World Tree MUSH

  The country of Sokovia has had plenty of trauma applied to it over the past years, but there are corners of it that managed to escape destruction. One such is the town of Polyuchyn. Held by the local Stojespal barony for generations, it's a sleepy town that includes an airbase, plenty of halfway modern amenities, and a certain rural charm. Its primary export is wheat and other agricultural products.

  Lately, they've had a local presence from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division; a federal arm of the United States government. They're on good terms. At Feathergrass Airbase, one of the few hangar structures bears SHIELD roundels on its doors, and it also has a permanent detail of armed guards in the same livery. There are security checkpoints leading up to it.

  A hill rises over the base's southern flank, offering a commanding view of the airbase and surrounding countryside. On it are set up a folding card table, two folding metal chairs, an ashtray, and a paired decanter and shotglass. Parked nearby is a black government sedan with SHIELD markings. Seated in one chair is Agent Anneka Stojespal -- an ally of the Stojespal family, but also an agent in SHIELD's employ; she's safe here. The main family will quietly ensure she isn't disturbed when she doesn't want to be.

  The other chair has an open instrument case in it; a trumpet, by the indentation of the velvet lining. Yeah, velvet. It's an old case. The exterior is scarred old wood, held together by citrus oil and iron banding. Within is velvet lining shaped to a standard horn, a little worn but undamaged. Its latches are brass with a faded gold finish.

  Anneka Stojespal is a woman of average height with vibrant red hair, worn loose and long. Her left eye is the blue of autumn skies, features angular, and she's dressed in a leather bomber jacket, jeans, and combat boots. From the left she looks normal. From the right, she is ruin. This woman burned alive: The scarring runs from just below the hairline on the right down past her collar, and the entirety of what's visible on her right hand is similarly scarred. There is no eye; only a dove-grey leather patch over where it should be. There's no brow, either, for that matter. She lets her hair hang down on the right for a reason. It's vibrantly red and natural: Even the eyelashes on her left are the same colour.

  The agent sits hunched over something in her hands. It's the trumpet that fits within that case. It's a pretty horn, very definitely antique, and the richness of its voice reflects it. From it spills jazz so blue as to break the heart. Its tone is languid and long, warm like butter; like honey. She leans back and forth with it, the combat boot of her left foot thumping the earth in time, raising puffs of dust with every tap.

  With her focus on the playing, she probably won't notice any interlopers quickly.

    Why would anyone be out this far, dipping into the outstretched limbs of this metaphoric world tree? Much less, in an isolated locale so near to some kind of military installation? To be alone! So it comes as some surprise that through some mechanism of chance, the spot Marceline eyeballed from afar is occupied.

    The shockingly red hair is a great eyecatch, though what really keeps her attention is the sound of a trumpet. "Whoah, alright." Invisibly, she unslings her guitar and rotates the dials by feel as she spirals into an easy descent, aiming to put herself in a position that allows this stranger to keep some obstacles between herself and the even stranger intruder staring down at her and listening. She gets a feel for the beat and tempo of Anneka's music, then begins to pick at the strings of her guitar. Her beat is slow and complimentary, played skillfully despite the long gloves diminishing her dexterity.

    Her invisibility drops a moment later and the woman with the weapon-shaped bass hovers perhaps three meters away, her eyes closed, simply allowing her focus to be completely drawn into what she's doing with her hands, her ears and her heart. A mane of long dark hair sweeps to one side with the gentle hilltop breeze, her wide brimmed pointed hat fluttering a little; it was just Halloween, afterall. She's wearing a long sport coat, dress slacks and, incongruously, also combat boots.

    She doesn't look up, doesn't move to disturb further than she already has; she's just answering the lonely call of a solo trumpet's blues.

    Also, weirdly, despite being clearly unplugged, this strange pale woman's guitar sounds like it's plugged right into an amplifier! Though at a respectable volume.

  To its credit, the trumpet doesn't foul a note when Anneka notices company. It does hitch audibly before carrying right on. The pilot studies her impromptu company, and gradually, she lets the music taper off to silence. Somewhere between one breath and the next, she has the trumpet laid sideways on the table, and there is a pistol pointed at the apparition.

  Oh.

  "Technically speaking you're on a restricted federal facility and you'd better be coughing up identification to me, but..." The weapon lowers. That woman is floating. The one-eyed agent can kinda see she's outclassed. Eventually she shoves it back in the holster at her hip, under the jacket.

  "What are you doing here? Nobody comes here by accident. This is a nowhere on the way to somewhere." The woman gestures to indicate the vast open countryside before reaching for her cigarette, taking a long drag while she waits for the answer, eyeing her impromptu guest.

