13179/I Should Not Be Left to My Own Devices

I Should Not Be Left to My Own Devices
Date of Scene:	25 October 2022
Location:	Dakota Apartment 1
Synopsis:	Just a little problem waiting to be corrected...
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

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Jane Foster has posed:
Whilst she's primarily an astrophysicist, Jane's work often pushes her up against the wall of available materials. Developing theories that don't widely exist require repurposing equipment if not outright fashioning it when nothing exists to spec. A tale as old as time: necessity is the mother of innovation.

One of the elegant turn-of-the-century rooms has always served as a basic lab for her, though most of her exhaustive work by nature happens in SHIELD. Not this, though. She has no desire to tell Nick Fury how she owns a ransom in a metal so rare, even an ounce might destroy national economies. And she has considerably more than an ounce to work with.

The contrivance of what she's working on is not one of her little black hole experiments. A circle of blue lights shine down on a platform, and four screens project a ready stream of data. For a setup that relies on New York wiring, the secondary power supply offered by a portable battery is almost a necessity. Numbers and details flow across a digitally projected whiteboard while she works out numbers. None of this is particularly concerning of itself, engineers gonna engineer. Even reasonably accomplished ones like her. Except this isn't the first hour of working on it, nor the first of many, many failures. Lights flickering fail to produce a notable result except for the scent of warmed metal.

Because several kilograms of broken uru constrained within a circle isn't having the desired effect except lying there, frustratingly inert. Shards and chunks glimmer, a doleful reminder. "Cue recording." She sighs. "Failure along the ionic annealing process number forty-six. Calibration number eighteen has no appreciable changes." Then it's back to pacing around the pile, stepping over cords, as she pushes her bangs back.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
There was work of different kinds occurring in multiple places. Blackagar's absence during the days had been rather note-worthy as he had been with engineers in Attilan putting on finalized touches upon the project taking place there as well. A power source to energize his scheme, a mechanism to do the task, and of course finding that location to conduct it all. These tasks had consumed his time and thoughts to the point where he had stayed on the moon for several days at a time. But today was not one of them. Instead, he had been back at his terrestrial home catching up on a few things there. Getting wrapped up in tasks was not uncommon, but doing so to the detriment of other work was a new diversion for him; finding the balance had been a bit of a struggle especially so near the end of the proverbial arc.

He had taken today to spend with Jane even while she was doing her own work, but he had been doing his own tasks as well until he heard her speak, eyes lifting up with a curious expression, silently asking the 'what happened' behind the look.

Jane Foster has posed:
Blackagar's absences in part foment Jane dropping any pretense of sleeping. Loneliness only adds to the suffocating weight towering over her through those dismal hours where the dawn lies so far away. They live their lives in tandem even at a distance. But the work can devour the hollow ache, the rooms too quiet except for a faithful golden retriever holding her favourite sock, waiting for a walk or a scritch.

The nearness of him is grounding. It's clear enough in simple form; her alabaster pallor, most definitely unhealthy, fills in with a softer, more natural hue by proximity. Though in the lab room, the lighting isn't meant to favour her much as she paces. The pieces slotting back in will her to turn, to face Blackagar with that grim report. <<I can't bring the pieces back together. I'm missing something about how it was done, and we're running out of time.>>

The pieces are many in shape and form, mostly small except for the shattered haft. And yet a simple glance might pick out fragments of words given the way she's assembled the wreckage.

It's a hammer, marked by the sacred trefoil.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Silence. But a thoughtful silence.

<<Your approach is based on what you know. Science. Methodology.>> Blackagar lets that thought linger before he powers down the tablet he was working on. <<Setting aside Clarke's adage, is it possible that science is simply outside of what is possible right now, and instead it is time to turn to magic? Or more specifically; that there is a missing piece that instruments and study cannot find?>>

Again he lets the words linger before continuing, <<What could possibly lie in the metaphysical that you have overlooked?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane shakes her head, a habit of pushing her hair back repeated even when a few strands fall free. Time when a girl could use a good elastic or clip.

<<One of the most powerful beings I know made that.>> The broken fragments lead mentally to a whirlwind of ideas, the bleeding sky, black magic and a colossal explosion, the branches of a tree more vast than any one person sees. The ghostly impression of swaying from the branch, her body swept softly back and forth in the wind. <<Odin isn't accessible for me to ask. Magic made it and magic broke it.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<So you are searching for a solution, perhaps in the wrong place. If Magic made it, Magic broke it, then perhaps Magic is what is needed to bring it back together. If you cannot ask Odin directly, what about indirectly. Writings? Conversations? Are there clues or corridors you have not turned over?>> Smiling softly, Blackagar shrugs, <<Simply offering some ideas of paths untested.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane goes quiet for a time, though she raises her hand until her fingers brush against Blackagar's arm, a connection fit for sharing more than simply a gesture of greeting. Anchorage in the storm of all storms. <<Myths of Odin jealously keeping his secrets weren't far off the mark. I'm not certain he would share such knowledge with his sons, let alone an upstart human. Even one he made this.>> Her arm is shaken until the bracelet grudgingly peeks out from under her sleeve. Jealousy pressed into the skin, fierce enough to leave a mark. <<His wife grieves in isolation. She might speak with me. Sorcerers here might offer their help. Doctor Strange and Ms. Zatara both fought the spell that broke it, while I was... leading some small unit, in the eye of a war.>> The sound of her sigh is audible mentally and physically, while she gestures at Mjolnir's shards and pieces.

<<Uru can be forged. Hot, but possible. A charm of lightning and commanding the skies, probably so.>> The smile she can't share is a press of her brow to his shoulder. Some things must be spoken, though they are ruinously odd. "Mjolnir is -- or was -- aware. I'm almost certain, and that means finding Mjolnir. Or whatever it contained. And convincing that to go back in the Pandora's box."