16146/Ex Umbra: Fata Morgana

Ex Umbra: Fata Morgana
Date of Scene:	22 October 2023
Location:	Earth-1593
Synopsis:	Descent.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

---

Jane Foster has posed:
Forth go friends and lover in pursuit of Jane Foster and revenge, a fine vintage.

Within the House of Wisdom, nine passages open from the mosaic room where Blackagar found that dreadful pile of broken shards in a crescent-shaped heap. Eight hallways arranged equidistant across two floors radiate out from the room capped by an open dome. The ninth hall, the widest, leads to a scarred and battered set of doors that simply will not open. Metal slagged to shadow melts the panels together and eradicates any decorative details beyond recognition.

Daisy emerged from a particular wing to confront him, and retracing her steps brings him through a pointed archway to a set of double doors. Forested slopes stamped onto the copper door might catch his eye; curling boughs form an arched frame for the flat surface, a lake or sea.

Beyond is a corridor suffused by the shifting rainbows of a stained glass window high overhead. The reflection on the floor resembles the much clearer image on the wall. Green and turquoise shards spiral around a sleek-hulled ship beneath a stylized crescent of five stars. The sparkling ship rides upon the star-flecked waves, and if he comes closer, he can feel the breeze and smell the faintest hint of brine.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The smell of the tang of the air is familiar, but not in this place. It doesn't fit. If someone was to inform him he was about to embark on a soul based scavenger hunt, Blackagar may be tempted to trot himself back to have that conversation with Death, come up with an arrangement that does not involve hunting the scattering pieces. But then, that is not what is available.

The door that pulls his attention is approached, a soft grumble in his mind. It is never easy.

Jane Foster has posed:
A faint copper tinge still stains the corners of the Midnight King's vision, a fiery rim that amounts to an ephemeral overlay. The chamber remains empty except for that window casting a pattern of fragmented light on the ground, colours painted so thickly they might be coalesced into a solid form. Though the stained glass cannot possibly shift, the light passing through gives the impression of the ship bobbing and falling on the curling trough of waves.

The shape, however, changes subtly. Sails billow and strain against the elegant masts. Or a coracle, oars swept back. Then to something frankly barely related at all to that, sleek and dark and back-swept wings like a sword, gleaming chrome. Back to the sailing ship anew, if he stands by to watch.

Though the moment he crosses the threshold into the aquamarine or verdant light, the world *shifts*.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A shift, staggering steps just slightly to lead him to catching his balance. Blackagar's vision blinking in that moment to regain itself abruptly, allowing him to regain his sight and look around. What had been a door and a simple chamber moments before now being overtaken and the subsequent grumble that follows causing a soft rumble to filter through.

<<What blasted annoyance is it this time..>>

The simplest desire is lost though, a deep breath taken in to reinforce the aromas of saltwater. This is not where he was, and he does not care for that.

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Blame the dark elf.>>

That flat, unimpressed voice holds a bone-deep weariness stricken by a core of contempt. Faint resonance would almost suggest a minor chorus for the Greek tragedy played upon an open-air stage.

But then, he has already undertaken the fall. Blackagar has a moment to catch his breath, stronger than a balcony overlooking the beach by far.

He's upon a ship, that much is clear. 'Ship' being a loosely defined term for vessel in the ocean, and not in a happy day cruise either. Salt and ozone can immediately be identified over the odor of burnt metal. Maybe hot metal, it's hard to say. People are present, the morass of confusion for his sudden appearance noted by a shout and an alert relayed in a flicker-flash of details across screens all around. A deck stretches out before him, albeit not one ostensibly as part of the US Navy that took him deep to the South Atlantic or one made of oak boards, tar, a wing and a prayer. Possibly a carbon-fibre compound, albeit one threaded by faint seams that resemble fibre optic cables. Anyone visible moves with a tether of light spun around their wrists or to their suits -- hodgepodges of metal and carbon fibre armour upon cloth, futuristic and not entirely.

The dolorous sky is a mass of bruised grey stormclouds and mist, which only /partially/ dims ships of a peculiarly familiar shape amassed against the heaving sea. Of the sort that assaulted his own family in shape and design, but larger. More aggressively fanned out, at that, hovering over the water instead of plowing through it like a flotilla of dreadnoughts or a carrier group. Not especially friendly skies, then, given the salvos fired broadside.

