7238/Late Night Phone Call

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Late Night Phone Call
Date of Scene: 05 August 2021
Location: 102 20th St - Jessica Drew's Building
Synopsis: Michael Erickson outs himself as an agent for the Shi'ar Empire
Cast of Characters: Michael Erickson, Jessica Drew




Michael Erickson has posed:
    It's three thirty in the morning when the phone rings. Once, twice, maybe three times - or maybe less. Is she up? Does she even sleep? He has no idea. But sitting on one of the pair of couches in his living room, in the apartment ten floors up in the middle of Murray Hill, Michael has made his decision. It...wasn't even all that hard, strangely enough. To betray Command. To aid the aliens. Possibly to doom members of his fmaily, those that still live. His mother is gone, certainly. His father. And him the only child. What stain can he put on a name that lives and dies with him?

    Waiting, then. The purring of the phone in his ear gives him no comfort. But his will, his will gives him focus. He will do this. He will. As soon as she answers the phone.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The first rattled sound on her nightstand opens Jessica's eyes. She grimaces at the ceiling, hands pressed against the cool sheets then gathers herself to curl toward the phone. Narrowing her eyes at the unknown number on the screen, she lets it vibrate in her palm twice more before sitting up and thumbing answer.

It's not a SHIELD number so that leaves open the possibility of a robo-call which will merit any number of expletives at this time of night. Or? She now has to decide just how rude she will be on the off-chance that she might regret it later on. Opting for neutral-rude, she answers, "Yes? It's 3:30am."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He hears the annoyance in her voice, smiles at it. She's what they used to call a 'tough cookie' when he first came to this planet, he thinks. At home they'd call her formidable. It's not a word the Shi'ar use lightly. Nor, for all he is about to put his qualities as a Shi'ar in question, would he.

    "I need to talk to you," he says. Throat dry. Raspy. "It's extremely important. May I come to your place? Mine isn't the best for this. Nor is your office, at least at the moment." A pause. "Please."

Jessica Drew has posed:
For a beat, Jess can't place the voice but hears the urgency through the scratch of fatigue. In that first second while she still wakes up, she knows who it is, nearly saying his name aloud and stopping herself. "M...um, yes. If you have to."

She is fully awake now, aware of how quiet the street is through the white noise of the air conditioner, blowing softly on her bed, "Get out of there quickly as you can. Use the service entrance. You have the address, I take it?" What she doesn't tell him though she imagines he knows is that she has two agents watching the front and back of the building 24/7. An expense she can only justify by her extreme paranoia concerning the man. She'll alert them when the call is over.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I do not," he admits getting to his feet. "I'm not in danger, just...it's about those folks I told you about. The ones who gave me the armor. New developments that you /really/ need to hear about. Give me the address and I'll head there immediately."

    He didn't get the chance to look it up, after all. He's already walking back into the bedroom, opening the walk-in closet where the armor stands, self-animated. Sculpted. Gleaming metal, a chrome anatomical model turned protective suit. When she gives the address, he purses his lips. "I'll need to come in through the window," Michael tells her. "It's vital that as few people know as possible that I'm coming - but I'm not telling you not to. Just people you trust absolutely. It'll make sense when we talk." A beat. "I'll bring a bottle of wine."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Wine? What does he think this is, a before-dawn love tryst? She gives him the address, thinking that if she can't trust the agents watching him then SHIELD has a much bigger problem than she thought, HYDRA notwithstanding. None of this can be heard in her voice. "Coffee will stand me in better stead. I'll make some. There is an alley behind the apartment. Come through there, I'll let you in. The windows have permanent bars that nobody gets through. See you when you get here."

When she hangs up and starts to dress, she goes through the list of potential problems he has to talk about at 3:30am. The list has the caption: What the bloody hell can't wait till morning?

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Bars. Quaint. Did she forget about the hydrogen plasma? But he listens - and takes the plasma pistol, just in case. The small one. Donning the armor, he stares at himself in the mirror that hangs off the inside of the closet door. One last time, a warrior in good standing with command. One last time, an officer of the Shi'ar Empire.

    After this, it's rebellion. He can live with that.

