faderift | ( CLOSED )

It isn't the first time the rift's been activated. This is in fact the second time they've poked the proverbial bear with a stick on this grey, unpleasant afternoon. There are furrows dug into the snow and mud surrounding the crackling puncture in reality from the first altercation, and Wysteria - neatly posted up on the nearby stone wall, bundled in a thick woolen cloak and using her shield as a portable desk - is still scrambling to finish recording the dataset from the first set of readings even as the second begins to come in.

"—Once more? The prior value, if you please Mr. Stark!" She calls out, lifting her attention very briefly from the logbook to squint across the field toward-- "What on earth is that."

Edited (Eh wording) 2020-02-16 23:25 (UTC)

The nearest prey happens to be Ellis, who hefts his mace with an impatient sigh. He brings the mace up in and swings it directly into the terror demon's kneecap with a sickening crack. Terror demons are becoming predictable. Their movements, the wild swipe of their clawed fingers, Ellis can anticipate and react accordingly.

However, the misshapen worm-like thing on the ground is new.

"Ignore it!" Ellis calls back. "I'll deal with it."

Which likely won't be difficult, considering it's sluggish movements on the ground. Ellis slams his mace into the terror demon's leg a second time. Gore splatters across the wriggling worm and it's disjointed feeler as the leg breaks from the body and the terror demon goes crumpling into the slush.

"Crap--"

Tony is staggering back, barely keeping himself from going ass over tit into the mud as the ribbon of green light connecting his open palm to the rift seems to snap and push back. He grimaces, shakes out that arm as green energy continues to crackle and dance along his palm, around his knuckles. He looks, wild eyed, to where the terror demon is being slowly broken down to size, and then to the other object, and something clicks, but he's a little--

He's a little distracted. He looks down at the device in his other hand, and slaps it once, because this is a universal method of repair that transcends dimensions. Runic etchings seem to sputter, a dial spinning, catches-- "Okay-- hey, you ready? Because that's new."

They've taken readings in most possible conditions. Dormant, activated, spewing demons, even newly forming in front of them, and closing down under the combined pressure of his and Wysteria's shards. This will be the first time they've tuned in while it spit something out other than a monster. (He's pretty sure it's a guy in a body bag, but that's a problem for after he finishes reading out these numbers in a very clear and projected manner over the strange storm-sounds of the rift. He trusts his friend with the mace to do the right thing.)

"Okay, c'mon," he says, once again pointing his hand to the rift, "let's zip 'im up."

The sound of gore hitting plastic is oddly specific; somewhere between the sound you get when you splash the shower curtain and the sound meat makes when you drop it in a pan, or exactly the sound a human makes when they spontaneously combust behind a protective screen. The point is, it's oddly specific and it's unfortunately familiar, and there's no questioning the sudden warm bits running down his arm and making the bag's zipper slippery.

"Stop!"

Stop what? Zipping 'im up? Dealing with it?? He actually can't make out any of the shouts he's hearing, it just seems like a good reply to whatever the hell is happening on the other side of the plastic. The zipper gives a violent jerk, giving a few inches before it gets well and truly stuck. There's just enough room to get his shoulder out fully, and his head, and now he's stuck, but at least he can finally see.

He gets a glimpse of a mace and of an entire bloody monster (well, minus one leg), lashing about on the ground what feels like inches from his face, its impossibly long limbs melting away into streaks of light—

The sound he makes is very high-pitched. Easy to mistake for the shrieks of the terror demon, honestly.

Which might be the point to throw down the shield-desk and come away from the wall - really Mr. Stark, they have an obligation to the frightened worm - rather than continue to relentlessly copy down the figures as they're read aloud into the table she's drawn up.

But it is new, and while it would be assumptive in the extreme to base her thoughts off a single set of figures, surely these are most unusual numbers when compared to the energy spikes associated with the dredging forward of demons and shades. Anyway, Ellis is right there. He can see to a screaming head and flailing limb as easily as they might.

The crack-bang of the rift as it seethes against the pull of energy in Mr. Stark's hand sends more sympathetic strain through her own arm - something flashing twist of magic gnawing at the edges of her as the rift claws to maintain its presence in the world. Then, with a clap like thunder and the tingle of fingertips, the tear into the Fade rents itself in reverse and is gone.

