9192/The Fine Art Of Military Planning

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The Fine Art Of Military Planning
Date of Scene: 21 December 2021
Location: Recreation Lounge: Triskelion
Synopsis: Frog and Toad Are Friends.
Cast of Characters: Michael Erickson, Dottie Underwood




Michael Erickson has posed:
    Perched on a couch in the lounge area, the comfy spot with its dim lights, is Michael - who, prodding at a large-format tablet in his lap, is hard at work scribbling away in a language from a galaxy away. Reams and reams of strange, barbed script, the handwritten version of those block glyphs that were seen tattooed on his arms before. Busy man. So much writing.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie doesn't write many things down. You never know who will read it. That's the nature of the game. Although, she supposes, a language only you can read is an effective cipher of sorts. She pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and says, "Evening."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ah." He looks up from the work, giving the woman a thin smile. "Alone at last, finally. How are you?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
She shrugs. "Oh, fine," she says, bright and false. But conventions are conventions. And even strange monsters must maintain them, lest they forget their masks.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Mmhmm." He pats the couch. "You can join me, if you like. And you need not use the act. We are better than that, are we not? We are not like them."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"As they constantly remind us, or at least me," Dottie says. "It's easier."

She pushes away from the door and crosses the room. But the Iowa sunshine sheds from her expression and she is as cold and blank and endless as a Siberian winter.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Perhaps for them." He shakes his head. "You are what you are. I accept you." Once she crosses, he lifts the tablet. "I feel like Marshal Zhukov. Military planning. I haven't had to do this in fifty years."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie raises an eyebrow. "I was never one for large operations."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Well, it isn't really a large operation," says Michael, turning off the tablet and tossing it onto a nearby table. "Just a squad. Really, it's the same as my reconaissance unit back home. It's just been a while since I've had to operate those parts of my brain." He looks to her. "I apologize for Agent Drew. She did misunderstand, that night when she joined us in the training room. I know that sort of thing doesn't necessarily concern you, but you deserve the respect of an apology when I am at fault."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"She is...young," Dottie says, as though it were an excuse. As though youth were a matter of time and not a privilege of the coddled. "She can think whatever lies she needs to. It is an inconvenience. In this work, people will die. Best that the person dying isn't you. Too many people want to believe that isn't necessary. Even though they would and have done the same. But I assume she has potential. Or at least is of some use."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "She's a good soul," Michael says with a shrug. "She's gone through a great deal of the same things that you did in your youth. She doesn't want people to suffer." Another shrug. "She is human." Because he isn't. And neither is she. Not in any way that a human would count her. "I want you to be a part of this unit I am building. Space is a hard place. It would benefit everyone to have a realist on the team."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"People do not consider me a team player," she tells him archly. It all seems very foolish to her, raised as she was on loyalty and devotion and obedience to Mother Russia. They just didn't like her team...merely found it useful. Until the fall of Stalin, and the disavowal of his pet project Leviathan. Whatever failures Leviathan had suffered before, however she had failed, there had always been a way back.

And then HYDRA...and a loyalty that was induced, rather than cultivated. And then SHIELD, and their TAHITI project, erasing her from existence. They called it a second chance. She considers it a death.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "People need to get used to the fact you're a different sort of creature," he replies. Michael crosses his legs, draping his arms across the back of the couch. "I like you, myself." He makes a face. "But it is your choice, of course. If you would rather not be a part of it, I will respect tht. Thee are other things that you could do, working with us."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I did not say I work best alone. A small team -- three to five operatives functioning independently, each aware only of the part they play. A degree of personal autonomy and responsibility. I know what I am," She shrugs again. "You are the first in a long time to appreciate it."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Ahhhh." With a look of understanding dawning on his face, Michael nods in understanding of her words. Smiles. "I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm glad that I make you feel appreciated. Because I do. And I consider you my friend, Dottie. I want to make sure that you're able to feel useful in a way that works for you as much as the team."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie looks at Michael, considering. "I don't have friends," she says shortly. It's a deadpan statement of fact. No self-pity. No distancing ire. Just the truth of her existence.

