A Martian Proposition
Roleplaying Log: A Martian Proposition
IC Details

Atli Wodendottir ruins Warren and Alison's date night. But don't worry, she has a plan that should Fix Everything

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: February 17, 2019
IC Location: Warren's Office Roost
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 22 Feb 2019 02:04
Rating & Warnings: Rated G for Goat
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

It is a Saturday evening, somewhere in the vicinity of 5 PM, but in New York City that doesn't mean much to many people when it comes to being on or off the clock. Especially for someone like Warren Worthington, who is behind on a lot of things due to having been laid up for a little over a week. Many of the things he is behind on are related to why he was laid up for a little over a week, so he is rather invested in getting through them. This brings us to why he is in his office in Worthington Tower on a Saturday, finishing up a conference call before he and Alison finally attempt to get to their date, which has now been rescheduled twice.

His wing had been healing up quite nicely, at the least — well, up until his encounter with Domino a few days ago, where he rather inadvisably took off the immobilizing bandage and flew to confront her. That strained the still-healing muscles, and Kiff gave him an earful when he found out; though frankly Alison's threat regarding the matter was much more effective. The new bandage immobilizing his wing might as well be padlocked for how securely it has been put on, but Warren has no more inclination to try to remove it again — no matter what.

Staying grounded for so long has made him restless, and that is probably why his temper is a little shorter than usual. Even Cameron's conciliatory efforts don't do much to take the edge off Warren's curtness on the call. "Look, the important thing is to start getting these people paid again. What the hell is so hard about that? I want to know who even told payroll to stop. I thought we were all explicit about this." There's a note of strain under the sharpness of his voice. They're already running stories about Worthington preying on small business, getting them mixed up in meta trouble, and putting good people out of work without pay.

Now, the interesting thing about Warren's office is that the floor-to-ceiling windows taking up the entirety of two walls are designed — unlike many windows at this height — to actually fully open. So is the skylight in the sloped ceiling overhead. They are all fitted as if they were doors; which, to someone like him, they kind of are. He usually comes to his office through them, instead of bothering with the Tower and the elevators like an earthbound creature would. In the interests of Alison's nerves, at the least, when he brings her with him, he uses the skylight, whose slope is gentle enough that there's some semblance of a footing to be had on it. It's a little less nervewracking than hovering beside the sheer vertical face of the building and going in through a window.

Today, perhaps to her relief, they had to come up the normal way… but Warren sulked mightily about it, and ultimately opened the skylight anyway to 'get some air,' as he puts it.



The words leave Atli's mouth somewhere between the skylight and the floor of Warren's office, belted out in the space of half a second until she SLAMS into the floor with all the heft an Asgardian might manage. Somewhere far above, there is a maddening bray of a sound, and a rainbow light peeks in from one of those floor to ceiling windows as a goat-shaped flying object spirals about until it quite suddenly slams into the side of a whole other building two blocks over and goes tumbling horn over hoof towards the street below - and quite out of sight.

"Verily goat, I am not one to judge, but I think you have a drinking problem. And I told you to land, not to drop m- Toothbender?"

A hallow, mournful echoing goat-roar sounds in the distance, forcing a furrow to Atli's divine brow. It is only then that she begins to get up, her disposition that of anyone who might be nursing the tail end of a hangover, proving her criticism of the goat is somewhat like the pot calling the kettle a fool, or, you know. However that idiom goes. Suddenly aware that she is in the presence of greatness squared, she brightens immediately, her absurd smile cutting through any tension that might still be in the room as she looks between Warren ans Alison, her eyes bright and her cheeks quite rosy red.

No one ever really gets over being in the presence of T H E D A Z Z L E R after all.

"THE DAZZLER! GLORYWING! I am so glad my goat dropped me into your building-hole, a quite well placed portal indeed."

It is here that she notices Warren's bound wing, squinting a bit. "So it is true then. The Fair Worthyton was injured in battle. I hope it has not doused your desire to save the entire universe, Worthyton, for I have come with dire need, one that only the most beautiful of Midgardian creatures can help me with. So, certainly, I am in the right place."