Splashes of acidic light sear overhead, the barking salvo jerking the ship slightly from side to side. No gun is responsible, though someone does man a crescent-shaped board of one kind or another. Defensive pulses flare beneath holographic projections in four dimensions, time simply another manipulative element.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Oh, the dark elf is blamed.

Fortunately, Blackagar is not the sort to take these things out on an entire group of people due to the actions of the one. But so many had been there. That the Inhumans were not ordered to war against the Dark Elves in general had only come due to deep meditation to keep that temptation at bay. He wouldn't commit his people to eliminating that group. But blamed? Yes, they were very much blamed.

The thought is snapped away from him, this new reality taking its place, the shaking of the ship over the waves bringing him crisply back into the awareness that something is amiss. It is unusual, that is for certain and in that moment unfamiliar. Blackagar reaches out, seeking something to place his hand on in order to brace himself as brow furrows. Familiar. Not just for him specifically but something feels familiar.

Jane Foster has posed:
Svartalfjar themselves might not have a clue about what Inhumans are or why they amass for war on the borders of a distant realm, led by their temperate sovereign nursing a brutal blow. In fairness, though, dark elves need precious little reason to loose swords and daggers or exchange sadistic incantations for the hell of it.

Something is very much amiss, and little effort to identify the two sides comes to life. Kree ships that close little by little, those in the lead unleashing a steady barrage of fire on the deck. At him, crashing down. Those few bolts slipping through the distance and defenses create a rain of sizzling fire that warps across a fine matrix of briefly visible grids and starlike bands.

"Where'd you come from?" demands a masculine voice from a sailor nearby, thudding across the deck. He slams his hand into a wall not far from the Inhuman king, a readout appearing in three dimensional detail. Glimmering spots probably indicate where their defenses are weak, and he deftly maneuvers different blocks into place, causing a subtle hum to flow through the floor.

The accusatory tone might not be entirely misplaced, but two other sailors not wholly bound up in their tasks converge, body language edgy and borderline on hostile. One carries a blue-fletched stick, helpful for zapping random people. Or worse. The ship banks abruptly but they keep their footing; he might not be bothered or need to grab a rail. Walls and rails, at least, can be found. The deck divides in three; the back end, behind him, presumably large enough to land a small airplane or helicopter. It's currently empty. The sides, where several pods contain actual people, and the helm -- or what could be such -- up at the front, pointed away.

Waves threaten to crash over them all as another shot goes hard into the water. Cold liquid splashes over the side and sweeps unabated across the bucking, heaving ship. //Engines full// blinks across several screens. Stormclouds roil and hiss, a sputtering sizzle from one of the closing, smaller ships piloted by someone who knows what the hell they are doing suddenly forced to peel off for a full salvo of blackfire shots thrown back.

Another demand bears a jarring familiarity to a voice he knows. Mostly. If not tinged ever so slightly... Gaelic? Close, it's not Jemma's accent, but a nearer cousin. A shout from over his shoulder is barely heard as the defensive manouvres against the Kree volleys skip and kick them low to the water. "What the hells are you doing here?" Jane Foster.

Mostly.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
What is /he/ doing here? That sort of question carries with it the rife possibilities of endless permutations if Blackagar were inclined to settle in for the debate upon that topic. What is HE doing here?

The Hell if he knows. He's only looking for.

Turning, his hands motion, a circle of fingers and then an emphatic point. Sign language. Attilan. Authority Based. ~YOU.~ being adamantly emphasized in the direction of /the/ Jane that he sees. A slow gesture of his hand behind him at the collection of Kree vessels on the horizon before he signs once more.

~What are YOU doing here?~

Jane Foster has posed:
The ship faces the churning grey skies within its protective shield, heaving and sloughing off the furious waves. One Kree ship changes tactics midair, shifting dark energy bolts from the deck to the water instead. Vaporized steam erupts and throws off the choppy balance even further, forcing a parade of errors to bloom on the holographic screens and sailors scrambling to compensate. Plumes thrown into the air make it difficult to see, raining seawater down.

Jane's expression carries the curse she doesn't speak, and the light tether twisting through the deck lashes out like a cat's tail. Thrown to the side, she jams her feet into a corner and grabs a slippery handhold. A muffled grunt of discomfort doesn't slow her down. Crackling relays offer an imperfect translation, and she glances back to the man not soaked or bruised like the rest of them. "What does it look like? Havin' a fine cuppa and putting my feet up. Wu, get a new headin' outta this mess!" The bleat of a system warning accompanies two Kree ships closing to unacceptably close levels. Strafing fire from the smaller returning fighter zipping by does little more than needle one of the Kree ships, forcing it aside rather than closing head-on.

