7824/Bidirectional job interviews are tight!

Bidirectional job interviews are tight!
Date of Scene:	14 September 2021
Location:	Asgardian Embassy
Synopsis:	Defending the Earth against alien tech users is super easy. Barely an inconvenience.
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Sif

---

Michael Erickson has posed:
    It hasn't been /too/ long since Erickson came to the Asgardian embassy; of course, the last time he was invited by a very suspicious warrior woman, seeking to find out just what he was and what his intentions for the world might be.

    This time, he's got an appointment.

    And so Michael sits in a chair in the comfortable waiting room of the enormous building, awaiting summons; he sits wearing a plain gray suit, hands folded in his lap. No briefcase, of course. Just himself. Waiting. Staring at the wall as his brain churns away at the purpose which has brought him here today. Busy man, our Michael. Full of intent.

Sif has posed:
At the precise time scheduled one of the embassy petty officials enters the waiting room, offering an unctious "Mr. Erickson, if you would please come with me?" with those oily, slippery smiles that are found on so many embassy staffers around the world. The concealed alien is taken into the room he was in last time, complete with the miniature museum of weapons, and complete, once again, with the Lady Sif.

This time, however, Lady Sif is in more Midgard-focused attire, having chosen to dress in a conservative business suit whose only departure from almost tedious normalcy is the red and white patterning: red blazer, skirt, and shoes, white blouse and stockings.

"Mr. Erickson, welcome. Please take a seat and Sven will take your order for a drink if you wish."

Addressing the oily smiler, Sif adds, "Mead for me, Sven."

She turns her attention on Michael, then, eyes piercing his. "What may I do for you?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Oily man, oily man. Michael gives Sven a look as he follows the man, hands behind his back, quiet still. The weapons are noted - though, it must be said, he carries none on his person. Dare he walk into the bower of the Maid of Battle unarmed and unprotected? It would seem that he does. After all, at least up until now, they have been friendly.

    And there she is, the lady herself. Michael nods once to the woman as he enters, moving to take a seat as requested. "Mead," he offers to Sven as well, "The same as the lady's." He crosses his legs as he settles back, and fixes Sif with those sharp blue eyes. A falcon's eyes, not an ape's, despite all appearances. Chips of sapphire.

    "How are you?"

Sif has posed:
She may be dressing the part of a business executive, but she doesn't look it. Not even CEOs of giant companies can quite match that ramrod-straight arrogance of someone who habitually wields power like others wield forks over salad. Nor do most people dressed in that kind of outfit walk with the firm, long stride she wears as she takes up the seat opposite Michael, leaning back into the tall backrest, sinking deeply into the buttoned leather.

"I have been well," she says. "I dealt with a spot of bother in Aegyptus, and in Haiti, among other places."

Her mouth moves in an amused tilt. "Now what may I do for you?" she repeats.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ah." He doesn't really /try/ to ask - it's her business, and he probably wouldn't want to know. Well, no He absolutely would want to know. But it's best not to ask. Politeness and all.

    "I'm glad to hear it," he replies. "And soft, my lady, I try very hard not to visit simply for business. But since you've asked -- I have been...thinking. Now that I've been outed, so to speak, at least to certain parties, it strikes me that I have an inordinate amount of time on my hands. Certainly with the Majestor now out and a new Majestrix friendly to Earth on the throne, the immediate threat to Earth from my people is now abated. But. There are those who will come again, seeking revenge for the humiliations heaped upon them through the resistance affected by this planet's champions. And of course, there are many on this planet who would serve as agents for offworld powers, or would seek technologies from abroad to give them undue advantages." He looks to her, still stony. "Would you agree?"

Sif has posed:
Sif listens attentively as Michael paints the picture, showing no desire to interrupt or question as he talks. When he finishes, she pauses a moment as if processing what she's heard.

"Yes. There is always that facet of a losing party in a war: the element that will not acknowledge failure. They are a large threat at times if the party that has accepted the loss is in precarious position. It would be foolish to look upon the conflict with your people as being over."

