13248/What We Do In the Shadows

What We Do In the Shadows
Date of Scene:	02 November 2022
Location:	Ruined Demiplane
Synopsis:	The grand idea: restore Mjolnir to being whole again, and let it find Thor. The price, a very significant use of spellcraft and a timely relic to warrant Mjolnir's aid. The outcome is not quite as expected and adds a mighty wrinkle in time.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Zatanna Zatara, Stephen Strange

---

Jane Foster has posed:
"We are going to need Zatanna Zatara."

Be careful what you wish for, when you are Sorcerer Supreme. The request can be provided sooner than any incantation wings across the face of the earth or a ripple disrupts a leyline. Previous experience teaches the expediency of a proper text message and a follow-up call, the unfortunate duo despised by Millennials accepted as a sometimes necessity. Jane has a phone and the means to connect by way of satellites, passing on the urgent request to meet and a location. "Where you met the Doctor to bring us home" probably gives a precise explanation.

Where is, in some respects, a mystery by geospatial reckoning and a great deal less so for a cosmologist who studies supermassive black holes and Einstein-Rosen bridges daily, a logomancer, and the dimensional guardian. Between the latter pair, only time proves an enemy to locating the ruinous quasi-realm that ripped an Asgardian party from the Atlantic Spaceport into the heart of Malekith's trap. Such a place is difficult to access due to faded interdimensional wards offering resistance, a matter of twisting and searching for the weak point to pierce through.

What remains on the other side is pure devastation, bodies left to bloat where they lay and a long skein of broken weapons, torn earth, and scattered ammunition. The dragon-bone throne that Malekith the Accursed proclaimed for himself may be nothing more than a vestige, partly because why would a dark elf waste a perfectly good collection of bone? But here, lives hung in the balance. A battle fought and lost, a war balanced on the tip of a spellcaster's tongue, scars the landscape in all its ferocity. No natural sources of light prevail, which constitutes a necessity to hold up a cellphone high so the flashlight can hold the perpetual nightfall at bay.

"A good thing I'm not afraid of the dark," Jane announces.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
It's a refrain that darkens Zatanna's sleep and shadows her days. "Be careful of what you wish for." Not since the day she witnessed her father's sacrifice to save a party of ne'er do well sorcerers has the homo magi rued her participation in a magic ceremony.

The text came in the middle of yet another lugubrious breakfast. The sleight-of-hand artist nearly tips her coffee cup over, reaching for the phone. She might not have spider-sense, but no one but the most important people has her private number. Woe, betide a marketer who does.

The phone call seals it. A wave of her hand removes PJs and robe for black jeans, boots, and a tweed jacket the Queen would approve of for a country walk. Yet, the location will be no country walk.

A fairy-like sparkle of purple burns into existence amid a charnel house of spilled blood and dismembered limbs. Zee steps carefully out of the portal, a hand to her mouth to stifle the smell. A snap of her fingers brings a glimmering globe into existence. Its glow does nothing to soften the edge of death in the room.

She locates Jane and Doctor Strange in the gloom, wasting no time on pretty greetings. "We're going hunting, aren't we?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Well...Strange did say he needed help. He just didn't expect that it would be so quickly to arraign the particulars. Apart from the time spent to properly trace a pathway through to the nightmare landscape that the Asgardian diplomatic contingent had to deal with, everything else fell into place rather efficiently. And, when Strange does finally step through to witness with his own eyes the realm that Malekith hath wroth, there was a modicum of respect within the sorcerer. Not for what his eyes had to show him, but for what Malekith had managed to create. One can respect the effort, if not the creator.

Now...as to why they are here. Strange turns to both Jane and Zatanna. "Do you know where Thor was struck down in here? Perhaps, if we focus our attentions at that spot, the point of the sundering, it may resonate with the efforts we are about to perform." And....to more directly answer Zatanna's inquiry, Strange gives a simple nod. "That we are, though perhaps not in the manner that you might think."

With an indication to Jane, Strange begins to detail out what preliminaries he determined. "As Doctor Foster informed me, we have the rather large matter of Mjolnir currently in several small pieces. I was asked if there was anything that I could do or help with to correct this issue, with the hopes that the hammer will return to its owner and allow us to find the Odinson. Now, the restoration is twofold. I can restore the physical form well enough...but there is the matter of the spirit of the hammer. That...is what we are hunting for."

A pause for breath, as the sorcerer takes the time to survey the hellscape before he continues. "We believe Mjolnir to be sentient. Therefore, restoring the physical form is only part of the equation. We must find its spirit, too. That is our hunt. Now, we have access to a similar power as what was contained within the hammer and I believe that if we channel some of that power through the hammer, be our benefactor willing to do so, we might be able to call upon the spirit and guide it back home. But, we need to be able to contain the energies if possible...and also add in guiding our wayward spirit back home."

