9304/Whole Lotta Mutton Goin On

Whole Lotta Mutton Goin On
Date of Scene:	24 September 2019
Location:	Fairchild's Condo, NYC
Synopsis:	Caitlin informs Sif about a UFO in the solar system on slow approach to Earth; a plan is hatched to intercept it.
Cast of Characters:	Fairchild, Sif

---

Fairchild has posed:
For someone with Caitlin's metabolism, preparing food is a fact of life. A good portion of every evening is given over to meal prep for the following week.

By necessity, she's become a pretty good chef. And because of that, whenever someone's visiting or in from out of town, Caitlin tends to end up preparing a meal or two for them.

"You know, I've never prepared mutton before," Caitlin remarks. She peers into her oven, a big two-tier industrial model that's a little out of place even in her recently rebuilt kitchen.

"But I think it'll be good," she concludes, and turns to flash a brilliant smile at Lady Sif, sitting at the kitchen counter. "Couple more minutes, the juices are almost running clear." She opens the second oven to extract a tray of flatbread buns. No gloves needed; the heat doesn't seem to bother her much. It's set on a cooling rack and Caitlin starts transferring the food to a serviette for Sif.

She brushes flour dust from her fingerips onto the floral apron around her waist. It's perhaps the end of the season for her brief khaki summer shorts, and a babydoll tee in navy blue sports a white cartoon horse with an angry face and 'PWNY' written above it in block letters.

"I mean to ask earlier-- do you think you and Lord Thor are gonna be in Midgard long this time?" she inquires, curiously. On her counter is a wine rack that looks very rarely used, if ever, and she checks labels before finding a slender bottle of authentic Asgardian mead for Sif to enjoy. It's set out with the food as well.

Sif has posed:
"I can find no complaint to vouch as to your cooking, milady Caitlin; the mutton will be worthy of laud, I believe this truly. If I had a reason, I would still not share. Your earnesty and kindness are not to be abused." Sif sits across the counter from the preparation and cooking space from her host in decidedly Midgardian clothing. Her silvery armor and red-dyed battle-leathers, along with buckler and sword -- all were left at her home in the city. Instead, she sits in a plain deep-plum t-shirt, long-sleeved, and dark jeans, with leather boots reaching to her knee. Her lustrous dark hair is done up into a braided design, easily enough accomplished without handmaidens for assistance, and her glacially-blue eyes contain the smile on her lips.

"I am uncertain," the Valkyrie shares with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. "He is currently attending upon matters in New Asgard. I cannot speak for him or the other members of the royal family." The apperance of the Asgardian ale is cause for another quick beaming curve of her lips. "I did forget you kept the drink in stock. You are the consumate hostess," compliments the Princess.

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin titters at the compliment, and it turns into a little snort. Her ears pink. "I try to remember to pick up some anytime I'm near Asgardian merchant lanes," she replies, modestly. "I know you and Lord Thor like it. Diana does, too. Sometimes," she amends, quickly. "I'll ask if I can bring some ambrosia back next time I got to the Island."

The oven 'dings' and Caitlin pulls out a dozen mutton-meat patties. Getting the lamb to hold like beef had been a bit tricky but she'd figured it out eventually.

Two glasses are also set out and Caitlin pours the minimally polite amount for herself and a proper glass for Sif. The bottle's kept near Sif's plate as well.

"I hope these are OK," Caitlin admits, fretting her lip. "I've never made mutton burgers before. The veggies should be good, though!" The steamed mixed veggies are doled out along with a little lemon and butter to squeeze on them.

"Y'know, you might be able to rope Diana into bringing you to Theymscira," Caitlin offers, solicitiously. "She likes bringing friends there. It's so pretty," she sighs, dreamily. "Blue skies, white beaches.... it's just about the best place on Earth."

Sif has posed:
"Please do. I have only sampled the ambrosia of Themyscira once, and many, many decades ago. It was sumptuous." The Princess remains seated on the stool with a straight-spined poise militaristic rather than reinforced by courtly manners or corsetry. An appreciate sniff of the air following the revelation of the mutton burgers is followed by a musical hum, entirely in perfect pitch. After all, Sif was taught to sing so long ago, even if she's more known for war cries on the battle-field.

