14602/Ex Umbra: Traces (Light and Weight)

Ex Umbra: Traces (Light and Weight)
Date of Scene:	04 April 2023
Location:	R and D Labs: Triskelion
Synopsis:	In the middle of working to avoid facing grave facts, Jemma decides to investigate the cause of a fire on SHIELD grounds. In Delaware. In the process of investigation, revelations are made and truths are revealed.
Cast of Characters:	Jemma Simmons, Jane Foster

---

Jemma Simmons has posed:
If one had to guess where to go to find a certain SHIELD agent in the Triskelion, depending on the time, a lot of options would be available. Factor in the time frame of later in the evening, and those options narrow. Normally, one would say that, in the later hours, most agents would be in the recreation or resident wings, getting some much-needed rest.

However, if looking for one agent in particular, Jemma Simmons, then there is only one proper answer.

The Research and Development labs.

It is there where Jemma, alone at her station, works. She works not to catch up, nor to strive for important breakthroughs, though that is certainly a reason on most days. No, tonight she works to distract herself. To keep the cruel realities of the world at bay, even for just a moment. She works to keep herself from wondering...from hypothesizing on what could be and what she could have done. She works to try to keep from going mad with grief.

For Jemma has read the AAR. She knows what happened at the starport. And...she refuses to believe that Jane Foster has fallen.

So, she works now on some rudimentary project that she is barely aware of. She works to give herself time to try to solve this equation, to determine her next move. If there is even one to take to try to bring Jane back once more.

Jane Foster has posed:
Footage obtained from a SHIELD helicarrier is as good as an on-the-ground witness. Cameras trained to watch the assault between the god of thunder and the Aesir woman exchanging blows on the slender blue elf brought to his knees in a ring of dead captured the horrific reality with pitiless unblinking oculi. There, the warriors' bodies drained of all movement throughout the fight. Here, a man or woman smiling as their life drains from their limbs forever.

Lessons in the fading winter days in the Pacific theatre come 'round again where warriors would allow themselves to die in name of a cause. That they do so for the privilege of a sorcerer-king makes those losses no less horrendous. Soldiers came back from the front scarred. How could the tech teams, the analysts and legions of medics left in the shadow of the cratered Triskelion be any different?

Jemma may be one of the few on the R&D floor, given a wide berth. Comforts of scanning for massive energy signatures don't reveal any unexpected hopes a few cities over; Mjolnir remains with Thor, and that's the end of that song. Grinding through possibilities are boundless, endless, scientific cookery hinging on whatever wonders she wants to pursue. Another night to stir through nature's mysteries, whatever they may be.

Sunset coats New York in darkness. The tower hums on, attuned to every timezone, never sleeping, never settled.

A broadcast beeps out of a quadrant barely monitored, an update of no real consequence except for teams responsible for programming the occasional blips and bleeps. Not a whole lot happens out of that sector other than the occasional pigeon problem, bored teenagers approaching an unimportant gate with "Keep Out" mounted upon it. No small animal claws this time, but a disruption of security that sets off a blipping dance. After the initial breach, no movement.

Just a fire.

In Delaware.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
As per Jemma's usually modus operandi, she is performing multiple tasks at once. And, yes, one of those tasks is scanning for a certain energy signature, a powerful spike that was most helpful in finding the wayward spirit once before. Yet, correlation of the known energy frequency with sources of said energy prove to be fruitless. There is only the one source, that Jemma can find. And...that is the hammer of the gods. Or, rather, a singular god...newly returned. Not another flicker of a certain bracelet in sight.

Not a good sign for Jemma.

Amidst the energy tracker and her distraction project, the security channel chatters awake. A glance is given. A fire? In Delaware? That's unusual. But...is it unusual enough to warrant a second glance?

Jemma returns to her mindless task. But, as per normal for her, questions abound that need answers. And, even genius biochemists have moments of idle thoughts. What would have caused a fire in Delaware? A lightning strike? Something a bit more artificial? The question forms...and Jemma needs to answer it. If, for nothing else, for her own personal curiousity.

Jane Foster has posed:
A fire in Delaware upon its own might not register much interest, but the scrawl gives coordinates deep away from Wilmington or any of the primary population centers. Annapolis nor any nearby bases qualify as responders. Indeed, the total lack of coordinated chatter on emergency lines would imply this fire hasn't been reported at all.

Except to SHIELD. Relegated to the background, scripting pings an onsite team based out of Wilmington, interrupting someone's dinner and probably leaving some poor security detachment cantankerous or glad to escape watching white-collar crimes take place behind anonymous LLCs. Anything's better than Delaware, hotbed of nothing since 1679.

Ping. Another location scribes over the first. Security footage from an impressive array of cameras imply Stark technology or modifications hastily cobbled together two years ago for a retreat. One that wasn't exactly wanted by an agency under siege, betrayed from within by wriggling tentacles of treachery and hidden agents.

