1516/An Ice Cold Shock

An Ice Cold Shock
Date of Scene:	05 May 2020
Location:	Cryostorage, SHIELD HQ
Synopsis:	Nick Fury sends his best science team to investigate a failing cryopod in an ancient storage subbasement of SHIELD. What they find is Margaret Carter coming out of the freeze. Simmons, Fitz, and Foster jump through several impossible hoops to save the thawing woman's life.
Cast of Characters:	Peggy Carter, Jemma Simmons, Jane Foster, Leopold Fitz

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Peggy Carter has posed:
It's fairly late evening on a nice, totally unremarkable spring night. Things around SHIELD HQ have been oddly quiet, but maybe that's because it's a Monday? Most people would just be settling into the more relaxing part of the evening when an emergency message across the comm-units of the three nearest, highly skilled scientists and bio-engineers anywhere near by. The messages from Nick Fury himself, and all it says is: "There has been a disruption in SHIELD cryo-storage and one deep-freeze unit of a highly valuable nature has been damaged. Report to Cryofreeze to assist immediately." And no other explanation. It's his code, though, and the highest emergency code that SHIELD has.

...which is strange, because the cryofreeze unit they've been told to report to was supposedly quite unremarkable. Nothing important in records, one of the oldest units in SHIELD. It was generally assumed that probably everything in those units from the 80s was dead and never coming out of storage. Did they even HAVE appropriate cryotech back then?

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Time doesn't really mean much when the laboratory one normally works in has no windows. And, honestly, time does not wait for scientific excellence. So, it is really no surprise to find one Jemma Simmons up and working in the laboratory. Her particular problem as of late? The studying of the biological makeup of certain shadow creatures that have been running amok in Metropolis.

    So, to get a direct message from the director of SHIELD himself? And not just a general call, but directly to her? Well, that certainly warrant checking out. And so, with little explanation herself, she immediately heads out, not pausing to see if her partner in science got a similar message. After all, if Fury talks, even in message form, you tend to listen.

    Navigating to the cryofreeze unit isn't new for Jemma. There were some deliveries to here recently, part of a field mission she returned on. But...the section that she is being directed to by wide-eyed technicians? It's *old*. Like, mid 80's old. And Jemma knows it. "What is the nature of the emergency?" Calm British tones. That is what is needed now.

Jane Foster has posed:
One scientist responds to the alert on her phone, midway through binging a stack of reports delivered from NASA, the Department of the Interior, and a few friends in relevant stage agencies. To be honest, Jane probably wishes she had better things to do. Indeed, a text message half an hour prior went out to just that statement. Darcy had, of course, zero sympathy. Probably because she's been tasked with database searches. So it is the astrophysicist leaves her office in the Triskelion in response to the bleating message. Doubtful anyone -seriously- denies Fury's summons. Cryofreeze is a particularly odd place to send her, but the string of her PhDs include the realm of biochemistry. No surprise, her mother was a doctor.

So it is she's pulling on a labcoat and already has the gloves on, facemask pulled on over her mouth and nose. It's a very high grade of particulate filter, just as a key matter of purpose. Ditching phone and other necessities into a dish, she leaves them to be locked into a cubby and waits within. The technicians might double-check at her choice of keeping that bracelet on, but she fails to respond to them. Bystanders be damned, she follows after Jemma. "Agent Simmons," she replies. "Good evening."

Leopold Fitz has posed:
It certainly is not all that unusual to receive an emergency alert. Afterall, Simmons and himself are frequently called in on any number of cases at the last minute -- asked to analyse this, or come up with an emergency fix for that. But these requests rarely come in with the Director's personal code. That is the sort of thing that gets one's attention. For a change Fitz doesn't even grouse about 'last minute requests from field agents that don't understand the first thing about the proper scientific method'. Nope, he just drops what he is doing, eyes wide as he starts to go through the nearest drawers. "Simmons? Jemma??" he says, panic mixed with his customary annoyance starting to creep into his tone. "Have you seen my emergency field kit? I swear by the science gods if Kendall borrowed it again I will..." he starts to say, his tone rising with each passing word. At least until Jemma no doubt simply hands him the case from where he left it after the last time he was out of the lab.

