7516/A Tunnel of Color

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A Tunnel of Color
Date of Scene: 24 August 2021
Location: Freedom Tunnel
Synopsis: A chance meeting, discussions on art and empires.
Cast of Characters: Sif, Michael Erickson




Sif has posed:
What does an Asgardian do when trying to study Midgard's current culture. She takes in a show on Broadway! And what does she do when the show she takes in is Cats? She leaves in a daze and looks for a place to drink heavily. A nearby pub that her eveningwear finery DOES NOT fit in with serves for this. Then, wanting to walk some of that mild buzz from the two dozen beers off, she does a bit of a look-see and...

...discovers the Freedom Tunnel. Thus it is that late at night a woman dressed in clothing likely more than anybody present owns in total ... put together! ... starts wandering into the strangest gallery in the world, puzzled.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    And then there is of course Michael, who walks the streets of the city often of late - not for any particular reason, especially not at night, but perhaps to walk in memory. this he has been doing much of late. Thinking of the days when he led soldiers to burn cities like this No, not cities like this. Earth would be too primitive a planet were it not for its wealth of metahumans and aliens and all that sort of thing. Or at least if not for the Kree. And of course tehre are the Asgardians now - but do these relatively minor gods serve as a threat to the Empire? Who can say? Certainly /he/ does not know. He has come into an tnirely new and unusual role himself, one he is still attempting to decipher.

    And so. Walking. Booted feet finally bring him to the tunnel, and all its wealth of urban art. Lost on him, for the most part; the Shi'ar, after all, consider art to be a sign of moral frailty if not outright mental superposition beneath their avian minds. So judgemental. And yet, he cannot yet seem to be anything but disoriented as he looks up to find himself standing amongst the riots of color cladding the walls, and he simply...stares for a moment. Blinking once. And then, there is Sif. Because of course there is. At least /this/ scenery he can, indeed, appreciate. From afar. For now.

Sif has posed:
Sif is critically viewing the works on the side of the tunnel wall, passing over some, paying close attention to others. It's hard to discern which will attract her attention in advance. Large, complicated pieces might get a passing glance while a small tag might get a closer look of almost a minute.

Attention or no from her side, her presence is definitely drawing attention. Until one of the denizens -- not the artists, but the residents -- thinks to get "creative".

"Hey, honey," the drunken man says, staggering up to Sif. "This is a gallery. You gots t'pay the ticket fee. Can I see yer ticket?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    She's going to paste him. Or something similarly comical. Michael really should come up and say something - or really he need not, because she's a big (very) girl and can handle herself.

    So he leans against a pillar and watches. God help the drunk if he gets handsy, one imagines.

Sif has posed:
Sif reaches into her clutch and pulls out two items in succession. One is a hundred dollar bill. The second is a long, wickedly sharp-looking dagger. One that doesn't look like it could fit into a clutch purse. By about a factor of five.

"This is my ticket," she says, throwing the c-note to the ground, causing a bunch of homeless people to scramble trying to pick it up, including her interlocuter.

"And this is what I will use if I'm asked for a ticket again on whoever asks," she adds, brandishing the dagger. "I trust I am clear."

Ignoring the street people now having a full-on rumble behind her, desperate for that money, she returns her gaze to the paintings on the wall.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Well if they do or not, Michael doesn't pay attention so long as nobody's getting too raucous; he walkes over to where Sif stands staring at the wall, hands tucking themselves into the pockets of his jeans. Gives her something of a wide berth, considering her blade-happy nature.

    "Well I'll say this, my lady," he says, the smirk in his tone not extending to his actual face. "You certainly have a way with people. Good evening."

Sif has posed:
"I was wondering if you were planning on approaching," Sif says, glancing briefly at Michael with a smirk. "I'm not human. I don't have human senses. Information you might need in the future."

Her eyes stray to the paintings again.

"There is potential in much of this work, but they choose such an ... intriguingly obtuse way to develop it. They need good patronage from a noble family to encourage and foster their art."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Whether you could see me or not, my lady," he replies, "I have manners. You /could/ just want to be left alone." As for the paintings, he shrugs. "My people don't have art aside from theater. So I'm afraid it's wasted on me."

Sif has posed:
"From mortal riff-raff, yes, I would prefer to be left alone at the moment. I am still attempting to recover from a horrendous piece of minstrel theatre called 'Cats' and this is not the time to remind me of the vapidity of a large underbelly of mortal life."

She looks over at Michael again. "You are not riff-raff. You are worthy. I would not begrudge you time."

Beat.

"Theatre? Then can YOU explain this 'Cats' thing to me in a fashion that does not drive me to drink?"