First, the fire is strange; bright, scalding copper. Much hotter than it seems to have a right to be, according to the thermal cameras. They seem to suggest this would be something like white phosphorus but the colours are all wrong. Further, the lonely stretch of road in sight of a slightly askew camera that a very stupid mourning dove -- the only kind -- decided to put its straggly nest on features a brand new hole about four meters in diameter and probably two in depth. From there, molten debris gently patters down, including a chunk of concrete that's mostly liquefied.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Normally, a fire in Delaware would not deserve a second look. However, there are two factors that, despite Jemma's distracted state (or perhaps because of it) that immediately grab Jemma's attention.

First, it is the temperature of the fire. The satellite images that Jemma first sees betrays a fire more unusual than a common forest fire. The color of the flames...a brilliant blue, rather than the typical orangish-red of wood burning. That...means the fire is much much hotter than expected. There is no need to look at the actual degrees....Jemma knows that is hot.

Second...the coordinates. Those...look familiar. Fingers find the keyboard as Jemma performs a search, overlaying the coordinates from the satellites to known locations. And...it is then that Jemma freezes.

She knows that location. She should...considering the time spent there.

The fire...is at or very very near...to the Playground.

Why is there not more of an emergency alert for SHIELD??

Jane Foster has posed:
Thermal imaging provides the heat overlay but the colour doesn't make any sense. Cooler fires burn more yellow or orange, candle flames being a common experience. Searing temperatures around the merrily smoldering heap in the crater far exceed the air temperature at a balmy 43'F. The fire itself strobes bright copper and splashes of gold, alternating as the flames lick their path skyward from whatever punched a hole in the pavement.

Not much else is present except a fence and outbuildings from the otherwise forgotten corner of SHIELD lore, another abandoned thoroughfare where they hold up for a while if agents could escape work or, more importantly, the prison HYDRA made of their jobs, families, lives. Other than the occasional vermin or person stuck on watch at a forgotten post, it's thoroughly a dull rural setting. See, just a fire. Not even close enough to burn down a building.

Now the substrata are another question. Maybe a pipe needs to be turned off at the water main before a leak adds to the fire.

Sooner or later, someone will activate the guards. Wilmington office has responsibility for backup. The Playground isn't used; those made aware of the beeps have to go find themselves the fire suppressant kit and go wander out there to see what caused it. No signs of foul play, no signs of people around. Not the kind who can simply slag bits of concrete and cause glowing sand to patter down in a dull rainfall that's already settling in splotches of semi-molten materials.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Schematics of the Playground are procured, then overlayed with the satellite imagery that Jemma is currently witnessing. Because of course Jemma knows where the schematics are, considering she spent a stint in the on-again, off-again base of operations. She still has a room there for her and Daisy, where another, albeit much smaller fire had made a minor inconvenience. The lab there was *hers*...not just a space given to her, but a space she had designed herself. So, in all true aspects, it was her lab. Of course she would have schematics.

There is a soft sigh of relief when, upon juxtaposition of the imagery with the schematics, the fire was no where near critical locations. That was good to know, considering that, albeit abandoned, there was still volatile compounds that were certainly not friendly with the sort of heat this strange thermodynamic reaction was giving. The temperature was, for lack of a better term, unnatural to be just a simple forest fire.

Which begs the question. What is causing this sort of reaction? The operational concern that the agent side of Jemma has is fading into the scientific curiousity that the scientist side of Dr. Jemma Simmons has ever present. Perhaps the answer is with the satellite imagery itself?

The tablet is slid closer as Jemma keys in the app to take control. Time to use the spy satellites to satisfy professional curiosity. It's time for science...

Jane Foster has posed:
Nowhere near critical locations, buried in a bit of the road behind a chain-link fence, facing a sweep of dismal landscape overtaken by weeds and bird droppings. Livestream feeds from the cameras pitilessly watch the conflagration burning away in cheery copper motes. A plume of golden flame laps skyward, simmering down as the seconds count down in digital blocks. Fires blaze merrily for quite a while before they die down and that remains entirely a process subject to surveillance teams or Jemma's actions.

The team in Delaware might not be quick to respond, and the on-site security will eventually get out there. Eventually isn't immediate. Chatter over radios skitters back and forth, a soft-spoken inquiry and 'hey, what's that' prompting Guard Buglione and Agent O'Reilly to get in and drive around the property from their watch on the gate. Somewhere, a truck rumbles awake. It will take significantly longer for them to get back to where the flaming crater exists, much slower than where Jemma can work.

