( CLOSED )

[technologist]

WHO: Leo Fitz, Tony Stark, Wysteria, Ellis
WHAT: Rift research/arrival
WHEN: Backdated to early Wintermarch
WHERE: Outside of Kirkwall

The rift is somewhere along the path between Kirkwall and the mountain range, nestled in the backyard of an isolated farmhouse on the edge of an (also) isolated village. Lived-in enough for the snowfall to miss the mark of idyllic entirely, though: the skies are grey (where they aren't green) and the roofs are nicely blanketed, but everything else is deep, ugly mud and dirt trapped under frost.

The locals of this particular house have cleared out and left Riftwatch to conduct their mysterious duties in peace. There's a small barn close to the jagged neon lights, more of a lean-to, that'll either serve for cover or a good place to get cornered as demons break through. It's empty, but the odor of the vacant livestock is baked-in and uncomfortably crisp on the cold air.

A terror demon hits the mud in a streak of light and lets out a wailing shriek as it straightens, lazily wheeling around to lock eyes on the nearest prey. There's a second flash and impact a few feet off, but this one doesn't shriek or stand. It wreathes on the ground a bit, awkwardly, before an arm emerges from one end. Which might look very spooky in the context of demons and the sickly lime glow of the fade, like some sort of corpse or mashed up sack of monster parts getting its bearings. Really, it's none of those things; it's a human arm, for one, and that creepy flailing is just it trying to force the stuck zipper on a very plain (and now very muddy) black bag.

Comments

[propulsion]

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.

[technologist]

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?"

[heirring]

"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."

[heorte]

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.

[propulsion]

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."

[technologist]

"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.

[propulsion]

"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.

[heirring]

"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.

[heorte]

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?"

[technologist]

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."

[propulsion]

"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."

[heirring]

"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.

[heorte]

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.

[technologist]

"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

[propulsion]

"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."