3397/Fun with Fungus

Fun with Fungus
Date of Scene:	15 December 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Poison Ivy, Hyperion

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Poison Ivy has posed:
People are remarkably supportive, it turns out, when you make an effort to better yourself. The floral company that's been offered to her, the gro-lites installed in her room to help her combat her recently-diagnosed SAD are all reminders of the people she has pulling for her outside the walls of the institution. Does it make her feel any better? Maybe. But the shortet day of the year draws near, and the light from the lamps shines as a hollow-hearted replacement through the pitch black of a Friday afternoon, while Ivy is curled up on her side with her fingers laced together and her hands planted between her knees, dripping a long stream of tears into a pillow. Last week she'd been caught having snuck some weed killer into the ward in what was determined later to be a half-formed suicide attempt. Now she's under closer watch, but visiting hours are still open-- her doctors find that visitors take her mind off of things, especially those who have some sort of work that she can focus on. Usually she makes some sort of effort to make herself presentible, but today it's going to be a good day if she can get out of bed. So when she sits down at the table in the private visiting room, her hair is braided, but it looks like it was braided about three days ago and hasn't been washed or tidied since then, and is half-frizzed out of the arrangement. She's got a set of pillow lines across her cheek and her eyes are somewhat puffy. A plastic cup of water sits on the table near her and a super-powered guard is posted in each of the two corners of the room behind her.

Hyperion has posed:
Two weeks earlier three hundred miles north, north-east of Starling:

Flying across the tundra at mach way too many, Hyperion had been simply looking for signs of loose fires, stranded folks, things out of place. Leaving a wake across the clouds as he used his immense sensory powers to see the region in macro-detail. Because well, he's Hyperion, and it's just one of those things he does. Amongst the tall northern climes, he'd found a bizarrely active and flourishing fungus that had no business being there.

Simple red mushrooms growing up the sides of trees, despite the permafrost and a hundred other things that should have made that impossible.

One week earlier: No one could tell him what they were.

Finally, arriving in New York, following the lead he'd picked up through Department H, Marcus goes through the paces as a man acting like a 'normal person' picking up a vehicle to drive to the hospital, driving there..

Cut to now: Marcus is a tall man of rather titanic size, perhaps not as big as some of the mooks that Ivy had run across, but big enough that he doesn't go unremarked. Wearing a plain suit that sort of reeks 'g-man.'

Walking into the interview room, he says, "Hello Dr. Isley, I'm Marcus," he says as he walks into the room, and immediately produces his 'civilian badge' with Department H, which has a fake name on it, 'Marcus Kant.'

Poison Ivy has posed:
Doctor Isley does not rise; she does not lift her eyes, she tries to hold her fingers around the cup five sizes too big for her hand, tugs it an inch closer to centered in front of her body when her visitor enters. No doubt the identification has been thoroughly examined and photocopied before entry, but no less there's a certain propriety in the way she holds out a set of frail, grey fingers to take the offered credentials and draw them down into her line of sight, getting her first glimpse of the man via his photograph in the image. "Mr. Kant," she replies, finally handing it back out toward him and simultaneously anglng a dim-eyed glance his way. "Thank you for coming," is voiced about as weakly as one would expect. "Doctor Anders tells me you have a case file for me to look at."

Hyperion has posed:
Settling his weight into the chair opposite her, 'Agent Kant' gently takes back the identification and puts it back into his inner jacket pocket. As he settles in, he smiles a little at her words, "And thank you for taking the time to meet me," he says and produces a file folder from a satchel at his side. The staples and all paperclips conspicuously removed from the documentation so that only the loose papers and photographs remain.

Setting the folder down in front of himself, he proceeds to calmly draw out the photographs and lays them out in front of her. "Yes, please. These," he begins, indicating the mushrooms in the photographs, "Have been showing up in large quantities in a region of the tundra in Canada. I've been attempted to identify them, but nobody has been able to tell me anything about them."

That explained, he draws out a piece of paper with a map and indicates a circled region.

