Owner	Pose
Daisy Johnson	".... and so that's why I am at the computer tonight, looking at footage, Sir." That's Daisy doing her report to Director Furry, her cat. Meowing because of the lack of attention. Yet what the SHIELD hacker is doing is important, looking over footage of the incident at the starport. Trying to figure out what exactly happened. Frame by frame. All very tedious work but the mystery of what happened to Jane burns in her mind. She is over at her couch, feet up and on the coffee table, laptop on her lap and she on a pair of shorts and top. Nothing on her feet of course because only barbarians use shoes when at home. House is quiet, deep night and she knows Matt is out doing investigation as Daredevil. So she knows she has a few hours of this left still.
Jane Foster	Director Furry might be the first to /hear/ something amiss other than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Toss-up who may be more sensitive, but not who is definitely more dead from a lack of feeding five minutes ago. Frame by frame, the breakdown displayed from Daisy's monitor is clear. Pummeling of the prostrate dark elf sorcerer moves between axe and hammer, thunder god and upjumped astrophysicist. Some kind of mild gesture that births hideous black talons mid-air, sorcery profane enough to stink of corrosion and hate even in digital format. A faltering pause in Jane before the battle carries on, another blow delivered on the laughing mad elf. Then Thor's accusation. Armour turned to sylphs and sparks, Jane evaporating. The necklace falls, madness ensues, Malekith laughs and soon enough loses his head to a stormy blow. The end. Outside, flashing lights that interrupt the darkness aren't anything new. It's New York. That's how things go. These aren't the yellow of NYDOT rolling by to make a late night curb repair or the familiar blue and red of the police. Why'd they even be here? Nor the visceral red-blood pump of an ambulance. For one, the lights are too high, shifting across the windows in their upper quadrant, a few streaking objects aglow as they plunge from the highest reaches.
Daisy Johnson	"I am not getting you more food right now.." Daisy is in the middle of getting a good zoom in on that necklace that falls on the ground. Interesting. Then frame by frame again to see what happens to the necklace. She lets it running and then glances at the cat. "What's wrong, bud?" she reaches to scritch at the cat behind the ears even as he meows with more intensity, then jumps down to go towards those large windows with the neons of the bar in front. There's usually a lot of light coming from there but those new ones are different.... And higher up? "Uh ..." Daisy isn't one to not check on a good mystery so she sets her laptop aside and pads quietly to the windows, hands resting casually on her hips and she peers up. "Shooting stars..?" not that common to be so bright, or visible
Jane Foster	The necklace is hidden under the Asgardian armour and whatever clothes lie beneath that. Contrary to popular belief, they can't run around without some padding layer. When the metal burns away, the Aesir tunic beneath is revealed. Then Jane's flesh evaporates, and then, the necklace falls to where she stood. Plink! Easily forgotten in the mess of activity, probably scoured or kicked aside in the wreckage of all those Kursed corpses, fallen sorcerers, and Malekith. Shadows shift mildly, slowly melting away from the brightening source in the sky. Not much sound accompanies them, but the persistent, trembling frequency well outside human hearing isn't outside the hacker's other senses. These trill in pieces, held together in a steady P-wave jolt that spikes high and then ends up chased by smaller quavery warbles much weaker than their leading burst. Behind a building that really ought to be condemned, the faint orange glow takes on a deeper cast, though not so incredibly dark as to suggest a pumpkin bomb. Embers on a downward trajectory take aim for Hell's Kitchen, yanked askew by gravity and their failing trajectory. Four main 'tails' follow the glowing balls of stuff burning up in the atmosphere, the fifth one so small it's hard to separate except for its noisy 'wobble' vibrationally. Down, down, down.... Getting closer. Moving /how/ fast, exactly?
Daisy Johnson	"Is that thing coming here ...?" Daisy blinks once, her stare on the orange glow that seems to be getting larger ..., and angled at Hell's Kitchen. The cat has already scrambled and found an hiding place. Under the couch. Impenetrable. As for Daisy? She frowns, focuses her powers, trying to feel the oncoming object. It's still far enough but she is hoping to catch some of those vibrational waves being sent off. Trying to make heads from tails of the thing!
