7011/Brakes on a Train

Brakes on a Train
Date of Scene:	20 July 2021
Location:	Hyperloop to New York
Synopsis:	Rescue arrives. Sif shows both her maternal and her cruel sides. Michael doesn't show his alien side. He thinks.
Cast of Characters:	Sif, Michael Erickson

---

Sif has posed:
It was a long day after the near dam-break, and after Aspen had collected her students and equipment it was time for her to herd them back to Metropolis (after a near bear-hug of thanks for Michael's help) and for Michael to head home. The road to the hyperloop terminal was in good condition, and thankfully the hyperloop itself, being of modern construction, not century-old, was in good condition.

The pod was moderately empty; perhaps two thirds of its seats filled. No real standouts. A young couple looking more at each other (and cooing nauseatingly). An elderly, distinguished-looking man carrying a cane he didn't seem to really need for walking. A businesswoman in business chic with an ultramodern hard-shelled briefcase which promptly opened to reveal what amounted to a portable workstation she instantly started working from, spewing high-density, hushed jargon at various people on chat windows. And, naturally, the almost preternaturally tall brunette in the ermine-trimmed red cloak, the scale mail armour, the sanguine tunic, the stiff white baltea, the war boots ...

Oh, and the paired axes at her waist.

OK, so maybe one real standout. The rest were normal. That professor-looking guy with the cane stands out as not belonging, though, right?

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Getting a big hug from a pretty girl is at least some benefit considering his waterlogged state - she's water too, after all, so does that make him doubly waterlogged? In any case, he's decided to call it a wash (so to speak) and taken the train back to the city. Which should...be very fast, considering they're only an hour or so north of New York City, but the man has managed to get his schedules confused, and is now on a trip to....wherever it is they're going. He'll get back to New York by the end of the day, surely.

    He has returned to wearing his armor, projecting the usual holographic disguise over its black-chromed metal surface; it's just Mike in a hoodie, folks, no need to think otherwise. He sits quietly, looking out the window, - well, except for yonder black-haired tower with the paired cleavers, which nobody else seems to give her trouble for carrying. Cosplayer, perhaps? No. He'd know the difference. She is something else, certainly. Some kind of throwback. Or perhaps a dimensional traveler. But from where?

    Happily enough, his holographic disguise can look out the window, while his actual senses are trained upon her without giving him away. Man as observation platform.

Sif has posed:
There's little tells here and there that the long-distance/other-dimensional traveller is indeed precisely such. Apparent unfamiliarity with the technology, for example. It takes her several tries to get the fake 'window' to show what's passing by on the outside of the hyperloop tube (a fiction amalgamated from static cameras, complicated broadcasting systems, and computer calculations), and subsequent staring at what's going past with a fixed gaze that practically screams "rubbernecking yokel"... only the dominant expression on her face isn't wonder, it's more thoughtful and analytical.

As usual, at the front of the hyperloop's pod, the information display loop is running, explaining how the system works for first-timers and other Nervous Nellies. It describes the partially-evacuated tunnel. The magnetic levitation slinging the pods through it. Even the safety mechanisms that are in place to prevent a tube from suddenly having air that would cause a disastrou...

Without warning there is a horrendous sound of twisting metal and protesting support structures. People's screams mix with the noise of metal that really does not like what's happening to it as the pod decelerates to a stop in an uncomfortably short time. The negative Gs it pulls are timed with the boy of the loving couple having stood up for some purpose or another, causing him to flip through the air, cartwheeling, for the second or so it takes him to travel the length of the pod before smashing against the front. Cartoonlike he sticks to the (padded) wall a moment before slipping down, leaving a trail of blood behind him from uncertain source.

The lights turn out a moment, which causes more shrieking, then cut back in on reduced power, every third light turned on at half-strength. All displays anywhere in the pod are now displaying emergency instructions. These include the instructions to remain in place as the pod has been designed to keep its air even after major crashes while the tunnel may itself be a near-vacuum.

No sooner had that part of the emergency instructions completed than a sudden "popping" of the ears is felt by all in the pod ... paired with an ominous hissing sound.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    It is so. So. Hard. To have a peaceful weekend lately. Michael keeps his eyes on the lady in the militaristic costume and the dual skull-cleavers as the train goes along, enough that he doesn't quite catch the signs that might otherwise tell him that, indeed, things are about to get Very Real.