"Is the torso still with us, Mr. Ellis?" This called out across the field as she scratches down a few hastily scrawled addendum notes in the margins before flinging the ledger aside.

As the terror demon crumples conveniently into the slushy mess of the field, Ellis brings his mace around, kicks it in the face and then angles himself to simply bring the weapon down upon the frantically wriggling worm and be done with both potential dangers at once. It seems convenient, though why Ellis is worried about speeding up any part of this process is a mystery. By now, he's aware that they'll be here until Wysteria and Tony feel they've had a productive outing and Ellis hasn't come up with a good way to estimate what amount of time yields that sensation.

But still, he can crush a worm now the terror demon is disintegrating beneath his feet.

It's by grace alone that Ellis clocks the suddenly emerging face in time to make some attempt at altering his own momentum. The shock of a very human, very terrified face bursting from the sack?? startles Ellis. If he hadn't had so much practice in thinking on his feet, he might not have processed the change in circumstance in time to do anything, but as it stands, he manages to swivel enough that the heavy head of the mace lands solidly in slush next to Fitz's head and not on top of him.

And if it splatters slush all over the both of them, that's better than the alternative. Welcome to Thedas, Fitz.

"Something's still with us," Ellis calls back. "Did you two bring this here, or is it just a coincidence?"

Not a worm, but maybe still a problem. Ellis is keeping his mace out until this has been decided one way or another.

Trudging through the filthy slush, Tony heads for where Ellis is standing over Thedas's latest tourist, registering the impact of the mace just a few inches to the left -- see, it worked out fine -- as he nears.

"It?" he queries. "Let's get some friendlier pronouns going, please. Some of my best friends are Rifters."

To someone who might know him in a different context, his voice is powerfully familiar, ever running at a quick and dry clip. "And ixnay on the ummoningsay," he adds, pointing at Ellis. "Because we absolutely didn't and I don't want that on my conscious." Visually, there is difference; the clothing, for instance, leather and cotton sleeves currently spattered with damp earth. Tony's hair is wild from exertion, clinging damply to his forehead, and bristle grows in grainy around the otherwise precise edges of his beard.

He stops, hands on his hips, looking over the new arrival. Data aside, this is a new experience, vaguely uncomfortable for him personally, thanks for asking. "Hey," he says, at kind of a bark to try and get this guy's attention rather than get too caught up in things like the demon turning into bubbling sludge nearby or being half-stuck in a body bag. "Do you use 'he' and 'him'? I don't wanna assume."

His expression flatlines when the mace hits the mud and sends streaks of it across his top half (the rest is still safely in the body bag, conspicuously clean). Everything's moving quickly enough that he isn't staring dumbly at it for very long, but that's what he's doing when the dry, clipped words snap him out of it. His response is distracted, shocked into civility.

"Yeah, that's fine, I'm—"

Being asked his pronouns by Tony Stark. Tony Stark after he's been to the renfaire, maybe, but that's still Tony Stark. Fitz tries to sit up. It's awkward; the bag's still trapped under one armpit, the other side hooked tight around the back of his neck.

"Actually, you know what. It's not fine. This is— this is ridiculous, that's what this is." He tries to get an angle on the zipper without losing his balance and tipping over. He manages one (not tipping over), fails entirely to make progress on the zipper.

"This is," he starts, stops. The body bag tracks. He'd seen it, been dwelling on it. Tony Stark's a bit weird, but why the hell not. It's everything else that's completely senseless. After a beat of trying to work it out for himself he turns an accusatory look towards the mace man, pointing at him indignantly with his only free hand.

"What the hell are you supposed to be." A short pause for emphasis, then he jabs his finger towards the spot where the demon had crumpled. "And what the hell was that."

Edited 2020-02-18 01:29 (UTC)

"Mr. Stark, this is precisely why I suggested a second set of instruments to be issued to another team from Research. By my count, this is our ninth trial and the first time we've encountered anything other than demons coming through the rifts. I'll grant that objects are more usual that fully formed persons - they are fully formed, are they not? Mr. Ellis, why are you not helping him escape from that sack? -, but if we mean to take measurements to analyze those occurrences it would significantly increase the odds in our favor to have two sets of people collecting data."

