1528/Peggy Carter Chapter 2: Science Bugaloo

Peggy Carter Chapter 2: Science Bugaloo
Date of Scene:	05 May 2020
Location:	R and D Labs: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Peggy is no longer a popsicle. She's just a genetic child of Dane, Jane, Bobbi, and Jemma.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Dane Whitman, Bobbi Morse, Peggy Carter, Jemma Simmons

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Jane Foster has posed:
--A Continuation of The Awakening of Peggy Carter, aka: "This is a really good (totally WTF) plan!" --

Dane Whitman has posed:
DNA samples have been gathered. Equipment has been prepared, obscure notes from deceased uncles have been contributed just in case there might be something there that helps. In a couple of cases "civilian" day jobs may have been informed of an absence. The officially unofficial ad-hoc fatal genetic damage repair team has spent the better part of the day crunching numbers, running simulations, taking apart and piecing back together DNA and RNA strands, and generally otherwise engaged in the pursuit of the finest and only borderline unethical SCIENCE!

Dane Whitman sits in front of a computer screen, watching data from the latest simulation scroll by. 79 percent...80 percent....

"Come on...come on..." Dane mutters under his breath, having watched this get further and further along with each iteration. But still not able to reach 100 percent...well...maybe this time?

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi relies heavily on her who-knows-nth cup of coffee. It's the cafeteria coffee but she like sit, positing questions in her mind such as, is involving her DNA in Peggy's rescue ethical if she gives her an addiction or a taste of bad coffee? is it possible for an English person's DNA to survive getting a strong desire for bad American coffee? She shakes her head, snapping out of it again. "Okay. I'm going to call it. We don't have any better options than what we've spent the night working on. That means.. if Doctor Simmons, her attending physician believes this is the best treatment, then I, Doctor Morse, authorise the use of said treatment on her patient."

Time to bust out all the doctor titles to convince themselves that they're not being monsters and that they do know what they're doing.. sort of. Breaking out the designs for TAHITI, ripping them apart; gathering DNA samples, splicing them together to fill the damaged areas; 3D printed manufacturing the machine to do it; running simulations on CRISPr/TAHITI DNA integrations... it's all come down to this. "We'll just have to take our most promising simulation... it's literally the best we can do and we're running out of," she covers her mouth as she yawns, "time."

Peggy Carter has posed:
While it's not *exactly* ICU, too top secret so there isn't a whole fleet of doctor's monitoring her, the patient of the evening is laid up under dozens of computer monitors leading back to the team who has been working on her case frenetically. She's in a top secret room, far more up to date and useful pieces of medical equipment lining the walls and easily accessible. Heck, at some point, someone put her in newer hospital gown that wasn't put through a bit of a glass shower and with that strange 80s print of the old one. She at least looks far more human now, lips a neutral pink and her hair back to it's softly waving brown. She definitely didn't look like human in her 60s, but that was probably the original effect of the formula. Her hair had thinned out some, and there were the faintest of raw patches on her skin. Possibly from the unfreezing but, more likely, it was the beginnings of cellular degradation. Like the first signs of lethal, overwhelming radiation poisoning. There was a reason her file said she only had days.

But those monitors are intelligent. They can read the beginnings of consciousness far before eyes will open. Unexpected or not, they are starting to give those warnings. Whatever is left of Peggy Carter is on the edge of waking up, her breath getting just a bit faster, the last trails of REM sleep leaving off in her mind.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Coffee be damned. Jemma herself has herself a proper drink, with the cup of tea sitting beside her. Of course, the exact amount of tea that Jemma has consumed in the period between freeing Director Carter from her cryogenic slumber to now is most likely in direct opposite proportions to the amount of slumber the good doctor has had. And, considering that there is a teapot sitting on a Bunsen burner at her station in the lab...coupled with the slightly disheveled appearance of sleeping in one's clothing...that would be quite a lot of tea, indeed.

    The whole thought of the gene therapy wasn't Jemma's original plan. Nor was it the backup. But, after countless simulations diagnosing the present destabilization of Peggy's genetic sequence, the amount of time needed to provide a resolution is disturbingly finite. And steps needed to be taken now. The Brit's head lifts up, slowly, as she turns to acknowledge Bobbi. "I believe so, Doctor Morse. We literally have no time to lose." Another sip of the cup, then Jemma glances to the tablet...

