1964-10-14 - Project Virgo: Brothers Buchanov
Summary: Now if only the main problem were the power being out.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
hellboy bucky wanda 

Within a holding facility marked ominously as Building E, two young men grapple daunting odds to clutch their future or be at odds with their past. The more coherent of the two is Adam, bloodied and English-speaking, trying to break the Winter Soldier's hold on him. Melodies conveyed through the fixed speakers or radios is diminished in force thanks to Teddy's relentless background efforts to rip out wires where he can find them. Lights flicker and extinguish, suggesting success locating a main line or maybe taking down a tower. Still, the muffled thumps of command phrases rattle in their skulls, and drive Adam to stare at the hole in the wall, the possibility of freedom. Of getting away. His gestures are even more desperate.

The other one, younger and greyer-eyed than blue, is in worse shape. His efforts to break free from the half-demon aren't getting quite as far as they should, though he takes those punches with an alarming degree of resistance. «Adam, go! Go! I can't — not — not like this, it's like wasps in my skull, can't fight, fight it!»

It's heartbreaking - there's that gut-deep recognition. The sense of belonging. "Adam," he says, trying to get the other Soldier to look at him. "Look at me. C'mon. Help me. We have to help them, help our brothers. If you run, god only knows what'll happen to them. Who's the other one there?" A jerk of his chin indicates the one struggling in Red's grip. "And if the shutdown doesn't work on you, the command doesn't all the way, does it? You've broken it, haven't you?" James gives Hellboy a desperate look. "Get him to stop fighting. Red's not going to hurt anyone." To the kid in question, he calls, "….don't fight it. Let it wash over you. We've got you. We're not gonna let anyone take you away."

Not going to hurt anyone. The hell you say, Bucky Barnes. "This boy don't stop, I'm gonna smack him with my other arm!" Hellboy grumps in irritation as he's trying to keep the crazed boy in check. That right arm right now is currently being used to keep him from getting in any strikes against the large demon, but he'll gladly use it as a hammer if he don't stop. "Easy, kiddo, like Buck said, we're the good guys. You know. Amerikasnskis? Hamburgers, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie? Land of the free, home of the brave? Strip clubs with no minimum cover?"

"Kyr," gasps out Adam, the blood from the cut on his brow streaming down the side of his face in pulses matching the throb of his heart. Other wounds are largely confined to his hands, proof of where he literally was punching out the wall. "The sounds. We can't stop if they trigger us. Wipe us, kill whatever's left." The words are coming out through a gritted wall, the death of hope seeping in. "The agents will kill us. You'll…" A shudder twangs up his back, and the conditioning with its claws in freezes whatever trials attempted to break it in the first place.

Deeper still, the shouts and muffled thumps haven't slowed down in the staccato cracks accompanied by cheery pop music and something that could be a spar giving in.

Kyr practically grits his teeth, swinging his head back to his name without a trace of recognition. He only speaks Russian, that much is evident. Hostility or irritation, all that's left is pure terror at losing the spark of being.

«No one's going to kill you. I won't let them.» Bucky Barnes, assassin, monster, temp-agency Norse God, intending to stand against the massed forces of whatever, with only his scarlet companion as ally. «Hold on to it, Adam. You have a name. Keep telling yourself that. Kyr, the same. Here,» And he's taking more of that scrap of cloth that Hellboy gave him, tearing it. «Put these in your ears. Keep your hands over your ears.»

"This is stupid crazy, you know that right?" Hellboy asks Bucky in no uncertain terms. "Good thing that insane crazy is on my list." he grunts and tries to listen to the Russian, but damned if he don't know a lick of it. "You don't calm down, I swear, I'm gonna feed ya to mat metla, Baba Yaga, and her frigging chicken house."

Adam shudders for good measure. The fight isn't out of him, merely shoved to the side. Paralysis is worse for Kyr, worse with the droning memories and the fractured, interrupted process draining volition out. Telling the older of the two soldiers sees to grabbing the cloth and edging over Hellboy's way, though the way he walks is cat on a hot tin roof. Nerves wound up, it's not good. "Let him go. I'll talk but he's not done right, and he's fighting with all he's got." He grinds his teeth at mention of the chicken house, and everything else, hissing, «Kyr. The other one says put this in your ears.»