    And then they do.

    Suddenly the magnetic bullet filled with passengers tries its own hand at cosplay - a giant railgun slug. But it does not impact the tunnel, it instead slams to a halt - sending people flying, the screaming sound of metal twisting and tearing penetrating the insulated walls of the capsule (itself a very bad sign) and the impact of bodies striking its padded interior. Michael himself gets clocked good on the back of the seat ahead of him; were he all meat and bone instead of meat and bone with a formfitting suit of flexible metal and hard-light projections he would probably have been killed instead of just getting his bell rung a bit and thrown to the floor of the train cab. The feminine component of the unfortunate couple is screaming at the status of her man there sprawled and bleeding in the corner, giving it her best horror-movie banshee wail, and the olrder fellow with the cane is out and sprawled out like a broken scarecrow amid the seats, unmoving. In fact, the only one among the mortals there that haven't been thrown down is the woman in the buisness suit, who, though ruffled, leans hard against the wall of the cab while her computer lies half-open, but undestroyed, upon the floor. As if she might have seen it coming.

    Or maybe not.

    Michael pulls himself up on one arm, blinking - the holographic 'skin' of his armor crackling in places like so much existential static before coming back into the whole again. Slowly he starts to get up...but with the capsule stuck, people injured, and a tube filled with exactly /nothing/ around them, the ringing in his ears is the least of his problems - or anyone else's. How the Hell do they get out?

Sif has posed:
There's another one largely unimpacted by the, well, impact. The woman with the murder manglers at her waist. Like Michael, her head hits the seat ahead of her. Unlike Michael, the seat ahead of her gives, bending forward against the force of her impact with its frame further distorting to bend the headrest in the shape of her forehead.

This doesn't seem to have disturbed her very much.

Standing up and quickly surveying the pod, she kneels next to the bloodied kid, looking him over without touching. Apparently she knows about movement and injuries.

"This one requires leeches," she says in a clear, matter-of-fact voice that fills the pod. "Is there a healer amongst you?"

Her eyes then fall upon the elderly man and in a swift, sure, graceful motion she's up, across (past Michael), to kneel next to him. Her face darkens at this. "This one is past the need for leeches," she says matter-of-factly. "If you have rites for his soul's passage, now is the appropriate time to use them."

Needless to say this causes more and louder banshee wailing from the girl at the back.

"You two." She's addressing the braced (?) woman and Michael. "Are you hale? Are either of you healers?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Lady." Michael gets to his feet, frowning at the woman as he does - powerful she might be, her mode of address is absolutely primitive. "Wherever you're from, the theatrical language is inappropriate. Let's keep it plainly said, please." His voice is loud, crisp, sharp. Military. "If you want to help, let's start with the problem at hand. Now do you know anything about these pods, or not?"

    Michael is a very intelligent being. He is not, however, an expert on the hyperloop. He does know about first aid, however, and so he's off across the capsule to the back, where a first aid kit is set a glass panel - which he shatters with a punch after wrapping his fist in a handkerchief (a mechanically unnecessary thing but essential for the show) - and extracting it huries to open it in the intent of applying care for the fallen young man. The dead man he doesn't even look at.

    "I...I'm fine," says the woman in the business suit, blinking at the sight of the towering Sif as if she'd never seen her before. "I...yes, thank you."

    "Yeah, well if you're fine, get back there and see if you can help that other girl." Michael is, apparently, In Some Kind Of Mode.

Sif has posed:
The disrespectful one is a healer. Sif decides to leave him unchastened for now. His services are more necessary than his courtesy after all.

"I could not possibly speak more plainly. This one's soul has passed on, and if you wish to keep him from Hela's clutches, appropriate rites will be called for." Still matter-of-fact, though something in the eyes hints at a small flash of anger, kept in check.

For now.

"The rude one is correct. You are probably best-suited for dealing with the hysterical one," she then decides, addressing the woman with the briefcase. "I will seek a means of egress."