She has only just reached them at the tail end of this, skirts hiked to keep clear of the mud and slush and assorted demon effluvia. The boots underneath them are quite sensible indeed. Wysteria pauses to take account of the arm and head.

"He seems rather pale, does he not? —Sir, are you feeling well? You look quite ill."

Ah, the worm speaks.

In the midst of the overlapping chatter, Ellis hooks his mace back into his belt. Eyebrows raise at Fitz's accusing question, but instead of answering himself, he looks at Tony. Between the two of them, isn't Tony slightly more qualified to field at least the answer as to what the terror demon had been?

"How can you tell he's pale under all that mud?" Ellis asks Wysteria, very innocently for a man who is mostly accidentally responsible for the mud and gore on Fitz's face.

Though because Ellis isn't completely heartless, he does take a few steps closer and bend towards Fitz, hands held up the way one would approach a spitting cat.

"Would you like help with the sack?"

The pronoun thing sealed away and Ellis on his way to be helpful, Tony looks this display up and down, noting things like: the modern sheen of fabric that New Guy is encased in, zipper of metal and plastic, the embossed silvery logo on the bodybag itself, these indicators do something more than language to indicate if someone is of earth, or earth-adjac--

Hold the phone.

Tony moves around to catch a new angle, attention totally removed of human element to stare down at the logo, expression one of open confusion more than real recognition. It takes more seconds than he is accustomed to to try to determine if he is hallucinating or not. Maybe it's like a Rorschach thing.

But probably not. He points at it, then, to the guy, "We're asking the questions here. One: who are you and why are you in a SHIELD branded body bag." That's two questions already, but anyway-- "Two: why does SHIELD have branded body bags. Because that's crazy of them to have."

He's talking, but his brain is slowly filling with white noise.

Edited 2020-02-18 03:12 (UTC)

They're not even speaking to him. They're speaking over and around him, obnoxiously. Shocking amount of disrespect from his own bloody id, honestly.

He's nearly caught off guard when that changes, briefly balking at the inquiry as to whether he's feeling well (and the woman in general, because what the hell) before his unwieldy focus is stolen by the man leaning down into his space.

"Are you going to use your bloody mace."

Not a question. Not really an answer, either. Just petulant. Definitely not frightened, though, and not moving away (or attempting to, since he couldn't manage it if he tried). He's vaguely aware of renfaire Tony Stark hovering in his periphery, giving the situation a once-over like a knock-off Sherlock Holmes. He finally tunes in on the second question (third??), turning to look at Tony, nose wrinkled in disgruntlement as he grasps at answers. Then gives none, because he can't work out why such obvious questions are being asked in the first place.

"It is a bit tacky, isn't it." He says, finally, following up on the least disagreeable part of this conversation. His gaze drops thoughtfully to the SHIELD symbol, streaked over with mud and demon bits. "Ominous, definitely. Absolute PR nightmare."

Some companies have retirement packages, SHIELD has funeral packages. Not great.

Beside Ren Faire Tony Stark, the young lady's expression goes momentarily pinched and revolted over 'body bag,' directly before ceding into something sharper and more canny--

"Mind the bag's seam, Mr. Ellis. I would like to get a better look at it once the gentleman has been extracted."

If Mr. Stark wants to interrogate the poor soul, that's his business.

Well, something's afoot.

Ignoring the question put to him, Ellis crouches down to take a closer look at the construction of the bag. Zippers are fully a mystery, but without any other fastening to draw his attention Ellis is able to catch hold of the little tab and start working the zipper down bit by bit.

"Hold your arm up, a little higher," he instructs quietly, so as not to distract from whatever line of thought Tony's embarked on.

Slowly but surely, the bag opens. Ellis doesn't let go of it, and just gives Fitz an expectant look. Move along, newly freed Scotsman.

White noise at a deafening whine.

