10391/Commotion in Washington Square Park

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Commotion in Washington Square Park
Date of Scene: 08 March 2022
Location: Washington Square Park
Synopsis: Nico saves the day when icky monsters show up.
Cast of Characters: Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange, Nico Minoru




Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Morning means routine for many. The routine of breaking eggs into a pan or snatching stone-cold toast from the toaster on the run out the door. The routine of dashing for the bus or slouching through the shuffling lines to reach the subway platform. Routine makes the city go 'round.

Illyana swills coffee irritably until the caffeine hits her veins and eradicates whatever sleep still clings to her. The warlord queen of Limbo wakes up early and springs to action when called upon, but the soft life in New York City doesn't actually /require/ her to do so. Maybe that makes those transitions so much rougher. Still, nose to a mug raised high as she drinks the black brew like it's going out of style.

The Sanctum isn't so well placed on Bleecker Street that she can hear the commotion of a bus going off the street and barreling through a fence, nor the shrieks of college students trudging their way, cold toast in hand, to class. They'd really like to not be in class, probably. Nothing to be done for the critical jangling noises of glass tinkling or the gate groaning; that sound probably doesn't reach them, but the jerking flood of something ripping at the fabric of reality does, generally, whip a teleporter's head around.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Routine can be so, well, boring. When muscle memory takes over and people just move through the morning because that is what they are used to, things can get so very dull. It is never a good idea to just run on autopilot. It leaves one blind to the extraordinary events of the day.

This morning finds Stephen already standing towards the entrance of Washington Square Park, clad in a greyish jacket (not quite warm enough to be considered spring) with casual pants and sensible shoes. No overtly flashy cloak (much to its dismay) or blue tunic. Just....a normal person, apparently. It is, with a casual glance over his shoulder, that the still-waking Russian is given a slight smile and just a flicker of a wink. "So nice of you to join me."

Oh, Stephen is coming with the humour this morning. Probably too early for it, especially seeing the coffee being consumed. He likes to live dangerously, it seems.

Then...grey eyes flicker to the Park. "So, you heard the breach, too. I am not sure what it is, yet, but it is emanating from within the park. I have a feeling we may want to go over towards the university's buildings. Some of those were older residences...and I feel drawn toward there. Not that you probably didn't already feel that." Chances are that Illyana did. Stephen is not going to ask, though.

"Shall we?"

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico's doing what runaways do best. Or second best, really. What she does best is stay under the radar. What she does second best is... well, an unflattering way to phrase it would be 'bilk tourists'.

So Nico's busy bilking a nice midwestern couple using her go-to Tarot card reading scheme. She's gotten pretty good at it. The gothic aesthetic helps. The dark table cloth thrown over a cheap folding end table to hide the garish seafoam green formica top keeps things looking appropriately spooky. And Nico's gotten good at picking her marks. No goths. No hippies. No one who might realize 'Exodia the Forbidden One' is a Yu-Gi-Oh card and not an actual Tarot.

And then she's got that feeling... that itch in the back of her head that something _spooky_ is going down. And then Nico sees a familiar face... because while he might not have the cloak, or the tunic, Nico's not face blind, and there are only so many people who rock that facial hair... sure, Nico hasn't been around the Sorcerer Supreme too much, but when you feel that feeling and he shows up?

Cards are flipped a little quicker, "Oh... it's... The Goblin Hoarde of Rax-thraka! That's... definitely a sign you two should go see a show! On Broadway! Take the subway!" She gestures towards the nearest park exit, "That way! Definitely! Right now. The spirits definitely demand it! Get a slice of pizza! Famous Ray's! Trust me!"

And then Nico's bustling to pack up the table, and sprinting of towards the sorcerer supreme... what? Following him's probably not going to lead to trouble.

Of course, she's going to have to find somewhere to stash her table. Or maybe it'll come in handy.

Or, you know, maybe the Russian blonde can whisk it off to Limbo for awhile. Demons can admire its chipped 70s aesthetic.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The vehicle cleaves through the fencing that surrounds Washington Square Park and comes to a halt in a film thickly painted in burnt rubber and hot brakes.

Fault lines convulse through conversations and the brief stillness emanates out from where the driver plowed that bus to a halt against a subbuilding of NYU. New York's busses are many, this one a shorter example still filled by several dazed riders thrown around for lack of seatbelts or preparation. The driver slumps over the wide wheel. Fallen riders try to gather their wits through the hissing leaks and revved engines.