"He's right. Red, let him go," Bucky says, quietly. His throat works, mouth dry. "Please. And remind me to teach you Russian soon." «I'm James. Or Bucky. Whichever you like.» Maybe the nickname will wring recognition out. «Can you guys hold out? I'll go find the others»

Given the blank frame of reference, clearly the name has as much meaning to the pair as a Nike shoe does for a hare.

"Awright. But if he sucker puches me, we're gonna have words." Hellboy releases Kyr for Adam to tend to and draws his pistol. He may not understand the words, but he can read Bucky's body language and can see him turning. "You think you're going alone, you're out of your mind. More than normal." Dry and sarcastic, the large demon moves to follow after the augmented soldier.

Kyr stumbles back a step and springs into a defensive position without even trying, his hands clapped over his ears. It takes a lot of forcible wresting that's by no means gentle for Adam, marginally more functional, to wedge in the cloth. Whatever uneasy fellowship they built over armchairs and regular meals doesn't replace what they are. Whatever founded them. Wherever they were roosted. But Kyr practically scrambles away through the wound in the wall to fall to his knees in the dirt, leaning over until his brow touches the ground. The hoarse, animal shriek of fury and rage holds so much formless pain.

Adam isn't much better, sagging against the wall, palm pressed to the headwound.

It's a strange sight in an agricultural facility. The lack of anything agricultural, for one. It's dark past the corridor, little daylight streaming in. Lino floors and plain military standard grey-green walls, and someone's put a truly hideous paisley couch at the corner. It has a few magazines, heavily edited, four years out of date about sports.

His voice is light, almost humorous, and all the more dangerous for it, "I'm going to kill them all," he asides to Red. "All of the people who did this to me, to them. I don't care who I have to enlist - SHIELD, the CIA, Steve, the Devil himself. This is going to stop." Bucky's tread is swift, just the kind of lope that Hellboy's longer, stronger stride is perfect for keeping up with. He's slung his rifle back, but he's got a knife in hand. Less likely to go immediately lethal, compared to long arms fire. "Let's clear the buildings, then search underground."

The Good Samaritan rests easy in Hellboy's left hand. He's not above using it if he needs to as he looks around. "So this is what they mean by 'funny farm'." he comments quietly, but his loping steps are quick to keep up with Bucky's double-time. "Alright. If we're going down, get behind me. You may have that new arm. But I doubt yer bulletproof."

Not much room for two men of their size to go side by side. About ten meters down the corridor, they'll either trip over a hideous decorative table or crush it to pieces, given it's strewn sideways. Other furniture spills out from a door clearly barricaded by some effort. It leads deeper into the building, given the outer wall traces their trajectory. Ahead lies the scent of coffee, and the wet puddles underfoot if they continue further east indicates something dropped. A smaller open room probably served as a lounge of sorts, though it's pitch black. Windows aren't exactly common. A few other doors can be felt more than seen, all locked. Security counts at a SHIELD facility. Even one that seems to resemble something vaguely barracks or dorm-like.

"A'right, Red," Buck agrees. It's true. "….are you bulletproof?" he asks, momentarily quizzical. But he lets the half-demon precede him down the hall. Then he's raising his voice, "SHIELD personnel, this is Barnes and Red. We're here to assisst." So much for Winter's legendary stealth. But when you've got the occult equivalent of a Sherman tank clearing the way head, that's kind of redundant, anyhow.

"Ain't bulletproof as much as I am.. bulletsponge." Hellboy shrugs his shoulders. "Short of a ma deuce or an RPG, won't hurt that much." he admits as he glances over his shoulder to give Bucky a grin. "Why do you think I don't bother investing in shirts?" A smirk is offered, but he does move that right arm into position - because yes, it is rather bulletproof. He pushes the table to the side. "Getting darker. You got a light, or should I just go all Zippo?"

No one answers except the loose, cheery tones of Dusty Springfield from a functioning radio, a speaker buried in the labyrinth. Her smooth croon is enough to wash away weariness. It's enough to make someone scream, a distant tremor without a chorus.