The sky darkens, and she hisses when their own defenses send out a fluttering crackle of electricity in a net around them. It stops a few of the blackfire bolts. Not enough. "Stoppin' *them* from getting their hands on a weapon. If you're here to take it, I'm afraid we'll take umbrage."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The ship tosses, it shudders as the waves lash the side and Blackagar's feet lift slightly off the deck, holding him in the air there so that the cascading movements do not impact him. Hovering as he does, his blue eyes ignore the chaos going on around them, instead focusing on 'Jane' exclusively.

~Jane.~ He signs her name, not a proper way of doing a name, but the method he uses for /her/ name. Affection laced into the movements along with additional touches in the turns of his fingers meaning a multitude of things.

~This is not real. This is not where you are. I need you to come with me.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Well, isn't someone fancy. Floating reduces a great deal of the turbulence of Blackagar, but not the crew fighting a battle of moving away from the Kree fleet and keeping said fleet off their tail.

Jane climbs along the slanted walls until she can squeeze around the corner, and the lurching drop of coming off the backside of a wave throws her down to a crouch in the hall. Crackling bleats translate his gestures into words as she goes, though one speaker gives out in a flicker of light. "I assure you, this bloody well /is/ real. Are you askin' me to abandon ship? Them?"

She finally finds the deck where the ships are in perfect sight, the ragged holes in the defenses showing in pale glimmers to him. "I say nay when they risked ev'rythin' to keep others from dyin'. Make a better offer!"

At the helm, furious movements look not a little like they're performing a concert with impossibly good soundproofing. They don't duck, lashed into place, while that nasty Helion-class ship -- a slender triangular-shaped craft -- sharply banks on a turn to run right back at them. Three more warbirds with their all-too-familiar rounded profile, slender as a knife and running on a pair of warp engines, descends out of the clouds. There's no outrunning them.

They go fast as light, the very kind used to throw Kree warriors to the fringes of the solar system and harass good little research projects that form their own civilizations.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar is familiar with them, has to be, knowledge of the most dire of enemies is a requirement for any King worth their moon dust. But despite them, and the threat they pose, he ignores it. A slow of shake of his head follows. ~But it is not real.~ He repeats the words, countering in the most basic of ways before elaborating.

~All of this, around you. This is not real. This is a moment locked in time. A fear perhaps that part of you holds within. But ask yourself, Jane. How do you know me if this is real?~

He turns, looking at the ships without wariness in his eyes. Instead he returns his gaze to the woman. ~If this is real, how do you understand me?~

Jane Foster has posed:
"I don't," she fires back without looking over her shoulder, working her way up the deck through the plumes of seawater and the explosive bursts raining overhead. Disintegrating particles blaze green and blue in their demise, torrents streaking down in so many radiant tears that backlight them both. "Ad Astra's doing all the work. I have no time t' argue what is real. My priority is my crew getting to the jump in one piece. And, apparently, you." She has to yell to be heard; anything less is caught in the wind and the showers cascading through the faltering shell around them.

Another sortie begins, frantic, the swivelling bursts from the guns unable to catch the warbirds on the run. She grimaces when they release blurring missiles, calling out commands. "Lewis, reinforce north sector. Peters, we're out of options. Drop the package!" A blurred vibration ripples over whatever passes as a comm system, repeated. "Aye, I /said/ that. Drop it, that's an order."

Another sharp jolt finds them soaring higher and banking hard, steering around a missile plunging into the sea and detonating in a bubbling halo of water. The crew around them jerk and try to find their footing. They have heartbeats. They breathe, their fear a real frisson on the air.

The package doesn't look like much, but the whole ship pulls abruptly upward by the nose, engines screaming at the pressure, spooling up. They don't have warp drives to play with, but the scent of ozone grows unbearably strong. The pesky Helion roars around and scuds across their trajectory, reversing to thread their course. She mutters under her breath. "Can't go around, gotta go through, eh?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A growl emanates from Blackagar, annoyance. At the situation, at the past weeks, days, months? What has it been. Time has become so diluted in his mind. But right now he is annoyed at /this/ situation. More torture. More struggle.

Turning, he bites his lip momentarily and then finally looks up at one of the passing Helion and speaks in a steady voice, "Enough."