"You fret too much, milady Caitlin. If they taste half as good as they smell, I believe my tastebuds shall dance," the woman reassures her host with a fond smile. "I will gladly take Lady Diana up on the offer, should it come into discussion. The...the weight of Asgard's current affairs is admittedly a heavy one, though I shoulder less of it than both brothers." She means Thor and Loki in this. Forking up a serving of veggies, she spins them in the melted lemon-butter before placing the entire forkful into her mouth. A happy hum leaves her and approval follows in a firmly-stated Midgardian thumbs-up.

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin waits to eat until Sif announces her approval. She beams and bounces on her toes, once, and applauds happily for her success. "I fret just enough, *Lady Sif*," she teases. "But I'm glad you like it."

"Okay! Add this one to the recipe book," she says, and does just that by tapping a few buttons on her sPhone's screen. It's a sleek translucent model, not ready for release to the public yet.

Caitlin eats while standing, one hip cocked behind her and an elbow resting on the countertop for support. The counters are custom built for Cait's dimensions, too, making them a few inches taller than most would prefer.

On measure, in fact, her entire apartment's built around someone on par with Asgardian dimensions.

Her own red hair's pulled back in a flat ponytail and held in place with a clip-style barrete behind her neck. With the summertime humidity on the wane, the curls are starting to lay flat against her spine once more. "I wouldn't mind a trip to Asgard again soon," she says, and covers her mouth politely as she's speaking and eating at the same time. "Maybe not some long excursion, though," she adds, wryly. "Mr. Stark wouldn't be happy if a five-minute trip turned into a month in space."

Sif has posed:
Sif's chewing slows to hear of potential plans to visit the world beyond Midgard. She swallows and sets down her fork on her plate, reaching for her napkin to pat against her lips. The deep, deep swallows of the Asgardian ale might be a leading precursor to her response on matters.

"I cannot speak for the royal family, as I mentioned before, but the world is Asgard is currently...I believe 'inaccessible' may be the best way to describe it." Her expression is vaguely apologetic. "Prince Loki is currently spear-heading efforts to aid in its recovery. It is nothing to be concerned about at this time. I will gladly bring you with me next I receive word it is safe. It is little effort on my part to simply magic us to the surface, be it you and myself alone." She then picks up her mutton burger and makes more appreciative sounds after biting into it.

"I delight in the blend of spices in this meat pattie, milady Caitlin," compliments Sif around her mouthful of food, her hand momentarily before her lips as well.

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin pinks a little at the gentle correction. Where Sif gulps, Caitlin takes merely a polite sip and sets the cup aside. "I didn't mean like... right now," she amends, apologetically. "I figured things are still a little crazy, or else you and Thor'd be home already. But once things are stable, I mean," she corrects quite hastily. "It'd be fun to be back. I've only been the one time," she reminds Sif.

Caitlin finishes her second burger and demolishes #3 in two bites. Somehow, she looks like she's eating politely. Just... really putting it away.

"The spices aren't anything special," Caitlin says, switching to a safer topic. "It's an America's Kitchen Lab recipe. Little oregono, some parsley. And a *little* oatmeal," she clarifies. "The fat melts away and you need to replace it as a binding agent or else you just get a ... well, golly, stroganoff," she says, blinking. "Mutton stroganoff, I should make that next week," she mumbles, and leaves a note for herself on her phone. A light glimmers in her left eye as data's fed to her contact lense HUD. "What else can I make for y'all while you're here?" she asks of Sif. "I just kind of googled 'Foods from Norway'. /Not/ lutefisk," comes an immediate clarification. "Or any smoked herrings."

Sif has posed:
"Yes, please, no lutefisk. I do have memory of it being a staple of the people of Midgard when Thor and I first began visiting this world, but culinary aptitudes have progressed beyond it." The idea is enough to make Sif smile enough that her eyes crinkle. "Though, should Thor be present, do offer it. I wish to see his facial expression upon being reminded of it. I suspect he may stumble over his wish to both honor you and defer from the dish."

In good company, apparently, the Princess of Vanaheim is a troublemaker.

