10158/Terran, Go Home

Terran, Go Home
Date of Scene:	17 February 2022
Location:	Attilan: Human Quarter
Synopsis:	Medusa confronts Jane over matters of the head and the heart. Do either come away satisfied?
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

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Jane Foster has posed:
Every girl needs a hobby beyond escorting the souls of the departed to their final resting place. The call from Earth has not been so substantial to indicate the end times are nigh, and the tug from the lunar surface naturally takes far less of her time. So, she explores.

Entirely within the Human Quarter, since she refuses to cause trouble going beyond the Old City. Besides, from a place on the ancient wall, relic of a long ago civilisation, she can attain a very good view over the colossal bulk of the palace and more distant spires. The glossy greenstone carved into a smiling relief connects to ancient, weathered rock far younger than the rest of the Old City wall. Spelunking aboveground on repurposed ruins and using a sketchpad now and then to capture what she sees consumes the hours between Furiae yoga sessions, "Daisy why did you sneak out again" seminars, and roaming about with hounds, kings, and those in between. The brunette isn't much of an artist, truth told, but sufficiently capable of catching shapes and designs faithfully enough. It gives her an excuse to watch the world, to learn as did Blackagar by absorbing the streets of New York or London or Paris.

She sees them, they might see her. Inhumans go about their days at arm's reach, the wide thoroughfares carved through Attilan espied from on high. But certainly, Jane has little prospect of trouble unless the lunar crust shakes or Daisy pops up shouting about buried gold and terrigen crystals. She isn't trying to slink through the roads after escaping her guards. The guards. Any guards?

Though the temptation to meditate there on the spot while sending a splinter of her soul invisibly flitting the Astral reflection of those streets is tempting...

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Graceful movements accompany the near silent steps as the female Inhuman makes her way along the paths that the guards have indicated lead in the direction of where Jane has perched herself. Yes, there has continued to be an observation of the human visitors but all had been instructed to do so at a distance. Blackagar had not been pleased with the incidents previously, but even he did not want to upset the council so much as to lift all restrictions. So a balance had been struck.

Part of that balance was that observation was to remain, but now at a greater distance. With that watching came the knowledge of where the guests were, thus when a member of the Royal Family inquired, they were given directions. Those directions were followed and the aforementioned movements carried the woman towards Jane. As she approaches, it is done quietly until there is but a few paces that separates her from Jane.

"So you are the one," a velvet like voice speaks, the woman with long red hair directing it to the burnette.

Jane Foster has posed:
Some fortunate souls know when their lives might be endangered, or they have such keen olfactory or auditory senses that almost no one can sneak up without being registered. Mind, how those individuals function in a city without being utterly overwhelmed to a catatonic state is another matter. For all intents and purposes, Jane is human. Preoccupied by sketching the limb of the Moon against the Endless sky, the ragged walls peeking up out of an adjacent crater where vestiges of someone's architecture fades into the wreckage and stone-littered lunar crust. Something that juxtaposes the fragility of life with the eternity of space will always pull a chord deep in the astrophysicist. It harmonizes with her picking out stars from the sky in slightly different formations from those on Earth, though not enough to be lost. For that, she'd have to be well past Pluto.

Suffice to say, her task engrosses her up to the point someone drifts near. They come and go below in the human quarters appointed to them, but the notion of someone wandering this close who isn't accompanied by some vaguely familiar signature is probably lost on her. See? No threat.

The pen skips over the paper. She sets it aside, placed carefully in a depression on the stone wall so it won't roll away. Waste nothing up here; that has been her motto, as much as Jemma's. It takes her a moment to change her position a little, tucking her knees beneath her and turning a fraction. The worry of language rises, snuffed out. No matter what this woman says, it shall make sense. No matter what she writes, the letters will be clear. So Jane does what she knows best, and plasters on a polite, measured smile tinged by actual curiosity under there. "Generally, I'd claim no, given that is how epic stories and legends often begin. I wouldn't be suited for that." Her tone carries a certain deprecating warmth. "Greetings, ma'am."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The soft laugh rolls after several moments of consideration, a well kept woman, the red head's eyebrow lifts up with the amusement in her tone to have expression match. Her hands softly fold in front of her for a few moments, the green silk dress she wears modest in cut yet somehow leaving little to imagination through carefully applications of sheer materials and lighter fabrics. "Humility?" She asks in an accented voice that sounds exactly like so many others in Attilan, the culture itself having produced a smooth but clipped way of speaking along with a soft slur of some vowels.