For an international idol such as the Dazzler, one would assume an intolerably glamorous Saturday night — one full of exclusive clubs, A-list friends, and the sort of no-holds-barred parties that only a lucky handful ever get to experience.

The sort of parties the rest of the world must resign to view, second-hand, via Instagram stories.

Truth of the matter, is tonight is a little more wild than the norm: the Alison Blaire of just six months ago would be in bed long ago, after a grueling, taxing day of vocal work, choreograph rehearsals, the requisite two hours of photo-ready gym time, and any free time spent composing. No parties. No grand social life. Just work. Just touring. Just the solitary routine.

However, she's less used to waiting on someone — all of Alison's life was prominently her own, and in all cases, it was the world waiting for her. And without her usual mainstays to redirect her thoughts — composing songs, foremost, and she hasn't done that in months, won't do that anymore, has been avoiding even listening to her music in any capacity — she lounges along one of Warren's couches, listless and luxurious, chin leaned to one hand, and eyes turned out one of those floor-to-ceiling windows.

The gravity of Warren's call is the only reason Alison hasn't turned a 'wrap this up already,' look his way, though she does try to meet his eyes, across the room, for other reasons. The tension in his voice implores a look: not chastising, but determined to soothe.

That is, until Atli falls from the sky and SLAMS into the floor between them.

Alison shrieks, lights up in shock, and falls off the sofa. She ends up in an untidy heap of fancy white dress, legs, blonde hair, and a flaring field of light, strewn along the floor. She's good with a lot of things in this world — surprises are definitely not one of them.

"A- Atli?!" she croaks breathlessly.


Honestly, as few as five years ago, that was the kind of life Warren Worthington was living on every night, much less just Saturday nights. Excessive alcohol, excessive women, excessive indulgence in pretty much every kind of vice known to man.

…but not at 5 PM, though. That's way too early to start.

Nowadays, age and responsibility — and personal tragedy — have sobered him, and he's, horror of horrors, actually spending his nights working now, working on the inheritance he never thought would come to him this soon. He knows Alison is waiting on him, and periodically she gets an apologetic glance shot in her direction. Her returned glances soften his gaze… a gaze which also lingers on her lounging figure, between sentences, for reasons that should be abundantly obvious by now.

It is an atmosphere that is thoroughly interrupted when Atli crashlands neatly through the open skylight and SLAMS into the floor. Fortunately, Toothbender's aim was so impeccable that Atli clears the opening without a whit of damage to anything but the floor and her dignity.

There is an instant kerfuffle. Alison goes ass over teakettle, lighting up like a star. Warren starts up from his desk; his wings instinctively try to flare, but only the right one makes it out to its full eight-foot spread. The left is too thoroughly oppressed to move. The overall result looks extremely unbalanced.

"…Warren? What's going on?" asks Cameron, his voice overriding the other confused mutterings on the conference line.

"I'll, uh, call you back later, Cam," Warren says, hitting END CALL.

There is a lengthy silence, in which Warren slowly processes what Atli has to say. It's 'the most beautiful of Midgardian creatures' comment that snaps him out of his surprise, predictably. One thing Warren always reacts to rather quickly is flattery. His vanity is vast. "It hasn't doused a thing," he says, which is objectively true. Warren has been injured countless times and it hasn't done a thing about his recklessness. "But what are you talking about?"

A pause. "…are you okay?"


BWEEEEEEAM. Not that.. light makes sound, but one can almost imagine that is the sound of it as it lights up Atli's face, making her smile look like a maniacal grin from some horrible underworld. Don't worry, it passes. And then Atli reaches down, gentle as can be, to help one of the inspirations of her life from the floor. "Yes, it is me. The Goddess of Thunder, and, probably, other things. Though, where I am from no one really had much of a chance to worship me, and so, I simply have to make that sort of thing up." She beams after she says it, and once she has helped Dazzler, she turns to face Warren, relinquishing her hold on Dazzler lest her fingers burn off from being to close to someone so.. well. DAZZLER.