"I have recently developed an interest in the dishes of Asian cuisine. I will sample whatever you choose to cook, milady Caitlin. Share with us your favorites?" Her fingertips require cleaning after the last bite of her burger disappears. The napkin barely makes sound as it crinkles. "But please, I beg you, do not be displeased by my inability to honor your wish to visit Asgard so soon. I plan on having others attend once the dust has settled, to use a Midgardian turn of tongue. You, the Lady Diana, the Lady Carol -- others."

Fairchild has posed:
"All my favorite people," Caitlin says in an agreeable tone. "It'd be fun. I don't know," she amends, wistfully. "I mean-- not Asgard. I mean travelling more. Leaving New York. You know how often I actually get out of the state? The country, let alone Earth?"

Burger #4 disappears fairly quickly and she washes it down with some cold soda from the fridge, her mead discreetly nudged closer to Sif's plate. "At least I don't get airsick anymore. Carol told me if I puked in her plane she'd never sign off on my solo flight certification. That little stunt plane she let me borrow is /wicked/ fast," Caitlin exhales. "It's like being strapped to a housefly that can go three hundred miles per hour."

Sif has posed:
"I can only imagine. Lady Carol does prefer ships with great maneuverability and capabilities in speed. I delight in attending upon her flights. Very few things can pull the blood about my head as her turns and rolls in her ship." Sif is well into her second burger by now, sure to catch up in volume of food vanquished by her hostess soon.

With a small smile to herself, she hooks a finger about the base of Caitlin's glass and claims it for her own consumption. "But Midgard is a charming place, if still technologically growing. I have a great fondness for the creatures who waddle about the cold wastes found at the southern end of the world. They are birds which do not fly -- utterly charming. Pengoons? Pingins? Their name begins with a 'P', I believe."

Fairchild has posed:
"Penguins," Caitlin corrects in agreement. She makes a gesture at her phone and types in midair on a holographic keyboard. A picture of waddling penguins is suspended in midair between them, a little blue-tinted and translucent.

"They are adorable. They're specially evolved to swim instead of fly-- they're pretty remarkable swimmers," she explains. "I learned about them in a biomechanics class in college."

"There's some cool wildlife on Ea-- Midgard. Moose are pretty cool. They're /huge/, people don't realize how big they are until you see one up close."

"Asgard's so much smaller than Earth is. Even if you start factoring in Vanaheim and the other landmasses. It's so weird, I mean-- I know intellectually it's not very big, but I just can't visualize being able to fly over it, you know?"

Sif has posed:
Sif nods and points at the holographic display of the bumbling birds in agreement, given her mouth is full of burger #3.5 at this point. She listens to Caitlin's explanation as to the evolutionary wonders of their specializations, chewing up her chipmunk's worth of mutton.

"I wish to pet a moose at one point then, if they are as big as you claim," the Valkyrie comments after clearing out her mouth with the rest of her ale. Caitlin's gifted glass is then rescued from its solidarity, poor banished thing it was. It's an easy toss-back to empty this glass too. Reaching for the bottle of ale, Sif continues.

"Asgard itself is...I suppose it defies easy explanation in the standard of Midgardian understanding. I have only ever known it as it lies, with its borders and wonders. I shall have to take you and the others to the falls. The way the water falls from the cataract is matched by few things in the galaxy," she shares as she caps the bottle again, now owning two full glasses of the ale.

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin spreads her hands. "Golly, twist my arm," she complains, with a vast insincerity. "I'd love to, though," she assures Sif, just in case. Sometimes Asgardians miss out on nuance.

"Not just Asgard, I mean. Other places," she clarifies. "I mean, I've heard about that space station on the edge of the galaxy. Somewhere?" she hazards. "Is that the name of it? It sounds like Mos Eisley. You know. 'Wretched hive of scum and villainy'," she quips. "I'd like to see it."

A beat. "Maybe with an escort. And from a distance. You know. Like those safari trips where you're in tiger-proof vehicles." She finishes up burger #8 and starts putting ingredients on the next one. The patties aren't even cooling yet as she powers through it, looking neither hurried nor abnormally hungry.

"Oh! What do you want for dessert?" she inquires. "I've got brownies, gelato, and I could make some creme brulee if you like," she offers.