Her research creates an audit trail, a dance across the distance. No immediate risk of forest fire. Several blocks of concrete have been melted, blasted away into glass. Sparkling shards of slag radiate out from the impact zone. Satellite imagery doesn't show very much immediately out of the ordinary. The clouds are happy, the sky is blue mostly, a prevailing breeze heading north-northeast. The tiniest hints of flame bubble around the impact site; much smaller peppering in an area no wider than 25 square meters, the big hole and a few smaller sparks in a semi-radial spray. No sign of how it ended up there except 'it fell there,' since there aren't other satellites or signs of an obvious weapon-loaded platform going by. No other cosmic beings, no veiled alien gunships, no rocket-mounted elk.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Well, if there is one thing to prove true, it is that Jemma is a thorough researcher. It only takes her moments to determine the threat of the fire and to document said threat. Of which, there is little to no threat. Whatever the fire is, there is little chance of it spreading.

More importantly, the immediate cause is determine. An impact. Okay, that's getting somewhere. The math comes into the equation now, as Jemma studies the crater left behind. Noting the particular way the crater is formed would possibly give an idea on the trajectory of whatever object caused the impact in the first place. And that...that sets off the computers at Jemma's disposal, calculating probable paths of the foreign object, as well as possible speeds and mass. Of course, all of that is purely hypothetical unless Jemma can determine what, if anything, is left of whatever actually caused the impact in the first place.

Which..prompts Jemma to use her eyes in the sky to probe the crater. Is there anything within that she can lock on? Anything that most certainly was not there before, given Jemma's knowledge of the area? Perhaps. Though, the fire might prevent such remote exploration.

And, for not the first time nor the last time ever, Jemma internally wishes that she and Fitz invented transporter technology. Too many nights watching old sci-fi...

Jane Foster has posed:
Jemma's research certainly beats Wilmington activating its tired agent, who slips into a sedan and starts the drive to the Playground. The site under such a high level of security clearance that they don't really know what or how goes on there. A chance to get a glimpse might be incentive enough to make the long drive down state highways through the rolling landscape of a place that doesn't really exist. Delawasn't!

Ballistics trajectories are a specialty of SHIELD, and there are multiple different scenarios she can tap into and run multiple different programs to get an idea of what matches up with the evidence she sees. It takes a few tries to match; small objects, velocity and angle, trying to come up with estimations. The general consensus basically boils down to fragments, collectively large enough to endure survival through the atmosphere, and smack into the ground in a spray. The short distance hints at something in a tight formation, or breaking up almost before impact. The collective weight has to be less than one kilogram after deteriorated. The flames make no sense other than impacting flammable materials, and concrete isn't known for being on fire, but that's the oddity. Metal composition most definitely makes for deeper holes.

Tiny fragments peppered the molten rock, the shards liberally embedded in there. The satellites can't get that tight of a lock, it'll require on the ground or closer examination. Something like a DWARF flying around might give that detail, too.

On the other hand, there are personnel on the ground, and how long is that drive?

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Well, as much as Jemma tries, there are just certain things that have to be done hand's-on. Certain things that just need that personal touch. And, as much as she wouldn't like to admit it....this investigation needs a Simmon's-eye-view assessment. Especially since most of the SHIELD contingent assigned to that general vicinity of seemingly nothingness are not in too big of a hurry to go check things out. If this was someone's elaborate plan to just get Jemma out of the Trisk, then it certainly worked.

It doesn't take long to pack up for the trip. After all, portability was a point that Jemma purposely strived for, to try to be of use on the field as well as off. It is just the need for the Poppins gear without the jumpsuit, though yes, she really did not enjoy the nom de plume Daisy saddled her with. Mary Poppins is magical. Jemma decidedly isn't. Nonetheless, Jemma does have her backpack of holding...and her wrist computer. So, she is set. Then, it is off to either catch a quinjet (faster) or a car from the carpool (decidedly less faster) to get to the site. The fact that it is Jemma going out might give people cause to worry.

If Jemma bothered to tell anyone.

Onward, to Delaware...

Jane Foster has posed:
Delawasn't. Three hours in decent traffic gets someone out of the city and down through New Jersey, beyond the carbuncle of Philadelphia and the grim shadows of Gotham. Has Jemma taken this path since the organization relocated to its Triskelion digs? It's not much changed except to be spring, slow in coming to the Eastern Seaboard, the moderating Atlantic still capable of lobbing brisk winds and chilly days. No one much bothers with those beaches, and one small, forgettable town blends into another. Tell Delaware apart from Maryland. It's a trick question; there is none!