    Some half an hour later he walks down the alley that she's indicated, the armor projecting the holographic spoof of his image, wearing a tracksuit and hoodie. Black. He walks up towards the door, hands in 'pockets', hoping that she's the only face he sees (but scanning the area with the suit's advanced sensors to make sure nobody else is present.) Faint sheen of rain coming down, thin enough to be nearly only mist.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The apartment is redolent with freshly made coffee, just ground, a concession to luxury and taste that celebrates her overcoming her austere, military upbringing. She wears a retro track suit as green as her eyes and has tied her hair back into a pony tail. The jacket covers the bulge of her ICER pistol tucked into a holster under her arm.

"Come on in!" After a quick look up and down the alley, Jessica lets him into a small hallway and locks the door behind him. "Go ahead. This had better be good, Mr. Erickson. I like getting up early but this is ridiculous." Once inside the apartment, she gestures to the breakfast bar, "Help yourself. Are you a coffee or tea drinker?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Neither." From under his coat he produces, as promised, the apparent bottle of wine - though it is made from a rosy crystalline material, gleaming and glittering, throwing motes of light across the woman's breakfast bar once he puts it down. "Wasn't kidding about he wine. Got a glass? Pick two. You'll want this once I get started, I think."

    He takes a stool, or a chair, whatever's there and handy. Settles down. Watches her, quietly, takes notes. "You won't need the gun." he points out. "I'm here for the benefit of the public."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Making a face, Jess eyes the wine bottle that prisms light through the apartment and shakes her head. "I don't have the stomach for it in the morning, no matter what kind of news it is." She walks into the kitchen and pulls out a thin stemmed wine glass for him and puts it on the counter.

"Be my guest." She pours herself a cup of black coffee. "That is a good parlor trick about the gun. My apartment, my loss of sleep. I'll decide about whether I'm armed or not, Mr. Erickson. How can I help you?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Suit yourself," he says with a shrug; when she sets down the bottle he removes the stopper by simply gesturing over it, the silvery metal cap coming away in his hand as if held on by imagination. Fancy bottles these days. Probably a present from a client. A faint silvery vapor escapes the mouth as he takes it up, pours from it into the flute a substance that looks something like liquid mother-of-pearl than anything else, sloshing delicately into the glass as he holds the wine with a sommelier's manners. Takes up the glass, inhales. Sighs.

    "I want to start," Michael says, "By saying that I am here because I respect you. This isn't a burden I put on you lightly. But you've demonstrated that you're tough enough. Driven enough. Focused. Where I come from, you'd be held up as a paragon of your job, young as you are. Probably doubly so. I know when I was your age I was the same, and I got a job that is right up there. So understand that I'm here because of that. Not to blow smoke up your behind, or give you trouble." A pause. "And because you were right. And you deserve to know it all, if anyone's going to know it. And know it first."

Jessica Drew has posed:
The wine bottle looks otherworldly. Without comment, smiling faintly to herself when she turns her back to pull out another glass, she sets another glass next to his with a faint click. She'll let him decide to pour another.

Jess settles at the end of the counter, perpendicular to Michael which gives her a view of the door and her visitor at the same time. She schools her face to polite interest as he compliments her, frowning inwardly as she braces herself for what is to follow. With a small nod, "You have all my interest, Mr. Erickson. If I need a job reference any time in the future, I'll call on you. Thank you. Please. Go on."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    She gets a grunt with those words. Quietly he lifts the glass to his lips, then puts it aside. Remembering that his helmet is, despite the holographic rebroadcasting of his features, still on. "I liked you better when you were shooting at people. At any rate. You're familiar with the fleet that's been spotted coming in from the edge of this star system. The one people have been nervous about on the news. Do your people know anything about them?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica ducks her head slightly at his comment, smiling tightly at his words and gesturing him to go on. "Who doesn't speculate about what is going on? I stayed up late listening to the newscasters trying to milk it for all its worth which is a lot, mind you. But, I will say this, there are no internal alerts on what is going on circulated to agents of my level yet."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He could have expected that. "You're aware of the Kree, I assume. Throne knows, they can't go a year without doing something ridiculous on this planet. Other alien races." His hand rests on the base of the wine glass, its pearly contents swirling lazily. "They aren't Kree, of course. It belongs to another race. A conquest fleet."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Okay. Should I be relieved it's not the Kree or worried, Mr. Erickson? You seem concerned." Jess sips her coffee since he never poured her the wine he has left untasted. "You haven't had any wine," she comments blandly, thinking if you don't drink it, I certainly won't.