    ....and immediately leaps to her feet. "Holy hell! She's waking up!!" No time for decorum...or even apologies. Doctor Jemma Simmons bolts out of the door, snagging her tablet with one hand and a medical bag in the other. Hyped up on caffeine, it is a race to see if Jemma can make it to the medical wing before her fellow British national wakes up.

Jane Foster has posed:
No Bee Gees right now. Na, na, na, na, Stayin' Alive is still a pulse of the machines doing the hard work of keeping an unconscious-ish Peggy Carter under. Someone else gets to admire the body of the director with trepidation and some serious questions about bodysnatchers, clones, and Fitz being allowed to play with sharp objects. Instead, there is Jane Foster, darting between the not-ICU room and back into the vicinity where Bobbi Morse conducts Mad Science: The Musical number.

Jane has coffee. She also has a beautiful Lady Grey tea she's adulterated with cream and sugar, cutting part of the taste. How many cups of that has she drank? None worth counting. Her bandaged hand can't even support that much weight, so most everything happens one-handed. When not in flight to check on their patient, and providing updates with exquisitely alarming detail -- "One hundred twenty-five hours, give or take," being a rounded /down/ number from seven days -- she is ensconced beside Dane. Dane has a purpose and she aims to support that, looking thoughtfully at his information spilled out. "That might hit at about 85 percent? Maybe if you nudged the sequencing there from me a little further along, say five of those notches. It seems to have bumped the percentiles up the last time you did it, though I fear we're going to start overlapping something that gives her brown hair at this rate." Fortunately, though, Jane has brown hair! Amazing.

Until something goes... well. Not off. Wrong. Those sounds echo, shining all too wrong. Her head lifts, turning. Those sleep-bruised eyes are awfully tired, but her mind is still relatively sharp as a pointy stick for a downhill mountain-trail runner. "Oh no. Does she have to stay under for this procedure? Agent Morse, I don't know authorizing anaesthesia or an induced coma is something she'd come /back/ from..."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane Whitman glances to Jane, frowning a bit in thought. He seems to be considering her suggestion, but all chance for discussion goes out the window as the crisis of a conscious Peggy sweeps over the room. He starts to plug in the commands to transfer their program to the treatment room, but pauses a half-moment, wavering. 85% is...okay. Not as good as he'd like. They don't have time for debate, nor time for hesitation on his part. So he goes with his gut.

Three more percentage points Jane, and one apiece more of Jemma and Bobbi. All three of them were, perhaps understandably, better matches than him. Not that he didn't make his contributions (That old English blood). If he'd had time, he might've tried dragging Lara into the mix. Either way, the adjustment made, perhaps without anyone being the wiser, he transfers the program.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi half jumps out of her skin when Jemma sees Peggy starting to wake back up. "Oh shit!" She puts her coffee down and spins around to check on the monitors as Jemma races out of the room. "Okay. We have our protocol, let's go with what we've got." She places the very specialised injector they've designed - a single complex needle in place of a gigantic machine with hundreds of needles - over to Dane to fill with their solution. Quite an advancement in a single night, but let's face it - TAHITI was project overkill.

In to a carry case it goes, she rushes out of the room and down the hall ways to the medical wing. She's not scrubbed up, it's not safe for her to enter the room with Peggy. But she places the case under the ultraviolet light decontaminator and it slides through the safe connector into the room. "Okay Jemma. It's all you now. When you're ready. Evenly spaces injections. It's probably going to hurt Director Carter like hell, but.. this is it."

A never before attempted new TAHITI/CRISPr protocol, experimental in all senses of the word, a true hail mary to save Peggy Carter's life. They never get the time to plan things out at SHIELD.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Waking up after fourty some years wasn't exactly a fast process, but Peggy also wasn't someone who generally dallied about things. Another, deeper breath comes and the slightly uncomfortable shifting of a body isn't up to snuff, but has also been still rather too-long. There's bruising beneath the gown, creeping to her collarbones, mostly from the CPR but just for how sheerly fragile she'd been in those last days. It might be a little hard to consider the somewhat frail looking woman in the bed to be the same powerful, commanding director who headed up SHIELD for nearly thirty years. But life, and death, were like that.

