I be?') before Jemma realizes something.

The pressure on her shoulder is looser.

Perhaps it was the arrival of Daisy, or maybe it was a subconscious lessening due to Grani latching onto what he might consider at least a pleasant acquaintance, if not a friend. Or, maybe it is just sheer dumb luck. Whatever the case, the cacophony of chaos within Jemma's mind suddenly clears....and a singular thought shouts at her from the darkness.

Run!

Feet begin to sprint, away from the horse and certainly away from Daisy. In tandem, in a fluid motion that would almost be considered graceful if it wasn't so hurried, the not-so-good doctor sheds her labcoat, the arms sliding free while Grani is left holding the coat betwixt his teeth. The pocket, with its highly unusual cargo, swings freely, smacking against the foreleg of the great beast, the scent of freshly burnt gunpowder assaulting the nostrils from the pocket within.

And...Jemma is quick, already running through the underbrush in the forest. Perhaps she can get away from both horse and Inhuman. Most likely not. But she is not turning around and looking back to see.

-----

Meanwhile, that other song continues to sing. Though...the rhythm is not healthy. Perhaps Daisy has felt it before. Maybe, when she last saw a certain spirit, she heard the stanzas then. The familiar melody of Jemma, undercut by a disturbing counter-melody, unique all its own. Low, subtle, but growing steadily.

The clarion call of death.

The strips are tied off. Perhaps Jemma heard the spectral advise. Most likely not. Nonetheless, the results are the same. The tourniquet is in place, such as it is. The breaths are gaining more of the ragged edge to them, as Jemma somehow pulls herself to her feet. Leaning heavily to her right, she pushes off to try to get out of the room. To at least attempt to leave.

The once clear mindset gives way towards panic, the tendrils of fear curling around the edges of Jemma's mind and starting to gain purchase. Where is she? Now that she can move, where is she going to go? Will anyone find her? How long before she loses consciousness? Every step is a step closer to freedom. Every step is a step closer to death.

And, it is getting hard for Jemma to differentiate between the two.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Is Daisy angry at Grani? At Jemma? Perhaps it's not clear just yet.. And there is hesitation too. The not-so-good Jemma looks so .., real. But ..., something is off. Something has been off for a long time now. All the signs were there, she just ..., didn't realize it.

It's that realization, and the hesitation that comes next that really stops Daisy from blasting this Jemma's socks off. And then she is running into the brushes and out of sight of Daisy... Yes, that just proves it, doesn't it? "No ..." grief assails her, followed by a moment of panic until the song calls her again from that abandoned warehouse.

"Mr. Horse." a look to Grani, her eyes wide. "Jemma is hurt." or worse. "We need to go." She knows well that song of death. So similar to the one she felt up on that plane..

When she saw Jane's ghost.

Her hands push to the sides, vibrations again making her go airborne (and smashing that poor car to smitterens under her). When she starts flying it's on the opposite direction of where faux-Jemma ran off to, forgetting all about the pursuit to go aid the real one.

And subtlety? There is none when Daisy blows up the wooden boards covering a window on the second floor of that warehouse, splinters bursting and she flying in. Footsteps are heard thumping about, then a voice. Familiar? Or is it all due to the blood loss, that close brush to death? "Jemms!" it seems to be calling out repeatedly.

Daisy starts her search, trying to 'ping' in to Jemma's position.

Jane Foster has posed:
Be careful what you wish for, even when an Asgardian horse. Not the least because Jemma is a wily sort of woman, unlike proper physicians and healers. For someone used to dealing with the likes of Loki in some proximity, you'd think he knows something about the dangers which he faces. Oh no, not for this purpose though.

Another human comes to the fore, and it is the partner who offered those fine drink recommendations. He is still half-dragging Jemma along when she wrenches herself free of his admittedly gentle grip. Distracted or not, that sudden freedom from acting as a mere packhorse for a prisoner evident.