Poison Ivy has posed:
Doctor Isley graciously angles her head in acceptance of his gratitude, taking the file folder in her hands, closing her eyes at the brief moment of communion between herself and -- no, not the trees pictured within, but the trees on which the photographs had been printed, the ones making up the folder. She feels out the embedded paper-clip scar on the lip of the folder and then quietly opens it, laying out the photographs meticulously, one at a time, lashes keeping her eyes hidden, assuming that they are even open. There is something of the scientist in the prim precision of her motions-- and something of the tarot reader in the holistic way in which she gazes over them. Her hand moves over the collection, moves like a dowsing rod, finding the image she wants and then switching its location to the top far corner of the schematic she's created. "No relation to Immanuel, are you?" finally comes a question, though how it might be related to whatever's going on inside her head, who knows?

Hyperion has posed:
Letting his weight settle back in his chair, the man doesn't seem the least bit concerned about being opposite a woman with her powers. This might be something relatively uncommon for her. He just smiles softly a little as he watches her, and gently interlaces his fingers together. "Immanuel Kant? No, just the Kants of Canada," he answers with a laugh. "Of course, for all I know, there is some distant relation and my folks just never mentioned it, but I've never heard anything about it." He lies rather easily. He isn't new to the secret identity business. Though usually he used his own name for it, then again, he didn't normally go around flashing Department H tin.

Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a small bag of M&Ms and starts to eat them. While he watches her meditate and work her way through the folder.

Poison Ivy has posed:
Doctor Isley hasn't used her powers (excepting a few entiely unoffensive occasions) since being admitted to Bellevue. Even those who held out the longest among the staff in terms of being wary around her have had their defenses worn down by her pitiable state, and she's more or less gotten used to nobody being particulary scared of her. Even if they're still under requirement by law enforcement to keep powered guards on post. "Mh," she makes a semi-interested conversational noise in regards his answer. "He was a sort of Copernicus," she goes on, "Positing the demarkation of two entire worlds: the world in itself, and the world in our perception of it," she's mumbling thoughtfully while perusing the reports. "Tell me, Mr. Kant. What is your perception of this event? What do //you//... see?" she amgles her fingers gesturingly toward an arcane arrangement of photographs on the table.

Hyperion has posed:
"What is my perception of the situation of an unknown mushroom in the woods in the middle of nowhere?" Mr. Kant asks, not understanding the question. Emptying another few M&Ms into his hand, he munches on them, and holds the bag up to ask, 'Would you like one?' without actually saying it, just putting the offer out there for her. "Or are you asking me what I think the mushrooms are themselves?"

Poison Ivy has posed:
"You see mushrooms-- growing in the middle of nowhere," Dr. Isley siezes on the point, for the sake of illustrating what she means, rather than directly answering his question. "But they're not growing in the middle of nowhere. You take the mushrooms from their context and there is no viable explanation. But look, here," She covers over a swath of her picture mosaic with one arm. "They grow." The lifts her arm and leans over with her other arm to cover another swath, "They don't. Why here," she gestures, "And not here?" she gestures. Her voice is that of a teacher trying to coax a student to a conclusion, rather than that of someone looking for an answer. But it's hardly taunting. She's endeavoring to be helpful, in a teach-a-man-to-fish sort of way.

Hyperion has posed:
"Because that's their point of origin? Because someone put them there? Because of the biome? Because of their relation to the sun? I'm afraid I came here to ask you what you know, Doctor Isley, and while I endeavor to learn every day like all good folk, I don't have much of an apetite for mycology, I'm just here doing legwork, not because of some secret desire to learn about 'shrooms," Mr. Kant questions a few times, trying to follow her logic, still not seeing what she is asking. And perhaps out of frustration at her lack of insight, he speaks his mind on mushroom science. He looks at the pictures when she covers them, and when she doesn't seem to want any of his M&Ms, he finishes the last of them off and calmly folds the brown paper away, slipping it into the same pocket he'd put his badge into.

Poison Ivy has posed:
The mild flourish of zeal that had come from the mystery wanes in her cheek, leaves her cool and edging toward withdrawn again, his desire for her to get to the point is both frustrating and, even more than that, deflating. It takes what meagre wind she'd had at her back straight out of her sails and she's quiet while he finishes the candy. She sips her water in the meanwhile. And then a little bit longer. "It doesn't matter, anyhow," she replies. "Or, if it does, in no way anyone will care about. Blooms of this expanse have got to be the result of initial spore contact with the bark at least six, maybe nine months ago. But it hasn't touched the invasive species," she points out a collection of unaffected greenery. "It knows these guys over here," she gestures, "Old friends, re-united." A little wistful.

