13109/Kangaroo Boxing

Kangaroo Boxing
Date of Scene:	18 October 2022
Location:	Secure Storage: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Jane comes to Fitz with an offer and a request about a nasty alien box.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Leopold Fitz

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Jane Foster has posed:
The Triskelion isn't one of the places Jane wants to be. Want takes a back seat to need, though. She might not wish to get out of bed in the cold, clammy hours when daylight savings time seems like an utter crock, nor haul herself up the length of Manhattan on a train shunting millions of New Yorkers to their varied destinations. The interminable sway of old cars on the tracks laid down intrawar brings a monotonous familiarity.

She isn't much of a happy camper, driven by conflicting ends, but SHIELD certainly won't tolerate her not swiping that badge and getting to a workstation in an orderly amount of time. The closer she stands to the top, the worse their stranglehold on one of her lives. So the director of the Hayden Planetarium -- where does she find the time? -- crosses the threshold and waits for the usual smile from the security officers familiar with the fact the scanners don't like her. Usual wand-down -- WAND for wand, get it? -- and skim through her bag satisfies security requirements. Head forward, walk on, and the world continues uncaring of the myriad small tragedies that pile up around it. Life goes on. She mechanically seeks her desk after departing the elevators, dropping off coat, mittens, hat, bag. Fetch a tablet, strike off the to-do list, write a message.

And then she's on the hunt for Leopold Fitz. Keys to a universe aren't at hand, and she needs those to work.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
If there could be an opposite in attitude towards the coming day at the Triskelion, it is in the form of one Dr Leopold Fitz. Assuming he'd actually left the labs at all during the course of the evening, only to return so early, he is up and about, drawing deep into his research of the day. Dressed in his more civilian wear, a good hint that there's no //plan// for field work anyway, he's got his slacks, button down oxford with vest and tie, and his hair cut short once more, showing off the hints of tight curls of hair. (At least he's not a ginger!)

Moving around the table, he's got a cup of tea steadied in one hand, and he's returning to his tablet to check on signs and signatures of that pod. It's stable, and hourly readings are collated into quarters which are then rolled into dailies. Any hint of movement, or of pulse is cross-checked by any irregularities that might have caused it by the immediate environs. Any unexplainable shift is duly noted.

Leaning on the table with an elbow, he's crooked up and taking that first sip of breakfast, tentative at first, then a deeper swallow as the heat is tested.

"Now," once again, Fitz talking to himself as he looks at his notes, "all that's not worked," there's that soft burr to his tones, the lilt of Scottish Highlands, "so..."

Jane Foster has posed:
No doubt a few agents believe Fitz lives in the laboratory. R&D is like that, a closed off world with its own politics and social dynamics dictated by mysterious terminology. Routines seem to crop up with an equally strange and curious intensity, seeded by bright minds maybe more adept at talking to their machines and their tools than one another. At least that might be the assumption of the science wonks who live in the echelons of computerized harmony, pursuing the depths of study from whatever comfortable, overpriced chair they can find.

That pod, as it happens, dates from an almighty period in the 1980s where shoulder pads, hair, and machinery trended big. Boxy, like Detroit cars, overengineered like every hairsprayed updo known to man. What served to keep Peggy Carter frozen for thirty years ultimately serves the suspended body within, though the pod was never designed with a spiderweb crack where said body punched /into/ the pod from the exterior. Ultimately repaired somewhat, though not perfect, that smashed spot is a reminder of imperfection.

Mind, both Fitz or Simmons will probably be extremely unhappy to discover whatever dull biorhythms that hold firm at the faintest level -- trace ionic activity -- completely went dead flat somewhere around Saturday for several hours. No other detectable changes until the numbers spiked back up to a barely detectable trace again. The languid tick-tick-tick doesn't do anything in particular that has ever been measurable. No effect on machinery, nor on corpse, nor on anything else.

A message broadcast through the internal network forewarns of Jane looking for said Leopold. No reason to be worried, though she's left punching in a question mark twice as the screen hiccups. Poke poke. <Time on the calendar for a quick briefing? I've a tricky situation to ask you.>

Leopold Fitz has posed:
There's rumour that Fitz has a cot sequestered away and that he doesn't actually //have// an apartment or home to go to at night. It's whispered amongst the security that he may badge out for the evening only to reappear hours later. Who knows, really. It's a story that is created and built upon by the telling; there are a few names that are recognized immediately at a 'name drop', after all, and one of the 'Brains' of SHIELD is one of them. Almost everyone knows //of// Dr Fitz, even if they've never met him.

And, of course, FitzSimmons. (Some still believe that it's one person..)

The data is mined, checked, and every last variation that the engineer can think of is put through its paces as to //why// the flatline happened over the weekend. Not even 'pulseless activity', otherwise known as PEA, but completely flat.