Over the duration of her journey, a few events happen. Wilmington staff reach the site, and lock down the cordon beyond the chain link fence. Cameras and computers come out to document the damage, the three-hour of slow burning that fades into dull quiescence. Geiger counters don't detect significant radioactivity and the need for fire suppression is long since settled when O'Reilly pulls the standard issue fire extinguisher and liberally empties the cannister to the dregs making sure none of the burning pockmarks threaten to smolder unto judgment day, like a certain Pennsylvanian tire fire. After a suitable misting of everything, his partner erects tape around the danger zone and waits smartly for a boss above him to show up. Footage dutifully backed up and flagged from the main security bank ensures nothing is missed. Boring Delawasn't afternoon. Impact. Burnination. All of it there to be reviewed in greyscale and colour, as Jemma may like, when she gets there. The Delaware office gets another eyeball on their perimeter check, finding no incidental damage beyond that narrow radius. No signs of forced entry, abandoned vehicles or camouflaged men lurking in the bushes, claws barely retracted. A couple calls as a matter of habit to local diners and gas stations don't report anything out of the ordinary; townies and down coasters stick out here, where the local population is small and given to know one another far, far too well.

It's well toward dawn when she arrives, a few hours yet to come. Floodlights are on, giving the place a look of a high school up to no good. False light gleams in the lightening sky, but it's not quite to the point of being bright and golden. Not yet. The fires, then, would be all too noticeable if they existed, but they don't. A few of the Wilmington set crawl around the outer 'court' where they shards fell, taking readings and measures, but not actively poking.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The drive. Oh, has Jemma not missed the long drive. Unfortunately, a quinjet was out of the question. What, for a small fire out in the middle of nowhere on an unimportant part of an otherwise derelict site that wasn't on official books anywhere? Jemma would have to be mad to request a flight for what would constitute a big nothing burger. No reason to go.

So, Jemma drove. And yes, the scenery did blend in together. A swirl of meaningless towns. Although, once Jemma reached Wilmington, there was a bit of excitement. Namely...Jemma was the excitement. A level 7, driving out to check out the site that was locked down solely with bits of caution tape and a fire extinguisher? That was certainly a point of interest. The fact that Jemma knew exactly how to get to the Playground was one point of excitement. The fact that she knew exactly where to go to the impact site, without guidance, was another. Yes, little SHIELD agents, there are those that witness your actions.

Even in the middle of Delawasn't.

On the verge of dawn, with portable lab at hand and on site, Jemma begins her work in earnest. The smart glasses are donned and synced up to the wrist computer. The satellites did pick up fragments here, but the resolution was not great enough to determine exactly what the makeup of said shards might have been. Hence, the research scientist on site.

"Now then, let's see if we cannot find our cause of impact." Jemma is speaking to, well, herself. There really is no one else around, being so remote and all. "Give me a reason to have made the trip, at least..."

Jane Foster has posed:
A big something burger, surely. The Quinjets may be a taxpayer-funded resource but their use throughout a certain event in the Atlantic and subsequent troubles probably puts them in more maintenance than normal. Besides, it's Jemma. Have they any right to question if she asks for one? Who has a higher priority?

The Playground resembles nothing of the building at its height, quieter and contained, the great underground apparatus silent for the most part. Still maintained to skeleton crew standards, tidy and quiet, this is a place that waits to be mothballed or used again. A time of trouble is past, it's purpose receding into history as a 'nice to have' instead of a 'need to have.' One never knows where HYDRA's heads may rise. Like in, say, the current US government administration. Does the president know?

Pale streaks dance over the grumpy sea. The breeze turns, bringing the scent of grass and dirt, and burnt concrete to boot. No oil trails, no suggestions of heavy metal in the air. Flashlights and a spotlight flood the space around the crater, small as it is, and then Jemma herself as she arrives. Using whatever SHIELD-deployed security necessary to get on site, she'll be met by the trotting security guard coming out of the station as escort fo sorts. "Agent. We've coffee if you need some. Obviously not here, we don't dare contaminate," well, O'Reilly did, "the site, but inside if you want. We've extra gloves too. And plentiful PPE, boxes, if anything is up with yours. I... er... you need an escort?"

No, this isn't familiar, and he can only do his best.

The impact site, with its seven foot circle, is filled by glossy grey-black material since cooled to a hardened crust. No shocked silica or quartz here; it's concrete. Other bits have been helpfully outlined by tape. But the main crater is full of a /lot/ of chemicals sprayed from a cannister meant to suppress whole kitchen fires. Well, he was thorough, okay?

Jemma Simmons has posed:
"No, an escort will not be necessary." The pleasant British accent only barely registers a hint of tiredness as Jemma gets her own equipment out. Equipment that certainly *looks* to be SHIELD issued...but certainly above and beyond normal. Just another hint as to who exactly happens to be standing at the verge of an impact crater, being offered coffee at nearly dawn. "I certainly do appreciate the gesture, though I should be able to manage quite well on my own." Which is polite Jemma speak for 'don't worry, I know what I am doing.'