Come to think of it, she does smell like she'd just imbibed a whole brewery.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael makes a faint face. "It's musical theater,' he replies. "I am not a fan of musical theater. My understanding is that it is a show that relies specifically on spectacle to drive it, however, not any kind of overarching narrative." He turns slowly to squint at the woman, and does not comment on her drinking but it is filed away. Instead he says, "Well I don't know about being worthy, my lady, but I appreciate your good opinon."

Sif has posed:
"How does one," Sif wonders aloud, looking at Michael, "have a people with no arts? What is the point of a culture that lacks the means to express and commemorate that culture?"

She gestures to the pointings.

"Even here, in their primitive way, people are trying to communicate, promulgate, and preserve their culture. It lacks the timelessness of the great works, but it is clearly a part of the same spectrum. What do your people strive for?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "We express ourselves through warfare," he replies, still staring at the wall. "The Shi'ar are conquerors. We expand, we take, we integrate. The problem is that we don't dream, you see. Dreams are necessary for most forms of artistic expression." Michael shrugs. "We dance. We have theater. But it's often not the same."

Sif has posed:
That elicits a laugh from Sif. "We, too, express ourselves through warfare. The Allfather led the Aesir and later the Vanir to victory over nine realms, carving our home from one and subjugating eight others. My life is warfare and has been for over a thousand years. And yet..."

She pulls out a dagger from her clutch purse. A slim, wicked blade with decorative hilt, crosspiece and handle. "This is a commonplace dagger. Nothing special in Asgard. If I went to court there would be a thousand like it within a stone's throw. It is a tool and a last-ditch weapon. And even such an ordinary blade is decorated."

She presents it, half-pulled from its sheath, to allow Michael to take it up for observation.

"What do the gems, the wire embroidery, the inscriptions in the blade have to do with its purpose? Nothing. It is there to be beautiful. Expressing yourself through warfare is not the answer."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    His brows arch. "I might point out," he says then, "That worrying more about function over form may well be why my people rule a galaxy, and yours rule but nine worlds."

    A beat - he frowns, then, and shakes his head. "No. That is unworthy to say. I enjoy fighting, but you are right. Which is why I am here, standing with you looking at these human paintings, rather than aiding my fellows to conquer this planet."

Sif has posed:
"That aside, there is also the question of numbers. The Aesir and Vanir do not number, I suspect, anywhere near as many as your people. Perhaps in the hundreds of thousands."

If there's any offense taken at the dig, none shows on Sif's face.

"And it is good that you enjoy fighting," she adds, slapping Michael on the back in camaraderie. "Without this you cannot hope to win conflict. Unwilling warriors do not win battles." Her voice grows a bit more somberly questioning. "The question is what you are fighting for. Fighting for conquest so that more can fight for conquest seems ... empty."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The slap on the back is a bit of a surprise, but it shouldn't be. He bears it well. "Oh, there are billions in the Empire," Michael replies with a nod. "Trillions. And yes, empty. It's all about religion, I'm afraid. It all goes back to that."

    His lips purse, and he shakes his head. "I'm fighting for both the Empire and these people on this world. The humans. My people need to find a different way. Humanity deserve to live freely."

Sif has posed:
"Perhaps some day our peoples shall meet on the field of battle and we can see whose way prevails," Sif says ... cheerfully? "It is my feeling that those who have full lives that would be lost in the conflict would fight more fiercely, giving less quarter. Such has it always been even among those of Asgard."

She turns to face Michael more fully, ignoring the art.

"I am Vanir, not Aesir. The Vanir are the elder race of Asgard, the Aesir the upstarts. But the Allfather conquered my people. We were permitted, however, to continue in our ways, even as we were absorbed into the Aesir upstarts' empire. And now we are accounted among the staunchest of the defenders of Asgard. We fought to protect our ways. Our ways were kept afterward, and thus we became a part of that which conquered us."

Her eyes take on a troubled look.

"I fear that your people appear not to understand this and will face destruction in an orgy of violence the likes of which has never been seen before. Those trillions you speak of may bear the price of such hubris. Such assurance that theirs is the only way."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Her words are considered. Digested. His lips are set in a line. "So the Vanir are a client race," he says, looking to her. "It is the same with the Empire - the Shi'ar have little art, and do not dream, but the other races are not interfered with so long as they serve." He shrugs. "As I said, it comes down to religion. Our mother and father deities were married against their will - but in that union they found strength, and came to love one another. You could say that all the Empire's conquests have been a campaign of what the humans call 'shotgun weddings'.

    He looks back to the graffiti now. "The fleet that came here was crushed. And there is another, a...perhaps wiser person who might yet take the throne. If that happens, I do not believe that Earth - Midgard - will be in danger from my people again for some time."