Stephen finishes with a simple question. "Now, any questions on this before we begin?" From the way he is phrasing, it sounds more like a school lecture than a potentially highly complex ritual in an attempt to infuse the power of a god into a shattered relic.

Jane Foster has posed:
Rather Strange's fault for not specifying a time or a date of his own. Apologies will come after the fact of revelation, anyway. And there shall be apology, delivered with tea, French pastries, and a rather diverse assortment of homemade meals of disturbingly high quality. Thus proof Jane didn't make them.

Jane, as it is, continues to hold up her phone until the pair of sorcerers devise a better means. Then she slips the phone away into her pocket to conserve its battery life. "After a matter of speaking. Setting a snare may be a better description." Her voice rasps on the edge of a whisper, the memories here teeming with grief and desperation, anger and fortitude. The broken heaps of bodies where Sif plowed through dark elves leads to an even larger lump of a giant. However, a substantial crater cleaved into the ground where an immense force detonated under the spell makes a rather clear circle to follow. She approaches the perimeter carefully, stopping along the way to pick up a rather unimpressive sword as a matter of habit. She carries it loosely at her side, point down, swaying slightly back and forth.

"None. But I'm not the one carrying the heaviest burden." Not exactly. Her bag contains the two plastic boxes Strange saw before and ones probably new to Zatanna. Foam keeps their contents from shifting. "He fell near there. About... what, a hundred feet up?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Some people would call the doctor brusque, others strange. Zatanna on the other hand appreciates how he goes to the heart of the matter. No wailing or beating of breasts or even finger-pointing. That might be Zatanna's guilt speaking. Guilt for not having seen a glimmer of the evil that descended on them, shattering Mjolnir, taking Thor.

Standing tall, she lifts an arm, pointing like a Christmas ghost of the past to the scorched crater from which Malekith cast Thor into...

...they don't know where.

"We have access to a similar power?" Zatanna queries aloud, walking gingerly along the lip of the crater. Bitterly, under her breath, "Should we leave a bowl of milk out for it? And call?"

"Dimensional walking and calling, Doctor? It must be bereft without its form and without its companion. What do you suggest?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Form, Stephen can handle. Companion is another story. It is the suggestion that the good (mystical) doctor addresses first. "First, I will restore Mjolnir to its physical form. I intend to use a localized time field, centered just on the remains of the hammer, to rewind time, so to speak, to back when it was sound physically."

As far as the other part? Well, Stephen answers vaguely. "As for the other, it will be her decision, ultimately, should she wish to assist. But, if she does decide as such, then yes, she is of a similar vein as Mjolnir." As far as who 'she' is, Stephen does not go into specifics. After all, he is not going to make demands of an entity that is as powerful as Mjolnir. Risking that sort of wrath is foolish.

And Stephen is no fool.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane rolls her shoulders mildly against the burden she hauls through the darkness, a familiar burden if a boxy one. The squared shapes certainly tend to bite into her back and flank, an irrepressible reminder of their presence even if she should somehow forget. "I spoke with Doctor Strange about the difficulties we may face trying to reassemble Mjolnir or finding the Thunderer. That simply reforging the hammer doesn't seem sufficient given the lack of an enchantment." Her explanation is soft-spoken, that somehow it might not disturb the ashes of a battle and the weight of memory.

Nothing immediately popping out among the bloated corpses helps to resolve how abandoned the demiplane is, at least in proximity. Following a path through the stinking, rigid heaps to the blackened depression where no plant could possibly grow counts as a singularly unpleasant prospect.

"Invoking Mjolnir to come, if it wishes to, will be the harder part of this. You've a considerable gift for words, Zatanna. I would anticipate you're bound to be more persuasive at convincing a traumatized entity that lost its vessel to come forth," she says. "Hazarding a guess, I can only guess where to look. Shouting its name to the four corners isn't really getting us anywhere. If only it worked so easily."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"If there is a fitting and respectful way of caring for the dead, it might be more welcoming here." Zatanna's lips tighten into a straight line when she glances out over the gory remains on the battlefield.

"Will you assemble it here? I can probably make an invocation and suitable invitation to the entity, letting it know that I am but a proxy for Thor." She harbors any doubts to herself. Hesitation will serve no one nor haste.

Stephen Strange has posed:
A quick nod is given to Zatanna in response. But, of course, since this is Stephen, he doesn't leave it with just a simple nod. He has to explain what he is doing. Whether it was asked for or not.

