17075/Ex Umbra: The Bridge

Ex Umbra: The Bridge
Date of Scene:	10 February 2024
Location:	Dakota Apartment 1
Synopsis:	Blackagar commits acts of ruin for good.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

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Jane Foster has posed:
Once again, Blackagar Boltagon walks his path alone.

He heads along an arrow-straight hallway adorned by niches and stained glass windows under elegant arches. Echoes of Daisy's footsteps or Jemma's conversation with Jessica reach even this far in a dim murmur.

He passes stories crafted in silence. Painted shards tinted in monochromes streaked by soft cobalt and cyan depict images of  a peculiar round device, a woman working at a table, and a skyline dotted by the domes and shard-slice of buildings.

The doors push open into a fan-shaped chamber saturated in opalescent light passing through the prominent rose window. Projected onto the floor is a bridge in London, stricken with locks, that hangs over a stylized river.

And from there, another world awaits.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
It was a path he needed to take alone, another one. It was unfortunate perhaps, but there were elements he truly believed were meant for just him. Perhaps in some ways a penance, a price he must pay for crimes that he does not fully understand or admit.

The child is fresh in his mind, pushed aside. It could not be worst than that.

Could it?

That thought lingers as he presses through the window and steps towards the destination revealed with the bridge.

Jane Foster has posed:
Loneliness blooms for a moment, wrapping around him in shadows and light. Being intentional about his purpose makes the step into the unknown no easier.

Copper flames pirouette around him in a heliacal strand. Then copper fades away, blowing out a few shadows as he comes to be from thin air. A window overlooks the Regent's Canal, where the span of a humble bridge stands. Several black cars parked on the kerb are clearly related to valet service, and the subtle presence of the Metropolitan Police peppers the spotlit façade into the wider complex he must be in.

A gentleman in a labcoat stands near a doorway, though he hardly looks like a scientist exactly. Too clean-cut, buzzed hair, and the bearing of someone alert. Other doors here give an administrative feel to the hallway, hardly any other signs that soften it for public purpose. Frosted windows set into the doors and inward wall offer further privacy. A set of locked doors lead outward.

At least it's easy to guess he is in the right place. The door guarded by Mr. Scientist is for one Dr. Jane Foster, per the nameplate.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The washing sense of isolation gives away as Blackagar arrives in the realm. Now, however, he has been able to become accustomed to both the experience and the fact that what is before him may not be what he is expecting. Nothing is going to necessarily be what it appears, and he is prepared for that.

The black cars lined up draw his attention only momentarily, but the individual at the door definitely pulls focus. A brief look is given, blue eyes crossing over him before the Inhuman proceeds towards the door. The old adage of 'act like you belong there' is certainly in play. Best to sell that he should be where he is.

Jane Foster has posed:
The guy in the lab coat guarding that office stands at attention, and it's only a matter of time -- 12.8 seconds -- before he notices someone abruptly appears at the corner.

His bearing straightens, back hardened, shoulders up. "Sir!" Proper British accent suggests a likely Eton boy or some similar public school sort. "Sir, this area is restricted. You--"

The datapad by the doors blinks and a blue ring appears. "Can you verify your identity please?"

A soft voice muffled through the doors inquires, "--time for an interview?" Achingly familiar, if a little tilted into the UK. American voice, but picking up those hints.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Area restricted?

A steady look from Blackagar follows, it is a well-rehearsed and well-known expression. The sort a King would make to a peasant. The look challenges the very concept of questioning him in any capacity. Blue eyes lock on the guard momentarily as Blackagar stands up straighter to look down at the security guard in silence.

Silence hints at barely contained berating. A silence that covers... the need for silence.

His hand raises slowly and he points at the door, ordering without words for it to be opened.

Jane Foster has posed:
Nothing obviously shows a restricted area other than the locked doors. Other systems security must be subtler than that, beyond having a professional fellow sizing up Blackagar with cool brown eyes. His jaw tightens, and the class-consciousness of the country filters through that level look. Silence is met with a frown, and he shifts, standing in front of the doors to block admission. The effort is rather mitigated by the door opening with a whisper, heavy locks retracting and something vibrating in a hum that fades back to prove far more than meets the eye protects that innocuous office.