"You are the one that has the King settling himself on Earth, that is who you are." It is said in a repeating way, half a question, largely a statement. "It is of no effort to deny it. Blackagar can hide many things from the people, much less from his family, even less from me." It is with that last statement that the scrutiny of her gaze increases and a small motion of her hand is made towards Jane, the beckoning to stand up gesture. "Well, let us take a look at you then."

Jane Foster has posed:
The heroes' journey may be common to nigh every human culture capable of telling stories, but far be it from Jane to dwell on the cultural storytelling habits of the Inhumans. For all there could be similarities, no one likely wants to make a survey. The brunette clasps her hands lightly in her lap, probably presenting even less of a threat. Sitting on a rocky outcropping in a gauzy tunic and split skirt over jeans is more in keeping with Attilan's mores, probably because otherwise she, Jemma, Matt, Daisy, and every other terrestrial Inhuman would be laundering their few clothes on a daily basis. She's quite comfortable in it. "Honesty and compassion," she asserts to the red-headed Inhuman royal, enjoying the musicality different on her ears than New York's twang. "Seeking those three seems to be a good balance in life."

Waning philosophical might be a habit that breaks the suppressed smile a fraction, letting it well up to the surface and fade quickly in the blinding, harsh reality of a foreign culture, a decadent and dangerous society.

Her gaze lifts to meet the woman's, unflinching but not flinty in any respect. Being branded as she has, the reaction is almost a lack thereof; certain, calm. She gets no confirmation or denial either way, though hopping from the rock rather than languidly unspooling herself like a mermaid come to be admired is sort of Jane's MO on that front.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The woman remains standing there, watching Jane as she rises and examining her, the look of her green gaze being one of exacting measure. The glance passes over, head to toes, then back up, a slight cant of her head coming in that slow process before she snorts softly. It is not a derisive tone, but there is a bit of demeanor to her that hints at a lack of impress. Arms folding, the woman presses a finger to her lips, tapping it slowly as she continues to consider.

"There has been a large amount of discussion amongst the family about you. Most speculating from a distance you see. Why a human woman. Is there something that we missed?" Her tone is mimicing the questions others must have asked. "On and on. My sister? She said that you looked so very ordinary and plain." A slow curl of a smile appears, "I knew it couldn't be true though. Blackagar is anything but ordinary, certainly not plain. So anyone that would gain his full attention certainly would not be either." A pace starts, a slow walk to move around the perimeter of Jane, like studying a specimen. "So if /you/ are not ordinary, the thought I have is why you would have any interested in a mute, somewhat slow of wit, uncouth man."

Jane Foster has posed:
Nothing quite like brutal scrutiny to make one ashamed of their flaws, uncomfortable in their imperfections. Who is crueller than a woman in front of the mirror, facing down her own reflection? Jane isn't sanguine in the light of that piercing study, but she is patient, enduring where no other choice really presents itself as polite or courteous. Unimpressed as the Inhuman may be, she doesn't possess the means to truly intimidate the brunette. It's not written on the surface, but embedded deep in the subconscious matrix that makes up a person -- deeper than mere thoughts and ideas, even core values, but buried at the crux of identity. The last of things to go when exposed to eroding forces. It's not even a projected confidence so much as the universal constant; Jane doesn't question what is simply there.

She certainly might wish /she/ looked that good in lilac, and yes, red hair is impressive. This woman doesn't have a Jemma or a Daisy, however. Fair tradeoffs!

