1964-07-23 - Hell-Bear Don't Care (A "What If" Tale)
Summary: In an alternate universe, Stephanie Strange comes face to face with the dreaded Winter Soldier and Jane Barnes learns what it's like to come to fisticuffs with the Sorceress Supreme. There's also a flaming bear and wreckage and good times all around!
Related: The "What If" Tales
Theme Song: "Another One Bites the Dust", Hidden Citizens
strange bucky 


There's such a thing as taking on prey far too big for you, like watching a wolverine (not *that* Wolverine) drive a bear off from its kill. But in a wolverine's case, it's sheer rage, bravado and ferocity that might give it the victory. In this case….some mission planner has badly, badly miscalculated.

It's the depths of winter in the Swiss alps, on the German border. Pretty as a Christmas postcard, the little town just within the border. And also the site of some very bizarre shenanigans on the occult front. Not everything stashed by refugees in the Second World War made it back to rightful owners….or any owners at all, beyond numbered bank accounts. Which is why Strange is here at all - there was a call for help from a local sorcerer, a watchmaker by trade, whose attention was caught by the pulse of malign energy coming from that bank vault.

But there are other forces seeking artifacts, other ears tuned to those whispers on the wind. Which is why there's someone watching the bank from almost a half-mile out through a scope, lean body veiled by a white poncho and the snow that's fallen atop it.

*

This bear is on fire. No, really, it's a-flame — and most certainly not from this dimension. The bank vault's door is slagged open, the bear's claws having ripped through it like a knife through butter, and the roar it releases rattles the windows of the bank.

The battle-cry back at it is mezzo-soprano, basically a screech of rage, and the petite brunette in storm-blues dodges a sudden swat in her direction. This thing is the size of a small school bus and very annoyed at being awakened from its slumber. But — the Sorceress Supreme is very annoyed at the fact that its scintillating fur seems to be deflecting every water-based elemental spell thrown at it thus far.

"Come on, you hairy bastard," she taunts, eyes flashing frosted-violet behind the dark lashes. Another softball-sized ball of icy water breaks on the hell-ursine's face and then —

Glass fractures as the Mistress of the Arts takes a glancing blow from one of those paws the size of hubcaps. The crowd scatters as she bumps and slides into the snowy street. "…augh!" she manages to exhale as things double around her momentarily.

Hell-bear don't care. It rolls out of the bank, melting the glass it steps upon and just about anything else within three feet of its bulk. Its bright attention is all for the petite practitioner, still attempting to find her feet.

*

Not a lot fractures that icy reserve - the Soldier's programmed to be entirely mission focused, with no extraneous distractions. But there are some things out there capable of shocking that cold heart….and a flaming bear golem is definitely one of them.

It's the kind of sin that earns you some extra awful punishment at the Red Room, but Jane can't keep from jerking her head up in shock and swearing softly. No one on comms, no one to hear, but her expression's still chagrined as she settles her eye at the scope again. The muzzle wavers as she tries to choose the target. The Sorceress is the mission, but….no one said anything about a bear. A bear made of fire. That's going to have to be dealt with first. There is, almost lost in the noise of the crowd, a flat *crack* as the rifle fires, echoing around the bowl of the valley. God only knows what it does to the bear.

*

"You just wait — I have a special pocket for you," the Sorceress manages, scrambling to her feet in time to see the bear roar at the retreating bystanders. People scattered when the creature exploded from the bank's wall. The scent of singed cement and acrid taste of bubbled glass takes over. The crimson Cloak comes into play now, pulling her upwards beyond immediate swipe range, and flakes of snow twirl around Strange as a gust buffets her. "Steady…" It's a whisper to the relic.

The next point of attack is brutal and basic in casting: the nearest Volkswagen car, wrapped suddenly in strands of golden light, SMASHES into the fiery creature. Beetle meets bear and then the gas engine explodes because life is just like that right now, apparently. Throwing up her hands, the curl of the Cloak blocks most of the shrapnel — save for a shard that skips along the bridge of her nose. It's a shallow cut, but boy, does it bleed. She wipes at it and grimaces, the motion hurting and set to bring tears to her eyes. "Seven hells!"

Then comes the echoing of the rifle shot and the bear emerges from the smoke THRASHING in pain. Whomever shot it had fairly good aim; the thing bleeds from the ribs in a plume of molten ice-blue ichor.

*

There's a suppressor, so no betraying flash of muzzle flare. Another rapid shot, coming from gods know where. Then a few more in succession. Maybe this can be done without force. Enemy of my enemy is my ally, right? All of it striking the bear.

No pride in the Soldier's heart. That damn thing is the size of a car. If she couldn't hit it at this range…..it'd be days in a cell.