"Well, Worthyton, it is quite a long story. Perhaps you remember some time ago, a whole mess of horrible demon creatures and some giant dragon and his onory, tiny wife decided to lay siege to the whole of the city. Most importantly, the ancestral home of House Stark. Outnumbered and facing certain destruction, I did exactly what you would have done in that situation."

Fists on her hips, she looks as proud as can be. "I recruited the Shark-People of Clan Jau-Sum to bring their space-shark riders to our aide, and in return, told them they could live in the pool of the X-People, or perhaps the pool of Lord Stark. It turns out they are quite big, and so, they decided to live on Mars instead."

Here she looks back to Dazzler, and whispers an excited aside. "While we were in battle, I played one of your songs! The shark-people were delighted!'

The excitement abates, and she continues on. "And so, you see, that is where the problem is. The shark-people are in peril, and while the Lord of Stars and we Guardians of the Galaxy are indeed ready to lend aide, there is perhaps, one small problem."

A scroll is produced, and she rings it out with one hand.

"The Norn who wrote this was quite clear: Song to Light, and Feathers Bright, or fall to Unending Darkness and Night. So, I'll be needing your help then."

Somewhere in the night above, there is a mournful goat sound. It almost breaks Atli's exuberance.



It's not the most dignified of positions to be found in, but to Alison's relief, Atli doesn't seem to — notice. Not to mention, mind.

She habitually extinguishes her light before accepting the Goddess of Thunder's offered hand — with a surreptitious glance toward Warren. Alison has to take a beat to see him, flared-winged as he sometimes gets — though with only one wing.

Thank God for the restraint working on his other wing. She can't imagine sudden shocks, matched with his expressive wings, helping much with his healing process.

Helped up effortlessly — she keeps forgetting how strong Asgardians are — Alison wipes a little embarrassingly at her dress, before she clears her throat, and retreats back to this sofa. This time, to affect a far more polished, dignified sit, much the way cats do when they're already trying to forget falling ass-over-head into a trash can.

Meanwhile, apparent shark-people count themselves fans of the Dazzler. Alison takes the news with an aggrieved half-smile. "I hope it was a — positive battle? And not anything — ah — particularly bloody."

But as Atli continues on about Guardians of the Galaxy? A Lord of Stars? — Alison glances at Warren, her look a: this make any sense to you?! — she isn't sure what to say.

A habit, really, when it comes to Asgard when it regularly resurfaces in Ali's life. There's a new surprise every time.

Her blue eyes slant to one side, and Alison's eyebrows tic. Never ask her how it feels to absorb 'distant goat moaning.' Because she will never answer.

"Atli, that — that sounds like some… adventure. But with the way you keep phrasing it all — galaxy, stars… sharks on Mars — makes it sound like you're asking us to go… somewhere. This isn't a nearby sort of help you need?"


Warren starts to talk at least several times throughout Atli's singular speech, only to falter in confusion each time. Speechlessness is really a rather remarkable sight from the typically self-possessed young man. He exchanges a few glances with the cat-poised Alison, and his features say quite clearly: no, it doesn't make sense to me either.

"I do remember that," Warren says cautiously of the demonic invasion, "though you have the better of me, as I certainly don't have any shark-people in my rolodex. Regardless, it's a good thing that they decided to go to Mars instead, because our pool is neither big enough for shark-people, nor… available for shark-person settlement."

He casts a glance at Alison. How's he doing?

His gaze returns to Atli as she gets to the point. The shark-people need saving, and a scroll has proclaimed that she needs him and Alison, specifically, to… go somewhere? To help save the galaxy, presumably: it's right in the group name, after all. Warren casts Alison a rather guarded look; he knows how she feels about space.

"…who exactly was this Norn you consulted?" Warren wants to know.


