Marius Laverne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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xp_logs2025-05-30 10:00 am
xp_emplate) wrote in xp_logs2025-05-30 10:00 am
Entry tags:
Incursion: Earthfall - First Contact
After a dimensional anomaly is detected in Nevada, eXcalibur hitches a ride with a few choice X-Men to investigate a potential breach.
Even in Nevada not all deserts were created equal. The coordinates had led them to a region that was more rock than sand, with topography steadily trending towards the mountainous. The scrubby plant life was mainly a washed-out green, punctuated here and there with dots of color from flowering grasses. There wasn't a road for miles around.
This was fortunate, because, regardless of what their empty monitors and quiescent radar might say, it was otherwise difficult to miss the crashed spacecraft.
"If this is some bullshit art installation like the weird fuckin' monoliths in Utah, I'm going on strike." Kyle said. "Legit, Clint, you see any four-wheeler tracks or anything?" He hadn't spotted any, but he also had been busy with things like landing gear and the post-flight checklist and the tinge of adrenaline from landing in high desert winds.
Clint, eyes still trained on the desert environment around the Blackbird and leading up to the spacecraft, shook his head slowly. “Nah, just some weird-looking footprints around the ship itself. No sign of any other activity around it, either. Didn’t see anything that would indicate a crash or even a vaguely rough landing, so we’re gonna need to get up close and personal with it.
“The long-range radiation detection system didn’t find anything out of the norm, so we should be safe enough to approach without full gear . . . Your Majesty,” Clint turned to look at Namor. “Letting Kyle take point in case there’s some kind of space contagion would probably be best, but I think you and I should go with while the others stay back in case something unexpected happens. Does that work for you?”
The weight of said Majesty's attention remained fixed on the ship – not a seafaring thing, but clearly not constructed for land. It was obviously foreign, and its angles caught the light in unnatural, oily shimmers. A thing that was not meant to be here. Namor shifted to regard Clint and Kyle.
“No," he proclaimed. "This vessel did not land. It arrived. With intention. Whether that intention is diplomatic or desperate remains to be seen.”
Namor's gaze lingered between the two blondes near him. Measuring. The rest of the crew – Molly and Marius chatting as she lifted containers, and Matt and Bobbi making smalltalk over lists near camping supplies brought just in case – were busy with the chores of deboarding and unloading the standard eXcalibur equipment.
“Your caution is noted," he continued, clipped but not hostile. "Let the others hang back if they must. It would be a mistake to believe that prudence alone keeps danger at bay. Yet if something within that craft poses a threat, it will not be Kyle who halts it.”
"Obvs. I don't halt shit, I just heal from it," Kyle agreed, cheerfully. "Sometimes I stall or distract, but if I want something stopped, we're going with super-strong flying kings. Still mad I didn't get to fly that one hot minute I had your powers. So Namor and I take point? I want Molly as immediate backup right behind Namor if we don't come back – her and Daredevil, give it like ten minutes, they call for backup and then come in to get us. Emplate or Mockingbird can fly the plane if we need a speedy exit and I'm compromised." He shifted so easily from banter to business mode that his posture lagged as he got up from the pilot's seat, loose and casual until he shrugged his uniform jacket on. He finished the last of the landing checklist, sent a text to Terry that they'd arrived. "That said, it not landing is pretty damn weird. Are we sure it's from space?
"Perhaps. Or they hail from a realm where the sea, spurned and scorned, rose in wrath to drown what was always hers," Namor added with something between wistfulness and a hopeful shrug.
Then, after a beat. "Yes, I have seen your movies. Charming."
"Just wanna point out that both of you got smacked with the powerswap flu, so neither of you are completely immune to illness . . . but at least we know Wildchild's healing factor eventually fights off mind controlling nanites," Clint pointed out, snorting softly and refusing to comment on the Water World joke.
Kyle tapped out a reminder on his phone – Namor, Ark, Baxter, book rec, and then tossed the phone into the seat. "Let's go see if this is ET or Spock or whatever." He popped the cargo ramp and waited a beat for it to slowly descend. "After you, King of the Oceans, if this is aliens, we want diplomacy, right, that calls for kings."
Namor stepped forward, eyes narrowing on the vessel. He only turned just enough to cast a pointed glance over his shoulder.
"If they crown me emperor of whatever broken world they arrived from, do try not to pout."
With that, he rose — weightless and regal. His silhouette cut a clean line against the washed-out sky, cresting level with the ship’s gleaming hull. He called out a challenge.
"Travelers," he said, voice carrying. "You stand upon a realm not your own. You have crossed veils not meant to part. We know you are not of this world. I am Namor of Atlantis. First of my name, steward of the depths, sovereign by blood and by will. I extend parley if you bring peace.”