The word barely finishes leaving his lips before he looks back at Jane, hands clapping again, this time with force behind them to send a shockwave to gain attention.

~You do not have time for this. You must come with me, now.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Enough. Two syllables.

Two syllables that tear apart the sky and send the Atlantic ricocheting backwards as though the Midnight King invoked a miracle against the Egyptians. Thick condensation forms as the detonated ocean water and disrupted atmosphere ring authoritatively, white rings made radiant blue on contact with liquid and metal surfaces. The Helion-class ship stands no chance; neither does the warbird closing on its path, caught in an oblique angle by a force sufficient to take down a mountain and cleave a fault-line open. Its energy signature explodes in a plume. The smaller black ship is consumed to nothing in an instant, pulverized pieces thrown aside. Assault from the front is gone, the blackfire bolts chasing them obliterated in a heartbeat.

Beneath them, the package erupts -- a lightning halo, an electrified cage widening in a basso bloom that licks radiant tendrils at anything metallic that passes. Like, say, another ship. By comparison it's hardly a lightshow at all, swallowed into the destructive ring.

The woman stares at him, thrown offguard, and then smacks a panel with her palm until it awakens. Destination: Centaurus cluster. Preprogrammed run, ready to go.

The battered ship jolts and bucks, kept on the forcible rough trajectory thanks to the work of the helms-trio. Navigator Lewis, stuck with the miserable task of holding course, cries out repeated commands as the sky refuses to open. Until it does: a blurring in the sky where mists ripple and twist to gravitational distortions. The free run takes them to the jump gate, a twinkling of rainbow lines roaring around them.

For a moment, peace. Jane reads off the screens, coordinating their limited resources while the engineering reports run for how badly off they are. "Keep the cargo secure, whatever we can divert to the Faraday cage. We can't afford that to wake up," she provides instruction in a low, quick tone that's stripped of fear. Its flatness /is/ the fear. Then she looks up to him. "If that isn't a compellin' way to say allons-y, I dinnae know what is." Her jaw tightens, and she looks askance at him through loose, long bangs. The Celtic tones are there, stronger, when she's not yelling over seaspray and explosions. "And just where are you proposin' to take me?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The remnants of his work leave only a momentary lasting image in Blackagars eyes before he turns and faces the Celtic speaking Jane. Slowly his arms fold, and he finally looks down to see he is dressed in what, for him, is casual clothes. His simple black shirt, simple blue jeans, boots. No wonder he must look out of place to those around him. A battle, him appearing. But in his mind, the figment of it not being reality continues to echo. At least, not his reality.

~What year is this?~ he asks with the signing of his hands, ~Where is this?~

Jane Foster has posed:
Celtic-tinged English, teasing out somewhere between Scotland or Ireland when she falls into her natural cadence. Jane looks dressed in a mishmash of styles, none entirely right for the telling, her long jacket and tall boots vaguely indicative of a seafaring era juxtaposed with far more futuristic tech. Cobbled at that; not all holds a symmetry Blackagar might expect, just as their appearances don't. The crew isn't in one uniform or colour-scheme, though they seem to favour grey and silver.

Her braid she whips off her shoulder where it hangs down her back, strung by a few metal charms, all embossed by tiny runic marks. "2099 by the Common Reckoning. 58.1 UE under the Shi'ar system." She looks at him. "We're approachin' the Orion Gate off Centauri B. In another five minutes, we exit the jump, assuming all goes well. That suit you?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
2099.

Centauri B.

Orion Gate.

Blackagar shakes his head slowly, ~None of that is correct~ he informs her looking around. A few steps are taken around where he stands, having lowered himself back to the deck. 70 years, give or take? No. That's simply not right.

~This is not where you are from. When did you arrive here, your earliest memories?~

Jane Foster has posed:
2099 in all its diffuse glory comes to life as the gate ahead gleams gold. The streaks of light suddenly shorten and the fixed position of the stars come into focus when the ship stops travelling at such speeds. Ragged sighs emanate from many of the sailors sagging into their seats, beginning more familiar routines of preparing for rendezvous in a familiar sector of space. Ahead burns a red dwarf star, two smaller ones at a distance. The planet looming in the foreground is swept by thin bands of cloud, devoid of oceans for the most part. Its terrestrial landmasses vary between gold, dun, and green, a patchwork not entirely different from the last time he was here.

However, the floating ring of stations around Proxima Centauri-b was not there, and neither were the flotilla of small streaming shapes that indicate a functioning space elevator, among other things.

