15592/Ex Umbra: Odyssey of the Mind

Ex Umbra: Odyssey of the Mind
Date of Scene:	10 August 2023
Location:	Suite 05: Jemma's Suite - Triskelion
Synopsis:	Blackagar braves new horizons in pursuit of a broken soul.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Jemma Simmons
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

---

Jane Foster has posed:
Peculiar is a place suspended in night, although it certainly carries aspects of once thriving. Elaborate decoration survives despite significant weathering, though distinguishing any colours used to brighten the figures processing around the columns is difficult. Stylized palms or grape vines can be distinguished among others, their toppled leaves lying upon the barren ground. Not a puff of grass or a bush grows anywhere nearby, though the abundance of rubble gives an impression of somewhere civilized. Possibly still populated, however diminished.

Jemma is not in Kansas, or anything on the scale of New York.

Upslope, if she chooses to look back, is a polished stone wall almost without feature except for the long expanse enclosing something. A faint glow originates in that direction that suffuses the outdoors with enough light to see by, those it's only comparable to a crescent moon at best. No windows, crenellations or decorations touch the round expanse that's large enough to encompass at least a good-sized hill or park.

Downslope from her is what must be a town, or the remnants of one. The structures grow increasingly cruder further down the terrace, moving from small plastered apartments in a desert style to crumbled mud huts closest to shore. There are the tallest standing pillars, erected in pairs, fourteen of them total spaced out along the sweeping bend described by the shore. Peeking through gaps between flat rooftops or weathered, moth-eaten awnings strung across alleys, she might catch sight of the dominant feature in the landscape.

Winding its broad path, a river of molten gold radiates the only source of warmth anywhere nearby.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
There is indeed a look back. Perhaps it is just a matter of curiousity. After all, Jemma just walked through a pane of glass that was within her own quarters to find herself, in her viewpoint, no longer immediately in the earthly realm. After all, a river of gold is not possible on Earth, unless speaking strictly metaphorically. And, at least from all visual confirmation from her vantage point, this is certainly not a metaphorical river.

Still, there is only one way to be absolutely sure. And, since behind her is most certainly not an option, Jemma selects the next option.

Forward.

Her footfalls carry her towards the ghost town. The pillars draw attention...and certainly her eyes follow along their expanse. However, the foot path is what Jemma remains on. Her destination is whatever the path wills it to be. She has read too much of wandering troops through dark forests to know that to stray from the path is only inviting trouble. And, seeing as how her only armament is her tablet, Jemma is not looking for trouble.

Jane Foster has posed:
Aureate-tinged waters trace a path like nectar spilled over the nocturnal landscape. The *sound* of moving liquid reaches Jemma's ears, behaving like water rather than molten metal or stranger substances. A hissing rush punctuated by the occasional limpid murmur.

Behind her, the wall shielding its pale glow stands triumphant and haughty. Below, the crumbled remnants act like decayed petitioners, tumbling over on their lonely journeys away from whatever that walled place encloses. A bit like Mont-St-Michel in France, an island dominated by its monastery, with attendant buildings gathered close, but here it's more the reverse. They depart for the river, as she herself does.

Nearest, the pair of columns stand upthrust from cracked slabs. Much of their ornamentation lies in chips or chunks around them, displaying varied adornments: grape leaves, a procession of stick-people and oxen, a Baroque bas relief of a woman covering her head. The ruined remains are scratched deeply, gouged by blades or nails. Graffiti of every sort, in countless languages.

Even English. **Turn away**.

*black hut bad 1944*.

**A :. A :. 1909.** An engraved Egyptian-style eye bleeds a spark of yellow onto the worn ivory.

Six other pairs spaced at irregular intervals line the banks, one no taller than Jemma's waist and others broad enough to bear their marble crossbars well. From her vantage, the river is a broad, meandering course that bars passage to the other shore. No obvious boats offer a way over, not without some serious scrounging to Huckleberry a raft together. Hints of ancient tie-ups on massive blocks prevail, and the glimmering waters offer suggestions how far out those jetties go.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Another glance backwards. Any obvious points of entry? No. It would seem the wall is smooth and seamless. Certainly not something that would invite further inspection.

The tell-tale auditory evidence would lead Jemma to believe that the liquid within the riverbanks is indeed water. The way that it flows would suggest it to be so. Still, the coloration would say otherwise. As well as the warmth. That is a sign as well. There is certainly something peculiar going on.

"Dr Jemma Simmons. Mistress of the obvious. " A response to her own thoughts...spoken out loud. Perhaps the ambiance was a little too quiet. The sound of a voice speaking, even if it is her own, seems to provide stability to Jemma. A voice of reason in a rather confusing moment in time. "Right, then. Keep moving..."

And move she does. walking back the pillars. It is then that the scientist remembers she has at least one method of documentation in her hand. The tablet is lifted, as Jemma sees if she can take a picture of her surroundings. Photographic evidence to be analyzed later, no doubt. Trusting in tried and true methods of data gathering to find Jemma's own center, more likely. The act pushes away the kernel of fear. Trust in the scientific method is her anchor.

Her mantra? Keep calm and document all.

Her footsteps take her closer to the river's edge. And...the lack of proper boating vessels is disturbing. Still, the research of her new surroundings keeps Jemma even. Perhaps she can manage to jerry rig a raft together. She is no engineer, but years of working side-by-side with one of the best should certainly count for something.

The warning? Recorded. And, unheeded.

Jane Foster has posed:
The camera's unblinking iris produces no mechanical blink when triggered, except as the software emulates the human expectation. Winking images superimposed onto digital memory capture the details spilled here and there. What it doesn't adequately capture is the metallic river, the spellbinding glow over the wall. Nor can it quite decipher shadows from gossamer flutters populating that darkened rim of night, though whether these count as torn awnings or unfortunates shuffling around in the dark is another matter. Jemma's voice attracts interest out of somewhere or another.

The first proof of interest comes in the form of small iridescent beetles, not entirely so surprising given how dominant these insects are in the natural world. They are largely black and small, some shining green and others gold, not unlike the water themselves. Diligent little bugs scramble about with a chip of stone or a scrap of bone, whatever interesting junk deserves to be hauled off. Hauled by. Their glittering chitin is the easiest way to perceive them, their legs almost soundless.

Huddled forms on the other side, however, are too hard to make out as other than 'human sized' and largely draped in drab hues, though in the dark, it's hard to tell. No one has lit an abundance of torches or set up lamps to make themselves known and even if they had, the golden river might present some difficulty. Its shimmer is purely liquescent gold, and human minds rather like gold. Nonetheless, the shuffling numbers over yonder probably attest to some kind of landing spot, some kind of marketplace or spot to stare at the person on the opposite bank doing whatever nonsense in the ruins. You can't account for scientists.

Her own awareness to life produces two very different takes; there is precious little around her, other than the bugs. The river burns with it. And whatever's behind the wall has such a strong punch that it makes her teeth ache. The rest? Barren.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Oh, now that is a new feeling.

With Jemma's relatively recent development, the innate sense of life, there was always a level of organic life that the scientist had grown accustomed to. A sort of sensory blindness, due to constant levels, much like growing accustomed to a particular scent. It was always there, so it became part of the day-to-day. But this? This is certainly not normal procedure. The fact that there is two distinct levels is almost painfully obvious. And...it is with this new sense that Jemma further regards the environment. The beetles, which is certainly something unexpected....they have the spark of life within. Oh, and the wall. Beyond that wall, the spark is so bright it might as well be solar. And then the river. Vibrant and bright. The warmth could be the gold...or it could very well be the life energy within.

But....beyond that? Empty. Void of any spark.

And that is strange. For a biochemist, the lack of any living organism would be a red flag. For Jemma, with merging of scientific knowledge and personal conviction that no place on Earth was truly devoid of life? It is extremely off-putting. There should be life...even if it is single celled organisms.

It is yet another confirmation that wherever her portal has led her, it is no longer part of the Earth as she is aware of it.

All the more reason for documentation. Photographs are taken. An imperfect recording is better than no recording at all, so Jemma accepts the images she manages. Yet, thoughts continue to grow. Even as Jemma finds herself walking towards the river, those thoughts gather. What is this place? Why is there no life? And, perhaps most importantly...

"Why am I here?"

Even with the last question spoken, Jemma expects no answers.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jemma asks the eternal question of philosophers and despairing students everywhere.

The sound travels across the river and rolls against the inert stones, wreckage of times long gone by. Clustered shadows on the far shore could potentially hear, or they continue to be drawn towards her out of fascination. Market day mustn't be nearly as interesting.

Then comes the first arrow, a shard of sandstone welded to a slender ossified spike. The shot is good, if insufficient, slapping short of her by ten meters. When the missile slaps into a wave, it sends globs into the air. The bone brightens to white and bleeds for a few seconds before sinking into the depths.

Another ululating noise joins the commotion, and soon, a second and a third will join and they might not fall quite so short.

