1963-07-08 - Blood and Smoke
Summary: Annamena finds a hurt 'soldier' and helps him recover.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None' — please, don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
bucky poindexter 

"Help! Is there a doctor nearby?"

Words no one with medical training wants to hear, particularly when they're coming from a man who's screaming in worry and looks like he just left a butcher's shop and tripped. He jabs a finger down the alleyway, jumping up and down. "There's a guy— I think he's been shot! He's bleeding!" he shouts. "I ain't no doctor, someone get a doctor!"

It's not the best part of town, and it's not the best time of day, so the man largely gets some strange side-eyes and a lot of ignored. Considering he's wearing a rainboot for a hat, it's no wonder he's dismissed.

But the blood on his jacket is very fresh and very real.


Oh, there was someone nearby alright!

Fob watches. Annamena Pinkerton actually carried a fob watch that was passed down from her grandfather, to her father, and to her brother, than to her. The only reason why she had a fob watch was to remind her of home. And remind her that, much like the Rabbit in the Hat from Alice in Wonderland's tales, she was going to be late, late, late! She was due back at SHIELD, her place of business within half an hour. And the only thing that doesn't stop was time.

Unless you're a time stopping mutant of course, but lets digress.

The cry from the man does catch her attention, Dr. Pinkerton actually taking the moment to weigh the need of securing the job or saving a life. Logic dictates that as a doctor who has taken the Hypocratic Oath must serve that oath to protect all life and everything it entails. But she was also a scientist first. And there were bills that needed to be paid and food to put on her own table that.. if she was too involved in her studies? She would not eat.

"Beans.." She swears to herself, newspaper dumped into the garbage as she quickly rushes her way towards the hollaring man in little steps. "I'm a doctor!" The black woman eagerly pipes up, short as she was, she had to look up towards the man and even try to reach for his wrists to calm him down. "Settle down." He seemed panicked. In a moment it seemed as if he were going to break out into a sweat if no one answered him. "Take me to the man, and then I need you to get to a phone and call for help. Alright?"


"I said a doctor, woman, not some dumb black broad!" the man snaps, shoving her away. He turns away from Annamena and starts shuffling down the street with a staggering, drunken step, bawling in difficult to process slurs about the fellow who's been injured down the road.

That leaves Annamena to go find her own way down the alley, and it doesn't take long to discover that the homeless man was in fact telling the truth— there's an ugly trail of blood leading from the alley into a broken door and the storage rooms of an apartment building. It looks like someone kicked the sturdy metal door in, a remarkable feat of strength, and the trail leads to a man propped up against a set of shelves. He's half incoherent, eyes almost shut, and it looks like he was halfway through trying to patch up a pair of ugly gunshot wounds to his right arm— improvising bandages and tourniquets with electrical cables and cloth diapers.


Poindexter has reconnected.


She tried her best, she truly did. But being who she was, she could only do so much. The push sends her sprawling back upon the ground, skidding just a little, the glasses falling off of her face which she soon picks up with a shaky hand. And the sad thing about it all was that she didn't get mad. She wasn't allowed to, deep down she knew that. Being a woman was hard, but being black and a woman? Rough. But that wasn't going to deter her, she immediately crawled to her feet with a slight little limp, following after the homeless man for just a touch, thinking better of it.. then turning down the alleyway.

And that's when she sees it. The blood that scrapes across the concrete mingled with cigarette butts and milk cartons. A little puddle here and there of god knows what. A handprint? Could it have been the homeless mans? It was too hard to tell.

The door itself was also suspect; it looked like whomever busted it open took strength to do it. Or perhaps someone was thrown through it, the body of a full grown male who was thrown at a traje..

..someones hurt. No time to analyze.

She takes in a slow breath, breathing from the purse of her lips to enter in, her hands shaking, eyes widening as she sees the man propped up. Whatever little bit of fear she had in the moment was doused immediately in that good ol' fashioned SHIELD training. Sort of.

Her footsteps were light, but the little heels clomped against the ground as she rushes towards him, already speaking. "It's okay.. It's going to be okay." Not a bad job. "I'm a doctor. I know what you're thinking. I'm a woman and I'm a negro. But let me take care of you and you can yell at me afterwards." Her bag was shifted from her shoulder and put down, the bandages untied and discarded. At least they were somewhat clean.


Poindexter has partially disconnected.


When she crosses that threshold, the man's left hand snaps up and aims a squat, boxy looking gun at her. It's wildly futuristic, something that even the SHIELD agents have not seen before.

