12627/It's always sunny in Triskelion

It's always sunny in Triskelion
Date of Scene:	30 August 2022
Location:	Recreation Lounge: Triskelion
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Jane Foster, Yelena Belova, Michael Erickson, Meggan Puceanu

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Clint Barton has posed:
One of the arcade games is a ski-ball machine, which is where Clint currently stands. There's some music playing in the background, Squirrel Nut Zippers "Hell", while the dusty brown haired archer tosses one of the wooden balls in his palm, eyeing the small circular holes down range.

He's dressed down. Wearing a SHIELD issued athletic shirt and sweat pants, and looks like he's just had a shower. Possibly post-workout.. and there's a mug of coffee nearby on a table that almost certainly belongs to him.

The ball whistles towards the upper most 100 point hole. He doesn't bother rolling it, he just throws it... right through with only minimal effort. Immediately reaching down for another, spinning it from his palm into his other hand.

Just a lazy day at Triskelion for world class spies, amirite?

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would enter on in and glance over at what Clint was up to. She would just watch over at him for a moment, "Stop sharking the other agents." She would just go to cross her arms and move to watch over. "Or is this personally for your own enjoyment? Thens houldn't you be over in a handstand or something to just make sure to get the point across?" She would query over to him in a casual sort of jibe that might be the normal dynamic of the back and forth between the two.

"And it loks likey ou're doing well, Barton. I do hope that the last few field missions you've been on haven't had you bitten off more than you can chew. You seem to have made it back in one piece."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane is the civilian senior agent, how did that happen? Don't ask. Like Jemma, she might pass as a professional nearly everywhere she goes with none the wiser. Her connections to SHIELD aren't exactly common knowledge with the odd passing exception. She has a cup of coffee in hand, leaning against a wall while looking over data provided on a tablet connected to a far more powerful computer. The computer is the one doing the heavy lifting on trajectories, one that brings out a curious sound from her now and then. "Fascinating. They're planning on skirting past Jovian gravity how, then?" Comments transcribed onto the data findings are dutifully mirrored on the tablet.

Triskelion business involves actually following up on her 'other' job, which involves the directorship of the Hayden Planetarium and all that goes with being a science celebrity. A lot, as it happens.

"Can you do it blindfolded?" she cheerfully asks Clint, nodding to Natasha.

Clint Barton has posed:
"Heckity ha-ha, Nat." Clint grins genuinely seeing her come in and immediately start teasing him, "I'm getting to old for this shit, you know that right?" Ten years ago he'd definitely be showing off, doing flips off the end of the track and throwing the balls while aerially upside down. Now he just takes aim and casually hurls the ball through the angular open tube without even really trying. Every shot is 100 pts, though.

"I twisted my ankle walking down the steps at my apartment last week." He tells her, bending to grab another ball, then points at her with one finger coming off the smooth wooden surface, but whatever he was going to say or ask goes lost when Jane asks if he could do it blindfolded.

"Yeah. Blind folded and around the corner." He says, nodding towards the small wall divide that seperates this section of the lounge from one of the kitchenettes. "But I'm not a 'show off'..." That part he says, half turning to smirk at Natasha, "...so I only do it by request. Or for childrens birthday parties when business is slow."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would smirk at Clint, "Yes, yes. And if you're getting too old for these things, you should consider retirmeent. Perhaps standing down and going to reserve status. Monitor duty. Starting to work over on training or administrative work. Going in for a promotion, perhaps and see where that takes you. I'm sure that you'd fit just as well over in the higher ranks as you do here over in field monitoring." She would cross her arms once more.
    "And that seems fairly low key for yourself. I'm sure that there are other junior agents that could manage the same sort of routine without too much of an issue. So you're going relatively pedestrian at this rate." She would nod over at Jane.
    "Doctor Foster, I hope that you're doing well. Nothing's been amiss over in what exactly has been up with the Asgardians?" She had been reading at least some of the reports filtering through the Avengers system, even if in passing.

Jane Foster has posed:
The spectre of their inevitable annual reviews always loom large in Jane's mind. Being one of the scientific sorts -- somehow attached to WAND and SWORD -- makes the demands even higher. "There a chance you could bank some teaching time with me in the next week or two, if you're not on a mission? I don't excel at more advanced targeting." Trick shots, by any other name, would sting just as sweet, surely? "Limiting my liabilities to the operation would be advantageous, I think." Oh, the ironies of the statement that she can speak so glibly to, barely a dissonant ripple to betray her to expert interrogators.

With nary a hair out of place, she flicks through screens and brings up an array of mathematical formulas running longer than a few pages. Locating what she wants in there is probably a herculean task, reduced to the familiar by sliding her fingertips across the glass. "Are you often required to go undercover for children's parties, or is the top tier of government pay really that bad? Or the cakes that good?" A hint of a grin laces the words, a knack for projecting expression into what she says evident. Or she's just really good at following up on Natasha's teasing with some actual facts. "Nothing overly amiss, no. Simply planning on being thrown into another dimension dealing with irritated beings about five times my height, nothing too problematic." Not particularly, after all, considering... "If you have any recommendations on flame proofing my hair, though? I'd appreciate it."

Clint Barton has posed:
"I've retired a bunch of times." Clint says in response to Natasha's attempt to tease him, which he shoulders with relative ease and good natured indifference, "It never sticks." The ball he's holding is underhand tossed down towards the pit at the end of the ramp, a high arcing lob that will land it in the front gutter with no hope of ever seeing points on the, rather impressive, scoreboard. Moving quickly, he grabs another ball from the hopper and throws it hard, at a downward angle, with his cheeks puffing out.

The two balls strike one another just before the first disappears into the shoot. They strike with a hard clank of wood on wood and ricochette off into the webbing net protecting the glass sides of the scorebox. Both ride the net, hit the glass, and rebound into the two slots at the upper most corners oposite one another.