"Oh, no no, it's not far at all. It's…" And Atli moves closer to Warren, squinting through his great big window and up towards the darkened sky. "Ah, right there!" Atli points, making it clear that 'nearby' has different meanings depending on your means of travel, and general history with oh, traversing the whole galaxy and back. "But don't worry, it shouldn't take very long. Likely just some fool who's decided that shark people would make good miners. Or at least, that is what their leader, the Battlemaster Gorax, has told me."

Atli chinrubs at this, perhaps for the first time considering what kind of peril the shark people might actually be in. Which should be frightening to everyone involved, but the Guardian's resident strategist brushes it off.

'nor… available for shark-person settlement.'

"Hmm, that doesn't sound right. I'm sure I settled a shark in it before."

Her hands go wide and she gives a shrug. "No matter. Ah, well, i think.. it was Karnilla. She was quite beautiful, so much so that i simply stared into her black, contemptuous eyes until she was done writing this little prophecy. And then, once I traded her the delicious frozen delight known as Phish Food, I was on my way."

As her story continues to spiral into a whistfully absurd tale of trading ice cream for an actually factual piece of FATE, her mood rises.. and falls, and then her brow furrows.

"Truth be told, you are right, Fair Glorywing. They are only on that blasted rock because I could not find them a home. Because I failed them. They helped save the whole of this city, on but my word alone, and I must see to their aid. But understand, I am not blind to your plight on this world. The struggle of the magnet people and the X people are well known to me, and I know what I ask of you is a great burden, even for you, two of the greatest heroes known to Midgard. If you decline, I will not hold you in ill light. I only ask you…"

Her eyes lift, and she looks to Warren, and then to Dazzler… and then still to Dazzler.

Because holy fuck she's RIGHT THERE AND IT NEVER GETS OLD.

What was she going to ask them?

Oh right.

"Won't you please, think of the shark-children?"


In answer to Warren's glance, Alison looks a little deer-in-headlights, staring straight ahead, whether formidably or that of someone drowning in too many mentions of 'shark-people' in under five minutes.

YOU'RE GOOD, answers her face. I THINK. I DUNNO.

As for the rest of it, Alison merely sits there, unsure if most of Atli's great, galactic tales are supposed to be going right over her head — or if it's self-preservation doing it, keeping her nice and numb in confusion, because the other option means —

— to realize, little by little, that Atli is begging them to join her up into space.

Into space.



In this moment, Alison Blaire can think of nothing but her swift, total, amd immeasurable envy of Kitty Pryde, because she wants — needs — nothing more in this entire world than the woman's phasing ability.

If she had it, if just for ten seconds, she would answer all of this by slowly, patiently, smilingly, elevatoring right down into the couch, through the floor, and out of here entirely because —

"It's not that —" she begins weakly, and aborts, "space is — rather dangerous — to those not — experienced — " try again, Blaire, "and there might be — others — far more suited —"

But think of the shark-children. Alison's feeble arguments thin at that, gentling down to a half-grimace. Has she paled two shades in all of ten seconds? "It — has to be us?"

She even double-takes, which is a considerable feat, mid-I HATE SPACE trauma. Magnet people?! Surely she's not talking about —


Atli has a clear view up to wherever it is she needs them to go, because as one might expect, Warren's office is practically nothing but windows and wide skylights. It's no trouble at all for her to find what she's looking for, even with the relentless light pollution of New York.

Warren squints up in the direction of her pointing finger, sharp eyes focusing with aquiline precision. Flight — and perhaps some deeply ingrained bird instinct — acquainted him with the constellations and the layout of the night sky a long time ago. He recognizes what she's indicating quite easily, or… what he thinks she's indicating. It's either Mars, or she wants them to go to Gamma Arietis, which is 164 light years away, so that'd be a non-starter.

"Well, Mars isn't too far," he says dubiously. "Unless you mean Aries, which is actually quite far — "

Again, with the sharks.

"Well, I meant it's not available for permanent settlement — "

Atli is incorrigible.

"…You traded a prophecy for ice cream?"

Warren gives up at about that point. He exchanges a look with Alison, who appears desperate to sink through the floor at any mention of space. "Ali — the Dazzler — she's not a very big fan of space," he begins, only for Atli to ply them with the piteous fate of the shark-children.