His gaze swept across the craft as though it might unravel beneath his scrutiny.
“If you seek aid, we may find common purpose. If not . . . " he paused, letting silence sharpen the edge, “then let us begin with truth. We stand ready to listen — or resist, if you are invaders.”
For a moment there was nothing but silence from the stranded vessel. Then . . . a hiss.
A panel on the ship's silvery surface opened like an iris, revealing nearly a dozen figures that appeared to be human, or at least human-like; it was only as they drew closer that the differences became apparent. From a distance it looked as if they wore headdresses. Close, one could see these features were feathered crests that framed the face or tapered down the nape of their neck. Many had dark markings around their eyes, though the difference in size and complexity indicated these might have been artificial additions. If any of the items hanging at the sides were weapons they did not draw them.
No words passed between them, but on some silent cue the group came to a halt. A single man came forward. He appeared to be late middle age, or at least bore similar markers to a human of that range, and the spear he held had been wrought for equal parts ceremony and combat. The short bristles at his jaw resembled a beard.
He stopped before Namor and raised his head to meet the Atlantean's gaze, below but not beneath him. Thumping the base of the spear into the dirt, the visitor made his pronouncement:
An utterly incoherent string of squawks and trills.
"Well caw-caw right back atcha, motherfucker," Clint replied, pretty sure he was allowed to insult someone who insulted Namor by honking at him. Probably. He wasn't great with diplomatic relations.
"Okay, well, time to call in the translator?" Kyle was already regretting leaving his phone on the plane, comprehension could've been a single call to Cypher away, but no, he opted otherwise. "Unless Namor speaks space parrot, which legit, weirder things have happened."
"That won't be necessary."
The accent was strange, but the words were still recognizable as English. The stranger was studying them with eyes that seemed human until a nictitating membrane flicked across them. It was impossible to know whether his intensity was simple wariness or a byproduct of recognizing "motherfucker."
"We recognize your language now," continued their leader. "Terran, American-English. A fringe planet, but known to us. It seems as if this world has an analog. Do your people ally with the Empire?"
"Empire," Namor echoed, the words measured, but carrying the weight of something deeper than skepticism — disappointment, perhaps memory. He landed on the sand, wings stilling, the hush of their motion adding punctuation.
"A bold word," he continued. "To some, it is conquest burnished to a shine. To others, a rotting edifice clinging to ceremony. Regretfully, on this fractured shore, there are no people united enough to dream of such a thing — let alone build it."
A sardonic curve touched his mouth. "But if you come in peace, we might welcome the chance to hear what you mean by Empire – "
His gaze lingered, unreadable.
"— and, perhaps, assist in your return."
"A man who cuts to the heart of the matter." The sun flashed against the etched metal of his spear as the man adjusted his posture, gauging the party before him.
"I am Admiral Samedar," he said, "and ours is an Empire so vast it needs no other name. We were tasked to deliver this vessel to the Empress. It is an experimental craft equipped with a –" his lips twisted as he sought words with no equivalent "– device that allows passage between adjacent worlds rather than space. We were en route to the Throneworld when we were ambushed by pirates. Clearly they sought the device. We could not allow this ship to fall into the wrong hands; we had no choice but to engage the drive to escape. Now it appears we are stranded."
Clint glanced at Namor, quirking an eyebrow before asking, "Do you know if the ship's problems are mechanical or technological?"
"We believe it is mechanical. The dimensional drive was untouched, but the pirates did conduct some form of sabotage before they were repelled. The ship is inert." Samedar, perhaps naturally drawn to a similarly imperial spirit, continued to watch Namor. "We are not explorers, nor is this an appropriate time to involve ourselves in the political machinations of an unfamiliar world. Such determinations are for the Empress alone. We live at her pleasure, and it is ours to serve her. Our purpose is to fulfill our function, nothing more."
"Respect the kink," Clint muttered, nodding.
"Hawkeye!" Kyle hissed out, somehow making fricatives into sibilants with the power of a man who frequently taught in middle schools. He thrust an elbow at Clint, expecting the dodge from the other man. "Sounds like your, uh, function right now is to get your ship fixed and get back to your . . . Empress? How can we help?"
Clint glared at Kyle for a second as he rubbed his arm, then turned to look back at the . . . aliens? He was pretty sure he and Molly could help with their mechanical issues, or at least get them a good way toward being fixed, but there was every possibility that this alternate reality's answer to "how to make a ship fly through space" was different from theirs and that could get very . . . complicated.
Namor hadn't surrendered eye contact with the captain once. He cleared his throat.
"Let this place be your harbor, then — brief and without anchor. Aid will be extended, as hospitality demands. Should your Empress ever remember our fringe world . . . well, let Her recall her envoy was met not with swords, but open hands."
