player plot: when my time comes around, pt. 2.5.

[propulsion]

WHO: Stephen Strange, Tony Stark, Viktor, Wysteria de Foncé, feat. James Flint, Yseult, and sundry!
WHAT: A sleepless month.
WHEN: First week of August
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Partially open! Within are some closed threads for time travel solutions and geniusing, but feel free to use this post as a catch all if you wish to RP about time travel and sciencing or talking to people about time travel and sciencing.

Something is happening!

And at first, who could possibly say what, with the research workrooms kept closed? But the sounds of other voices muffled on the other side can be picked up at just about any hour. Eventually, this becomes more erratic, but only because there is the sound of metal grinding, clanking, and quiet conversation drifting and pattering up through the lyrium-glowing stone passageways that funnel down into the basement of the Gallows.

Eventually, an announcement is made, and the cause for at least four of the Research division being utterly consumed by work becomes apparent. Do feel free to stop by, whether to register your disapproval, make sure they are eating, or to lavish upon them your tearful gratitude, but don't expect to stay too long regardless.

Comments

[favoriteanalyst]

Miracles are for man to perform, not for the Maker to provide. It's one of those vexing little details. If they can pull this off, does it actually go against the Maker, if it's something they are able to do and is not strictly against the word of the Chant? (The Chant, he is reminded, that was written by man's hands, and translated and re-cobbled together so many times that it's nearly impossible to know what the real truth of the Chant is. Just look at the mess that's Threnodies.)

He looks at the little book of poems. Presses a hand to his chest to feel the necklace press to his skin. Pulling off something that could be a miracle, even if it seems like it flies in the face of logic, common sense, reality, decency; even if it feels like playing god with forces they were never meant to dip their hands into. Rewarding faith. Has he got it all backwards?

Seems like the kind of thing, ten years ago, he would've been called on to stop. And surely, surely sixteen people can't make or break their resistance. That's a drop in the bucket to everyone else slaughtered over the years. Do they get to do this? Do they get to try?

In the end, they will each of them be left alone with the things that they have done and be judged on that.

And if he doesn't try to save good people...

"What are you gonna do if it works?"

[portalling]

“Take a nap,” Stephen says immediately, without missing a beat, because he’s at least self-aware enough to know how much he’s unravelling without rest. At Kamar-Taj, he’d used to double-up by astral projecting in his sleep to keep his studies going; here, he doesn’t have that luxury.

“High-five Tony and then sleep for a week, probably. Deliver that book. Ask for a raise. I prefer not to count my eggs before they’ve hatched, though, so— one thing at a time.”

To that end…

He glances over the tables of books and frenzied scribbled notes, and sends Mobius a level, assessing look. Remembers the broad shape of the thing that Research have outlined on that project wall, and what they’ve projected to be the necessary ingredients for the journey through time. They’re fine on mages, but —

“If it does work, we’ll need someone with magic nullification abilities. We haven’t a volunteer yet.”

Hint, hint.

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius lets out a breath that's laugh-adjacent at the answer. Fair enough all around. If it works and this miracle gets pulled off, maybe let the time magic scientists slap their names on famous papers and live lives of riches and glory. They'd deserve it. For all that Mobius knows, he doesn't know a lot of shit about this. (General knowledge. Viktor had not been unkind regarding his desire to learn a little about everything rather than dedicate himself to any one thing specifically. Still, the lack gets to him at times.)

It's when Stephen lands that serious (but not stern) look, looking, assessing, doing mental calculations that had at least briefly been set aside for their conversation, that Mobius starts to worry. And he gives a single startled blink at the suggestion.

And pushes back against the memory of explaining his situation, the situation of all partaking Templars, ex- or no, to Stephen. Since their powers have incredible use.

"What do you figure you need that for?" And then, in the same breath: "In case something goes wrong and the whole thing needs shut down." He rolls his shoulders. "Sure, I can stand around and keep vigil on your wily magical affront to all that's holy."

Because obviously that's what Stephen is asking him to do.

--except. Surely. Surely it is, right? But Stark's message, briefly argued with, when he'd asked for a few good people that were needed, hadn't he implied a little more involvement than that...? If Mobius starts to suddenly look a lot less sure about what he just said, it's fine it's fine it's fine.

[portalling]

“Wellll,” Stephen says, drawing out the word,

and that significant pause probably tells Mobius as much as he needs to know. Stephen can practically watch as the realisation and understanding and slow horror starts to dawn on Mobius’ expression, settling in. The sorcerer can’t help but feel a grim sort of satisfaction in it. Misery loves company.