The woman dressed incongruously in a high-collared white coat and gloves over a long pleated blue dress must be the Princess Scientist Barbie, her hair pulled up into a chignon with protective blue-tinted safety glasses on. Or just VR glasses; the difference between the slightly thicker lenses is hard to be sure. "Mr. Whidbey? Has the agenda changed? I expected a last-minute rescheduling after..." The briefest pause is a tell as she looks past the man's shoulder directly at the Midnight King.

Tension is there, a low level stress behind the polite smile, a tightening around the corners of her eyes. "Pardon me, I was led to expect that I wouldn't see anyone."

Whidbey -- labcoat, lanyard, military poise -- makes a fractional frown. He assesses the two, and then slowly steps aside. "Dr. Foster." A name can be a question, an order, a warning. A dismissal of them both.

"We are cutting it rather close, I confess." Having stepped out to offer a greeting, she then must pick up her hemline slightly and recede back in.

Jane Foster has posed:
Security protocols exist for something large, a whole laboratory kitted in projection screens on glass enclosures, monitors providing continuous reports, and other touches that any denizen of Attilan would find comfortably familiar. Organized pipes emerge from a bank of supercooled chrome pods on the wall, feeding into a raised round platform in the middle of the open floor space. Frosted windows turn out to be purely decorative, several inches of concrete and steel walls dampening the lab from the circular foyer entrance. Workstations enclose the outer perimeter along with an equipment locker that belongs on a sci-fi show with plasma guns and FTL craft.

The bath of water lifts into steam around a decorative sculpture four meters tall and equally as wide, forming a set of rings. The outer is a complete piece of metal, the inner ring marginally smaller and connected by a series of metal spikes that probably permit free motion through 360 degrees. A minor energy field envelopes the otherwise empty core, giving a glowing ball at the center of the apparatus.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar shoots a momentary glance at Whidbey, once more almost dismissive before he moves to try to peek further inside. The inability to truly communicate in the moment leads him to resort to older methods he used before. Rather than sign language that they may not understand, and without writing tools, he carries an annoyed look when necessary, the expression of someone who simply does not have the time to talk and is dismissive to anyone trying to make him.

A gesture is made towards the center of the room, the device and the expectant look on his face holds that which attempts to portray a demanding of answers from someone used to being given them without having to ask.

Jane Foster has posed:
The lab doesn't lack writing materials. Several of those drawers must carry a healthy supply of notebooks, not to mention the tablets, computer screens and keyboards, and other interfaces required to access or power the technology stored in this unprepossessing room within a stone's throw of the British Museum and the thick of the ancient city. London Town flows unabated around the scientific marvels and drudge work alike, insulated by walls and polite signs averting attention away.

Blackagar receives a quick look sidelong, her shoulders pulling back a fraction and her hand going to the white coat though the buttons seal her from the waist up behind its anonymous, professional armour. Skirt whispering as she steps back, she gives him a moment to follow. "Whidbey, the arrangements are complete." She addresses the guard without quite looking his way, though to a casual glance, it certainly seems so. "I can spare a few minutes for our guest. It would be inconceivable to refuse after he came all this way." Please isn't spoken, but there all the same, a tacit warning stitched into the pauses that separate sentences in gulfs wide enough to paddle through.

Whidbey sizes up the woman, short and engulfed by the chromed glow of the lab. His expression stays taut and unruffled when those pale blue eyes check to Blackagar, and his bearing shifts, arms folding. "Twenty minutes. Past that violates protocol, and I will report the incident." Boiled down to paperwork and calls to security, surely. Jane does nothing more than assuage the testy situation by spreading her hands in a placating gesture, too jumpy, but there.

"Quite clear. I imagine the interview will not take nearly that long." A beat slides into the scaled hum of machinery, energy vibrations coalescing in waves. "Won't you come in? I dare not keep you waiting."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Intrigue exists as Blackagar nods his acquiescence towards following further into the space. A stern look towards Whidbey is given, judging, dismissing, as he steps inside. Passing by an aforementioned desk, Blackagar spots a notepad and writing pen which he snatches up while they move. Writing as they go, his blue eyes take in elements of the lab; something about it screams advancement beyond what he would have expected. The energy that vibrates about is quite present as well, resonating for him.