"But you *are* different than most," she accedes.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I like to think so." He smirks, now. "I'm not the alien that dearly wishes to be human, as the trope goes. I'm quite happy being different. As are you. It's part of why I like you."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"It's an experience," Dottie admits. "Not having to shy away from the truth of things for the sake of ... squeamishness."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael chuckles at that and nods. "Well," he says, "I wont lie and say that I don't regret a good bit of what I've done, now that I've had fifty years to think about it, but it's the reasons, not the act itself, that I regret. Humans like to pretend that they aren't animals. So do the Shi'ar. We just hide if in different ways. Humans say they're 'better than that', whereas my people just say 'It's necessary'. Neither is true, of course. It's nice to meet someone who can admit that, too, and not be a slavering psychotic." Not that he doesn't think she's psychotic to some degree, mind. She just doesn't slaver. Slavering's bad. It gets all over the carpet."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I don't regret the things I've done," Dottie shrugs. "Despite people thinking that I *should*. If I hadn't someone else would. And I would be the one with the broken neck."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Nothing wrong with that," he says with a shrug. "For me, it's more that I feel that my people were greedy. I don't like killing for greed alone. The killing itself, I've never minded."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"All people are greedy. All governments. But once you know what they want, they are easily manipulable." Dottie smiles, sharp and clever. "All things in life come down to wanting."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It's true," he says with a nod. "It's true. But on the other hand, of couse, there's a matter of 'how far, for what reasons'. In our case, it's all a matter of religion - which makes it all the more obscene when you know that gods are real. As someone from an Imperialist background, it may seem strange to say, but I feel that I've come to embrace the old worker's slogan a bit more these days: No Gods, No Masters." He makes a face, then shakes his head, clearing it off before looking at Dottie. Considers.

    "Which brings me, since you bring it up, to a question that I've had for some time. What do /you/ want, Dottie? Does anyone ask you?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Constantly, it seems," Dottie crosses her arms across her chest, her discomfort small and tight in her center. "But they never like the answers." Her lips stretch wide over her teeth again. "And while I don't doubt their sincerity, it does cause me to doubt their capacity for understanding."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Well, then." He spreads his hands. "Try me. Perhaps I might be different."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie sighs, as though bored by the admission. "I want to survive. To live. To win."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I don't understand why people don't understand that." His brows arch. "Sounds like a fine enough reason to live, to me. What, is it morality that gets in their way? Seems like a plain thing to want."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
The knot in Dottie's center unclenches. "Either a creeping morality that I should play the victim of my molding. Or regret what I have done -- either out of loyalty or compulsion. It's not even that they disapprove of my methods. Only that I did not use my skills only for them and solely out of the goodness of my heart. So I should have regrets. Or I should be called to some loftier purpose. To wish to simply continue as I am causes them some distress." She grins again. "But why should I change? I am useful. Soon SHIELD will make itself an organization that will not take a life, despite the necessity. Or to call the people they do kill monsters, rather than recognize them for what they are."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "On that day," Michael says with a faint smile, "They will have to muster me out, as well. But worry not. I shan't let them change you if you don't want. I can take you wherever you like, on Earth or on another world. You'll be trained to go where you please, by then, should they be stupid enough to go in that direction."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I don't think Peg has lost all of her spine," Dottie considers. "Despite getting...*soft*. What with her age. And her condition."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "She isn't soft," Michael says with a shake of his head. "Motherhood, I think, will only steel her. Mark me: motherhood makes vast'aals of even the softest maiden. She may well see things differently, but she will not lose the steel in her spine." He grunts. "And she won't treat you poorly, either. I will do my best to see to that. I know it might sound...patronizing, and I do not wish for you to think that. But my people are loyal to our friends, as I will be loyal to you."

    That said, he gets to his feet, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Get ready for desert conditions," he tells her. "Polar. Radiological, if I can make it happen. And I will need your measurements to ensure your suit will fit you. They are in development."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Oh, it's not her first child. And I doubt it'll be her last. She seems determined to play house and pretend at happy families." Micro expressions of emotion, almost too brief to comprehend, flash across Dottie's eyes: revulsion, anger, hurt, disappointment, and perhaps something akin to envy. She shrugs again, "I would know." An edge of braggadocio colors her voice so Michael cannot tell whether she's referring to having friends or children. Both perhaps.

Then she nods. A flirtatious grin curling around her lips. "I'm sure the taking of my measure can be...arranged."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He smirks faintly as he goes toward the door. "Well, we will see. In the meantime, it's me and you." He does not comment on the emotions he sees, and certainly he does see them all - but he sees enough. A smile. "I'm glad you're with me." And then, without commenting on the grin (he's from another planet, not stupid) Michael exits into the hall, no doubt off to cause some other brand of nonsense.