"If you gotta light, do it," Buck agrees, jaw tight, whole body coiled. HE'll let Hellboy kick in doors….but that scream has him raising his head. "Which direction did that come from? I bet your hearing'sbetter than mine." Though his, in turn, is better than it was - the damage from Rabat and Monte Cassino undone by German efforts.

"…it's down a ways. Damn, we may have come in the ass-end, Bucky." Hellboy admits. Holstering his pistol, he breaks off one of the table legs and wraps some cloth around it before taking out his lighter and flicking it a few times to catch the cloth aflame. "Let there be light, heh." he grins slightly, holding out the torch as he starts to pick up the pace. "We get close to a speaker, shoot that shit. I hate Dusty Springfield. Give me some Dylan."

Past the barricaded door and the coffee puddles, the hallway continues before jogging to the side of the building. Highly unexciting, all in all. The pair of doors set close together probably lead into some kind of storage room or janitorial closet, a space of equivalent size. The cries have settled out, not necessarily a good thing. For all anyone knows, Adam and Kyr have run off Thelma-and-Louise style.

"Never heard the guy," Buck says, distractedly. "Me? I got no idea what people listen to these days. I kinna miss Benny Goodman, honestly. He still around?" He's all bristling unease and desperate seeking, like a Border Collie jacked up on bennies. Someone won't be able to rest until all seven dwarves are accounted for. "Get the door for me, big guy?" It's unpleasantly reminiscent of clearing Nazi bunkers with Steve. Send the big guy who can soak bullets in first, and come in after.

As he makes his way down the hallway, the half-demon is taking it all in. He grew up in a similar facility in the middle of the desert - the place that was supposed to be like an all-American suburb in the middle of nowhere. "Benny Goodman? Now you sound like Pops." Hellboy grouses good-naturedly. "Don't you listen to that down at the VFW or something?" he asks before he nods. Finding a place to stash the torch, he comes up against the doors. "You in good cover?" he asks, waiting for Bucky to get in position. Once he is, the demon pulls back his right hand and brings it forward with all the force he can muster to knock the doors off their hinges and hopefully break the barricade.

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d20 for: 17

Metal creaks. Furniture hauled up against the door comes spilling out when the hinges give, and a chunk of the wall. Plaster dust rains down, and pillows, folding chairs, a TV tray, and even several books still attached to shelves in a crooked case crash down. So much for stealth, there's no way around that. The debris mounts up and several long gouges mark the walls and floor for the rushed job. This probably served as a place for reading, normalcy, a living room in the truest sense of the word. Never mind two walls are one-way glass, right down to the curtains it feels like somewhere in Peoria or Trenton or one of a hundred small cities. Scranton, with its happy trains.

What initially looks like motor oil isn't. Speckles of blood and a smeared line on the wall lead through another broken door.

"Attaboy, I wish we'd had you in the war. You'd'a put the fear of God into those Hydra bastards," Buck says, after Hellboy's busted in. The blood trail makes him wince. "And I guess so. Same generation," he sighs. "Never been to the VFW, not yet. Considering I'm still a traitor on the books, and I murdered Steve." A hasty beat and he adds, "He got better. Damndest thing I ever saw." A hand signal towards the next broken door. There's two out of the seven accounted for, even if they've headed for the hills.

"I heard. You weren't yerself. Can't blame yerself." Hellboy reminds gently as the doors part to the sides and Hellboy steps through. "..you seeing any bodies?" he asks. "I'm seeing blood, but I ain't seeing who it blongs to." With Bucky reminding him of the count, he nods. "Yeah. Which means it's five on two. Poor bastiches." There's a frown as he walks by one of the speakers, and he takes out his pistol, shooting it once as he continues on. "You ain't heard of Dylan? What about Johnny Cash? Now that's some damn good music. 'I Walk the Line', 'The Troubador'? Shit could have been written about you."

The uncompromising tumble of flame fed by the metal case shows the destruction done. Leaping shadows highlight the damage, the trail of blood seeping out and the footprints leading to another smear of a handprint on the wall. Out of a reading room and into the fire, though not literally. Past an observation point, there's a dead man lying there, eyes facing up to the sky. It doesn't look like Bucky. His neck is snapped, arm at an unnatural angle. Another body is heaped over a shattered chair.