'I am looking for this,' he has written, drawing a rough semblance of a shard fragment as he tears the page free and presents it to Jane. Straight to the point, something he has learned in the previous incarnations rather than getting pulled into the reflection of life. There is a pause though before he adds another sheet. 'A singularity?'

Jane Foster has posed:
Whidbey keeps his post at the door, a frowning presence at even greater attention once Blackagar goes through. He cuffs his hands behind his back, parade rest adopted as the doors seal shut.

A faint hum adds more than a thrill to the air, joining the background noise as a steady buzz. Minute distortions might induce a headache if Blackagar stays in proximity too long. He doesn't have many places to hide from its influence as the field emanates from different angles and heights. Extremely low-level static encroaches on his senses, grating away in the finest grit waves.

Jane keeps her distance, her hands clasped together as she retreats to one of the bare, immaculate workstations. Her eyebrows lift when he takes a notepad, but a quick course correction retreats into professionalism once more. Curled fingers loosen, her lab gloves creaking.

Slender metal projections rise from the floor, pointed at the freestanding rings that gleam with a chromed finish. The miniscule blue, glowing lights indicate something in a technical language she understands, given how often her gaze ticks to them. Thin wires run through ultra-cold chambers where gas in a liquid slurry is forced into other chambers, vibrant and terrible within the thin exoskeleton containing the volatile compound.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Everything is ready as requested," she says, slowly, while he sketches out an image on the notepad. "I notified Ops at half past." Her jaw tightens, the words bland. Deliberately so. "You understandably have your instructions. Is it a review? I had assurances that my cooperation would make this a mere formality."

He holds the accusation stained on a fresh page and she glances at it, then back up to him. Pupils dilating, her chin rises. At once, the chair rolls back, screeching over tile with its casters locked.

"How do you know that?"

It isn't anger in her voice. It's terror.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar tilts his head first at the device, then the center of it before finally levelling his look at Jane. He reaches to the pad of paper and writes on it, slowly and with a methodical hand before turning it to show her. 'Because it is my design. Of sorts.' Innocuous as the statement is, it is definitely a bit of a revelation even for himself. 'I have thought of this, or something similar to it, many times. For other purposes than what you perhaps have intended.'

He motions back to the first paper, the shard drawn on it. Reemphasizing that it is the importance he is focused on.

Jane Foster has posed:
The woman stands bolt upright, the unlikely combination of her pleated evening gown and the white lab coat both unsettled around her. She backs away in a rush of filmy blue and stark white, her thighs bumping against the rounded desk. Buttons slew on the jacket from the force of the movement, giving Blackagar the briefest glimpse of a blue strap, the folded neckline, a slender silvery chain weighted by a gemstone pendant.

A nearly clear crystal the size of his finger, wrapped by a spindle, that gives off the faintest blue-white sheen.

That he, as king of a civilization that prizes some stones more than life, must surely recognize to some extent. Such crystals in their refined state are usually smaller and something of that size or quality would be cause for celebration. Possibly war.

Higher heels tucked away in a drawer somewhere probably go with the more refined outfit instead of closed-toe, sensible shoes with heels low enough to be functional when many polished surfaces or water exist in abundance. Jane's dark, troubled eyes shift away from Blackagar only briefly to the paper, treating him like a grenade lacking a pin or a hungry tiger.

"Your design," she repeats. "That's quite a claim." She reaches the edge of the workstation, palm skimming against the rim for balance. "I wasn't informed by the project head about your involvement. He led me to believe you performed a different role than developing a revolutionary source of clean energy." Her lips part slightly. "After two years, wouldn't I know your face?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A shake of the man's head comes and he writes quickly but still in a very clean script, showing it in pieces to allow her time to digest it.

'The work I have envisioned occurred in a parallel universe to this, I suspect. Although I am not certain if that is fully what this is. Additionally, you may be well mistaken if you believe that device will be used to generate clean energy. Perhaps. But that would most likely not be it's only use, which is why we have never taken it beyond mere thought exercise phase.'