He spins on his heel, turning with a smug smirk at Natasha, "I'm not dead yet, though. Only promotion I'm taking to high command comes when I'm in a box." Eyes sweep over to look at Foster, "Sure, I could pencil you in for a tenatively open timeslot. As many heroes as we've got running around now, I hardly think they need an archer of advancing age shooting at Dragons from Kamakaze nine, or whatever the hell intergalactic, quasi-dimensional, world shattering nonsense we'll be asked to deal with tomorrow."

He reaches out for his coffee and casually takes a sip.

"You knock childrens parties, but it's honest work. And the only people trying to kill me are tweens using all that irrational internet lingo that makes no sense, I don't care what they say. The hell does YEET even mean? Do they still say yeet?"

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would chuckle, "Yes. So I've been told throughout the time we've worked together." That's said with as much respect as Natasha will show anyone that's not Yelena, Nadia, or one o fthe students that she's taken a personal interest in for her own reason. WEll, most of them being refuees from the same program that made her.

"And that's a bit better, Barton. You seemed like you were slacking over in things so I wanted to make sure you were still taking the situation seriously." Her tone is more with approval now over. "And I'm sure that you would love children's parties. YOu'd fit in so well with them." As far as the mentality went. "You could go with the younger STorm brother and I'm sure you'd have a great time together and there would be massive entertainment for the children."

Jane Foster has posed:
Clint retiring? Natasha teaching? Prime gossip falls on basically deaf ears. The wrong Furiae is in the building for that, Daisy out and about somewhere that's got a screen in front of her. The brunette keeps annotating the tablet idly, scrolling back twice to peek at a formula and alter its parameters. The red angry message that pops up on screen probably denies the effectiveness of whatever she asks. At least the tablet works this time, instead of bleating in rage.

Coffee set to the side, she grins at Clint again. "Oh, it wasn't enough to have all the dead gathering in Mexico or War World the year before ethat, or some parade of warrior spirits with wings trying to smash into the Eastern Seaboard? Dragons from Kami..." She can't get it out without laughing, her mouth betraying her by twitching at the corners. Good thing she's not holding the coffee, hugging the tablet to herself as every last attempt to get a word out has totally failed. A few attempts amount to nonsensical giggles.

"Fa--" all that matters. It's untranslatable to a woman who speaks every language that ever was.

Clint Barton has posed:
"You are an inspiration to us all, Natasha, how do I even tie my shoes in the morning without your glib down-dressing of my rudamentary knot tying skills." Clint says dryly, side eyeing the former Russian spymaster. The preceptive could easily see his half grin. The casual observer, however, might not think the two liked each other very much.

"Johnny? Yeah, he's a great drinking partner. Light-weight.. but good in a barfight." For which Clint is absolutely notorious. Whatever he is on the clock? He's a pain in the ass when off it. "How many times have you been too busy? And why does your phone suddenly stop working everytime I need you to bail me out of jail?"

The last ball, there's just the one more, would easily get him the top score if he hit another 100 pt bucket. After finishing off his coffee and putting the mug back on the table, he lazily rolls it down the lane and lets it gutter.

Whoever owns the scoreboard gets to keep it one more day.

Because Clint Barton is a fair and benevolent skee ball dictator.

Grinning at Jane wrestling through the mirade of world ending events Earth has dealt with in the last few years. "I was sitting at home when the angels attacked. That sounded like a 'not my problem' event. I was trained to fight intergalactic space gods, not angelic chorus of the Catholic diety. You've gotta pick your battles." He's kidding, he was definitely helping, even if nobody saw him helping.

He leans against the wall and stretches until his back pops, "Not gonna lie though, I really want to fight zombies. I think I'd be amazing in a zombie appocolypse."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Teasing, gossip, whatever it all is. This is just the way the two needle one another. Or at least how Natasha goes to needle Clint. It may be mostly one way despite the.. Could one call it friendship all together? "And it's lovely to know there's always another coming crisis on the wings. WHehter it's a planetary invasion over or just smoething that could end the wrold and be an apocalyptic level event. I don't presume to have an exact timeline or chart of them throughout the last few decades.."

Natasha's one is a litlte more serious now for just a moment. "But they do seem to be increasing in frequency." That's all she gets serious for the moment. She goes to just shake her head over at Jane and goes back to the teasing. "And just our luck that they had to be added to the list. I don't presume to be rather religiuos." She was sacriligeous. "But I'll just chalk them up to another form of alien. They could at least have been proper 'cull the earth of the sinners' but they couldn't even manage that simple bit without trying to slaughter eveyrone. And zombies.." SHe'd read the reports over from the engageemnts in Scotland..

Jane Foster has posed:
Johnny and Clint, imagine how that party might go? Jane just shakes her head. "Better him than Reed Richards pulled out of the lab. He's probably got a hollow leg and a half, for those moments when he needs to show mastery of making himself into the balloon animal and imbibing substantial quantities of a good drink." Her amusement becomes another copious giggle, though the respect for the man's still there. Hard not to when he has six and a half dozen degrees, at least count. Even if two dozen are honorary.

Johnny Storm's antics with Clint, though, keep her struggling to hold a straight face and ending again on another tremble of laughter. "Don't look at me. What was /I/ going to do? Already proved that gods are a problem when it came to the Battle of New York." The rest can't be spoken of, sepia eyes clouded a moment and the snatched seconds of regret and greater opinions skittering away. After all, there /was/ someone who talked to Michael when he was inbound, but connecting that dot with a human obviously unable to stand in space, much less gab with an archangel, is quite another matter!

"Please don't want zombies. That apocalypse happened on Haiti and outside Chichen Itza. In fact across most of... everywhere. It just didn't last exceptionally long. What did happen was horrible enough." She shakes her head, hair spilling over her face. "I don't have a theory for the uptick in apocalypse events, Nat, and even if I did, I don't have a good way to prove it. Fact is, the succession of things trying to wipe us off the map keep hitting faster and faster. Starts to make a girl think we have a target on our back."

Clint Barton has posed:
Clint can't help grinning at just how much fun Jane seems to be having with the notion of himself and... basically anyone, though Johnny is probably the most likely culprit. At least until he can get Steve out there, imagine THAT.