A trail of exhaust and torn, dead grass eases the path for anyone drawn to the belated cries and delayed keening wail stained in fear from someone who looked up from their phone after the accident went down. A yapping dog leaps up and down from a leash at the excitement, running around in circles.

Some have the presence of mind to do more than take TikTok videos or photographs for social media. They hustle to class so they won't be late, staggering through the flapping metal doors of the university against a tide coming out or appearing at the windows to see the cause for the commotion. The Sorcerer Supreme isn't the only one to notice something awry, though for very different reasons. They see the consequences, not the root cause.

It takes sharper senses than watching an apparent short bus disaster. Nico might catch fluttering darkness skimming between the buildings. _Something_ moves around the edges of perception, eluding the eye trained directly on it. An elongated appendage stretches out like saltwater taffy, partly translucent, bending against Euclidean norms.

Hastening away from trouble is a smart move. Illyana is not perturbed by a crushing crowd or the sudden plunge in temperatures, a cold that might rake nails up the spine. Being Siberian-born, she laughs in the face of American winter outside the depths of Minnesota or upstate Alaska. She throws back the last of the coffee, grim in expectation of what lies ahead. Interruptions get a nose scrunch of displeasure.

"You told me fresh air is good for me," she murmurs. Her Russian accent betrays her there, but smoother than usually encountered. With a nudge to Strange, she traces a look around her. The fancy Gothic table /might/ just end up in Limbo, but random thefts of objects to entertain her subjects requires careful planning. Mostly because theft is illegal to humans.

She offers her arm to him. Where /did/ that coffee cup go? Somewhere. "Let us. I signed up for the forever of it, da?" Giving a sidelong look, she watches that clever runaway coming closer, nearer, not immediately registering as familiar. But following Strange is the sort of thing to get a slanting look. Appraising. Then again, with Illyana, every look is cold as an Arctic wind, even when it's just a 'ooh, what's that?'

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Indeed, I did."

The tone given is straight-forward, delivered with a perfectly deadpan expression. "I just didn't think you would actually take me up on that." Yes, he knows full well that it is not the cold that deters the blonde at his side, but rather the time. It is not good to wake a sleeping Hell-Lord, no matter who you are. And...one does not become Sorcerer Supreme without knowing such facts. There is a difference between living dangerously and stupidly.

The offered arm is taken, Stephen's right entwining with Illyana's left. A moment is taken, as Stephen tilts his head, using senses slightly beyond the typical five to track. A twinge, then a shift, as Stephen turns towards the disturbance. Yes, people may see the end results. However, that root cause is moving...and Strange is on the case. "Ah, okay. There is our little intruder. Appears that we have a stray spirit...most likely slipped through the cracks I have been meaning to seal up. Once our heavenly visitors have departed. "

Seeing Illyana's attention diverted, Stephen's own attention shifts, following the line-of-sight back over his shoulder and behind to catch a sprinting Nico. "Ah, Ms. Minoru. A pleasure to see you, as always." Yes, it is just a polite greeting...but it does prove that yes, he knows Nico on sight. It is hard to forget her, gothic fashion sense notwithstanding. "Have you come to do a little ghostbusting?"

The table? He doesn't seem to notice it. Yet.

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico's pace picks up when the bus barrels to a stop... ghosts or not, a bus crash is a bus crash, and demands a certain increase of pace. She sighs and drops her table... hey, who's going to steal it?

Sure, Nico picked it up off a sidewalk one day, but like... what're the odds that happens twice?

Her eyes dart around, her dark painted lips press into a thin line, almost a frown... there's _something_ going on. But whatever that thing is, she can't focus on it, maddeningly when she tries to it simply slips away again. It's like trying to capture the lack of a toothache once a tooth is pulled. It's something that's blaringly perceptible in its inperceptiveness.

Still, that dour expression softens as she lifts her flesh and blood hand in a little wave and shakes her head, calling out, "Oh no! ...Well, I mean, I wasn't planning to any more than any other day, but..."

She gestures wordlessly at the bus crash. Can't ignore that.

she offers a cool little 'Hey, I think I've seen you before' nod to Illyana... which she figures is a fine response to that cool appraisal. "So... like... something escape somewhere? Or is this just some unlucky ghost or goblin that ran into the wrong park?"