"I know not details of these devices, but I was made to understand from the woman talking in the box at the front that there are special exits through which one can depart the vehicle in the case of urgent need. It also said, however, that exit is not advised as the 'pod' ..." You can hear the quotation marks around 'pod'. "... will protect us from the harmful environment about it. That notwithstanding, should quick egress be necessary, it would be best to know where this means of egress is."

She's literally standing next to the spot marked 'emergency exit' as she speaks.

"I believe I have found it," she says after turning her head and spotting the sign.

Then the bad news.

"The frame about the exit door is buckled. There is a high-pitched whistle emanating from it. I believe that it has been breached."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    'The Rude One'. Throne of Crystal, Empress's panties and all. "I apologize," Michael says through slightly clenched teeth, opening the medkit as he crouches down next to the fallen young man; looking him over with his armor's advanced senses, the gossamer veil of x-ray scanners, infrared, and more exotic senses telling him that a split scalp and a likely concussion is the worst of it. "All right, friend, let me -- hey, miss? Miss. Your guy, he's going to be okay, he's just gonna need some stitches. I need you go come over here, please." His voice shifts from hard lead to satin-covered-iron. "Come over here, see? And I want you to press this gauze against the back of his head. Staunch the bleeding. It'll be okay."

    Then, to Sif: "Right. How strong are you? Getup like that, you look like you're very strong. Think you can bend the frame back in place?"

Sif has posed:
Sif inspects the frame and tests it with her thumb and forefinger.

"This should not prove much of an impediment to reforming to its proper shape," Sif says. "It is not very sound."

Speaking of not-sound, an unsound technique for straightening the frame where there is little to no grip would be to puncture finger holes into the wall immediately next to it for solidity. But that's not going to happ... oh... crap.

Sif's four fingers of each hand, with a swift splayed finger jab, penetrate the hull on each side of the exit frame before she starts to force the frame straight. The whistling of air escaping ceases for the moment as she manages to get the frame back in properly around the door so the seals do their job.

Then it changes to a loud WHOOSH! noise as she withdraws her fingers.

"I may have erred," she decides as she swiftly jams her fingers back into the holes.

While this drama plays itself out, the sobbing girl joins Michael at the front. She releases a cry of despair at seeing the blood (blood always looks much bigger in pools than it really is, after all--evolution something something survival), but Michael's calm demeanour keeps her from breaking down. She's clumsy. She's hesitant. But she obeys and follows instruction.

And she doesn't poke eight finger-sized holes into the hulls of vacuum pods.

Fancy that.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Amazing.

    "Good, that's real good," he says, laying a hand on the young woman's shoulder - he gets to his feet, then, pointing at the woman in the business suit. "You," he commands, "Get that computer of yours up, miss. See if you can look up the statistics on the hyperloop system, see if we can figure out how much air we've got left. See if you can find any indication that people know what's going on down here as well. Ah...axe maiden!" This to Sif, whom he approaches (having seen her punch holes in solid steel or whatever with her fingers) with a bit more respect than he had. "Miss. The tunnel outside is entirely without air. We need to see about repairing the structure of this door else the air will escape and we will all die gasping - or /we/ will. I don't know if you will, obvious superhuman and whatnot." Forty years of playing the role of a Real Human Man makes him remarkably convincing, even in the moment of crisis. He's even started to /think/ like one of these primitives.

    He nods to the door frame which she's penetrated, now. "I need you to..." Michael considers a moment. "Check the rest of the structure while I do some repairs." Moments like this. They keep him busy. How best to do it so they can't see him work. He /can/ fix the problem, but in this guise....

Sif has posed:
"If I remove my fingers from the holes, the air will escape and you mortals will pass your spirits along to your ancestral places of rest," Sif explains reasonably as she keeps her fingers firmly plugged in the hole. "There is a not insignificant amount of force being applied to my fingers, however," she continues. "If one could tear off some of the more robust surfaces padding the walls, perhaps that can act in such a fashion as to surcease the escape of air."

For emphasis she pulls out her right pinkie and lets the whistling be rendered audible.

