ArchivedLogs:Good Science

Good Science
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Hulk, Ion, Regan, Steve
In Absentia	2015-11-23 "{Oh /hell/ yeah /this/ my kinda fucking /science/.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Bruce's Lab - Stark Tower - Midtown East
This capacious room contains gleaming expanses of lab bench framed with a backdrop of work stations, fume hoods, spectrometers, centrifuges, and other, more arcane research equipment. Also, an extremely advanced coffee machine that the unobservant might easily mistake for research equipment. Holographic interfaces hover over some of the computer terminals, displaying charts and spreadsheets and diagrams. A reinforced isolation chamber occupies one corner, its softly lit interior--visible through a window that stretches across one entire wall--contains folding cot. Bustling around the lab, Bruce looks very much the image of what Hollywood has lead people to think of when they hear the word "Scientist." His wavy black hair lies all askew and hangs into his face across thick black framed glasses, and wears a white lab coat over a maroon dress shirt ( with the top button undone) and charcoal pleated front trousers. He carries an insulated Stark Industries mug in one hand and a tablet in the other as he checks on various holodisplays with live-updating charts and tables. Regan, on the other hand, does not fit the trope. She is in a rather stylishly-cut aqua cardigan paired with black dress slacks, her hair tied back in a neat French braid. Her long fingers curl around a mug of her own, drumming slowly against its side as she studies the screen of the terminal in front of /her/, her eyes starting to glaze before she shakes her head, takes another sip of coffee, refocuses. As she makes notes on the data in front of her, one of the tables by Bruce updates itself. Sadly, not particularly optimistically. Steve hesitates at the threshold even when the door opens for him. He pokes his head in and waves, then finally steps inside. He's dressed in a white and blue plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, and combat boots. He wears a large round shield across his back and a long knife at his hip. "{Hello! Dr. Banner?}" his French is rough and provincial, but flows easily. "{I'm Steve Rogers. We talked on the Internet.}" He sounds unreasonably proud of this last part. He nods to Regan as makes his way inside. "{Good day, ma'am.}" There's no hesitation from Ion, meanwhile. He doesn't exactly use the door so much as just /appears/ in the room by the doorway a few heartbeats after Steve enters. There's a brief faint dimming of the lights in the room -- only momentary. The air around him is faintly crackly, a tinge of ozone in the air, a static charge to those who draw too near. He's in flannel, too (black and white plaid), jeans, tall biker boots, his chewed-up torn-up singed beadazzled kutte worn over top. There's a good amount of blood splattered across its skull-and-crossed-lightning-bolts insignia. "{/Yo/ oh my /god/ this place fucking /swank/. Didn't nobody tell me I was gonna get tortured in the /Ritz/ this time.}" A few seconds after Steve speaks, the invisible speaker system in the room repeats his words in stilted Castilian Spanish. It does the reverse (in a different male voice) for Ion, although at a greater delay. His colloquial words sound not a little jarring in Parisian French, but comprehensible. Bruce looks through a holo-display at his guests. "{Ah! Welcome!}" His French is distinctly Canadian, but quite precise in diction. The AI translates this, as well, into formal Spanish. "{Please, come in it. Sit,}" this last with a sweep of his hand at a length of counter that has been cleared for the purpose, with several neat stacks of paper on clipboards with pens. The hardprint looks rather archaic in their high-tech surroundings. When the AI catches up translating Ion's words, his jaw drops open. "{/Torture?/ Did the translator render that correctly?}" He's waving his hands in front of him in fervent denial. "{Please rest assured that none of our tests are invasive. The most unpleasant procedure you will endure today is a blood draw.}" Regan glances up, studying Steve with a small measure of curiosity when he enters. She addresses him only once the translation is finished, her own Spanish tinged -- mostly with Southern-California flavour of chicanx: "{Good day. Steve Rogers?}" She glances back to her computer, typing briefly and then nodding. "{Thank you for -- ah.}" /Her/ lips twitch when Ion speaks, a small twinge at one corner of her eye but a faint smile -- thin, brief -- flitting across her face. "{It was correct. Nobody intends to torture you, here. But you aren't wrong about it being well-equipped.