rooftop | OPEN POST ( !!! )

Edited 2018-04-23 20:54 (UTC)

New plan: there's a workshop on the Dewey Decimal system next Wednesday. Intel says we'll find him there.

( literal seconds later: ) Correction: the workshop is on the Dewey Decimal Classification system. If you need me, I'll be drowning my embarrassment in the gin I borrowed from civil forfeiture.

finally found something downstairs.

[ it's nothing big, just what appears to be acid damage in the corner of the door to one of the station's storage units. but they're both familiar with what that probably means. ]

( she's not supposed to have this phone — the phone, the all-important emergency number that only a handful of living, breathing human beings happen to have programmed in their contacts — but she does. coulson needs a breather; daisy gets voluntold.

not that she's complaining. honestly, she doesn't expect it to ring... but she really should know better than to ever expect anything other than total and complete disaster. so, you know. color her surprised when it begins to trill on a random weekday afternoon. )

— Agent Johnson speaking.

[ Kingsman and all her agents, save for two, is obliterated in a precise missile strike that spans the country. Poppy Adams holds the world hostage with her tainted drugs and is summarily defeated; people are cured, brought back from the dead in some cases, and the world spins on. That is the story we know. As is always the case with spies — there is more to it: Kingsman is obliterated save for three of her agents, the third being Roxy Morton.

Roxy, whose computer registered the incoming bogey seconds before it struck. Roxy, who dove off the bed for her closet reinforced with blast-proof walls; a bomb shelter for one. Roxy, who was presumed dead. Roxy, who was pulled from the rubble nearly 24 hours after the attack by rescue crews who knew nothing about the mansion's true purpose in the countryside. Roxy, who was transported to a hospital and listed as a Jane Doe as she lay in a coma for days and days, condition critical, oblivious to the chaos raging in the world just outside her door.

Roxy, who finally wakes up after three weeks and asks for Eggsy Unwin as soon as she is able. Kingsman is gone. But Lancelot is not. ]

[ She'd returned to New York in the wake of Chief Thompson's shooting to manage the office there until the SSR could regain its footing. It's a hardship and a half, but she's no stranger to it in the line of duty, so she sets up shop as acting chief and goes after one of two ghosts she's now chasing. She'd been following a lead, something to do with that key Jack had given her rather than the assailant who shot him, and suddenly —

Suddenly Peggy Carter makes the leap from 1947 to 2018.

For all that she's been surrounded by some of the most brilliant scientific minds of the Twentieth Century, none of them are around to explain that maybe time isn't that linear after all, that it's really more of a circle, or the past, present, and future run parallel; infinite realties, Dr Wilkes might say. And before the events of Los Angeles, she might have been skeptical of the idea, but tangling with Zero Matter does change one's perspective of just what the world is capable of. But there's no Zero Matter here. Hell, no Howard experimenting in the basement trying to blow them all sky high. No, Peggy had been alone and rooting through some warehouse vault of the Council's in Queens, and she'd heard someone coming, ducked into a spot to hide, and backed into — something — and been thrown onto the floor of somewhere else.

She recognises nothing. If she's honest with herself, she feels a little sick with how disorienting it all is, but she's still scrambling to her feet. Another storage facility of some sort, but not the same one she was just in. Or is it? Peggy keeps her weapon cocked and flashlight raised as she moves through the space slowly, heels soundless on the concrete floor. But then someone else approaches and she whirls around, swinging up her gun and aiming. ]

[ Fitz doesn't subscribe to the theory of infinite realities, thanks. The one is all there is — and he's made a rather spectacular mess of his shot, to be honest. Spacetime, however, now that's far more flexible and nuanced than how humans perceive it. The evidence of that is littered about the Lighthouse basement and walking alongside him now: Enoch, the stiff alien with a mild English lilt. "An incident is set to occur soon, Mr. Fitz. That is —" ]

— the prophecy, yes. I'm well-aware.

[ Every drawing Robin scrawls onto a bit of paper is a bloody prophecy. He's not a skeptic, no, it's just tiring to parse out stick men and vague phrases, to feel like he's at the whim of a kid even though it's the cosmos toying with him. He has his tablet in hand, ticking off the seemingly inactive relics in the Lighthouse. Not the Kree staff or the Skrull mirror acting up today, at least.

Fitz hears it, then, in the space between his snappish counter and Enoch's sure-to-even reply: The slosh. It's the sink of one the monoliths changing states, he thinks, though he can't be sure, seeing as he's yet to catalogue the entirety of their warehouse. In seconds, he raises his gun with his left hand (his newfound ambidexterity is the one benefit of the Framework, though he doesn't think Jemma would concede that). Enoch quiets and Fitz nods to him, indicating with a tilt of his head that he'll go left while the Chronicom goes right.

He isn't soundless, with his light tread steady on the floor. Perhaps he should speak, seeing as people tend to appear whenever prophecies and monoliths are involved, but, well — ]

Christ — [ He doesn't physically jump, like he might have a year or two ago, but his eyes grow big (bug-like, as Hunter is keen to remind him, as if they're too big for your wee head) as he dives aside instinctively, behind the nearby scaffolding of storage. And that's all the Framework, not his first life. The crate he finds himself behind is covered in markings. Asgardian, probably. Not a good idea to shoot it up. ] — Don't shoot! I mean, I won't shoot, so.

[ At first glance, she's just the outline of a woman, obscured by mixed lighting in the room, harsh yet sparse. He hopes she isn't another spectre from a fear dimension or whatever simulacrum of hell the Ghost Rider clawed out of 'cause he's had enough of that already. ]

I'm here to help. [ he calls from around the corner, the sound echoing in the immediate area before being swallowed by the wider room. ]

[ Scottish, definitely. Crisper than it ought to be, after years in America. ]

Edited 2018-09-09 20:25 (UTC)

[ Help. The word stays her trigger finger, along with years of training drilled into her reflexes, but her gun doesn't lower because Agent Peggy Carter wasn't born yesterday. The man had leapt out of the line of fire neatly enough but it was enough time for her to notice he wasn't armed. (Carrying something like a clipboard? Not security, then. But possibly someone else on the Council's payroll? And Scottish, definitely.) Curious.

Peggy moves slowly towards cover of her own, scanning the area in case her fellow countryman had brought back-up. Her voice is as steady as her aim. ]

Considering where we are, you understand if I find that hard to believe. [ The truth of the matter is she isn't sure where she is. She knows where she last was, which was practically enemy territory. Her shoulder hits a crate marked with an SSR stamp from the end of the war. The Council got their hands on confiscated HYDRA tech? Bloody hell. ] Who are you?

:3 FOR EGGSY if that wasn't obvious

beep beep.

spacemom

during or post iw, your choice.

eggsy | what if

two brits walk into a shield warehouse

[ yells in the queen's english ]

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for dickie / text from @steph.brown

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for fitz.

GUESS WHO

yells yells yELLS

yeLLS BACK

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samples.

( safehouse kitchen )

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idk i lowkey missed them and we didn't get to do this (it’s for fitz btw)