"I do intend to assemble it here. Or, rather, to assemble it there." 'There' being in the middle of the crater. The sorcerer is obviously assuming that it is there that the hammer was shattered. "By assembling it as close to the point of sundering as possible, when I do rewind time, I should be able to find all of the pieces. We want this to be as whole as possible so that our wayward spirit will have no qualms in returning to its home."

With that, he nods over to Jane. "If you would, Dr. Foster, would you be so kind as to place the shards?" The indicated spot is given a lovely highlight...mere parlor trick, but well enough to suffice. "Once the pieces are in place, I will then reassemble the hammer. After that, we see what we can do to entice the spirit to return. Ms. Zatara with her diplomatic charms and perhaps a bit of a jump start, should it be decided to be needed."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane sighs under her breath, a sound buried by posture as she chooses that moment to bend. Her boots, mired in dust and the mired ruin of the battlefield, need a thorough cleaning before returning to New York. Never a bad moment to tug on the laces and retie the bows, double-knotting them for good measure. She manages not to drop the unwieldy bag or its contents after precipitous jostling and repositioning guided largely by her left arm. Strange's commands play out a few seconds later, though not without commentary from the brunette peanut gallery. "As the one who can't fly, I am taking one for the team."

The ragged crater edge bodes poorly for anyone just deciding to walk in, not the least of which is that bowl-shaped depressions of this nature and those on Earth feature vertical walls. The downslope can be severe, moderated only by the glancing impact. In Thor's case, the detonation happened almost directly overhead. "I suppose the experience at Barrow Crater may be useful." Scaling a 37 degree incline isn't for the faint of heart. She drops the rusted sword and backtracks long enough to find a spear, something long and unwieldy, but not giant-sized. Thrusting the point into the magic-annealed earth gives her a makeshift ski pole to slalom her way through crunched boulders and fine scree, demolished bones, and the occasional pile of loose dusted rock that sends her skidding most unceremoniously down several feet. She topples, and then arises, frowning at the tears in the knee of her jeans. Oh well, they were due for the dumpster anyway. Getting the smell of dark elf out? Impossible.

At least she can spot the highlighted spot, dragging the spear and using it partly as crutch and poker-of-ground divining tool as the rough walls intersect the crater floor. Eventually she gets around to dropping two plastic bins lined in foam, and the contents thereof, which are so much smaller than the grandiose hole she's in.

But just to make a point, Doctor Strange abuses the scientist!

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Musing aloud, Zee watches the preparations for the Doctor's time spell. "Shall I call the entity, Mjolnir....I think so, why else would it carry that name?" she decides after consulting herself.

Successfully reuniting the shards into a whole will be a tour de force that few sorcerers in the world could lay claim to. Needless to say, she has complete faith in the Doctor, thankful that he has been on hand for their rescue and the subsequent investigation into how Malekith maneuvered the Starport christening to his own ends..

The homo magi stations herself on the lip of the crater, ready to give a hand up to Jane if necessary. Still, Zatanna is more and more certain that the astrophysicist has hidden dimensions to her, the descent into the crater being well within her range of talents. A tiny smile plays on her lips as she witnesses Jane acting put upon.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Did Strange put Jane up to descending the crater on purpose? It may seem that way. Surely, Jane would know where she found the uru shrapnel, so if it wasn't from the midst of that crater, she would have spoken up. Still, there might have been the slightest curling of the lips as Stephen watches the drama unfold. Like his female magi counterpart, perhaps Stephen suspects that there is more to Jane that meets the eye and finds that her mild complaint mildly amusing. Jane did have the right of it though. Her initial exclamation is true.

Stephen Strange can certainly fly.

And...fly he does as he descends down into the crater himself, hovering just above the surface as he follows Jane's lead. When he does reach the bottom with Jane, he leans in, murmuring something for her ears only before he gains altitude, only really stopping to where approximately the detonation occurred, using the dark residue of magic as his only guide. With the eyes closed, slowly adjusting for approximate positioning, it would seem impossible for Stephen to be able to know exactly where....yet, he seems pretty close with his senses, if not exact.

Still....it is only when he feels he is approximately at the eye of the storm, so to speak, does Stephen opens his eyes. Hovering in the air directly above the abused scientist, the sorcerer's hands shift, performing a series of precise, complex motions, before finally ending positioned directly in front of the amulet he wears, thumbs and fingertips touching each other. With that, the amulet, the fabled Eye of Agamotto, opens. But, within is a greenish glow. A greenish glow that envelops the right hand as Stephen brings it forward, pointing down towards the shattered remains of the hammer. Arcane symbols in a green circle hover, with that right hand in the center, looking rather suspiciously like a dial.