He shakes he head and looks between the two ladies, only just now finding a place to sit that allows him to put his boots up on the edge of the table with his fingers laced back behind his short-cut brown-blonde hair. "Oh, I know the answer to that." He says to Nat, but then also to Jane.

"It's the situation America faced back in the cold war when a country started developing enriched uranium. Couldn't have that, so they sent in advisors to make sure things didn't get out of hand." His fingers slide up across the back of his head.

"We're developing a higher calliber of weapons, be it alien technology adapted to human use or just plain old overly powerful metahumans and mutants suddenly exhibiting absurd power levels.. It indicates to other worlds, dimentions, and universes that we're ready to fight.. and since we keep on proving we're not to be trifled with, they'll keep on sending people to prove us wrong."

His hands flick out, "And don't even get me started on magic. That is just cheating, nonsensical, bullshit... so in short, yeah.." He nods to Jane, "We've got a big ass target on our back. That keeps getting bigger... because we've got an alien protecting us that can pick up Japan... and throw it at Canada."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would just shake her head over at Jane there and smirk. "Yes, we all think that would be horrible to have happen. Imagine if something had Doctor Richard's personal interest for an extended period of time and he went ou tof his way to put a great deal of effort into it consistently. Then we'd all be in a great deal of trouble." Reed with an attention span and hyperfocused was a dangerous thing. Particularly where Doom got involved after all.

Shew ould nod over at Jane though, making sure that there wasn't anything particularly exterme going through her head. "IT turns into how you count the zombies and what types there are. There seem to be quite a few varieties." She would nod over at Jane. "There does seem to be an acceleration, even if my view is subjective. Perhaps something you could write a research paper on if you had the time. I"m sure someone would find it fascinating."

She would quirk over at Clint, "ANd how many of those happened to result in 'end of the world levele vents' on what sometimes feels like a monthly basis now? And those are just the ones I'm aware of. I'm sure there are quite a great deal moer now that we're only peripherally awareo f or that are handled by small groups." She's quite in agreement with Clint on magic. Even from WAND, it can make her rather paranoid.

Jane Foster has posed:
Time to reclaim the coffee, now much cooled. Jane reaches for the cup blindly for a moment and then regains her footing. Jostling a tablet and a coffee cup is harder than one might think, especially with the latter being fairly slippery. Glass is a pain, but she maneuvers the tablet to a point held against her arm until she can safely stow it on the tabletop by Clint and Natasha. Spymasters and the scientist, a tale in two acts.

"Soviet advisors, Ottawa, and spies all come to mind. Wasn't that what happened in so many cases? Are you saying we're a topic of so much interest because we got close to another jump forward?" Her eyebrows lift, giving the question time to play out. "There have always been meta humans, perhaps not on this scale and not this obviousness. Not for a while. Rome, they say, was /very/ different in how overt..." She waves her hand. "But Rome wasn't exactly repeated nine times over in a global civilisation. Really, it makes me wonder how fast the news got out. Why. You have to realize how big space is, how absolutely, mind-bogglingly enormous. How many populated, spacefaring planets there are in this galaxy alone is eyewatering, and I can't even give you an insight to the actual numbers. The Kree and Shi'ar Empires are at a threshold we can't even comprehend being on one planet, let alone confederated star systems with their own races in addition to the colonial one."

Some days, it's worth just staring up at the sky and shrinking the pre-eminence of humanity down to a dot, a blip, a place in time. "Many events are not traceable. Some are hidden. Some they don't speak of, or they get stopped in time. That's the crazy part, we can only see a piece of the performance without knowing what's happening beyond what we are trained on. That's hard to deal with, sometimes."

Clint Barton has posed:
"I don't genuinely think we're in the same league as some of those intergalactic groups that have been on the forefront of advanced interstellar warfare for three tribazillonian years, but yeah..." Clint nods in the affirmative, "It's the little kid on the playground who stands up to every bully that comes talking that crap... /That/ I understand, because I was that scrappy little kid.. and I can tell you first hand, when you start swinging on the big dogs and knocking them out?"

He snaps both hands and points one at each of Nat and Jane, "Bigger dogs want a piece. There's a saying pick the biggest guy on the yard and fight him, the only thing that does is make you look like you want to fight."

Which isn't saying much.

"What do I know though, I'm just a thirty something-" Forty something, but give a guy a break, "-year old dude who shoots bows and arrows. Far smarter minds than mine are on this topic. Give them a few weeks and I'm sure they'll figure out a way to summon up Cuthulu or whatever... We haven't fot him yet, right? Have we fought him?" He's seriously asking, looking a little disappointed he might have missed it.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff isn't a coffee person. Apparently the ability her body had to filter out toxins compared with her lifespan meant that caffeine had almost no effect she is. She would nod over at Jane, "Yes, which in turn makes it all the more terrifying how much we aren't aware o fthat's out there. And what even happens here. I'm sure we really don't want to know how many events there are. If only as it would essentially cripple us out of a sense for how many things are beyond our control." Natasha speaks that in a calm voice and of one that had come to accept it.

"And I have no idea over on the exact numbers of what we know. I do know that the Shi'Ar homeworld is an Ecumenopolis." A world the size of Earth that was a giant city with buildings and layers going up well into space, if not even higher. What did it take to evolve to the point that such a planet of that scale was normal after all?

"And we can just do wiht what we have. Better to have a plan and action wtih imperfect information today that one tomorrow with perfect information but too late to use it." An old truism dating back however long humanity had organization no doubt or collectivity. "And you're young, Clint. I"m sure that anotehr few decades of life like this will end up making you just as jaded and cynical as we are. And don't be silly, Cthulhu is a fictional entity."

Jane Foster has posed:
"No, but we hit back hard enough for them to pause and pay attention. We have favour that earns notice, what with Thor or Superman around. I mean, consider the folks who made this their holiday home." Jane smiles again, tucking her hair back, where it falls in. "We agree on that. The main thing I worry about rests with the average, everyday person who can't do much about the notice that comes our way. We don't have alien tech in our homes and the advanced lifeforms who check us out don't necessarily realize not everyone is a Captain America or Marvel."