There's a little vertiginous wrench at himself - that relief. It isn't fair. Those were humans. Fellow works with SHIELD. …..or are they? Buck hurries to inspect them, see if they're victims, or if some of this attempted coup was the work of enemy agents. "Fuck," he says, under his breath. "This is all wrong."

"Yeah, well, it may be all wrong - but that's how this shit usually goes." Hellboy kneels down near the nearest body, feeling the pulse - and the warmth of the body. "Ain't cold yet." he grunts softly as he moves to stand up while Bucky does a more thorough check and starts to sweep the rest of the room. "Olly olly oxen free."

The first agent, the one with the cracked spine, won't be drawing another breath. The immediate look of his injuries suggests someone unlikely to have had a little accident. Neither does he display the signs of torture, merely a brutal efficiency to put him down. The other visited in the chair has practically no pulse to speak of. It takes Bucky some time to locate the weak throb, erratic as it is. Suits and common attire imply SHIELD affiliates, but it's hard to know. A search of a jacket might bring up a passcard, level 4 SHIELD access. Respectable, but not Steve or Peggy levels.

The rest of the room is cramped and small. The flickering zippo gives a glimpse of the overturned furnishings, the rampage that blew threw fast as a foehn wind off the Alps. No one's sitting in the corner with a handkerchief over their face, waiting.

"This one's alive. For now," Buck's voice is matter of fact, grim. Not sanguine about his subject's chances, as he picks himself up. He holds up the SHIELD passcard as a token, before trying to move the man into a better position. That's no way to go, flung over a chair like an old towel.

"Yeah, well, until we know where your sibs are, carrying him around ain't gonna do either of us much good." Hellboy says with a frown. Much as he hates to leave the man down, it ain't for the best to handicap themselves further. "You got yer earplugs ready? Though it seems they're a lot more broken on the catch phrases than you are."

Three minutes, thirty-nine seconds, the agent tipped upright will pass from this world, a little better than he met the floor. Before then they've got only one option out and that's a door covered by a cracked veneer. Someone obviously shut it, and the absence of a handle is particularly concerning. No sounds of music or shouting in here.

"I got 'em," Buck says, and there's a kind of weariness beneath his tone. But he squares up on the door. "Gonna have to kick it down. You ready to play battering ram, Red?" The Soldiers beyond the door…..unless they've fought things like Baba Yaga herself, Red's going to be a hell of a surprise.

Hellboy's tail twitches in mild irritation. "Take it we're still playing with kiddy gloves?" he asks as he moves towards the door. Snorting at it for a moment, he decides to add to the confusion by starting to chant in the language of the occult, calling to those on the other side of the door, without you know.. actually summoning anything. And then, on Bucky's signal, there's a hard punch to the door to knock it off it's hinges and hopefully get the drop on those on the other side.

The children of the Soviet Union aren't likely to know an occult chant from the Bahamaian national anthem. Chanting is chanting, and probably a sign of terrible music and capitalist morality. The door is abominably resistant to punching, too. The sheeted glass beneath probably resists bullets, and punches, and supernatural creatures. Thus Hellboy's hand hurts it, makes a few cracks, but doesn't shatter it.

"Lenta…" calls a distant speaker, swinging back into a jazzy little tune. "Tyaga…"

He shouldn't get out in front of big, red, and bulletproof. But time's a-wasting, and Buck hurls himself agains the door, metal shoulder first. Then he's yelling in Russian, «Guys. Hey. Open this. Help us out. » Like they're going to listen.

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 9

"Bucky, what are you…" Hellboy sighs. Nothing else has gone the way it's supposed to tonight, why wouldn't Bucky go a little nutsy too. Stepping back, he waits to see if they actually respond to the Winter Soldier. After all, he's still the rookie, in a way.

Bucky might hear the faintest of responses through that heavy door, something metallic. Another crackle of sound is preciously quiet, hard to pick out from the softly playing radio other. The moan melts into the background. The door remains intact, a barrier ot their goals.

Bucky actually growls, under his breath. Amazing how the imprint of the wolf still remains. And then he's punching at the door himself, again and again. At first with precision, and then a blinding rage.