*

Strange quickly looks in the direction of where she thinks the shots are coming from. The supernatural bear is now writhing, biting futilely at the air around it, and the snapping of its jaws is like a trash compactor on double-speed. What stings it, it cannot find, and the Volkswagen car takes the brunt of its fury.

The insurance company is not going to want to handle that report. Neither are the local police, truthfully.

The Sorceress narrows her eyes in that direction, having found no one standing about obviously, and flits backwards beneath the eaves of a nearby shop. She has a few seconds to weigh options and from the shadows of her momentary retreat, her eyes glow with the Arts.

"Banish it," she finally mutters, preferring that it raged about elsewhere and not wishing to accidentally have a novice practitioner open the pocket she was considering earlier. Ultraviolet strands of light begin to dance around her hand, formed as they are in mudras, and she begins to quickly whisper Words of power, a banishment spell. The hellish ursine has all of about ten seconds more on this plane before it's going to be rudely booted.

*

One last shot from the unseen shooter. The bear's head snaps sideways, like a dog trying to catch a fly…..and then, abruptly, it collapses in on itself in a rain of damp ash, falling apart. From massive and deadly to an insubstantial mess within a heartbeat. Something solid does patter down from its center, landing with a solid thud on the roadway. A stone? A crystal? Hard to see - it's no larger than a man's fist.

Sorry, Stephanie. Magicus interruptus - happens to one in five, they say. Rather an anticlimax. The magus who originally called for her and directed her here dares to duck out from where he was sheltering in the doorway of the village's church….only to stumble on the stairs. Save that the usual tumble down stone steps doesn't leave one's head a bloody wreck. This time the echo is belated - one last shot. Was he the target all along?

*

The last Word comes apart as the Sorceress inhales sharply. The relic left in the swirled pile of watery ash, half-melted snow pooling around it, is stared at before Stephanie catches the movement of the magus in her peripheral vision.

Her heart ratchets up into her throat and her stomach quickly roils as she sees his body crumple to the snowy sidewalk. Blood. Oh god, that's…that's a piece of skull! The neon-purple strands of magic are snuffed out and the panic that spirals ice through her veins makes her shiver in mid-air. A sharp curse puffs white in the wintry air and then, whatever can be seen of her in the scope…

…vanishes as she flits into the Mirror Dimension.

Someone watching carefully…and patiently, weighing their hopes on the off-chance that the startled target may reappear out of bravado reported to be as critical a weakness as anything…may be rewarded by the lure of the relic still out in plain sight in the middle of the street.

*

There's panic in the snowy streets - the mere mortals are slower to realize that there's a shooter as well as a monster, and the poor old mage's body stays crumpled at the foot of the steps. No sign of the shooter. What's the killer after? The blue stone in the middle of the street? Or ….was that enough, and now the murderer's creeping away unseen?

*

That blue stone, sparkling in the wan light of the snowy afternoon, is further accented by its resting place in the puddle of ashy water. The air around it suddenly opens in a small, brief firefly-spangled oculus and a delicate, scarred hand grabs the thing with no regards to its impact on the bare skin.

Within the Mirror Dimension, Strange hisses and quickly throws the thing into the small knapsack at her belt. There it rests, its heat palpable, but no longer attempting to burn through her skin. Her teeth flash in a sucking inhale as she considers the bright-red thermal burn on her hand. "Changa," she whispers, and watches the sky-blue healing spell reverse the damage. Oh, thank the gods…she already had the runnels of scarring — no more, please.

Those eyes snap up and narrow then off towards the distant hills. It sounded like the shots came from that direction, though it's more a guess than actual triangulation, and the Sorceress is certain to mitigate the 'guessing' factor quickly.

There's no faint candle-glow of someone touched by the Mystical Arts or inherent of ability, but…another shift of focus within her mind and there — a star of life out there. Human. It chills her. That's…that's half a mile out. Strange swallows, but still steels herself and then darts towards it, still within the confines of the Mirror Dimension.

The distant shooter might feel as if someone has suddenly drawn a metaphorical fingertip up the back of their neck for the intent in her gaze.

*

Moving carefully away, under the shadow of the pines. Not fleeing, but leaving at a measured pace. Though….somehow that alien touch has the shooter pausing, glancing around….then moving off again. The white and mottled cloak's a good cover, in a snowy forest.

*

The Cloak in red is decidedly not, hence the silent and hidden approach via the Mirror Dimension. The Sorceress can spot the movement of the shooter simply for the Mystical Sight in use and she flits close, easily within arm's reach of the person in white fatigues. The dimension's walls warp the vision of the figure slightly, but Strange memorizes what she can of them before her focus falls to the rifle.

That. Get rid of that first.