Sif has posed:
Burger number five disappears with relish and at this time, Sif's had enough ale to forgo using her napkin to clean her fingertips. She sucks them clean and THEN uses the napkin, properly buzzing from the ale and nearing levels of contentment with the amount of food having been appreciated.

"I think... If I could sample each dessert, please? I might discover a new favorite and then you will have need to make great amounts of it next we sup together." She teases gently, fully knowing Caitlin just might do this very thing. Leftovers rarely occur between these two ladies.

"I believe you are thinking of Knowhere -- the beheaded Celestial. It is a space port like none other," she agrees with a note of sarcasm. Caitlin isn't incorrect in her comparison to Mos Eisley and the usefulness of tiger-proofing.

Fairchild has posed:
"Can do," Caitlin confirms, and starts digging in the refrigerator. The brownie mix is already prepared and ready to go, and the tray is slid into the oven.

"It'll take a few minutes to bake these. But the creme brulee's ready to go," she says, and pulls the chilled cups out of the refigerator. A little butane torch is produced to carmelize a thin layer of brown sugar, and the confection's offered to Sif. Most people would make them in half-cup containers; Caitlin's recipe clearly calls for using a soup bowl.

Sugar crisps and crackles as she makes one for herself. "Ok, so-- tell me about Knowhere?" she requests. "I've heard a little about it from the other alien crowd but no one's had a lot of details except that I'm probably not allowed to go there unsupervised," Caitlin concedes, with a grimace.

It's probably a prudent call. Caitlin's not exactly the sort to blend in, let alone on a planetary body that's one giant red light district.

Sif has posed:
"You would not be going there unsupervised with myself present, but yes. I would not wander even if we find ourselves on the cleaner, more monitored streets," Sif warns as she pushes her empty burger plate aside. It's to make room for the liberal amount of creme brulee placed before her. She has to pause to appreciate how the golden surface cracks beneath her spoon and a small wiggle on the stool is silent appreciation even before the first bite makes it to her mouth. The Valkyrie rolls her eyes up behind her eyelids in rapturous appreciation.

"I do move for this to be a regular foodstuff at our gatherings, milady Caitlin. I daresay it might be one of the best things I have tasted in many decades." Another bite must confirm this statement before she continues. "Knowhere has no rules and regulations. The innards of the Celestial's skull are mined for profit. I believe it is akin to Midgard's 'Wild West'. I know of a museum there you may find interesting if not...disturbing." Sif wrinkles her nose. "Never mind, I shall not take you to it. If I am unable to stomach some of the display, you would be no doubt perturbed."

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin looks a little green around the gills just trying to imagine what'd turn Sif's stomach. "Yeah, I... let's not," she agrees, cautiously. "Scary space monsters are fine, but the less I see, the less I'm gonna have to explain to Father Pat at Sunday Mass," she informs Sif.

"Hey-- why do you call me 'milady'?" Caitlin inquires of the princess, curiously. "You know I'm not royalty or anything. Not like you or Lord Thor. Or Diana, I mean, you and her-- you're legit princesses," she points out. "And Carol's a ... colonel," she says, trying to remember. "I don't have any rank. Unless you want to call me 'Senior Design Engineer', but that's kind of a mouthful. And no one cares outside of Stark Industries."

Sif has posed:
Sif nods, curling her spoon around the open hole in the cracked surface of the creme brulee. It seems a fun game, buzzed as she is, to keep the most of the golden crusting intact for as long as she can manage. It becomes an excavation sure to be doomed by delicious cave-in.

"Yes, let us spare Father Pat," she agrees. Caitlin's question makes her glance up from indulging herself. "It is a sign of respect here too, is it not? Milady? If you would rather I call you 'Senior Design Engineer' Caitlin, I am content to do this."

Fairchild has posed:
"Nn-- well, yes," Caitlin admits. "But it's mostly used in Europe. 'Lady' is an honorific. You know. Like, 'sir', or whatever. It means someone's been knighted, I think?" she hazards. "It has something to do with being an aristocrat. In the 'States, we just call each other 'ma'am'," she explains. "But that sort of formality is mostly for strangers."