Which is rather obvious when Jemma takes a moment to look over her wrist computer, coupled with her augmented glasses, and forgoes the full-on radiation suit and opts for her own pair of gloves and a pair of sensible shoes. No canvas-topped sneakers for this little trip down. The markings on the crater wall are certainly helpful, but incomplete, as Jemma's optical devices provide a more concise view of the environs. The scientist makes her descent down, being careful to not only step over and not disturb the taped areas...but other areas as well that were missed. To no fault of the previous agents...these spots were just more camouflaged than most. But yes....the middle of that crater is certainly full of a lovely fire retardant miasma, isn't it? It might be best to remove that from the equation.

Well...there are a couple ways to do that. One of which is to use some sort of absorbent material to sop up the worst of the mess and make it easier to work. Which is the option that Jemma goes with, although it does require her to leave the crater to do so. It is short work to retrieve the loose cellulose material for chemical spills from the Playground proper. After all, she is well aware of the layout, at least, last time she was there...and it is a pleasant surprise to see not much has changed. Then...it is just applying the cellulose and cleaning that bit out from the crater.

All in all, a relatively easy task. But...what lies underneath?

Jane Foster has posed:
Equipment outside the norm is warning enough for someone to back away slowly and look elsewhere, no matter how curious or persistent they might be. At the end of a night shift, the chance for any sort of fascinating experience unrelated to the behaviour of owls or crates of questionable rations might be welcome. Nonetheless, the security agent backs away slowly, and he coughs once. "We did check for radiation. Nothing outside the ordinary, straight up safe to approach. I mean, we'll be back here out of your way while you do what you do."

Wilmington Office no doubt has its own opinions on that, chief of station being two hours before he's due in at the earliest and bound to be shifted out of bed for someone high profile wandering through. No need to be embarrassed about this little incident, is there?

The markings inside the crater are natural, as one would expect for a meteorite impact. The stranger quality lies beyond the heaps of chemical flame-suppressant dust and smoke blasted throughout the space, over the ground, and across everything in a pretty generous radius. The guy had a fire extinguisher, and extinguish he did. White and grey fluff that's not much more than a thick frosting makes determining colours difficult, the visuals no help at all. Now densities and magnetism, that's a great deal easier to read. One point to clarify, the small bits of metal in there aren't actually that dense at all. Two, they aren't magnetic in any way. Small feats to accomplish while Jemma heaps all sorts of cellulose into the crater, waiting for them to do their work.

None of the cellulose spontaneously combusts, so there's that.

The temperature still remains unreasonably warm, but not 'melt your socks and bones off' like at initial impact. Presumably the melting point of the metal exceeds that of the ground or impact, because there /are/ metal pieces to be found in there, the largest the length of a reasonably used pencil, no more than twice as wide, and mostly straight as an arrow. The other pieces are tiny by comparison, eraser-sized or less, torn and twisted where they've lodged into the ground. A colour that's most decidedly 'dusty grey' unless wiped off, at which point they're an unrelenting copper-gold, like the sun accidentally shed some of itself and forgot to collect lost rays.

The whole place is unaccountably /tired/, a weariness that settles into the bones, leeching into the very spirit.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
"Right, no radiation outside of normal parameters..." Yes, Jemma parroted what the security agent said, to show she is listening. Of course, she doesn't have the heart to tell him that she already knew of the radiation levels before her long trek to the middle of seemingly nowhere, nor that it was the very first thing she bothered to check when she stepped out of the car. This isn't Jemma's first time investigating an object of unknown origin..though the last time she did, Jemma picked up some extra baggage in the process.

Needless to say, Jemma is being especially cautious this time around.

"No combustion. That's promising." Is Jemma talking to the security agent? No...at least, not intentionally. It is more of a self assurance, a verbal announcement of the protocols that are running through the brain of the scientist. At least, it means she can go in there. It's going to be hot...but not blistering, at the very least.

And, with that, Jemma descends into the crater.

And the first thing that Jemma notices is the psychological pull. The sense of being weary....of being pulled so far and just not wanting to spring back. That is most unusual. The second are the pieces of metal that she encounters, the dust and soot wiped away with a gloved finger to reveal the true colours of a bright gold, uncommonly so...easily picked out even in the pre-dawn hours with just the ambient light available. It is these pieces that Jemma turns her wrist computer to, syncing it up with her glasses to run certain apps...including one specifically designed for unusual energy signatures. In truth, she never turned it off, not even when she left the Trisk on her early morning drive to the country...but the app was there, and it might as well be used.

What exactly Jemma is looking for even she is unsure. However, she is looking for anything out of the ordinary. And...whatever caused an impact crater hot enough to melt cement? That qualifies as out of the ordinary.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jemma's world is her own, where figments rise from data and analysis begets entire layers to a universe most people don't think about, let alone try to perceive. Her work in the theoretical gives tangible outcomes, and most of it takes place between her ears, so the guard stays at a goodly distance where Wilmington won't shout at him later for a dereliction of duty or trying to glean information. Spies are spies, after all.