"I fear, however, that repairing this will be temporary. It would behoove us to find alternative means of your survival..." She quirks her head briefly to one side and gives Michael an evaluating once-over before continuing in a more thoughtful voice. "...for I fear any repairs effected will not be durable in the dire streats this barge finds itself in."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Yeah, well we can't keep you standing with your fingers stuck in the thing like the Dutch boy - don't ask me, it's a story from this world, we don't have time for me to explain it to a...goddess from another plane, I assume." Because naturally. He sounds, frankly, tired when he says it, like a father who's told his child for the eightieth time that he isn't going to explain why it's bad to eat glue. "Just take your hand out, Your Worship, and see if there's any other holes while I fix this one." He's on this way toward her, and through the magic of holography, appears to draw a tool out of his jacket - another hardlight construction, conjured from his armor. A welder for security work. Good enough to seal the breaches. Hopefully. /Hopefully/

Sif has posed:
Sif shrugs. She gave warning. She won't be particularly inconvenienced. (If worst comes to worst she'll tear her way out.) She pulls out the fingers of one hand and steps aside, letting Michael work on the resulting holes, sealing in the holes on the other side until he's ready. Once he's patched those ... her eyes narrow a bit as he does so, but she says nothing ... she removes her fingers from the other side.

"Fear not, mortals, this man has your survival in hand. I will seek any more such breaches, subtle or flagrant, and ensure that you can continue to breath until the air grows stale and pains your lungs."

She's so charmingly reassuring, isn't she?

"To help take your minds off of your possible fates, why do we not introduce ourselves. I am the Lady Sif of Asgard, known as Gentlest of the Gentle and Sif the Unstoppable among other sobriquets. I am Marshall General of Asgard. And what of you, youngster?"

She directs the question at the panicking late-teen/early-twenties girl who stares at her like she's got a third eye growing in the middle of her forehead.

"M-m-m-m-mandy?" she says. "I'm ... uh ... a checkout clerk?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Yes, yes, Lady Cosmic Renfaire is busy drawing her fingers out, and once she steps aside he steps forward and holds up the hand-sized unit to get to work. It's a wonderfully anonymous device, the typical Shi'ar welder: a solid state, hydrogen plasma torch that draws hydrogen from the surrounding atmosphere (or one of several other fusible gases depending on the prevalent chemical composition) that looks rather like a simple oxygen hand torch. Covering his eyes with one hand - another unnecessary gesture thanks to the visor beneath that false face - sets about sealing each hole after forcing the punctured metal together. Solid welds, but they absolutely will /not/ last forever. All the same, as Sif withdrawing her hand when required, he gets the whole thing done in a matter of minutes. He's spent a very long time dealing with repair work on all matter of metallic things, and that familiarity betrays certain things as well as help save them from gasping and dying.

    "Done," he calls out after this most efficient show of work, 'pocketing' the torch as it dissolves within his holographic jacket. "Ah....Lady Sif. Right. Norse mythology, Asgardian." Facts are filed away. Then, the sobbing girl. "Mandy." Then, lady with the computer. "You too, miss. I've sealed the breaches, that'll give us...as much time as the math allows." He points to the businesswoman. "You got those air figures yet?"

Sif has posed:
"Uh..." The businesswoman looks down at her computer. "It's kind of hard to judge, so I've had to make a bunch of guesses. The pessimistic estimate is ... thirty-five minutes after the extra holes and the screaming."

That last comment is paired with a poisonous glance at Mandy.

"But the range is practically an order of magnitude, so it could be days."

The shrug is helpless. "I can't really get much better estimate than that right now. Sorry."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Right." Because this is exactly what he was hoping wouldn't happen - being put in a big metal pill sealed off from air and whatever else. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and drawing a deep breath turns to look at the lady in the Conan getup. Really, on most other worlds he's served on or traveled to, she wouldn't seem so clashing - but as it is she'd stand out in her queenly way regardless of what she wore. "You. Ah, my lady. What abilities do you have? I don't suppose you can teleport us away or something similar?"

    Then, to Mandy: 'Please, miss. Deep breaths, if you can manage. We'll get out of this, it's just a matter of making it happen. Got to put our heads together, that's all." It's politely said, warm smile and all. Very comforting. He's a man who's had to cheer his troops before, after all. On far worse worlds than this. But that was a very long time ago.