He motions to her neck then, a small trace of his finger in the air to outline what he thought he saw. 'That seems rare, may I take a closer look?'

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane tilts her head a fraction, her attention snapping back to Blackagar. "I have reviewed the schematics fully and Dr. Zola checked them with me personally," she says quietly. "What do you believe this device would do? I am not ashamed to say that we have worked hard to bring something to fruition that addresses the fossil fuel scarcity and climate emergency, with potential to revolutionize how this nation -- and many others -- will operate going forward. It harnesses an exotic source of energy, one that doesn't require extraction-based methods or cause further degradation of the atmosphere or landforms. Safety concerns have been addressed thoroughly by security regimen from the very start. I've made many of the modifications so as to reduce the risk. The necessary measures engineered into the design account for a much larger envelope than required, not to mention the precautions for disposing of any waste. Though that is almost nil. This isn't nuclear, but taps into the fundamental forces of the cosmos." Her fingers continue to brace her as she edges slowly from the device, although it dominates a full quarter of the lab so that may be a matter of proximity more than anything. She halts, still tensed, shoulders drawn under her labcoat.

He reaches, and that very gestures earns a tremor zagging down her back. "A token of appreciation from my mentor. Dr. Zola gifted it to me."

The device's rings shine in the light, basking in the reflected glow from the water and the energy cycled through its intricate inner lattice, leaving only that energy field at the core to clearly emanate a cyan-tinted halo. Not a large glowing core, but large enough for, say, his hand. Maybe a tad smaller. Just about the size of that...

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar hesitates for a few moments, brow furrowing. It is something that he has been challenged with the entire time this delving into the undeath. Is it real? Or is it merely an illusion? If it is real, if this is someone's reality, then is there a protocol to not interfere with what is going on? To not skew this world. An earth science fiction concept touches his mind but it is pushed down. However, if it is not real, then what is the harm? Of course, that also means there is no point.

In other words, how real are the stakes? For others? For him?

As he thinks this over he writes on the note pad quickly, his handwriting quite neat despite the speed in which he drops down notations.

~You are tapping into a fundamental force that is also the force which both created the universe and binds it together. You are doing so with the intent of creating energy. You also are intelligent enough to know that it will not stop there. Only a small modification in specific points turns this device from an energy generation device to a weapon. But not just one of a local or even planetary scale. One that could detonate and create a reverberation impact across the universe. Used to disrupt, destroy, or even to disperse something instantly to all corners of reality. No, your device cannot do that, but the child of this one will be able to.~

Jane Foster has posed:
<<*As real as your own breath.*>>

Unbidden responses score a luminous path across the privacy of his thoughts, the unhallowed chorus finding their broken voice again after they slip from occultation. No pleasure taken in his discomfort, if any emotion can be distinguished beyond distant anger among the irregular reflections.

The presence that escorted him to the brink of oblivion and beyond the Styx remains with him still. Does Blackagar still fall?

Jane doesn't move for several moments that it takes her to read what he writes, and to process the gravity of the words on the page. It takes her some time to find her voice, staring between the page and Blackagar. Her troubled eyes just do not know where to settle, unable to decide on a fixed point. "The same arguments were made for nuclear power," she replies. "Fears that an accident would kill millions and render cities unliveable. That never happened. Sellafield operated for fifty years quite safely after the Windscale Fire. Improvements prevented accidents and enhanced output. This is well-documented and understood. What we use harnesses a fundamental force, but it will not cause the Big Crunch or a localised black hole. That is going live, one way or another. If you disagree then you can take it up with your MP's office. The decision is out of my hands."

She holds her arm out almost fully. "Why are you *really* here? It clearly is not for an interview, and I do not have time left to allay eco-activists."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar just stares at the woman, slowly shaking his head, before writing once more. He has drawn the fragment of a shard again, holding it up and pointing at it. ~This. This is why I am here. I am to regain this object for the institute. The,~ he gestures with his hand at the device, ~work you are doing is of secondary purpose. Perhaps more of an amusement. Fetch me this object and I will depart.~

After handing her the paper he resumes writing again though, almost amused as he does so. Once he finishes, and if Jane goes to fetch the object or merely stands there, either way he hands her a well designed sheet of paper. The writing flowing and even drawn with borders around it.