Sunspots? Odd bits of radiation that filtered? A power surge, or a previously unknown or undetected brown out? Or..

Fitz exhales as he searches for any variable that might speak to it when that one potential answer arrives in the form of Dr Jane Foster.

Being considerate, Fitz isn't in the containment area, but in the lab proper. The tea is set down onto the table, as is the tablet that is laid flat and darkened in that 'screen lock', showing off the logo of SHIELD in the stylized eagle.

"Ah.." is given in response as he leans back from the table, and he puts a hand up to his ear as he twists around, searching for the form and figure of the good doctor.

"Good timing," Fitz answers, "I've got a few questions for you as well, if y'don't mind my asking, that is." Ever so polite.

Jane Foster has posed:
No sunspots, no sudden surge in coronal activity that knocks out wide swathes of satellite activity. No indications of anything particularly awry that awakens the interest of scientists worldwide. A few lightbulbs might have gone off, but it takes a special sort of talent to identify what they are. Talent that's largely been confined to WAND or suitably displaced.

Brownouts haven't happened. The only number of things that go wrong with the power grid are isolated, the effects of trees and wind storms, nothing that would take down a whole chunk of Westchester County or the wider arc of northern Manhattan. Not like the Triskelion isn't armed and equipped by many, many generators.

Said woman wears slim trousers and brown knee-high boots, a bit out of the ordinary for person in a suit. Mind, her job doesn't necessarily require such fancy attire. Her hands clasped around the tablet bear no traces of rings. Her pallor is far too fair, her eyes grafted by shadows in the bruises around them. Actual bruises aren't visible, but it's been a rough week probably encountering someone on the dojo floor. Or she tripped and fell down a healthy number of stairs. Either way.

"Timing's ever our forte, I would think. Unless you happen to know someone who uses chronomancy, in which case, we need to flag that file and escalate it up the chain," she dryly murmurs to Fitz upon spotting him. The space is strange, cool, and therefore familiar in so many ways. "I had some for you as well. Incidents that might be of interest, and one I need to be prepared for."

Leopold Fitz has posed:
It's frustrating not finding the answers; Fitz doesn't expect 'easy', but he does expect 'eventual'. Particularly when it comes to a colleague, a co-worker, and dare he say it, a friend. There are painful few in that last category, and for the Scotsman, he'd move heaven and earth for any one of those.

He turns around, the small of his back against the edge of the table at the appearance of Dr Foster, his head giving a brief nod in greeting, followed up by the cursory but certainly meant offrance of, "Tea? Pot's still warm." How's that to speak to timing? To underscore it, there's a hint of a smile.

Shaking his head in eventual response, Fitz exhales softly, "That'd be something I'd be in favor of if I ever got some magic powers. Just to be able to fit all I've got to do in a day. That way, I'd stop saying, 'There aren't enough hours in the day' to any who ask the impossible." Of course, Fitz almost always delivers, regardless of the hour count. It's what he does.

"Now," hands rise to rest on the edges of the table, and he cants his head. Is it a playing of the lights? Can Jane, this Jane before him, actually get bruised? If nothing else, it's an outward projection of what the woman is most definitely feeling, and he scowls. "Incidents? An' one.." he lets off the rest of the sentence, blue eyes looking intently upon his lab guest, "What can I do?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Considering they stocked Lipton bags in the cafeteria, I'd appreciate that very much." Because who the heck drinks Lipton? Jane doesn't, having much better taste. She breaks into a faint smile, her eyes still bruised by a likely absence of sleep rather than a kiss with a fist. She doesn't deal with that terribly much. "Reminds me to put in a fresh order with Harney's or raid the back of my cupboards for the emergency Yorkshire Gold." Her pace isn't especially fast as she eases into Fitz's realm.

His world, defined by order and neat lines, is one that she would tread lightly within anyway. She won't sit anywhere until he indicates it's acceptable to do, nor invade the space where she is unwanted.

She's /tired/, and yes, somehow, she is bruised in a few places, wan, and very much a tired looking person like someone who isn't getting enough sleep would look. Nothing too impressive otherwise. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mind, if he's looking at a pod where the frozen body a hairsbreadth from burial lies, ordinary is a multi-level definition.

"Incidents. I plopped a machine that's probably not of terrestrial design from China in a shielded warehouse," ha ha. Punny. "It was actively attempt to broadcast genetic information after it triggered for specific biological markers. I'd like your take on how that was even possible, and moreover, where it attempted to broadcast /to/. Clearly, the device remained dormant until triggered. Was it scanning actively, was it only awakened by the presence of its trigger? Either way, it's a concern for us. Doubly if someone were to somehow obtain that code and repurpose it, like finding other metahumans at large. No good comes of that. Imagine installing something like that in a hospital, a school or a shop. What an invasion of privacy that would be, and given the likely levels of encryption involved, the victims would never know. I'm trying to cut that off at the source before it falls into the hands of any anti-metahuman group. The mutants have enough enemies."