Jemma has other problems to contend with on the shore, notably the gilt-glossed beetles starting to converge in her direction. Lest one forget, the insects have wings, snapping open as they take to the air. The sounds of buzzsaw and whining blades fill the air much closer at hand as the insects converge in her direction.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Note to self, Jemma. Don't speak out loud in an unknown environment.

The sudden appearance of an arrow startles Jemma out of her observations. That...was not expected. Neither was the way the arrow seemed to freshen itself, shifting from nearly petrified to a fresh in moments. That, in and of itself, causes Jemma to stop in her path.

And a good thing she paused, too...as two more arrows lodge themselves a foot from her position...where she would have been had she continued in her wanderings. Oh...definitely not good. Not good at all.

Then, if that wasn't enough, the chitinous rattle of beetle wings taking flight breaks the silence that Jemma's foolish vocalizations shattered before. Not one or two, but many. If Jemma wasn't frightened before, she certainly is now. Scrambling steps are taken backwards, away from the flying arrows of bone and the coming onslaught of insects. Yet, backing away is not going to solve the problem of creatures with flight. Even as she scrambles, quick glances are cast to either side...possibly for some sort of impromptu weapon. Seeing as how the scientist's only armament is a tablet, the hunt for something, anything, that will cause winged menace to reconsider their approach is instinctual.

All too late does Jemma understand the reasoning for the warning. Go back. As if she could now.

Jane Foster has posed:
Another arrow deflects off a stone jetty and bounces harmlessly into a hovel for some unfortunate. Its clattering produces a tremulous clank and ultimately no more of notice. The archer across the river is one of a gaggle crowded where the shore draws near, and one of them lopes at a disturbingly fast pace along the shoreline to get downstream. Whatever distance is gained, the vantage might be better. Interestingly, the fellow's legs bend all wrong -- backwards. Another shambles up to the water and leans out, shaking a fist with swaying, matted clothes that emphasize the crude gesture. That, or it has holey hair-covered wings of some sort.

The next arrow sent across bears flames.

Her tablet may helpfully gather recordings if left on, but they won't spare her the cloud of beetles rising up in an amorphous blob to hound her from the waterside. They herd her for the water, while the arrows send her skittering away. Something has to give. Running up or downstream produces all kinds of barriers; tumbled walls, forgotten privies, warehouses or workshops or whatever the fallen-in buildings pretend to be. A lot of brick and mud brick to throw or fall over. Bricks might not be very useful for a beetle, being heavy and slow, but the rotten cloth or canvas used for awnings requires her to yank them down and flap them about. Long enough for some scurrilous, hungry insects to get their pound of flesh, ounce by bitten ounce. Ahead between the next pair of columns, albeit a stepped terrace up, is a building more intact than some: open windows long deprived of glass, black entrance a yawning mouth, but presumably it has a roof.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Well, never let it be said that Jemma lives a sheltered life. After all, being shot at by something that is not readily recognized by the biochemist, that seems to have no spark of life (at least, from what she can sense), in a world that, again from what she can hastily hypothesize, is beyond the world that she knew....that wasn't a normal night in the dorms. Nor was avoiding flesh-eating scarabs in a swarm of darkness and pain. Yes, that was most certainly not in the cards.

Yet, that mind of Jemma's. It is always analyzing. She already determined that the insects were trying to force her to the water...to the river of shimmering gold. Where those arrows will surely find purchase should she get any closer. And, deviation from the path she is on will certainly be detrimental to her continued health. Improvised weaponry has proven to be quite rudimentary and almost utterly useless. The only even remotely useful item would be the desiccated fabric, but even then it would hinder her agility enough to become a pincushion or a tasty morsel for the swarm. Neither option was inviting.

And her tablet? A glorified paperweight at this juncture.

What to do? She cannot leave the path...but perhaps the path will provide. And, as her eyes lift up, the path does certainly provide. An edifice, perhaps grand in its day, with the stepped terrace and the prime location, seemingly nestled on the edge of the river. Now a husk of itself, with portals of darkness where panes of glass should have been, the door long since gone. But...it is at the very least a better defensible position than out in the open. And, darkness would suggest that there is a roof, a rare commodity amongst the architecture she has witnessed in her brief time. It will at the very least provide protection from flying projectiles. And perhaps there will be something within to provide a defense from flying pests, as well.

Scientist or no, Jemma is also a trained agent of SHIELD. It is this training that kicks in. The doctor breaks out into a run, but not straight. Instead, it is a darting, jagged sort of approach, denying the archers a predictable line of which to fire upon. The terrace steps are little work, as some are taken two at a time, the bricks old but still stable. Then, a quick dash for the front door.

Is there anything of concern within? The thought tickles the back of Jemma's mind as she swiftly approached the opening. Yet, she cannot prepare. She cannot approach with caution, as she might have before. She cannot afford that luxury.

Instead, she plunges in, headlong, into the darkness that awaits her within.

Jane Foster has posed:
Her reach may not go beyond the blazing golden river to identify if the beings gathered there live, but clearly they hold the capacity to identify her as a target of interest to filet with as many projectiles as possible. Their range varies from moderately poor to alarming, and the latter archer manages to drop a stony bolt somewhere perilously close, nipping at her heels. That level of precision, never quite striking, isn't sheer luck. A trained SHIELD agent surely recognizes the difference, albeit maybe not as quickly as she might prefer.

Hindsight is 20/20, presumably the eyes haven't gone rheumy or blank in death.

She breaks ahead to the dark little hut perched among other ruined buildings. Feet slip and catch the path, carving a new course across the stepped terraces that define various levels of occupation. Gilded beetles congregating in a swarm flood after her, trying to interpose themselves between her and the building. Alas, she can run faster than they can collectively fly, although a stream manage to snake around and set upon her clothes. Fastidious in stealing whatever detritus inspires them, the beetles don't exactly hesitate to try and pull away whatever their legs can get hold of. Alas, being knocked aside by the jarring motions really does put a damper on the day. Night?

Welcome darkness in the overly warm night awaits her, and she breaks through a few strands almost invisible in the night as she breaks for safety. Shadows swallow up the interior of the one room chamber, though a raggedy curtain pulled at an angle across the back corner offers some sense of dividing the building in two. Possibly a privy, possibly a small bedroom? It's near impossible to say. Two thin windows offer an ingress point alongside the door, albeit serviceable for barring somehow. The floor is peculiarly sticky though, and her footsteps shall become a far cry more difficult trying to peel away from the tacky substance and ...soft... earth that seems to try and absorb her soles up to the ankles.

It smells vaguely sweet in an off way, something very dim. And there is most certainly no hint of life in here, none that reads to her senses...

...which probably makes the space feel empty. Which it isn't. Not with the multi-legged spider-like ghoul lurking in the upper corner, waiting until she's in, ready to pounce. Maybe more of a hug.

**black hut bad 1944**

Yes. Well. That is an SS helmet in the corner...

Jemma Simmons has posed:
No signs of life. That's good, right?

The spiderweb would say otherwise. As does the remnants of unfortunate souls that litter the floor. The unique combination of sticky and slick that is murder with one's footing.

And speaking of murder...

Perhaps it is the fact that Jemma is already on high alert. She was already leery about just dashing in, after all, so perhaps the adrenaline flowing through her is spiking her normal senses. Perhaps it is the fact that nothing has been safe. Or, maybe whatever entity that is looking down upon Jemma is merciful and gave her a moment of inspiration at the last possible moment. Regardless, the spike of instant dread, coupled with the webs and the gore strewn upon the floor causes Jemma to do three things.

One, she stops running, abruptly. In this, the adhesive properties of the silken web is to Jemma's advantage. Fortunately, the doorway itself is relatively free of rotting debris, with only the few spindling strands of webbing visible. The occupant within isn't even noticed as the forward momentum is arrested. Not yet, at any rate.

Two, almost at the same time as her feet stop moving, her right arms shoots out, the hand grabbing hold of the door jam. In tandem, the other hand, tablet in hand, extends out, slamming that tablet inches below the hand. The tablet is used as leverage...the wider surface area allowing for better purchase than what fingertips may provide. Hopefully the door jam is sturdy enough.

For the third action is to pull herself out, even as Jemma attempts to reverse gears. The extra assist with arms as well as feet may just be enough. Maybe. For Jemma caught sight of the spider-like creature within, even as she frantically pulls to get herself out The beetles are suddenly not much of a concern anymore.

And...with the spike in terror, that adrenaline should be running in full force.

Jane Foster has posed:
Delicate webbing snaps. Filaments dance unseen, nothing next to the awful, sucking sensation underfoot that leaves Jemma's balance imperiled some. SHIELD finishing school and further education grant most of its agents a better chance to deal than some, but...

Her feet slide and sink into the 'floor' of the house, the rotting tissues slowing her down. The brick doorframe bites hard into her palm, taking its shreds of pain to go with the emotional smorgasbord. Using her SHIELD tablet to try and keep the door forcibly shut as she backs up is inspired -- albeit maybe questionable given the sorry state of the inviting, dark hut. Or what lies within.