"Get… get back…" His hand doesn't so much as waver but somewhere, his certitude seems to, as his arm begins slowly lowering until the gun clatters against the concrete. He's lost a fair amount of blood, it seems.

"Go… away…" he says, hoarsely, his words slurring together as he slumps back against the shelves. He's not a tall fellow, on closer inspection, and his eyes are darkened with sloppy charcoal and deeply sunken under heavy brows. His clothing looks as if he salvaged it from a street trash can, but that gun seems to suggest he's not some simple hobo.

Then his eyes roll up and he falls unconscious, slumping sideways.


The snap of the gun has her skirting back, her hands immediately raised, her eyes closing and head turning with a wince to prepare to be shot. She wasn't going to leave, not when he needed help, the Oath calls ot her to die saving a life and she'd do it. No matter how irrational it seemed…

She says nothing.. just keeping quiet, her eyes slowly opening as she hears the clatter of the gun, waiting those few, critical moments until his eyes roll up and he slumps.

"SHIT." She snaps out angrily. Oh god. Anna was angry. "I didn't fuckin' come in here to crawl around on the fucking ground for you to fuc—…"


It was broad daylight when Annamena went into the warehouse. And it was night now as seen through the dusted and ruined window that decorate the inside of the building. It was different than when he first saw it; a table was pulled out that looked too heavy to move, cleaned off and draped with a sheet upon which he laid on. The coat that Annamena wore was bundled and bunched beneath his head to keep it propped up so that he could feel comfortable. His wounds? Cleaned. Dressed with a few hints of gauze topped by a flowery pattern that came from the small dress that she wore.

The area itself seemed cleaned to a point that a person with an insane amount of OCD could do. Boxes were all lined up straight, some crates fashioned into a chair that she could sit upon. Whatever wasn't needed was broken down and placed into a barrel with the smell of gasoline and more cloth wrapped around the wood for lighting just in case there was a chill.

More importantly, the door. The door that was bent and kicked in was.. actually fine. It had its fair share of dents but it seems as if -someone- pushed it all back into place with the help of machinery. But there was no one else there, just Dr. Pinkerton, who kept a bedside vigil of the strange man with the chalked out eyes.


There's almost no warning. His eyes are shut— then they open. He looks left and right, then before he can be checked he swings his legs off the table and tries to sit upright.

"Where am I!" he demands in a guttural, choking voice that is raspy from disuse and dehydration. He starts coughing violently, shoulders shaking.

With his shirt off, it becomes clear that he's no 'mere' human himself— his left arm from his midpectoral down is some sort of unholy prosthetic, stainless steel plates clicking and sliding over one another with each motion he makes. It's a bit clumsy, and the individual fingers don't seem to have a lot of dexterity. Had she nod recently had a very intimate view of the flesh melding into metal, Pinkerton might think it some sort of armored sleeve, instead of a prosthetic.


Make no mistake, she was a doctor. But a scientist first. So the man would be right to assume that while he was undressed and re-dressed? She carefully examined him while he slept. He was a fine specimen indeed. Corded muscle shows that the man employs a routine regimine and was in a soldiers shape. The hollow of his breathing did not showcase that he had a rib broken or a punctured lung, and that he did not smoke. And if he did, it was not much. But there were also wounds, old wounds that fall back to her initial thought. His dressings, while not bad, were nearly militant and rushed.

Objectively speaking, he was a handsome man. And if not for the chalky substance around his eyes, he would almost look like perfection. Though that too was cleaned off, right after she removed the face-gear just to ensure that he was breathing.

Which was a good thing, the way that he snapped up caused her to jump down from the crates she fashioned to reach out to put her hands upon her chest. Fortune, it favors the bold and often gets the bold knocked the hell out.

"You are where you left yourself." Anna states, allowing him that little bit of time to cough it all out. "It's just a little bit cleaner and reinforced." She tries, if she could, to return him back to his back. If not? She'd leave him. "I've dressed your wounds and saw to your recovery. Please do not make sudden movements. The stitches were quickly done to prevent you from exsanguination, but.." She frowns slightly. Could she even take someone like this back to SHIELD for recovery? It.. it was his arm.. she.. it was hard to place.

"..I went out and got.. food.. drinks. You need to rest. Understand?" And poor Dr. Pinkerton, she did it in the slip that she wore. Most people mistook her for a callgirl.