The combustion in the area largely exists where the high temperature of the metal shards impacted the ground, but they've mostly long since cooled by this point. Concrete slag and melted tarmac samples won't tell much of a different story other than 'very hot, I exceeded my melting point, oh no.'

The crater isn't deep, its edges carved out in a bowl much less impressive than the one she leapt into in Scotland. It's barely two meters down at the deepest, and not perfectly even, given the degree of impact favours smashing into the side and ejecting more dust and debris in its wake rather than evenly plopped out. Ballistics programs know this count, and add the geological aspect of a meteorite impact, the results are about par. Not all the fragments came down precisely the same, but their trajectory and speed are too similar and the area of a strike too tight to be anything but from the same source. Whatever celestial being fired a gun on the Playground did so precisely.

Being down there in the hole only increases that weary burden on her shoulders, a pallor of rainfall drawn over the mind. Being British has its intellectual advantages to resist the despair, otherwise the nation would be depopulated. This sense drills deeper; grief, self-recrimination, a burning hole of blame turned inward seethe away as steadily as the sun overhead in a few hours. The little object she plucks up and holds in her palm gleams in such a fashion that its lustre acts like a gold alloy, but isn't gold at all. No spectrometry signature matches that, not at all.

Partly because its spectrometry proves incredibly odd, hidden under that secret designation denied to most scientists. Most scientists can't get their paws on an ounce of uru, though, and this is an unusual form of uru, one that doesn't obviously behave like an enchanted hammer thrown around by an Asgardian thunder god. It weighs very little, all in all, and the shape of delicate fronds tracing a central vein very much resembles nothing more than a feather.

As do the other pieces, scattered here and there, delicate and ragged, broken along some edges, but never melted. Shattered, yes, or scattered. Both?

In the core of that grief, Jemma's own image flickers in her own thoughts. A woman at work. Tired. Pressing on. What more can you do, faced by a burden too great to bear, but walk?

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The checkmarks are drawn. Impact crater? Check. Balistics trajectory and speed indicate a singular object caused said crater? Check. The metal samples in said crater maybe part of the whole that cause said impact? That could very well be a check, there, too.

The gold alloy that is not gold...that does seem familiar to Jemma. For she is perhaps one of the few scientists who have seen this particular alloy before, with her own eyes, and had the chance to study it. And, while she is no Asgardian, she is most likely able to identify uru by sight alone. The spectrometry at this point is merely a formality, confirming what she is already suspecting.

Jemma found uru. And that is of significance.

Within the eye of the storm, within that whirlwind of sadness and depression, Jemma continues onward. She herself would rival some of the best at hiding emotions, putting on a brave face when the world decrees that it simply does not wish to cooperate. In terms of the British sensibilities and the sheer act of 'keep calm and carry on', Jemma is a master. Yet, even as Jemma pushes forward with her self-appointed task of excavating the pieces of precious metal from the crater, the fact that she is hit with an image of herself, unbidden, almost causes her to break down.

'No. Not here. Push through. Place the bad feelings into the music box.'

All that the security agent would see is Jemma pause, as if collecting herself. But, for Jemma, it is more. So much more. And yet...the image holds weight for the scientist. She sees herself, moving onward.

Which, is exactly what Jemma does now. The moment passes...and Jemma continues onward. Uncovering each and every delicate filigree of uru that she can.

Jane Foster has posed:
Uru in Mjolnir's case isn't gold; Mjolnir shares the same silvery hue as other uru specimens... basically being itself, and Laevateinn, for the most part.

The golden-copper flames it exudes and the sheen it carries make the feather strange unto itself, but very much metal. Light, matching the signature of uru for other qualities other than visual. Maybe it's like Kryptonite and comes in multiple shades, albeit with multiple different qualities. Does this one make people depressed or pensive? Is it the uru of the Briton or Celtic pantheon?

<<A box to contain the woes of the world would be large as creation itself,>> sighs that vaguely feminine voice, one impinged by the strangest of dialects found in the Western Isles or the furthest north, but still in a Scottish domain. A voice so quiet it's scoured of much but observation, rising from the sussurations of time that flow as the sea flows. <<Perhaps a bowl or a goblet. Though it may spill, a little here and now.>>

Jemma Simmons has posed:
To Jemma's credit, she doesn't immediately start looking around to see who is speaking to her. The only indication that she heard the voice at all is a small fluttering of her hand as she reaches forward to continue collecting the bits of unusual uru. A momentary flicker physically to correspond with the mental landscape shifting. This is a new dynamic...a new wrinkle...and yet Jemma continues onward.

A testament to Jemma's sensibility.

Yet, there *is* a new voice speaking in Jemma's mind. Certainly not hers, but present. It would be rude to not respond. <<It is a coping mechanism that my father taught me.>> Simple enough. There is even a flash of a memory....Jemma as a little girl with her father and the said music box. <<It helps to keep me focused.>> Which....is true enough. It does. Though it helps Jemma to avoid dealing with negativity, which is certainly unhealthy. Even the good doctor surely knows that.