She shrugs. Hey, she hasn't got much sympathy for malicious spirits wandering into trouble since that time some evil spirit turned a Wal-Mart into the Night of the Living Christmas Decorations when she was trying to shoplift some dinner. Those chips were going to be so good.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Awakening the Hell-Lord usually up before dawn is not a fatal mistake, as long as the coffee exists. Coffee does in this case, and the woman has enough caffeinated sludge rolling through her system to not turn into a horn-crowned horror ready to plunge all of Washington Square Park into the coolest Day of the Dead celebration this side of Mexico, albeit two months early. She isn't the kind to run headlong into danger pulling someone else behind her, she is the kind to run headlong into danger, period. Thus Strange acts as a counterweight to seeing a grumpy sorceress skidding over the smoking rubber tracks or the deep ruts torn into the lawn. They will have to settle for brisk, purposeful walk short of flying off.

"Worth waking up for, da?" The unspoken question gets its commentary as she toothily chews over the wreckage of the bus, broken glass spilled in diamond specks, and troubles permeating the buildings of the university beyond. Not merely a business of weary students and exorbitant tuition, something worse lingers there. It might not even be the smell of unwashed coeds.

That would be a few streets over where many student dorms linger. Anticipation quickens the pace, the pulse, the purposeful cut. "Just one?" Does she sound disappointed?

Does everyone else hate the Yankees?

"Paramedic people could be coming. We worry about the bad and they have a safe place." Her typical laconic nature doesn't help here when using declarative statements, but that's how Russians tend to approach things in life. Particularly when they command armies. Her upnod to Nico is brusque but not intended as rude, slanting gaze acknowledging the Gothic attire with a keen eye. For someone in slick black, dealing with another variation, lacy or not, is common country. "Could be those. Bad spirits are drawn to the vices here. Like a battery for them to feed on." So many sentences, behold! She really must be sleepy.

One of the students stuck on the short bus kicks out a door and slithers through, rubber leaving a strip of black painted diagonally across his shirt. He drunkenly stumbles and hits the ground, dragged away by a couple students more with it than he is. Others take a bit longer to find their bearings, dealing with various limitations and the driver? He's still out cold, but given the lack of 'oh god he's dead' screams, probably alive.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Yes....the bus crash. Certainly can't ignore that.

Well, truth be told, Strange *could* ignore it. But, the call of duty, the urge to help, wells up and Stephen nods. "Yes. We can check on the bus quickly enough and extract those more critically injured." If there are any. Already, Stephen is reaching out to sense what the extent of the trauma is for the bus patrons, while another small part of him pokes a little inspiration at a passer-by to ensure that the proper emergency response personnel are on the way. Just a little mental nudge is all it takes.

Meanwhile, splitting his attention yet a third way, the good doctor keeps a trace on the malevolent spirit roaming the area. "Alas, one. For now. Though, it is a rather wicked individual. Watching its handiwork. Once we are sure the muggles are as well as to be expected, we will teach it why it is a bad idea to mess with our dimension."

Did Stephen just use 'muggle' in a sentence? Yes, yes he did. Proof that at least he is up on his current literary youth wizards.

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico's on a bit of auto-pilot... or she's just working out a bit of pent up aggression, by making exit for the trapped commuters a little easier, left hand reaching out, flaring with purple sorcerous energy, metallic fingers easily piercing the emergency door on the back of the bus and yanking it off with a sharp pull.

The fact that it goes spinning up to embed in the upper level of a nearby tree trunk? That was totally on purpose if you miss the momentary wide-eyed 'Oh shi-' expression on her face before cool goth disinterest takes over again.

"Alright alright, c'mon on out, folks! Anyone who's not injured helps someone who is! It's like the buddy system. C'mon, we all live in New York, it's just a bus crash, you'll all be fine."

They don't need to know that it's some sort of spectre-initiated crash, really. That sort of thing makes sleeping at night tricky.

Nico flinches a little at 'muggle' and groans out... maybe she's just a fan of other sorcerous fictions. Maybe she's jealous Harry Potter got to have magic _and_ finish high school.

And then she's settling in next to Stephen and sighs out, eyebrows lifting as she looks back and forth between Illyana and him, "Well, you two are like... _totally_ taking the lead on this. Ghosts are notoriously punch-resistant, and I... uhhh... don't actually have any books on banishment rituals or whatever? Top rate public library system my a..." She trails off and just heaves out a sigh.

