12375/A Wish For Wings That Work

A Wish For Wings That Work
Date of Scene:	10 August 2022
Location:	Airfield: Triskelion
Synopsis:	A meeting to chat about salvaged dragster yachts, and space, and horrible space history.
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Jane Foster

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Michael Erickson has posed:
    It has been an eventful couple of days.

    Since their raid on a HYDRA research base - volcanic island and all! - a volume of weird, reverse-engineered technology and other gear litters the grounds of a storage hangar somewhere on the airfield grounds. Straight from bad Nineties cartoons they are, all of them Liefeld Specials. And then...there is the ship. Sleek, low-slung, a work of art in glossy dark purple thermogloss and hyperchrome, its plan laid out like a strident, arrogant raptor. As they all are, the Shi'ar, arrogant bird-beings. If it isn't avian, it's insectoid. Nothing else appears to rate.

    By the landed vessel Michael stands in a dull gray mechanic's jumpsuit, black forage cap keeping back his hair. An odd device in his hand, he sweeps its business end slowly across the vessel's belly, the blue ghost-data of holography swirling about inches over its control surface. Space Mechanic Mike, at your service.

Jane Foster has posed:
A raid on a HYDRA-ruled volcanic island on the chain reaching from the Weddell Sea means an attack in the dead of winter. Well, mostly dead. Sunlight barely breaks over the horizon for a few hours to lighten the endless black velvet night wrapped brutally around the Furious Fifties. Zinda Badass Blake did some pretty amazing aerobatics with a Quinjet to accomplish not a little in bringing everyone home, including their curious cargo.

Alien tech. Who better to see it than an alien technologist?

Space Mechanic Mike, meet Space (Not) Queen Jane. Spacefaring Jane? No, that will never do. Sadly, Jane's parents were practical -- a teacher and a doctor -- and did not prefer names like Koriand'r, Cal'syee, or anything involving an apostrophe. Her dad probably wouldn't blown a gasket at an apostrophe. Jiayanahla Foster, she is not. Not even a hyphenate. Truly dull.

"You know, if I didn't know better, I would guess you were waxing it," she chimes in.

SHIELD still has absolutely no reason for HOW something the size of a yacht managed to jump from 55'S to 41'N, tossed neatly into a most disused warehouse, mostly intact, with only a few odd variations. Nope. No idea.

Funny how wormholes work, and the one person around who studies them and even has a damned scientific rule named for them.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Perhaps when it's been restored." Michael quirks a dry smile as he keeps his gaze for the moment upon the swirling holographic glyphs. Lots of apostrophes in /their/ translation, for sure. Michael looks up at the thing, then, with something of the rapturous joy of a Fifties teenager seeing their first hot rod. Grins, even. "Despite all the parts they removed from it, it /is/ gorgeous. Ever seen one of these?"

    Which is probably a silly question. He prefers not to assume.

Jane Foster has posed:
"It's not in serviceable shape yet? A disturbing lack of schematics hit R&D, so I can only imagine what SWORD pulled. Or you've got Fitz due in here any minute," murmurs the brunette, a grin on her lips as she picks her path closer into the vast space. It's Michael's world here far more than hers, though she is functionally an engineer to build a few of the pieces she needs and uses liberally. Probably looks like blocks to a true Shi'ar, a childhood game of babbling, but there they are. "Though it has a rather prettier look without the red octopus. I have to imagine a few of the guys working on the exoskeletons we brought back got right to work removing those."

Shi'ar exoskeletons, and HYDRA-bastard tech exoskeletons, also randomly appeared in a different warehouse. They're all tagged and accounted for. "I've only seen it in a bay crammed with murderous soldiers where we needed someone like Captain Danvers to go kick around HYDRA. You tell me the details, and let's marvel over it together."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He smiles at that, nods, and sweeps his free hand outward like an interstellar game show host at the glimmering craft. "This," he proclaims, "Is a genuine A'aatav touring yacht. Built to specification, worth hundreds of thousands of units or more. Luxury speedcraft - like a Bugatti, something like that." A soft sigh issues from his lips. "My father always wanted one of these. We had a Trivaa, which was state of the art, but this..."

    He stands there in silence for a long moment, lost in a memory that takes a few eyeblinks to break out of. "Anyway. It's a gorgeous vessel. How HYDRA got it is beyond me."