}" Steve blinks at the computerized voice, casting around for a source. "Oh! {That's remarkably helpful. I have plenty of blood to spare, fortunately.}" He goes to the lab bench Bruce indicates, but doesn't quite sit down just yet. Turning to Ion, he extends his hand with a warm smile. "{Hello. I'm Steve Rogers,}" he offers in very Italian-accented Spanish. Ion claps his calloused-rough hand down into Steve's, clasping firm. The touch comes with a sudden jolt, a /zap/ that feels like a hard clenching /seize/ of muscles. "{Yeah yeah /yeah/ I /heard/ about you, yo, smallsharks, tinysharks, they /say/. They say you the /man/, huh, /Captain/ fucking /America/ no /shit/? No /shit/? Like seven /hundred/ year old you looking /good/ dog -- oh right oh right, I'm Ion --}" He jerks his chin up towards Bruce, though his eyes, sharp and lively, are flitting around the room in SUDDEN interest with the translation. "{Oh /fuck/ yeah you got some /magic/ shit up in here that's what I'm talking about! See, they got this shit down /right/, Prometheus never done us this fucking good, they just say shit at me for months I didn't even goddamn /speak/ no English did they get fucking invisible wizards to talk at me? No. Shoulda hired /you/, man.}" "{Captain America?}" Bruce raises his eyebrow. "{The /actual/ Captain America?} He makes a 'not bad' face and goes to the coffee machine to refill his mug. "{Would any of you like some coffee or tea? I have some juice, as well, and cashew milk...}" But then Ion has started about the translation, and the word "Prometheus" needs nothing of the sort. He looks down at his newly refilled coffee mug. "{I'm--I'm so sorry that you had to go through that, Sir. If at any point the study makes you uncomfortable, you are under no obligation to complete it. That--holds for any of our volunteers, of course, but...}" He trails off, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with a lens cloth. "{The ah, paperwork. Is on the table in front of you. I can go over it with you if you like.}" Regan's fingertips press to her lips. The soft breath that is stifled behind them might be a laugh. "-- thelastboyscout," she is murmuring, reading off from the email address that had contacted them. "{I don't think World War Two was /quite/ seven hundred years ago. And we, ah -- are not drawing a great deal of inspiration from Prometheus's methods.}" She takes a long gulp from her drink, wheeling her chair around. "{There will be quite a few scans later,}" she says this to Steve with a trace of apology, "{but the blood draw will get us started. I'm afraid the bulk of your help will consist of a lot of sitting around, to be honest.}" "{I'd love some coffee. Black, if you please.}" Steve tells Bruce. "{Captain America, in the flesh. Hopefully not actually the last boyscout, though.}" The jolt of electricity catches him off-guard, and he yanks his hand back. "{What are you--}" he growls, but breaks off, catching himself. Or maybe it's what Ion says next that snaps him out of it. "Prometheus." Then, in Spanish, "{You weren't. Joking. About the torture.}" He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "{But this isn't...that.}" He sounds...fairly confident, though he eyes the paperwork suspiciously. "{Oh /shit/ son you hear this?}" Ion claps Steve on the back (it comes with another strong electric-shock jolt), his other hand gesturing with some incredulity to Bruce. "{/Sir/, he call me fucking /sir/. Now I /know/ I'm in the goddamn Prometheus-luxe.}" He moves forward to lean against the table, frowning down -- then scowling down at the papers. For a moment the lights dim again, just a brief unsteadiness before the power in the room steadies. "{The fuck this shit?}" He's gesturing towards the paperwork. "{No, the ah, Boy Scouts of America are still...going. Strong.}" Bruce takes a glass mug from the cabinet beside the coffee machine and pours a cup for Steve. "{The top sheet is a privacy statement, the second one is personal medical history, the rest is all information on our procedures as well as your rights, and at the bottom is a consent form. To indicate that you understand what we're doing and }" He sets the coffe down by Steve's papers. "{We took the liberty of providing them in the first language of choice listed in your profiles, but others are available.}" Regan rubs at the bridge of her nose, her eyes sliding shut as Ion continues speaking. She rises from her chair, heading over towards him. "{Why don't I go over this with you. And you -- try not to electrocute our other volunteers.}" Her head gives a small sharp shake. "{This,}" she repeats -- /firmly/ -- "{isn't that.