Owner	Pose
Michael Erickson	While it was a secret for a while - or at least, kept quiet - the word that a Shi'ar starship is on the premises has long since snuck out. Sitting quietly on its own in a secured hangar on the airfield, like some treasure from a conspiracy theorist's greatest fever dream, the ship sits on elegant sculpted struts in the middle of its concrete pad - sleek, avian, its hull covered in a glossy coating of dark purple and with sweeping accents of gleaming mirrorchrome. It looks like a Victorian artist's rendering of a Romulan vessel after having had an episode of TNG beamed into his head while dreaming, frankly. And there's nobody around but one man.     He is sitting under the ship's white belly, Michael Erickson, parked in a folding chair and drinking a longneck of Weihenstephaner. Staring out the hangar's double doors, which are opened a crack to give something of a view of the airfield proper. Gazing into the evening.
Jessica Drew	"You know Michael, this is a lot of teenaged boys dreams, right? When it's not girls." Jessica's high heels click on the spotless floor as she walks in, eyes riveted on the purple and chrome ship. Its mirrored finish reflects back fun house versions of her dark hair, green eyes and tailored black suit. "Did it come so polished or do you sneak down here to burnish it up?" The agent continues her tour of the ship. And when she comes back around stops in front of the Shia'ar, "Got another one of those? I'll call it having a grown up break."
Michael Erickson	He smiles as she enters, though his eyes don't quite focus on Jessica as she makes her approach; another long draw of his beer and then he gets up, heading toward the back of the ship. A few feet of travel and he says...something...to the vessel, and a hatch opens up in its belly before a cooler is dispensed by a small articulated arm. A woman's voice responds, arch and crisp. High Shi'ar, the poshest caliber. He replies in kind before returning to the chair.     "All yours," Michael says, opening the cooler and fishing out one of a number of ice-cold beers. "Mi casa es su casa, as the Humans say."
Jessica Drew	Jess takes the sweating bottle, looks for an opener and then, after a quick look around the hangar, pops the top off with her thumb and index finger. She catches the top before it clatters to the hangar floor, then pockets it in her jacket. With a nod, and faint smile, she toasts him with the beer. "How many human languages do you speak and how many non-human?" After moving back a few steps to see the ship better, she lifts her drink to the it, "Is the refit going well?"
Michael Erickson	"Oh, it's going." He looks up at her now, swirling the beer in its bottle as he holds it in his fist by the neck - shrugging, looking more tired than relaxed as he sinks back into its woven back. "Lot of parts need reclaimed. I've been doing a lot of energy scans from here, looking for hints of where they might be. That sort of thing." A beat. "Uh. Languages. High Shi'ar, and Glorkon - you know, the low ergot - and French and a little Spanish. I thought we talked about this before?" A low, slow blink. Memory gears turn. "Didn't we? I can't remember."
Jessica Drew	With an enigmatic smile, Jess tilts the bottle back and take a healthy swig. "I don't remember the Glorkon. Have you been holding out on us?" Gesturing with her bottle at the ship, "Do you have a full list of what you need? Can the parts be fabricated here on Earth or do they need special alloys not available here?"
Michael Erickson	"Ah. Bit like the difference between posh and common English," he replies, nodding along. "The toffs use High Shi'ar." You know. Toffs. Like him. He drains the bottle and puts it aside on the concrete by his chair, then, and reaches for another one. Like her, he flicks the cap off as if it were paper. "As for the parts, nah, we'll have to find them. Plasma cores for the engine, the whole shield array. Nothing that you'd make here on this planet."     That said, Michael looks up at the ship, its wings that spread wide over the two of them, and sighs. "Gorgeous, though, isn't she? A genuine A'aatav. Nothing like the Trivaa my father had when I was young. Bit like comparing a Bugatti to a Rolls."
Jessica Drew	"Well la-di-dah," the agent replies, putting on a Cockney accent. "Ain't we fancy?" Jess shrugs and laughs, "How, one might enquire, do you intend to do that? If I remember correctly," she has returned to a perfect rendition of a public school accent, not acquired in a boarding school, "do you intend to borrow them on the sly?" Her mouth opens and she stops, looking between the ship and Michael. "I wonder if parts couldn't be bought now or bartered for."
Michael Erickson	"Quite fancy," Michael replies, waggling his brows. "Shula fa'taa matrev." 'Top of the heap', as it were. At her wonderings, then, his attention returns to the vessel above. Shrugs. "I suppose," Michael begins, "But HYDRA has the shield generator at the very least, if not the plasma generator pods. I'd much rather get those out of their hands and punish them for daring to think they could have them." Ah, there he is. The days when the Red Sentinel used to bust people for scamming alien tech and all.     Michael takes a long, first swig from the new bottle. "Something like this has to be handled the hard way, I think. It has to be earned. This vessel is rare, custom-engineered. I wouldn't feel as if it were deserved by anyone if we didn't pay for the privilege in blood."
Jessica Drew	Before she can edit her reaction, Jess makes a face, "In blood? Are you serious, Michael?" She holds up a hand, saying quickly, "I'm sure you are. We might be having some cultural difference problems here. If SHIELD is backing this project, which they are," she looks him straight in the eyes, "then no one pays for this in blood. I was going to suggest that we liberate the parts you mentioned from HYDRA. I have no intel on it. For all we know they may have already tried to build a ship to use the engines."
Michael Erickson	"Didn't say it would be /our/ blood," Michael points out, and then laughs. "And it's a figure of speech, I'm sorry. Been sitting here talking to the computer too much of late." He shakes his head. "Between that, and thinking of what happened at the spaceport, who that woman served, I just..." He trails off a moment, shakes his head, takes another swig. "Don't mind me. Too much time to myself, I think - we just need to hammer down the signatures. I've been doing orbits, in armor, searching. I'll find it soon enough and we can close in."
Jessica Drew	"You never know with you." Jess shakes her head, chuffing a small laugh at the misunderstanding. "Well, Shi'ar has no monopoly on zealots. I doubt she will be the last. We'll need precise intel, I am certain that WAND won't have you doing this on your own, in case you were considering that. The more agents on hand, the more we can carry, so to speak."
Michael Erickson	"Oh, certainly not." Michael makes a faint face. "I'm not remotely interesting in playing cowboy. This needs to be done properly." Another swig. "Did I ever tell you about Deathbird? The Mother of Treachery, they call her back home."
Jessica Drew	"This is going to be a two-bottle story. I can tell. Tell her to give me one, please." Jess points at the ship. "So, yeah, here and there, but never the full story." Heels clicking, she pulls a chair across the hangar and sits it next to his.