"Request high security protocols when we dock, and aye, dinnae drop word of our visitors. Be sure the Nova Centurion is present before we anchor her, got it?" That would include Blackagar, it seems. Relaying other details through the swift, precise movements of her fingers, she turns his way somewhat. "Right. I'm from Earth. Nova designation Terra-928. This is Centauri-B 928. Been here on a few runs over the past decade, why? I'm not wanted /here/." Not exactly. "We steer wide of the Kree-occupied or Phalanx sectors for obvious reasons. Shi'ar runners are always violent to cross, and I doubt t' find any this far. They do not risk runnin' afoul of the Arakki from Mars Prime."

All this slots together gracefully enough. "My earliest memories? London before Alchemax tried to buy out Westminster and Mum patching up protestors from the riots by the old museum. Flying a drone over the sea from a pier. Water and sky are in my blood. Must've been, wha', all of three? We waxin' poetic before a trade, that's a new one, even for me. Charmer you are."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Silence follows then, for long long moments.

~So you have no idea who I am?~ Blackagar asks towards the Jane he is speaking with, curiosity in those blue eyes before he adds, ~If you do not know me, how do you understand what I am now speaking to you, in this language?~

The details she is dropping seem out of place to him, there are terms he recognizes; those elements of space that he keeps appraised of but rarely delves in to.

~What are you doing out here then? Perhaps you should start at the beginning, as if I were new to this time.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Ad Astra is a massive AI-driven language learning set," Jane explains while the ship gears up for its rendezvous at said space port. They get none of the frills a Nova Corps ship would, but her crew consists of renegades and sea-to-space faring rebels, not a highly regarded group of galactic space friends. Or police. Maybe they would, elsewhere. "On-world, I'd have to rely on the mobile jack-in or hope you got implants." A wry smirk creases her lips, not in any way sour or cruel. More triangles square up under her fingertips and she whisks them to the side, examining the profile. "Right, basics. I'm Captain Jane of the Stormbreaker. You're on her, fine lass she is." A reassuring pat to the chrome and glass wall is probably just for show. "I'm a trader and runner, that's the short of it. We come from Earth. Earth isn't the pretty blue and green jewel they sell for space tourism. She's in a sorry state from civil war an' takeover by the ultra-rich. Black carders belong to the megacorps that control the haves, and most of the population either falls into line under them or scrapes by outside the megacorporations' control. Hard life out there, the war destabilized a lot. I was born after all that, but in a point where civil rights got flattened by who had the most money. My family didn't, we weren't black carders or in line to join them. You either became a corpo drone or jailed or left. Not much choice. I got outta London after Icy Eye and Alchemax wanted us all chipped and full access to our lives. No thanks."

She sweeps her hand sharply. "So, here we are. Took on with a crew who needed a celestial navigator and my education was enough for that. I sail the North Atlantic an' run trade between smaller communities and city-states. For more lucrative stuff, we go off-world. Been doin' it long enough to survive -- amass a good crew, a ship, a bounty on my head with a few corpos. The way I like it, honestly. Most of it outside corpo control, which blacklists me and my crew in larger centres -- New York in the US, the Federated States of America, Hong Kong, south and west to India Consolidated. Corpos treat us like criminals, we see 'em for the capitalist tyrants they are. It's safer and lucrative to work on and past Mars, given that's where the Arakki set up shop an' they have no tolerance at all for their bullshit.

"Sorry to say, sweetie, but you're on a ship with dubious registration outside the Free Russian Alliance. I got a job that had to be done, stopping the Kree from grabbing a very nasty little weapon that wouldn't be good for any of us. Mess of a job, but it's almost over. We'll be droppin' off our cargo with the nice Nova Corps and you'll be free to be on your way with stories of ridin' with pirates."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar listens to the tale being told, eyebrow lifting ever so slightly as he begins to ponder, thinking outloud; not considering if this Jane could even hear his thoughts like his could.

<<Alternate Reality? Or perhaps just a delusionary tale? Maybe something she made up in a fragment of her mind during the sundering, something to escape to. A conglomeration of various novels and stories rolled into a temporary reality, something to survive.>>

As she finishes, his blue eyes blink slowly and he instead begins to sign.