Her mind slowly grasps out of the cloudiness of everything. When she hits the edge of actually being self aware, she doesn't let her eyes open. It didn't seem real, in truth. Carefully controlling her breath, the drowsed woman forces herself to go through the steps. Self-triage. How likely was it that she was alive? That she would still be soon? And where was she? The familiar steps of waking up in a dangerous, unknown situation while trying not to give away she is awake is almost reassuring. Of course, the computers told the story, but she hadn't quite mentally gotten that far.

Of course, Bobbi's words were certainly an entirely different wake up call. They let Peggy know a lot more than her own half conscious self assessment had and vitals immediately spike a bit more on screens as her brown eyes jerk open and she snaps a focused gaze at those in the room around her. Not a single face she knows and it's clear she's trying to push *hard* through fuzziness even while the whole world lags behind a few seconds. But she's trying not to show that weakness. "You had better explain to Director Carter exactly what *it* is before taking such actions, soldiers."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Unfortunately for Jemma, having gotten to the room in time to scrub up and enter, she is the *only* face in the immediate room for Peggy to see. There is an observation window, of course, but that doesn't deflect Peggy's considerable gaze from the doctor in the room. There is a pause, as Jemma holds her hands outward, palms to Peggy, before they clasp as those brown eyes, visible above the surgical mask in place, soften....then explanations given.

    "Yes, well then." Any traces of tiredness has left Jemma. Peggy's ears detect the distinct Yorkshire accent, with hints of North Derbyshire, betraying Jemma's Sheffield upbringing. "Director Carter. The cryo unit that you were in malfunctioned and we had to pull you out of stasis. You were in hibernation for quite some time." Jemma does *not* mention the year. No need to shock the poor dear too early. "As you may aware, you were beginning to show signs of cellular degradation. It is our intent to correct that degradation."

    So far, so good. Jemma slowly steps over to the case that was slid through, her gloved fingers upon the case, but only just. "I am Doctor Jemma Simmons. It was through the efforts of my colleagues Doctor Jane Foster and Leopold Fitz that we were able to revive you after your cryo unit failed. A team of scientists have been working feverishly to compose a genetic treatment using strands of recombinant DNA to fill in the blanks within your own genetic structure caused by the version of the Infinity Formula decaying." She indicates the case...and the injector nestled inside. "This...is the solution that the best minds of SHIELD have developed in short notice with the sole intent of saving your life."

    No sugar-coating for this one. Best to be honest and forthright.

Jane Foster has posed:
Just hope that one insidious snapshot of Jane's DNA doesn't contain the silent killer lurking for her on the future, and that isn't Sam O'Neill wearing a golden eye-patch. But it is neither something she sees or knows to ask for, and the markers might not come through. Instead, there is strictly the possibility of hope meandering around behind the screen. "We have to go with what we've got. The risk to put someone under at this point outweighs the benefits," she murmurs hastily to Dane. Shadows cavort in those terribly dark eyes, a lamenting shadow drowning in sorrowful sepia. She nudges the knight and rests her chin lightly against his shoulder for only a scant few seconds. They have that much.

A soft murmur to him that no camera will quite ever capture and she steps away, not one to pray, just to nurse the inevitable hope their daring risk will work in any fundamentally useful way. That they won't be explaining a casket to Steve Rogers, a corpse to Fury, and a bad idea to a council of geneti-ethicists in about eight months.

It might be better to sit back and wait. Jemma has this under control, or it could be that way. Her fingers tiptoe up and down the soft splint wrapped around her injured wrist, wrappings all the way down to her fingertips keeping them mostly still. There's a particular purpose to that gesture. "What more can we do, Agent Morse?"

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane gets the sample properly filled and stored and handed off, peeling off the surgical gloves he's been wearing just for good measure while handling it. He's perhaps not as hurried as the others towards the medlab where Peggy is being held under observation, mostly because he knows he won't be going in, at least right away. So best to lag back and not get in anyone's way.