The scrabbling monstrosity with its too many legs and very dead torso makes an unuttuerably human sound -- wheezing into a laugh. Those appendages can fold up alarmingly tight, and if she denies it the door, so be it. It will go through the window slits, breaking a hole and leaving mud bricks erupting after her. Its body contorts, leaving a mushy streak of flapping muscle and gore streaked on the blackened bricks.

Then they're both running, Jemma with her limited headstart. She collides through the veil of beetles, their wings snapping and crackling like so much fire. Insects weave around her, sharp metallic legs like wires over her clothes, the frantic beating of her heart echoed in the click-clack of their bodies colliding to get out of her hair.

The spider-thing comes scampering at speeds, unimpeded by broken brick or walls the same way a two-legged person running is. It seems to be happy to chase her wherever she goes, herding her through the broken buildings. It scrambles over a wall and kicks a brick ahead to keep the full terrified flight in motion.

The beetles keep flooding around her, getting in her way, so that her path zigzags back to the river.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The makeshift wedge proves only slightly effective. The tablet is left behind and with it any photographic evidence of Jemma's ordeal. Perhaps it is good. It isn't like Jemma is going to want to remember this little excursion anytime in the near future.

Provided there is a future in store for Jemma.

Scarabs surrounding her is one thing. The swarming threatening to nibble away at Jemma until naught is left. Yet, the...thing...that burst out of that maddening hut, with too many legs and no life to speak of? That is downright terrifying. With those two upon her, the scientist has reached her fight or flight limit. And...the instinct is to run...run hard. And...not for any building or hut or anything of the like. No, Simmons sprints...for the river.

Damn the archers to Hell, or whatever realm is the most unpleasant for them. Arrows have no concern for her anymore. It is merely the direct flight to the river, with all intentions to just dive right in. Either she sinks or she swims...but either way, she avoids being on the menu for little and large bug alike.

Jane Foster has posed:
The swirling clouds of insects don't make it too easy to see, but hard to ignore a river of molten gold carving it's way below the landscape. The commotion attracts the attention of the erstwhile archers, who seem to have paused only momentarily in hailing the bank with whatever projectiles they can find.

Their aim proves much less accurate when Jemma frantically flees however she can. More patient predators await their opportunity to strike, and one or two take their time to line up shots.

The sets of pillars rear up against the aureate sheen that's something to see by. Another pair of insects bounce off her shoulder, harmlessly cast into the dust. What's behind her closes faster, spitting a gob of slimy, cold webbing to try to slow her down. That may not prove overly effective but the idea it's closing could compel a scared reaction.

It can hope.

She can hope.

In the end, all there is are the irregular, broken pillars - - all seven sets - - and the ostensibly shiny metallic water.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The scientist is already in flight mode. While the spider-esque fiend upon her heels is certainly frightening, with trying to entangle the poor girl with the webbing, Jemma is not slowing down. Fantastic cardio, those SHIELD agents. Also, it is very similar to another occasion...fleeing from monstrosities through a forest at night. And if underbrush and uneven terrain didn't slow Jemma down at that time, then what hope does the creature have when on a mostly paved road, leading to a river?

Because yes, Jemma is running for the river.

With the chitinous clatter all about her and airborne bodies in her field of vision, it is like running through a fog. But, even through the fog of flying detriment, landmarks are visible. The pillars can be seen, solid shapes visible through the swarm. It is towards these pillars that Jemma heads, even as she decides to run in between the pillars. Through the pillars...towards the river. That's the mantra within Jemma's mind, repeating over and over.

What will she do when she reaches the river? That is a bridge that she will cross when she comes to it.

Oh...too bad there isn't a bridge.

A shake of the head...and that stray thought is tossed aside. To the river!

Jane Foster has posed:
Skittering bugs are no one's ideas of fun, much less when they range in size from coins to Oreo cookies. One or two large clumps womble in a pattern of beetles to light briefly on Jemma's back, a weighty nudge without the force of the smaller insects. But wire feet stippling her clothes must be unpleasant enough.

Her headlong plunge encounters slippery patches and another stone-tipped arrow crashing into the wall near her knee. No sweet roll in sight! But her career as an adventurer isn't ended quite so poetically as that when she collides with the riverbank.

Two thin and stately columns of irregular height pierce the dull, dark sky. Not even worth the contemplation, except as a relic of Antiquity, when the agent crashes past them for the safety of the river.

One step through is all it takes to lurch forward simultaneously above and in the River. The sole of her shoe burns away to smoke and specks in no time at all, and any synthetic fabric socks or stocking-soles go away too. Cotton or wool would be quite safe. No heat emanates from the liquid sunshine coursing in a steady, strong current, rather unlike herself, suspended along spatial fabric warped so heavily as to be utterly incomprehensible. The human mind actually prefers not to interpret what transpires right now.

All that stands between her plunging into the undeniably clear water or the oblivion under her feet is a tollbooth. The old metal turnstile wavers in and out of existence, though pushing up against it with her body reveals it's altogether real. A metal bar refuses to turn, and the stubborn red flag pops up.

**Fare owed.**

Fortunately there's a nice little, vaguely rusty slot for fares. The fare box contains, among other things, several wondrous coins, an eyeball, a suspiciously ornate golden cup, and a copy of the Magna Carta with seals and ribbons and all. Someone has smartly left a slightly dull knife and a pen, the kind on a long black plastic wire like banks used to have.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Fare owed? A spectral tollbooth in the middle of, no...above, the river?

What sort of nonsense is this?

Jemma glances back behind her...the only action she bothers to take at the time. And...time seems to be the key word. For, it seems that the flow of time has paused, at least momentarily. The multi-appendaged undead creature that chased her out of that dreadful building is still behind her, painfully close, but frozen in a display of splayed limbs and desperation. The beetles that were once an issue are just on the edge of the shore, held in stasis, wings in mid-beat. It is quite apparent that there is no way for her to go back the way she came.

Which brings her attention to what lies ahead. A toll. What does Jemma have on her that she could pay as a toll? Her tablet would have worked...if she had not left it behind in a poor attempt to block the door closed. Jemma was in her quarters before this impromptu trip. She...just doesn't have anything of value that she can deposit. At least, not anything physical. So...how is she going to move forward?

Well...there is a pen. And...no paper. But there is a parchment. The Magna Carta? Really...that's impressive. But, it is also something to write on. So, let's try that. Jemma reaches in to the fare box, to fish out the document. As her hand slides through, Jemma sighs softly. "I would freely give up knowledge of this place. If I ever get out of here..."

Sacrificing knowledge for a fare? It is perhaps not as fancy as a historical document or as gruesome as an eyeball. But, for a scientist to give up knowledge? That has to have some value.

Jane Foster has posed:
Another missile crashes through the suspension, plunging across the river and winging Jemma's upper arm as she contemplates the tollbooth ahead of her. These rock-tipped weapons reveal their true nature as cold-fire bolts that leach the heat from her.

Shadowy figures across the banks do not merely represent idle shoppers taking potshots. Their leathery wings, disfigured bodies, and occasional extra appendages -- horns, patchwork skin, too many fingers or arms -- bespeak more terrifying origins. Demonic origins, very plausibly.

The Magna Carta brushes under her fingers and the pen can be shoved in that Whovian fare box, larger on the inside than the slot suggests. Her hand might feel a tightness as though something pondered biting it until she speaks, and the words start to form on the back of the heralded document limiting the power of the English monarchy (theorically, at least).

The turnstile emits a strange clicking noise as another of the demons stretches its broken wings and flaps across the River. Its maw really shouldn't distend that far, visible at an alarmingly shortened distance.

A ticket pops up from the top slot, marked by a fine array of text, the Terms and Conditions on the back facing outward. The front carries all the usual Underground ticket blather:

Between Pishon Station and Zones 1-9.

Gen Time 2:11.

Ticket Type: Offpeak MrtlStd.

"Train arriving on track 3," warns some utterly stereotypical British voice from a functioning speaker, and then the spider is rushing forward, the demon hurtling for her.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Oh, Jemma really does not want to remember this place.

Demonic archers? Undead spider creatures? And her favorite pair of sand shoes ruined, no less! Still...the cotton socks are unmarred. That would be an intriguing notion to work on, were it not for the fact that the scientist can recognize a temporal pause when she sees it. An imperfect pause, as things manage to come through. That arrow, for instance. A rather nasty affair, even in grazing. And even slowed, the multi-limbed monstrosity behind Jemma is absolutely terrifying.

The pen accidentally passing inside the fare box was not something Jemma particularly wanted...but, somehow, her fingers find it and the parchment nearly the same time. The pressure on the writing hand is certainly palpable, almost to the point of panic, until it isn't there. Jemma had spoken her offering and the pressure is gone. She does not see, nor does she care to look, but somehow knows that the price of her knowledge has transcribed itself upon the Magna Carta, a sort of IOU graffiti that should not mar such an important piece of history, yet does, nonetheless. The fare paid is not nearly as flashy as it could be. It could have certainly been her hand, rather than her knowledge of this horrible place.