Sven enters discreetly then, rolling a cart in with a cask, a tankard, and a skull with an attached handle. From the cask he fills both of the other items, delivering Michael his drink, then Sif hers in the skull. The cart he wheels out of the way, but within easy reach should refills be desired before withdrawing again.

"And yes, there will be traitors on Midgard who seek to undermine those who defend her," she says, agreeing with that assessment as well. "What do you propose?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael takes hold of the mug, lips pursed as he pauses to breathe deeply of the honeyed stuff that fills it. "Delicious," he murmurs, taking a deep draught of the mead, smacking his lips as he feels it slide down his throat. "Mmmm. Yes. Wonderful, sh'taara, sh'tarra." He looks back to Sif now, smiling now - and settling back a bit in his seat, getting a bit more comfortable. "Well, as it happens I have ties with SHIELD, and its space defense agency, SWORD...but let's be honest, my lady. Humans in that organization are primarily going to act along governmental lines, and not necessarily to the benefit of the entire planet.

    "Therefore, I've been thinking about organizing an as of yet informal group myself, something where peers might work together to keep advanced technologies from criminal organizations, corporations, and other bodies - and, should it be necessary, either combat outward alien threats ourslves or work in partnership with organizations such as the Lanterns to remove them."

    Man's got to have hobbies if he doesn't have an official job anymore, ater all.

Sif has posed:
"That sounds like an admirable pastime," Sif says, nodding for emphasis, face deadpan like she's playing a poker game for her very literal life. "Were you seeking some advice for such an organization, or perhaps some funding since all relationships in Midgard these days seem to be paired with the movement of colourful pieces of paper?"

She calmly drains her skull in a single motion.

"Or are you looking perhaps for some who might participate in such a venture. I'm sure I could find names of those who would be interested and approach them on your behalf."

That face is still deadpan. TOO DEADPAN. It's the kind of meta-tell that the really advanced poker players can use. So little tell that it must be tightly under wraps.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Uh-huh." His lips quirk into a grin. "Surely, my lady, you must know that I wanted you to fight at my side, if it would please you to do so." Blunt! Yes. Blunt. That is him in the moment. Michael takes another pull of the mead, chuckling. He didn't drink here last time, after all. "I would like to consider us friends and allies in the future. Fighting in the field, crushing enemies of peace rather than conquering. It's what I want to do with myself now."

Sif has posed:
"I try not to make assumptions," Sif says, humour finally leaking through her mask. "People die when I do and they are incorrect." Pause. "People I value, I mean, naturally." Naturally.

She gets up from her seat to move to the cask. "Would you care for a refill of your tankard?" she asks as she refills her skull, continuing, "I am, of course, sworn to the Court and under the Allfather's command, but within those restrictions ... I am a trusted figure with considerable leeway. The Allfather would not look askance upon me protecting his domain in Midgard."

Remaining standing in case Michael wanted the refill, she clarifies.

"That would be an acceptance in principle. Of course details need to be hammered out."

Talking of hammered, this mead is head-destroying stuff.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Head-destroying for humans, perhaps; happily enough, Michael has twenty times the stamina of a man his size, and so while potent, he isn't going to be drunk right away. "I'm sworn to the Majestrix, as far as she'll have me as an agent in this system," he replies. "Unofficially, but naturally I'll be hunting down enemies to her cause. In the end, however, I would see this system independent - Asgardian claims aside, naturally." He winks at her from over the rim of his tankard as he says it, finishing the draught. "Please, a refill would be lovely. This is magnificent stuff. Were I human, I imagine I would be well on my way to crawling under a table."

Sif has posed:
Sif delivers her skull to the small table next her chair before picking up Michael's tankard and refilling.

"Were you human you would not be drinking this. The impact of what you drank would have you in hospital, likely, and at the very least unconscious. Asgardian mead and ale is significantly more ... impactful ... than their local counterparts.

She muses as she pours, "It is not the spirits content either. There is magery in Asgardian ale. The amount of spirits is the same but its effect is amplified."

Tankard delivered she sits down once more, steepling her fingers as she regards.