That said, he DOES follow, and it's probably a sign of his weariness that he slips an arm around Jane as they make their way there. Perhaps beyond caring about /completely/ keeping up the professional front. Whatever it is she says to him, he nods, though his expression is mostly blank as he starts to watch the proceedings, albeit not at the observation window (last thing the woman probably needs is a horde of strange people staring at her), but rather a remote feed display just off to the side of said window, complete with audio.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Dark eyes stare hard at Jemma, trying to focus a bit harder than she would prefer but she's not losing it. It's like Peggy is shoving steel in her own spine by her sheer force of will alone. Jemma's explanations, given in strangely comforting, clipped tones, make as much sense as possible to the woman from thirty years past. She keeps pale lips in a simple, neutral line, and the set of her bruised shoulders manages to somehow convey the look of a manager receiving a highly sensitive report, not a woman in her death bed.

"I am aware of the reasons I was put under and have been fully briefed in the decisions leading to that... Hibernation, as you call it. I'm glad to hear SHIELD didn't entirely forget about me." That's only half a joke, and even a bit more sad, because it's distinctly possible that most of SHIELD did? Fury certainly hadn't ever brought it up. She raises one hand, palm forward, though even that hurts a touch. "You may proceed once I have the clearance code to proceed with this project. Without any code, I have no way of assuring you are not loyal to enemy forces and I must choose death, Doctor. I'm sure you will understand, as capable as you seem." She gives the smallest of smiles with that, as if she didn't just affirm the very real possibility of her own death. Just protocol as usual. She's made her words clear, clipped, and just loud enough to be caught by any listening devices, though it leaves her slightly breathless for the effort. If this is SHIELD, she knows she and the other woman are not alone.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi felt Simmons had this under control. She was starting to relax. That time when you just have to step back and let time takes its course, fate is out of your hands. Nope! "Shit," she murmurs to herself and lifts up her tablet. She presses the 'push to talk' button on the wall, "Ah, one moment Director." Her eyes frantically rush over the file they recovered, noticing some obvious false codes set in.. wow this is old school. She catches sight of the dots, then turns and sits down at a computer terminal, doing a quick SHIELD search of codes from the 80s.

"Oh.. OH. Wow, okay, this is." She doesn't say 'dumb' because let's face it the 80s didn't have the cryptography they have these days. She quickly starts counting the vertical dots, then the horizontal dots and looks it up on the table she found, which indicates which word and paragraph to start at, then goes back to the medical record, then a follows the chain through the document to construct the required sentence.

Finally stands back up and presses the push to talk button again, "Director, my apologies." She pauses between each word to make sure she gets this right, "SHIELD.. is.. still.. mine?" She blinks and then laughs. "Ahem, SHIELD is still mine, ma'am." She straightens her face. Director Fury probably made that code, it's a bit of whimsy that is hard to fake by enemy agents.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi looks to Jane and smiles, "There's nothing more we can do now. It's up to Director Carter, Simmons, our cure and time. This is the part of the job where we have to hurry up and wait."

Peggy Carter has posed:
The waiting as Bobbi scrambles for it and then is clearly decoding something as she pauses between the words, then reaffirms the code, it might be enough to finally secure that heart attack Jemma's been working on. But, after a handful of heartbeats, Peggy's tired expression pulls into a touch of a smirk and her head sinks the rest of the way back onto the pillow. "...You may proceed." But the TONE of her voice says 'Bloody idiot. I meant to change that.'

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    When the story about how Nana Jemma saved Director Carter from death twice in as many days will be told, there will most certainly be a caveat, proven fact merely by the number of retellings, that Nana was indeed unafraid and stood her ground defiantly to save Peggy's life.

    The reality though? There was most definitely a moment in which Jemma thought all was lost. And...when she was asked for the code? That....was that moment. The panic of the situation fully hit the doctor...and Jemma was not equipped to hide it. However, when the voice of Bobbi Morse cuts through the din to offer the code? The weight of the world visibly lifts off of Simmon's shoulders, accompanied with a truly heartfelt sigh of relief. Now....now that Jemma has been given the go ahead from the Director herself, she can begin.

    Jemma's hand reaches down, withdrawing the complex single injection system fabricated mere hours before. The genetic cocktail fabricated by Team SCIENCE! (unofficial name) already nestled within the chamber. With that permission comes relaxation....and the tone that Jemma uses now is gentle, but curt. Again, she knows how the Director prefers directness...and that is what Jemma offers now.