Yet, the fare is paid...and a ticket produced. An Underground ticket? There might be a bit of humour found in that. Yet...the moment the ticket appears and the disembodied voice announces the arrival, the quasi timestop that was providing a modicum of protection drops...and the chase is on once more. Without thought, the hand withdraws from the physics-defying fare box, snatches up the ticket, and feet that Jemma are only tangently aware of dart forward, pushing aside the metal turnstile and leaping forward onto the train.

Mind the gap, indeed.

Jane Foster has posed:
*Thunk.* The metal rotating turnstile drops. Jemma finds her sock feet as treacherous on weathered old tiles that could endure a direct bomb hit as they were on the imperfectly steep terraces of wherever-it-was outside.

The cars pushed up to the track aren't large, for what she can see of their boxy shapes. Peak 1990s to early aughts design lacking the benefit of a designer's eye provide graffiti-streaked shelter. Or perhaps not, since nothing's stopping that spider from leaping to reach the set of slowly opening doors that disgorge none.

The people inside, lost in their own moments, react by jerking up or running for the next car. A mass swarm to the back end, along with the announcement, "Please leave the doors clear at all times."

An angry figure in a strict grey suit pushes to the front, holding a ticket punch and a wicked crop. "Ticket!" snaps the agent. "TICKET!"

Who makes it there first, suppurating spider monster or Jemma? Shoving through might be plenty difficult as pedipalps and grasping ghastly arms are reaching for her, trying to snatch her.

The train itself wants to leave, pushing along the platform. Either way, this door or the other doors, she'll have to hurry. But she has the ticket...

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Who makes it first, indeed? Jemma did have the lead, but two stockinged feet on a smooth surface is not nearly as good as 8 appendages. Though, Jemma does have that adrenaline flowing through her. Yet...still, the race is tight. And...it looks to be a dead heat. Jemma, pushing forward, reaches the conductor...just as clammy hands clamp down upon her shoulders. Her arm is outstretched, the ticket within brandished like a shield. "Here! Ticket!"

Does tall, dark, and multi-limbed have a ticket? Jemma does.

Those brown eyes grow wide. No! She just made it! She is not going to be dragged back now!?

The free hand, not holding her pass to potential freedom from becoming dinner, latches onto the open doorway of the train. Jemma is not going to go without a fight, though with her mad dash, there may not be much strength left. Hopefully...just enough.

Jane Foster has posed:
Sick runs the taste of fear, acidic bile crawling up her stomach. Slipping from cold tiles to ugly, speckled rubber flooring shouldn't feel like salvation. Her shirt tears as the undead arachnid horror reaches out, the stiff hairs of its leg scratching across her skin. A numbing cold, a fiery heat, both bloom at the time. However, her ticket rests in her hand, ink stubborn against the stain of clammy palms. A single folded, delicate slip of cardboard worth pence.

The agent hastens forward, eyes covetous, fingers snapping hold around the brandished ticket. "Ticket!" snaps the woman, affirming its identity in some way known only to bureaucrats and agents of large institutions, ministries or departments in their arcane ways embodied in the gaunt, grey figure. Her steely eyes flash, and she hauls Jemma forward by the wrist as if the fully-grown Scot scientist weighs no more than a toddler. Further comes the shrieking demon, to face the wrath of a bland, unappealing look. Too many teeth show in the grimace pulled by the agent to be a *mild* response.

"Fare is good! Zone nine!" she announces. The doors scythe shut, smashing into the recoiling limb, the offending spider leg and rotten flesh severed with a horrific squeal that might last Jemma the rest of her days, had she not bargained as she did. Maybe the scream will remain. Then, the train lurches away, not plodding but bucking, assaulted by the plink of missiles and stranger projectile weapons. Smears of blood and ichor splatter the dimming windows. Ahead lies only gold, and the moment of flanking the River Pichon lasts a lifetime, lasts an instant. The train needs to build up speed, but suddenly it's cruising at a hasty clip, somewhere between 80 miles an hour and close to super-sonic speeds that would give Flash or Superman a headache to contemplate.

She has her choice of seats, dingy and occupied in places by discarded papers, slumped shopping bags, a forgotten photograph or memento reduced to gray. All of it, gray, colours dimmed, as even her own hues are. Because everything would be when that Underground train plunges into the living gold fire waters of the River. Through that cataract she travels, a serpentine wander long enough to read a book, short enough to be disorienting when the same, cheerful voice announces, "Next stop, **yours**."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Fingers curled upon wrist. The tug forward, so effortless. The thin fibrous piece of card stock between her fingers. All of this so tangible...so vibrant....so very real. And the severed limb of that Lovecraftian beast, now on the floor of the metro, the splayed fingertips slowly stiffening into rigor. That is all too tangible, as well. After all, Jemma felt its grasp. The opposites at play, with the blistery incalescence, yet wintry frost. And the scream. Oh, that infernal scream. That was real. That happened.

Yet, Jemma sits in a seat, her cotton socks a thin layer between her feet and the rubber floor, on an Underground metro traveling through what could only reasonably be described as a dream. It is just not possible. A nightmare would certainly explain things neat and tidy. Her shoes burning off, but her socks resisting? Only marred with the typical dirt one might find on a train floor. Brown eyes stare down, wiggling the toes through the white cloth. Yes...she felt that. But there is no possible way she could be here if it was not a dream. So, logically, it has to be a dream. All within her mind.

That has to be the answer, isn't it?

Wait....she had white socks. But...now grey. Even as she herself seems grey. Even as she makes the conscious decision to look over her form, the voice cuts through Jemma's thoughts. She's the next stop. But...how long as she been on the train? Was it just a moment, or longer? Does it matter in a dream? As the train slows, it would seem that Jemma has decided to not concentrate too much on it. Perhaps it is her mind moving on to only process what it can. Or, perhaps, this is part of her payment in action. In either case, at least the poor woman had a breather. She looks, despite the lack of shoes, none the worse for wear.

The train stops. The doors open. And....out Jemma steps into what lies beyond.

Jane Foster has posed:
She promised not to remember what she left behind, in this place where the living sunder the great laws laid down before Gaea achieved adolescence. An interloper, an intruder. Her mortal blood and unsteady breaths paint a target on Jemma, and the leering looks or furtive stares from other passengers on that train might feel particularly uncomfortable.

Hard to know how long something is when the unveering weirdness outside the windows refuses to look like human experience. Floating symbols, great wheeled eyes and pinnacles piercing tormented bodies are the more mundane. Landscapes transition suddenly: grey mist shrouding battlefields to the murky bottom of a lightless, hypoxic sea where preserved *triremes* line up in terrible formation to floating magma islands. All along goes the river of gold, filling the grey with an laureate gleam.

She has left something profound behind her. A nameless awareness lurches in the spaces between heartbeats, the painful weight drumming down the silence. No farewell was given and yet a lonely, miserable journey into the wastelands resonates all the same.

Not the first to make this journey. Nor the most famous. Not by a long shot.

Her departure through the doors attracts a few more eyes. People coming out through the doors come quicker, following, hastening to grasp their bags, suitcases, bundles of cloth, a saddlebag. Some have none but the rags or a strung medallion, cross, star. Theirs is a strange, intent focus on her.

"Excuse me..."

"D'ya know where my son is?"

"Which way to the... The... The...."

An accusatory hiss. "Yeer from da Lighted Lands."

Jane Foster has posed:
GM Pose
Here amounts to a station buried among the desolate moors and fields of the north. Grey skies brightened barely by the disk of the sun could be any season, if dreary. Listless breezes rattle the detritus gathered on the tall fences used to enclose the platform. Thornbushes make it hard to see the grey landscape beyond, but hints of low-slung stone buildings feel familiar enough. Fort William and Aberdeen feel this way, remote and forgotten, a far cry from London and NYC. Crisp bags flash silvery bright like pennons at a joust. Strewn junk left behind could be anything, the thickets of spearheads and a motley assortment of wires, exposed rebar, and sharp metal there to catch Jemma's clothes or flesh and tear them to pieces. The warning sign not to touch the central rail is completely bleached pale.

She has few places to go. The platform, the waiting room, the track. A chunk of solid granite worn smooth on all sides is partly covered. Rusty trickles from the gutter weeping down puddle on the platform and bleed into the waiting room. Curling posters occupy their frames in a decrepit waiting room with no windows and a single door marked **Exit** in sharp, scratched letters on dull tile. Once those glazed tiles would have had pride of place. And with them the wild creatures of Scotland: red elk, stags, the mythical big cat, sea lions, boars. These unblinking images rim the wall in a chipped mosaic that clearly meant to capture the splendour of the Highlands. It merely seems to frame how dismal and remote this place is, how empty.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Jemma....keeps to herself. It is the only proper British thing to do, is it not? Keep calm and carry on. It makes little sense to do anything else.

At least now, when she has had time to think and is no longer being chased by monstrosities.