“It’s not just standing vigil. If you shut it down on this end, I suspect people would be stranded. We need someone of your abilities to actually go through the portal along with the others carrying the warning — if you need to pull the plug and shut it down, you can do it from the other side. Sever the spell around you, bring the group back.”

Then adding, in conciliatory fashion, as if this is any reassurance at all about the prospect of not only grimly accepting the insanity of time travel but participating in it: “It wouldn’t be a large group.”

[favoriteanalyst]

Mobius is less entirely certain about how that works, because if you shut a doorway from either side, someone's going to be trapped, right? But this suggests the spell isn't just a door, that the act of going through shrouds one in temporal magic. It's fascinating from a technical standpoint and something he might like to read notes on in the future.

But also just a touch terrifying, the prospect. To step through hours and days and weeks and reach back into the past, to tug on the fabric. Like a party trick. Pull the tablecloth just so, leave all the dishes and silver in place on the nice table beneath. If the table beneath were a better timeline where people didn't have to die.

He runs a gloved hand over his mouth, leaning back in his seat heavily. It doesn't strictly have to be him, but he understands very well that the Templar and Seeker numbers are already small, and smaller now for Barrow's absence. His eyes settle on the poetry booklet again. To see them all again...to see them all alive, to help avert disaster--to speak with Jude, perhaps? And, if something goes wrong, then the responsibility of reaching out to sever the cords of magic reaching through the Fade falls on him. A familiar responsibility. It's, frankly, the circumstances that are truly different.

His hand drops. "It'd be the craziest thing I've ever participated in, and I gave up good use of my hands to some elf gods. Fought a spirit version of your buddy from home. Got a message from on high." A slow shake of his head. "This is actually crazy, you know. I'll...throw my name in, yeah. Make sure everyone gets home safe. Dunno how many people you've got chomping at the bit to fling themselves at your time magic."

[portalling]

“Not many,” Stephen admits, with a kind of crisp weariness. The long nights have been chipping away at him and it shows, for the people who know him well. There’s a kind of looseness in his voice, and sometimes a manic energy striking between the hours of midnight and 3am.

“You saw how Tony’s announcement went. We had to spend valuable time convincing them — and you — that we’re not lunatics, before we could even sink our teeth into the actual logistics. And admittedly some of it is for lack of options,” there weren’t that many templars around, “but for what it’s worth, I do think you’re a good option regardless. You hauled my ass out of the fire at the Sanctum, or the thing which wasn’t actually the Sanctum, whichever. You can haul them out of the fire if necessary. Whoever it winds up being.”

— wait, Mobius said yes, right? There’s a brief beat, Stephen rolling back through his memory of the last few seconds, before he blinks and adds: “Oh, and thank you. The fact that you think it’s insane and you’ll do it anyway? I appreciate it.”

[favoriteanalyst]

"Who else is going to?" Frankly. The Seeker could, but--she's already been through suffering. It'd be a lot to ask. Barrow's dead. The number of people around who can actively do the whole severing ties to the Fade thing were already in single digits as far as he knows, and probably low singles at that.

They don't exactly advertise a club here.

"You and Stark believe in this, wholeheartedly. That's not nothing. If anyone knows the power or belief..." Well. It is its own power, just, perhaps, not something that's an energy source for time travel. Not the point. Stark might be a bit mad, but he's absolutely brilliant. Crazy and brilliant both New Yorkers are; it feels like it must go hand in hand.

And hey. If something happens to him, Stephen's already on the shortlist to deal with the fallout. That's on him.

"When-" and there's a brief hesitation after the word, but he pushes onward "-this works and it's done, you give that woman her poetry. Then you can sleep for a week straight."

[portalling]

That careful selection of prhasing — when — means a promise. Means belief. Means trusting in this eventuality. The power of positive thinking, he thinks, bemused and grateful, and simply responds: “That’s the plan.”

There’s the briefest pause, before the sorcerer gets up and walks over to one of the chalkboards which has fallen prey to the imagineers’ notetaking. There’s some incoherent squiggles on it in four different hands and a spot which just says NULLIFICATION?? and so, in his own half-unreadable script, he adds in wavery and trembling blocky letters: MOBIUS.

“There. It’s official.” He stands in front of the board with shoulders squared and tight, jaw wired, staring down the theoretical diagrams. It doesn’t technically mean anything, they still need to crack the fucking magic behind the concept, but at least there’s the sense of all the ingredients starting to come together. They’re gathering their resources and allies. And if Stephen could teach himself time magic in a few months and Tony could invent it overnight, then surely they can do it again in a few weeks. They’ve got so many head starts.

“When we get closer to the practicum, we’ll let you know.” It’s almost a polite dismissal. But then, he adds, “And if you want to help in the meantime, you could head down to the kitchens and bring us back some fresh coffee. Just saying.”