Walking up behind Bucky, Hellboy puts his hands on the man's shoulders. "Whoa whoa. You want the door open, I can get that. Why don't you take a time out." he offers, preparing to move Bucky out of the way so that he can get through the door himself.

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d20 for: 14

|ROLL| Hellboy +rolls 1d20 for: 14

Spiderwebs form in the bulletproof casing covering the door, spreading against the surface. Deepening dents fly out from the initial impact craters, jackfrost tines going jagged. The metal core opens to the force of Bucky's fist nailing the door, again and again. Shuddering in its frame, the portal eventually has to surrender, though it was intended to withstand point blank rifle rounds. It won't be slow, leaving a cold sweat on the skin and venom dancing in the veins. When it comes to pieces, oh so slowly, there's no light within to render any hint of what should be there.

Nothing but the cold, pitiless light of a black snub-nosed pistol spitting its retort at the big red monster who might have wit enough to flinch at the last moment out of sight. Another follows, another, rapid fire from a rather weird angle to be sure.

The moans are met with a shuffle, a roll in the night-dark pitch filling the place. Two active, at least.

There's not even a shake of his hand, no scuffing or breaking the vibranium knuckles. But as the door starts to yield, Buck does let Hellboy move him aside. Muzzle flare's an indicator, and he's flung up his own arm before him to deflect any that might come his way, even as he lunges for the place he's guessing the last shooter might be. «Calm down,» he barks. «We're not your enemies.»

As soon as he sees the first muzzle flash, Hellboy bodily throws Bucky aside, taking several hits as he turns the brunt of his body so that several of the shots slam him into the back. "They're fucking shooting me! That ain't exactly the Welcome Wagon offering up a peach pie, Bucky!" he growls as he turns his attention back to the darkness. "You don't stop I'm gonna get mighty fucking cross with the whole lot of you, and you won't like me when I'm cross. I'll feed you to Illyana!"

The next bullet flies off Bucky's arm, and another embeds into the door frame from the same click. Whomever is firing is accurate, mobile enough. Names like Illyana don't mean a thing. Warnings in English have no bearing there. Only the purposeful directive played out, and a shadow melting into another patch of darkness to the double-strike of heavy boots on the ground, movement in rapid tempo.

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d20 for: 19

It's the dance of shadows in the mirror - movement and mass so like his own, surely. Hellboy hurls him, and he turns it into a roll and lunge, coming up out of it like a low tackle. He's had some training in blind-fighting, so the lack of light isn't the hindrance it might otherwise be. He takes down one of the shooters, finds the gun by feel and wrenches it away with his metal hand. It turns with in the alloy grip - he'll use it as a bludgeon if he has to. «Stand down,» he yells. «Stand down. I've got one of you.»

"I don't know what you're telling them, but you need to tell them louder!" Hellboy grouses. He pulls out his own pistol and fires a single shot in the cieling. "Tell them that they can shoot me and it ain't gonna do shit, they want to see what my gun does to them?"

That damn soldier is practically on the ceiling, and the extraordinary stealth may be compromised by the muzzle fire and the retort. No matter. Bucky won't be perfectly holding someone for long, the torn shirt sliding over rippling muscle and someone prepared to lash out with one hell of a mule kick. The almost silent grunt and the hiss of breath mark the efforts to get free, but it's not the same.

«Got… down…» wheezes that hoarse voice probably done to wreckage from screaming and the tightness of pain. «Tied… Not good…»

«WHo tied you?» Buck demands. «Stop fighting me. I won't hurt you. And who else is in here?» He glances over at Hellboy. «What's your name?» Questions out of order, but his own thoughts are scrambled as hell. «Don't try to shoot the red devil. You can't hurt him, you can only make him angry….and you wouldn't like him when he's angry.»

"There's still some more of them, ain't there?" Hellboy's frowning. Unless the SHIELD agents counted.. they only found three. Four to go. "Got a light?" he asks, not quite going to get the torch yet. Not while Bucky hasn't given the clear.

The speaker isn't the one fighting to tear Bucky to shreds. From the corner, language extracted from moans most assuredly covers those broken pauses and attempts to project when lungs crackle, oxygen leaking in all the wrong places. Four found. Not three. Not that the one in the dark is much good at revealing himself, clutching his arms to his stomach and holding onto the red bloody thread to consciousness.