Harry Potter didn't have to get _his_ magic texts from the public library. Stupid chosen one.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Next time, we have her go first," Illyana deadpans at the display of Nico's impressive door-tearing prowess. For someone who likes to be destructive, a show of that level of finesse earns another point in the slim tally afforded to just about everyone.

The riders on the broken bus have the usual scrapes and injuries that come with a collision with the road. The driver is out cold, his heart still beating and breathing there, but shock has taken its toll on him. The bus has several riders with long-term injuries of a sort, mostly on mobility grounds, so an added dose of pain or fresh jarred bruise from falling on the floor or being flung to the seat in front of them is no walk in the park. Horrible pun, shoot the writer.

All in all, about thirteen people manage to escape the dinged up vehicle, though some need more assistance than others to reach a cold bench brushed off from snow or debris. Groans and sighs tell of a weekend of discomfort ahead, in part for the various scratches and lacerations that erupt from bad luck. Glass will be easily plucked out and sealed, but there's worse than that.

What compels a man in his mid-50s to crash through a gate in terror?

The sorcerous troubles of Nico groaning and Strange propelled to do doctor things leaves Illyana to her own devices. She slip-sneaks past them, not the sort to really be of use in healing unless someone /really/ wants to test their mettle. Barbaric condition are normally. "Spirits and ghosts need different tools. Da? General ward would push out good things. You go to wrong library, this is all around. You know Atlantis Bookshop? Very good for that."

Of course, that's no consolation to spirits attracted by pain or lingering through small welts in the fabric of the world. More sinuous appendages resolve into things barely human, woven from red solo cups and failed exams, jealous lovers and bitter texts. They are all seeded by their own damnation, hungry and eager.

Hollow windows gleam with fell purpose, the students within probably not aware of what takes such joy in misery and discomfort. The blonde isn't the kind to really worry about that, holding her hands out to her sides and slouching from the dark-vexed cradle to modern Babylon's temple of learning.

<<Worms! Come out, come out, wherever you are!>>

The crackling, broken tongue of one of the infernal realms sounds plenty wild off her tongue, the sole warning they get before she goes to play. Or they all do. "Red rover, red rover, we call the hate-spirit over!"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Damn that Hippocratic oath...

No, not really. But yes, it is compassion drilled in with years of medical training that drives Stephen to at least help evacuate the bus and tend to the worst of the wounded. Which, fortunately, isn't exactly all that bad. Yes, there are some bumps and bruises involved, but at least no one is critically injured. Including the bus driver, who gets a personal once-over from Stephen before the doctor deems the driver well enough to be moved...which involves a short trip through a sparking portal to a bench. And maybe a blanket.

The tending does mean that Stephen loses track of Illyana, for at least a couple of minutes. However, the infernal speech? Yeah...that is a sure-fire way of determining where the Queen of Limbo had slipped away to. The subsequently more tame translation? If Stephen was paying attention to it, he might have chuckles at the use of the childhood game. But that is not the case. What he heard is the calling of the spirit...and that means to be on alert.

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico curses her lack of cell phone... sure, it means no worrying about evil cults that might till bear a grudge for the whole 'Ruined their apocalypse and got their leadership killed' tracking her down, but it also means she's got to _memorize_ store names and such. But she'll try to keep Atlantis Bookshop in mind when she's _not_ evacuating a bus of injured people, and looking around just in case some poltergeist style object levitation is going on. But nope, it's all clear it seems.

Aside from that confounding feel of terror and malice and the hairs on the back of her neck still standing up. Although that might just be Illyana's gleeful calling out to the spirit. Thaaaaat's pretty spooky.

Sure, it's not that guy with the flaming skull, but he was all dour and silent and he had a cool motorbike. He wasn't grinning and calling out for an evil spirit to come out and play. And so with a heavy sigh, Nico casually reaches out with her right arm to drag her forearm along a jagged piece of bus frame, feeling blood well up, and magic surge, nearly lifting off her feet as she glows from within and out comes the Staff of One, to be cradled in the crook of her elbow with her witch arm, while she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a dark kerchif to wrap around that bleeding wound with a sigh.