That's about when Warren's blue eyes start to spark with the familiar light of protectiveness. Still — "It is difficult for us to leave right now," Warren admits, "what with everything going on." The, the people who just tried to murder him, and the looming registration, and — everything. "If it were quick…"


Oh Ali tries so hard, and it does indeed draw Atli's attention, perhaps confusing the Asgardian, but there in eyes oh so innocent, and yet so full of bluster, the Child of Woden looks upon Alison as if she were pure inspiration, her smile growing ever-wide as she keeps going and going, her head tilting, because she does not understand exactly where Alison is going… but Warrenton is there, to traverse her absurd offer.

'If it were quick…'

"I promise, none of you shall have to venture through much space at all, and it shall take not but a few glorious hours at most. What, with the both of you, and the Guardians, and perhaps one or two other Midgardian heroes, we will be mighty."

Atli closes on Warren then, and indicates his wing. "But we will need both of your Glorywings, and so, while I am sad to part with it, I give you the Waters of Illuna, the Nymph of Vigor, Vitality, and all that sort of thing."

She sets the blue, glowing potion on Warren's desk, and reaches out to give his shoulder a squeeze. "Drink it all at once, for it will return you to the peak of health. I have never taken it myself, but from what I understand the Olympians quite favored it at there parties."

That done, she turns to look at Dazzler, walking to her the very scroll she had taken from Karnilla.

"Place this under your pillow tonight, just in case it grants you a vision. Oh, and of course, a copy of my plan to save the shark people is on the back." Of course it just says 'Fix Everything'.

"Now, I leave you both, but shall return in three days. Then, we shall wade into glorious battle! TOOTHBENDER, YOU FOOL! COME AND GET ME!"

What will follow is that awkward moment where you're supposed to fly off into the sunset but have to wait fifteen minutes for the goat to druinkenly fly up to Warren's window without (thankfully) crashing into it.

So Atli just kindof stands there until then, clapping her hands together, and smiling at them both like the fool she is.


What Alison Blaire would like to say, but would never, at least not here, because it is certain she would break innocent, bright-eyed Atli Wodendottir's heart —

— is that, for all her grand legacy in Asgard, that place basically traumatized her, their obedience to King Asshole Odin is terrifying, and she'd rather release a youtube video tomorrow informing the world that it's Friday, she's gotta get down on Friday, and she's looking forward to the weekend, weekend, rather than ever go to Asgard again.

Or the rest of space, for that matter! All of it! Every last indecipherable, cold, void, infinite inch of it, because every time she's ever been up there, it's never ended well.

First thing's first, however:

Such as the look Alison gives Warren, beyond the rise of Atli's shoulder, when he is gifted with the so-called Waters of Illuna: the sort of look that could strip the paint off a car. A look that communicates, very clearly: DON'T YOU DARE DRINK THAT WARREN WORTHINGTON!

A look that falters when Atli turns back Alison's way, who is somewhat lame in her acceptance of that scroll, handling it very carefully, and looking at it as if half-certain it's going to bear trap down on her fingers. Or have the Enchantress explode up out of its paper, and FINALLY CLAIM HER RIGHT AS FAIREST SORCERESS TO HAVE HER LOVELY REVENGE.

But, if there is a race in danger —

Alison trades looks with Warren. She can already see it rising like a dawn on his face. The desire to go Protect. She can't stop it. She wouldn't ever want to. She doesn't want to pretend non-interference if… shark-others… are dying. But they don't realize how terrible space is. They don't know what lurks up there, do they?!

"Three days? Atli! This is a monumental decision, you can't just leave and —"

But Atli, even calling her goat, isn't yet leaving. She's just standing there. Smiling. It's so awkward.

Alison, mouth pressed tight, spends that time smiling back. Her eyes keep slanting towards Warren. Date night's mood is ruined, by the way.


Warren doesn't miss that final look from Alison and what it means.

His internal thoughts can be summarized like this:

god damn it

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