"I'm on one," Buck says, as he keeps up the struggle. "The other guy's hurt. No, I don't have a light. SEe if there's a switch, something." Four out of seven. HE tries to use the pistol butt as a bludgeon, knock out the one still fighting with them.

"Yeah. Switch. Sorry, ain't on my A-game tonight." Hellboy grunts as he feels around for a switch as he tries to shrug off the shots that hit him earlier. He'll need some patching up later. "Hey, Bucky. You ever have an evening with a gal, but think it feels off, though you might want to give it a second shot?" he grunts.

No use for the switch, given Teddy managed to sever the electrical source… or someone else. Either way, the place's shadows give cover for the various gear. Hellboy probably comes close to running into a contraption about as big as he is, splayed out at an angle. No, this isn't a salon and no one is getting their perm set or hair washed, but the general feel, shape, and consistency probably apply. Minus the extra metal bits that ominously jangle and groan.

Taking down one of his own with a pistol takes Bucky time, and he'll get a bloody savage kick to the upper thigh that probably leaves bruises. Still.

There's a moment of incredulous silence from Bucky, as he tries to knock the lights right out of the guy beneath him. "….Red. Now is not the time. We both survive this, I'll take you out drinking and we can discuss our love lives." That kick makes him grunt, but he tightens his grip…..and eventually, the blows form the pistol butt do tell. Satisfied he's subdued the one who wouldn't talk, he gets up, staggers sideways, and nearly falls into the gadget itself. There's a few beats of blind patting, trying to parse it. «Hey. Kid. Stay with me.» Then he's patting himself down - out comes a battered Zippo, and a hopelessly squashed pack of Luckies. The latter are discarded, but he flicks the former alight.

"Yeah. Well, reason I brought it up? This feels like one of them chairs that ya sit in and they give you a really bad perm in." Hellboy offers with a grunt. "And yer hair? That's a pretty bad perm to be getting. Frizzy." he offers with a snort as he looks around. "We still have a couple unaccounted for, eh?"

In another life the one sprawled on the ground clutching his stomach would blink at the loss of cigarettes. Woe! How terrible! He isn't even looking at much, his pupils fixed in a long stare into the night. Flames fed by liquid shaken up don't do much to change this state, and the fact blood soaks under him suggests the fight in here…

It looks like something out of a phantasmagoric Freudian nightmare. Twinned glass slabs stretch across the floor in a partition, and there's a chair padded in leather and vinyl that holds sufficient buckles to pin down an LSD-stricken octopus. Possibly a kraken, a Humboldt squid super-soldier. That one's empty. The other two behind glass… they are not.

Headphones spin down from an overhanging arm, clamped over heads of two men who very well are brothers, probably. One holds the shattered remains of a bottle. Water? Torn and shredded clothing suggest violence in their positions, but they're not moving where they recline. Two agents in one chamber are shot dead, pinpoints in their skulls blasting out brain matter and blood on the walls.

|ROLL| Bucky +rolls 1d10 for: 8

It is a scene out of his nightmares. But Bucky doesn't succumb to the shock of it, beyond a stifled whimper. Then he moves to the wounded man, hurrying to tend him. "Red," he says, and his voice lacks either the snap of command or the earlier rage. "Please check on the ones there. If they….." He can't bring himself to say it, the one who's left a whole bloody trail in his wake somehow unmanned by the idea that it's his flesh and blood lying dead there. That makes the count six, alive and perhaps otherwise.

"On it." Hellboy doesn't make a quip this time. He hears it in Bucky's voice. "They ain't you." he reminds him quietly as he moves to start checking on the bodies. "You're the original."

Neither of the men strapped down respond in the least to poking or prodding. They will wait, yes, unto eternity for whatever they wait for. The stillness is disturbing, assuredly, whereas the other wounded one is doing his best to consider rolling over onto his back.

He's hurriedly rummaging the cupboards, the pistol he stole hastily stuck through his belt in a way that's rather piratical. Looking for first aid, or cloth - something to staunch the flow of blood. Swearing to himself in Russian all the while. "I know," he tells Hellboy, distractedly. "But they're still mine." Yeah,he's got that bee in his bonnet where these askew replicants are concerned.