Sif has posed:
"I can guide us into battle and victory," Sif says disarmingly, visibly trying to use levity to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

And failing.

"This cylinder we find ourselves in I can tear apart with little effort. I can continue to work without breathing for a very long time compared to your species, though I would eventually succumb to the lack of good air. What lies beyond this cylinder's walls I do not know, so cannot judge the time it would take to break us free if this is even possible."

She tilts her head in a half-shrug.

"I apologize. That is the best I can manage."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "And I have no doubt that you can do that admirably, my lady." A smile for her, now, working to equally disarm - right now he's thinking about the domes on Val'chaka, where micrometeor shrapnel doomed a whole platoon of troops from another unit. Gasping and dying before they could be saved by rescue crews. The glory of the Cadres being shaved away, life by life, in the wake of the Empire's conquests. This is stupid. Hiding is stupid. These people will die.

    "So to explain it," he says to Sif, "We're in a shell in a tunnel, which is sealed and emptied of air so that shell can move quickly through the tunnel to the destination. I can only assume we've been pulled off the track." He looks past the queenly woman to the consoles showing the helpfully blaring emergency message. "Is there not any emergency -- I don't know, telephone or something? Surely there's /some/ way to communicate with the outside."

Sif has posed:
"There is one," the businesswoman pipes up, "but it's not working. Maybe a cable got cut somewhere?" She pauses. "Sheila," she adds. "I do technical support for marketing." She shrugs. "It's a living and marketing gets the nicer offices."

Sif nods graciously to the businesswoman before turning her attention to Michael again. "This second tunnel is underground, then? This bodes ill. I lack tools for digging through earth. Were it a tube like those I see littering the landcape of Midgard, that I could tear asunder with little effort. But a tunnel I cannot help with. I could not escape to air in time for your lungs."

She rubs her chin and ponders. "If Bifrost could be made to manifest, I could have a team of Dwarven miners delivered who could cut a tunnel through normal earth and stone in very short order..." she says to herself, voice trailing off as she thinks of options.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Yeah, show me, Sheila." She's a brilliant soul, this warrior, but the world is just not where it needs to be. He takes from his 'pocket' a 'case' that is not full of electronic devices of any material shape but hardlight projections, all quite mundane from the outside. For now. He lets her consider as he beckons for Sheila to direct him, one eye kept on Mandy as he follows Sheila where the offending device is stored.

Sif has posed:
Sheila takes Michael to the panel at the back with the door opened, phone visible inside. Someone has apparently already tried it. Probably Sheila.

"It's just dead. Not even dial tone," she explains, confirming that it had, in fact, been her who'd tried it. "I thought these things were on radio or something, because you can't have a module moving hundreds of miles per hour dragging cable behind it, but ... nothing."

Behind the pair, Sif's boots, pacing on the plates, stop. She looks down into the space Sheila had occupied curiously before bending down and lifting up the lid to the briefcase.

"Would a mask like this permit survival?" she asks, straightening up, holding up a portable breathing aparatus with ultra-high-pressure microtanks fitted to the side. "If this woman has more of these, perhaps we can spend the time it takes to crack the tunnel open wide enough to get air."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael's been waiting for the other shoe to drop - which, at least as Sheila explains the failure of the phone unit to him, has not. He knows how these things work, being from, you know, a culture that left behind radio communications many centuries ago. Yeah, gramma, tell me all about your stone tablet, very interesting. "I'm sure I can get it to return to function," he says to Sheila, taking the handset out and starting his examination of it, until Sif speaks up.

    Hear that? There's that shoe he was waiting for.

    "Or, you know," Michael says without looking up, his previously serious but pleasant tone turning icily casual. "You can tell us what's really going on here. Or I put you in the tunnel without your mask. People have /died/ today."

Sif has posed:
Sheila stiffens as soon as she sees the mask, before Michael says a word. Oddly she relaxes when Michael talks to her.

"Every omlette breaks eggs," she cliches wildly. Almost criminally. "These 'loops' are destroying lives too! Just lives nobody cares about except Mother Earth and her sons and daughters!"

She stands up, then, from crouching next to the phone, backing away from Michael, and shifting her gaze between the threatening Michael, the confused Sif, and the bewildered, frightened Mandy.