Coffee is sipped, the last of it gone. "You, Agent Barton, are more than the sum of your arrows. Forgive me for saying, but /I/ recall someone shot between the eyes. Or simply you have the wits to end the threat before it can harm and attack people. Far smarter minds might be on the topic, but the hands have to understand what the mind wants, and therein lies a bridge we can't just pretend to cross with help of a computer or reading the instructions twice. I can't /teach/ you what it means to open a black hole fourteen inches in diameter forty feet away, and how long you have to get out of there, or what it looks like when you create an accretion disk to get rid of a highly deadly toxin. You have to not only know where to hit, you need all the other parameters that don't come naturally. As a physicist, I know what a black hole does. As an agent, I have to hope to Gods that someone detonating an amplification or nullification relay I've given them knows to keep civilians out of a spatial warp. Because you do it wrong, you aren't /anywhere/."

She grins at Natasha. "See? In your lifetime, you've done pretty well. In.. if he's young, then how old are /you/?"

There's no point in actually asking except for form's sake.

Clint Barton has posed:
"So we're drawing the line on what we believe at long slumbering elder gods from a dark dimension?" Clint nods, chin puffed out in a smarmy frown, and both of his hands out in simulation of a shrug. "Okay, it's good to know where the line is on what is believable. Because Hand to Bible, I really can't tell anymore." His right hand sits above his heart, the other raises up in the air above his head.

Then both return to fiddle with a coin he pulls from his pocket, absently rolling it over one hands knuckles, then up the others. Keep his fingers dexterous and loose. "Remember the time a bunch of absurdly strong Super Aliens attacked Metropolis in a ship that swarmed alien monstrocities on a near infinite number?" He grins and shakes his head, "Or that time Actual Angels came from wherever the hell actual angels come from to judge us? Oh.. or the time-" He could go on and on and on, "-But truly, I'm relieved we wont accidentally wake up a squid faced monster sleeping at the bottom of the ocean that will drive you insane by meer thought alone."

Under his voice, "That would be way too silly."

He does, however, cant his head at Jane. "Sure, I know who to do my job better than most.." That's not even bluster, he's never been much of a braggart, more of a show-boat, if we're splitting hairs. "But even I know when things are getting a little metaphysically hot in the kitchen... Metaphysically, intergalactically, blah-b-dee blah-b-dee.." He waves his hand in a small loop, "Threat steps up, threat gets put down. That's my job, that's all of our job.. Protect people who aren't equipped to do so because we've got people on this planet that defy reasonable allocation of power well beyond what is reasonable.. And I'll do it until I'm too old to pull a bow string, too mangled to throw a quip, or too dead to worry about it."

His tongue pushes at the back of his teeth, making a soft sucking sound, "And I'm sure SHIELD would find a damn way to make me useful even if I were dead... so there goes that idea."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would shrug over then while considering how to best reply over to the question from Jane, taking a bit to tap her cheek over and then replying with honesty, "Older than the Captain and the Winter Soldier. Depending on how one defines it, older than the two of them put together." In actual age, no. In time spent living.. Then yes. She hadn't spent decades frozen and resting, waiting for the time to come back to waskefulness.

"And there are so many things that can go wrong. All it takes is a little 'oopsie' or 'I jostled the thing' and the end of all things can happen. That's why we truly hope that you check your data rather well and also make sure that you're not doing the experiment over on a slippery floor." She would quip over in amusement. "And yes, I remember that Clint. Very, very well. I was there after all. And I'm not sure that in the greater scheme of things they even count as a greater threat with what we know is out there in the universe and other things we've been up against. And I'm very glad you haveyour bow and your arrows. Shame that we don't have anyone on the team that wields an axe." Is she making a joke? The FEllowship of the Avengers.

Jane Foster has posed:
"I'm WAND, Agent Barton. What /I/ believe is irrelevant," Jane chides playfully. "The fact I can prove angels from a higher realm, gods from Asgard and super-powered beings from a magical realm is all within my regular scope. You want to definitely say it doesn't exist, I am not going to dissuade you unless you come to the dark side. We've cookies and a huge espresso budget." Her gaze gleams. "But you might encounter a box that eats your soul, so decide wisely."

She pulls her chair up and drops into it, looking Natasha up and then down, then sidelong again. "Mmmhmm. Someone got the contract for all the pluses, then. Right, remember to work that into our business plan." For what? Don't ask. She's a girl who can literally build a localized black hole, and quite a few other things that Nick probably hasn't penciled into his Fury Guide of Furious Problems.

One of those factors gives a veneer of a headache, the telepathy something she can only squash into a box /too/ long without getting said headache. "Speaking of, Clint as Legolas for the Hallowe'en party? You'd make a great Gimli..."

/Run/.

Clint Barton has posed:
"It's not too late to change your class specialization to axe, Nat." Clint says with a smirk at the most ANTIENT Avenger, while pantomiming swinging a battleaxe over his head. He hasn't ever bothered asking her actual age, figuring you should never ask a lady how old she is. Smart Hawkeye is smart.

"Hold on... wait.." Clint waves his hands side to side, "I was being facetious when I said it was too silly because Nat told me to stop being silly when I asked about Cuthulu..." He cants his head at her and furrows his brow, "I don't put anything from any science fiction or horror movie out of the realm of possibility. I literally listed off a host of nonsense that doesn't make any damn sense as STUFF we've DEALT with and then... you know what, my humor is unappreciated."

He points between the pair of them and drops his feet to the floor, "I'm going to get a happy meal, I don't have to take this judgement."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would nod at Jane, "There are more things than we can imagine out there. And we have to be ready for htem all." She would quip over and shake her head. "Then there's those things that we have to deal with that are in our repetoire. Despite the casualties Hydra's taken from our last several months of operations in retaliation for thier strike at the Deputy Director.." She meant the kidnapping of Peggy. "They still have the forces to launch a frontal attack on one of our Hellicarriers. The sheer brazenness of it is a reminder that we have to take them seriously and even if we think we've hurt them we've not inflicted significant damage." As Jane would go on about Clint's Halloween costume she would smirk.