Lighted Lands earns a slightly confused expression. But, for the most part, Jemma keeps on keeping on. Inside her head, she has already decided that it doesn't pay to try to comprehend, to try to make sense of it all. After all, deep down she knows she is not going to remember a thing. And, strangely enough, with that fact nestled within that head of hers, Jemma seems surprisingly ambivalent to it all. Without the need to worry about explaining everything (after all, it is just a dream, right?), it is easier to just go with the flow, as it were.

Fitz would not approve. He would want to quantify. Hell, Jemma normally would want to quantify. But...she is not going to remember, so it is futile to try now.

The train stops...and there is limited places that she can go. She can go on the tracks, certainly. But that looks particularly dangerous, especially since the train has seemingly reached speeds that the Underground could only dream of in London proper. And...she is on the platform, which is looking quite barren and more than a little hostile. So, the only option left?

The waiting room. And whatever is beyond.

Ticket stub is still in hand, a tangible reminder that this may not be as much of a dream as Jemma would like it to be. Will that come with her? Something to try to explain later? Maybe. But, for now, Jemma walks for the waiting room. After all, she still has that driving need to know. And, for now, Jemma needs to know what exactly her stop on the train has taken her to.

Jane Foster has posed:
She can quantify. Think and ponder. Dissemble and repudiate the baseless, replacing a weak notion with a stronger hypothesis. Can she divorce herself from the essence of who she is? Where is the line to stop acting Jemma, stop *being* Jemma?

Once crossed, is she even herself any longer, if by a failure of action?

The platform she stands on feels familiar in a backward way, a sense of deja vu even if she never left the confines of SHIELD headquarters or academic buildings roosting in the American Northeast, the Home Counties. Moored on the edge of nowhere only by metropolitan standards doesn't mean *nowhere*. Plenty such platforms exist in underserved communities, even if their trains operate once a day -- week, month -- on trunk lines built under the watchful eyes of captains like Isambard Kingdom Brunel or other hoary namesakes of long-ago excellence. This place isn't then, a Britain on the cusp of imperial greatness, one beset by tobacco plantation wages and spoils of its ferocious navy or Enlightenment sailors braving the reckless seas of Logic. Maybe a couple years beyond that.

She might smell cheap coffee in the waiting room or spot magazines, newsprint, chronicles of old gone filmy and weathered by age. None of their contents make sense if read, a tawdry collection of tabloid details scattered across fifteen decades interspersed by all kinds of random nonsense. Cartoons about people she doesn't know, lampooning or mocking vaguely familiar figures in text that may be English but ought to be Greek. Timetables drawn up for trains make little sense, destinations prevailing on spots weird and many not: Blackpool, Barbican, The Fall. Neat at 3:04 a.m., Weirbridge Howlers. How few people may be here, they all the same give her hard side-eye, loitering in their deep worn seats or the overhanging eave or the ticket booth. Whatever else, the being at the ticket booth *isn't* human and makes no pretensions of it, a jet black dog with an outlined muzzle in a handsome silver pinstripe vest with a mouse skull on a chain the way someone wears a pocketwatch. Even looking too long that way makes its features twist and seethe, the mind not quite grappling with an animated phantasm of infernal horrors being *here*.

The Black Dog grins. It has teeth and no teeth simultaneously. Her ticket stub gets her this far and through the iron grate decoratively acting as a gate, terrible though it is. Beyond the platform where the soul-forged iron burns her palm and the station hunkers lies some kind of community wrapped in concertina wire and electrified rails to separate them from the trains. Or vice versa. She might see the grey gaslamps, the hanging sign announcing some manner of pub, a twisted splatter of news advertisements for the local paper shop, an off-license next door exuding a queer neon glow. Plenty of crowded Victorian terraces squished together speak to that very 19th-century sensibility crossed with the down-at-the-heel urban quality shared outside London by nearly every city from Aberdeen to Manchester to Bristol. Old, weathered, long past their glory days. At the centre is predictably a monument to some queen or king gone on a pedestal, some manner of cenotaph -- always one of those -- wrapped in all manner of offerings (except all grey and white and black or faded colour) and presumably some important civic building.

This one looks rather like a guildhall. Why it bears the emblem of the Royal Society is another matter, unless there *is* a branch of Newton's creation out *here*... which could be so?

She can approach the people haunting doorsteps or loitering in the narrow, winding streets. She can march up to the doors of the Royal Society itself and find refined company. Maybe even lounge in a park, there must be a greenspace *somewhere*. She can explore how she will.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
At one point in time, the person now wandering the grey-scale streets read that, in dreams, reading comprehension is nigh impossible. The text is supposedly just thoughts projected into the subconscious, so actual reading is not possible. For Jemma, as she lingers in the streets outside the metro station, the periodicals left in the waiting room had that sort of dream-like quality. However, usually, dream reading makes sense, even if reading comprehension is not possible. For Jemma, the words were legible, but the subject being conveyed was nonsensical, to put things mildly. Is it possible it is not a dream? Or a dream within a dream? Despite Jemma's resolve to not think too much into it, the fact that she lingers at all regarding the literature of this realm only proves to the scientist that this is no dream. It is real.

Besides, it is once one questions the dream that one usually awakens from one. And...Jemma is still trodding on ancient cobblestone. This is no dream.

The thought rings clearly in Jemma's mind. She had offered a smile, weak as it was, to the Anubis at the ticket window. It was an Anubis, yes? It seemed like it. Yet, that didn't disturb her. Really, since vacating the station, nothing really seemed to bother her that much. Was it the familiarity of the surroundings that gave some sort of stability for Jemma? The greys and dull colors act as a blanket, smothering fear, anxiety, and curiousity. Almost. There is still that sense of wonder that is inheritably Jemma. She is here for a reason.

So, what is that reason?

Jemma needs time to think. But, not to interact with the denizens of this realm. They seem to all give her sideward glances and murmur as she passes. No. Marching into public buildings may not be the best for her immediately. Jemma needs some alone time.

Perhaps a visit to a park would be just the thing. Isolation without intrusion. A public space, but not enclosed. A place for her to think.

Once she has plotted, then perhaps Jemma will dare to stroll into that Royal Society guildhall. They may have the answers that Jemma seeks.

But first, Jemma needs to decide on the questions.

Jane Foster has posed:
Anything Jemma touches, for the most part, holds real substance. Paper is shiny and slick or cheap and thin, tearing when pulled too strongly. Her finger skate over a worn brass plaque on the door leading outside to the city, whatever the metropolis happens to be. Furnishings may be shabby and dated, the signs weathered and art tired, but they still exist. Nothing stops her from interacting with them as she would anywhere else.

The black dog at the ticket booth holds some kernel of life burning deep within. Different from average people on the street, a tug wrapped fog within an enigma, but there. Too many of those she spots without, however, do not register in her subconscious awareness. People wear contemporary clothes and historical bygones -- Victorian daysuits, stifling dresses, Chanel skirt-suits and Mod or punk -- as they go about their business.

'Greenspace' is a misnomer. Nothing here is truly *green*. The green is the brown of winter, bark in silver, foliage a bit withered how late autumn or early spring bring. Yellows, dull green, greyed nrown, weak orange all prevail in a circle of trees planted in a formal garden half the size of a football pitch. Finding that takes a little work, spotted beside the guildhall behind a smart wrought-iron fence. People promenade along a cracked cement path large enough for horses to ride abreast, though very few ride.

The trees and grim lawn provide relief from the dull silvered sun offering its watery, all too British light. She can sit easily enough on a bench or the lawn to people watch. There are even acorns and a few white berries to be picked if she's hungry. Some small children watch toy boats on a reflection pool peculiarly similar to the Serpentine in London or similar sailing ponds in Central Park. They all *watch*, yes, dark eyed or pale, all diverted politely.

Even the apparent policeman on a great black charger smartly clop-clopping along the path watches her, at a distance first, his patrol more significant than accosting her. He apparently goes about his work, dressed in a proper policeman's uniform, never mind the curling horns like a ram's under his curling hair or the horse's balefire orange eyes.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
There is substance, of course. The grit of the cement path through stocking feet is more than enough to sense that this place is certainly real. Yet another fact discrediting the whole 'dreamscape' theory. Yes...the grass that Jemma now sits in is certainly tangible. Despite Jemma's initial hopes, practically begging everything to be just a dream (which spawned the initial toll of forgetting in the first place), her orderly mind knows all too well that this is not just a fevered hallucination. Her scientific acumen only reinforces the hypothesis that she dare not speak of, bringing it from just hyperbole to a solid theory.

Jemma has travelled to another dimension.

It makes sense. Though, the fact that she can feel shards of life in only a few denizens of the realm, with the vast majority seemingly devoid of that spark that Jemma just instinctively knows to be 'living' is not at all sitting well with the medical doctor. The biological components do not seem to be present, yet her eyes say otherwise. Is Jemma looking at the soul? The quiet of the lack of life is disconcerting...more so than the constant hum that Jemma realized was always there, but not noticeable. At least, not until coming here. Much like a city person visiting the rural area and realizing just how disturbingly quiet everything is.