"Then within the limitations set by my oaths to my people and my liege, I find your proposal intriguing and accept. Who else is involved in this?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    His brows lift. "It might be wasted on me, then," Michael says. "If I recall correctly, the mead of Asgard is meant to instill in one dreams and songs. My people do not dream, and see music as a sign of mental disturbance in our race specifically. But then again..." With a sigh he takes another deep draught, smiling quietly to himself as he lets it get in under that indominable will.

    "I would deeply enjoy fighing alongside you, I think," Michael says then. "It's lovely to be able to speak with other nonhumans openly. I've been alone on this planet for a very long time." Another sip. "Your fellowship has been most welcome, my lady. Thank you."

Sif has posed:
"I presume there will be some kind of communication and transportation arrangement," Sif says, continuing with business. "If we are to act as a unit we must have the facilities to form and disband at need, after all." Something about what Michael has said appears to be disturbing her, and her reaction is to go all-business.

"Will resources be drawn upon at need or pooled in advance?"

She conceals her face behind the massive skull containing the drink as she takes a slow draught of it.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I'm still arranging it all," he says, taking a sip. Lets out a long sigh, then, and puts the mug aside. "I wanted to gauge interest first - and to answer your previous question, you are the first person I wanted to talk to." Now he folds his hands upon his knee, frowning.

    "I've said something that's upset you," he says. "Will you tell me?"

Sif has posed:
"Nothing has upset me," Sif lies smoothly, face bland, eyes distant. "I'm also gratified to know that I was the first you entrusted this notion to." She rests her hand on her heart. "I will ensure that the trust is earned."

Eyes are in the here and now again; whatever it was that had disturbed her is gone, banished back from whence it had come.

"What you must understand when dealing with ancient entities is that our memories can sometimes plague us," she explains dishonestly. "It is not possible to recall everything in over a thousand years of life instantly. Only important things, and usually recently important, stay in the forefront of our minds. The rest are there, but concealed until something brings them to our attention. This can lead to unusual, to those not in the know, subtle changes of mood."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Mmmmm." He leans back in chair, rubbing at his brow with his palm. "Well, so be it. But in case it /is/ the dreaming and the music thing, we're descended from birds, regardless of our outward appearance - hunting birds, which involves a certain degree of neurological divergence. Where the mammalian aspects arose I don't know. We find our expression through combat, construction, organization. There's a reason the Empire stretches a galaxy wide."

    He chuckles, but it's a hollow sound. Bitter at the edges. "As for the feelings on music, I assume that's related. It's funny; I've lived here long enough to appreciate it. I even have a lovely singing voice, I'm told. But. I hope that these facts will not keep us from being friends." He looks at her for a long moment. "As I said. Your fellowship is valued."

Sif has posed:
That certainly engendered surprise. And confusion. "Music...?"

Then she catches on.

"Oh, no! No, sorry. You were talking about loneliness. It..." She shrugs. "It's a feeling I often have is all. For astonishingly similar reasons in fact."

She gestures down at herself, saying, "I know it's hard to tell, but I am a woman. And warrior women ... even in Asgard we are rare. Yes we have the Valkyrior. Yes Freya's guards of her orchard are all women. But battle line soldiers? There are very few of us. I've spent a thousand years an alien myself, in many ways. Not fitting in completely with my comrades. Not fitting in with my gender at Court."

She raises her skull to her lips again, drinking.

"Your statement caught me off-guard. As I said, memories will resonate with things in the world around. It wasn't important and I didn't wish to burden you."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ahh." He smiles faintly. "Well. If we are to be battle-fellows, then we need not be lonely. We shall be friends, and you need not fit in but to be exactly who you are, Sif, daughter of Asgard. I shall respect you for that and that alone, not how you fit into the court. What we do is more important than how we are born."

    And then, as if to put a cap on this, he adds, "You know what the greater sin in the Empire is of my defection? I am nobility. Minor house, but all the same. The sin is total."

Sif has posed:
"There is a long tradition of renegade nobility fighting perceived injustices and poor decisions in Asgard," Sif laughs. "Your sin is well-known to my kind."