Jane Foster	Star light, star bright, First rooftop you burn tonight... The water tower atop an apartment building takes the first bit of material on the deteriorating trajectory. One small glowing ball of superheated stuff smashes into the graffiti-stricken, corrugated metal. Plonk! Speed more than anything translates into shaking the large metal structure on its frame, water inside sloshing around. However, nothing perilously tilts over like a scened from War of the Worlds, though the additional fuss makes for a lot of background noise. The other meteor fragments come down in a spread less than a kilometer wide, strewn largely in a diagonal fan. After the water tower, two burn bright as they lob behind a nearby building. Poor cat! The sound is more shrill than anything. Each signature is noisy but the solid matter isn't large; nothing beyond the size of a hard drive, wobbling end over end, probably losing a good portion of its mass at impact or up to this point. But impact still packs a punch. As witnessed by one of the bright lights getting closer. Closer. Clooooser. Right for the big multi-coloured windows over the open space.
Daisy Johnson	The falling pieces around Hell's Kitchen are 'felt' by Daisy, the vibrational field sensitive to those. She grits her teeth. But then sees the one coming right at that window. Oh no, you don't! The shield Agent focuses up and presses her hands to the window, creating a powerful barrier in an attempt to stop that falling rock from entering through the living room. Wouldn't be good explaining that to Matt either. And would he believe it wasn't her fault? Not really!
Jane Foster	Bonk! Plink. Swobbly-bonk-clunk-skreee! The last has the sound of a fire escape actually being used for the first time since the War -- maybe the /Civil/ War. American, of course. The telltale groan of metal painted over too many times to be useful except for pigeons shakes through the air. Daisy's skillful use of a barrier has the effect the wants, though the sheer speed of the small object takes a lot of energy to dissipate, probably more than she might expect. The colourful windows don't end up shattered and frustrating to replace, but they rattle in their frames like her teeth possibly do in her jaw. She isn't trying to 'hold' a regular rock from going through the window. The irregular shape doesn't match the mass, but whatever is present certainly glows awfully bright. It bounces off and presumably hits the ground outside. The enormously bright orange strobing effect now goes on the wall, up the windows, the opposite building, and probably out into the street. Rave party!
Daisy Johnson	One crisis averted. But now Daisy is curious. Curious enough that she starts walking to that fire escape door to walk out into the night to check on the metal that just fell. Specially as it didn't feel normal. And in her line of work there are no coincidences. Of course that she could had remembered getting shoes on. Or even slippers. But nope, she just walks bare footed outside and in shorts. "Stay inside, Boxer." she approaches the metal, curious, eyes trailing after the lights playing atop the building.
Jane Foster	No need to rush out into the night too fast. The blaze of fire down there in the alleyway hasn't consumed concrete or melted down pipes. Copper-gold flames leap up a good foot or two high around the object occupying a significant pothole that wasn't there before. Most of the speed bled off into Daisy's shields, but not all, and the force of impact leaves the relatively round crater. Scorched concrete and garbage vaporized into a rather horrible smell greet the colourful dance party for two squirrels, one terrorized rat, and a confused pedestrian who just keeps moving. Nope. Same as upstairs across the street; curtains twitch shut. Not their problem. The object itself isn't big, a ragged shard of metal that hasn't somehow turned into slag, though it certainly looks hot. Hard to say considering the fire blazing around it, needing no obvious fuel source thanks to immense friction. Still, the thing has a shape, vaguely leaf-like. It radiates a lot of heat, that's to say the least. And the rhythmic pattern of .o(!)o. that swells, pauses, and hits a spike, pauses, and drops off, over and over.
Daisy Johnson	Typical Hell's Kitchen. No one wants to get a piece of .., whatever this was. Daisy does though which is why she has made her way over. The pattern is ..., strange. Almost as if it was alive. Or trying to send some message. Not that Daisy gets it at first, the woman squatting down to study the leaf-like object. It could always be morse code, and she isn't so bad with it so she focuses on figuring out what might be going on here.