In short order Fitz is racing through the halls of the Trikellion, heading towards the cyrofreeze units. Despite the fact that this storage facility is little used and little visited he too is familiar with it. Indeed, it has only been a couple of weeks since he last visited, prodding about the old technology, tapping with a mix of reverance and disdain at the absolutely archaic computers and their notion of 'code'. His familiarity just might come in handy here, though for the life of him he can't imagine what would constitute an emergency with any of this old junk. But when Fury calls, one doesn't ask questions. At least not if one knows what's good for them.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The storage unit is completely unmarked, towards the back of the room, probably one of the first that went into activation in the 80s. But it's been kept this whole time, the strange, slightly retro room around them just a bit chilly, clearly still humidity controlled and air highly filtered. When the scientists come within range of it, it's clear that something has gone wrong. An old data pad is flashing red, not the normal cool stasis colors, and there's a count down on the upper corner. It has about 1 minute left on it. The nearest computer station has woken itself up, probably at Fury's bidding. "ID Code Needed for authorized personnel." It's asking. Surely, they are authorized?

It wasn't clear to Fury who would be there first, so any of their IDs will work. This is not a computer which does biometrics. But it is a computer that does *information*, and the file for Cryo-Storage 859131-A11 flashes on the screen. 'CARTER, MARGARET'. With a very large data file of her entire service record, and medical records. And they've got about 45 seconds until she's going to be starting the thawing process. Maybe they could fix the cryounit to stop it? But in 45 seconds??

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    "Hello, Dr Foster." There is a smile for Jane, as Jemma uses the Doctor appellation, rather than the Agent title. "I see you got an alert, too." Then, a glance back, to see Leo closing in behind, with the emergency tech kit that she of course handed to him in tow. "And Fitz. Splendid! This should prove to be an interesting quandry. Perhaps even fun!"

    Jemma always did have strange notions as to what fun is.

    However, when she gets to the cryounit in question, that happy expression deflates somewhat as she sees just how *old* the computer is. "Hmm, Fitz? Do you know what ID code this interface wants? I hardly trust it to be able to interface with the tablet or the id chips in our badges." Or...really anything for that matter. "Is that an old CRT display? I haven't seen one of those outside of a text book before."

Jane Foster has posed:
Fury demands, and Fury receives. Fury expects and Fury gains. There are rules to the pecking order in SHIELD that even a wayward Nobel laureate has to follow without suffering the frustration of her superiors, whomever they are. Thus all rules apply as she approaches the old computer bank and the cryo-chambers penned in the back bowels of the Triskelion where the hardest workers get their retirement plan cashed out early. She watches the blinking numbers and Fitz emerging like a technological ghost, nodding to him. Still, punching information on something less than a card-punch machine is not impossible. She is not the rushing into the progress ahead of her.

"I have the feeling we are about to get an interesting evening. Look, I know my history." Her gaze widens a little. The screen demands attention and the girl who frequently has to jury-rig equipment weirdly from cheap sources -- hi, MIT isn't rich for all its field research -- causes her to blink again. "Someone tell me this isn't a movie, because it's beginning to feel like one. ID code here means..." She flips down to look at her badge, scanning along the codes and details listed there in weird little squares and bars. "None of these are going to correspond readily. I think..." Her gaze lifts. She frowns a moment.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
On first glance the Cyro-Storage chamber looks pretty much the same as every other time he has visited, faint chill in the air, the hum of machinery drawing on far too much power to be practical for anyone but an agency like SHIELD to manage somehow comforting. At least to Fitz. Unsurprisingly what he finds comforting might not quite align with the general public at large. He's come to terms with that. But that sense of normalcy is quickly shaken when he moves towards that nearest computer terminal. The clunky keyboard and old CRT display are both slightly discolored with age and what was only a slightly off-white is now distinctly beige. "They are. Can you believe it?" Fitz says with a soft snort, settling himself at the station after a quick nod for Dr. Foster as well. "I've got this. I poke around down here sometimes whenever I feel like poking at cyro-tech possibilities," he notes confidently, tapping in his code.

Any sense of confidence is quickly shaken however as the display comes to life with and the status displays almost immediately indicate an issue with one of the oldest pods. Fitz's expression screws up for a moment, a flicker of disbelief there. Surely there isn't anyone actually alive in there, right? After all this time? Which technology this primative? The cryo-rounds they have been playing with are more advanced then this, packed into a fraction of the space. Again he taps at the keyboard, jabbing at the enter key. Eyes flicker rapidly over the screen, at the simple green letters set against the black screen. And just like that his face drains of color. What little color is there at least. He really needs to get out of the lab more. "Ahhhh... I think we have a problem here..." he says, some of the panic creeping back into his tone. Oh yeah, that supreme confidence is miles away now.