While the kids get excited over zippers, Tony stands stupid and staring for as many moments as he can get away with, and maybe a couple more. The eventuality of a person coming in from his world is obviously the kind of thing you wish about and also hope never occurs, but a sepia toned bittersweet fantasy of a redheaded lady running across the courtyard and into his arms is

a FAR CRY from what's happening right this minute. He roughs a hand over his hair, and then goes and offers a hand up to the guy. Is he naked in that body bag. Is standing up while naked any less awkward than flailing around in the dirt next to a demon puddle. Guess we'll find out.

"Do you have a name or do I have to come up with one?"

Like he won't come up with several.

He's cooperative for the sake of getting out of the bag, one hand absently rubbing at the back of his neck as soon as he's free of it. The look he gives Tony's hand is a little distant and bemused, but it's not ornery (finally), and he takes a firm grip to hoist himself up and step clear of the plastic. His back complains at the sudden shift and, belatedly, being chucked out of the rift.

It's somewhere in this completely insignificant span of actions that something clicks. He holds tight to Tony's hand long after he's regained his balance. Doesn't look at him when he speaks — he's staring at their hands, processing. Then twists slightly to get a better look at Mr. Ellis with the bag, then the very prim woman bossing him around, giving her whole deal a confused once-over.

"Wait." It's stilted, aimed at nobody in particular. At his brain or the world at large, technically. "Okay," said also in the tone that still means wait, and then he finally turns and locks eyes with Tony.

"Is this real."

Please don't make up names yet. There should be like, a minimal shock window before that happens.

also no he is NOT NAKED

Edited (crucial edit) 2020-02-18 16:00 (UTC)

In the process of passing the bag over to Wysteria, the irregular pause in Tony's responses catches Ellis' attention. It doesn't keep him from stepping over the demon puddle to put the body bag, zipper, mud and SHIELD logo and all, into Wysteria's hands, but it does have Ellis turning back entirely to watch Tony and by extension, watch Fitz.

"It's real," Ellis volunteers gently, though Fitz isn't really talking to him.

He refrains from asking the obvious question. If Tony doesn't know this person, he's at least recognized the sack this person had arrived in. But all the missing parameters make it hard for Ellis to know exactly how to make this situation easier, so he ends up doing exactly what Fitz asked: waiting.

And in a truly miraculous small mercy, the matter of the muddy bag is enough to briefly silence or at least reduce Wysteria to a series of thoughtful hums as well. Does the sound of a zipper being worked experimentally up and down add or subtract from the moment's surrealism?

(Wordlessly, Wysteria elbows Ellis beside her to get his attention. Would someone please appreciate the actually compelling bit of this encounter with her? For gods' sake.)

Tony keeps a hold of this guy's hand with an abnormal patience. Hey, no one held HIS hand when he woke up in a demon-riddled croquet party. He just got eggs thrown at him.

Not naming any names. "Yep," he supplies, and his other hand claps this guy's shoulder to replace the hand he's shaken free. Pat. "Alternate dimension, almost positive. This is," and he pivots to the muppets, gesturing, "Wysteria Poppell, also not from around here, different world from ours. And Ellis, he's a local." He looks at them and he imagines how they'd seem if he wasn't so very used to all this bullshit, gore-spattered mace and dotty zipper fidgeting, and helpfully supplies, "They're fine.

"And everyone, meet this guy. Hey, what year was it for you," is a track switch and a slight dialing up of intensity as curiousity presses forward all the more.

Edited 2020-02-18 21:26 (UTC)

"Alternate...," he starts, somewhere in the middle of the tour. He's dabbled in alternate dimensions before, but that'd been more like mirrors. Layers? Vaguely tangential to the one he's used to seeing, not one that includes barns and demons and Tony Stark when the last thing he remembers is going to bed at the Lighthouse.

He trails off as Tony continues, gaze sliding to Wysteria (several questions about that, by the way) and Ellis. He's still staring at them when Tony stops talking, and the stop's met with a few beats of dead silence.

"Okay," he says, finally and a bit slowly. Helpfully slow, this time; he's backtracking, tallying up the questions that've been asked so far. "I'm Fitz. Leo Fitz, and I was in a SHIELD branded body bag because they put me in one when—," actually, no. Too fresh. Short breath, "I'm with SHIELD. And it's 2018."