"The Friends of Mother Earth will make people afraid to use these weapons of mass earthworm destruction! FOME will end the earthworm holocaust!"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Ah. Ecoterrorists. Good.

    "I need you to understand something." Michael rounds on the young woman, his voice flat, now. Icy. "I hear you, Sheila. I hear that you are trying to help. That you have a belief, and that belief is important to you. I respect that. And I don't expect for you to agree with what I'm going to tell you next, but I'm going to tell you that you're going to understand."

    And with that he leans in, oh so very quiet, cornering her if he has to. So that his voice can reach her, to trickle into one pretty, maddened ear. "Annelid species are protected by offworld interests," he hisses softly, pitching his voice low enough that only she can hear him. The words sounding so very strange, nonsensical, but decades of manipulation training and droplets of the truth allowing him to at least steer many into believing him. The frightened one, already maddened by her cause, should hopefully fall into line. "They are vital to the planet's ecological reconstitution - this loop /facilitates/ growth, not the other way around. You're destroying the work of benefactors from six other star systems, allowing things to happen like this. Do you understand? You bring them closer to discovery!"

    He doesn't want to /kill/ her, after all. Or brutalize her in front of the others. Appealing to her zealousness, the madness bound up in it, that's the way to go.

    Hopefully.

Sif has posed:
Sheila's eyes widen. "Are you serious?" she whispers. "I ... we ... had no idea!"

She looks around the pod with new eyes, tears beginning to fill her own.

"I didn't know!" she hisses.

Then.

"How are we going to get out of this!? How do we get this going again?!"

Sif, having overheard this with a clarity like it was spoken next to her, steps up, still holding the mask.

"This mask must be adjusted so that others can breathe from it. Once all can breathe, I can tear the side open and start digging to the surface, letting air within. How long can such an altered mask keep people alive?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Silence, sister," Michael whispers to Sheila then, stepping back to look at Sif. "Let me try and fix the radio set, my lady," he says to Sif, nodding at the mask. "I doubt it's going to be enough for you to dig through unless we can let you through the hatch - I managed to weld it, so it /should/ be sound enough for you to cycle through and keep some atmosphere in. If not..."

    Back to Sheila. "How much air in this mask?" Michael leans in a bit more, keeping his voice pitched lower now, away from poor Mandy. "What did you do to the train?"

Sif has posed:
"It was supposed to give me two hours," Sheila says, looking at the mask. "So I could sit and wait for rescue, then hide it away and pass out just before it came."

Why she had to be here at all is not addressed. And a curious oversight.

"I didn't do anything," she says in the lowered, conspiratorial voice. "I was just supposed to kill the phone and make sure nobody survived long in the vacuum."

Ah. That's the unaddressed part.

"I didn't do that," she adds. Almost apologetically.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He could kill her. It would be easy - he could be merciful, just reach out, snap her neck with a simple squeeze. Biologically he can lift a ton, and forty-plus years of combat training allows him to apply all that force like a scalpel. For a moment, he very nearly does.

    But. Mercy. Sanity. The big woman with the axe.

    "Let me look to the phone," he says, shaking his head. "Lady Sif, if you could give me a moment?" Michael steps back and sits down in one of the seats, swiftly disassembling the unit and looking to see if repairs can be affected, advanced technology and all. Hoping that this terrorist was not too thorough in her work.

Sif has posed:
The phone was very thoroughly disabled.

By cutting a communication cable and shorting it.

The phone works fine and by all visible signs, no damage was done on the transmitter unit which is housed outside of the main pod. If the communication cable could be reattached chances are the system could be reset and restarted easily.

Sif, for her part, towers over Sheila who's looking remarkably apprehensive. This could be because of the very dour, threatening expression Sif has on. Something about her demeanour suggests that a summary death penalty is not off the table...

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "My lady." Michael gets up from the chair, giving Sif a faint and understanding smile. "May I trouble you to go outside and see if the communications unit can have its cable reconnected? Are you capable of manipulating technology in this way?" You know. Nondestructive. Images of her jamming the cable into the transmitter housing and turning into a cartoon skeleton come to mind. "If we can connect the cable properly, I can signal for help."