Despite that, his fingers practically dance over the bulky keyboard, narrowly missing the wrong key on a few occasions as he tries to override the cycle that the system now seems caught in. One second, two seconds, five seconds... and still the cycle continues. "We have a problem here! Pod 12, get to pod 12 now!" he shouts, a whirling yellow light suddenly springing to life over one of the cyro-pods. One would guess Pod 12. "I'll try to make sure that the cycle completes without any more errors. We're about to have a visitor from the 80s. I'm just hoping she's still alive after this mess. Go, go! 40 seconds!"

Peggy Carter has posed:
Pod 12. Nearly at the very end of the room, and there is the faintest of fault lines across the outside glass which is already beginning to defrost. Whether the crack has been caused by whatever malfunction to start defrosting, or it WAS the malfunction, isn't clear. What is clear, looking at the thing, is that it's not going to be viable any longer and whoever is inside is coming out. And, as Fitz gets past that initial level of coding, more and more of those green-on-black words come pouring across the screen. Margaret Carter, frozen July 12, 1985, after several failed tests of helping stop rapid deteriation from some Infinity Formula. Genetic degredation at exponential rates. The notes in the medical file on the screen don't look encouraging and absolutely look like they are about Director Carter herself. Who supposedly had gone missing in action in the 80s. There was a memorial and everything for her.

Behind that cracked glass is a body in tact, faintly seen through the frosting. To someone like Jane, it feels... Wrong. This person was supposed to have gone on. Was snatched from her rightful time. But she wasn't dead yet. That possibility, hovering on the cusp of life and death, in the here and now? It was still *here*.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    The urgency of Leo's voice is not lost on Jemma. The number of times that he has used that tone in quite that manner have been rare, but noteworthly. So, Jemma does immediately move towards Pod 12. But...not before she caught a glimpse of the archaic monitor and the information it held upon its screen. Margaret Carter. Director Carter. It...it can't be.

    But yet, it is. Under any normal circumstance, there would be questions. Oh, so many questions. And perhaps more than a little gushing. After all, Director Carter was, err , is an inspiration. But..that doesn't matter now. Jemma has approximately 38 seconds to attempt to wake a person who has been in status for over 40 years. The expression attains a grim, stoic appearance as Jemma reaches into her lapcoat pockets to extract two new latex gloves she had intended to use with her other research project. "You are not wrong, Jane. Things will be interesting quite shortly."

    No title, just the first name. Jemma must be concentrating if she is forgetting proper manners.

Jane Foster has posed:
No doubt that SHIELD has its own custom hydroelectric dam in Quebec, a power plant in upstate Maine, and a variety of custom energy sources separate from a standard power grid. That would be nice, and help offset the high costs of electricity, especially if they negotiated with the Northeast or the Canadians for a ridiculously low cost. Things that the accounting office worries about -- and Jane, too, which probably makes a geekout flirtation pretty much assures. She knows her numbers, and has a secret affinity assuredly for those backup plans. Still, there is Fitz working on the cryostorage devices with diligence and she can stop staring at the pod. "Regrettably I must add to your stress, but you need to hurry. I'm not sure she can sustain it if the power goes offline while waiting on a password. Are these standard .. you know, I'm going to walk that question back. /How/ is the cryofreezing done? Flash, submersion in a dewar, compounding dry ice? Because that's going to have a major impact on how this goes off, especially if there are antifreezing compounds in the body plus the risk of drowning."

It sounds ludicrous, and yet it probably doesn't considering she has to move at speed. Mom wasn't an expert in that. Colour leaving Fitz's face is enough to send her into hasty motion. She's stood in front of the Bifrost falling on her, some things /are/ a little more confidence-building, but not by much. Twelve has to be found, the bright yellow strobe bringing her over at a run. "Forty seconds? You can't be serious, this is ... enormous. No. No, I think you're a bit closer than that." She could be speaking to Jemma or to Fitz.

How they /get/ her out of there is another matter, but she already has the gloves and mask on. Okay, time to step to the side. "I think we're about to dance. Strike a chord, and let's hope this works out well or I am going to punch through the glass."