The scientist continues. A piece here. A fragment there. Delicate filigree placed in the slowly growing collection that Agent Simmons has obtained. Even now, the routine task brings a sense of calm to Jemma. Though, it is just a diversion. The grief and, as previously stated, woes are still there. Just...manageable, for the moment. <<A bowl. It would be a rather large bowl, indeed. To contain something so vast and seemingly endless.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
No women on site except for Jemma, that much she might have witnessed or confirmed on the drive in. The skeleton staff of four are all men, all agents of a modest rank but clearance enough to be on the Playground. Though SHIELD is an equal opportunity employer, security details tend not to be something pursued by women on an overnight shift. They show up during the day more. The Wilmington office didn't dispatch anyone to match that age, sex, or other similar details.

Neither has the voice any familiarity with the people she spends her days and work with. Only that cloudy semblance to the Western Isles, tweaked and fancifully altered, where the Hebrides sound so different to mainlanders, and then again from Lowland or Highland dialectic variants. For such a small country, Scotland throws a lot of variations.

<<What happens when the box is full? Do you ever open what you chose to set aside?>> These questions do not carry rudeness. Instead, a dull tendril of interest peeks out from the grey wastes of that recriminating guilt, the sorrows plied thick and deep in an ashen layer settled like cotton, thick cumulus clouds. Gather enough and the pressure can become almost liquid.

A few small pieces to be collected hardly amount to much. A small handful of feathers could fit in her palm as an unwieldy heap, and the resonance of dull grief widens bit by bit. Held together, they bathe in that small pool of it. <<Nothing is endless, not even existence.>>

Jemma Simmons has posed:
<<Sometimes.>>

It is a short and simple response. And...one that needs clarification, even to the voice that is within Jemma's mind that is not her own. <<It is never empty. Not fully. But, on rare occasions, it is opened, the contents examined. With edges dulled with time, certain aspects become easier to handle.>> The truthfulness surprises Jemma. How easily she offers said truths to an entity that she knows little to none. Yet, they are in Jemma's own mind. And there is one constant that Jemma has for herself. One ideal that she has given herself. That of truth. Really, it shouldn't surprise her at all, as she considers.

Jemma has always valued truth and knowledge.

And...it is that same sense of seeking to know that drives her now. The sorrow within her palm is felt. It is noted and measured...and it spurs Jemma on. Why is this happening? What (Who?) is the presence in her mindscape? Why here? Why now?

The questions need answers. And that is what Jemma does. She finds answers.

The first question is usually the simplest one. <<Who are you?>> Followed by another common inquiry. <<And why me?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
In the end, there are no more visible chunks to find. They all share the same peculiar impressions of feathers stamped on both sides, shaped with a devious care. An hour's scouring, even availing herself of a metal detector, won't find additional shards. They were probably vaporized on impact, even if full atmospheric entry from some extraterrestrial angel isn't especially likely.

She wants questions answered, and the grey swirl dampened to a murmur remains a quiet presence even when justifiably rattled about by the woman peering into pockmarks smashed into the concrete and going on a scavenger hunt. Broken images pile up like matchsticks: Jemma at her desk in the laboratory, diligently assembling a genetic structure. Her in the field, behind some kind of wall. Glasses on even now, peering down, the fisheye view rather than a bird's eye. Wrecked pavement, her drawn expression, stereoscopically viewed in nearly real time. It /sees/ her, that cannot be left to doubt.

The peculiar shimmer of self-awareness sharing the scientist's mind does not press in as an invasive force, or rummage through her private thoughts. Ideas communicated in fullness carry a fuzzy synchronicity, rebroadcast from scattered corners to amplify the weak flashes. <<Are you not the healer? Why do you study the body if not to cure it?>>

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Whatever it is that is speaking to Jemma, it is apparent that it not only sees her, but *knows* her as well. The images within her mind are fragments, sure, and certainly not emanating from Jemma herself, but they are of moments that Jemma recognizes. There are enough identifying markers to show that it isn't just a surface scan of Jemma's thoughts. No, there hasn't been any intrusion of that sort. For some reason, Jemma feels that the voice would find it rude, if it cared at all. No...these are all viewpoints separate from Jemma herself.

So, yes, the entity sees Jemma. But, more to the point, it has seen Jemma in the past. Not just a vision now, but previously as well.

And that...might be disconcerting.

