8074/Enough Liquor to see Stars

Enough Liquor to see Stars
Date of Scene:	01 October 2021
Location:	Little Italy
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Jessica Drew, Jane Foster

---

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Little Italy is flled with lovely restaurants, for sure - but also crime, gangs and the Maggia still in operation here in force. Such street-level operations seem a world away for Michael, but he still walks the streets searching for the occasional opportunity to break some punk's criminal face. Because Michael is a good man, but he is also a brutal one.

    Tonight, however, his cause for being in the neighborhood is...significantly less violent, unless you count the sort of violence that art can inflict on the Shi'ar mind. It is violence that Michael has been well-insulated against over the years, however, and so...it is out of the Bowery Poetry club that he emerges of a night, smoke and music at his back, as he passes through the door, a book under one arm as he steps out onto the sidewalk and squints into the night. Perchance someone's gotten his fill of Human cultuer of an evening?

Jessica Drew has posed:
New York in autumn is exhilarating. The drop in temperature puts a little lift into Jessica's step. Already upstate around the Triskelion, the place Jess is dead set on escaping for a night out with her friend Jane, the leaves are turning red and gold. The two women had discussed the poetry venue and the excellent bookstores in the area. Laughing, Jess had countered with the karaoke bar. They had agreed that a good chianti and pasta of some sort was in their future.

Addressing her fellow escapee, "Hungry yet, Jane? I know a place that serves Italicus. Had you tried that yet?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Another night, another dime. The work of an astrophysicist is never truly done, not with the universe as vast and inconceivably empty of actual sustained matter as it is. That in its way demands considerable research, and the sheer /size/ of everything? Human technology may be on a cutting edge under SHIELD's auspices, but frankly it requires a considerable amount of time to crunch those numbers and find those outcomes. Free time, however spearing, demands it be filled by something other than filing, endlessly podcasting, the recording of a new TV show, or bothering the Asgardian Embassy for Reasons (TM).

There are reasons, after all.

Jane's wearing her coat at least, taking in the autumn with the same delight Jess is. Just not quite so obvious, perhaps, her contentment dialled back a little behind a smile that doesn't need to shine quite so bright. Those signs of bold enthusiasm need a /little/ hiding. "You know, we got into so much trouble with a bottle of chianti that we turned into a sangria. Not the normal wine for it, but it made fieldwork into an absolute party. Then two weeks later, bam, rainbow in the desert and that basically became trouble. I haven't tried it yet; thus, lead on!"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    There are always reasons, to be sure.

    Michael, still standing under the club's awning, squints down the way to see a pair of recognizable figures coming his way down the toward him. You'd think he'd been caught outside a questionable venue, the way he reacts; flipping up the collar of his jacket - and then realizing it has none - he frowns, turning a bit aside so his back is largely turned to them. Yes, let them not see him. Please. Throne.

    It's a very well-programmed instinct. Decades of social engineering. He barely realizes he's doing it.

Jessica Drew has posed:
"My only thoughts on sangria are that it is too easy to drink. That sounds Asgardian, all-night drinking that ends in rainbows, if only! /I'd/ end up making the kind of crazy webs that spiders on LSD do."

A man. A shape. Someone familiar to her up ahead catches her eye, the regular beat of her feet on the sidewalk changes.

She slows, her hand on Jane's lower arm, saying in a low voice, "Look, he's going to think we're on his trail. I think he's seen us. Look," she says gleefully, "he's turned his back to us, hoping we don't spot him.

Jane Foster has posed:
Can't trust that gentleman with his collar turned up, for he might be noticed by the brunette and the dark-haired Spider! Fear being noticed by sharp eyes, or a friendly face, and the world turns into a distinctly darker place, right?

"Sangria absorbed into berries and oranges is well-worth it, I promise. Though Asgardian drink is something else, and hardly manageable for the likes of us," she gestures idly to include them both. "The mead is like liquid sunshine. They have this green liquor distilled like armagnac, and it would reasonably put an ox on its back. Nothing I can handle."