Peggy Carter has posed:
The records are there. Fitz is in past the password, and there's a ridiculous amount of files to go through. Probably every file any modern doctor would want from that time, and a lot of notes on the experimental things that were happening in efforts to save the director. Cryoprotectants were definitely used in the process, but it looks like SHIELD was experimenting with some sort of flash freezing technology when she went in, so there isn't an entire pod of water, at least. The count down finishes and Fitz' screen flashes with the unit number and opening warning. The women, however, see the unit's door cracking open and it's trying to slid out. It SHOULD come out smoothly. But it's old, something's broken, and it gets caught about 2 inches into sliding out of the wall. Some muscle or luck will be needed to get her the rest of the way. However, when they do, it's unmistakably Peggy Carter. She's grayed out into the frozen pallet of someone who is still needing to be warmed and in a neutral medical gown. But she's definitely there and not buried in some unmarked grave somewhere.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
Generally speaking, Fitz is of the belief that there is always a technological fix to any sort of problem. It is just a matter of applying the right amount of technical know-how and proper engineering principles. And, of course, time. See, that's the big one here. He's good. He knows he's good. But he's not 40 seconds good. In his defense and something that he will surely comfort himself with later is the fact that there probably not anyone on the planet who could have prevented this by this point. Working with practically ancient technology that had to be considered questionable in the first place? Dealing with breakdowns in machinery -- the terminal in front of him details all the damage the pod has suffered from the unanticipated reanimation process. There's no magical fix here. Like it or not, Maragert 'Peggy' Carter is coming back into this world. And all he can do is try to ease the birthing pains as it were. Whether she lives or dies once here is going to be more in the hands of Jemma and Jane.

He doesn't have the same reverence for SHIELD's history as his lab partner does. Oh, he has come to appreciate it, but he is first and foremost a scientist. The science, the technology that has been developed absolutely fascinates him. The personalities? A little less so. He appreciates them, but he doesn't truly revere them. But the life of one of SHIELD's founders partially in his hands? Yeah. Even Fitz is not immune to the implications and pressures of that. He might not have Jemma's hero worship -- or at least distinct admiration -- but he understands the stakes.

"That pod is opening in thirty seconds no matter what I do here," he calls out, never taking his eyes off the display in front of him, fingers still dancing over the keys. "There are twenty-three separate malfunctions, every major system is red-lining and if I'm reading this right --" which of course he is "-- that pod is likely to fall apart entirely in about forty seconds," he says, some of that panic leaving his voice as adrenaline kicks in. Not usually the friend of rationale thought, in this instance he is able to put it to good use.

"I'm rerouting the patient's medical records to the nearest terminal... now..." he says as the primitive, bulky display beside Pod-12 springs to life, the monitor flickering wildly for several seconds before the image stabalizes, bringing up the pertinent details. So... not just unfreezing here, but with a chronic medical condition that led to her being frozen in the first place. Even if she survives the reanimation process there are still other issues to deal with. "Time's up! There's a pod door malfunction! Get it open! Get it open!" he calls out, practically pounding at the keyboard, finally glancing back over his shoulder to check on their progress.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    "Oh bloody hell..."

    It isn't often that Jemma resorts to what she would inevitably would call colourful language, but it is certainly the appropriate response in this case. The eyes glance at the nearest terminal, and go wide as Jemma recognizes exactly what is going on. "Cellular degradation? What on earth were they trying to do??"

    The question is immediately forgotten as Leo expresses an increasingly urgent desire to open the pod doors. And...with her hands gloved...and no other tools in the immediate area, Jemma does something that would make Fitz positively cringe. The biochemist lifts up her red trainer-clad right foot, aims it at the right corner of the sliding door, and gives it a hard front kick with the heel of her foot. In an effort to jar the blockage loose and at least get the door open enough to pull that pallet out.

    But Jemma isn't stopping to see if it worked. The foot returns to the floor even as Jemma turns to Jane. "We need her out now! If I can pry this door open, I will need you to reach in there and pull her out. We have no time to wait. If she wakes up while in there..."

    There is no further response. It simply isn't an option for Jemma. Margaret Carter is coming out of that pod now, if the fellow Brit has anything to say about it.

Jane Foster has posed:
Dead Margaret "Peggy" Carter is within inches of them, and behind a glass wall. Already dressed up and ready to go for her own funeral, around the corner there must be a pretty casket and an American flag ready to go for the latest SHIELD fallen. And the casketbearers might just include two of her greatest compatriots, along with those of an age to at least remember the peace her reign brought over the US. Never mind that Superman person who keeps showing up to the meetings, he might be terribly sad on the basis of being Superman. Sorrowful smiles, excuses in front of Director Fury about how the last minute warning wasn't enough.