Her attempt to time the snatch might fail her entirely. Two scarred hands suddenly dart from within a crystalline fracturing of the plane's barrier and wrap firmly around the rifle's long barrel. It's an attempt to wrench the weapon from its wielder's grip!

*

Oh, no you don't. There's a terrible, inhuman strength to the shooter's grip….a moment of resistance, and then, deliberately, she's hurling herself forward. As if to knock down the invisible assailant. Tall and strong for a women. There are blue eyes peering out of the hood of the camo cloak, cold as ice themselves.

*

Strange has time for a strangled sound of surprise — so much for taking the shooter off-guard! — and then they're both tumbling into the Mirror Dimension. With the barrier flexible around the Sorceress's exit point, it's too easy to collapse. She takes the Winter Soldier with her and doesn't let go of the rifle. Her teeth are bared in a rictus of frightened defensive rage and her eyes — they glow like controlled lightning now, that same lavender-nearing-white of the bolts of nature.

The crimson Cloak keeps her from falling to the ground, but it's also attempting to pull its mistress away from the very rifle she grips. It's quickly turning into tug-of-war and Strange aims a booted kick at the shooter's solar plexus for good measure!

*

The shooter keeps going with her - never letting go of the rifle, but letting Stephanie pull her along. The weirdness of it all hasn't registered yet. The left hand grips like iron….as the right finds some wicked little knife and slashes past the rifle towards the Sorceress's throat. The kick glances off a flank, making the Soldier 'oof' in protest.

*

The crimson Cloak pulls its mistress back sharply and the tip of the knife slips through the dark-brown hair silvered at the temples. A solid tuft of it scatters in the moving air surrounding their embattled actions and later, much later, the Sorceress will realize why she's suddenly missing a rather lengthy lock of hair.

Still, she sees the knife in the manner only adrenaline can grant and engages her full strength to yank on the rifle, gripped as it is by…a silver hand?! Strange throws up a forearm to block any returning arc of the knife-bearing hand and kicks out again, this time aiming for the ribs.

*

Still coming with, attached as a child with a teddy bear. The Soldier brings up a leg just in time to block that kick….and then the knife sinks deep into the flesh of that forearm. Purely mundane, but it's steel cold as ice after that sojourn in the snow.

*

The piercing pain is nearly completely numbed for the freezing temperature of the knife and its finely-honed edges. Still, it grates against bone as it buries between radius and ulna and Strange's scream resonates in the very walls of the dimension. A sharp yank back from the weapon itself removes it from the musculature attempting to seize around it and the Sorceress quickly retreats, the grip on the rifle forgotten for the blazing agony. Blood drips, bright on the snow contained here, and the Winter Soldier gets a glassy-eyed look of pure rage.

Hovering where she is, there's a second of hangtime, of drawn breaths, before a palm coated in ichor is spread towards the Winter Soldier.

"Kannati vali!" The Words are spat and they translate to 'mirrored pain'. Appropriate for the dimension…and the spell hurtles into the shooter. A perfect Mystical reflection of the knife's agony is the returning shot.

*

If the Sorceress had any doubt of her opponent's sex….the shriek of pain that follows puts that to rest. The knife is dropped….but now that the rifle's free, she's trying to turn and fire it. One doesn't fire a sniper rifle from the hip, but that's precisely what Jane's attempting now. At point blank range.

*

The knife falls into one of the little mounds of snow, lost within its chilly depths, and the Sorceress's blood congeals on it quickly. Both one-handed now, one freely bleeding and the other courting the claxon of pained nerves, and it leaves Strange to draw up a molten weapon from the very strands of reality within the dimension.

Bright, golden, and sizzling, she snaps it towards the sniper rifle's barrel — quickly enough to deflect the gun's next firing? The crimson Cloak, stalwart protector, is quick to wrap about the petite woman, following the rotational movement of her body in a reflexive attempt to dodge.

*

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 6

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 8

*

Outclassed, and she knows it. Strange's assailant is masked, up to the eyes. If there were goggles, they're long gone. The golden whip drags the rifle's aim off of true, but the Soldier's still clinging to it. There's a short monosyllable in Russian from her, muffled by the mask….and despite the pain, the hand of flesh darts towards the Sorceress's throat.

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 13

*

Hard to stop momentum in mid-air, given there's no friction, and Strange has time to begin to uncurl her shoulder when that hand flicks out and locks around her throat. She makes a gurgling sound as her glowing eyes go wide. The bloodied hand grips weakly at the sleeve of the white fatigues, staining them brightly; with damaged tendons and pain, it prevents any sort of retaliatory crunching of muscles again bone on her part. She's going to keep that molten surujin alive for as long as she can; it's in the process of eating through the rifle's metal anyways, destroying the weapon's ability to fire accurately and possibly at all.