"I swear, every time I run into something like this, I wonder if hitchhiking to Gotham and just dealing with murderous clowns isn't a better lifestyle choice. I don't even _like_ clowns so it's not like it'd be an inconvenience to beat them up."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
No such oath controls Illyana except for another kind altogether. She has none of the immediate compassion or urge to wade in to help her fellow men, given that Nico and Stephen turn their attention fully upon those in need of medical attention or a helping hand. It might just be the rare turn of luck to help bandage up an arm or wait until the red-flashing lights of an ambulance show up in several minutes. But the EMTs and paramedics won't be on site quite yet, giving a chance for others to pitch in and get up to their elbows.

The driver being hauled out means he's deadweight for the Sorcerer Supreme, his belt heavy with a walkie and ring of keys, his shirt neatly tucked into his pants. He's soaked with sweat and clammy, his face blotchy under that slack sheen. His mood isn't good. A bit of an important tale for the medically inclined, something scared the living daylights out of him.

Darkness shivers and belches from those corners, feeding on the nibbles of fear and discomfort. Not nearly enough to draw a whole part through, but nothing like flowing tentacles barbed in fat hooks and compound eyes like an insect bulging out from under suppurating knots of ectoplasmic flesh. One of those, anyway, becomes another, chaining themselves together like spiritual landmines. Nothing to be seen by the other university students, so it all looks plenty weird to them. A woman walking into an alley chattering something from a video game? The girl with a staff coming out of her bleeding arm? The hell?

Spooooooooooky.

There's no sound from the spirit. But then, would there be? Another clod of earth comes up, asphalt torn by the landmine spirit net, and they wiggle their tendrils to start flinging things at random. At victims, at Nico, at Stephen, and Illyana.

The blonde laughs and claps her hands, white-blue flame absorbing the chunk of brick and broken bumper hurled at her.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Yeah....this is what happens when one antagonizes a baleful spirit of unspeakable horror. And Stephen doesn't need to see the Lovecraftian aspiring mass, with its multitude of tentacles and compound eyes, to guess as to its capacity of terror. Just lugging out the driver is enough proof of what exactly they may be dealing with. Still...a pat on the back and a calm voice saying "Don't worry, I will take care of this" is probably not as reassuring to the driver as it could be.

Especially when faced with flying bits of masonry and shreds of smoldering rubber being flung from said tentacles.

And yet, this doesn't seem to phase Stephen. If anything, it induces a quick roll of the eyes as the medical doctor aspect takes a backseat to the sorcerer. With a quick slam of the fist into his palm and a twist, a golden shield, spinning with symbols arcane, erupts into view...just in time to deflect the makeshift missiles from sorcerer and driver both. Then another shield...and another, as Strange works quickly to at least get the victims as secure as possible. A golden dome? Why yes, yes indeed.

Still...it takes a little bit to establish the sanctuary. Strange locks yes with Nico...and gives a nod towards Illyana. "You might want to give her a hand. I will be along shortly." Does Illyana need a hand? Most likely not. But hey, this is what happens when hanging around sorcerers. And...it won't take long at all for Strange to get into the fray. He is just letting the ladies have first crack, as is proper.

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico, for one, is relieved by flying masonry and animated tendrils of solo cups. Less reassured by the cups. Frat parties are an awful hell all their own. But flying debris and evil intent? Hey, she deals with that! That's not like, _philosophical_ spectre problems or anything. It's the kind you punch and spell and otherwise deal with directly without it all being some strange confrontation of your inner psyche or whatever.

Nico offers a quick thumbs up of her glowing witcharm and leaps into action! Or, you know, at the very least runs towards Illyana and the trouble. Doctor Strange meant punch the spirit, right? He said give a hand. That's practically a pun. It's a quip.

Spider-Man does quips, and they're never confusing riddles, so clearly the simplest answer is the right one. Except, of course Nico's got to deal with the innocents who haven't cleared out yet, "Guys! It's not like... Rhino or something! You're not going to get an autograph from it! Clear out!"

The witch sprints forward and leaps into the air... and keeps on rising, although her momentum bleeds off, she's not really flying, so much as hovering upwards with a jump assist racking her mind for a spell to unleash... one that's not _too_ precious, and also won't risk anyone nearby. Her gaze darts back to the bus... no no, that's a little extreme. Maybe later. Still, as she's looking around, she notices hanging icicles. Sure, that'll work... some of those suckers are easily three inches thick, if they fall down they could hurt someone! Orrr....