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," she replies, offhanded to a degree. "Isn't it unfortunate that circumstances place us in a position to judge others by the same harsh light we're exposed to? When there simply isn't a need to subject one another to that sort of callous judgment, and instead find qualities to appreciate in one another." The subtle condemnation for the most unfortunate aspects of modern society, especially how women hawk at one another, is spoken without a stinging wound taken. She's older than eight, thus backhanded compliments and snide remarks are a given point of existence. "It's curious that you would claim the king is anything but ordinary, and then proceed to call him uncouth, slow-witted, and other such terms that wouldn't be seen in a particularly flattering light. Perhaps I am missing something?" The lift of her brows is subtle, shaping her heart-shaped faced with curiosity and a spark of rebellious mischief if someone actually knows what to look for. "Sardonic humour might be an aspect of your communication style here? Forgive me if I missed the cues. In which case, your sister is making a good jest!" And of her own? Her gaze doesn't trail after the woman like a lost pup. The touch of her fingers to her hip would seek a beltloop that isn't there, so settling casually against the curve of her waist for a few moments. If she wants posed, then the stranger shall have it for a few moments, heeded by amusement more than anything. Voilà, human.

"Your experience must be different from mine. I am a scholar, an academic. Much of my work is based on meticulous observations, patience, and dazzling flashes of insight that set everything assumed on its head if things go right. Sound familiar? I thought, perhaps, in a centre of such innovation these won't be too unfamiliar. They are prized in our work and our relationships alike. A peer with the fortitude to pursue a difficult road is eminently worthy of appreciation and fascinating."

Jane Foster has posed:
Nothing quite like brutal scrutiny to make one ashamed of their flaws, uncomfortable in their imperfections. Who is crueller than a woman in front of the mirror, facing down her own reflection? Jane isn't sanguine in the light of that piercing study, but she is patient, enduring where no other choice really presents itself as polite or courteous. Unimpressed as the Inhuman may be, she doesn't possess the means to truly intimidate the brunette. It's not written on the surface, but embedded deep in the subconscious matrix that makes up a person -- deeper than mere thoughts and ideas, even core values, but buried at the crux of identity. The last of things to go when exposed to eroding forces. It's not even a projected confidence so much as the universal constant; Jane doesn't question what is simply there.

She certainly might wish /she/ looked that good in lilac, and yes, red hair is impressive. This woman doesn't have a Jemma or a Daisy, however. Fair tradeoffs!

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," she replies, offhanded to a degree. "Isn't it unfortunate that circumstances place us in a position to judge others by the same harsh light we're exposed to? When there simply isn't a need to subject one another to that sort of callous judgment, and instead find qualities to appreciate in one another." The subtle condemnation for the most unfortunate aspects of modern society, especially how women hawk at one another, is spoken without a stinging wound taken. She's older than eight, thus backhanded compliments and snide remarks are a given point of existence. "It's curious that you would claim the king is anything but ordinary, and then proceed to call him uncouth, slow-witted, and other such terms that wouldn't be seen in a particularly flattering light. Perhaps I am missing something?" The lift of her brows is subtle, shaping her heart-shaped faced with curiosity and a spark of rebellious mischief if someone actually knows what to look for. "Sardonic humour might be an aspect of your communication style here? Forgive me if I missed the cues. In which case, your sister is making a good jest!" And of her own? Her gaze doesn't trail after the woman like a lost pup. The touch of her fingers to her hip would seek a beltloop that isn't there, so settling casually against the curve of her waist for a few moments. If she wants posed, then the stranger shall have it for a few moments, heeded by amusement more than anything. Voila, human.

"Your experience must be different from mine. I am a scholar, an academic. Much of my work is based on meticulous observations, patience, and dazzling flashes of insight that set everything assumed on its head if things go right. Sound familiar? I thought, perhaps, in a centre of such innovation these won't be too unfamiliar. They are prized in our work and our relationships alike. A peer with the fortitude to pursue a difficult road is eminently worthy of appreciation and fascinating."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The woman's expression levels on Jane, a manicured looking finger lifting up to point at her, "Excuse yourself." The tone has shifted a bit, it sounds almost /protective/. "When he was in that chamber of a prison, it was us that would visit him to make sure he wasn't lonely. When he finally left and his parents..." She trails off, "We were the ones that comforted him. We are his family. So if we want to call him those things? We have that right. Because we know him, and love him." Pieces in place, not a random person that is scouting Jane. It is the family look. The measuring gaze. Is she /good/ enough for what equates to a brother? The gaze, the tone, the look all fits that demeanor.