And like that, like a pair of fingers snapping (when struck by Sif's mace), her mood switches back to the here and now and, in fact, slightly on the side of merriment. "My friend Brunnhilde was elevated to the Vanir by the Allfather--she was once human--because she stood up to him when he was about to do something wrong. We reward those who have the courage of their convictions ... and whose convictions prove correct."

"But you make an error," she says, standing and walking to regard her collection, apparently prized, given the reverence she regards some items with. "I am accepted. I am just different. And sometimes that difference is a yawning chasm. Still, a thousand years of it means I'm quite used to it."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I make an error," he echoes, chuckling faintly. "So be it. But even so, I offer you my fellowship. We are expatriates, both, however temporarily. I would be pleased to call you a friend."

    And that said, his brows lift. "So. We shall slay loneliness as much as we shall slay the wicked, eh? I shall have to see what can be done about transport. I am able to traverse intergalactic distances on my own. How do you travel?"

Sif has posed:
"I call upon my brother who can deliver me to anywhere in the Nine Realms," Sif says.

~You boast about taking advantage of me.~ ~Yes, I do. As I have always done.~ ~*sigh*~

"And for tactical manoeuvring, I can outrun most ground vehicles and last longer doing so. I can't fly, but can leap far enough that in most cases the difference is moot. Where the difference matters, I have access to the stables of Asgard and can ride winged horses, sky barges, flying skiffs, and other such instruments of transportation."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I can carry you if need be," Michael says, eyes twinkling faintly with amusement. "Doughty a warrior you might be, you're still a slender woman." With the understandings ironed out that threatened to wrinkle, he reaches for his mug once more. "And, I imagine, you fight like a demon. You don't mind /not/ killing people, I assume."

Sif has posed:
"I have been known to use the flat of my blades should it come to that. Sometimes the living are better persuaders than the dead, after all."

Sif looks at Michael appraisingly. "I did not, however, have you numbered among those of the empowered who did not approve of death. Is this going to present a problem?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "No." He shrugs. "I just prefer not to if I can help it. I am possessed of a love of violence which may, if not properly applied, lead to death unwittingly. So I restrain myself when I can." Michael gestures to the arm that holds the mead cup. "But it is not a problem."

    He downs the rest of his mead, pausing to close his eyes and let it process - powerful his constitution may be, there's only /so/ much leeway he has against that mighty draught. When it finally settles into his stomach and saturates him with its glow, he draws a deep breath. "This truly is amazing stuff, my lady. You are a generous host, and I thank you."

Sif has posed:
"I have the same taste for blood," Sif affirms. "I have been known to fight bare sark, and when I feel that heat rising I will move to a heavily-populated portion of the battlefield so that I do not find myself striking down the innocent in my rage."

There's something jarring about that face saying those words. A nearly flawless face with shining blue eyes calmly talking about berserker rages. As a participant thereof.

"The mead is a fine brew, yes. One of the perquisites of nobility is access to the finest brewers of the realm," she then continues, as if she'd just discussed a mild proclivity toward hangnails. "And I, as hostess, would not serve anything lesser. Especially as I prefer drinking the finer."

Amusement quirks her mouth into a rare, genuine smile. Briefly.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It's a little different for me," Michael says, brows arch. "I'm not a berserker so much a I'm simply a brutal opponent. The Empire taught me to kill. I can hold back, now, but I tend to put people in the hospital." A beat. "A matter of willpower over instinct, as it were." He smiles, then. "All the same, it sounds as though you are a glorious creature on the field. I shall look forward to seeing you there."

    He smiles back at her. Geniuine there, too. "I wish I had something of the Empire to share with you. Alas, my poor company is all that I have to offer."

Sif has posed:
"The invitation was gift enough. You've given me much to think on." Sif glances across at Michael, then back at her weapons. "It occurs to me that this display of all-deadly weapons is probably upsetting to some," she continues. "I should add some of the weapons of restraint as well."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Mmmm." He rises to his feet, then, chuckling in agreement. "Then I am most pleased. Perhaps someday you'll show me this Asgard, mmm? Your other realms. As part as a potential patrol, certainly." He winks at her - actually /winks/ - and then brushes at the lapels of his suit. "Well. I will take my leave of you, my lady. I very much look forward to walking the realms with you."