~Now, I am become Death, destroyer of Galaxies.~ The last word is underlined.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane drops back against the desk, shaking her head at Blackagar. "I'm sorry. I can't. It is simply impossible."

Regret stirs with that fear raising its fanged head again. Her palm slides across the polished surface and her fingers press downward, depressing a thin, flat square. Shoulders may shake but she is decisive nonetheless.

Several screens on the monitoring system wink over to a steady white bar. She backs away as the lighting drops and leaves only an ambient glow radiating from the glistening machined rings.

Almost immediately the banging on the door begins. Soundproofed as the room is, anything beyond is up to the imagination. She darts for a semi-clear curved wall, the necklace sliding free and bouncing innocently on her neck. He might recognize the pendant.

He last saw it on the South American shore on a silver chain. Faceted gems so not unlike the ones he knew, but so infinitely more radiant and alive, cut crystal refracting the light.

"They haven't given me a choice. My participation was mandatory, even Dr. Zola could not help with that." Her flat, closed-toed shoes and ballgown rustle as she veers for the back of the lab.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
She is not yours.

The thought echoes in his mind as Blackagar slowly shakes his head and takes a small step. A small step, but accelerated with the manipulation of energy, pushing him and Inhuman physiology to speed to step directly in the path of Jane as she is veering for the back of the lab to intercept her. The motion is not truly meant to scare, or harm her, but it is to cut her off so that he can make a calm reach for the pendant around her neck.

The gaze on his face is patient, almost kind, but also with a stern look to the eyes. Like a disappointed father, or perhaps just a Monarch looking at someone in the Kingdom who has done something that cannot be undone.

The paper rustles to the ground from where he left, leaving it. Conversation it would seem is done.

Jane Foster has posed:
There really never was a comparison. His speed outmatches hers; Jane's only advantage is a headstart and adrenaline spiking since the doors opened.

The upper echelons of the Avengers or the X-Men might give Blackagar a run for his money. A simple scientist can't -- not one untouched by Asgard's handiwork or other gene tampering. That's not to say she does not rush to avoid being completely cornered before reaching the bulletproof wall.

"Please. You're denying people something they badly need," she protests, throwing her arms up to block his hands. Kindness met by resistance, something driven beyond simple futility. He's witnessed her fight for her life. In anger. For duty, from obligation.

Likely not in desperation, certainly never cornered. Not even with Malekith, driven from the corporeal world. But she tries to keep her hands on the crystal, a sliver of primagen so vibrant it practically burns against the comparatively sullied skin. Pulling it away really isn't ever going to be hard. It never could be. Silver can snap. Fingers can be pried open.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Apology etches his features.

But it does not change the intended outcome. Gently lifting her wrists, slowly parting them and opening the grasp to pull the crystal free. If he did not need it? Then perhaps he would have left the situation, let them deal with the outcomes of their choices. There is no guarantee that the path would be ending in disaster. Perhaps this realm was one that was destined to be successful.

But not at the cost of a soul.

Sympathy still shines in his eyes.

Jane Foster has posed:
Doors open. Someone hurls a small object into the lab and smoke erupts from several points in the cannister. Laser pinpoints bloom in number, searching, focusing on a target of Blackagar. Silver snaps.

The crystal pendant rests in his hand, there.

"How disappointing." An uncannily familiar voice doesn't belong here. "You didn't uphold your end of the bargain. Too bad but expected." Dark conditions make Maximus hard to see, but he is there in the darkness behind the crouched guards slipping ahead to screen him. The nameless figures taking aim, in strange synchronicity loading. Aiming. Readying to fire.

Jane cries out, but what is done is done. His sympathy falls upon the woman transformed into iridescent waves of muddied colour, her substance evaporating slowly to watercolour transparency. Tears leave no streaks falling down her face.