The date's said with dubious finality, because there's only one reason to ask him what year it is for him. He looks back to Tony, and suddenly the whole renfaire thing's taken on a new light — he's acclimating. Wherever they are, this isn't his first day.

"Why are you asking me what year it was?"

He knows. Just, you know. Maybe if he asks he'll get a different answer.

Edited 2020-02-18 23:29 (UTC)

"Yes, very nice," Ellis answers in a distracted aside as Wysteria's pointed elbow digs into his side. He doesn't even pretend to look at the zipper.

He has several questions, but it feels like the wrong time to interject. So for the moment he just looks between Fitz and Tony, gauging their respective reactions.

Men. They are truly a singularly useless creatures.

"Are you and Mr. Stark acquainted, Mr. Fitz? Or rather, I should ask whether you are acquainted with Mr. Stark. Given the givens."

Zzzzziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

"Huh."

On the one hand: good, this guy isn't from the 1950s or whatever the hell, and equally, not from the too far flung future. On the other hand, that's an awkwardly short amount of time that is tempting to know about in a hurry.

(It's easy to gloss passed things like short-stopped pauses around reasons why someone might be inside a body bag when you're trying to do the math on how real your reality is and how real you are in relation to it.)

"2013," he says, keeping fixed focus on Fitz (say that three times fast), and his head tips a little in time with Poppell's question. "About five months ago."

"Um." He gives Wysteria a quick glance, takes a second to process what Tony's just said. "Yes. I mean, no. We haven't met."

Until now, apparently. That's processing too, given the way he's watching Tony like he's grown an extra head. Could also be the 2013 thing, admittedly.

"He's a person of interest." That sounds like a criminal. He means famous, although Sokovia might argue otherwise. "Back in our...," world? universe???, "dimension."

"What does that mean? Why are you so interested?"

Is Ellis' helpful contribution.

He just can't start asking about dimensions. There's only so much he needs to know in this life. Wysteria can ask about that, and Ellis will be adjacent to her when it happens.

"It means he's wanted for crimes against the public, Mr. Ellis. —Are you a felon, Mr. Stark? I must say, I wouldn't have thought your temperament suited for it."

He's rather particular.

"Oh yeah, you're definitely a SHIELD agent. Such a way with words."

Thanks buddy.

Tony pivots to Wysteria, and underhand tosses her the thaumoscope. "I'm a lot of things to a lot of people. Kinda complicated. Tell you about it sometime when we're not standing in a field of ice and horse poop."

"That's not what it—"

That's exactly what it means, actually, so he reluctantly trades correcting her for correcting himself. "I meant to say that he's famous," he says, then blatantly hesitates. "He's a bit of a tech genius."

Understatement. Also seems safe, given the tech and the obvious experimentation happening. Are superheroes a thing here?? Is that a secret??? Unsure. His apprehension takes a sharp turn for the strictly social kind as he glances at Tony, lifting a hand to absently scratch behind his ear. He gets nearly there before remembering the muck and viscera (and horse poop) and stops, then awkwardly crosses his arms.

"I'm with engineering, actually. Fury might've mentioned— I mean, not that he would have, obviously. Fury doesn't mention anything. And that's... 2013? We haven't even met yet. Not properly."

Properly here meaning while Fitz was in a coma. He's never had a single conversation with Fury. Does that count.

Fitz seems to be graced with Tony's same habit of saying a lot of things that Ellis lacks context to fully comprehend. But between Wysteria's query and Tony's ambiguous answer, Ellis' expression resolves into understanding.

"Is that why you were using another name?" Ellis asks quietly, trying to project understanding and not judgement.

Edited (minor realignment) 2020-02-20 18:57 (UTC)

Wysteria's 'Ah' of dawning understanding is rather less quiet and somehow even less judgemental. After all, a famous felon is very different from a regular one.

With a great inhale of breath (truly, a warning sigh if there ever was one), she shoves the muddy bag back into Ellis' hands, tucks the thaumoscope jauntily under her arm and steps forward to acquire possession of Leo Fitz the Engineer by way of a muddy hand at his muddy elbow.