Jane Foster has posed:
"A'aatav," Jane repeats, and not entirely unfaithfully getting her tongue around that. It doesn't help the excess vowels and apostrophe made for the slightly different physiology of the Shi'ar make her want to gulp. "I like that. The Bugatti of yachts, pulled from a volcano. Tell me how something like this ends up in HYDRA's possession? I can only imagine that someone brought it here to show off when things happened last year. But /why/ this?"

Her gaze flickers over Michael, letting the silence stretch while he walks the vaults of memory. They both have time, scads of it.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It looks like a fightercraft," he begins, putting the device in his hand on a nearby tray. "Very sleek, fast. They probably assumed it was for combat." He shakes his head. "Looks like they scavenged most of the power cluster to fuel these weapons they were working on. Other parts as well - the shield system isnt in its mountings. Which means HYDRA likely has it somewhere else." Michael crouches down to look at the ship from a different angle, shakes his head. "Which, though light on a ship like this, would be a powerful defense against the mainstream technological base on this world. We will have to steal it back."

Jane Foster has posed:
It looks like something, that's for sure. Jane stands at a distance to gain a sense of the proportions, the lines, the weight that she dragged through a hole in space... don't ask how. Maybe she doesn't even quite know. That is, of course, a lie. She knows exactly how.

But looking at the details in their sleek creation fascinates her all the same, eyes wide. "You don't have to steal it back, would you? Just a case of looking for a beacon to hear it? All that seems to be registered to a subsonic frequency."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "That HYDRA has the shield unit elsewhere means they have another research team." Michael's expression is grim as he says it, his eyes fixed upon the vessel now. "That must be dismantled. Do you not agree?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane shakes her head, the whimsy of her tone a dangerous thing. "Oh, just deal with a few bad eggs that keep trying to murder our friends and overtake the world? Hardly a problem. We can round up Jess, Mary Jane, and Daisy. It will all go absolutely swimmingly," she cheerfully acknowledges his question without so much as a preamble. "Maybe the Winter Soldier. We can probably agree I am not always the most /useful/ in the field, at least where it comes to this, can't we? You, though."

A knowing grin. "You'd be arguably the opposite, yes?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I shall serve," he replies, with the crisp tones of years of military reflex drummed into him. "And be of service. In the meantime, the rest of this I believe should be returned to my people. They have a presence at the Spaceport now. It might go well to demonstrating both strength and prudence on Humanity's behalf."

Jane Foster has posed:
"And we can be sure it won't be used against us or them? Will it not be perceived as a bribe from us? I don't know that we want to give that sort of impression, though I am confident enough that you could assure we approach this with the proper diplomacy and care it deserves." The brunette's thoughts on that front are fairly serene, if not quite drawn on her face. Funny how wearing a mask comes naturally, donning n invisible helm if not as inscrutable as the one she normally wears, as somewhat effective. "Why would you not wish to keep it? By rights, SHIELD acquired it fairly. Provenance for how it may be returned is limited, though it's obviously Shi'ar. I can understand if you want to keep a low profile, though I am curious what drives your thoughts."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "You tell me," Michael says, looking over at Jane with quirking brows. "Would you want this planet's governments unfettered access to this technology? Trust them to use it only as SHIELD dispenses? Because I certainly don't." Back to the ship then. "But this, this ship, I want. SCAR can make excellent use of it."

Jane Foster has posed:
The slender arc of her brows rise. "Would you imply I would tolerate that being in the hands of the Russians, the North Koreans? Kahndaq, or Victor von Doom, more precisely? I think it's fair to say that many of us would ask if we should return that to the Shi'ar, if they would aim to use it to seduce our women or joyride around the Moon." Jane's probably not wholly serious on the latter, though her dimples show when she grins for a brief moment in time. "SHIELD walks a bitter reality, and I will be the first to admit that. We don't serve a single master but many. The interests of the United States, the political and military leadership that have oversight of the agency, what the Director and Chief dictate. Ultimately we answer someone over us, and as we saw when the infiltration of HYDRA happened..." She gestures with a roll of her shoulder. "Failsafes that should protect us while we protect others failed. We were played. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? You know, back in the day, that was Juvenal's question about the men guarding his wife's fidelity, not the state. Though we could see it that way. You know your people better than I ever can, better than just about anyone. I don't know many by name who could claim the equal of it."