And...she is painfully aware that the others....can sense her 'light', for lack of a better term, just as she can sense the lack thereof. Even with Jemma's British-ness on display, continuing on as if there is nothing amiss, she sees the sideward glances. She can feel the scrutiny. Even here, in the familiar trappings of a town out of her own youth, she knows she's the oddity. There is no people watching. Not here.

No. The eyes are down, in her lap. She is here for a reason. Jemma needs to determine what...and more importantly, why.

Jane Foster has posed:
The countryside comparatively blazes a dull electrified green compared to the washed-out silvers and dim greys under watery sunlight, were Jemma to compare apples to oranges. Activity remains plentiful here, for all her keen senses don't report the familiar background noise that always seems to be there. Couples walking together down the pathway certainly act and behave as she might expect to find in any major city, even if their clothing sometimes proves a mismatch with expectations and other factors about them seem off. The blondes are pale spectres with belladonna eyes, while those of darker hair and colouration manage to embody 'tall, dark, and brooding' a little *too* well. Or simply dark and dull, braids or well-washed hair lustreless, clothing absent the freshness anyone might prize. Even the trees feel heavier and dimmer than their counterparts in New York or Edinburgh.

The rider upon the horse keeps up with his patrol, great loops on the destrier whose huge hooves would strike sparks under the right conditions. *Clomp-clomp* retorts its steady pace, restrained like everything else here seems to be, from her attitude to the ornate bars on the windows peering down certain thin alleys. Churning mist is the only piece missing from a truly Dickensian feel to the place. Though now at the far side of the manicured park, the patrolman swings the horse back around, headed in her direction with slow, implacable certainty.

Some loiter near the gated entrance she came through, and a group of ladies titter softly around another exit into town, their black gowns and slashed cutoffs and t-shirts mingled together in a still-life. Too still, at times, as if they need to be reminded to twitch or reflexively gesture instead of giving way to the great heaviness in the atmosphere. A leaden weight that makes it so much more comfortable to sit or lie there, to look away from the interested sidelong stares, and not worry so much at all. To not *be*.

For now, only one dart errs her way, astride his great hulking black horse.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The comfort is duly noted. It does seems rather alluring to just sit and do nothing. To be nothing. But, it conflicts with Jemma's naturally curious personality. She simply cannot sit. Just cannot rest until she has determined exactly where she is, why she is in this very much static realm, and what, in particular, she needs to do next. It is so hard to know where to go, especially without some sort of guidepost. And yet, it feels so damned good to just sit and linger.

Maybe that is why the patrolman is heading Jemma's way.

Even as the horse draws near, Jemma is pulling herself to her feet. It was so comfortable to sit, but Jemma needs to get things done. First order of business? Find out where she is. She has been operating blind for quite some time and that certainly needs to change, at least in her mind's eye. The ticket, her passport to this particular city so frightfully British that it triggers a sense of deja vu, is nestled in a pocket, having slipped in almost absently. Much like she used to. It is all terribly familiar, yet foreign, like returning to a long-forgotten childhood home, only to find that you don't belong there anymore. The exteriors are all the same. Even in this grey city, everything appears to be proper and in place.

It is just...there is no life here. And Jemma does not need any special insight to sense that.

Still, childhood nostalgia aside, Jemma needs to know where she is first, to get a baseline. And, as all good British schoolchildren know, when in doubt and need help, fetch the local constable. And, conveniently enough, there is one approaching her now...

Plan set, Jemma nods her head once, puts on her best smile (bedside manners in practice), and steps up to the officer atop his black stallion. The fear that might have been there has been shoved aside...sealed away in that mental music box within Jemma's psyche.

"Please excuse me, officer. I wonder if you would be able to assist me? I do believe I am lost presently..."

Jane Foster has posed:
The stallion responds to her by blowing its breath out, great nostrils flaring to reveal the delicate lining therein. Jet black coat reaches obsidian skin, translucent within, an ember glow almost visible in its nose. The ambient glow burns in its cherry-ember eyes, as though the woman's own nervousness and fear might be audible after all. Its pricked ear swivels, tuned to a sound that warrants a low, audible whicker.

The air smells faintly of brimstone and heavy, smothering smoke the kind that reaped so many lives during the Fifties.

London may have moved on, but some don't forget the killing fog.

The constable astride the enormous beast wears the stern visage perfected on statues and in telly shows for the past half century. He curls the reins in one gloved fist, an unnecessary object since the stallion boasts neither bit or obvious bridle. Stiff backed and proud, he rises to the moment and directs that peculiarly opaque gaze upon her.

Perhaps the curt nod is dismissive to the outsider, but in the private language of social forms and the British comedy of manners, entirely correct. She engages and he accepts. For now.

"Ma'am," he speaks with a Brummy accent, not southern, not Edinburgh. "What manner of assistance do you require?"

Jemma Simmons has posed:
"I know this may sound rather fanciful. But, would you be able to confirm where we are presently? I believe I may have taken a wrong turn and I am quite sure that I should not be, well, here precisely."

Brummy accent is met with Received Pronunciation. Not a traditional old fashioned RP, with the longer vowel sounds, but certainly aspects of 'standard' English. It betrays Jemma's educated nature, certainly...but doesn't mark her from any precise province. No Devon or Stafford flavorings in Jemma's speech. While the officer's accent does give something to clue into in Jemma's mind. Birmingham? Would this actually be Birmingham? Possible...but unsure.

Of course, Jemma doesn't assume anything. She looks up expectantly to the mounted officer. "I did arrive by Metro, but I will freely admit that my boarding was in a rather...hurried state. And I feel that my disembarking might have been premature, though I was assured this was to be my destination. It has been quite a confusing turn of events, to say the least."

Jane Foster has posed:
The constable looks her up and down, a feat to achieve without actually shifting his posture or even the slope of his chin. Similarly, his steed sniffs and blows out a hot breath.

"Am I to understand correctly that you lost your way?" His expression fades to something taciturn, and the inherent lack of movement somehow radiates a prickly suspicion that wasn't as fully apparent before. "By rail. Your ticket?"

He is a veritable statue of action, staring down at the woman with renewed, penetrating regard.

Like they're both prepared to pounce in a different way, held in check.

"A gentlewoman from the Lighted Lands rarely travels unaccompanied," he tuts mildly, "but allowances occasionally must be made for Circumstances." It practically sounds capitalized. "A capital reason that disrupts our residents' routine."

Mild mannered still, but waiting, listening, as he assesses her.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Oh...that look certainly caused a shiver to run down Jemma's spine. The smile flickers, just for a moment, as a flash of worry peeks through, for just a moment. However, Jemma is truly British, from her RP accent to the manner in which she does not wilt under the dominating gaze of both man (demon?) and beast. And that means that once Jemma started something, she's going to hold the course. Which for now means to be truthful.

Without a moment's hesitation, the ticket is produced from the pocket from which it was stashed. The scientist reaches up, presenting the thin strip of cardboard in much the same way she would have flashed her SHIELD credentials. As she provides prove, Jemma also offers detail as to how exactly she found herself in this particular situation. Which involves a brief but detailed description of passing through the mist condensation and a certainly abbreviated dissertation of the particulars of her boarding. The spider ghoul was briefly mentioned and only in relation to why she dashed aboard the rail. If it wasn't for the fact that Jemma was standing in a park, in her cotton socks, speaking to a constable, it would have seemed like any other SHIELD briefing.

"Lighted Lands." Jemma heard that term as she repeats it to herself, weighing the words as they pass beyond her lips. "I see." She doesn't translate audibly...but Lighted Lands must mean the living world. Her world. Moving onward, she addresses the travel arraignments. "I am not sure exactly what to tell you. That is part of the confusion, you see. I assure you that there was no other individual with me when I have arrived. And, until I reached the Metro, I felt I was quite in danger and was in no position to seek a guide. I do hope you understand."

Prim, proper, and polite. Most certainly Jemma. "I am attempting to ascertain the reason. I assure you, I have no wish to disrupt routine."

Jane Foster has posed:
How shiny that pretty steel spine of hers. How nice that might look decorating the mantelpiece in one of those shared flats, the Victorianesque terraces arranged two up, two down, stately and orderly as the stuffy queen who lent her name to the era. He might be imagining shucking off his decent boots and enjoying a nice grey cuppa and admiring his fine new acquisition. Alternately he might be perfectly tickled by the prospect of someone adhering to the laws so smartly.

When Jemma presents the ticket, the constable leans over, smoothing the cuff on his perfectly serviceable uniform jacket. Whether the bale-eyed horse actually reads the same, it still turns its head somewhat. "Zone 9," the constable repeats, possibly affirmation for her, possibly for his companion. "Very well. A most *irregular* arrangement but you paid the correct fee. Your particulars on that score will do." She must pass muster, between that and recounting the facts that he listens to with a passing ear. "That permits your passage. Abide by its terms and conditions, observing our local customs, and you should manage. Do not interfere with livelihoods, or engage in trade. You are not permitted for such business, ma'am. Avoid *gossip*."