Sif has posed:
"I am not exceptionally familiar with this 'technology', but I can learn specific tasks quickly. If you drill me in what to do, I can go outside and do it. If not..."

She holds up the mask.

"There is something you can do, no?"

"What are you people talking about back there?!" This is from Mandy, panic rising in her voice once again. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" she says, tears flowing again. "We're all going to die!"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael nods once, and reaches for the mask. "Keep it here," he tells Sif after a moment. "I can hold my breath a long time. Navy training." A look at Sheila, conspiratory. Then he crosses to crouch down next to Mandy. "No, honey," he says to her in a voice best used to calm spooked horses. "No. I'm going to go out and fix the transmitter, okay? Then we can call for help and we'll all be safe. Nobody's going to die." Nobody else, anyway. Unless Sheila's lying.

    That said, and hopefully with a calmer Mandy, Michael turns and marches for the exit door - opening the sealed hatch after taking a deep breath so people can see. Slips out into the darkness, closing the hatch behind.

    His armor is of course worn, sealed long ago beneath his holographic 'skin'. The vaccuum won't rob him of life - but though he doesn't have to hold his breath, it isn't exactly sealed against the elements for very long. He's going to have to work fast.

Sif has posed:
Inside the pod, once Michael is gone, Sif turns her attention slowly, predatorily to Sheila.

"You have cost us one life. Possibly two. The brave man going out there now ... he may not wish your death. And out of respect for him, I will not seek it."

She bends over the woman, eyes boring holes in her head.

"Yet."

Spoken clearly and distinctly.

"If you give me an excuse, however, I will act and there will be no mercy. Your blood will spill. And the last thing your eyes see will be me holding your heart in my hand as it beats its last. Then all will go black and your screaming soul will be sent flying to the loving clutches of Hela to be tormented."

Her face brightens. "I trust I am understood?"

Turning her back on Sheila, who has collapsed into a huddle against the wall and wet herself, she crouches instead by Mandy's side.

"Come now," she says gently. "The first time you face death is terrifying, but consider this: When it fails to arrive, you will come out the other side stronger. Ready to face it again. There is nothing to fear but ignomy." Poisonous glance Sheila's way. "Come, let me help you stand up. Straight. Erect. Proud. Ready to face Death with fire in your eye and a snarl on your lips."

In the meantime, outside the capsule, the connector requires a bit of cutting of the hull to reach, but once there is easy to reattach with only a little bit of welding/soldering work.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    See, this is why you tell your war goddesses to chill before you go out on dangerous missions. Whilst Sif is busy preparing Sheila to meet Hela's judgement, Michael has scaled the side of the pod, conjuring hardlight torches and manipulators to get the work done quickly. In this gravity the Shi'ar has the stamina of twenty men. This...is useful, especially since his lungs are already starting to burn when he gets started working.

    But eventually it's done, and he slips back through the hatch again, thumbs-up as he returns looking as if he'd just been holding his breath - red-faced, gasping in fresh air as he seals the hatch behind him. "All right," he says, coughing between words. "I got it...repaired. We can call for help."

Sif has posed:
The distinctive scent of ammonia greets Michael on his return, possibly causing a moment's alarm until he sees the huddled, shivering Sheila and the ... ah ... clinginess of certain garments. Then the penny willi likely drop.

"Ah, splendid. When help arrives, please ensure that leeches are present. This young man is in emminent danger of loss of life."

Which makes Mandy, whose spine had been miraculously stiffened by Sif's gentle, sensitive instruction, start to wail again.

Sif looks surprised, face registering intense confusion as she looks at the girl.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Thrones above and below, this woman! Michael shakes his head as he turns to enter the pod at large - he doesn't seem to be bothered by the smell of urine, mostly because thanks to his sealed helmet he can't smell it right away. He can, however, survey carnage. The emotional sort, in this case. "...my lady," he says, "Please remember that modern humans have very little of the warrior mores of their previous generations? Your approach might be a little...much." He crosses to squat the frown at Mandy's young man. Sif has the right of it. "He's in bad shape," he tells Mandy, looking up to hold those teary eyes with his, sharp like sapphire chips. "But we're going to get him out in time. Don't worry."