The stranger tries to resist but he's still injured, and weak from blood loss. Even then, he's strong— almost too strong for her to manage without her superhuman talents giving her a bit of a kick in at the last moment.

Relenting, perceiving his inability to move as weakness, the stranger lays back atop the table, coughing a few more times.

"Who are you?" he asks, in that rasping gutteral voice. It might once have been an even pleasant baritone, but it's full of the nothingness between words where normal inflection might be. "Why did you help me?" He takes a shuddering, slow breath, and seems to get his coughing under control, his left arm clicking and reaching with clumsy motions.

"Water," he demands, hoarsely.


It was a fight, to be sure. She had to consciously refrain from tapping into that bit of 'Hyde' just to keep him down. And she was a little thing too! But still, he gave in and soon she takes out a breath. "You're strong." She comments. Which was a good thing.

She turns around, already moving towards a fresh new bag near the other boxes that she's assembled, digging in it briefly to retrieve a few glasses. While Cola used to be in them, they were rinsed and refilled with water for easier transportation.

"I'm Dr. Annamena Pinkerton. I work with the research and development department in SHIELD. I'm also one of their many medical staff who's just taken over their prestigous labs!" She seemed too happy about that, but that was neither here nor there. It was just her demeanor. As to why did she help him? She could only shrug, approaching him carefully to lean against the side of the table, coming up eye level towards the side of his face with a scrunch of her features. "You were dying. It's my duty to help you. I'm a doctor." Simply stated!

The bottle of water was soon drawn up towards the side of his lips, her other hand lightly stroking the top of his head. "Go easy.. okay? It'll hurt a bit going down. Your throat is raw."


The man seizes the water and drinks. He seems to ignore the pain and discomfort, guzzling the quart canteen until it's spent, and then tosses it aside with a clatter of glass on concrete, completely emptied. He coughs a few more times, shaking his head, but seems to be rallying a bit.

His left arm is clumsy enough, it seems, that it can only make big movements— up and down, left and right, and limited axes of motion on the shoulder. It's perhaps the most advanced prosthetic she's ever seen, or heard of.

"SHIELD. Agent of SHIELD?" he asks her, blearily. "Why are you in New York?" His voice is guttural and his accent, very hard to place. Not quite definitively American— not European, and not Russian. A strange mishmash of vowels and jangly consonants.

"How long was I out?" he asks, next, his tone blunt and matter of fact. His dark brown eyes sweep around the room, and there's a sense he's counting long steps to the door, to the windows, to the nearest potential weapon. Everything about this man seems to scream of a lack of humanity.

His eyes focus on Annamena and traverse her from head to foot. His brow furrows a bit, puzzled.

"Why are you naked?"


Anna jumps a little as he begins to drink, taking a wise step back as he.. well. Drinks. He was like a brute in that regard, not stopping, possibly even dribbling thin trails of water down his chin with little hint of modesty. At least he'll be okay.

To say that his arm was original was.. well, minimal. It was actually quite magnificent. She even tried to move it once, her fingers touching along where the metal and flesh connect.

"I actually live here in New York." She answers, turning once again to draw towards the bag, a sandwich picked up and carried towards him. Now that he's had a moment to rest, she wanted him to actually sit up to let the liquid sink into his belly. "Come on.. up.."

"If I could guess, you were out for at least three hours." She watches him, the way his eyes move, how he stiffens and seems tense. He was a soldier alright. Purely unorthodox. Even when he scans her from head to toe, a little grin draws upon her lips. There wasn't a laugh, but a hand to lift and gesture at his bandages. That was her entire damn dress he wore. "It makes your eyes pop." Now, she offers him the sandwich, her expression serious. "Now, I've answered your questions. Who are you and are you danger?"


He accepts her air, steading himself on the table with one hand and his boots dangling over the concrete underfoot. The stranger looks down again, at his arm, at the shredded remains of the dress on the floor and bound around him. Two gunshots to his right arm, and secondary wounds to his right torso. He'd been in one hell of a fight, particularly if one reads the bruises blooming on his cheekbone and chest.

"Bandages," he states, phrasing the obvious into a single remark.

He accepts the sandwich and just to confirm her suspicions, starts wolfing it down like a seasoned trencherman— barely stopping chewing long enough to swallow. He demolishes the snack in thirty seconds.

Once he's done, he swallows more water, belches soundlessly, and looks back at Pinkerton. "I'm… John Patelli," he lies. "I'm fine. I was mugged, I think," he says in those grating monosyllables. "They shot me and I ran. Then I must have lost consciousness."