"When /your/ best friend disappears to a world that hates him, has tried to kill his people, to spend his time with a woman? Then You will be as interested in trying to figure out why as I am." Arms fold, a settled expression donning her face as the red hair sways, moves almost of its own accord. "So yes, you are indeed missing quite a bit, human."

Jane Foster has posed:
"A difference in cultures, ma'am. I apologize for offending you." Jane doesn't hesitate on that front, and she spreads her hands lightly to her sides to emphasize the point, a nearly faint shrug shown. "To call one slow-witted is considered an insult where I am from, an offensive statement indicating their intelligence is subpar. I have not seen evidence of that, and it's rarely given as a positive sentiment. I can't think of many situations where it would be." Apology, explanation, move on. Her stake in the game is so much slimmer than weathering the familial retort. And that isn't unjustified from their perspective, it would seem, given the calm with which she allows the point to fade away.

No crackle in an artificial sky. No rustling of metal wings, liquid pinions rubbed together in a wordless threat display. They have no need for it. Not yet.

Good enough? That's a question answered time and time again, in wreckage of islands and fallen cities, during coups and over tabletops. Her lot, then, will ever be facing a pitiless jury, a stone-faced judge, and measured against standards other than her own. Jane blows out a faint breath through her lips, stirring a loose trail of chocolate-dark hair that wants to wiggle free from behind her ear. "You may be all those things. Why come to me? Why not ask him for yourself?" she asks the redhead in a reasonable enough dudgeon, genuinely interested in that fact. "What he does and why are always his choice. You have your right to worry about his health and well-being, the same as he cares about yours. That's one of the harder points of adulthood, watching people make decisions we may not agree with for reasons we might dispute, or we cannot understand. If I hear you right, you want to know he is safe, thriving, and can reach you if he needs. Is that a fairly accurate statement?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Studying Jane in silence for a few moments, the woman's hands move now, rather than speaking she is /signing/ in a way that Jane would recognize. That she uses it is perhaps some form of test, to see just how close she and Blackagar are. ~He will not speak of it. Which is why we are suspicious. He has always been a private person, but to not even speak of this makes us wonder if there is something being hidden or...~ At this she pauses, then with a sigh goes on, ~Or if it is truly a serious thing. He is our King, we have a right to know if he is alright. But beyond that, as his family, we want to know if things are... of a nature that we should be concerned.~

She shifts then to speaking shortly after, gauging to see if Jane understood what she had signed. "We know his is safe, he is clearly thriving and he has responded to any requests that have been sent to him. What we want to know are the answers to two questions. Is he happy and... if so why."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Do you think it right for me to speak to another person's happiness? By what measure do you call someone happy?" The question isn't an idle one. Jane spools her hair in her fingers, twisting a thin lock around until it goes taut and thin, delivered to a point. "I do not like speaking for another, especially when they have not made their thoughts known. It would not be right for me, ma'am, to presume to answer if he has not. As you are his family and his best friend, you are well-placed to inquire and hope for an honest answer, no? He is your king, your kin. I am, however, a visitor and guarded by the hospitality that he affords me."

She lifts her chin and gestures to the wall facing Attilan. "Is it proper to interpret on his behalf as a guest? I'm uncertain that it is right to answer without him here. For courtesy and propriety, of course, but also because you could have reason to doubt anything I say. A stranger. Possibly dangerous. Possibly suspicious. You have good reason to doubt my words, or pick them apart, and I wouldn't begrudge you scouring them for proof of intent. I would too, in your shoes. In my own."

If that is a shot across the bow or a confession of amity, let it be what it is. "Why is he happy? You'll have to ask him. Is he happy? He says he is. I have little reason to doubt, and perhaps the essential question for me is whether or not I can support the choices he makes and the path he walks in a way that honours who he is, what he strives for, where he has come from, and what he wishes to achieve. Those are questions, ma'am, I can answer. I'm not hiding from you, but I would posit that you seek answers about him from the wrong person. What I can offer is my own perspective, just as you can of yours. Such as your name, and what I could probably call you, please? I'm Jane. Or if you need titles, Doctor Foster."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The woman silently studies yet again, considering Jane before her arms fold under and she adopts a partially annoyed, partially bemused expression. "You dance around topics with the skill of a politician. You would have done well in a royal court." There may be a small hint of admiration in that, but only small. "What /he/ chooses to say is from his perspective. I am far more interested in learning of /you/ and specifically your interactions."