"Well, seeing as we are now all on the same page, might I suggest we retire indoors before Mr. Fitz realizes how cold and damp the air is. The house is empty and I have every faith in Mr. Ellis's ability to light a fire. So if you would do me the infinite favor of walking with me, I might show you to the farmhouse just over there and out of the chill. I'm sure the rightful owners won't mind, seeing as they're away and we've done them the favor of clearing the rift. Mr. Stark, will you be so kind as to recover the log book and my shield from the wall over there?"

She reels Fitz around by the elbow and begins to confidently dredge him in the direction of the farmhouse.

Edited 2020-02-20 19:23 (UTC)

Tony Stark has already stalked off 10 feet → that way and counting. His goal is not Wysteria's equipment yet, but one of the slender metal rods staked into the ground. The wind has blown it at an off angle in the soft ground, and he bends to pull it free. There are several more of its like, and he starts making his way to the next.

"Sure, something like that," he says in Ellis's direction, flicking the rod to send a clump of mud and snow sideways. "Help me with these, will ya?"

There is still a fair amount of white noise that needs clearing, and there are some absolute worst case scenarios he can imagine coming out of this nice young man's Scottish mouth, and he literally can't even, if probably not as much as the literally can't even that Fitz is going through as Wysteria collects him in her claws. Maybe that's a good space to be, compared to the alternative, which is Tony's more compulsive raccoon hands he is directing instead towards equipment collection instead.

It says a lot for his current state of can't even that Fitz gives his arm a small and completely ineffective tug — and gives Wysteria a confused look — but otherwise lets himself be herded. Because it is cold, and he is damp for several unpleasant reasons; a thin professional button-down and trousers aren't a match for mountain winters.

It isn't until they've stepped out of the dim white into the unlit house that he pulls away. Even then, it's more a byproduct of him suddenly stopping and covering his face with his hands, muck and all. Tony Stark was distracting, the kind of blinding detail that puts your brain on pause and stops the other shoe from dropping — but now he's walked off, and here's the shoe. The gesture's accompanied by a shuddering breath, then a muffled:

"I just— I just got her back. This can't be real."

The way he drags his hands down his face makes it look like he's trying to wring the stress out of it. His distant look shifts back to Wysteria with abrupt, expectant focus.

"You're both still here. It's not your dimension, either. Why haven't you left?"

Edited (words mean things) 2020-02-20 21:25 (UTC)

"Oh that."

She is perfectly amenable to loosing him from her grip, making her way through the one room farmhouse to poke at the hearth. The door is left open behind them - no doubt Ellis and Tony will be along presently.

"There are all kinds of theories regarding the nature of Rifters, up to and including the possibility that we're all merely a magic byproduct of the Fade and the weakened Veil and that really none of us or the places where we claim to have come from are anything more than the combined offcasts of a load of mages' dreams. Or that we're not so different from any other demon or spirit the rifts spit out. —But you shouldn't mention that one to anyone else. We've all worked rather hard to change people's minds about it, and so it would be a shame to reinvigorate the theory."

Ah, here is the tinder box on the mantle and a few stubs of candles. More importantly, one of the chairs is spindly enough that it can be brought over and set sideways before the hearth as an impromptu drying rack for whichever article of clothing is soggiest.

"Allegedly people have tried going back through Rifts, but that apparently doesn't get anyone much of anywhere. No, thus far the only way of getting back seems to be involuntary. Rifters disappear sometimes. We think. I don't know that anyone's ever seen it occur. But between you and me, I suspect that's why we're all here in the first place. The field, I mean. Measuring the output of the rifts. I suspect Mr. Stark means to go back to where he came from if it's possible.

"I brought a spare cloak, by the way. And Mr. Ellis usually has a fresh pair of socks. So things are hardly completely hopeless."

Unaware that his spare socks are being given away and his services being volunteered, Ellis is helping Tony pull up the rods. It involves a delicate balancing act of a lot of different items, but comparatively that's the simplest part of his day.

"Alright?" He asks, arms full of metal and muddy plastic, complete with SHIELD logo.

Wysteria's chatter carries, receding as she and Fitz move farther and farther away. He has the urge to reach out and pat Tony's elbow, but resists the impulse for the moment. Fitz's arrival seems like it's tipped things out of balance, or maybe that's just Ellis, assuming how he would feel if someone tangentially related to him arrived on Riftwatch's doorstep in a similar fashion.