    He says this, then crosses to take up the emergency phone, turning it on and testing for a tone. Assuming he gets one, he engages the dialer and begins to speak in hurried tones to whomever's on the other side, reporting the sabotage, requesting emergency services - medical /and/ police.

Sif has posed:
"Mandy? Nonsense! She is strong, merely untrained."

And, somehow, this actually ... makes Mandy stand up taller. Straighter. Stops the flow of tears.

"I think you mortals give yourself too little credit. Midgard is endlessly fascinating with the strength and fortitude of its denizens, even in the face of disaster. It takes someone not of your number to remind you of your greatness."

That actually puts a (very, very fragile) smile on Mandy's face.

Sif wraps an arm around Mandy's shoulder. "One can grieve and not be weak," she says. "And Mandy is learning this today. She will come from this stronger. And ready to live life to its fullest."

As Michael talks to the rescuers Sif watches over the rest. Chiefly keeping Sheila cowed with images of her own heart being the last thing she sees. That face on Sif is stone hard.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The work done, communication goes quickly, though muttered into the phone; he puts the handset back into the rack, now, and looks between the people remaining, finally settling his gaze upon the queenly Sif. "Well you make entirely too many assumptions about me, my lady," he says, "But you're right that I'm being too severe." Michael looks to Mandy and nods his head once. "You've done wonderfully, miss. Very brave. And I'm proud of you." Then he gestures to the box. "Help is on its way. Air is a little thin in here, maybe, but they'll get to us in plenty of time for everyone to be safe." Yes, yes. Everyone's safe. Nobody else is going to die, hooray.

    Then he turns and points at the cringing Sheila. "You," he says, "Have blood on your hands. But you at least offered to help at the end, and I'll make sure the authorities know that. Remember this in the future. I'm hoping that you'll be able to make proper amends for what has happened. /Make sure to out your fellows/. Nobody had to die."

Sif has posed:
The same Sif that was so gracious to a simpering, soft mortal like Mandy has, it seems, absolutely no heart when dealing with Sheila.

"As one of the Ambassadors of Asgard on Midgard, I could claim that she, in performing this action, committed assault upon a member of the Court. I could then demand she be sent to Court to answer to her charges. We have mages who will rip every secret in her mind from her and portray them for all to see on crystalline pillars. Everything she ever did that was foul and unworthy. She would then have no choice but to reveal her co-conspirators in this dishonour."

Sif's boots clang on the deck as she closes in on Sheila with a stride calculated to cause fear of impending death.

"Or I could just claim my right of execution here and now. Tell me, coward and murderer, which you would prefer: all your shame laid bare, or a clean, swift death?"

Sheila's breakdown is final as she curls into a ball, begging loudly for mercy. Mercy it certainly looks like she's not getting from this woman. A list of names spills from her lips.

"There. Remember those. Find them."

Sif returns back to Mandy, watching her face concerned. "Your lover has help on the way, child. Please, don't be frightened any longer. You have survived and grown. He will survive. Remember long this day and train yourself for others like it."

A surprisingly tender thumb wipes the tears from one side of her face as Sif gently holds aloft Mandy's chin.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Well. He's done his duty. The only thing now is to see to the dead. Shrugging faintly at Sif's royal stompening, he goes to see to the old man's body, which he lifts as though it were just a few sticks of cordwood; easing him onto a row of seats, he covers the poor corpse with his jacket, murmuring quietly to himself as he lays things out. Reverence for the dead. Honorable.

    And then...he's done. And he stands there, looking at the curled-up Sheila with a shake of his head. "So," he says after that. "I suppose that's that."

Sif has posed:
"Not quite."

Sif looks at Michael calmly.

"Once the rescue has been effected, I think you and I might require a small amount of conversation."

Chick could play poker with the best ... assuming she could figure the odds.

"Why don't you visit me at the Asgard Embassy at your convenience in the next few day?" she asks. "I would greatly enjoy the opportunity."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Ah.

    Look there. Another shoe, totally unexpected, dropping out of the air. On his head. Michael heaves a soft sigh, but nods, hands tucked behind his back. Glad that he has the thin shell of metal that he does. "As you will, my lady," he tells her with a nod. "I will come."