She makes a face. "I guess you could call me 'Miss Caitlin' but that would make me feel like I'm some ... I don't know. Substitute teacher or something," she says, nose wrinkling in disdain at the thought. "But, if someone ever decides to make me a knight or something, or I marry some awesome space royalty, you can totes call me 'Lady'," Caitlin informs Sif, and wiggles her spoon pointedly in the Asgardian's direction.

Sif has posed:
With her head tilted in interest, Sif listens to the titling of Midgardian social strata. More creme brulee disappears and, alas, she must crack more of the crunchy-sticky shell atop to reach the hidden custard beneath.

"This seems an easy thing to rectify. I insist upon calling you 'milady' and according to the Midgardian rules you have explained..." Looking at the spoon in her own hand, the Princess shrugs and then reaches across the counter. It taps on Caitlin's shoulder on one side twice, and then on the other twice, before Sif sits back on her chair.

"By writ of my birth-right, you are now Milady Caitlin. Let anyone stand and speak against it who is not the receiver of this boon."

The Valkyrie makes a point of looking obviously around the kitchen before back to Caitlin. "And so mote it be."

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin giggles when she's 'knighted' by Sif. Her head shakes but she can't suppress a grin at the other woman's tone and affected manner. "'Lady' Fairchild, huh? I like the sound of that. Maybe I'll make a spoon part of my official heraldry," Caitlin muses. It's clear she's not taking Sif's actions as a sincere expression of fealty.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," Caitlin says, diverting the topic of conversation. "I was working on something at SI. Unrelated to anything," she amends. "Satellite telemetry. But I think I picked up something wonky at the extreme edge of the solar system. It looked a lot like a neutrino flare-- you know, exiting hyperspace." She furrows her brow. "It *looks* like a ship, but it seems more or less flying on momentum. Really low energy signature. It's possible it's a derelict. I'd kind of like to check it out but I don't have a spaceship," she explains. "Any chance Asgard might have something they could lend to the cause?"

Sif has posed:
That heraldic spoon goes immediately back to gathering up creme brulee after 'knighting' the young woman across the kitchen counter. Sif glances up from the dessert at the shift in topic. It makes her sit up the taller on her seat, which should be impossible but for the minute success of it regardless.

Her dark brows gather. "I admit that I am uncertain as to whether or not Asgard would have the capability to lend such a craft at this time, but one never knows unless they ask. When I return to speak with the brothers royal, I shall inquire. Were you able to detect any form of distress signal sent from the ship upon its arrival?"

Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin frets the inside of her cheek and scowls along with Sif, thinking. "Rats. I hoped you had some like, parked somewhere on Earth," she admits. "With things as they are, I don't think we're gonna get anything short of a boat to get there." A beat. "One without a solar sail, even," she quips.

"But no. No distress signals, no emissions. It's coming right at us so I can't get a good velocity on it. Might be a day, might be a week or two. It's running sublight drives, as far as I know. But whatever it is, it's coming right at Earth."

Caitlin starts cleaning up from the meal with a tidy efficiency. "Like I said. It may be nothing. I'm sure SWORD is all over it," she says, though it seems she's more attempting to assuage her own concerns than Sif's. "It's their job to track stuff like that."

Sif has posed:
"Ah, yes, SWORD." The acronym jogs the Aesir's memory; one of the departments of organized humanity involved in monitoring the space around Midgard itself. "You could inquire as to SWORD's current involvement and findings in regards to the ship."

A soft crackle heralds more of the glazed crust breaking under the pressure of her spoon. Sif considers the glistening confection before suddenly making a quiet sound of realization.

"I have a memory of crafts stowed in New Asgard, from the exodus to Midgard. I do not //think// anyone would be minded if I claimed temporary charge of one of them, especially in light of possible defense of the world hosting our people." Caitlin is given a small smile. "Would this suit the task at hand?"

Fairchild has posed:
"Hey, if it flies, it's good by me," Caitlin says, pressing a palm to her chest with a grin. "But if anyone gets mad, I'm fully prepared to hide behind you and tell everyone this was all your idea," she informs the princess.

She starts running water to soak pots and pans. The sink's double-wide, almost an industrial basin in size. Caitlin probably goes through a lot of dishware in a day. "I'd feel better if we took care of it," she agrees, finally. "SWORD's got a lot on their plate, from what I hear. We might bring along some backup. Carol and Diana?" she offers. "And anyone else you think woudl be handy in a fight. I know it's a bit paranoid for me, but I'm getting a funny feeling from this ship just... cruising at us. It's quiet." Her eyebrows waggle pointedly. "/Too/ quiet."