Her eyes are dark, clear, turned to him with thought. "Seems to me this was delivered with you in mind, or that's what the files say. If you want to dispense with it, that's your move to make and then acquisitions and procurement or whomever is higher up has to sign off on that. Ultimately though -- is there a reason to give it to the Shi'ar, is there an argument for retaining it? Is there a just worry for either that overrules the sensible course that you could take?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Oh," he replies, attention returning to her. "There are plenty of reasons to keep it. These suits - even the reverse-engineered hardware - would turn any team of agents into military juggernauts capable of besting nearly any force on this planet. Again, this is why it should not be in the hands of governments on this planet." Michael's hands are long and broad as they lift from his sides, and he shrugs. "And of course it is all inscribed, molecule by molecule, with ownership codes. That is the property of the Imperial military. They will not be remotely pleased for humans to make use of it. Bad politics."

    But then his brows lift. "However, if we were to go to another world and purchase fairly equivalent equipment from a different people? That's not theft at all."

Jane Foster has posed:
"How much does it cost in imperial chan'd or lemire or Sol? Whatever currency is actually used out there?" Jane flicks her fingers slightly at the sky, or at least where the sky would be, gracefully coloured in a block of grey compared to the brighter, smoother ship. "If we gift this, I imagine it's not going to turn any income. Where /is/ the nearest market? Proxima Centauri?"

Her head tilts and she breaks into a faint, weak chuckle. "As if I'd ever get out there to see another star, but you know what I mean."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Units," he affirms. "Standard currency in known space is the Unit. And I have no idea, actually. But now..." Michael gestures vaguely to the joybird there. "We can find out. Once all the necessary parts are reclaimed. And they shall be." That's an oath right there, that is.

    With that, Michael gestures to its open landing hatch, which is paneled in a curious reddish wood that seems to glimmer like crystal. "Right, then," Michael days with a chuckle. "Let me show you how the rich and famous roll in the Empire..."

Jane Foster has posed:
"A unit? That's absolutely terrible. Some bureaucrat must've come up with the name." It /is/ terrible. They are going to invent the Sol but it requires a bunch of mutants to manage. "I suppose better than the unit of trade being measured in mead or a furlong of an ice giant. Once you acquire the missing pieces, do you think it /could/ be traded fairly? Perhaps something given to the Shi'ar in exchange for a like ship."

She otherwise rolls her shoulders easily enough, finding a spot to sit for a bit.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Well that's the thing," Michael explains as they head to the waiting hatch. "It's generic for a reason. Different backers, different values, but ultimately on a galactic scale it all evens out. Hence, the Unit. Or Credit, if you want to be gauche." He says, as he leads Jane onto a bespoke Shi'ar speed yacht.

    Which is...well. Bespoke.

    White, sweeping curves, tinted with planes of holographic light and recessed glowstrips in a shower of color. Elegant chairs of painfully thin platinum wire spun into shape surrounding a table made of a substance that looks like solidified Vantablack, but shudders and produces drinking vessels from beneath its surface as the two of them step on. A light, pleasant woman's voice speaks in the formal dialect of Shi'ar, one that Michael replies to with surprising elegance in what has up to now been a strictly soldier's tone. His very mein changes as he steps on board, becoming much more the lord at home. He /was/ nobility, he did say. Perhaps now, first of all times on this planet, that side manages to show.

    "Well," he says, gesturing to the gleaming, hue-stained whiteness that is the yacht's central lounge, "Here's a start at least. The computer is still intact."

Jane Foster has posed:
"I can still say it's a dull name. They need something mildly more interesting. Units. That's probably also used for determining distance, volume, time, and other variables." The astrophysicist seems to delight in such mild teasing between them, and such isn't actually meant as an outright criticism. "What's next? We all get called /stuff/? I shall be worse than gauche."

She shall be interesting. It's pretty easy to be that way when the ship speaks to them and the space-hyper-yacht lights up to show off. "Like a cat. It wants your attention. Yes?"

The computer's commentary isn't actually lost. She understands it precisely, down to the glottal shifts and the inflection points that AI and Shi'ar lord exchange with one another. That's a facet borne of her cursed state, after all.

And gods help them both if it tries to read her, because there's no genetic link to /find/.

She has no DNA.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Well, that's the thing, isn't it? It speaks to him as if she weren't there - one drinking vessel, one elegant ewer. < Welcome back, most noble son of Atlex, > the machine refers to him as in its greeting. < What do you require? > Because nobles always require something, don't they? < Nothing, > he has said in reply. < Thank you. >

    To Jane he turns, gesturing to the cut and ewer. "If you'd like," he offers, "There's wine there. Produced it from microstores, apparently. It's good! From Ratagoltha. Sweet." He takes a seat at the table, its momentary fluidity stilled once more, and smiles at her. Comfortable, even in someone else's ship.