"I don't know, you could probably find someone to go with you as a dwarf. You could ask Thor. Though he would have to do a beard.." She would go to chcukle and give a nod of her head.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane gives a hint of a grin, and nothing more. She doesn't even further tease Clint much. "Your humour isn't unappreciated, but /you/ face May when explaining how you are dealing with something that's part snake and part nightmare, and not exactly in physical form. Then attacking it with ICER rounds makes it belch spaghetti. I don't get it either."

Her poker face shatters as she grins widely, shaking her head. "Don't run off for a Happy Meal. We can certainly say we're enjoying the company, and don't dare say otherwise. Which reminds me, do we have anything on the follow up on the octopus people?"

It may or may not be remembered that Jane wasn't even around when the building was infiltrated, and that whole business went down. Conveniently suspicious!.... or, you know, dead. Very dead.

"Thor would be delighted to tell you about dwarves. They make incredible things, weapons especially."

Clint Barton has posed:
"Ha ha ha, everyone's got jokes, but nobody's funny." Clint says with a smirk, pushing up from his chair and moving to collect his bow and quiver that rest up against the side skirts of the skee-ball machine. Both are slung over his shoulders to rest on his back, once he's adjusted them anyways.

"Anyone want anything from Fat burgers? I know the cafeteria is better than most, but sometimes you've got a treat yourself to processed meat and over saturated carbohydrates." He literally licks his chops a with a grin.

"Yeah, it's been a nice change of pace from talking to myself. Which was all fine and good until I started losing the argument." A SHIELD ballcap is pulled on, then twisted around backwards, pausing in departure while he fixes his archery glove. Pulling the straps around his forearm and patting the plating that protects his wrist. "Hard to be concerned telling someone you fought a creature with two full grown horses for faces when you, ya know, actually did." Not that he's saying he has..

He could have?

"Have we ever fought a full grown horse faced monster, Nat?"

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would shrug, "Well, I'll defer to Thor's expertise on dwarves. He might be somewhat large for one. But I'm sure he could probably find someone to come and play the role of one. Presuming he just doesn't invite one he knows. Or Volstagg." Volstagg would definitely fit the bill. He probably had the same smell as one as well.

"Not that I've been reported on the matter or read. If we think they're aquatic in nature we might find something if we asked the Atlanteans." Not that they might necessarily get something from them. "Or network wiht some of the others that might have experience. I've not had any reports of them, at least." She would glance at Clint, "If you wish to go to.. P lanet HErowood or Big Belly Burgers, then by all means do so, though it will be your funeral." She would qiup over and then look over at Clint. "If you mean a minotaur? Then yes I have. If you mean an ogre or an orc.. The last time I had to drop by Latveria." The expression over on her face is 'fun times'.

Yelena Belova has posed:
Humid late summer day, though the city and society is slowly changing over to fall sensibilities. Halloween items are in the stores now, and on the shelves are the beginnings of pumpkins and spices.

The three H's, however, does mean that the blonde Black Widow is dressed like a 20s something mod should be. Midi-skirt, boots, a midi-tank with a jacket that hangs halfway off her shoulders. Rings festoon at least half of her fingers, including thumbs, and her hair is set back in a messy bunch of something that approximates a french braid. Earrings dangle down, and Yelena makes her entrance carrying a cup that has a most identifiable green shape.

With earbuds in her ears, it has to be connected somewhere to music if the way she's walking has any meaning. Rounding the corner into the RecRoom, she comes to a stop when she sees that there are actually //people// in the room.

A slow smile rises her face, and with a quick drink of that coffee, she swallows it and makes a rather upbeat greeting, even if laced with a thick russian accent.

"Natasha.." like she's a long lost friend? "Do you like it?" It's a new outfit, and she sort of dances in a circle before stopping at front again.

Clint, of course, gets his own greeting, not less enthusiastic, "And Clint Barton. So good to see you again. Really. Have you tried this coffee? I think they call it.. something.. something spice. I cannot remember it all, but if I see it?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    So many cheerful people in here! But whilst the SHIELD luminaries and magical friends are chatting, there's always the B- to Z-cast - somewhere in there is Michael, who, content to exist in a plain, slate gray suit, wanders into the Comfy Couch zone with a black padded lunch pail. Sits. Squints in the near distance at Nat and her friends (though, thanks to a very brief encounter long ago, recognizes Belova as well) before opening up and extracting a metal bento-style box sits it on his lap.

    Popping a small, bloody-red dumpling from the interior of the bento box into his mouth, he sits watching the others interact. This is what spies do, right? Observe and make connections. Yelena's mode of dress and mein are /very/ different from the dour creature he'd met in the exercise room months ago. It almost makes him smile himself, really. So much energy. Was he ever young like that? It feels impossible.

Clint Barton has posed:
"You're not getting me to say Pumpkin Spice." Clint chides at Yelena playfully, pointing at her with two extended gloved fingers, "I see your game and I'm going to win it by not playing." He is, of course, just joking and is well aware that he said the thing.

"You look like an extra in an Abecrombe and Fitch Commericial." Slow nod, big thumbs up, "The rings festooned upon your hands really synches it all together." He just wanted to say festoon.

With that, he winks at Nat and starts backing towards the exit, "I'm going to live dangerously... pulling the trigger on some fast food. What good is doing all this cardio if you can't enjoy an occational burger from a fast food joint of ill-repute?"

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
As Yelena enters, Natasha acknowledges her over with a low nod then and goes to gesture at her to join them. Not that she needs permission over after all. "I must say that it's unique. I don't presume to say it fits you.. But you are trying to figure out your own sense of fashion. So I'll defer to the expert." She would gesture over to Clint. "He's by far the most.. Conscious of it." Yes, she's giving Clint a rare enough opening to try and tease someone else for a change.