Jane Foster	Typical Hell's Kitchen. Weird event, no one bats an eyelash. Food truck parks a block down and they all riot. The object up close is much easier to see in detail. For all the heat given off around it, the metal shard remains surprisingly intact. Some impression of embossing remains despite traversing the sky, all ragged edges on one side. A spine clearing runs the length of the object, much as a leaf has, but the delicately brushed grooves are much more like the pinions of a bird of prey or one of the larger avians out there. More eagle, much less peacock, house finch, or Canada goose. The slightest hint of a curve is suggested, though the point of a quill is clearly broken off. It certainly glows well enough in that flame bath to make seeing more difficult. The rhythmic high vibration is more like the rise and fall of a snarl or a growl than a heartbeat or a purr. It exudes a swirl of pure rage.
Daisy Johnson	The swirling rage has Daisy take a step back. Confusion amidst with curiosity. Clearly no natural phenomena at work here. "Don't go anywhere.." She tells the thing. She takes a quick run upstairs to get a metal container and returns a bit later to get the item inside. She isn't exactly savvy to know what the heck any of this is but she knows a few smart people that might be able to get an idea on what these are. Or study them otherwise.
Jane Foster	The glowing effect of a demented rave party definitely is going to attract interest from other bystanders, though they have their reasons to walk uneasily around the other shards presumably fallen from the sky. The brindled flare of gold and copper seethes, the burning going along with the vibrational grumble the Inhuman woman picks up. When she returns with the container, there may be the concern about a very hot metal being stuffed inside another hot metal. Maybe not! But be as it is, there's no mistaking the feather-shape of the shard or the feather appearance, save something made of metal. It's quite a bit different from the nth-metal designs of Hawkman and Hawkwoman. For one, it's in a bad mood. When she comes close enough to pick it up and stuff it in a container, Daisy's fingers or skin won't burn. It's ironically cool to the touch; the /air/ remains hot. Its palpable anger becomes a low, angry moan at short range. "Audible" only because she can sense the shivering sounds.
Daisy Johnson	Interesting. It doesn't burn. It means Daisy really didn't need that kitchen pan to get the object inside. If it's an object because now that she looks at it with more attention it almost feels .., alive. "Alright, let's get back in..." A quick look around the street, then noticing that she is sorta out there in shorts and barefoot. A quick dash back upstairs by way of the fire escape stairs and then she makes her way back into the apartment. The door gets closed behind her and she settles it down on the ground of the living room. A quick picture with her phone then is made, and sent to the whatsapp group so a Jemma can see it. <<Need your opinion on this>>
Jane Foster	The fire certainly involves melting heat, as witnessed by the blasted condition of the hole that the metal feather punched into the pavement. But careful manipulation does not cause the cylinder to instantly melt. It warms up plenty but much of the residual temperature probably comes from super-heating the air after that fall from inside. Gaspy 'moans' vibrate off the object, rattling at very low frequencies, punctuated by brief pauses as the woman negotiates her way back inside. Congratulations, she now has a feather. It's most definitely a *bright* feather, stamped in detail that describes every finely wrought vein and tine that makes up its body. Neither does it weigh much of anything; very easy to forget it's rattling around there. The colour dims down slightly as time goes on, though not by much, now making the interior of the joint Johnson-Murdock residence particularly infernal indeed. Somewhat. Gold and copper may suggest empyreal designs, though the cranky thing is still radiating a whole lot of fury. Director Furry isn't immune to knowing it's upset, either. The dull, flat broadcast remains through taking a photo. To think, this was one glowing ball of four or five. If Daisy touches it, though, she's immediately greeted to the psycho-audible signs of it keening like a fourteen-year-old told she's not allowed to go out on a date with the hottest guy in town, in the coolest place, and her life is over /forever/. It's upset. It doesn't have a sense of perspective.