The way he rounds the word out practically drips with contempt. "Idle prattle earns one the swiftest scorn. See that you bother none with idle fancies or scurrilous news from afar, and you shall find yourself an open door and welcome. Solid, respectable folk of doughty constitution and firm mind, on the other hand..." He then taps the reins to affirm his point. "Do well in Bordesley, ma'am. You found the green for leisure. For academic matters there is the Heartlands House. The Old Crown serves as a public house, albeit perhaps a touch rough for your sensibilities? If such, Grey's may provide suitable conversation."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Steel spine may be what is coveted by the constable, but it is what is attached to it that does Jemma the most good. Namely that brain of hers. "Bordesley. Birmingham proper, then." As if the accent didn't help, the naming of the city certainly did. "That would mean that we are standing in either Garrison Lane Park...or Kingston Hill Park." She doesn't take the moment to look around to identify street signs, at least, not yet. The fact that she even knows the two park names proves she is at least passingly familiar with the area. That should help, immensely.

It also means, though, that she travelled half way around the world and through dimensions....again. Well, at least the halfway around the world part. Zone 9 is a term that at least calms the policeman, for he does certainly relax, at least as much as one would expect a stalwart member of law enforcement to relax. And that...causes the woman to relax, too. But only as much as would be proper. The smile remains as Jemma nods, noting the warning as to do not interfere or engage in trade. Not that she might have anything to actually barter with, but the warning is heeded.

Besides, Jemma hardly ever gossips. Unless Daisy is around.

Still. The warning is taken. "Thank you, officer. I will certainly keep non-pertinent matters absent from my dealings while present here." Oh, she is not going to tell anyone else where the hell, she came from. That simply wouldn't do. "I appreciate the direction. I will make my way to the Heartlands House to research and determine my next course of action. A good day to you, sir."

Jane Foster has posed:
The constable's fixed gaze holds to Jemma, intrigued by whatever threats might present themselves in the guise of a respectable lady scientist or a traveller through Bordesley's finest institutions. His horse is equally stoic, barely moving, not so much as a twitch in his withers or mane. Except for the balefire glow in those fiercely intelligent eyes, the steed might seem better suited to standing atop a blocky granite monument in a public park or overlooking a funny-named street lined in Georgian houses.

After a ploddingly long time, the laconic response follows in kind, "Very good, ma'am." He touches his fingers to his hat. "An excellent choice. A proper pair of gloves may not go amiss, given the delicate matters there. You should like to depart through the north side of the park." Nodding to indicate the path ahead of him, the broad esplanade headed for Heartlands House bears very little of concern unless an occasional weed or speck of dirt harms the better sensibilities of a woman who has studied the innards and bodily humours in all their (lack of) mystery.

The park very much invites a particular speed of ambling, well short of a stroll or an amble. Promenading calls for a leisurely slowness that rewards her by not growing quite so tired, the inviting pockets of pale grass and watered shade under a broad-leafed tree just the sort of experience to savour. If only she had a proper book. Has she one, she might just find the ground especially soft...

Beyond the reflection pond, and deeper still, the far side of the park seems to take a good long time to reach. Whispers coil after her, and then the pile of grey stone flanked in a row of tidy columns rears up beyond clipped hedges and pointed metal spikes framing a fence. Handsome windows form so many staring eyes in grey glass, trimmed in grey curtains. A perfectly sensible black door even boasts three neat urns, a doorman to see guests into the foyer. Overstuffed chairs be the norm to sink into, the succession of libraries, study rooms, and small discussion rooms laid out in accordance with Age of Enlightenment standards throughout the British Isles. A good foyer, a proper big room to awe, a lot of little desks about for private, uninhibited study and a couple small tables to pretend at intellectual chats before hiding into the books.

Handprinted signs embossed in brass identify the myriad sections, though whole chunks splashed in shadow indicate where not only the books ought to be, but the shelves too. Or there *are* shelves, and there are books, but the have either only bits of printed letters... or none at all, simply blank, all traces of the words surely pressed into them gone.

And naturally, there must be a librarian to oversee all this. An archivist, of sorts, who essentially resembles a prim, steel-haired child with a petulant mouth, seated before a positively intimidating desk.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Jemma does not amble. No, not with the long arm of the law watching over her as she expresses her thanks once again and heads northward. Gloves, hmm? It would be rather interesting to try to get a pair of gloves without thievery or commerce. She is to not bother anyone, yet she must do so in order to purchase proper accoutrement. Shoes and gloves, if she is to take the advice of the constable to heart. The lure of tarrying is there. Oh, Jemma knows it. She feels it.

She must resist it.

A matter of retrieving proper adornments should be a trifling task. Something rather simple and not at all obtrusive. It might be as simple as a stealthy snag from a window sill or, if Jemma could, something a little less nefarious. Though, once the articles are obtained, it is straight to the Heartlands House. For there is research to be done. And, judging from what Jemma is able to piece together from her observations, she already has a suspicion as to where she may be.

The lands of the dead.

And...if Jemma is in the Underworld, then, judging from the research and events from before her misty journey, then Jemma has an opportunity to help a certain individual that was once here, then not, and now here again.

It is just a matter of finding where in the Underworld to go.

Jemma bypasses the librarian, for now, as she enters the House. There are enough signs to guide one to the proper stacks. Keywords are looked for. Norse Mythology, for one. Also, maps and cartographer notes. After all, one must know what is out there in order to know where to go.

Jane Foster has posed:
Thou shalt not steal was, apparently, not one of the rules. Jemma acquires some very comely mid-wrist grey gloves trimmed in scratchy pewter lace, and like he grown attire, they look a little weathered, darned well but certainly not new.

The librarian scowls at Jemma as she enters. They scowl as she comes and goes, searching for whatever piques her mortal fancies. Soft scratches fill the air regardless of the chamber or aisle that the scientist picks, the telltale scraping of a metal nib across a particularly quality piece of paper. Regular taps and drags produce their own mildly irritating cadence, the kind that lulls the brain rather than spinning up anxiety. Scritchings paw at the page from some nearby corner when she turns down a neatly appointed block of bookcases that direly require some method of organization.

For much like the older libraries or those in wartime, boxes abound. Stacks of unsorted novels and non-fiction sequestered against the polished floor form modest towers here and there. Elsewhere, scrolls ranging from familiar papyrus to rather odd materials -- possibly raw leather, others leaves -- stick out from available corners. These piles make for tripping hazards and, moreover, a confounding source of order even if they are themselves mismatched.

**Cardenio, Fol 1** pokes out at one point, a collection of papers in looping handwritten form. Further along, some mysterious staff peppered by notes forms a tight roll, one of the dog-eared pages showing a string of musical notations neatly spindle across five lines.

Meandering efforts take her out of a section devoted to fruits or comedy -- maybe both -- and round a pair of tall cases stuffed by books to reach what she seeks, partly because the contents include a disturbing amount of stone tablets, thin metal sheets, and delicate carving on translucent ivory slabs rather than simply books. "Norse mythology" provides a broad sweep, and despite the Heartlands House being a reasonably sized building, this collection counts for something quite large.

Maybe a bit Tardisy: bigger on the inside.

The first sets of information involve someone named Kara an awful lot, with references to Sigrid and Helgi. Books composed of scratching in Old Norse or, at best, Icelandic or Anglo-Saxon push her ability to read to the limit, with some of the words simply eye-bleeding. Another batch shows more art, and the word 'Edda' comes up a good deal. Latin gets a visit with a picture of a hideous wurm splashing around in a forest and lake, chewing on a god's sword. That great World Tree imagery at least tells her she's in the right place.

Among the stacks are other patrons going about their researching business, stolid individuals nose-deep into their books, very little interested in her wanderings directly.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Oh? Oh....Oh!!!

That is...oh, and that looks like....and that can't be the first folio, can it?

Well, that explains why the constable was adamant that Jemma pick up a pair of gloves. It makes sense now. After all, one just wouldn't man-handle the handwritten notes of William Shakespeare without some sort of protection. Oh yes, Jemma saw that particular collection.

And it is this, plus works that were incomplete before, whole and sound now before her, that lead Jemma to a hypothesis. A theory that she stumbled into not just any ordinary library. This place is something more.

Jemma remains quiet. After all, she was told to not interact unless necessary. Searching for a physical location....that might be much. But...hmm...if there are works by others here, then maybe if she concentrated on who, then the where will reveal itself. Which means....she should search for Jane. Which may prove somewhat difficult. Is it even possible? Perhaps a test is in order. Can Jemma perhaps find proof of Jemma's own existence? If that is possible, that would give the research scientist an inkling on how to locate her friend.

It is when Jemma, in her test run, finds an idea she had in the past...a thought, half formed at the time then tossed aside, fully realized into a thesis....does she fully realize where she is at. An archive not just of what was and is....but of what could have been.