  She's wary, but that's probably to be expected.

    At least the music is kind of allowed to draw to a conclusion, not stopping in such a way that it might be jarring. So, the strange- No, this is clearly a girl or someone in her teens. Downright scrawny looking, as thought she spent a signifigant portion of her growth underfed or malnourished, maybe both. Although, the two red marks on the left side of her neck may signify something else. Tattoos? No, wounds. Puncture marks. A few beats into the silence, /very/ green eyes open and regard the agent and her weapon.

    "Oh, boy," She doesn't quite scoff, though there is an amused chuff in her voice as she shows her empty hands- She releases her bass and it dangles from the shoulder strap with a bass-y grumble as the strings vibrate from the small drop. "Man, you sound like mosta the other peeps I check out." She slides a hand up and into her hair, not really overly concerned about the pistol since it's already being put away. A persistent segment of her bangs falls back down between her eyes. "Rules rules rules n stuff." She puts her hands up in mock defense and grins, showing off waaaaaaay too many pointed teeth for her to be human.

    "Swear to Glob, just trying to book it for a way back outta this world and back home and sight seeing while I was at it. Y'know, then I heard you. Thought you could use a bud to jam with."

    She keeps her distance, though she does turn to the side and float backwards a little, keeping her hat pointed into any potential sun. "Easier to kill time and wait for light's out than try to hunt up a vine while the sun's going down."

    Wait, what? Fangs, bite marks, wariness of the sun?

    She gets a whiff of the cigarette smoke and wrinkles her nose, "Huh, haven't smelled that in a long time; Sorry, haven't seen humans for a real, real long time. Still kinda taking it slow. Lone peeps are easier to handle, less likely to turn into some kinda mess. Y'know?"

    Though she's speaking in an affable tone, her choice of words... Are they threatening?! Or is she trying to sound that way on purpose?

  The levitation was probably enough to figure this person is not even remotely human. Incidentally, that's probably the reason why Anneka decided to holster her sidearm. What's the point? This creature probably has better reflexes.

  "I work for the federal government. Rules are kind of what we do," Anneka observes, folding her arms and glowering warily. The details are stuffed away for later consideration as she tries to decipher some kind of regional slang while also keeping up with the conversation. It's exhausting. "Thanks." At the sideways compliment to her musical improvisation, anyway. "I think."

  Her mind works to figure what kind of creature this might be. Fangs. Puncture marks. Aversion to the sun. Vampire...? She looks so young, though.

  Exhaling a wreath of smoke, the pilot squints at the floating vampire. "Deal with it." It's her vice. It keeps her from turning into some kinda mess. "You have a name, spook? Or do you just float through peoples' lives for shits and giggles?" Anneka drops herself into one metal folding chair; she sweeps her trumpet case off the other, gesturing for Marceline to sit.

    The supernatural intruder might have a thing or two to say in protest to that point but it remains unsaid and unargued! She looks pretty relaxed though, might be she could be caught flat footed but she's also apparently not hostile. So indeed, no point!

    "Huh." She rubs a fingertip against her cheek as she considers that, her eyes glancing away as she seemingly tries to peer into some dusty corner of a partly forgotten detail. "Sounds kind of familiar but eh, alright. Got no ID though; lost my mom's a real long time ago, too. Like, way in the way back.

    "Nah dude, you were totally killing it. Mostly, I play with a few drummers, a real old hat with the guitar and a kid and his dog that can beatbox and seriously kinda tear it up with a viola. You'd like the kid; he loves him some crazy rules."

    The invitation is made and she straightens, lands, and adjusts her guitar to hang from her back. She flips the chair around and sits, arms propped up on the back rest. "Nah, it's cool. Smells kinda nostalgic. Is that weird?" Then, her name.

    "Right, psssht. Dang, I'm Marceline the Vampire Queen. Of Ooo, anyway. Kind of a mouthful; Marceline is fine. I ain't no spook, though. Those are some real messed up types and they'll skronk up your deli tray. They don't usually make it all that far from where they're buried or where they died."

  Most of the conversation is glossed over, slangy as it is. Anneka leans back in her chair, picking the case up again to lay the trumpet in it. The way she handles the instrument speaks to a certain reverence as she closes the lid and fastens the latches with a brush of scarred and unscarred fingers.

  Reaching for the coffee, she takes a swig, heedless of the steam still billowing from the surface. It has to be hot still. Cradling the cup in her scarred hand, she eyes the other coolly, listening as Marceline Queen of the Vampires introduces herself. Oh, so she is a vampire. That checks out.

  There's an almost imperceptible twitch of an eyebrow.