The touch to her arm from Jess doesn't break her stride, though she accommodates a slower route through Little Italy. Here's the sort of place they can both fit in, though not without danger. "We let him go past, then?" she asks in a softer tone. Given a beat or two, and she glances at one of the eateries, then the Bowery Poetry slam venue with a delicious chuckle. "You've no idea how badly I want Thor to try that place. One day."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He can hear them, of course - not the words, but the tone. Identifies it. Conspiracy is his business, after all, and he knows that he's been made. With a deep sigh, then, Michael turns back toward them, and affects an expression that is /almost/ entirely empty of whatever ancient instinct of shame and surprise at being caught outside an /artistic venue/ by /comrades/. Were this the Empire, his reputation would be shot out an airlock.

    But this is not an airlock, old man. As the youth say, /chill/.

    "Good evening," Michael offers the two women as they approach, unconsciously tucking the book under his arm that much more against his body. "Did not expect to see you two this far down in Manhattan. How are you?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
"No escape for the wicked," she says in a low voice to Jane,even as she puzzles at the odd expression on his face. "You'd think he's been up to no good. The Shi'ar are strange about art from what he's told me, but I think they like epics stories and such. Thor in a bar with poetry would be one for the books, Jane." She laughs aloud at the thought of it.

Laughter still in her voice, she returns the greeting,"Hel-lo, what brings you to Little Italy, Michael?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Nor rest. Money don't grow on trees." Jane could be trusted to sing a lyric if it mattered, but she manages only a modest conversational note in all of that. Self-control counts particularly well. Her finger slips against her brow, pushing away her hair from her face. "Cultural differences are myriad. What we consider comedy barely flies in other nations, much less different celestial empires. I find it illustrative to understand what interests others."

Thor in a bar singing a tune or doing beat poetry are significantly amusing. Enough to get a laugh rounding Jess's word, and she turns lightly to wave a greeting to Michael. "Doing well, are we? Lovely evening. I actually work in Manhattan."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ah." Michael gives Jane a nod in response, running his free hand through his hair. "It's quite nice, though...it will be cold, soon. I'm a summertime kind of guy." A glance to Jessica, to whom he knows being anything remotely evasive - especially with their history up to now - would be useless. "I was at a poetry reading, ah, actually." Cue that faint feeling of guilty discomfort, gnawing at his innars. "Something I picked up. My people, they don't..." He looks over his shoulder at the facade of the club. "...well. If I were still a citizen and they saw me here, I might well be executed."

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica can feel the smile straining to escape in the muscles of her cheeks at Michael being caught out in a little illicit a-r-t. "Do you recite it, Michael or do you just snap your fingers when someone rips a good line? To answer your question, Jane is bent on teaching me how the Asgardians drink and relieve me of any good sense I might have in a drinking and pasta debauchery. Or so the excuse I've prepared for my headache tomorrow goes." The joking ends when his last word penetrates. "Executed? For poetry? Surely not!"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Lovely, with the briskness in the air. I don't mind layers or sweaters at all. At least autumn brings warm colours and brightness before it turns grey and brown." Cold doesn't quite bother her, though the actual biting chill of winter proves another matter. Jane doesn't raise her voice in worry though; she has a habit of long tenures of silence, although filled by another realm of communication altogether. A companionable quiet rests on her shoulders while Michael spills the beans, and those cocoa-brown eyes warm by shades. "Oh? Classical poetry or created on the fly? Have you heard the city's poet laureate by chance? She's very good."

The idea of poetic executions isn't lost on her. She should be surprised, and perhaps isn't. "Finger-snapping is only used in some places, don't believe otherwise. Though I wonder why such would be worthy of killing a person."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "My people don't dream," he points out, clearing his throat. "In the Empire, artistic creativity is considered a sign of insanity - any who /can/ dream are excised for the greater mental sanitation of society." He makes a face as the words come out of his mouth, the latter an echo of the society - and the man - that he once was. Michael clears his throat, then, and takes the book out from under his arm to look at it. Plain, very weathered. Very clearly not from the day, much less the decade. Pablo Neruda, 'Residence on Earth'. An amusingly fitting title.

    "I'm still trying to understand it, you know? It's beautiful, I can see that. But it always escapes me, just a little. It doesn't quite move me like it does humanity." He looks back up at them, embrassement plain now. "Well. I'll get there. It's love poetry. Love hasn't been ground out in the Empire yet, at least."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Are you reading it in Spanish or English? It is beautiful in both. Though I prefer it in Spanish." She touches the book with a finger. "You can't force poetry, least, I don't think so. Reading it out loud might help, along with a good glass of wine. Jessica doesn't gloss over his confession about the Shi'ar's view of dreaming and art, but feels helpless in the face of its absence.