<<Please no.>> The plea goes up into the void. No one hears it. Only Someone (TM) with a capital S, the peacetime prayer of a young woman putting her hands on a machine too heavy for her to manage alone. None of them really are fit. Terminals bleat and claxons wail their ashamed reports, yellow blaring over white labcoats in a sickly shade that best be called sulfuric. Mocking, really. She looks back briefly to see whether Fitz can reverse the expelled table, overcoming some moaning wheel or choking, wheezing pipe unable to use enough force to disgorge her. Whatever locks are in place receive a quick, brief assessment for time allows no more. Jane goes to her knee, staring into the mechanism past years of accrued frost, hoping to see where it fails. <<Not like this. Not today, Valdr galga.>>

"This is going to probably break my hand or my arm," explains the astrophysicist with a distasteful, grim certainty to Jemma. She looks at her hand and then the glass, moving into a place alongside Jemma, but further to the cracked window. "Compound fracture," she repeats, removing her glove. Not sanitary! Latex glove into pocket, and she pulls down that pretty cuff bracelet from her left wrist. It's sluggish to move. Much more sluggish to fit over her knuckles, her fist closed tight to accommodate the jewelry barely wide enough for them. Her fingers must be crammed together, but a wide band of shining gold. "Breathe, and..." She was taught how to fight by some of the best. Nowhere near as strong as Jessica, not at all as seasoned as May. Hell, nothing on Steve Rogers, even. But...

That's one closed-fist punch smashed into the glass. With a fucking gold bracelet. She is neither Amazonian nor a super-soldier. The next swivel throws her full weight into the punch, everything in a go. Recoil. Repeat. Til shards fall and air filters in. It shouldn't work. In no way should it work. Except she's holding uru tempered by the Mother of Storms. Blunt force trauma to probably-bulletproof glass. If she has her way the glass becomes a new empty door.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The computers in front of Leo are *not happy* with the damage that is going onto that pod. It was broken before, and now it's just screaming some death throes in front of him while the file uploads to the other computer terminal. This isn't wireless. There aren't any wireless signals or receivers down here. This is internet file transfers between some heavily wired networks of the sort that came right before your windows computer would warn you this file download would take approximately 1,000 years. But it's moving and the whole file will, at some point, be alive on the machine closest to the women.

Meanwhile, Jemma's kick is enough to at least get the pod open to release whatever frozen air was inside, a wash of icy, frosted air waving over both of them. It means she's not stuck stewing in those chemicals, but that she's going to be on the edge of 'should be thawed and revived' sooner and sooner now. The tube she's in is as stubborn as the woman, it taking three more punches from Jane to shatter the bulletproof glass, but it gets there, spider webbing and falling in on itself. The rest of the bed slides out, a mess of shattered tubing glass over the monochrome-but-warming body of Peggy Carter.

The one good news from the files is that she wasn't on the edge of death when they put her in. Probably a few days? Maybe a week away? But if they just wake her up, they probably have a few days to perform a modern miracle.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
Like it or not, Fitz's immediate contribution to saving Margaret Carter is over for the moment. The pod might as well be a pile of scrap metal for all the good it is doing now. Indeed, it is actively hindering the process at this point. Bad pod! Who designs something like this without at least a half-dozen redundant back up systems in place? If she dies because a pod door wouldn't open... well, the person who built this in the first place might not even be alive anymore. But if he can't hunt them down and yell at them in person he'll settle for finding the cemetary they're buried in and giving a very stern talking to whatever headstone or grave marker he might find there. Jemma will probably have to hear about it for weeks. For that mercy alone that door better come unstuck fast.

He abandons his post at the computer. The pod is useless, the controls are useless and he has put up the necessary medical records. He can't do anymore good back here. The rolling stool he was sitting on skips across the floor as he all but flies from his spot at the terminal, skittering wildly across the floor as he turns to join them. He's not a doctor, certainly -- well not a medical doctor at least. He does have two doctorates though, by the age of seventeen and best nobody forgets that. What he can do is be an extra pair of hands as needed. Help lift her out. Hand Jemma what she needs. Maybe help open that #$^ing door. Oh wait, it looks like Jane has that. Whew.

He skids to a stop, standing at the ready, prepared to jump in and do what is needed. He just hopes that there aren't bodily fluids. Or really any fluids aside from oil and grease. There's a reason he went into engineering damnit!

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    With Jane's not-so-tender administrations, the glass caves in, not shattering in a million pieces, but at least broken enough to allow Jemma to clear it away. Which, with the labcoat swiftly removed, becomes a safer task as the biochemist wraps the coat fabric around her hands. These hands reach in and pry the glass out, abusing the fabric...but not the doctor's hands as the glass gets tossed to the floor rather unceremoniously.

    There is a quick glance to Jane, those brown eyes of Jemma's flickering from Jane's hand to Jane's own eyes, the unspoken question clearly within Jemma's expression. She is inquiring about the hand, even as the labcoat is thrown over Peggy. Not to insulate her or to warm her, mind you, but to protect from whatever bits of glass remains in the frame of the window that is now a portal to Director Carter's freedom. She doesn't look up, but she knows Fitz is there, watching. "Get me something to put her on, Fitz. Anything, or we're going to do triage right here on the floor." Nevermind that there might not be actually anything to use. She will let Fitz worry about that little detail.