A cupboard full of white sweatsocks, freshly folded and sealed in plastic, might prove most useful. Another holds fresh white t-shirts, folded by someone of a militaristic bent. The next is a square full of records in sleeves, useless, and beyond that several books of a largely fond Americana tradition: Catcher in the Rye, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Call of the Wild, Swiss Family Robinson. Thoreau's Walden. Paper by the handful might help. A few bottles of gel and there's a first aid kit stowed away.

"Don't!" Hellboy calls out as he realizes something. "They're listening to something.. and they're sedate." He says, gesturing to one of the agents, and the big headphones phones that are on his head.

Whatever was streaming through the headphones probably died when the power did. Nonetheless, the solid setup of the rig and warm metal suggests active use.

"Right," says Buck. He snags the aid kit, and then socks and shirts. A glance at the rig, and his lip lifts in what looks like a snarl. But his attention's still reserved for the wounded man, and he ends up kneeling at his side. «Lie still,» he tells him. «I'll help.»

Stepping back, Hellboy pulls a cigar out and flicks his zippo to life to light it. "We're still short one, ain't we?" he asks curiously as he turns to check. "I'll go check in the other direction while you deal with the ones here, if you want?"

Misery shines in those glassy eyes that can't bear the flames. He's not one to fight the way Kyr and Adam were, or the unconscious one on the floor. Blood, blood, so much blood. The gut shot is an ugly thing, especially given he's winged on the bicep and another went clear through his shoulder. Sweat stipples his brow, slick on his hair. The young man fades in and out of consciousness. «Yeah.» Russian. All the damn Russian.

The two sedated ones — sedate ones? — aren't responding.

"Please," Bucky says, again. It's not knee-jerk politeness, but genuine begging, and it's as much to the guy on the floor as it is to the big red friend. "If you can, Red, yeah." He's working to try and patch up the one he has in hand, the hands calm and deft for all that his brow's shining with stress. «Keep talking. Tell me your name. I'm James. James Yegorovich.»

With Bucky tending to the others, Hellboy draws back and starts out the door to head towards the path not taken by them earlier. With Bucky not here, though? The pistol comes out. He's a little tired of being shot tonight, after all. And if he has to use the hand cannon - well, shit happens, right?

…not that he'd shoot anyone, right?

Names. Names? This is something that matters. "O-orel," he repeats to Bucky. "«Call me… Orel.»" Eagle, of course. Fits that his hair is faintly lighter, richer brown with hints of gold in there. "«Flying. I should… Should be flying.»"

Hellboy has his own trouble to find. Out that door lies the sunshine of an afternoon and a SHIELD helicopter. Right? Teddy must be somewhere else too. The rest of the site lacks for anything so exciting as a tyrannosaur rampaging around or a hell of a gunfight. If he gets ten feet past the barracks, Kyr and Adam are concealed against the lee of a building, shaking with fatigue and adrenaline.

Standing outside for a moment, Hellboy frowns. Alright. There's the chopper. But.. still a man short. Oh hey. He gets eyes on the other two. Lifting his fingers to his lips, the bloodied demon with a tattered jacket blows sharply to whistle out to them. "Yo! Adam! James found a couple more of ya, he needs yer help with them, cause fuck this place, that's why. One of you know how to fly that thing?"

«We'll have you flight ready again, soon, Orel.» Bucky assures him, smiling at him, even as he works. He has all the bedside manner of a piece of gravel, but then, he was never the Commandos' medic. There's a soft, murmured prayer in English….and it is not directed to God, or Christ, but the Devil. Lucifer had mercy on one Soldier, surely he can extend that benison to another. Even if it's far, far too far away for any real help to come on that front. It makes him feel better, anyhow. There's swiftly blood all over his own fatigues, as he works.

Poor Orel, that gut wound is an ugly one. His hands are smeared with his own blood, but he's been applying pressure. «Don't have any wings.» His smile is a fatally thin thing, eyes crinkled at the corners in pain. Oh, it hurts. Hurt is real and good and painful. It's still alive, the only sign he has. Prayers mean nothing for him as he grits his teeth, hissing, moaning at the rattling pain. «Not yet. One day maybe.»

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