Almost as if she approves. "I am glad that you're enjoying yourself." A quick evaluation of Yelena to make sure that the girl she had taken such an interest in actually was hapyp, and not playing it up for the role. The look of fondness on her face vanishes almost instantly. She has a reputation to keep. Michael is given a nod, "Greetings. Did you happen to find anything particularly useful since the last time we talked?" Seh would inquire. "Or have you not had the oppotunity to speak over with anyone in SWORD as of yet to see if there's anything in storage?" She would inquire. "And I suppose the next time you transit down to the starport there might be something you could bargain for."

As Clint goes to speak over about fast food, Natasha would hcuckle. "Very well. It's your funeral. But I suppose that if it's the way you want to go.. Who am I to stop you?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Nope, not answering the question about horse-faced people from space. Not going there! Jane could proclaim ignorance, one way or another. She manages to get an email off on the tablet in the time it takes for Clint and Nat to negotiate their breakfast, lunch or whatever meal of the day it is. "Herowood's food is awful. Honestly, I'm a fan of the Bat Burger place, though never let on to that." Must be agnostic when it comes to hitting up Gotham and Bludhaven's favourite eateries for fast food, right? Who doesn't want a Robin Meal?

She greets Yelena's entrance with a wave, her own coffee cup waiting to be recycled or cleaned out. With WAND's predilection, maybe she feeds them to a cockatrice. Her gaze flicks over to measure Natasha's response to this fashion show waiting to happen, and Clint for the new order dropped on him.

"Hello," she cheerfully adds. And off to the races with you, lovely message and a half. She draws herself up slightly taller, leaning back against the wall a fraction.

"It's really not that bad," she says to Michael with a chuckle.

Forgetting the forerunning comment, Jane?

Yelena Belova has posed:
"Hah!"

It's a sharp exhaled laugh, and the smile remains behind. "Yes, pumpkin spice. Such strange flavor." It doesn't stop Yelena from drinking it, however, and she takes another swallow. The blonde isn't quite American enough to know Abercrombie and Fitch, however, and there's a moment when confusion flickers across her face, and she looks down... and then back up, brows rising. "Festoon?" She shakes her head, the slow smile creeping back, "That is not really word, is it?" She looks back at Natasha. English, while sort of her first language, it only was until about the age of 5.

"I like it."

Natasha's added reticence to actually acknowledging that she likes it, well.. she gets a good natured, mumbled, "It is because I can wear it." Ha! "You.. you should be wearing fun things. What is life if you cannot look good when taking out target?" She'd wear that on a mission?

Probably not.

Okay, maybe.

Still, Yelena has her good days, and her bad days. Today, or rather, at this moment, seems to be a good one. Particularly with pumpkin spice in hand.

Michael is given a wave with her coffee hand, "You should try this. Is good," before she offers a return wave to the good Doctor Foster.

"What is this I am hearing about good, fat-laden burgers? Do you know that burgers will lead to early death?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Caught out in 4K, as The Modern Youths say! Michael pauses in mid-bite of a garish red dumpling, popping it into his mouth and chewing a few seconds before swallowing and giving reply. "I'm just here for the beer," he offers, in a working-class Jersey drawl. "Don't look at me."

    He reaches for another dumpling, then, smiling innocently. It doesn't work.

Clint Barton has posed:
"You look fine, kiddo." Clint assures Yelena, not sure if she minds being called kiddo or if it's going to end up getting him kicked in the chest so hard his insides become outsides through his back, but he'll live dangerously! She has pumpkin spice, after all.

With his hands on his hips, he peers around at everyone offering up ample judgement about his choice of fine cuisine, "Oh, I see.. I want a double stacked Jala-haha-peno Joker burger and you all want to judge. No, please, throw stones from glass houses." Hands up in mock defensiveness as his cleverly constructed reason for leaving is being torn apart.

"Early death, hah.. so will monsters with full grown horses for faces. You ever consider that? Ney, NEEEEY..." He stops before the third ney, squints until his nose wrinkles and crows feet errupt out from the corners of his eyes, and looks down at his feet. Clearly regretting that joke as soon as he said it.

He shakes his head once and motions up at Michael, "He's got the right idea. Put your head down because sure as shit as soon as I walk out that door-" He chop points two fingers at the door, "-They're coming for you, buddy."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would just shake her head in amusement at the back and forth, "I really don't see the appeal." But she was the one moreso to just try and cripple anyone that would have been cosplaying as her - or whatever the standards were at Planet Herowood by reputation. Someone apparently had standards after all! Or didn't like being the subject of jokes. Ah well, one couldn't have everything. PErhpas this is what Tony got if he signed liscencing deals when he wasn't paying attention or had some revenge in mind.

"It's rather popular this time of year. I don't particularly like it. Too many additives. Theys hould do the real thing if they appreciate it." Then again, Natasha purporteldy only did straight vodka. Russians needed to make sure they weren't getting too much blood in their booze system after all. "Keep us informed if you can track down something. THere may be some components you can strip from whatever Hydra used in their last attack but they're likely to be purely conventional systems by the standards of this planet."

Clint goes to get another smirk. "Very well, then live happy, die young, and make it so that you don't last as long even if you got lucky." Apparently someone was of the cynical type.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane stretches out against the wall, leaning heavily into it on the presumable cause of keeping her feet from getting pins and needles. "It's a good look for you," she tells Yelena. "Good for the coming cold."

The smell of pumpkin spice doesn't hold her in thrall so much as the prospect of conversation, and the general mood remains positive enough for her to enjoy right where she is. "I'll believe that when I see it, agent." Erickson doesn't get a pass, either, it would seem. She's taken some lessons from May on that front, which is bound to happen in time. "Nay, thou hath no sway o'er fear, and we all dine most heartily upon the spoils of overburdened meats and heaving tables, or some such." Adopting the nonsensical formality that some Asgardians are endowed with is also an alarmingly easy tack for her, especially when it comes to bookending Clint's attempt at a joke.

"Festoon is actually a word. I should show you a Dutch dictionary if you want to go cross-eyed on how anything became a language. Finnish is just as wild, but Dutch looks like someone tripped into a dike."