She grips the staff a little tighter, drawing in her power, voice reverberating as it's unleashed, "Chill out!" ...God, she's glad Karolina's not around to hear that, as the icicles shiver, shake, and then spring free from the eaves around her, flying up into the air to swirl above her and then fire down in a stream of knives towards the centre of the writhing mass. That oughta distract it!

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The victims on their feet have reason to scramble as fast as they can. That means spilling out for the man with a bum knee or the girl with a palsy disability, but move they will, driven by sheer survival. If wounds bleed or bruises swell, it's better than being dead at the wiggly fronds of several invisible /things/. Things they cannot see, horrors that even manifested are totally invisible to anyone without a wisp of Sight or talent to feel the incursions. All they know is that a bombardment from grass and dirt comes out of nowhere, and the scary truth of that may be worse than knowing what geometrically unangled monsters betray the laws of physics and good manners to do it. Better the devil you know than the one hiding out of sight and out of mind.

Frat parties make the least of the troubles ahead, though there probably will be a rubber-monster-made-of-code night at one of the Greek houses somewhere around the city after this, provided any of the frat bros staring out the window can see. Even if they See (in the big S magic fashion), how to sell it to their buddies? Alien latex girls?

Soundless protests ripple out in sonic booms to the magic users as the spirits keep beating on whatever is loose and can be whipped into something of a cyclone. Trash, snow, grass, and that yappy little dog go swirling around, though Mimsy McMopperson on his diamante leash shrills as he's lifted airborne. Sucks to be barky.

The long thorned appendages that vaguely behave like squid arms very happily hook into whatever they can find and tear, and they certainly like the idea of giving Nico a hug. Whether this proves good for their long-term purpose, another matter. The singing sparks of things hitting Strange's shield inform them not to attack the shield, though going around or under the ground to reach him is another matter.

All this, an invisible battle surrounded by bemused people who don't really see any of it. They don't know a net of landmines with murderous intent is trying to form a ring around them or, particularly, the Sorcerer Supreme and his band, the Supremes. It's a working title. Stephen and the Supremes? Red Cloak Brigade?

Icy shards spew into a body made of goo and fomented disdain, curdled energy and something probably worse, the universal sentiment for hunger and despising its prey. Radiating chunks splash away as the multifaceted eyes bend, shifting on incongruent angles, and that partitions to show one great, horrible fleshy orb. Blllliiiiiiink.

The air slows. Time wobbles and recoils. Beholders just /wish/.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Which is about the point Illyana Rasputina does what every descendant of her infamous grandfather does when a fan and an empire meet. She drops backwards into a flaming blue portal, winking out of existence.

For a moment, anyway.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Well...yes. That's the thing about hastily-made shields. They are created on the fly and usually have some sort of vulnerabilities. Like...not considering the ground. But, in retrospect, it wasn't like there was a lot of time to think. Still...there is enough time to run towards the nastiness and at least draw the attention away from the victims who are less mobile than he is.

And, just to proof how hastily constructed the mystical shields were, an explosion of sod and dirt erupts from one of the few sections of the pack that is not paved over, showering the Sorcerer Supreme with a rather fetching array of melting snow, dead grass and mud. An arm is raised reflexively to keep most of the flying debris from his face, but it does nothing for the hair or rather anything else. And....as he gets close enough, Strange gets a good look at the culprit...or at least the main instigator. "So...class 5 free-roaming caustic transdimensional planar entity? And me without my proton pack."

And did Illyana get to hear the Ghostbusters techno babble? Nope...Strange sees the portal out just as he finishes his joke. "Really....a perfectly good obscure jest gone to waste. What is the world coming to?"

A grin towards Nico, though, is given. At least the attempt at humour did not fall on deaf ears. If she was listening. "Anyways...we need to contain this and shove it back home in the dimension it belongs in. Think containment unit, if you like...only...not in this realm of existence." Sure...easy for him to say. "Think you're up for it?"

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico's feeling proud as a peacock at her quick thinking. Icicle storm! Yeah! Take that, Mister Mysterious Monster!

Of course, the problem is the weird monster _does_ take it. And then there's a whirling mass of chaos and... one of those little yappy dogs? Nico's going to pretend she didn't see that. Nico's a realist, and she's not risking the 'mission' for one yapping dog in a diamond collar. That dog probably has an apartment that's nicer than hers. It'll be fine.