"Stealing fire from the gods? Let's see how that turns out for you." Maximus laughs, a cold, ringing intonation that fills the air. "These are the moments that reveal your weaknesses. Your failure. You cannot fight. You cannot save anything."

And here, too, his body cannot resist the irresistible pull downward. Not the sense of darkness reaching up for him, trying to claw a path through his veins, buried deep in the wounds that no bullets would leave -- but they are firing, popping wordlessly like rain -- along paths scored in fire and pain.

In *lightning*, doubled upon the real and the remembered, the ephemeral and the physical.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Brother.

Blackagar turns his head towards the entrance as he pockets the pendant to keep it safe. But not Brother. Maximus was a fool at times, arrogant at all, but there has always been something... else.

Gods? Blackagar has encountered enough of those now in his days that he has come to be wary of that title.

Of Gods and Kings.

The phrase passes across his mind and slowly Blackagar's lips curl into a smile. Sympathy is gone, as is many other emotions except one that remains presently visible. Determination.

The melting away of the woman is a tell, as is many other elements that start to place him in to place. The antagonist of the situation, at least in many regards. The taint, as it were, on this reality and what is preventing /his/ Jane from returning to him.

"Enough.

Jane Foster has posed:
Maximus' eyes glow that uncanny blue shade and the forces firing on Blackagar rush at him.

The pendant on its broken chain weighs nearly nothing, and slows Blackagar just that smidgen more. It holds a gravity beyond a chunk of cut, refined crystal. His burden won't inhibit him from dodging another smoke grenade thrown his way or turning aside from a bullet aimed for his shoulder but its presence changes his balance enough to be palpable.

The woman he met on a bridge in London was never whole. Jane that remains here is an afterimage fading from his sight, undone from the conditions established upon her. Taking last second flight to reach the device leaves not a trace of sound, her ephemeral form bleeding away by the moment. Shots pass straight through her, even if they could find her in the dark.

"Enough." On that note, the detonation erupts from the contained cage of energy fuelled by the power cosmic. Slightly frayed space tears wider. The whole device rooted serves only as a focal point for the immense power, the crystal a key. Flesh becomes ash, blown to dust. Glass shatters. Pulverized concrete and metal blows away in fury. Deprived of that core, that key, the charged power current has nowhere to go once freed by his proclamation except surging wildly around the shattered laboratory. He can level mountains and cities, cracking moons.

Break the life's work of another.

Laughter grows louder still in its absence, all edges and mockery, the darkness closing in on waves of pain. He weaponizes thoughts, sending a barrage of impressions and the suffering locked in memories -- and moments -- that Blackagar could not be there for.

But he is, now.

Jane Foster has posed:
Then. Back.
His own body is wrested out of alignment with the collapsing space, its condition met, and unraveling golden fire twists around him to shove into the liminal space of interdimensionality.

The landing in the House of Wisdom won't be kind, wreathed in a ring of wreckage that's all too real.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Smoldering clothing in spots from the flame of Golden touch engulf Blackagar as his bearings come back to him. Surrounded no longer in the destruction of most likely a reality, but now, just being present in the Dungeon that he has come to identify it as. Another shard in his possession, the price paid? That will linger with him.

As real as his breath.

Even that he questions how real it is. But regardless, if it is real, then the twinned patron of this realm will be receiving guests shortly. Guilt? No. Blackagar had warned against starting the device, it was done regardless. That is on them. His contribution to the end? It hastened, nothing more.

Jane Foster has posed:
Travellers carry with them bruises and the bittersweet taste of knowledge. Nothing comes for free in life.

The glittering light dances around him, painted in abstract shapes that give the bridge form and weight in a decorative motif for the oriel window. Jeweled colours wash over Blackagar in their ephemeral weight, floating around him. The image, though, has changed.

Gone is the stream: that radiant current of the very energy to be focused through the ephemeral shard in his pocket. A branch of the Thames, tamed and focused, no longer pristine. The path of souls has turned black. The bridge above it remains and largely the same, but not quite. Though still recognizable the very one where they met by chance in London, the array of locks left there by passing lovers is gone except for one.

And in lieu of a keyhole is a single flame.