Manhattan, Tuesday
May. 7th, 2024 12:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ifwebeworthyDon had heard that, legally speaking, coming back from the dead was one of the most complicated pains in the neck you could ever have to deal with, or at least that it was outside of New York. In New York, they had legal resurrection down to a science: you went to the third floor of the Manhattan DMV as soon as it opened, and you asked for Roberta.
When it was his turn to approach Roberta's desk, she asked without looking away from her computer, upon which she was typing furiously, "How can I help you?" like she didn't really want to help him, but she'd do it anyway. Don was honestly a little intimidated. Thor liked her immediately, and said so.
Don ignored him and told her, "I died." This got him merely a hum of acknowledgment, and he added, in the interests of full disclosure, "And I maybe...was wiped from reality."
Roberta paused in her typing and gave him a sidelong glance. "You a superhero?"
"No, ma'am." Technically, it was true. He wasn't a superhero.
"Supervillain?"
"No, ma'am."
"Listen, son, I don't care what kind of costumed tomfoolery you're into that got you 'wiped from reality,' but changes to federal law mean I am required to inform you of the Superhero Registration Act, which means--"
"I'm a surgeon," he cut in, and Roberta blinked. "I was the Avengers' on-call surgeon." She filled in all the blanks he needed her to, and gave him a look of mixed sympathy and respect. He worked really hard on not feeling guilty about it.
Roberta turned back to her computer. "Full name, date of birth, last four of your social."
He rattled off the information, and she typed it in, then said, after a moment, "All right, I can fix this." It could not, of course, be as simple as that. Roberta started pulling forms out of drawers and stacking them up in front of him. "These are to establish your identity. Memories aren't perfect; just fill everything out as best you can."
Again, he went to the official line of, "I was in a car accident in college. I don't remember much before that." Anyone looking closely enough would discover, as he once had, that there was no accompanying extended hospital stay, no physical therapy or records of surgery. Just, 'car accident, retrograde amnesia,' as if he'd been diagnosed at the ER and sent home to cope. Odin had slipped up a bit there, but it only mattered if Roberta noticed it, too.
"Then put that down where you need to. This is informing you of the legal penalties if you turn out to be a clone, android, or general charlatan attempting to steal the identity of Donald Blake. This is informing you of your legal rights if you turn out to be a clone, android, or other simulacrum who has been deceived into believing yourself to be Donald Blake, which, I must stress, would be not your fault. These are to send to the IRS so we can get your status straightened out with them."
"You can do that here?"
"Yes," Roberta said firmly. "I can't file the paperwork with the medical licensing board--they have their own procedures--but I can print it out for you."
"That would be great."
"I'll go ahead and warn you, they're not as efficient as we are here."
Considering Don's usual experiences with the DMV, he opted not to comment on its efficiency, but Roberta...well, there was a reason she had the reputation she did. By mid-afternoon, he was walking out, stunned (and somewhat sore; the DMV had changed their chairs since the last time he had been there, but only, apparently, for ones that were more uncomfortable and worse on his leg) with a brand new driver's license, several notarized copies of a letter informing the reader that the state of New York certified his resurrection and identity as Donald M. Blake, another letter affirming that he was square with both the federal and state tax authorities, a voided copy of his death certificate suitable for framing, the addendum he would need to file with his passport application ("It goes a lot smoother if you go in person," Roberta had advised him, and he'd solemnly thanked her for the information), the forms he needed to fill out and send to the medical licensing board, and, he found once he was back in his hotel room, a letter addressed to him, care of the Special Circumstances division of the Manhattan DMV. This last he opened a little warily, and after reading over it for a moment, he informed Thor, "It's a job offer." Thor made a questioning sort of rumble in his mind, and he expanded, "At some college in Maryland. How the heck..."
What school? Thor asked.
"Some place called Fandom."
I have heard of this place, Thor said, and Don blinked in surprise. It is a nexus of sorts. A gathering place between realities.
"Has SHIELD heard of this place?"
I do not know. Nor do I care. Don barely had time to get annoyed before Thor, likely realizing that had not been useful input, added, I do not believe the human government knows of it, no.
"It has to be less risky than staying in Manhattan."
There are worse options available to us, Thor agreed. I would not object, if you chose to accept it.
Don wanted to protest that he needed to think about it, but he needed to make a decision fast. New faculty were expected on campus this coming Saturday, apparently, and, well. There were definitely worse options. Maybe someone on this island would know something about how to restore Asgard besides 'throw the Odinforce at it and hope for the best,' which was about the sum of their current plan. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. Fandom. I've never taught before. Could be fun." And there would surely be much less risk of running into, say, Tony Stark on the streets there.