She rolls on her heel, rocking against it slightly. Her fingers idly scrape through her hair as she glances at nothing, blanked out. "Daisy thinks there's similarity with the technology we brought back from the Moon that you've been investigating. I'm fairly sure there's a connection but without getting wrist deep in the guts of it, I can't be sure. Thoughts welcome there."

Her hand drops away. "WAND is chock-full of magic dangers. Most of which don't require any ounce of talent to use other than knowing words or pressing fingers. You imagine a box that controlled time would be popular? Maybe we're in the wrong field of marketing."

Leopold Fitz has posed:
"Even a wormhole, something that'd spread time for me while all around passed a touch slower, like.. like.. a black hole." Fitz isn't looking for super speed, he's yearning for that 'time dilation' control. He exhales in a sigh, the words riding upon the breath, "It'd be grand."

Ah well! It's not to be, and Fitz doesn't dwell on his his little dream. Instead, he's all ears, even as he leans forward and off his work table to pour another cup of properly steeped tea. Lumps of sugar and some cream are on the side, just in case... after all, there's an Englishwoman that shares in the tea on occasion, and his own supplies make sure the pair have what is needed. A touch of civilization with a side order of understated, but nonetheless there, caffeine.

Handing the cup over once poured, Fitz listens intently, nodding his head, his mind moving at warp speed of what all the 'bad guys' could do with such an item.

"'Shielded'," Fitz echoes, "Are you sure that it's shielded enough?" There are 'shields', and then there are 'SHIELDS'. "Could you read the output an' make sure there wasn't anything measurable beyond it? If it's passive, how c'n you be sure that it's actually contained?" Fitz knows all about containment.. *cough*

"I'd love t' get my hands on it, get some measurements, an' the like. That way too, I can compare my research on the Moon rock," it is structurely a 'rock' after all, "to that." All those thoughts that had a start are now chasing each other down those rabbit warrens, and he probably can't think of else until his professional curiosity is assuaged.

Good luck. It's almost never satisfied.

"If it came awake, for lack of a better word, what was its trigger? Was it an energy spike? Was it something biological? Chemical? Electrical? Does it have a radius?" Fitz shakes his head quickly, the tea forgotten as he begins to pace a small section of the lab, his hands working in gesture as he considers, "It could be anything, really. An' the negatives will tell us as much as the positives can."

Pausing in his pacing now, Fitz brings his attention back to Jane, and he offers a look of sympathy. "No offense Dr Foster, but you look like you could use a fair amount of sleep. How about you take me to this item, an' then you turn in. I'll have some notes for you when you wake?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane for a moment simply stares at him, parsing what words come out of his mouth. Fitz asking for a wormhole registers, somewhere. Her neurons surely fire, as much as she has them. "You realize I've been building wormholes in the basement for the past three years." Figuratively the basement. The rest, not so much. "Maybe one day, I'll earn my name tacked onto a theory about it. But if you're actually looking for a spatial fold, you simply have to sign about six waivers or so. I may have it consolidated down to five at this point." A beat. "Ask and ye shall receive."

His little dream is her everyday reality to some extent.

However the tea is offered, she takes it from Fitz appreciatively. "Thank you." The heat more than anything sinks into her pale hands, easing the tension drawn in faint lines. Scratches, mild things. The collection of bags, loose-leaf, and sugar or cream will be an asset repaid in kind. If, of course, memory serves. Sips will do, though she's mindful not to burn her mouth. As if a ghost needs to worry about such things.

"We found it shielded in a Faraday cage, so that was a starting point. And given that's what we use for 0-8-2s, it's not perfect but functional for the meantime. I could saturate the thing in radiation or keep a signal jammer nearby, but we don't have that on immediate order. Unless..." Her head shaken, she leaves the thought. "I don't want Stark touching that yet. And I monitored energy outputs across a broadband electromagnetic spectrum, along with various forms of radiation, and several other receptors. It wasn't hard to figure out the bandwidth it originally broadcast the signal -- or tried to broadcast -- on. The decryption has been more of an issue, understanding what they were sending, though I'm almost certain it's genetic sequencing. The in between packaging has been giving me a headache, from what I can turn over to Daisy and you. The pair of you have the software or the engineering skills, but you need me for the linguistics, I'm afraid. There's a few pieces in there that require some finagling. Anyhow, I can patch you over the security information gain access, and we'll easily enough augment your SHIELD badge to get access through WAND lines. I didn't mean to ice out anyone, but it prevented R&D or others from pouncing before we knew exactly what we had. May's hopefully comfortable authorizing the rest." Because Secret Warriors, yo.