    The thawing Miss Carter is extracted rather easily, with Jemma's panic channeled into her actions. Nothing like a little adrenaline to get the blood pumping. With Peggy cradled in Jemma's arms, Jemma's fingers of her left hand find purchase upon Peggy's wrist, while Jemma herself leans over, hovering her cheek upon the former Director's lips in a hurried action of checking for pulse and breathing before she either places Peggy in whatever Leo finds....or the floor as threatened.

Jane Foster has posed:
Punching open glass with an enchanted bracelet hurts. A lot. It absolutely doesn't guarantee said arm or hand gets any protection. She is not that Colossus guy who turns fully into metal, or that Winter Soldier with a vibranium arm. See the lack of a hammer? Crowbar? Asgardian make doesn't stop her from breaking anything. It hurts by the time the cobweb glass crackles and shatters away in hopefully cubes, rather than nasty jagged teeth designed by a horrifically inept pod-caster out to earn some kudos from his friends instead of designing proper redundancies and safety checks even GM managed in an era of murder-by-Fiero and 'let's put the engine in the totally unprotected rear of the car, that'll go well!'

Maybe GM was behind this. A nefarious plot by a rival, led by Lee Iacocca or some other person from automotive history out to get their revenge in Project Steering Wheel to remove Peggy Carter? Conspiracy fanfic, go!

But in all reality, she holds her most certainly bruised, bleeding hand to her stomach and tries to forget her elbow would like to not be on fire. Jane's colour isn't great, but she pushes through the pain best as she can. Breathing too shallow and fast, but those help. "Vital signs. Look for a pulse under her jaw, press lightly. Count it over fifteen seconds, we can multiply by four," she recommends, because moving her hand isn't happening. I'll count her respiration rate." Please be one, please be one. "Doctor," hello, that's Fitz, "she needs to be warmed up or acute hypothermia will probably kill her. Coat and blanket, wrap her up til Med Personnel get here. Her core won't be able to sustain any kind of temperature on its own. We should have heatpacks, something that works for this. I can't lift her, not this way. I'm so sorry, Doctor Simmons."

Peggy Carter has posed:
This place looked half cryo-storage, half morgue, and mostly abandoned decades ago. However, when it was abandoned, there were a few gurnies that had probably been used to bring bodies down for storage. When they maybe had dreams anyone would be brought out of this place, they had left them there, just in case. It's not too hard to fine, two ancient beds on old wheels, but the humidity control of this room has still been in effect so they aren't rusted. Some moth did get in at some point, the old while sheets slightly yellowed and eaten. But it will work better than the floor. The alcove they are in is darkened otherwise, the automatic lights not coming on with motion. It's that area that feels more haunted than anywhere else in this place. The echoes of science that was, but that is not. This whole place is a corpse of 1980s technological advancement that never... quite... advanced.

Peggy's body isn't comfortable to carry. While deathly pale, she absolutely doesn't look like she 'died' in her 60s. 30s or 40s, maybe, her frost-stiff hair still brown beneath that chill. And she's got muscle to her, someone who did try to keep up with her training. But not as much as one might expect from a career of military service. Still, she's no light, fragile feather of a woman. And she's very much, at this moment, deadly still. No breath, no pulse, still coming out of the ice or her body not having been shocked back into the life it needs for functionality. It might be tempting to just give up on her, but she was warming already under Jemma's touch. And, to that strange sixth-sense of Jane's, she wasn't completely lost to death yet. There's a chance.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
Sometimes a situation calls for a technological solution. Sometimes it is a certain amount of biochemical expertise that is necessary. Sometimes it requires both which might be where FitzSimmons truly shines. But in those other two eventualities the other is always remarkably good at doing just what is needed. Whether it is Jemma keeping him calm and focused, or Fitz running to play fetch. Teamwork!

Before he takes off running to seek out something useful, Fitz is quick to strip out of the labcoat he still wears, depositing it on the floor in front of the now mangled cryo-pod. He won't be shedding any tears over that. Sure, it lasted thirty-five years and appears to have impossibly kept Margaret Carter alive all that time. But in the end it failed. Badly. That, apparently makes Fitz grumpy. Either way, the labcoat on the floor is surely a more hygenic place for them to try and save Peggy Carter's life then some infrequently cleaned patch of tile. Then he's off.