Sif has posed:
"The Allfather's wife is Vanir. I am Vanir and am marshal-general of all of Asgard's armies. I am also betrothed to the Crown Prince and will thus, in my time, be Queen of Asgard if all goes well. This is not a 'client'. You would be hard-pressed now to tell apart the Aesir from the Vanir from casual observation. The differences are mostly here..." She points to her head. "...and here." She points to her heart. "There are traditional spheres of control and service, some which usually fall to Aesir and some which usually fall to Vanir. Magi are traditionally Vanir, for example, while skalds are more likely than not to be Aesir. But even there this is not universally true."

She muses the painting again. "I am glad to hear, yet also unhappy to hear, that Midgard is throwing off the invasion. It has been a long time since the horns of war have been blown on Midgard and I yearn to unleash. But if Midgard can throw off the invasion without the help of the Royal House of Asgard, that is better for both."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ahhh." Michael nods, quietly. "I meant no offense. Very different on a galactic scale - half the citizens of the Empire aren't even humanoid. You have blended far differently than we have. But I like that. It's why I'm here."

    He looks back to Sif, then, arms crossing. "You know I've been here on this planet for forty-five years? I've never seen you before the other night. Have you been in Asgard all that time until lately?"

Sif has posed:
"I last openly set foot on Midgard almost seven hundred years ago by the reckoning of seasons here," Sif said, nodding. "There was an agreement that the Allfather reached which requires us to be a little bit more hands-off in our management of our world here."

Our world.

"I last set foot on Midgard incognito ... three hundred years ago? Thereabouts. That was more a tour of the domains. Then five years ago I contended with some repercussions of the Crown Prince's ... political fall. I made surreptitious contact with an agency here called SHIELD, but did not do much in the open before returning to Asgard and some border wars."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I'm familiar with the religious connection." He purses his lips, then. "Do you still work with SHIELD? I'm starting to talk to them. Work with them. In the interest of the planet." Their world. It rankles somewhat, but he lets it pass. Too close to what he came from before.

Sif has posed:
"I have heard nothing from SHIELD since my return, and my own business has not permitted me to seek them out. I understand they had enough of their own troubles lately that they have probably forgotten my very existence."

Sif tilts her head in a half-shrug. "I don't think it matters. My interests and theirs don't really overlap, and their agents are too ... breakable ... to participate in most things I am involved with."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I can play the matchmaker, if you like." Michael turns a bit her way, hands tucked now behind his back. "Given the situation, it might be more useful to at least know that the Court of Asgard is aware and willing to help if need be."

Sif has posed:
"I'm sure that having the Crown Prince in the Avengers gives them more than enough access to Asgard's court," Sif says reassuringly. "They haven't approached me likely because they do not feel the need for my services. It's not as if I've been especially quiet with my return, between television interviews and some public acts of ... how should I put this? ... defense."

She moves along again, slowly, regarding more of the works on the tunnel walls, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

"Some of those whose work this is," she muses, changing the subject at least momentarily, "would do well under fostership and patronage. The need to do this surreptitiously and likely under duress by way of food and shelter impedes their development."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It seems strange," he says to her with a shake of his head. "Well. If I may assist you in the future, my lady, I am pleased to do so. I work with SHIELD, but I do not work /for/ them. My sword, as the term goes, is my own." Not that he /has/ one. Does he?

    As for the art, he shrugs. "Well I don't have the resources to fund people," says Michael. "But if you an yours wanted to put your considerable fortune towrd that, I'm sure people would be happy. I take it you've resolved the problems of poverty and the like in Asgard?"

Sif has posed:
"I think that I may suggest this to the Court, or perhaps just act as a model by doing patronage from my House in the form of one or more artists-in-residence for my embassy suites. I will have to look into what is required and how this is traditionally done here on Midgard. I know how patronage is established in Asgard of course."

She turns her head again to regard Michael. "I think you for showing up here this eve. I would not have been led down this line of inquiry nor come up with this solution without our conversation."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "But of course." He pauses as his watch chirps faintly, and he squints at the thing. "I have to go, my lady. Be careful down here, won't you? Dress like that? Be a shame to get some idiot's blood on it, nice as it looks on you. But I suppose the blood looks nice on you, too." A wink, and off he goes whistling into the night, leaving the powerful woman to consider graffiti and patronage and all those other things that linger in the dark between worlds, naught but a rainbow bridge to connect them...

Sif has posed:
"We have lots of experience removing blood stains," Sif says with a grin and twinkling eyes. "It's something I can have removed in seconds with some magics I have in my domicile."

She muses playfully, "Chocolate, on the other hand, still stymies the greatest of our mages. We tend to just re-dye the clothing in brown."

She nods formally as Michael leaves, watching after him before turning once again to the art and walking along the display, thinking.