"Lady, //that// woman irregularly harmed someone. The blood on her is too fresh and she is cagey!" he warns in as fast as one can to Daisy, jerking his head her way. Well, subtlety is not the name of the game when he springs into motion at a dizzying rate explaining why no one in myth ever rides stray horses without punishment. Springing off his back hooves gives him a mighty bit of propulsion, seeing him fly forward into a canter and then a gallop. She's smaller, his quarry, but that may or may be useful. Streaming tail and mane make for a splendid sight unless the viewer is, of course, the one being chased down by a charger of impressive size. Alas, no servants of the Witch-King of Aglarond to smash into the ground with handsome hooves, but he will be pleased to thunder after her.

The remedy must be made, the light crash of his hooves and Jemma's feet making a nice, clear pattern to follow. Daisy shan't have much to lose in following if she dares.

------

A bit and a lifetime away, the endless efforts to forestall death bring a sigh out of the rider trapped in a body. She knows, by now, the many ways to die. Not all of them, but a death by gassing proves very different from being mowed down in a hail of bullets. The latter gives a certain expertise. Beats lasers, any day. What she wouldn't give for a rolling chair to offer fine suggestions! Alas, that's not a choice.

<<You know not to close your eyes. Path of least resistance, darling.>>

Jemma Simmons has posed:
With majestic legend in pursuit of the deviant, that wholly *wrong* version of the song that Jemma Simmons composes retreats, even as Daisy crashes in through a second story window of the abandoned hospital. Closer...so much closer...to the true melody of the Jemma that she knows so well. And yet, that song is faltering, the minor key sharpening. Daisy knows that key all too well. She has heard it on multiple occasions...the same mournful key that calls to the poor wandering soul currently locked in that dying vessel, unable to do anything for her friend. Such is the lot of those who dare to mettle in the affairs of gods.

Daisy, so close, frantically searching for her sister-in-spirit, if not in flesh. Jane, a spirit locked in the prison of constant death, forced to watch, to feel everything her friend endures. And Jemma, alone yet not, clinging to life with a grim determination, let knowing that all of her efforts will be for naught if she cannot find help within the next few minutes.

The Furiae, united once more, with such grim portents before them.

Was that Jane's voice? Telling Jemma to not close her eyes? Perhaps...though, with the loss of blood, it could very well be an hallucination. But, strangely, it provides the poor young woman a momentary flash of hope. She can be here. It is fully possible, after all that Jemma has seen. Could it be now, when the end seems so very close, that Jemma finally accepts that which she cannot explain? Perhaps soon...soon Jemma will know the answer to all things. In that, death would not be so terrible.

The crash...the shattering of glass and wood. The unmistakable thud of boots landing on the floor above her. And....Daisy's voice! Muffled, with the floor between the two, but very real! Most certainly not an hallucination! Jemma leans against the wall with her right arm, gathering her strength to call out.

"DAISY!!!"

An eruption of sound escaping from Jemma's throat, calling out to her friend, her would be salvation. It rings out, resonating through form and air, running through the wood and space between, so that Daisy not only hears Jemma's anguished cry, but feels it, too. Beneath her feet, directly below her. The cry takes almost all the energy that Jemma has left, as she topples back down to the floor of the hallway, prone on her back. The pain in her shoulder barely perceptible now, as the doctor clings to the last vestiges of consciousness.

Then, the skies open. Rather, the ceiling above and just to the right of her explodes downward, raining plaster, chunks of wood, and archaic linoleum from the floor above. And, within the swirling mass of dust, a familiar shape drops to the floor. An avenging angel, sent from afar. Somehow, able to find the dwindling speck of life in this hospital where only the dead reside.

And, as that figure bends down, those strong arms of Daisy's picking up the prone form of Jemma, a weak smile forms on the doctor's face. Words, whisper soft, drift into hearing, before, finally, she passes out...but not passes on.

"You...found me. Thank you. Thank you both..."