Then there's a small step forward, a hardening of her green eyes, "The family wishes to know if you are a threat. If you are an influence upon him that needs to be curtailed or not." The tone lacks threat, it is not meant to be one, but rather a blatant outlining of the thoughts going on amongst those who speak of them. A steady gaze follows, "Those in the family call me Medusa," she explains quietly, the name sounding abbreviated from something else. "So tell me of what Bolt is like, on Earth. I wish to compare it to how he is here, at home."

Jane Foster has posed:
Loosening her grip on the artificial curl, Jane drops her hand and the spindled tress in all its tension bounces back. She meets the woman's aforementioned praise of a royal court with a wry smile. "Neogitiating bureaucracy is the same no matter where we are, isn't it?" Warming to the redhead in spite of herself, she opts to briefly glance onto the broad avenue bisecting the city east to west. A route forbidden without one very happy watch-hound or a king, but from here, glimpsed between the buildings clustered upon it. "Clearly you are of the royal family, which leads me to ask you, ma'am, your position therein. Clearly well-esteemed. Attilan's structure may certainly differ from those I know." And very likely not, but the presence of the All-Father's approval on her wrist or the mark of favour of a transdimensional empire need not be raised at the moment. Nor that she's a wayward scientist hiding even more impressive scientists in another room, eating sandwiches and pondering samples of moon dust or whatever a Simmons does.

"I am not a threat, whatever value you put on that. I have not championed frolicking around Attilan unguarded nor ever tried to counsel him against his duties or conscience. If you and he thought it appropriate to meet, I have always intended to act with respect and not barrage you with so many questions. Clearly we are curious about one another." Clearly she's not going to have a chance if an entire lunar society turns on her, no doubt. "Am I permitted to call you Medusa? I won't lie; being here is incredible, a bit breathtaking when I stop to think about it. I don't wish to harm something or someone so profound, complex, and unique. I cannot imagine /why/ anyone thinks I'm a risk to you -- or him. You surely have seen for yourself that his mind is his own. He will not be led by the nose. We can have our fundamental disgareememts about how something works or should be, but we listen respectfully to one another and seek common ground."

She pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. "He is considerate, in all ways. He experiences not merely theoretically, but through hands-on experience. I work more than I'd like, so many hours are his own, but he goes out to examine or experience what he wants to know at that time. He also very much likes gelato, an iced dessert. We may not differ so much from Attilan there, that we have a plethora of foods to try."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Medusa is quiet for a spell, considering Jane's words before she turns and faces in the same direction the other woman is looking out over the city. "This is the only world and life many of us know. Some venture to Earth for purposes, but many of us choose not to. The pollution is very trying to our systems. As I am sure you discovered based on what Bolt has shared, we are also wary of humans because of the past. But, there is an interest in what goes on there since it does impact our lives here in some ways." The preamble done, she sighs softly, "The reason /I/ am concerned is because there is a fine line between exploring and experiencing, and running away."

That she would frame it so has her eyes turning to look at Jane momentarily, "There are some, myself among them, that are wondering if he is attempting to flee his destiny. None of us question his dedication to the people or to Attilan, to the Inhumans. But could anyone blame him if he found distractions that took him away from his path?" She falls silent.

"You know of his parents I assume, the burden he carries there and has carried. Is..." Medusa pauses, a hitch in her throat, "Is he running away from those burdens?" It is rhetorical in some regards, asked largely of herself before she sighs. "I must admit there is a certain jealousy I feel you know."