Then the question is asked. Is Jemma not the healer? And...the answer is difficult to give. <<I...I try to be. I want to be.>> And...the music box opens...a crack, just a crack. The remorse for her friend spilling out. <<I tried. We...we had a way. To try to rejoin the spirit to the body.>> Jemma doesn't clarify...but she doesn't need to. The thoughts spill out....the quantum mechanics, the consideration of harmonic shifts, quantum entanglement and the possibility that it might be possible, even if it would take a tremendous amount of catalyst energy to trigger the process. All of her sadness that had been stifled before released....to the point where the agent kneels in the crater, her hands cradling the shards of metal as Jemms tries to regain control. The tears, denied up to now, fall. There are only a few...escapees from the moment of vulnerability. A drop or two of despair, falling to her hands, washing the metal held within.

And Jemma's voice. Her actual voice, whispering softly into the pre-dawn. Word meant only for her, the presence with her, and perhaps one other...should she hear. "I couldn't fix everything. Not then. Not now."

Jane Foster has posed:
Viewpoints of Jemma, but not Jemma's viewpoints. A tangible difference, such as it is.

The weariness settling in deepens all the more as time goes on, a slow tapering of the volume down softer and lower than before. A subtle effect that's nonetheless present, dwindling as time ticks on.

<<The medic sees damage and mends it. They heal, cure, purge. You want to heal.>> Her own acknowledgment flickers back, a long and lasting pause stretching out to the point the weariest small shards no longer give their voice. Just the larger in a fragmented mosaic of thoughts.

<<You put away thoughts to cope. Does you heal the painful thoughts or do the dark feelings fester?>> The sorrow that lingers deep in the pits of the Playground are old, older by far than a simple bad day. Monumental weight bears down on that insignificant scrap of uru foil while Jemma weeps, hardy commiserating with her. Merely witness to another shape of grief, no less substantial. <<How does that work, healer?>>

No accusation. A genuine inquiry from the voice of the deeps.

So terribly old, so terribly ignorant.

<<I>> we <<am>> are <<Afroth.>> In the singular, the whimper of duality. <<You heal all bodies. You cannot heal your own?>>

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Jemma wants to heal.

If there is a fundamental constant in regards to Jemma, it is her desire to make others whole. She felt it when she was young, trapped in her bed until the doctors could correct her twisted spine, to give her the quality of life that her parents wanted so desperately for her. The hope that those physicians gave her...she wanted to give that back to whoever needed it, as often as she could. To heal is to support others. Even at the cost of oneself.

So yes, Jemma wants to heal. Others over herself.

The negative thoughts. That was something else. <<Most of the time, they heal. The wounds lessen. The hurt dissipates. Not fully. Never fully, but enough to cope. Enough to move on, to find a solution. So that others may not suffer and, in doing so, I no longer, as well.>> A moment of pause. Thoughts collected, even as Jemma brings herself to her feet, a sleeve reaching up to dry her eyes. <<It is not a perfect system. Nothing ever is.>>

Then, another moment of introspection. <<You already know who I am. You know I am a healer.>> The weariness is felt. The few scraps of metal in Jemma's hands feeling so much heavier than they should, yet Jemma takes it on. Be it her upbringing or just Jemma's disposition, but she is willing to shoulder the burden. <<In healing others, I heal my spirit, such as it is.>> Is it her self imposed limitations on her fledgling abilities, granted by a cosmic other, that is sensed? The subconscious blockade that stops Jemma from healing herself in any way beyond the accepted scientific method she ascribes to? Or, perhaps it is just the simple idea of self sacrifice...that Jemma doesn't ask for herself when she can give to others.

<<I heal others. It is through others that I am healed.>> A re-affirmation. Then, a final question, before Jemma starts to climb out of the impact crater, with the precious metal within her hands.

<<So much sorrow. Is there anything I can do to help?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
The silence ebbs into a lulling low, grey and misty, absent of despondency at least. But the sheer fatigue that leaches out from the ground saturates the bones. It puddles in the extremities, pulling downward. How could something so small crash to earth so heavily if not driven by the greatest burdens?

The small scraps of copper-bright uru lie bright in Jemma's hand, doing nothing untoward. Their flames are spent, their heat lost, not even really wicking up the warmth of the body too much. <<The healer does not wait. What medic sits to the wayside? That leisure is denied in principle.>>

Stricken shadows spool around the steel-heavy statement, a leaden clangor. A needle prod; a flat gurgle of the brimming whirlpool.

<<Heal thyself.>> The old words, the admonishment to the healers, when Zeus struck down Asclepius for discovering himself how to attain immortality, perfection of the self. The skitter of momentum reaches a crackled peak, hoarse words, and dull as the woman's voice from some unknown thing. <<We are broken! We failed. Failure that is nothing but we, loss, everything. We are in no position to mend ourselves. To mend what was done. We have failed, and my failure...>>

A brief flash, weak, on the back of the eyelids and limited entirely except as a celestial shriek resonating to the towering depths and the soaring high. Falling feathers, black shadows slanting in horrific tendrils spiraling from a mass like an inverted nebula reaching down. Poison. A broken heart.

How do you mend a broken heart without a body, if a spirit doesn't /have/ a body?