    "Right. Now, we developed a more manageable delivery system than most involving this sort of genetic manipulation." Like...no pod in a gigantic room hooked up to the city's power supply like a certain scene so long ago. "We will be able to administer the therapy manually." The tone darkens somewhat. "However, we cannot risk putting you under to perform the treatment. Quite honestly, we were to do this while you slept. But...that cannot be helped now. Due to your immediate circumstances, we have no choice but to perform the injections with you awake." A pause. "It is going to hurt. Perhaps terribly so. But, should all prove successful, this will stop the cellular degradation. With this information given, do you wish to proceed?"

    Offering one more chance to consider. How very proper of Jemma. How very British.

Jane Foster has posed:
Unfortunately for everyone, Jane /does/ want to look in there. Is she a fan of Peggy Carter, one of the awestruck? Not really. Is she an aspiring bioengineering expert out to see the handiwork? Not at all, either, but there is something that has to be seen with her own eyes if however briefly, hopefully plucked from the periphery where she might not be perceived in the reflections of the glass. Her lips curve faintly downward as she tries to take in the information surreptitiously, absorbing Dane's weariness into herself and leaning against him in kind.

Yes, that could normally be considered a strangeness worthy of consideration. It might get a writeup somewhere as an interesting note. Who really cares? Watching the monitor and trying her best not to peek around the corner, the astrophysicist practically rocks on her heels. She cannot hold still, not really, going up onto her very toes and ignoring the dull, throbbing pain radiating up and down her arm from the broken flesh and the aching bones.

How very proper to offer, yes. "The correct question," she asides out of earshot, "is cake or death?"

Because that's what is on offer. Cake. Death. She leans that much more into wobbling with her ankles locked, striving for the acuity of violet monsters radiating where they should be. Her wide eyes watch Peggy like a hawk.

Or a raven.

At some point, blinking falls by the wayside. "Come on. Choose cake. You know you want the cake."

Dane Whitman has posed:
There's a frown from Dane at the prompting for a code, but Bobbi is on the case. There is a glimmer of relief in his eyes when the code is given and acknowledged, though humor, perhaps, can wait. His expression is still serious, almost grim as he studies the monitor. With Jane bobbling and wobbling on her own, he's a study in stillness, leaning slightly on the console for the display, his hands braced on either side, and watching in silence. Or at least near silence, anyone close enough (Jane at a minimum) probably hears him murmur a prayer in perfect Latin.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, oblivious to the slight audience in the hall, Peggy can only really focus on her countrywoman in front of her and the pure push of vague exhaustion that's hit just at having adrenaline climbed her way to consciousness and steel-spine followed protocols enough to get to this point. Jemma asks a question, one that probably should take a bit more time than Peggy can really give it thought. A flicker of a half sad smile crosses her lips up towards Jemma. "If someone had asked me that... years ago, when I started this, looking back? Maybe I'd have answered different. But we're here now, Doctor, and I've never given up a fight right before the bitter end. You and your colleagues..." Peggy dares enough to raise a hand in the direction of what she can see of the entrance. She knew there was at least *one* other person out there, from that voice. There were likely others. "Have picked up the work of a team I... cared very much for. We're at least going to see it through. Come now. Pain lets you know you're alive." Which, all things considered, was a definite miracle here.

With that affirmation, 'Cake', as it were, Peggy lets her head entirely sink back into the pillow, almost bracing herself. She closes her eyes again, but just in preparation, not in any loss of consciousness (according to monitors). She's just not letting anyone new see whatever pain might cross her face in this process. But she's ready.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Apprehension. Bobbi sits down. She didn't doubt Carter would choose to take the procedure. She's read so much about her and it seemed like a very Director Carter thing to do. If in the same situation, she'd trust Jemma with her life too. In a heart beat. She looks over to Dane and Jane and then glances between the two, noting the personal space. Her eyes tear away from that, wondering how that one will turn out. Her own experience with dating a fellow agent has been a constant up and down roller coaster. She sits back in her chair. "Hurry up and wait," she repeats, mostly to herself. "Just a reminder, Peggy's existence may soon be public knowledge, but what we've done today is level 10 clearance only. Well above any of us here, which means we never speak of it again."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    The half sad smile is received...and, perhaps, returned, though it is impossible to tell behind that surgical mask of Jemma's. There is a nod, though, to acknowledge the acceptance.