Edited 2020-02-23 05:53 (UTC)

Registering concern from a friend is the kind of sensation that one Tony Stark might describe as 'itching', but it's also not as familiar as it used to be. There's pause enough to let it settle that Ellis can assume his reply isn't wholly dismissive. "Yeah," he says, as he picks up Wysteria's shield and log book, rods bundled under an arm and his cloak draped over a shoulder, and doesn't immediately start making his trudging way for the farmhouse. "Or, no," which is when humour twists his tone, "but what else is new. Well, this is new.

"I'm not a criminal, by the way."

And as they are entering the building, Fitz and Wysteria hear the tail end of-- "--it was one time in Beijing and legal took care of it." And pursues an unfaltering trajectory from the outside world towards the nearest rustic and charming table surface with a clatter of stuff, candleholders wobbling. "Cozy digs," he says. "Not a bad spot for an existential crisis."

"That isn't funny."

It's more an observation than a critique, equal parts miserable and resigned. Your life can only take so many unexpected turns before it's completely expected. And while you can't fast track an existential crisis, you can absolutely pack it away for later, ideally when you aren't slowly turning to ice in a cabin with Tony Stark and pals.

He seems to miss a beat at the mention of socks, staring at Wysteria like she's said something significantly more profound. After a short pause:

"I'm fine." He says, a bit dumbly. He crosses his arms again, vainly fending off the chill while the fire's still pending. He casts a quick glance at the tinder box, confused; it takes a surreal second to register what it is.

"What sort of output?"

The question's open, a little aimless. He's not sure which of them he's asking. He also isn't bold enough to think he'll solve a problem Tony Stark hasn't worked out in five months, but his current options are curiosity or complete meltdown.

"Fade energy. Locals call it magic. Fade-iation," he adds, not looking at Wysteria, "if you will."

He's not looking at anyone, really, as he packs up equipment by sliding the sensor rods into a leather satchel. Away from anything interesting going on, the runic marks in the brassy metal are faded, barely perceptible. It's not exactly familiar tech, but tech of a kind.

"You came through something called a rift, which is a tear in something else called a Veil. The Veil. An invisible force and-or barrier that divides this plane of existence from another plane of existence called the Fade from which all 'magical'," brief pauses in his fidget to do the air quotes, "energy comes from. Also dreams, I guess."

He folds the leather satchel over, buckling it. "We're kind of connected to it. The shard in our hands gives us some control over manipulating the Veil enough to close rifts. Maybe also open them, who knows, who's asking. Check it out -- you righty or lefty?"

Now he looks up and over, and nods to Fitz's hands.

"I'm a lefty myself," Wysteria announces proudly from near the fireplace, raising her gloved hand for emphasis. The wool and lining is thick enough that no trace of the sickly green glow passes through it, but she trusts Mr. Fitz to take her at her word.

"Which is fortunate, as the rift piece can sometimes be painful. And if they have to cut my arm off, it would truly be an added cruelty to have to learn writing again. My handwriting is evidently quite good here and I don't know that I could replicate it without avoiding the instruction of Mistress Bradshaw for six years."

Ha ha, we have fun here.

As the only local, Ellis is conveniently occupied with cleverly arranging logs and kindling in the fireplace. Sorry, he's very busy, did someone say something about the Fade, oh well.

"No one's cutting an arm off," is his contribution, because it seems like good sense to get out in front of that statement before it horrifies the new arrival. They can ease into the prospect of it once Fitz is wearing a sweater and dry socks.

"Wysteria, can you hand me the flint from the side pocket of my packet?"

He's keeping up, mostly. He's right on cue for the part where he gives his hands a mystified look, back then front, brow furrowing sharply at the sight of the green gash in his right palm. He must've clocked it before, pushed it to the periphery in the onslaught of data — it isn't exactly subtle.

The dull ache catches up, too. Does it? Maybe it's psychosomatic, because they've mentioned it and also chopping off arms, which: "What?"

Aimed at Wysteria, first, then an uncertain look for Ellis at the reassurance. He gives his hand one last glance before closing it into a tight fist, determined to mute the fading glow. Out of sight, et cetera.