And, for not the first time and certainly not for the last time, a pain of regret shoots through Jemma. For one, always in search of answers to questions posed, Jemma finds herself in the center where all of those answers can be found. And....she is going to forget all of it.

Fingers freeze for a prolonged moment. A tear is fought back. No...no use to weep over knowledge found, soon to be lost. No, Jemma has a job to do. And, as any proper Brit would do, she shoves aside the grief, as she has countless times before, and soldiers forward. She knows what she must do.

A table and chair is claimed. The small pile of documents already collected with Norse stylings starts to grow with things of a Foster relation. And all other distractions, both of a personal and intellectual nature, are ignored. No, Jemma will not be reading through the Bard's transcripts or reading through discoveries yet to be.

No. Jemma has a friend to find.

Jane Foster has posed:
Proper ladies wear gloves and proper libraries bask in near pristine silence. Of course, the whole wing devoted to music great and modest would be an exemption to *that* expectation. Surely. Reading the notation and not tapping out a beat or humming a chord could be construed as an act of ascetic denial or artistic sacrilege.

Heartlands House lacks for bright light, everything bathed in an indirect greyish glow quite like the watered down sunshine outside. How dangerous it could become to introduce bold colour or intense shades here. Nothing like a bright, colourful light to imply all manner of ideas. Unwanted intrusions that vie for attention taken from those very things that lacked attention, fading out of the collective conscious.

Jemma can comfortably meander around. Tall stacks and short ones reveal a sort of order, sooner or later. She can peruse at her leisure, though some older scrolls or weightier books hold a chilly weight. They don't crack open as easily, requiring great care to coax them to divulge any secrets. Time matters little within a library. It advances how it will, if at all.

Her path requires its own collection, and digging deep into that rich vein takes Jemma deep into the stacks where books tend to be less ornate. Slim volumes, thick multitudes. Ponderous references to skim might give up nothing. In a blocky book comes the first reference she seeks, an intriguing footnote with a string of names, all appended by DO or MD. New York Presbyterian Hospital. Mount Sinai West Hospital. Massachusetts General Hospital. Mayo Clinic. One Dr. Jane Foster, attached to the third, part of a study group that tackled hereditary breast cancers using an innovative nanomedicine technique. Certainly one that Dr. Simmons, master that she is, might very well understand, even if the nanoprobe delivery of therapeutic regimens is outside the reach of *most* today. She can read through the fine print, and dig about for another reference, wherein genetically-tailored therapies branch out from the nanomedicine work of five years before. Again, that name: Jane Foster, climbing at a steady, determined rate. Theories. Papers. Peer-reviewed work in journals, heralding some great leap forward starting in 2021.

Not too surprising, perhaps; the graduate from MIT, whose very mother *was* a doctor. That history Jane has never hidden, her personnel files in SHIELD never contrived. Two loves, one road travelled.

Perhaps an hour of steady research later comes another reference, one misfiled among a plethora of dry xenobiochemistry notes. Here are lexicons speaking to the Shi'ar, Kree, Rannians, Thanagarians (albeit the notes here diverge in confusing directions), and Calorians, and some reference buried therein speaks of a harrowing group of brigands across the Sagittarius Arm. A number of stars and presumable outposts of these folk carries a brisk sales-bill of a kind. It's written on a notice for a "person of public interest," apparently part of a crew that delivered several requested items if the bill is anything to go by. Dates and names list coordinates that probably don't mean anything much. That holographic imprint on the face of the notice contains a sleek spacefaring ship that makes a quinjet resemble a dugout canoe technologically, several humans, and a woman called "The Stormchaser." Through the stylised appearance, a winged helm and hair chopped all wrong, it's very much a likeness of Jane Foster. Albeit Jane Foster with a crew. Jane Foster many light years from Earth?

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The medical journals are easy for Jemma to review. The dry text speaks volumes for one that is used to such language. And it not surprising the use of nanomedicine when resolving cancer, particularly breast cancers targeted. Jemma may have had the idea, a time or two, and it is rather logical for the biochemist who once restored a person's genetic code not once, but twice. The nano technology is impressive and again a twinge of regret courses through Jemma with the realization that she is not going to remember any of this.

Still, that is not why Jemma is here, with her prim and proper gloves, delicately flipping pages as if each one is tissue paper. The repository of knowledge she is in is infinite. Yes, she caught the timelord implications, on how the dimensions inside are certainly larger than the building she had entered. And that correlates to the information she has gathered on one Jane Foster. The materials are piling up, reflecting an entire lift of what was and what could have been. And, as per usual for one Dr Simmons, she has overachieved. Jemma doesn't need everything on Dr Foster. Jemma only needs a certain window.

Jemma only needs to know about the day that Jane fell. And...perhaps one simple search would work for this.

Surely there is a book of admission. A ledger of arrivals to the plane of existence that Jemma finds herself on. Much like the ticket within her pocket, surely there is some sort of proof of transit for one Jane Foster when she had arrived here. Jemma needs only to find the destination, for she knows the day when.

Jane Foster has posed:
The sun barely moves through the sky as Jemma performs her research. It stands softly amidst a gossamer veil of lacy clouds drawn close, as if viewing its face were somehow too great a burden for the city's residents.

Minutes slide past, perhaps hours. No timepiece helps her track this. As long as Jemma remains respectfully quiet and files her unused books on the trolley carts left at practically every third aisle or third table, she finds little interruption. Other visitors ghost past her table with only passing direct interest. Maybe they linger too long on the other side of the stacks or a pen halts in notation, but no one is crude enough to *interrupt*.

Anyone who talks gets a firm, "Shh!" that cuts sharp as a knife from the prim, little librarian on her imperious perch. As only little girls can.

Ledgers exist for books, their delivery or their removal from the shelves. Approaching the formidable, staring librarian surveying her papers might allow for a short conversation about seeking information. Skirting around the fact by research comes to the same conclusion.

"We do not maintain a census for *people* in this establishment." Disapproval slides down that sloped nose. "Why would we need to?"

That fact is not to be found. There is no list of arrivals about.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
No arrival manifests?

Well, that is going to make things more difficult.

The answers for the why as proposed by the librarian are many. At least, in Jemma's point of view. If there are multiple realms of the Underworld, then how would one know that the right individual is located in the proper hereafter? It would all seem quite logical to ensure that every soul is appropriately catalogued and sorted to their respective places. After all, that is how Jemma would do it. Numbers..all neat and tidy and perfectly comprehensible. Not at all like her journey getting to the repository of all knowledge she finds herself in now. Well...maybe not all knowledge.

Still...that does pose a quandary, doesn't it? How does one track the comings and goings of individuals here if there are no transit records kept at all? How would one know that the proper toll was paid or that sort of thing? It is easier for Jemma to still comprehend power as written laws and ledgers, rather than omnipresent beings that just know. Having it written down is so much more reliable, according to Jemma, than considering there is an underworld Santa Claus that knows when you have been bad or good. Even so, at least Santa Claus had a list.

Which is something that Jemma is in need of.

Right...so transit logs are not a thing. Perhaps references to the date in question is. Opening up the parameters, as it were, to look for mentions of the day Malekith fell, assisted in no small part by Jane and her actions. If there are no transit logs, then hopefully there is a record of the event...and of the aftermath. If this library is truly the collection of all that was and all that could be, then perhaps, just perhaps, the information Jemma seeks is available.

It is just needing to be found.

Jane Foster has posed:
The librarian watches patrons come and go. Books end up whisked back to their proper shelves. Those tattered by use or singed by fire receive their due repairs in capable hands somewhere nearby behind closed doors. Scholars in chitons or monks in cassocks glide by, occasionally attended by engineers wearing steampunkish hats adorned by an unnecessary number of magnifying glasses and lenses. These folk have an air of knowing about them, tucking scrolls into slots and wiping down dust-free shelves. They tuck in chairs and wheel trolleys, or scale impressively fine oak ladders to vaulted recesses.

Jemma's path finds no conclusion in the current room. She needs to wander. Wandering may be a strange pleasure, for the library chambers follow perfectly sensible organization patterns if one knows the method *of* organization. Disparate times, languages, and topics require some strategy and it unfolds by experiencing the rooms.

Some, like music, are perfectly obvious. What she wants is more prosaic and edition of The Encyclopedia Britannica awaits her on a shelf to crack open to 2023, topic "Malekith" and a bio of where he went. There are, however, 2022, 2025, 2029, and 2047 in passing.

Needless circling or digging might reveal the most uncanny of objects repeating themselves. The decor varies but never the reed podia. Each podium changes in medium -- wood, stone, plastic, metal, unnameable floating light -- but not shape. All come equipped with a tablet, and a pen, even if that tablet could be composed of plasma or ethyl spirits under glass. The pen, too, is always a thing shaped like a feather and tipped in gold, immaterial or dull.

These things appear at intersections, junctions between hallways or where openings come to grand, luxuriously appointed chambers in high Baroque style or frontier church feel.

And if she's feeling wicked, writing anything on the surface leaves no trace whatsoever.

But it produces an *answer*.