    "Okay. Then, let us see this through. Together. For them."

    The next few minutes are mostly a blur for the geneticist. Oh, Jemma was fully alert, with her soft demeanor and gentle words. But, it is also a hard few minutes, as Jemma forces herself through the task at hand. Injections, evenly spaced as instructed...as rehearsed...are administered as quickly as she can. It becomes a pattern...perhaps not quite as lively as Staying Alive...but just as methodical. Insert, inject, withdraw. Repeat. The pattern continuing until the DNA cocktail has been expended.

Jane Foster has posed:
Okay then.

The silence stapled down by the sentiments of the Mockingbird agent overlooking them likely isn't necessary. Jane presses her lips together rather than bite them, though the temptation is utterly too much otherwise. Sadness grooved in the screen before them leaves her shaking her head slightly, though anticipating "Cake" becomes a satisfying, if utterly bittersweet instant.

Where were you, Mama, when you saw someone throw themselves into the arms of the unknown and take a leap of faith? That answer lies entirely to the future, the astrophysicist putting her hand on Dane's shoulder and resting her cheek atop it, watching with that awful sensation of foreboding lurking over her head. Gemma is the orchestrator of that great whirlwind, and if something goes wrong--

If--

So many ifs.

The calm in her soul is such a strange thing in the storm of thoughts, even as Dane's prayers in Latin match her knowledge of them, and she contributes a soft murmur now and then. Damn common sense, and curse the jot of commonly held wisdom, this is a matter for watching if the world turns. If something goes terribly, terribly wrong. The pendulum swings for them all, ticking off that 15 percent failure rate.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane gives Bobbi a brief glances at her mention of the security clearance business here, but doesn't say anything. Though there's no indication he's bristling at the reminder. Either way he returns his attention to the screen, still rapt as he watches the procedure unfolds.

Beyond that, not much he can contribute at the moment, he already did his part, for good or for ill. If it doesn't work, he can take the blame. If it does, no one will be the wiser unless they very carefully comb the computer records (It might require a good sleep before Dane realizes how naive it is to NOT assume that will happen).

Peggy Carter has posed:
The injections definitely don't feel great. Peggy's breath cuts off a moment, bracing herself against the pain and then slowly, meditatively beginning to drop into a breath pattern she was probably taught to get through vague torture our wound sewing up in the field. Her vitals follow the patterns on the screen. High stress, blood pressure and heart rate spiking, everything one might expect from pain. Or something going horribly wrong. But they don't fall dramatically after that. There's no bottoming out. Slowly, her vitals come back down to a slightly more even, if stressed level. Her own body's seratonin kicking in the way it would after a long tattoo or a runner's high. Things are working and she's not destablizing on the bed. It's a step in the right direction.

When that last injection is made and Peg doesn't feel another point of icy pressure again, her eyes flicker drowsily open. She's covered with a fine, cold sweat and looks somehow more sunken than she did before, but still stable. Still conscious. She flexes her fingertips slowly, that stiff upper lip smile coming a paled moment later, "Well... doctor. I can't say I feel like running a marathon, but I'm still breathing and we'll take every minor victory." She sounds utterly exhausted, though she's trying to push through it. "Might I have your... name? Before you go? And the agent in the hall? I'd like to know who to thank, at least. Then suspect I should order you all to bed. Nothing more to be done but wait and... see, yes?" She was beat tired herself, but still sharp enough to see the exhaustion of that research marathon on Jemma's features. She's pieced a lot of the last few hours together on hints alone.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Oh, there was careful observation of the vitals, there was no doubt. But, it was one of those things that, once one starts, it has to finish. And there was stress, certainly...but nothing towards life-threatening levels. But yes, both Brits in the room certainly feel rather strung out after that session.