~That may be what you believe. But the truth is much more than that, perhaps difficult to hear. You are Doctor Jane Foster, Astrophysicist. Resident of New York proper, sometimes London, and quite often the Moon. The year is 2023, give or take a few months. A tragedy befell you, and I have come a great distance to reconnect the various parts of your soul that were splintered in that tragedy.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Astra remains active aboard Stormbreaker; it dutifully interprets whatever it happens to be in hand or range. The readiness to turn sign into communicated language happens quietly and onscreen, audible only when no projection makes sense. Of course, a few of the words may not translate over at all or come up weirdly but Jane seems well used to the limitations.

"New York? Not a chance. Nueva York is torn up by Alchemax and Stark-Fujikawa, and they will have me in cuffs the second I stepped foot in there." Jane shakes her head, a bitter edge to her voice. No love lost for Alchemax, clearly. She rolls her shoulders roughly. "2023 was almost fifty years before the first civil war. I was born in 2067. Astrophysicist? I guess if you're awful generous. Never finished my degree in astronomy 'cause you signed away your rights to get one. Like everything -- you pay an' give up bits of your independence for it. Been an ugly reality for a long time. If you aren't a mutant, anyway. They made it on Mars Prime."

She brushes the back of her hand under her eye, then sighs, looking at Blackagar for a long time with those dark brown eyes flitting slightly around him. She has a faint scar at her temple, a leaner cut to her features that comes with activity, hunger, life. "I hope you didn't travel by slow ship from some point light years out, 'cause time dilation is a bear."

<<Nova Corps hailing us!>> bleats the system, announcing itself. <<Permission to dock and board granted!>>

She swivels and pushes up, gesturing at the deck. "I don't think the truth is difficult, I just can't square it away with the life I'm leadin'. Nueva York is corpo hell. You sure I'm the lass you're lookin' for? Ah, quick step to the left for a moment, the flare radius is gonna be rough."

Ten seconds later, the Nova star pattern bursts onto the deck through the tattered shield and remains a steady gold as exactly one person floats through the busy bay they're headed for. The cargo hold soon enough starts to split, doors opening to reveal an oblong box about seven feet long, three feet tall, tapered at either end. Scorch marks all along one side are prevalent, a pretty nasty scratch along the top revealing intensely bright metal underneath. "That's what all the trouble's for. The sooner we get it away from here, the better. Intergalactic assassins and hunters crawling all over this sector, and they'd wipe out Earth t' get it."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar moves the small step as asked, but his stature and face do not change. ~It does not matter if you square it or not, it is the reality of what is. Even the name of this ship is a testament to the reality that you stem from. Whether this is an alternate reality or some kind of time variance, I do not spend enough time studying such things to make a firm guess.~ The insistence in his hands remains, emphasizing the points he is making.

~All of this however, does not matter. At least where I am concerned. What does matter, is that I was brought here, to this place, where you are. Seeking you, or specifically the shard of your soul that exists in this place. Nova or Kree or, whatever that is, is outside of the situation.~

Jane Foster has posed:
She isn't dismissing him, though much of Jane's attention rests on the approaching Nova Centurion. The smart navy uniform and bucket helmet single him out. A faint golden glow rises to a brilliant firebath as he descends, leaving absolutely no room whatsoever for subtlety. No smuggling the box out without someone taking notice of the trade.

He alights on the deck and receives a welcome from one of the sailors from the helm, her arm in a sling. Black curls wave around her face, cropped short at the sides, but the face is unmistakably one of a fellow SHIELD agent -- albeit SWORD, of late. Their conversation is swift and direct, her outside the fiery border line and him dropping within it to glance at the box.

The captain's eyes don't shift from the cargo, her body slowly tensing as though expecting a panther to leap out from it. Or tentacles. Maybe a tentacle-panther that phases into existence. "A shard of my what?"

The Centurion presses his palm to the scratched lid. A few sailors watch on nervously from the sides, shielded by dark, cracked glass.

His skull aches from the ululating shriek that no one else apparently hears when the lid is touched. The Centurion takes another moment to pull at the lid. Then, fist surrounded in that golden light, he just punches the thing off with force enough to rattle the Stormbreaker and leave a divot in the deck plate. The cracked metal doesn't even shatter, but a gap is wide enough for him to tear apart. Therein lies a shape visible even at a distance: a long silver-blue haft crowned by a hammer. The slender tip of a brilliant white crystal wedge widens into a squared block at the head. Copper fire starts to flame around its shaft, writhing lazily upward. A profound shape -- one perhaps evocative to him -- of a Universal Weapon.