Michael Erickson has posed:
He glances at the wine. Nods. "Have to let it breathe," he tells her. "Bottle's three hundred years old or so." With this he continues. "The race is called the Shi'ar - the Shi'ar Empire, collectively, made up of the Shi'ar as colonial and conquering power and a thousand plus client races, taken on over the thousands of years required to conquer their home galaxy. Wildly ahead of this planet in terms of technology, with exceptions of course made where people of great brilliance are concerned. But, by and large, they are fairly unstoppable when putting their mind and resources to conquest." His face shudders a moment, glimmers away. Revealing another face, the original where the holographic veil had existed. Visor retracted. Now he reaches for the glass.

    "They're coming here to take the planet," Michael says. Takes another breath of the wine, sips carefully. Frowns. "Shame," he says then. "It's gone off. Suppose that's symbolic."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Oh," she observes, eyes glancing from the bottle back to him. As he narrates the story of the fleet circling the Earth, a line appears between her eyes, deepening as he off-handedly describes their technological superiority and their numerous client races, just another word for colonies in her book.

At his next words, she exhales noisily, anger clipping her words, "How do you know this?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He pushes the glass away with a sigh, now; his face ripples almost imperceptibly once more as his visor returns and the hologram seals over once more. "You know I came here in 1975? I was twenty-five years old. I'd seen a lot already...done a lot. I'd been in the military since I was fifteen." His vision fixes on the pearly wine, looking into its substance. Beyond. Another place entirely, at least in that moment. His expression drains away into a haunted mask. "And I remember coming here and thinking that you people...were just...insane. No order, no...just people of emotion. Emotion over everything else - not that we don't have emotion, we're very passionate ourselves, but /you/ people..." He shakes his head. "I was sent here, you know, to monitor the Kree. Or at least, keep an eye on reports that the Kree were up to no good. One empire spying on another. Earth is a frontier in another galaxy, suddenly in the last hundred years full of mutants and aliens and all kinds of dangerous folk, all living together. I expect that there were those in the Empire that thought that the Kree weren't going to be the only potential threat."

    He looks back up at her. "There's a girl, living on this planet. A mutant. She's the conduit for a force that first came here in 2006, called the Phoenix on this planet. We call it the Phal'kon. It's...an energy being. Creature of tremendous destructive power. Burns galaxies. And it's here, on this planet, living inside of her. They've come here to kill her." The words taste like bitter grease on his tongue. The realization that once he would have been halfway up to Westchester now with one of the particle rifles he's got stored away in one of his caches. "Asked me to help, as I've been living on this planet for the last...forty-five years? Working with the people here, the superpowered. The thinking is, of course, that I'm very well placed to help them take this planet. I just got my orders about a half an hour before I called you. And I..."

    Michael falls silent a moment. Just a moment. He sighs. "My name is not Michael Erickson, obviously. It is Cal'nathar, and I was, until...oh, twenty years ago, I suppose, a loyal member of the Shi'ar Empire. Embedded agent. Deep reconaissance. It was all right, informing on alien races. Tracking direct, existential threats to the galaxy and to my people - but I've been helping human beings for a very long time. And I've come to realize how cruel my people can be. I can't let them come here. Can't let them win." And here, the man - Cal'nathar, not Michael, apparently - gives her a rueful smile. "So. You were right, in a sense. But I'm just not able to help them. I have to help your people instead. And here we are."

Jessica Drew has posed:
His face changing causes her to blink and ask herself if she had really seen it ripple. Jessica has to remember to take a breath after his first three sentences. She takes a huge breath. Then, chewing the inside of her lips, Jess leans forward and leans her chin into the palm of her hand, covering her mouth. It takes an effort to not break into the story that pours out like a dam breaking.