He might have some issues with the engineers that designed these cyro-pods, but apparently they didn't overlook everything when they put this facility together. Racing past rows of nearly identical pods, he finally stumbles over a small station where a pair of medical gurneys have been tucked just around the corner. There are also a pair of kits fastened to the wall, the tell-tale red cross symbol evident on them and without hesitation Fitz grabs one of them as well before he pushing that gurney back towards the waiting doctors, one wheel apparently slightly loose as it squeaks and makes the cart skittter oddly. Still, nothing Fitzs is about to complain about now.

Now, after thirty-five years, is anything in the first-aid kit still useful? Equally to the point did those who stocked this place have the sense to include things like heat packs and other medical equipment that would be useful for emergency reanimations? Or is there going to be a bunch of antique bandages and a bottle of long since expired painkillers? The hopeful part of Fitz is counting on the former. The -- much bigger -- cynical part of Fitz is expecting the later. "I've got a gurney," he calls out, taking the corner a little fast but pushing it up in front of the pod just as his two collegues work the body free of the wreckage.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    There is no need for apology from Jane as Jemma holds Peggy close, using a bit of her body heat to assist in trying to bring her body temperature up. As the gurney arrives, Jemma breathes a sigh as she places the cold body upon the gurney. Jemma's labcoat is tucked around the still cold form, while the medical doctor quickly bends down to retrieve Leo's coat as well, adding another layer to Peggy. And....the quick read of the pulse and breath check gives Jemma all she was dreading. There was no response.

    But, that does not deter Jemma. The medical kits that Fitz returned is opened, the stern look of concentration breaking into a frown when Jemma sees exactly how useful the medical kit isn't, at least when it comes to reviving others from a frozen slumber. The medical kit is tossed to Peggy's feet, while Jemma starts chest compressions for CPR. "I don't suppose either of you have a defibrillator handy?" It is a poor attempt at humour, but it helps to cut the tension. At least a little, before Jemma pauses with her compressions, to perform mouth-to-mouth. Then...back to compressions.

    "Use that kit to bandage the hand. Don't use any of the medicine within. All of it is expired, but the bandages will at least stop the bleeding." No joking now. It's all too serious for Jemma as she starts dictating.

    1...2...3....4. Breathe. Check for pulse and breathing. Repeat.

Jane Foster has posed:
Horribly scented, ancient bactrim ointment stinks up the air. Garbage gauze fallen apart into poor, spidery webbing in dull yellow shades can't be helpful, and the glue on the adhesive tape will never come apart. Small boxes and wrappers are paper dry, probably held together with spit and neon pink dye bled out onto the sterilized gauze pads underneath. At least one of the cases contains a pile of wet-naps that, if ripped open, stink of the memory of alcohol that went on a trip to Tijuana and never came back.

Jane is too busy to scowl, trusting Fitz to be the sugar plum fairy of Peggy's recovery instead of doing this herself. She can kick things out of the way and lament doing so, even so. The gurney at least is something familiar, and working the straps free one-handed isn't very hard. "They never put a blanket in these things. No emergency blankets," she says of the crap kit pulled over, "or ponchos. Because we are expected to hug the patient and keep them home. No, that won't do. All right, let's get her piled up and warm. Strap her down in case she starts convulsing. There is a good chance when the nervous system comes out of... torpor, out of freeze, it will happen. Spasmodic kicks, uncontrolled motions. Her muscles aren't warmed up at all, we need to keep her as still as possible."

Her phone is back at the front of the cryopod hall of horrors, turned in like the bracelet wasn't. If Peggy slides sideways, won't /this/ be interesting. Horrible. Unfortunate, anyway. Jemma's steady compressions and mouth to mouth, with all the antifreeze goo, cannot be too bad. "Let's move her towards the front. I need my phone unless someone has a signal to call Medical Personnel to run down an emergency kit. That's you, Agent Fitz, if I may be so bold?" She can parallel the damn gurney and measure breathing or shove it along, but that means no emergency CPR and broken ribs. Broken ribs, frozen McPeggy organs. "Lacerations on the spleen and the liver we need to avoid. She gets one on the spleen, we can't save her. Hands a little further up, down. This is... //Hey Galadriel!//" She shouts. Her phone beeps. "Play //Stayin' Alive// by the Bee Gees! Is there anyone Barry Gibb can't save?"

... o/` "Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk..."

Hey, maybe Peggy will think she woke up back in time.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Something did *not* like that pod being beaten up. The lights in the room were already not great and now two others are starting to flicker off. The initial set of computers that Leo passed seem to be stable, but the ones back near the pod are now flickering screens along with the overhead light. Nothing came on when Leo got that gurney and first aid kit off the wall. There might be 1980s defib unit somewhere, but it wasn't down that hall. It's like the death of the pod was chasing them with the death of most electric in that area of the room. Closer to the front, though? There's a bit of light. There a single old defib unit. There's some blankets. For the whole room, there was a single coming-out-of-cold emergency kit and it was right at the front. They really didn't expect anyone here to come out alive.