But that dog's plenty of distraction for wicked, barbed tendrils to get too close for comfort. Luckily, she's wearing leggings under her heavy dress, although she can _hear_ the fabric tearing in spots. Oh. That will not do. Now she's going to have to sew the tears up, and she's going to jab her finger with the needle, and then the Staff of One's going to leap out and knock a mug off a countertop again and...

She breathes out, no no, focus on the spirit Nico.

She looks down to Strange and bobs her head, calling out, "Oh! I think I can muster up the mojo to send this thing packing! Uhhh... the _where_ isn't really my strong suit! I can give it a shove out of our reality, but uhh... I dunno where it would end up unless you can aim it!"

Nico spins the Staff of One above her head in a little flare... unleashing fel magic powers needs a bit of panache. Her eyes close... it's uhh... for coolness, she's not saying a quick prayer to any god she can think of or anything. But then her eyes open, glowing with the same violet light her witcharm sometimes does, "Closing time! I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here!!"

And then the tip of the staff flares, radiating vast energies... whiiiiich hopefully one of these more 'trained' and 'educated' and 'actually seasoned with this crap' mystic fighters can bend that primal force towards... not throwing this monster into a dimension of peaceful bunnies or something.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
This is a plurality of problems, all holding tentacle-hands to make a horrible equivalent of an electric fence or a net of sea-mines meant to take out destroyers, subs, bathtubs and other passing magical craft. No harm, no foul, not at all. The invisible loop tightens as the wobbly thorned appendages lash out and eagerly try to rip magical energy, flesh or whatever they can get their hooks into.

How patently unfair: they can't be seen by others but they still can pack a punch or toss a heap of ugly dirt and grass atop someone. Make whole heaps of messes. Where did one pull up a water pipe from under the ground? No, not the other kind of pipe, much to the consternation of shouting and pointing students.

"Lamest flash mob ever!" opines someone who must be of the mind it's /natural/ for a park to blow up.

This thing, then, is a hybrid of many littler spirits all ganging up on innocent people with nothing better to do than help others. Let that be a lesson to you: mind your own business or else evil hate-spirits summoned by who knows what are going to emerge and decide to take a bite out of you. The truth of the matter is when the Staff of One wakes up, at least /one/ of them vibrates maniacally and then time slows even further, crawling like molasses in January in pockets. It can't be sustained for ever, but open beholder-like eyes staring down have that way of making the advance slow. Running dashes become slow-motion cams. Spells fire slooooooooo

    Oooooooo
        oooooowly.

Purple beams flash like a cutscene from <insert favourite anime here> and slowly, the shoujo goth witch might find her beams approaching, being resisted, but it's the freaking Staff of One. Even the little neural network of horror shows there is not quite up for that, but proofing one does not poof them all, not without some work. And throwing beams behind and under. Wiggly tentacles gonna wiggle.

As for Magik, she reappears through a hole in reality that allows her to fall back in. Those jet black leather pants, iconic, along with the boots over them. Shorts and boots? Who knows! Nonetheless, she has not the vanguard of mutants or sorcerers from Wong's back closet but a--

--cup of coffee. Swilling it, no less, as she hits the temporal reduction zone. Well isn't /that/ inconvenient. More time to appreciate it?

Oh, and the big shining sword as tall as she is probably shouldn't be wielded one-handed and yet is, dropped like it's hot on Sephiroth's head. Okay, not that cool. It sends a burning wave on the descent to jab someone with wiggly tentacles. Eventually it might connect. Mayyyybe.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Oh, temporal manipulation?! And here Strange didn't accessorize for green stones. Still, time manupulation is something that Stephen does know rather well....and he subsequently knows how to work around it. Well...to a point.

First, he needs to mark the exit. It is only a matter of moments to determine from which crack the catalyst for which this reject from a Monster Manual needs to go back to. A simple enough spell...drawn out because of the temporal pull. Still, the little fault in reality is identified and set aglow for only those that truly see....and the occasional substance user.

Then, it is a matter of funneling the spell Nico's staff is already releasing. Even Stephen has little hope to take the spell and harness it for himself. But, he can at least guide it in the right direction. A nudge here and a touch there and Strange provides a path of least resistance. Hopefully that works for the Staff. Otherwise they are going to be busy for a while.