Daisy Johnson	Now that all the pictures has been sent (at least she didn't do a selfie with it) she sets her phone aside, settling down on the ground next to it, legs folded under it and a pensive look to Daisy's expression. Whatever happened here isn't the usual craziness at SHIELD. But she also doesn't believe in coincidences so there -is- something happening here. And this particular ..., feather .., was on it's way right into their apartment. "Alright .., here goes nothing.." Daisy takes in a breath and reaches out with her hand again to rest it atop the feather, curling around it warmly. Vibrations spread from her body. Slow and gentle. <<Relax, you are safe now>> those waves seem to be messaging.
Jane Foster	Jemma no doubt gets a battery of images fired over to her, deep in the hollows of R&D where she spends unaccountably many hours of late. Burying herself alive in work isn't exactly living. Someone should check on her. At least that's what the angry little feather projects between its tantrum that life is officially over and awful for unclear reasons. It /can/ however project that weak notion of Jemma under a complete /pile/ when contact is made. Lulling a cranky, partly broken feather may not be the highest achievement of a SHIELD agent, but it's probably up there, along with convincing Director Fury to do something. It stops keening, at least, reduced to perfectly appropriate grumbles of grief. It's helping. <<Safety doesn't matter. The stain of the unworthy remains unpurged.>>
Daisy Johnson	With the feather finally coming to a rest of sorts Daisy relaxes some, exhaling softly. "Oh yea, Matt's gonna kill me..." because she's totally keeping it until she can figure out what the heck is going on. Least she can do! And did it just seem to imprint some kind of connection to Jemma? interesting .... Brows furrow but she continues to exude calmness out of those waves rolling over her and towards the creature. <<Who are the unworthy?>> She asks.
Jane Foster	The jangling irritation from the feather builds up again at the question, misdirected into a spike of anger that she worked so hard to suppress. Emotions curve and scythe in unfettered intensity, very much like a teenager. Or certain highly strung people, of which a few might immediately come to mind. The feather doesn't hurt to touch and it certainly can't move, lying there wherever it happens to be placed. A sense of vague affronted dignity swells up in response to the question. <<Foul, murderous curs that slit the throats of honourable warriors and pillage undefended towns, the overweening pride of black magicians who wouldst overthrow the very order of the cosmos for their self-serving, despicable lust for power.>> A storm of disconnected images flick in torrents, too hard to see much of, except a black-skinned arm, a pointed ear, a flash of a spell. Even that exhausts the feather, the animating force within simmering down to its dregs. <<Thieves. Assassins. Honourless.>>
Daisy Johnson	The images tracing to the front of the creature's consciousness are images that have been burned in Daisy's own mind already. For she has seen the footage a few hundred times already. That of Jane disappearing under Malekith's spell. Her own fury comes to the fore, mingling with the creature's as those memories come to her, "Honourless. But they have paid." she whispers. "And they will pay again." a firmness to her words. <<Who are you?>> That seems to be the next logic question. At least if she doesn't feel the creature to be getting too weak.
Jane Foster	<<A raindrop rather than a storm.>> The intensity in that voice, registering in thoughts as vaguely feminine, becomes an energetic snarl before all the energy wears out. Truly, it's been a long day. The feather shivers mentally and grumbles again, anger cooling once again to sorrow. Not despair; the remnants of grief, still fresh and bleeding. Daisy has to be patient. It takes nearly a minute for it to construct an answer. <<Moli. I am what is left. You worked on your tools to fix things. I saw you.>>
Daisy Johnson	Sorrow, not despair. That's an important distinction for Daisy. It means there's still hope left, and that's what counts. << We are going to find her. >> she focuses her thoughts into that singular objective, letting it transpire over to the creature before picking it up and bringing it over to her room. Not that she has much of a place to place it at, and short of stealing Boxer's crib she puts it on her nightstand. That will have to do for now. <<Rest. We will talk again when you are recovered.>>
Jane Foster	Hope is a free currency and may well be in short supply for some. The feather puzzles over Daisy's intents. Hard to say it's an issue of words; it can communicate in whatever language it has. Or thoughts don't need language. <<I cannot be fixed. I broke. I tried -- and the Accursed broke we and me. I do not know where my sisters are.>> Ooh, now she's got a small place for it? Very well. It's not like the feather can go anywhere on its own, burnt out of... well, something. A long fall.