An Accuser's -- the Accuser? -- hammer.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Soul.~ Blackagar signs again towards Jane, emphasizing that point.

The conversation he is most interested in closes off some as his attention deviates towards the sound of smashing happening. Breaking into the container to expose the item within; one that is known. Familiar.

Dangerous.

The writings over the Kree and the Accusers are well documented, the observations even at a distance of them known. Seeing it draws his ire, his frown deepening at it's revelation. ~You underestimate the danger of your cargo, and of the destruction it will bring. The wielder does not matter, it will bring untold chaos in its path.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Do I?" Jane's tone isn't sarcastic, but being of Scottish ilk might make her sound so. Pesky byproduct of the area, though she grimaces a little at her poor ship being mistreated so. Hands curled protectively into fists loosen some, and she gestures sharply with her arm at Lewis and Wu up further, looking equally ready to instigate some choice words. Because who is going to argue with the Nova Corps, present Inhuman king excluded?

Familiarity may register for him in several aspects. The shape of the hammer, a weapon of terror and suffering.

The luminous crystal, so like the broken fragments glittering under that star-dappled oculus and patterned dome he left not so long ago.

Copper fire crawling along the thing, so similar to what's present at the periphery of his vision even now, an afterimage in every blink but not quite there if he tries to directly stare at it.

The Centurion hisses and carefully lifts the haft first from the battered, foam-filled cradle to avoid directly triggering the genetic signatures hidden throughout the weapon. She moves forward instead of backing away, gripping a rail as the spaceport bubbles and seethes around him. Or may be at a standstill, frankly. "I'm well aware. Can't leave that on Earth where some dictator or megacorpo tries to use it. They're the best option. The only one. I dinnae want to see it used. They'll bury it better than I ever could." A nod briefly indicates the Centurion taking the beautifully balanced weapon. His own energy is gold; the copper seething closer to his gloved hands follows a serpentine path, shooting higher up, causing him to pause for just a moment.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The hammer, it is noticed so much that he barely is drawn to the shard. At first. Then it lingers in his vision, the peripheral visages that surround his sight growing until Blackagar reaches up to touch his temple, staving off the flight of nausea that grips him. Through it, he pushes forward though, mentally and physically as he takes a step forward.

He must look like a staggering drunk, moving with sluggish feet towards that white crystal, but it hums in his mind, echoes and he intends to retrieve it, to grab it. Pushing through anything that may come to him, his hand seeks to grasp, to wrap around it. Is there a hum? Why is it so loud in his ears, in his mind?

Jane Foster has posed:
"Centurion Shane," Jane thumbs a pop-up and a holographic array appears before her. "Please drop the shield, we have a passenger onboard approaching. He knows what it is, non-hostile, but he needs our--"

The rest of the exchange is lost for Blackagar, more than likely, in the murmurations in his mind, the thrumming sensation that practically vibrates down his spinal cord. Around him the ship remains still, caught in a magnetic cradle, stopped by the apparatus infusing a low but present gravity. Other ships berthed nearby run the gamut, several of their crews staring. The Centurion wearing the five-point helm looks away, to him, stiffening slightly as the Inhuman king approaches. He rises from one knee, addressing the other man. "Easy now, getting your land legs back under you is tough. You shouldn't--" The faint shimmer of the Nova force, already unleashed as a protective shield, flows right back around him as the fire is only momentarily dampened. Centurions don't tend to ignite people at random.

They do, however, tend not to release Universal Weapons easily. His hands remain tight on the metal haft, the exposed wedge of his mouth turning down in a frown and it's going to be some kind of tug-of-war.

Copper flames dance and explode in brighter flashes as Blackagar nears, and they envelop the wedge of the crystal-topped hammer as his hands close around it. The brilliance gives way in a flash--

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Falling
    into the darkness
        just one last glimpse of the light
    before shadows
bite.

Coiling blackness wraps around every limb and snaps at eye-level. Fangs form from mouths in too many directions, but her fists clench around the serpentine bodies. Maws bite, over and over, pain a flash-freeze coming from all directions. Still, she tightens her grip as hard as she can.

They descend together, and the svartalf screams in mad defiance of her still.

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A chunk of crystal the size of his fist wreathed in that deep orange flame rests in both hands. The smell of the sea still hangs in the air as he emerges into the same chamber he left, the sailing ship in stained glass overhead. Water drips from his boots, a shallow puddle of a retreating tide left there.