Sif has posed:
The trite quote in combination with the young woman's eyebrows has Sif tittering -- //tittering// -- despite herself.

"Too quiet," she echoes after bringing her knuckles down from her mouth. "You sound as my senior swords-master when I was but a young Valkyrie." Whether or not it's a truly fond memory is up in the air; there's a twist to the Aesir's smile even as she looks back down to her bowl. One last bite and she'll be handing off the empty container to Caitlin.

"Yes. I would assume to bring both Carol and Diana. Should there be any breach in the hull integrity of the craft, they will be able to withstand the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure whilst you and I make our way to safety. It is a good balance in a unit."

Fairchild has posed:
"Crapples," Caitlin breathes. "I always forget about that sort of thing. Oxygen," she clarifies. "Golly I'm glad you said something. I better work out a pressure suit or something," she says. "I don't know what Asgardians use. I don't think the pressure differential would actually *hurt* me, but I know I can't hold my breath all that long," she explains. "Maybe a couple of minutes if I really pressed it. That's not something I'm totally wild about working on," she admits, and shifts uncomfortably. The idea of being in an oxygen-depreived environment clearly strikes a nerve with her.

Sif has posed:
"It is uncomfortable," the Valyrkie admits, factually blunt. "The ship we will be piloting comes with helmets. They are enabled with self-specializing size-alteration abilities as well as space-rebreathers. You could experience the vacuum of space and survive as long as the rest of your body was within a suit. But again, these are precautionary, in the same manner that I would not wade into a scrum with multiple opponents without armor. Would I survive the encounter? Undoubtably."

Sif shrugs and adds, "Would it be comfortable? I doubt it. I would compare it to papercuts all over one's body. Why endure it if it is not necessary? We will be fine, Lady Caitlin." And so there, according to the Princess's poise.

Fairchild has posed:
"Oh, well, put it like THAT," Caitlin says, and gives a theatrical eyeroll at Sif's matter-of-fact approach to the manner. "Papercuts, huh? And here I was, worrying about blacking out due to oxygen loss."

She laughs again and finishes washing the dishes, offering to take Sif's plate only when the valkyrie is well and truly done with her dessert.

"Okay. I'll call Diana and Carol up," she promises Sif. "If you get the ride together, I'll coordinate logistics. Food, water, that sort of thing. Should be a nice and fast mission. At max sublight, we'll be there in a day or two. Day or two back. Home in time for the weekend," she says, and beams sunnily.

Sif has posed:
"It sounds as a plan. I shall be in contact with you as well about the craft," Sif promises as she sits primly, hands now folded in her lap and napkin set off to one side. Her Vanir physiology has burned through the ale's effects on her system and she's clear-eyed once more.

"Do send me a text or give me a call. I shall be certain that the craft is to your comfort. There is never a single thing amiss with complete preparation, especially where the vacuum of space is involved."

Fairchild has posed:
"Yeah I'm never gonna get used to that," Caitlin says, and her button nose wrinkles. "Texting you. Or Diana. Carol I get, yeah, but it's just like... weird. When Diana got a phone she was telling me all about being able to speak with people over vast distnaces, face to face. I assumed she meant she had, like, magic mirrors or something. Not that she'd downloaded the Facetime app," Caitlin says, and laughs.

Sif has posed:
Despite herself, Sif grins. Her young friend never fails to bring out the well-hidden depths of warmer personality within the Vanir royal. Her bladed beauty softens and in the kitchen,

"I can imagine Diana quite enjoying magical mirrors. Perhaps I should gift her one, if simply to see what she does with it. It might be as amusing as I wonder." Still, there's more ale left in the bottle lingering near her empty glass and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. The Valkyrie pours out the remainer of it and lifts it to Caitlin.

"You are a kind hostess and masterful chef, Lady Caitlin. But now...you must tell me of yourself and your enjoyments as of late." It is a friendly edict leveled and Sif actually rests her elbows on the counter to listen to the stories. After all, tales are things she enjoys.