A deliberate breath. His tone turned cool, edged with amusement. A small concession.
"And may your exit be as clean as your arrival was not."
He raised a hand. It was time to move this forward.
"Show us your vessel."
Even in Nevada not all deserts were created equal. The coordinates had led them to a region that was more rock than sand, with topography steadily trending towards the mountainous. The scrubby plant life was mainly a washed-out green, punctuated here and there with dots of color from flowering grasses. There wasn't a road for miles around.
This was fortunate, because, regardless of what their empty monitors and quiescent radar might say, it was otherwise difficult to miss the crashed spacecraft.
"If this is some bullshit art installation like the weird fuckin' monoliths in Utah, I'm going on strike." Kyle said. "Legit, Clint, you see any four-wheeler tracks or anything?" He hadn't spotted any, but he also had been busy with things like landing gear and the post-flight checklist and the tinge of adrenaline from landing in high desert winds.
Clint, eyes still trained on the desert environment around the Blackbird and leading up to the spacecraft, shook his head slowly. “Nah, just some weird-looking footprints around the ship itself. No sign of any other activity around it, either. Didn’t see anything that would indicate a crash or even a vaguely rough landing, so we’re gonna need to get up close and personal with it.
“The long-range radiation detection system didn’t find anything out of the norm, so we should be safe enough to approach without full gear . . . Your Majesty,” Clint turned to look at Namor. “Letting Kyle take point in case there’s some kind of space contagion would probably be best, but I think you and I should go with while the others stay back in case something unexpected happens. Does that work for you?”
The weight of said Majesty's attention remained fixed on the ship – not a seafaring thing, but clearly not constructed for land. It was obviously foreign, and its angles caught the light in unnatural, oily shimmers. A thing that was not meant to be here. Namor shifted to regard Clint and Kyle.
“No," he proclaimed. "This vessel did not land. It arrived. With intention. Whether that intention is diplomatic or desperate remains to be seen.”
Namor's gaze lingered between the two blondes near him. Measuring. The rest of the crew – Molly and Marius chatting as she lifted containers, and Matt and Bobbi making smalltalk over lists near camping supplies brought just in case – were busy with the chores of deboarding and unloading the standard eXcalibur equipment.
“Your caution is noted," he continued, clipped but not hostile. "Let the others hang back if they must. It would be a mistake to believe that prudence alone keeps danger at bay. Yet if something within that craft poses a threat, it will not be Kyle who halts it.”
"Obvs. I don't halt shit, I just heal from it," Kyle agreed, cheerfully. "Sometimes I stall or distract, but if I want something stopped, we're going with super-strong flying kings. Still mad I didn't get to fly that one hot minute I had your powers. So Namor and I take point? I want Molly as immediate backup right behind Namor if we don't come back – her and Daredevil, give it like ten minutes, they call for backup and then come in to get us. Emplate or Mockingbird can fly the plane if we need a speedy exit and I'm compromised." He shifted so easily from banter to business mode that his posture lagged as he got up from the pilot's seat, loose and casual until he shrugged his uniform jacket on. He finished the last of the landing checklist, sent a text to Terry that they'd arrived. "That said, it not landing is pretty damn weird. Are we sure it's from space?
"Perhaps. Or they hail from a realm where the sea, spurned and scorned, rose in wrath to drown what was always hers," Namor added with something between wistfulness and a hopeful shrug.
Then, after a beat. "Yes, I have seen your movies. Charming."
"Just wanna point out that both of you got smacked with the powerswap flu, so neither of you are completely immune to illness . . . but at least we know Wildchild's healing factor eventually fights off mind controlling nanites," Clint pointed out, snorting softly and refusing to comment on the Water World joke.
Kyle tapped out a reminder on his phone – Namor, Ark, Baxter, book rec, and then tossed the phone into the seat. "Let's go see if this is ET or Spock or whatever." He popped the cargo ramp and waited a beat for it to slowly descend. "After you, King of the Oceans, if this is aliens, we want diplomacy, right, that calls for kings."
Namor stepped forward, eyes narrowing on the vessel. He only turned just enough to cast a pointed glance over his shoulder.
"If they crown me emperor of whatever broken world they arrived from, do try not to pout."
With that, he rose — weightless and regal. His silhouette cut a clean line against the washed-out sky, cresting level with the ship’s gleaming hull. He called out a challenge.
"Travelers," he said, voice carrying. "You stand upon a realm not your own. You have crossed veils not meant to part. We know you are not of this world. I am Namor of Atlantis. First of my name, steward of the depths, sovereign by blood and by will. I extend parley if you bring peace.”
His gaze swept across the craft as though it might unravel beneath his scrutiny.
“If you seek aid, we may find common purpose. If not . . . " he paused, letting silence sharpen the edge, “then let us begin with truth. We stand ready to listen — or resist, if you are invaders.”