Jane Foster has posed:
"It makes sense to me why you would not want to come to Earth, especially not at the moment." A touch of a grim smile breaks through Jane's general composure. Her gaze settles once more on Medusa, though not in the locked stare of someone hostile. Making eye contact simply amounts to something. "I'll be the first to say many acts taken by humanity leave something to be desired. So too the untold stories of countless people living their lives, wanting to harm none, striving instead to make a better go of it for themselves. Your king has an eye to all aspects of society, here as there." Small morsels given where they can be without betraying a trust forged over months and more, she goes quiet.

What is it to run? To hide from a prophecy that might mean nothing, to carry a burden immeasurably heavy on one's shoulders? "Whatever his choice will be, are you prepared to honour it and abide by it? He carries a considerable load on his shoulders even without obligation to anyone else, to say nothing of kingship. I've pondered if he seeks a holiday to make the obligations manageable, but I'm not a princess, an imperial consort, or a politician used to these expectations. In our society I'm a civilian. If he /wants/ to be happy, how can that balance be found? Is there a way to navigate this for his and Attilan's good? I don't have those tools at hand because much of Attilan is foreign to me. I'm not asking to peek behind the curtain, you need not worry about that. Perhaps offering food for thought for you, to consider future conversations and alternatives." A beat. Two.

"I know what happened." No point to lie about that. Turning, she goes back to the wall, looking at Medusa. "See all of this? Every day, I expect it lies in his heart. Every waking and sleeping moment, restrained by the absolute knowledge of what a slip could do. I esteem him deeply for negotiating all that and somehow remaining himself. Fear can poison someone and constrict them far more than anything else, and how do we stop that from consuming a person whole? If there's anything which is mine concern, that is." Her tone warms a little, but the seriousness lingers. "He will have that from me, if he wishes it. The world, if it matters. I wish you weren't jealous. Of his ability to leave? Of something else? There are always trade-offs. Being happy with what we have and can achieve is one of life's most important lessons."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
"That is what we do not know. The why behind things." A look is given to Jane and a small smile, "No offense is meant, but it is why we are confused. Why he would choose well, to spend his time on Earth. With a human." A small shrug comes from her shoulders, "It is simply a curiousity to us and one that we do hold some small concern over. Personally, I favor the theory that someone has slipped him a mind control substance and has clouded his judgment." A soft laugh comes, clearly the woman is joking about that particular theory.

"Whatever he chooses to do, in the end, those of us close to him trust him. We wish to understand better, but if asked to follow blindly, then we will. But it does leave challenges in place from others in the society. But he has never let us down. And the people know that. Whatever he does, many believe it is for good reason even if we cannot understand it fully." Considering, she adds, "Even if that reason is for himself. Of anyone I know, Bolt deserves a chance to be happy and to think of himself occassionally."

Turning, she starts to move off, "I must attend to some other matters, although I suspect we shall speak again." It is a parting tone, but there is a momentary pause, the glance over her shoulder given back towards Jane. "And I am jealous, of you."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Why can the simplest answer not be acceptable? People find happiness in different places. Suppose you looked beyond the Moon and located it? Would that be so strange?" Jane expects no answer to that, but leaves one all the same, and spreads her hands to frame the sky as if she might see the stars beyond it. "The universe is truly vast, without even taking into account the other universes beyond this one. Destiny becomes a convoluted matter when we consider how every action spawns different possibilities; how could something absolute descend on us? If destiny exists, the way some would have it, how could you run away at all? Has no one at least explored the possibility all of this is meant to be, if they believe in the predetermined dictates?"

Which of course leaves another factor, that she is somehow tied up in all of that.

Though her nose wrinkles all the same. "Medusa, I don't like secrecy. I do not believe you have to blindly follow him. I believe he's seeking a path through ongoing conflicts that puts the Inhumans on the surest course for their success, a success measured not only by survival but other forms of prosperity. There may be no grand plan laid out over ten years to revolutionize relations between Attilan and Earth. It may be the fact-finding presently to ascertain what truly is best. Give someone a taste of another place and culture, it takes time and changes perspective."

She touches her fingertips to her brow in a massaging motion once Medusa leaves on that note, and there's a soft, almost sad arc to her smile. "Are we not jealous of one another at times? You care for him, and that I am grateful for. Besides, you do not want to walk a mile in my shoes. I'm sure you know why."