It falls upon the Cloak to provide proof of its mistress's displeasure in the violence upon her person. A hem CRACKS out towards the Soldier's face, aimed at the eyes in particular. If that's avoided, it continues flowing into her space, gaining impossible volume and attempting to wend about her in turn like some silky python!

*

Bitchslapped by a bandanna with pretensions - how's she going to explain this one to her masters? There's a last spasmodic clench, a yank, almost…and then a shake like a terrier with a rat before her grip releases. Realizing the rifle's been destroyed, effectively, the Soldier finally relinquishes it - all the better to use the metal arm to try and combat the Cloak. A sorceress who can't speak or breathe is at least half-crippled.

*

The dimension and attacker before her is absolutely getting hazy and her heart is pounding in her ears by the time that calculated shake rattles her brain in her skull. Strange gasps for air reflexively as the release of the rifle brings her hand swinging away like a snapped rubber band. The golden surujin flicks around behind her body, useless in this moment.

Stop her! It's a mental command and the Cloak unclasps from around her shoulders to drop her into the snow. Clutching at her throat and reedily drawing in air, the Sorceress kicks out half-heartedly at the Soldier's nearby shin — partially in effort to push away from the earnest battle and a good portion in spite.

The Cloak can wrestle with the best of them and thus, despite the metal arm, it snakes around Barnes's body not too unlike an octopus enfolding a crab, intending to wrap her up and probably suffocate her, to be brutally honest.

*

She's never fought occult cloth goods before….and even training to fight multiple human attackers is not enough. A cloak has no joints to lock, no bones to break, no eyes to gouge. There's another knife and some desperate slashing, but it's obvious Jane's losing that fight.

*

Lying in the snow gives Strange those critical seconds to appreciate the predicament she's in. She can breathe, this is good, but where's her voice?

"Oh gods," she manages to squeak, sounding as if she's been fighting laryngitis for weeks. Opening her eyes again, she cranes her head to see the Soldier completely enfolded in the confines of the Cloak. The point of what might be a knife pokes and drags every other moment along its innards, but this relic not only fickle, but obnoxiously sturdy. It has deflected the swipes of swords carved from extra-dimensional dragon teeth before.

"Until she's unconscious," the Sorceress forces out, gritting her teeth, " — and no more. Let her wallow in her failure when she awakes." Her forearm, buried in the snow, is eyed glassily and woozily. Oh, blood loss is a royal bitch. There's so much red.

*

Eventually the thrashing dies down, and the Cloak, with an air of disgust, drops the limp Soldier into the alterdimensional snow. Hard to see, still wrapped in her ghillie cloak - she looks like another patch of dead leaves and old snow, save for a lock or two of brown hair that spills past the hood, and the knife dropping from a limp hand.

*

The flump of a limp body to the snow brings the Sorceress's attention up. She measures the signs of life as best she can from this distance, but still makes no immediate attempt to rise. She can barely move the fingers of her wounded arm and keeping it in the snow is helping to numb the agony of severed nerves.

The crimson Cloak flits back over and settles on her shoulders again. It wraps tightly about her petite frame, shielding her from the chill, and she clears her throat. "Who in the hells are you…?" she whispers, blinking blearily at the unconscious Soldier. It's the Cloak that helps her to her booted feet and she shivers, teeth chattering briefly. Very cold. She should leave…but she needs to make sure the relic followed directions. It's had a hem in another attacker's death before. So very carefully, she rises from the ground and floats over. Is the woman's chest rising and falling…? It is. The sigh is infinitely weary. "Good. I hope you have nightmares," Strange rasps, looking away to begin etching a Gate upon reality that will lead to the Loft of the Sanctum.

*

There's a soft sound from the Soldier. Not quite a groan or a sigh, exactly. Alive, at least for now……but not for long, left lying in the cold. Especially in the Mirror Dimension - this one's no sorcerer, after all.

*

The glittering oculus upon reality opens. Out pours the smell of incense and familiarity, sandalwood and the darkest oud worn by the Warlock who shares the Sanctum with Strange. The warmth is nearly tropical in comparison to the surroundings and she looks back at the Soldier warily when she hears a sound.

The Cloak tugs at her shoulders, urging her onwards through the portal, but the Sorceress lingers. Gods below, the urge to walk over and soundly boot the woman in the ribs is strong. So strong. It would be so cathartic. …too tired. Too anemic. The knife wound in her arm has clotted now, but it aches into the bones.

"Idiot," she rasps. Who's the idiot? She dismisses the oculus to the Sanctum and then…opens another one. Beneath the unconscious woman in white. It's going to rudely remove the solidity of the ground beneath her and…

…dump her in the middle of the mucky ash-pile of the fire-bear shot dead at half a mile.

The spite is strong with this Sorceress.

*

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