For a moment there was nothing but silence from the stranded vessel. Then . . . a hiss.
A panel on the ship's silvery surface opened like an iris, revealing nearly a dozen figures that appeared to be human, or at least human-like; it was only as they drew closer that the differences became apparent. From a distance it looked as if they wore headdresses. Close, one could see these features were feathered crests that framed the face or tapered down the nape of their neck. Many had dark markings around their eyes, though the difference in size and complexity indicated these might have been artificial additions. If any of the items hanging at the sides were weapons they did not draw them.
No words passed between them, but on some silent cue the group came to a halt. A single man came forward. He appeared to be late middle age, or at least bore similar markers to a human of that range, and the spear he held had been wrought for equal parts ceremony and combat. The short bristles at his jaw resembled a beard.
He stopped before Namor and raised his head to meet the Atlantean's gaze, below but not beneath him. Thumping the base of the spear into the dirt, the visitor made his pronouncement:
An utterly incoherent string of squawks and trills.
"Well caw-caw right back atcha, motherfucker," Clint replied, pretty sure he was allowed to insult someone who insulted Namor by honking at him. Probably. He wasn't great with diplomatic relations.
"Okay, well, time to call in the translator?" Kyle was already regretting leaving his phone on the plane, comprehension could've been a single call to Cypher away, but no, he opted otherwise. "Unless Namor speaks space parrot, which legit, weirder things have happened."
"That won't be necessary."
The accent was strange, but the words were still recognizable as English. The stranger was studying them with eyes that seemed human until a nictitating membrane flicked across them. It was impossible to know whether his intensity was simple wariness or a byproduct of recognizing "motherfucker."
"We recognize your language now," continued their leader. "Terran, American-English. A fringe planet, but known to us. It seems as if this world has an analog. Do your people ally with the Empire?"
"Empire," Namor echoed, the words measured, but carrying the weight of something deeper than skepticism — disappointment, perhaps memory. He landed on the sand, wings stilling, the hush of their motion adding punctuation.
"A bold word," he continued. "To some, it is conquest burnished to a shine. To others, a rotting edifice clinging to ceremony. Regretfully, on this fractured shore, there are no people united enough to dream of such a thing — let alone build it."
A sardonic curve touched his mouth. "But if you come in peace, we might welcome the chance to hear what you mean by Empire – "
His gaze lingered, unreadable.
"— and, perhaps, assist in your return."
"A man who cuts to the heart of the matter." The sun flashed against the etched metal of his spear as the man adjusted his posture, gauging the party before him.
"I am Admiral Samedar," he said, "and ours is an Empire so vast it needs no other name. We were tasked to deliver this vessel to the Empress. It is an experimental craft equipped with a –" his lips twisted as he sought words with no equivalent "– device that allows passage between adjacent worlds rather than space. We were en route to the Throneworld when we were ambushed by pirates. Clearly they sought the device. We could not allow this ship to fall into the wrong hands; we had no choice but to engage the drive to escape. Now it appears we are stranded."
Clint glanced at Namor, quirking an eyebrow before asking, "Do you know if the ship's problems are mechanical or technological?"
"We believe it is mechanical. The dimensional drive was untouched, but the pirates did conduct some form of sabotage before they were repelled. The ship is inert." Samedar, perhaps naturally drawn to a similarly imperial spirit, continued to watch Namor. "We are not explorers, nor is this an appropriate time to involve ourselves in the political machinations of an unfamiliar world. Such determinations are for the Empress alone. We live at her pleasure, and it is ours to serve her. Our purpose is to fulfill our function, nothing more."
"Respect the kink," Clint muttered, nodding.
"Hawkeye!" Kyle hissed out, somehow making fricatives into sibilants with the power of a man who frequently taught in middle schools. He thrust an elbow at Clint, expecting the dodge from the other man. "Sounds like your, uh, function right now is to get your ship fixed and get back to your . . . Empress? How can we help?"
Clint glared at Kyle for a second as he rubbed his arm, then turned to look back at the . . . aliens? He was pretty sure he and Molly could help with their mechanical issues, or at least get them a good way toward being fixed, but there was every possibility that this alternate reality's answer to "how to make a ship fly through space" was different from theirs and that could get very . . . complicated.
Namor hadn't surrendered eye contact with the captain once. He cleared his throat.
"Let this place be your harbor, then — brief and without anchor. Aid will be extended, as hospitality demands. Should your Empress ever remember our fringe world . . . well, let Her recall her envoy was met not with swords, but open hands."
A deliberate breath. His tone turned cool, edged with amusement. A small concession.
"And may your exit be as clean as your arrival was not."
He raised a hand. It was time to move this forward.
"Show us your vessel."