Yelena Belova has posed:
Yelena is still trying to catch a bead on the guy that was responsible for Natasha being where she is, and how she'd gotten there. Stories abounded in Russia, both in the darkest corridors, and actually within the GRU. Clint Barton. No one would believe her if she'd said that he was full of bad jokes and American burgers. The stories of his deeds, and consequently his and Natasha's are almost in the tall-tale category. Still, he sounds sincere enough, and she looks a victorious glance at Natasha.

Wait... what did he call her? 'Kiddo'? Brows rise, and she cants her head, "If you must call me something, 'Lena' works." Yelena casts another quick look to Natasha; it's the diminuative of 'Yelena'. Though Clint should probably know it as well. It's a reach over towards perhaps a peace of sorts. "If you do go, then, bring back some french fries. With mayonnaise. Best that way."

As for Jane's compliment? "'Good for coming cold,'" is repeated, though Yelena has the same theory of vodka and the proper balance in the blood stream as Natasha does. "I am Russian. Anything is good for coming cold." With the right mixture, that is! "Winter here is nothing, anyway." Scoff!

Languages, well.. Yelena does know a little something about them. She had to, and she nods her head as she considers the word and the earlier usage, and immediately looks to discard it. "Bah.." is followed up.

Michael is noticed, but the jury is still out on him. Questions abound, and more information is needed. In that moment of her own silence, the coffee is finished, and she tosses the empty into a waiting trash basket.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    With a shrug, Michael plays it cool in the face of Clint's pronounciation of lady-doom. "I'll be all right," he tells the archer, gesturing with his free hand to the three lethal women. "I've served with far worse, you know? These three are just maneaters in the figurative, at worst. I used to command a unit that had them in the literal." He finishes his last dumpling, wiping a rivulet of red away from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm Erickson, by the way. Michael Erickson. On this planet, anyway."

    He eyes Jane faintly. "We should have a talk about diplomacy, Doctor. I need your sign-off on some matters for tomorrow."

Clint Barton has posed:
"Oh, a spaceman." Clint says with an up-nod to Michael, turning with a tight lipped smile between Nat and Jane, as if this harolds back to an earlier conversation or point. Whatever it is, he returns his attention to Michael and extends his hand, "Clint Barton. I shoot at world destroying creatures from space, hell, or other plains of existance with a bow and arrow."

He gives him a clipped nod.

Then looks to Yelena, "'Lena." Clint is... disarming for sure. One of those situations where looking at the cover art of a book probably doesn't explain the context of the story, "Okay, you guys enjoy it. I'm going to go add a few inches to my waist line. I deserve it."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
The chatter on diplomacy goes a bit over Natasha's function. She's an assassin after all. Manipulations in a sincere way are somewhat outside of her normal fulcrum. The woman with the red in her ledger would smile over at Michael then with an almost sadistic grin for a moment. "We have to hope we compare well now to them, don't we?"
    At the look of back and forth from Yelena to Clint and the dynamic, and what she was reading from the other woman's facial expressions, she would look amused. Mentally reminding herself to talk to Yelena later on being better at controlling her facial expressions.. "Yes, it's cultural tradition. They say that sometimes it's easier and cheaper to get vodka than it is water." A bit of ane xaggeration. Well, perhaps.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Whenever you want," Jane tells Michael. "I have my schedule largely free until sundown. Terrible things happen at sundown. Or perhaps that bloody tree will finally try to eat someone. Monitoring that has been absolutely ghastly."

A tree trying to eat someone, welcome to the wonders of SHIELD.

"Winter here is admittedly mild. Around 80'N, that's another story." Who, exactly, hangs out in the 80s? Eureka sits just a smidge underneath it, so there you are. Geography lesson is what it is. "Not a mission to recommend, that's all I have to say." A slither of memory would have her shiver, if only it weren't overlapped by Natasha and Clint bantering with Yelena in the happiest of ways. It's a content sort of thing to listen to. Reminders of what and who are natural and alive. Breathing.

Her eyes close for a moment or two, and she smiles.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I /was/ the world-destroying creature from space," Michael says mildly to Clint's description of himself, putting away the bento box into its padded case and zipping it up before giving the man's hand a deliberate shake. "Or one of them, anyway - reformed, of course, aren't I lucky." The smile he gives Clint is polite, but perhaps a touch frosty. A nod to Natasha and Yelena then as he draws his hand away. "It strikes me that, among my people, I would be the equivalent of GRU to your KGB. Though really, my people are more like the Romans." A Roman GRU? Goodness. Then he adds, perhaps as an afterhought (or a glance Yelena's way), "I'm sorry, the term has a different definition among my people. It's meant as a compliment - over forty years on this planet and I /still/ haven't quite gotten a full hold on the language."

    Jane gets a nod. "Of course."

Clint Barton has posed:
"Sorry if I shot you with an arrow." Clint replies to Michael, "But if I did, you definitely got better... Oh, one of them." He nods slowly, head canting to the side, "Reformed. A lot of that going around. Glad to have you, though." With this said, in parting, because the burger may have originally been a front but he clearly wants one now, Barton steps out of the lounge and heads towards the hangar to catch a quinjet to Gotham.

Yelena Belova has posed:
Diplomacy isn't in her wheelhouse. It really isn't. Not unless she's killing a diplomat in order to derail some process or another, or open the door to another. It's not her call, never her call, so listening and filing things away for unpacking later is her go-to. There is something taken as light insult, however, being a figurative man eater?

"Hey," and the word is drawn out, in that long russian drawl. "Though, it is true that I have never had to eat someone, there is always that possibility, depending on the circumstance." Yelena will give him that concession. She not only doesn't consider herself to have red in her ledger, she's got no ledger. There's nothing there that she's remotely sorry for. There's no remorse, except perhaps for one or two things... things that will haunt her and there is no atonement for. Nothing to remove that stain.

And they're enough of a burden.

The mention of how cold it is in other places simply gains a smile that doesn't truly seem to reach those blue eyes, if only for a moment. She's been many, many places, and not all have been as hospitable as here. Where, exactly, she doesn't say.

Shoving her hands into pockets, she catches the comparisons.. and nods slowly. She is, was, a Captain in the GRU, so she's very, very aware of the differences. That little bit, however, is either redacted, or on a 'need to know' in terms of her file.