"Righty," he says, unnecessarily. Testing his voice. The words even out as he continues, methodical, like he's pacing his thoughts or picking them carefully. "You said— we can manipulate it. Then that's— if we can open them, I'm asking. We've got to work out how. That has to be our way back."

"Why do these conversations always go straight for amputation?" Tony asks, more to Ellis and Wysteria. "Seriously, it's like having some kind of mysterious magic permanently embedded in your own hand is cause for drastic measures."

He swings his attention back to Fitz. "Makes sense," he says. "You come through a door, we're capable of object permanence, so you think: I'll just back on out of it." He finishes buckling up the satchel and then folds his arms, hiking shoulders a little against the chill still in the room. "It's not a portal. It's not a tunnel from point A to point B, or even a point A to an alphabet terminal. It's only access to incredibly powerful quantities of energy that do all kinds of bullshit when it comes through to this plane, and big maybe could get us back home."

It's nothing he's discussed in direct terms with the other two people in this room, and the through process seems to come at some cost.

"But cracking the door's only a part of it and will only just produce demons and nonsense until we can figure out what to do next with what it does grant access to. 'Cause I bet you don't remember going through something. You fell asleep, probably. You dreamed. Then you're here."

Edited (words mean things) 2020-03-06 10:38 (UTC)

"And elements of that dream crossed over with you. That explains being inside the bag, does it not? I brought a traveling case and quite a few birds, myself. And Mr. Stark arrived with some bits of armor."

This chattered away as she rummages through Ellis' things, producing first the flint and then helping herself to feeling around in the body of the kit until her hand finds— "Ah, here we are Mr. Fitz."

She tosses him Ellis' spare socks, then returns to the fireplace with the flint. The lone fire iron is fetched up in preparation for enthusiastically poking things.

Ellis observes the transaction silently, and raises an eyebrow at Wysteria as she hands off the flint. But it seems unfair to object, when Fitz has arrived with absolutely nothing that can stand up to the elements. Ellis can acquire more socks.

"There's another woolen tunic as well," he offers quietly, because what else can he say? The specific experience they're dissecting is far beyond him. He never fell through a rift, and it doesn't sound all that comparable to the Joining. So he focuses on striking the flint and carefully encouraging the sparks to catch at the bit of char cloth and kindling he's tucked in beneath his meticulously stacked cuts of firewood.

"Dreams," he echos, thoughtfully trailing off while it sinks in. When he catches the socks it's all reflexes and no grace, a bit startled, and he gives them a vaguely critical look before glancing down at his shoes: previously casual oxfords, now a complete mess.

"I'm fine," he says absently to the offer of a tunic, which is a lie. Even if his shirt dries quickly it'll still be covered in viscera and muck. He does finally do something useful, dragging a chair away from the table and taking a seat. The socks are left next to the unwieldy piles of gear while he starts unlacing his shoes, grimacing slightly at the mess.

If they'd caught him a week ago he'd have dismissed the dream theory outright. But it isn't last week, and he can't exactly argue with the body bag. He gets halfway with one shoe and pauses abruptly, glancing up at Tony and gesturing with one hand. It's somewhere between ah-ha and beseeching, thinking out loud.

"The monoliths." Just that for a whole second, like he's expecting it to be a lightbulb moment for everyone else. Well, maybe not Ellis. More helpfully, "Pillars with patterns carved into them. They'd look like stone."

anybody seen any rocks with patterns anywhere in thedas. anybody

"Why, you pick up a brochure in between the rift and here?"

--sounds like maybe false hope that Tony knows what he's talking about, so he is swift to clarify; "None of that around here but we can talk ancient ruins at some point if you're-- if that's what you're into. But you're gonna wanna start thinking about this situation as a matter of-- let's call it days," generously, "and not minutes."

Uncomfortable memory: trying to hardwire the comms in his helmet to pick up a signal, sitting in countryside mud and ignoring the picnic goers milling around him.

"So you should probably take that nice man's snuggie, because Uber hasn't been invented yet and it's a hike back to Kirkwall. Which is where we live."

( CLOSED )

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