Mentally; she calculates his age before he tells her how long he has been here. Seventy. Then, so many of her suspicions fall into place.

He is a spy - not only a spy but a spy for an alien power gathering overhead. An unknown power gathering overhead ready to annex the earth into their empire? And, about to assassinate a mutant, a potently powerful one, at that?"

Jessica realizes she is grinding her teeth to let him continue with his outpouring without interruption. The coffee she sipped sours in her stomach at his avowal of who he is.

"Cal'nathar," she repeats under her breath. When he reaches the end of his recital, her hands clench into fists on the counter. She swallows, never taking her eyes off of him.

"I'm supposed to believe that you are a spy for an alien force that you want to betray in order to help my world? I'll get to all the other stuff. But, that's the essential, isn't it? I have to call my superiors, Erick...Ca'nathar. Now. Because, by all the powers that be, I believe you if only because there is a fleet of aliens massing in space over my planet."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    She puts it all up front, at once. Clearly. Concise. And she doesn't lose it. He's been right to choose her, this much is clear.

    "Cal'nathar," he affirms. "But...yeah. I realize this is going to come across as very strange - I wouldn't believe me either, not without a full interrogation. But. I'm open to it. Put me in the chair, bring telepaths. Whatever. I'll give you everything I can about the Empire, military structure, all that." There's a certain resignation in his voice as he says these things; he knows very well that doing this, he's saying goodbye to a great many things. Here, certainly. And certainly also in his former home. "When I came here you people were still threatening to nuke each other into orbit; this is essentially the equivalent of a Soviet agent coming over of their own free will to the CIA. I'm a traitor to my people. You have every right to question."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Rubbing the back of her neck, eyes screwed shut in thought, Jess nods then opens her eyes. "Aside from the fact that I don't think you're crazy. Which, in itself, is miraculous. Why would we believe that you want to help us? Telepaths, you say?"

She sighs and looks at him with exsasperated compassion. "Erickson...What do you want me to call you? You are likely to be under lock and key for a long time. I hope not, funnily enough, for your sake. I will let my seniors decide what they want to do. And, you're right. I have so many questions, I should write them down. Give me a moment. I have to let them know, I'm coming in with you, right away."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Well, we'll want to play it relatively cool," he points out. "My handlers will be wanting to follow me still. But. I'll do whatever I need to." He gets to his feet, shooting another rueful glance at the bottle. "Funny," he says. "My family owns vineyards on the Throneworld. I took that with me when I came here, give me a taste of home." The wine that's gone sour, forever wasted now.

    "...all right, Agent." He looks to her, expression set into a grave mask. "Probably better to go to a safehouse, or some other neutral ground at the moment. I can't guarantee that my superiors won't want me checking in again, and I don't want a particle beam getting put in the middle of SHIELD headquarters because they've suddenly determined I was captured. Whereas a civilian dwelling..." He gestures vaguely to her. "Look, I'm in your charge here. And I'm not a threat to you - hell, you're a /lot/ stronger than I am, you'll flatten me. And I trust you. Because you don't trust me." Well that's...spy logic. "So. What do we do?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica goes to her desk and removes a phone from a strong box in a drawer locked to her fingerprint. Several minutes pass while she composes a message to SHIELD HDQs.

High Priority Flash Communication for Agents Level 7+ from Agent Jessica Drew

The asset known as Michael Erickson is being conducted to a safe house. He claims to be an agent of the Shi'ar Empire by the name of Cal'nathar with urgent intelligence for SHIELD concerning imminent invasion of the planet and the assassination of one Jean Grey. Further intel forthcoming upon arrival at safe house N290.

Strictest security protocols are in place to protect the asset from discovery. Await further instruction.

"Do you have everything you need? I don't know how long we will be gone."

Rising from her desk, she pockets the phone. Give me a few minutes to get my things. We'll take my car and I'll explain on the way."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I'll have to go home eventually," Michael points out. "They know that I'm there. That's how they contact me. But I think that, under heavy surveillance, obviously, your people might allow it." He makes a face. "Anyway. Let's go, Agent. I'm sorry for making your late night so dramatic, but I think you'd agree this is the time for it."