"I.. have run out of pumpkin spice." It's a sad declaration. "I need more, and those cute little donuts." Yelena isn't long after Clint's departure, though they're going in two different directions.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
So, right then.

"World destroying creature from space sounds like it would be impressive on a resume." Her mouth tips up at the end. Yelena, Clint, and Nat taking their leave present a conundrum, which is whether to wear the professional hat or the astrophysicist one. Hiking the short distance from the wall, she drops down into a seat opposite of Michael. "You seem not to have chased them entirely off. They're all spies, the lot of them." A grin briefly shows. "As opposed to my unimpressive, unfrightening scientific talents. You should be light footed there."

Her dark eyes flash again and she smiles. "So, diplomacy. Something I might be halfway okay at."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Diplomacy," Michael says, chuckling faintly. "Though I've never met a man who uses a quiver for a codpiece as well, eh? Flopped it right out on the table there." A wink, then, and the alien spy leans over to speak further.

    "So. Diplomacy. All Imperial military property needs to return to the Empire. Every molecule of it is going to be branded, so it's not like they won't know where it came from, and it will severely disrupt our status as a 'developing planet' if suddenly we're running around with Imperial war materiel. Never mind the fact a terrorist organization was the one trying to retroactively engineer it - with some success." A pause. "And we're going to need to pledge to wipe out all traces of HYDRA's research program, with everything returned or proven destroyed. Though except for the salvaged ship materials. Those belong to the vessel, which by interstellar law I plan to claim as salvage. Personal, if they won't accept SHIELD ownership. It's not as though anyone else can use it without the permission of the nobility anyway, right now."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Jane can't help it. She's been laughing all day and that makes it no different now. "You have not met Fandral, unfortunately. No sword so sharp, no wit so fearless, no man so seductive. He's quite as bad as the goddess of enchantment, though with luck you'll never meet her." The former ebullience fades as the bubbles pop, the wave crashing down rather than rising, erasing the exuberance somewhat.

The coffee she drank is long gone, the tablet hibernating. No need then to occupy her hands, though whatever options for a lunch are about don't seem to tempt her either. Neither does drink, but the act is familiar, and she needs that if it comes down to it. "We have agreed the best decision would be to gainfully provide the Shi'ar Empire with their ship, which was unlawfully seized by one of our enemies. As we have a liaison able to identify its provenance, we certainly intend to do the right thing. For reasons aforementioned, above and beyond the fact it's not really a spoil of war. A gesture of goodwill to demonstrate that we aren't ignorant of customs nor expectations. There isn't likely something like diplomatic immunity with the Shi'ar, is there?" Reality is what it is. "HYDRA will be shut down wherever we find it. We may need to add a codicil we will erase traces of that program when we can identify it. They do understand our limitations identifying that technology, and nor do I want to see someone punished for ignorance or our inability to realize that a random brass disc was not what it seemed. Those terms need to account for not opening the doors to every last possibility or requirements that they have an up close and personal look at /anything/ we find. It might come up. The director will never agree to it, so might as well cut that possibility off at the pass. As for your rights of salvage, that's between you and them. If we need to, they can have a conversation with me about how I acquired it and transferred temporary review to you. Because, if it absolutely comes down to it, I personally oversaw its removal from the island."

That's going to be an increasingly uncomfortable topic as they get around to it. "I'll accept responsibility for the method, given what I could determine regarding the ship."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    But it's a topic that he does not reference, at least not for now. "So be it," he replies then, expression unreadable. "As I am familiar with the technology, perhaps it might be good to place my team as the tip of the spear where those matters are concerned? Whatever the ruling elite might feel about me, my people might prefer a Shi'ar in charge of hunting down our own technology. So-called superior beings, and all that." A slight sneer in his tone. "I will, of course, submit entirely to your judgement in the matter."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"For the transfer of the ship over to the Shi'ar, you have my authorization to speak on our behalf. I expect that all of this will be recorded and naturally translated in a full report after the fact. If we pull the plug, then that's it. Negotiations are over and defer to the appropriate asset, most likely Captain Marvel if they decide to be /particularly/ aggressive." Let them eat some starlight. She trusts in the big cannon pointed in the right direction when they need her. "We are otherwise culturally at a disadvantage with a race that prizes qualities, as you have said, that do not gel particularly well with humanity's collective interests. You can interpret those far better than I can. As we would ask Thor or Lady Sif to intervene on matters involving the jotunn, so too it's sensible for you to assume this role unless otherwise contradicted by a commander or someone higher. If they do, I assume they have good reason."

On that matter, she gestures. "If you have put in the mission parameters, then I will give them my overview and make my notes. If you haven't, then you better, because short term planning on this front is likely to piss off Commander Brand."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Romans," Michael says with a chuckle. "Just pretend they're Romans. From space. And that will guide you well enough." He shrugs, then, and leans back in his seat. "There is...one thing. Something that must be brought up, now that the Empire has A diplomatic presence here. It /will/ become a thing at some point. A Thing, capital A, capital T. You get what I'm saying?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Jane half-closes her eyes and stifles a laugh. "Romans represent an incredibly diverse lot culturally, and the way I know about Romans may not meet up with the whole monoculture that some people presume. My dad liked more of the European and British shows about them. They weren't all Marcus Aurelius, stoic warriors with no patience for anything else sorts. I mean... Hadrian." A dry laugh colours her lips, fading away. "You're saying when they become a proper presence, someone will need to deal with them on a regular basis. Someone who is appointed to that role, likely, or something arranged with the United Nations. Beyond the space port, anyway?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Late Republic to early Empire," Michael says to clarify. "Equal parts militaristic and patronizing and hypocritical. The patricians that run a vast machine. But...no." He pauses a moment, considering what to say. But he finds the words easily enough.

    "When I fought alongside the Xavier children last year, I was killed. Well, I was dying. Something happened to change that - I joined with a Raptor." His brows lift, marking this as something /very important/, even if Jane might not know what that is. After all, most of the Empire doesn't.