    Jemma steps over, placing the injector apparatus back into its case as Peggy comments about minor victories. And then...the small request. Well, small for Peggy to ask, perhaps. But, to Jemma, who had to ignore the fact that she fighting to save one of her personal idols? Oh...there might have been a heart palpitation at the request. And, yes, even though she is still in the room, Jemma takes a moment to lower her mask, allowing Peggy to see Jemma's face for the first time and seeing how *young* she is. Early 20's at best. "I'm Jemma, ma'am. Jemma Simmons." She didn't use the Doctor title this time. It simply isn't needed. "The voice you heard was Doctor Bobbi Morse. Also, in the other room with her are Doctor Jane Foster and Dane Whitman. All of us contributed to the stabilization solution that is now within you. I...will relay your thanks."

    A tired smile crosses Jemma's lips as Peggy suggests the order to sleep. "As your physician, I recommend the same. With all due respect, Director Carter, I will sleep when you do." With that, there is a tip of a wink, brief, as that tired smile brightens to a true Jemma smile. "And...might I add...welcome back."

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi rubs her eyes and taps on her tablet to order some coffee and tea up to them. She starts to jot down a message for Fury too. This'll be an awkward one for sure. Hearing Peggy talk she smiles and touches the press-to-talk button, "We all heard you, welcome back Director. Jemma when you're ready for a break, I've had more sleep than you, I'll take over. Just let me know and I'll scrub up." At some point, once they're sure this has worked.. they'll be able to hand her over to a regular medical team rather than shot gun biochemists gone wild, but until then ...well, Bobbi breathes a sigh of relief. "If you two want to go crash now, that'd be appreciated. We're going to need fresher eyes."

"Fury.. PC-Project showing positive signs. Too early to celebrate, but things are looking up. PC is conscious and talking - #19"

Bobbi looks back through the window and taps a control to remove the shading so that Peggy can see the team watching in to the room. "She's so strong. This is who I idolised when I was going through basic training. I still can't believe she's really here."

Jane Foster has posed:
If, if, if. A girl could get awfully tired about all these ifs. "We need to start looking for signs of rejection and modifications in the long term, which I imagine you will have people to monitor. Any of the scenarios we ran could be refined in the longer term, no doubt, and determine what to check for. We cannot celebrate, but the immediate peril has past. Longer term analysis will dictate what sort of effect this has on her, but the rejuvenation will take effect soon enough. How fast do augmented CRISPr techniques take to populate?"

Maybe Jemma can answer that questoin for her. And maybe not.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane nods toward something Jane murmurs to him, smiling wanly before looking back to the monitor. When Peggy and Jemma have that exchange, he steps back from the console, exhaling a deep breath. After the shading fades, he steps more into view and offers a weary but genuine smile and a wave, before looking over towards Bobbi and nodding in regards to the suggestion of sleep. He doesn't immediately depart, though. Perhaps waiting on a certain someone to go along with? Or perhaps still more than invested enough to hear these other snippets of information before departure.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Dr. Simmons, then." Knowing the woman's name helped. And seeing how young she was? Peggy's momentarily surprised, but she hides it pretty well. Sometimes that helps too. She remembers being young, upstart, and underestimated. Her exhausted smile just deepens a touch and there it is, behind her eyes. A life lived far too long, something that makes her look grandmotherly and not like the sharp, prime of her career that she should be. "That... is a cruel trick to do with your patient and a most effective one. I think I shall take your advice. For *your* sake, of course." Peggy gives a little wink before letting her head fall back again. Somehow, even that was a fight to keep up.

But her eyes didn't close yet. The window being suddenly transparent was very interesting. Peggy's exhausted, dark eyes flicker over to the gathered in the hallway, though it was dim and hard to make out exact figures. She took them in as she could, the comm unit echoing into the room. She raises a single hand towards the window, a wave of acknowledgment. Thanks. So many other emotions she can't quite encompass.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Dr. Morse? You can blame a certain Nicholas Fury for that code, but I'm glad you had it. And Dr. Foster, Whitman... thank you. Truly. I owe you all a pint or dinner when this is over. But... maybe sleep is wiser." She then smirks a bit deeper as she can see the vague motion of mouths, but not read lips in the dim light or from this distance. "I'm sure all of you are making some sort of plans. Morning. There... will be a morning tomorrow, and we can assess then. Rest, as many of you can." Because Peggy? She can't keep up the fight any more. Exhaustion wins, as embarrassing as it is, her eyes sinking heavily shut a moment after that attempt at morale boosting words.