Warmth is slowly creeping through her, helped on by Jemma's currently thankless work and Jane's coaching of proper positions. At least Jane wasn't actively bleeding openly now and there was barely enough light left to ensure that Jemma was in the right position.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
It was too much to hope for. That there might actually be something useful in there. Well, useful for saving the life of Margaret Carter. It looks like at the bare minimum the alcohol-soaked wipes will be of some use to Dr. Foster. That's not nothing. Just not necessarily the highest priority in this precise moment. Ah well, he was pretty much expecting that. Always expect the worst and you'll never be disappointed. Unless you're Fitz. He can usually still find something to be disappointed about when he tries. Hey, he's not just a prodigy at engineering!

"I can't believe they didn't build defibrillators right into each pod. Seriously, if you're going to bother trying to freeze someone shouldn't you at least plan for them to actually wake up one day," he grouses, already starting to turn away to seek out something that could help, whether to simply call for help or to cobble something together from his field kit.

And then Jane activates her phone. For a moment a look of absolute horror crosses Fitz's face and he simply stares at the good doctor as if seeing something slimey and icky and thoroughly distasteful. The lab -- even an ancient relic like this one -- is a place of SERIOUS BIZNESS. In Fitz's world, that, apaprently does not include the Bee Gees. It is possible that getting out of the lab might be of benefit to him.

With a little shudder -- that may be for show or may be legitimate -- Fitz whirls away. "On it," he says curtly, once more scampering for the Cyro-Storage lab, eyes darting about as he passes. There has to be a defibrillator somewhere. Probably tucked away in some cabinent. Or maybe attached to the back of a single pod, no doubt buried in the back of the room where no one will ever find it. Either way, as soon as he can he activates him communicator. "Agent Fitz here. We need a full medical team in Sub-basement three now, section Green. And for the love of science bring a damned defibrillator," he barks peevishly, the music growing louder as he nears the front of the room. Scooping up his pack, he begins to kit-bash something appropriate for Jemma. "I hope this works..." he mutters, racing to hand it off to his lab partner.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Brown eyes flicker up as the lights in the back of the cryostasis floor blink in and out. There is no comment given, as Jemma keeps with her compressions and assisted breathing, but in the back of her head is a thought...most likely some more colourful language at the increased difficulty of the situation. There is definitely an eye-roll as she keeps in time with the Bee Gees, keeping her compressions in rhythm lockstep to Staying Alive. Yes, it is a maligned song from the disco era...but it has the perfect beat, and Jemma falls in line with it.

    As the chest compressions continue, Jemma watches with intent at the beast of a machine that Fitz has cobbled together. Using bits of the broken pod that still had power, albeit fluctuating, she watches but doesn't question. After all, the two work almost on the same wavelength at all times. So...Jemma instinctively knows how to use the machine.

    At least, that is the hope.

    With fingers crossed, two jury rigged paddles in her hands, Jemma casts a sideward glance to Fitz...and says a single phrase before touching the paddles to Peggy's chest in an effort to jumpstart her heart.

    "Allons y!"

Peggy Carter has posed:
The makeshift AED isn't great, but it's electric, and Leo's kid has jury rigged stranger into more effective before. Ripping out a few wires, ensuring the eletric is still running between them. Jane, hands being not much use right now but her legs can go, dashes ahead to actually try and get some practical medical care or a room ready. After all, there's going to need to be a lot of explanation of what this body will need if Simmons and Fitz manage to perform a miracle. But there it is, a spark between the two leads from Fitz' hand, just as Jemma is looking up to see what he's thinking. It should work.

Halfway down the lights-flickering room, the place somehow feeling colder by the second, Jemma's paused in her work to grab those makeshift paddles. And it works. It takes a few tries, three to be exact, but there's an active gasp from Peggy Carter's still-gray lips and Jemma's fingerips find a pulse this time, instead of nothing. Somehow, they've managed to bring back the impossible from the dead. Now, all the damaged genes and the mess that the initial Infinity Forumla has made would need fixed too. But with this, there was hope.

When Leopold and Jemma manage to get the gurney wheeled the rest of the way to the ancient elevator shaft, it just pings open for them, the timing unnervingly perfect. Maybe Jane sent it back down? Maybe there were sensors? It still seemed strange but, soon, the science team and their unlikely charge are on the way to the emergency room Jane Foster has being set up above.