    "It's meant to be a generic term under auspices of politics, I suspect," Michael tells her. "So that no currency is given any hint of superior value. Wars have been fought over less, eh?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Has it been properly scanned so we know it isn't one of HYDRA's libations? Unfortunately they have a habit of poisoning people. Madame HYDRA was terrible that way. Ophelia did not make friends when she tried to poison May," Jane explains her hesitation, although she isn't prepared to be rude over it. Helping herself would be rude, too. She waits until Michael sits, and then proceeds to regard one of the glasses. Pouring comes naturally enough.

"I have the intention one day of seeing space. Even between the planets, given how long that takes. Something like this would make it terribly comfortable." She eases back into smile. "It's a fine gift, though. Thank you. I appreciate the creature comforts they took into account when making this."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I suspect that the wine was meant to be celebratory," Michael replies with a faint chuckle. "At any rate, I've had some already. Certainly tastes Ratagolthan to me - you can taste the faint chemical tang in it, from the pollution. They grow the fungi from which it's derived in the hulls of fallen naval ships." The implication being 'fallen' as in 'blown out of the sky by Shi'ar guns', of course. "Unfortunately there's nothing else in the stores. And of course you will go to space as far as I have anything to do with it. Get a suit, I can fly you myself, ship or no, eh?"

Jane Foster has posed:
They have their own appetites, mighty or minor, for sweet or for dry. The world is a mass of hungers, a dash of need and a lingering of longing that will ever boil in the veins or prance across the tongue unmet. "Ratagoltha is -- a city?" a query of the scientific mind, a matter of interest. "Or a planet? I'm sorry to pry if that is too far to ask. How interesting, using fungi. That wouldn't be entirely different from some of the experimental wineries, especially in Europe. Not something I often have." But clearly might consider, as she pokes at the ewer and pours out a splash for herself. Enough to fill up Michael's, if he has not already considered the drink sufficient for him.

"Here's to this not poisoning either of us." It's a proper judgment, a reasonable conversation to have with a stranger or a friend. "A suit -- as if we have them just lying around. What do you get someone from the stars for a gift, anyway?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "A planet. Client state of the Empire for...oh, six hundred years? Along the Kesaav Arm." His smile flattens into a grimmer cousin. "Unfortunately, an unwilling one. My people used antimatter munitions on most of the major cities to enforce compliance." He doesn't reach for the glass yet. "You'd be surprised what people make libations from. I have a flask I carry around whose contents are brewed from the bodies of enemy dead preserved in a bog." So there's that.

Jane Foster has posed:
Thrilling history is spread out in detail, dancing along the margins of a galaxy that certain doesn't have the names humanity gave it, but nonetheless exists in their scope, bright in their eyes. Jane inclines her head. "Antimatter? And here we are, with them on our doorstep, and their ship. I almost wonder if we risk more by inviting them in than staying out of their sight."

A look darkens her expression, pale complexion gone pearl. "A drink from the /dead/?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael is, apparently, full of history - and here, among the lines of a culture he had thought lost to him, he seems much more in contact with it. "Better to hold your enemy within range of your knife if you can't keep them away entirely. And yes, the dead. It's only flesh, after all, rendered down into intoxicants after having been transformed by the local flora to start with." Just dudes drinking dudes, nothing crazy here. "Their souls have gone on, after all."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Better to hold your enemy fermenting in a bottle lest they somehow lend their strength to the soil? I know that some people made skull-cups of their most honoured enemies, though they were few and probably overblown by Roman imaginations." Really, really overblown. Jane can concede that much, though it's still a very peculiar situation to be in. She eyes Michael to see if he's pulling her leg. "Though not exactly healthy or wholesome for you, I'll warn. That may be a case of doing something with their corpses, but the breakdown of biota in those corpses is still dangerous even when you've distilled them."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Which is why it's only drunk on special occasions." His brows quirk faintly at her reaction, though considering how Peggy reacted to him storing zombie-cyborgs in his freezer chest. "It's not as if we eat our enemies."

Jane Foster has posed:
Peggy might have a reaction of other natures, too, if she knew what was frozen under the roots of SHIELD. So many secrets. "Most don't, I would like to think. Unless it's metaphorically purchasing their goods or consuming their economies, resources, stars, and the like." Jane gestures again, glass to her lips. It best not be made of dead people.

They really don't want to go there, on earth.