She pats about and finds her bag, and with it, what honestly looks like a fob for a newer car. She tosses it over; weight is similar to a key and all that. "Did one better, 3D schematic for you in there along with impressions and the variables we pulled at time of transmission and afterward. Unfortunately, the removal of a detained person from the site in China limited /some/ of my sensors, but not entirely. It would seem to have a broader radius than anticipated."

There's that liminal smile, and then she inclines her head slightly. Measuring; weighing up things. "Sleep won't help." A simple statement of that. Easing into sharing anything beyond the smallest circle takes mental practice, active effort. "I haven't needed to in almost two years."

Leopold Fitz has posed:
As Jane shifts gears and begins slowly again, reforming thoughts and words from that //other// bit of information, Fitz is watching her closely. More closely than he'd before he knew about the spare body in the storeroom. "I'd sign away my first born," though it's sounding like it's an easy bet; he'll not have one anytime soon. "Bring the papers, an' we'll have done with that." See? Easy, peasy.

Fitz is easily drawn back into the matter at hand, howeer, and he nods slowly, and he begins pacing again, his hands looking for something, anything, to grab hold of, even figuratively. He ends up running a hand through short hair before they drop once more, and he turns around again to face Jane from his position near his different instruments. "No, not Stark." Is there a little bit of professional jealousy? Could be. He considers himself just as smart, but he was the one who'd signed all his NDA papers, and the fact that he can't share a single thing he has created and/or done with the civilian world. He collects his salary, and SHIELD benefits.

There are certainly times when he wishes he was as rich as Tony Stark. Had the nice things, though he could do without the public adulation. And the parties. And the women...

Well, okay.

Ahem.

"That'd be good. I do appreciate your taking the notes an' going along the spectra, but I may find a few holes. Don't be insulted if I do." He's a perfectionist. "Could be a simple constant, low voltage EMP would do the trick, but again, I'd have t'see the data." Broadcasting genetic sequencing, however? His voice drops as he continues, "We can't make a mistake on this one. Who knows what messages it has t'send, and who knows who can receive. It may be that it can change a code; adding or removing sequences.." And who would best know that? Jemma.

"Right," Fitz takes a deep breath, his hands both finding a spot, fingers entwined, resting atop his head. Slowly they come down once more in the exhale, and he nods, catching the fob as it's tossed to him. "I'll take a look at this."

The next words of hers, however, gains some question, "Detained person from China...? We're not looking 'international incident' level, are we? Tha' would be bad..." Which might mean the Chinese have studied it already and have the upper hand?

No sleep? Fitz sets the fob into his pocket, and takes a step closer to Jane, his expression softening for his friend and colleague. Even if he calls her 'Dr Foster'. She'd earned her degree and he wouldn't ever take it from her. (Jemma, however.. the pair earned their degrees together. It's 'Jemma'.) "Then come have tea an' relax. There's always a kettle on."

Jane Foster has posed:
Yes, well. SHIELD stole Jane and her technology, albeit not in that order, all over the matter of some guy in New Mexico and his crafting tools. Life is unfair where SHIELD is involved.

"You might want to consult with the other parent on that one, and I don't tend to take children as payment." The ghost of a smile shows up, but it doesn't reach her tired eyes. In fact, the joke sails as far as a xenon balloon and leaves an annular lake where it collides with the auditory spectrum.

She waves her hand idly at Fitz, the one without the teacup. "I am a scientist and used to having my work critiqued. Perfection isn't in our bones. Improvement and finding failures is part of the process." He knows it, she knows it. Together they can be happy with the outcome. "We still need to determine quite a bit, like the power source. I'm very much certain that the box we brought back doesn't alter, only send. But we need to be certain nwhy and what before making further measures. I want to know where the thing is sending this, what was intended to receive it. I can make measurements and triangulations based on the installation, as long as we have a sense of how it broadcasts, the energy and frequency, and some basic guesses. If it's pointing at Russia, that's very different from a geosynchronous satellite or, say, Mars." Her tone tracks a bit flat, lightly enough. "We're talking about outside Earth, more than likely." Her lips tighten a fraction. Barely that, though the swivel of her fingertips again reaches her hair. "Tea and relaxation I can do. I'll never complain about that. You understand that we're in a funny boat and I can rely on you to figure out the fiddly bits. It's been a distracting... while."

Simple words to comprehend, really, while the dual track of her voice inserts a terribly clear, if soft statement that no recording device is bound to pick up unless attuned to a wavelength she is on. And to be clear, that's not the bodily wavelength of nearly all of humanity nor the Astral wavelength where Phoenixes and Xaviers prance about with near impunity.

<<We're dealing with alien technology. I'll name them after you review the transmitter so as not to influence your opinions further. It's not Shi'ar. Another highly aggressive, advanced race known for galactic conquest who were on the receiving side. I don't fancy a warship showing up -- and we might yet avoid that. But before SWORD gets involved, we have a peace to keep.>>