}" Though /her/ lips have compressed slightly after this. Her shoulders a little bit tenser. At the slap on his back and the accompanying shock, Steve whirls on Ion and growls (considerately, in Spanish), "{Will you /stop/ that?}" before (less considerately) swinging a punch at him, hard and fast. "{Yeah, ain't that, just you got Doctor fucking Death --}" Whatever Ion was going to say, though, is cut off by Steve's punch. He doesn't actually make any move to avoid it -- maybe doesn't notice it coming, half-turning aside to start looking at the papers with a deep FROWN as Regan approaches. The punch connects hard -- it lands with a /jolt/ that slams in hard shock through Steve at the impact. And a solid crack that sends /Ion/ thudding back across the table, scattering the forms that had been on it -- and promptly vanishing. Only to reappear a split instant later by a terminal just behind Steve. His teeth are clenched, gritted up in a somewhat manic -- grin? Grimace? "{Oh /hell/ yeah /this/ my kinda fucking /science/.}" There's an uneven fluctuation of the power in the room. High-pitched beeping as many surge protectors start to abruptly kick on. A visible crackling of blue-white energy coursing around the ropey electrokinetic as his fist crosses back out towards Steve -- though preceding it is a heavy arc of rippling bright energy. "{Again, I absolutely do appreciate that...}" Bruce's words also vanish at the sudden outbreak of fisticuffs. He staggers back from the two combatants, eyes going wide with terror when Ion disappears and even wider when he reappears. "{Gentlemen, please desist! It's the illness making you do this, if you will just--}" This terminates in a yelp at the electrokinetic's energized punch. He doubles over as though he had been punched himself, and, turning, flees the scene in obvious agony. He does not head for the exit, but rather the isolation chamber in the corner. "Ion." Regan is backing quite /quickly/ away from Steve and Ion, heading for the exit to the room. Though she doesn't leave quite yet, lingering with a hand on the doorway, poised to flee. "{Stop. Please. This is -- not good science.}" As she speaks, Steve disappears from Ion's perception. Her fingers tighten hard on the door handle. Ion disappears from Steve's, as well. Steve /growls/ when Ion vanishes, but then for a moment looks like he's beginning to recover his senses. Ion's return obviously does not help this process, and he spins around to kick at his opponent, one arm rising to deflect the punch before he even sees it coming properly. Unfortunately for him, he can't block the eletrcity, and the shock drops him half-way through his turn. His head slams against the side of the table on his way down, eliciting a muffled grunt. The scent of charred flesh and burning hair blossoms to fill the air. Despite all that, Steve does not stay down for long, though he rises shakily. Blinking, casting around for his opponent. His right hand clenches and unclenches reflexively, but his eyes look calmer now. "{What...oh, dear.}" Ion staggers back at Steve's kick, a few juddering bolts of lightning trailing out of him as he falls back into the terminal hed just appeared from. He's just clenching his fist for another blow when his hand drops -- he spins in a complete circle before slumping back againt the table. The computer behind him is smoking. "{... It ain't?}" Now he's FROWNING. "{I'm here to /help/.}" A little disgruntled: "{America boy punch me first anyway you'd think he'd know what's up, damn hero and everything.}" Bruce stumbles into the isolation chamber and its door hisses shut as gleaming metal shutters slam down over the window. A few seconds later, an immense roar sound comes from inside, followed by truly impressive pouding that shakes the floor and rattles all the glassware in the lab. Both Steve and Ion reappear, now, to each other's senses. "{I do not know how much training the army gives in -- proper science.}" Regan's hand relaxes against the door handle, her eyes drifting over to the curls of smoke. Then to the door to the isolation chamber. Her lips compress again. "{... panic attacks. Right.}" Her brows pull inward, a tightness around the corner of her eyes. "{Maybe we should wait a minute on the phlebotomist.}" Steve whips around when the noises from the closed isolation room begin. "{What happened to Dr. Banner?}" He pulls the shield from his back, wincing when the motion tugs at his injured arm. At least he doesn't seem particularly surprised this time to see Ion reappear. "{I'm very sorry,}" that phrase comes easily, in Spanish, "{I owe you a beer. But...}" He looks back at the source of the loud banging. "{...what /is/ that?}" "{Hell /yeah/ we get a fucking beer, bro you hit like a goddamn /mack/ truck you get me /two/ beers yeah?