Nico Minoru has posed:
Nico hangs in mid-air, as arcane energies surge, as she is privy to the secrets of eldritch power and unknowable reaches!!

Except, of course, the way the Staff of One works is really mostly that she shouts something in a near-panic, and it does its thing, and she does her thing, which is 'Watch the lights and hope nothing goes wrong.', except of course when there's temporal manipulation going on.

Because that's when she hangs in the air, slowwwwwwly faaaaaalling as she desperately hopes she's _not_ why things feel so slow. Oh god. What if this is what the spell does? What if she's stuck like this? It doesn't feel like super speed, it just feels like everything is slow. This is some unacceptable goofy Twilight Zone hubris punishment for complaining about the train being late, isn't it?

Except the Twilight Zone never had a blonde walk out of a portal with a coffee and a big honkin' sword. Maybe it'd stop getting cancelled if it did. Nico would watch that.

Nico is watching that though. Jeeze, how's she swinging that thing one-handed? Oh god, how is time still slow? Why is she thinking so fast? This is the worst. This is terrible.

Nico's starting to get less concerned about where this monster's going to wind up, and more wishing that the Staff of One and the barriers of reality would get their shiz in order and hurry this up so she can land. She's really not dressed for dramatic mid-air posing, she hasn't got a cape or anything. That goth on the Titans has a cape. She'd do this part way better. Nico should see if she can contact her sometime. Well, that's going on the list of things Nico should do and never will.

Because.

She. Can't. Stop.

Floating.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
At least it's slowly falling. The wiggle-mines of terror, all some-teen of them, are hardly free to float around however they like. Temporal manipulation flows both ways, at least in /this/ realm, but beating them at their own game in the darker-than-thou dimension probably would turn out pretty decently if someone felt obligated to try.

Maybe that's where the energy surge for the Staff of One comes form, but that means Nico still lives with the horror of a bunch of staring big eyes peering at her.

All the unblinking eyes. The world's worst staring contest when she starts to optometrically sting them with purple energy, guided by the Sorcerer Supreme doing his 'oops can't blink and miss it!' thing further penetrating into the rifts they wedged their wiggly little bodies into.

That Titan goth has a cape, but the lacy goth has a really cool arm. And the feeling of running into a mound of Jell-O, getting slurped along the violated edge of reality in this dimension that tries, like such a good immune system, to reject the wiggly, spiky nasty spirits that have no business being there.

Breathing tastes like hate and salt, frat boy weat and despairing student thoughts, but at least she is breathing and not inhaling sludge. Time warped that way will always feel and scour the body differently. Down, down flows the dark-haired girl.

Strange's slow-mo gestures are even weirder to the flapping, flailing students. Those outside the bubble, most of them, are running around trying to figure out what the hell the flash mob is doing now. A mob of three. And one of them is apparently Lady Cloudstryfe cosplay to go with Goth Lolita and "Professor Jazzhands. I saw his show on TikTok! He has like five thousand hits!"

One of the EMTs getting on scene is left gaping, trying to make sense, right as a wiggly purple-hewn tendril he can't see grabs him by the foot and sends him sailing headfirst into a snowbank with a whump.

Illyana is stuck in the temporal sludge, accelerated by Limbo and really slowed down by whatever those black things are, hurtling twilight horror-show embrace about to begin as one staring monster doesn't even have an eye in the back of its head and tries to wrap her up in way, way too many many-angled tentacles. They bend in ways they can't. Oh, they grab her; gross, as ever. But they also grab the stabby thing to throw it away because stabby and burny staff power equal ow I am vanishing. His buddy pops out of existence and the tenuous embrace of their deadly mines wobbles, making seconds slew and oh, hi, gravity.

Also, hi, touch the burning edge of a relic specifically great at annihilating non-human, non-regular organic matter. That scream would be a scream, if these monsters had mouths. Purple burning stabby lights join with fiery stabby limbo Soulsword and the thing explodes.

Like a bong blown a mile high, or someone's gym socks erupted, the splatter is slow, magnificent, and multi-coloured bad-juju going all around. There is no Trinity moment to dodge this; they get to all wear it, including one savagely laughing chick who will be an Insta celebrity tomorrow for all the wrong reasons when ectoplasm blows up over her too. Except it's the only thing visible.

The remaining squidgy monsters are hurled through perforations left by the awesome One lightshow, aided by Stephen and the Supremes, but at a messy cost.