(Establishy! NFB/NFI due to not being on the island yet!)
When it was his turn to approach Roberta's desk, she asked without looking away from her computer, upon which she was typing furiously, "How can I help you?" like she didn't really want to help him, but she'd do it anyway. Don was honestly a little intimidated. Thor liked her immediately, and said so.
Don ignored him and told her, "I died." This got him merely a hum of acknowledgment, and he added, in the interests of full disclosure, "And I maybe...was wiped from reality."
Roberta paused in her typing and gave him a sidelong glance. "You a superhero?"
"No, ma'am." Technically, it was true. He wasn't a superhero.
"Supervillain?"
"No, ma'am."
"Listen, son, I don't care what kind of costumed tomfoolery you're into that got you 'wiped from reality,' but changes to federal law mean I am required to inform you of the Superhero Registration Act, which means--"
"I'm a surgeon," he cut in, and Roberta blinked. "I was the Avengers' on-call surgeon." She filled in all the blanks he needed her to, and gave him a look of mixed sympathy and respect. He worked really hard on not feeling guilty about it.
Roberta turned back to her computer. "Full name, date of birth, last four of your social."
He rattled off the information, and she typed it in, then said, after a moment, "All right, I can fix this." It could not, of course, be as simple as that. Roberta started pulling forms out of drawers and stacking them up in front of him. "These are to establish your identity. Memories aren't perfect; just fill everything out as best you can."
Again, he went to the official line of, "I was in a car accident in college. I don't remember much before that." Anyone looking closely enough would discover, as he once had, that there was no accompanying extended hospital stay, no physical therapy or records of surgery. Just, 'car accident, retrograde amnesia,' as if he'd been diagnosed at the ER and sent home to cope. Odin had slipped up a bit there, but it only mattered if Roberta noticed it, too.
"Then put that down where you need to. This is informing you of the legal penalties if you turn out to be a clone, android, or general charlatan attempting to steal the identity of Donald Blake. This is informing you of your legal rights if you turn out to be a clone, android, or other simulacrum who has been deceived into believing yourself to be Donald Blake, which, I must stress, would be not your fault. These are to send to the IRS so we can get your status straightened out with them."
"You can do that here?"
"Yes," Roberta said firmly. "I can't file the paperwork with the medical licensing board--they have their own procedures--but I can print it out for you."
"That would be great."
"I'll go ahead and warn you, they're not as efficient as we are here."
Considering Don's usual experiences with the DMV, he opted not to comment on its efficiency, but Roberta...well, there was a reason she had the reputation she did. By mid-afternoon, he was walking out, stunned (and somewhat sore; the DMV had changed their chairs since the last time he had been there, but only, apparently, for ones that were more uncomfortable and worse on his leg) with a brand new driver's license, several notarized copies of a letter informing the reader that the state of New York certified his resurrection and identity as Donald M. Blake, another letter affirming that he was square with both the federal and state tax authorities, a voided copy of his death certificate suitable for framing, the addendum he would need to file with his passport application ("It goes a lot smoother if you go in person," Roberta had advised him, and he'd solemnly thanked her for the information), the forms he needed to fill out and send to the medical licensing board, and, he found once he was back in his hotel room, a letter addressed to him, care of the Special Circumstances division of the Manhattan DMV. This last he opened a little warily, and after reading over it for a moment, he informed Thor, "It's a job offer." Thor made a questioning sort of rumble in his mind, and he expanded, "At some college in Maryland. How the heck..."
What school? Thor asked.
"Some place called Fandom."
I have heard of this place, Thor said, and Don blinked in surprise. It is a nexus of sorts. A gathering place between realities.
"Has SHIELD heard of this place?"
I do not know. Nor do I care. Don barely had time to get annoyed before Thor, likely realizing that had not been useful input, added, I do not believe the human government knows of it, no.
"It has to be less risky than staying in Manhattan."
There are worse options available to us, Thor agreed. I would not object, if you chose to accept it.
Don wanted to protest that he needed to think about it, but he needed to make a decision fast. New faculty were expected on campus this coming Saturday, apparently, and, well. There were definitely worse options. Maybe someone on this island would know something about how to restore Asgard besides 'throw the Odinforce at it and hope for the best,' which was about the sum of their current plan. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. Fandom. I've never taught before. Could be fun." And there would surely be much less risk of running into, say, Tony Stark on the streets there.
(Establishy! NFB/NFI due to not being on the island yet!)