"Speaking of wine. Where shall we go?" With a glance at Jane, "You're welcome to come with us, if you'd like."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Artistry being absent is a rather strong statement against creativity, though a purely rational society still requires those who have progressive ideas and possibilities to not stagnate." Jane shakes her head, though she isn't going to push any further than that. Since Michael displays the book he carries, she has no issue with shifting the conversation safely.

"I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul." A beat or two, and she tips into another stanza, albeit further down. "I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you directly without problems or pride; I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love, except this form in which I am not nor are you. So close that your hand upon my chest is mind, so close that your eyes shut with my dreams."

She gives a pause or two, and then nods slowly all the same. "My Spanish is terrible, but I remember that sonnet well enough. It's not exactly unknown. He creates such strong emotive kicks in verse. Perhaps the images and the words are themselves an antidote to sterility." Oh, on so many levels. She grins and then nods to Jess. "We should. If it's going to be that, we need two bottles. One for the before, another for the after."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael listens to Jane's recitation and nods, putting the book under his arm once more. He looks a bit less embarassed, but the faint sheen of reservation remains. "My Spanish isn't fluent," he tells Jessica, "But I try to read the work in both languages. My French is much better, by comparison."

    A chuckle to Jane. "My people are very creative. It's just...scientific. Military. That sort of thing. And we do have /some/ art, it's just very cerebral. Theater, mostly. Though I expect it would be considered absurdist by humans."

    Then back to Jessica. "Ah, yes," he says, nodding against the budding cold of night. "If you'd like. I would enjoy that - though I don't really drink, if that's okay."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Oh, I love that poem," Jessica breathes, impressed with Jane's memory and taste. She can feel a smile flickering at the edge of her lips as she glances between Jane and Michael, wondering whether there might be some sort of attraction between them. She knows nothing of Jane's private life.

"It's a two bottle night then! No worries Michael, I'm in the mood to drink for two. Can you show us some theatre from your people and translate for us some time, Michael? That would be interesting."

Jane Foster has posed:
"One of the best. There are others, though I have only the faintest idea of how 'Ode to Socks' goes. That was one Darcy would know like the back of her hand, I'm sure." Jane speaks fondly of her assistant and erstwhile Darcyness, which is a special matter. "The sonnets bring such imagery to life, though. Some are downright sensual and some outright heartbreaking. His farewells, the stuff of teenaged grief and adoration. The wind, the wind, I can only contend against the power of men."

Quipping lightly, she weaves those words back into place and raises her hands. Jess might not be the only one questioning the doctor's private life, but the proofs otherwise for her preferences are scattered in rare appearances on her overactive social media feeds. There are names and faces to be found.

"You would be welcome to have water and say nothing at all of Neruda, only telling us we're foolish, as long as we all have a good time, right?" A glance back to Jess to observe if she's off on her own beat there. "The idea is to enjoy company."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I'm still getting used to that." Michael smiles, and though it is somewhat awkward, it is genuine. "So. Please. Lead on."

Jessica Drew has posed:
"Darcy and the Ode to Socks? Ode to Science more like, she has been grilling Michael over the weapons he brought to the lab." Waving her hands, she says enthusiastically, "But NO Shoptalk this evening, friends. Please, none. I know a place down the street that makes killer ravioli, Florentine steaks on the grill to die for and frutti di mare that Italians from the UN come to eat."

Jane Foster has posed:
"The Ode to Socks is a Neruda poem, I swear. I can bring it up on my phone for you to read." Jane isn't ever far from that device, one of them at least. It makes her easier to track, even if the primitive technology bemuses a certain alien king that is very much rounded up in her private life. "He wrote an ode to tomatoes, too. We may have a challenge to consider. A test, if you will, Jessica. And you too, Michael. An ode to the silliest or most profound thing we can come up with. Maybe we each pick a topic for another person? Best one gets some kind of prize, bragging rights even."

A pause on taht front and then she grins. "It's essential that we enjoy Florentine steaks, I insist."