Hyperion has posed:
"I'm not saying I'm not interested in what you have to say, Doctor, just that trying to teach me isn't going to be a fruitful endeavor for you, and I'd like you to feel like you're actually accomplishing something, instead of banging your head against the wall that is my towering lack of knowledge about your field of expertise," Mr. Kant says kindly and gently reaches across the table to put his hand on hers for a moment. Which earns him a rebuke and warning from the guards, and he settles back, holding his hands up to tell them that he's fine and they should settle down.

Settling back himself, he reaches into a new pocket and pulls out his cell phone and flips it face up and she can see that he has started it so that it is recording their conversation. The time spooling by on the screen.

"So, what do you think it is? And why?" he asks.

Poison Ivy has posed:
Doctor Isley's hand twitches faintly beneath the momentary contact, as though nerve endings were raw and reacting without consultation with her brain. When her guards warn her visitor off, she draws both of her hands below the edge of the table, knotting up her fingers together and holding them primly in her lap. "Fungi are relatively quick learners, in the grand scheme of things. These spores have never seen some of these invasive specimina," she goes on, frail shoulders bent in toward one another. "Despite their having been popular in the area for centuries. You're looking at a flowering of a fungus which has not seen the light of day, more than likely, for some two and a half million years. At least, not in this form. I would hazard a guess that it is related to certain classes of slime mold currently common in the region, though I'd need to look at a sample to be certain. But, as I said, it doesn't very much matter. It's not built to survive in modern-day atmospheric conditions. I would doubt it will survive much longer."

Hyperion has posed:
Reaching into his bag, Mr. Kant produces a slide in a specimen container rather heavily taped around the edges. Probably to prevent spores from escaping. They aren't too worried about what Ivy can do with it, because there is less mold in the container than there is in random walls throughout the hospital, most likely, or in the showers. "If it were to survive, what sort of impact will it have on the environment? Do we need to be concerned for the trees, the animals in the area?" he asks, asking the relevant questions now that he has some of the basics from her.

He seems to be focused and curious, despite his earlier attempt to keep her from trying to be too educational.

"Would you be interested in taking a trip to see the area in question?" he asks. "Assuming we can arrange it with your keepers.

Poison Ivy has posed:
"Long term? No. It's not going to surivive," Dr. Isley seems more or less sure on that count. "Unless someone helps it along," which is not an unreasonable outcome, after all. "Short term, it might have some minimal impact, but by the time the spring comes around that bloom is going to have faded and it won't be set to re-grow." She's leaning slightly further across the table to look at the slide, a hand creeping out as though to slide it closer to her, though she's prepared to halt if anyone tries to stop her. She just wants to hold it. "Fungi adpat quickly, but this is an instantaneous change of dramatic proportions. Nobody can live like this. It would be like a human town exposed suddenly to a nuclear explosion. You don't wonder what yield their cow will have in milk the next spring. All you wonder is when it will die and now." Her answers are factual, spoken with great precision, but not untouched by the deep, deep seasonal depression she's experiencing. "Mr. Kant, I would feel better accepting your offer of transportation to Canada if I had not spent the better part of today trying merely to get out of bed. I'm not very well, Mr. Kant. And if I'd like to go," which she does, at least, a little, if not more. "I would not wish to inflict my company upon you."

Hyperion has posed:
Listening to everything she says, Mr. Kant as he is being called, is very attentive and seems appreciative of the answers. Not asking many more questions, since she has given a rather thorough explanation on the matter. With what she has said, he has no doubt the relevant sources in the government will be able to determine the rest of what has gone unsaid and determine their own course of action.

He expects he'll end up needing to de-forest the area, for the safety of the region, just in case. But he isn't sure.

"Well, I'll look into it, and see what we can do," he tells her and pushes the specimen container across the table to her. He doesn't know what her guards will say or do.