"Bandages." Ann gives a faint little nod, her lips pursing, cheeks nearly hollowing as she releases an audible pop.

As he eats, she moves towards her own personal bag, shifting through it quickly to retrieve what appears to be two cigarettes, and an old fashioned zippo. Once she returns to his side with another glass of water, she drags a crate closer so that she could step upon it to settle upon the table next to him.

The quiet burp actually has her laughing a little, and his story? She couldn't tell if it was a lie or not. He was a soldier, and from what she's seen of them they wouldn't have let themselves get overrun.

"You actually tried to patch yourself up before you lost consciousness, John." She hands him one of the rolled cigarettes (read: marijuana), the zippo preoffered as she tucks her own behind her ear. "But you do know that I only believe half of that story." She looks to him now, leaning against his good arm. The metal arm, bumping it briefly with her shoulder. "It's okay though. Working for SHIELD, I understand the need for secrecy." Too bad, Annamena didn't have the common sense to keep her damn mouth shut. "So you don't have to tell me more if you don't want to."

"Just know that I'm going to ask until you tell me to stop. Or.. until you're able to walk out of her with a straight back and not with a slouch."


Bucky picks up one of the joints and lights it, taking a few quick and experienced puffs. He's clearly encountered marijuana before, because after the first puff he waits a few moments to see how it hits him before passing it back to her.

"I don't want to talk about it," he rasps. He looks around, trying to slide off the table and thinking better of it once he feels how lightheaded he still is. He glances down at the edge of her slip riding up a bit daringly, and with an uncomfortable expression averts his eyes from her leggy display.

"Where are my clothes?" he asks, casting his eyes around. "I cannot stay long. I have to get back home."


It was a good painkiller for sure. Dr. Pinkerton kept a few of those on hand, especially ones that would ease her mood. Something that's not apart of her file of course. She watches him, whatever smile she had upon her face falls as she examines him yet again. He really was.. well. If she were allowed to have crushes he probably would be it. As he passes it to her, she leans back with one hand, joint brought to her lips to inhale.. slowly exhaling the plume of smoke through her nose.

"Fair enough."

She takes another hit of the joint, then draws it over towards him as he asks for his clothing. "They're over here. But.. I'm going to walk you home to make sure you get there safe. Alright? And if you want.. just call me Ann." It was clear that she didn't have many friends. Why she was hanging on to this strange man was anyones guess. But then again.. she was half na.. oh, she has a coat to cover up with! His shirt was grabbed and carried towards him, her fingers wriggling for the joint, but only after he got his much needed dues from it.


The stranger seems done with the weed, handing it off to her readily enough. Just enough smoke in his nose to clear the pain, to make movement possible.

He accepts his shirt and shrugs into it awkwardly, grunting in pain through his nose as he forces his right arm into the sleeve.

He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse, and trying to not stare at the mostly naked (it's the 60s, a slip is nothing!) woman sauntering back and forth in front of him and staring at him with uncomfortable intensity.


The joint was tucked in between her lips as she turns to begin packing her things. Not even watching as he pulls on his shirt, figuring the marijuana would do it's job well enough for him to move without pause. The grunts though, causes her head to snap back, her gaze narrowing, then away again as she curls everything into a ball to dump into the barrel with cloth and sticks. One more inhale, and the joint was popped from her lips, tossed into the barrel which immediately lights afire.

"Alright. Let's go." Sure, she was naked, but thankfully the coat she wore would hide most of it, nevermind the spots of blood that began to soak into it's fabric. It was pulled on and afixed upon her shoulders, her fingers pulling her hair out as she tries to smooth it down, slightly uncomfortable. The blood bothered her. Not so much that it ws blood, but she was wearing it. Out in public. People were going to talk.

Stepping towards him now, she reaches out her hand. She wasn't sure if he was going to take it or not.


The stranger is still barely alert, only somehow moving under remarkable willpower— but when the woman reaches for his hand, he recoils from her and moves to his feet, stepping away from her. "Get away from me," he growls, in that sullen, surly monotone. In a heartbeat his visage changes as some lingering sense of propriety, embarassed at her lack of modesty, is washed away by bleak survival instinct.

He doesn't stand around to debate it, either— he grabs his boots in one hand and casts around for a duffel bag. Spotting that wickedly futuristic SMG on the table he quickly jams it into the duffel as well, where it clatters against other steel objects, and he beats a fast and clumsy retreat out the door and into the night where he vanishes into the swirling steam-filled alleyway.

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