}" Ion jerks his chin upward to Steve, his grin brightening once more. He looks over towards the banging, eyes narrowing. "{The fuck? Your doctor he sick too?}" He disappears once more -- this time reappearing /inside/ the isolation ward. "{Dude, you okay?}" The AI continues translating faithfully even when everyone in the room has switched to speaking Spanish, rendering their words into crisp standard French in three different voices. Inside the isolation chamber, a huge green and slams his fists again and again into the walls and floors. He stands seven feet tall with broad, muscular shoulders, and wears only sturdy purple elastic shorts. "LET HULK OUT!" he roars, poundin the shutter so hard that it bends under the blow. Regan just shakes her head, telepathy straining outward towards the isolation room in silent assessment of the mind inside. "{I honestly do not know.}" She releases the door, straightening and watching the rattle of the glassware on a shelf against the wall. She crosses the room halfway, arms folding tightly across her chest as the floor continues to rattle. "{Hello? Can you hear me in there?}" "{Two beers, sure,}" Steve agrees easily. "{I wonder if beer has gotten better, too.}" His bravado does not seem at all insincere, nor his concern as he approaches the iso room, eyebrows knitting. "{Is he--Ion, in there now?}" He runs his hand over the door, feeling for a handle or some obvious way to open it. Ion is TOTALLY IN THERE now, staring in open curiosity at the roaring green figure. "{Hey hey hey, brother, friend, dude, chill, calm your tits, huh? Why so angry, you sick too? Me, I've been having no goddamn /end/ of trouble with that. Maybe you relax some, come have a beer with me and the friendly patriot out there. You stand back, maybe I open this door maybe? Maybe less the goddamn /yelling/ though, do doors listen to that? Fancy-ass doors here, maybe-maybe.}" There's just a bit of edge to his voice, a crackle of lightning shivering around his arms. The Hulk's psionic presence has no subtlety whatsoever, only a steadily growing jumble of frustration, fear, and anger. The translation of Regan's question receives a very, very loud "YES", and another barrage of banging by way of reply, which subsides briefly as the huge green figure stares at Ion with wide-eyed noncomprehension. The translator patiently works through his speech and turns it into quiet, polite French, which he answers with, "HULK NOT LIKE TINY ROOM!" Though not all that small by New York standards, the isolation chamber does not, in fairness, affords its larger inhabitant much room to do ought but turn around. And fail at the walls, though he eases off on this when the translation gets to Ion's suggestion that he might get the doors open. He flattens himself against the wall as far as he can, but in his relative stillness begins shaking. "Hulk not like tiny room," he repeats--still loudly, but perhaps only by virtue of his own immense size. "{Ion is in there. Doctor Banner --}" Regan's brows furrow. "{Is not.}" There is a distinct puzzlement in her voice. "{Are you alright in there? Ion, please do not break the lab. I'll have you out in a minute.}" She frowns at the still-smoking terminal she /had/ been working on, moving to a working one to log in quickly, her fingers moving rapidly against the holographic display. Shortly afterwards, the dented shutter rattles back open, the isolation room unlocking. Regan's brows -- just raise. "... ah. /Huh/." Steve drops his weight lower and readies his shield, but when the shutters go up his mouth goes slack. "{What in the name of...}" tumbles from him in fluid French. He's probably been saying that a lot lately. He strafes to look past Hulk into the not-very-large room. Blinks rapidly. "{But...what happened to Dr. Banner?}" Ion looks almost disappointed when the door opens, /glaring/ at it and then teleporting through anyway to reappear in the lab. "{There, hey, see? No more goddamn ragefest, we doing beer instead. Or science. I forgot. You come out now, though meet everyone, huh? Guys, this my new friend --}" He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder. "{Yo newfriend what your name? He coming for beer.}" "BRUCE NOT HERE NOW," says the towering green figure vacating the isolation chamber in a hurry. His brows furrow deeply as his gaze darts from one person to the next, suspicious. "HULK," he says, slamming his fist into his chest emphatically. But then he tones his voice down again, cocking his head at Ion. "You friend? What is beer?" Regan presses her hand over her mouth, for a moment, leaning back against the desk. "{I think,}" her tone is quiet, but -- rather strained, "{we might have to put the tests on hold for the afternoon.}"