Daisy Johnson	There's a lot of info to get from it. That there are more like Moli. And they dropped around here? Well, maybe she should find the others... And fine, Boxer loses one of his lil cushions from his crib, she placing Moli on it. << Rest >> And then off she goes to find the other pieces! And she remembers to get her shoes on this time..
Jane Foster	Moli stole from the cat? Well, at least the cat has something shiny to bat around the room. A mistake only to be made once before the aura of angry-grief pours out and maybe the cat ends up hiding behind a curtain, anticipating how to wipe out dark elves and trolls. Going out with shoes into the great wide Hell's Kitchen beyond is probably wise. Lots of broken glass and puddles out there. Finding where the additional wisps that fell from the sky went... well, that take about as much time as popping open Nextdoor or social media sites and following the stories of meteorites that didn't happen over Delmarva (Delawasn't, Maryland, and Virginia) or those further north beyond Massachusetts. Don't mind stories of falling stars, anyone, make a wish. Fifteen minutes or so will deliver a rather sorry state of affairs around a teensy-weensy playground that now has a burning hole in the ground. Two very unhappy men empty the whole of their smoke extinguishers into said hole, it's still glowing an unnatural shade of melted copper. Flames merrily peek through the dust and ghostly chemicals. "I got no idea!" shouts a bystander hanging over his balcony, watching this. It's more fun than baseball! "Maybe put a lid on it, eh? Like a trash can!" "How is /that/ supposed to help?" "Starves it of oxygen, si? The fire maybe goes out!" Note the NYFD isn't anywhere nearby in this corner that's far, far beyond anyone's interest. Except for Dare... daisy.
Daisy Johnson	Daisy has shoes. She has her wallet. All she needs for some good ol' treasure hunting. Or in this case creature hunting? She isn't too sure. Arriving at the location she slings out her wallet. "Agent Johnson. SHIELD. I will take it from here." she announces to the curious band on onlookers. And then just goes to pick it up by hand. Careful at first just to make sure it doesn't burn! Collecting them it will be time to return home. Put them on a little cushion. Prepare some explanation for Matt. And also prepare on how to bring them over to SHIELD.
Jane Foster	A pickaxe or a shovel are grossly overrated for treasure hunting, anyway. The park is the obvious source since people post a couple images about a fire near the swingset. It's a very small park, nothing expansive, not even grass. Bare cement and rubber squares put down to cushion little feet cover the ground, except for that burning hole. The valiant attempts to smother the disco-ball flashes haven't gotten very far. "Mami, the museum said they're giving money for asteroids!" shouts some bored teen slouching in the doorway, ousted from his perch. His mother isn't impressed, heard to shout, "Get in here and do the dishes! I don't run a stable!" The appearance of an authority of any kind actually startles the cluster of adults trying to put out the shooting star. They're not having very much luck for all they've probably fumigated every last would-be insect for a few miles. At least it's not Brooklyn, where /everything/ is absolutely blooming like mad. "What? You? This a joke?" asks one of the not-fire extinguisher-holding gentlemen, though he's really not sure about that until he spots the actual ID. "Waiiit. You serious?" He holds up his hands to show they're empty. The one guy gutting the last bits of the chemical foam spray stuff looks up, his face behind swimmers goggles and a HEPA filter mask. Hey, he's trying to be safe! "Mrrmfff moff efff?" That's probably intended to be 'you want me to stop?' but he starts waving his free arm around worriedly when she sticks her hand into the smoky, chalky, ghastly plume to... take their fire away. Oooh, scary. Now she's absolutely coated in grey and white particles, and smells funny, but she has another metal shard. This one is even smaller, very raggedly broken along its leading edge. But it's a teensy tiny foil feather, no wider than her baby finger and half as long.