  "In your world, maybe, I am sure." Her voice is gravelly and rough, and her words are twisted by an accent of some kind, either Eastern European or Slavic. It's hard to say; she's deliberately obfuscating it. "There are ghosts here in this world as well. They are rare, though. I cannot see them. I have an associate who has been helping me with various investigations into it."

  She pauses, sipping coffee. "Anneka. Anneka Stojespal." There's an odd glide to the vowels, almost a 'shtoi-yes-pall' sound, all run together so quickly it's almost two syllables instead of three. She gestures at the base down the hill; that one hangar that stands out from the rest. "Agent of SHIELD. I am a pilot. I fly the transports, mostly." She squints at Marceline. "'Ooo?'" What kind of name for a place is that?

    Marcy's got slang like crazy. Her world's kinda lousy with it and what are people other than a product of their environments, right? She fidgets on her backwards chair perch, watching the trumpet disappear into the case with a blank, fangs-over-lip look. Dang.

    "Yeah, ghosts are mostly chill. There's a few ain't so great to be alive around for sure but anyway." One shoulder lifts in a shrug, then her head tilts. "Yo, what? They're just extra insubstantial or something? Dang. I just can't touch em coz their weird ghost hoodoo doesn't jive with mine. I'd offer to bring one around for interviews sometime but that doofus hasn't drummed for me in so long he mighta moved on. Y'know. Afterlife junk."

    "Wow, that's a name. I like it. Reminds me of a friend." She slouches, resting her chin on her crossed arms, following that gesture with her eyes. "Pilots, huh. Not a lot of flying going on in- Wellll, I'm not even sure who's responsible for the name."

    She straightens back up and rubs her hands together as she kind of pulls back, eyes lingering on the hangar. Or probably, some disant point in time rather than space. "I think it used to be called California." There's another half-shrug and she cheats, "World ended and the humans that survived gathered up and skipped out on a boat. Dunno if they made it."

  Afterlife junk. That draws mostly a blank look from the one-eyed pilot, who eventually shakes her head, swapping her coffee cup for her cigarette. "I would not know. I cannot see them or talk to them." She's very much alive and mortal. The trumpet may come out again at some point, but for right now she doesn't look comfortable playing with an audience.

  "It is certainly a name, because it is my name." There's a faint whiff of annoyance about the statement, but it's probably just Anneka trying to slog through a whole bunch of regional dialect she doesn't share. "No? Some places do not seem to have so much." That's fine. Job security here in this world, right?

  California? That earns a faint tilt of her head, and that blue eye narrows in thought as she kicks her mental geography into high gear. "That is... one of the United States, I think? I have not been there."

  She shakes her head. What can she say to 'world ended?' She has no frame of reference for what the correct thing is to say to that.

  "Damn," she says instead, low and solemn.

    Whuff. She pulls at the collar of her shirt beneath the coat she's wearing. Really gotta get a better grip on what humans from other worlds have a solid frame of reference for. "Yeah, maybe that's for the best. I don't really know all that much about them, just that some are cool, some are major dillweeds."

    At that hint of annoyance she actually laughs, "Well duh it's your name! No, I mean, I like it- Your name, I mean."

    She continues to fiddle with her fingers, picking at the nails while she stares off. "Yeah. I mean, your name reminds me kinda of my first friend Simon. He saved me." She shakes her head, then rattles the folding table with a playful slap to the top.

    "So, you gonna lid that horn just coz some weird kid showed up in your hood? Or you wanna jam for reals?" She's shaken off that somber vibe threatening to take her over and, it seems, she's seeking any excuse to shift gears and think about anything else.

    "Betcha we'd even sound pretty awesome."

  "Sounds like any kind of people." Anneka exhales smoke and regards Marceline quietly. The pilot's regard is deceptively sleepy, but that blue eye is alert, paying attention to the details. Once more she's silent as she works out the actual meaning behind the phrasing Marceline uses.

  Hearing the Vampire Queen actually likes her name seems to mollify her a little, but she shakes her head. How her name reminds Marceline of a guy named Simon, she doesn't seem to follow, but heaves a sigh at the vampire's insistence.

  "No." The word is a mutter. "I do not feel like it, now, but maybe another time." The latches stay closed. "I do not play unless it is something I feel, if that makes any sense." Her eye drifts back to Marceline. "We would. Maybe." A hand pats the case, and there's something almost like sorrow in her eye, fleeting as it may be. "But not now, I think."

  She leans over, craning her head and glancing down the hill at the base. "Oh, uh. Do me a favour. If you can be invisible... absolutely do not show yourself to anybody down there." A hand gestures at the airbase. "Especially not anyone in a uniform or a suit. It will complicate my life in ways I really do not feel like dealing with."