Does Stephen intend to turn back time as simply as adjusting the radio for the right frequency? It would appear so.

Jane Foster has posed:
Assembling pieces of broken metal plucked from their foam cradle takes time, at least to do it correctly. Jane needs several minutes at minimum to extract the smallest fragments up to the larger shards, and most of the remnants of uru do not constitute anything larger than a pebble. Work performed over previous days for hours upon hours gives her a fairly good idea for certain parts, though others require careful reconstruction and positioning after consulting the plans printed inside each lid. Super genius scientists may not need their plans, but super genius scientists are incredibly stupid not to bring along such in high-octane environments. Reeding it will not do.

In short order, it becomes clear she builds more than an attractive, oblong heap. Destructive magic renders the components irregular, but the rectangular prism eventually grows more apparent. Razor-sharp uru leaves its marks even through gloves, the skinniest fragment capable of embedding itself in mortal fingers or palms. She bleeds for the task from multiple cuts so fine the metal's edge slips between neurons and barely renders itself painful.

Zatanna and Stephen cannot be ignored. Patently impossible unless they mentally shield themselves from her passive awareness. She lays out the leather-wrapped haft, touching the longest broken pieces to the top. No way to lean them. "Mjolnir is its identity, yes. Singular and manifold, the being and the companion, the weapon and the guide." A catch in her throat, but that's all she can do.

Then comes that green light, and her head tilts back. In the bright glow of the Eye of Agamotto, all is revealed true -- and wrong, in a way.

Jane's aura explodes around her, visible to the Sight effortlessly. Beyond the broken silver cord wrapped around her right wrist or the filaments of its snapped, unmoored connections floating off her ankles. Striations run through that mental halo, the crystal-clear edges of a psychic and, worse, scars. Temporal scars, the precise stamp of something inflicting a force not unlike that dreaded green gem in the heart of the eye. Something has wrenched her askew from the timeline, rewrote what it wanted, and left her with signs of like-to-like.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna remains on the lip of the crater, feet firmly on its uneven edge, waiting with bated breath. The homo magi has withdrawn into herself, searching the depths of the lore handed down to her from generations of sorcerers.

Her father was famed for his style of sorcery, concentrating his hold on reality by manipulating language into its mirror form. In homage to him, Zatanna uses logomancy for the majority of her spells but holds other methods in reserve.

Will the invocation be heard? Will it be understood? Carefully, she frames and rehearses her plea.

Light blossoms around them, bathing them in Agamoto's occult light, manipulated by the Doctor's learned gestures. The blood on Jane's hands darkens in hue under the green light. Joined to the light, with awe written on her face, she witnesses Jane's aura expand unlike any mortal woman's she has met. A mystery unfolds before her eyes, a mystery stamped with scars and the glory of a star's birth.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Temporal scarring, psychic awareness, untethered souls. Yes, all is laid bare under the unflinching gaze of the Eye of Agamotto. Yet, Strange does not seem swayed in the least. Instead, his attention is focused on the green circle floating around his hand...and the careful remains of the mighty hammer below him. It was certainly touching that Jane took the time to assemble the pieces into a proxy of the hammer. Stephen intends to take it further.

With a twist of his hand, the emerald mystic construct takes on a bright hue. The turn continues, counter-clockwise, as would be expected, as the left hand focuses on the hammer. And those eyes of the Sorcerer Supreme? Closed shut. Sightless, but seeing, nonetheless, as he plays back the events around the hammer.

It is rather apparent that it is working. The pieces that were already in close proximity of each other shift and seem to solidify. But, that is not all. As Stephen continues his ministrations, rewinding the damage, bits and slivers of uru metal, missed from the astrophysicist's initial gathering, fly out from their hiding places between corpse and stone. These minute pieces of the elaborate puzzle fit into place, the once vaguely looking hammer-like pile becoming more and more sound.

The turning back of the clock seems to have a somewhat healing effect upon Jane's fingers as well, sealing the incisions caused by her meticulous nature and devotion to Mjolnir. Perhaps it is merely an after-effect, for if the pieces were never fractured, she would not have sustained the damage, regardless of how painless it was. Or, perhaps, it was Strange, offering his idea of an apology for having to trek down into the crater. Regardless, what was once bleeding is now whole and unblemished. What once was broken is now sound.

Both Jane, in regards to her fingers, and Mjolnir both.

Jane Foster has posed:
Factors outside a single person's control wheel within the confines of a plane awash in the darkest of magic and perfidy against life. Its sides heave, metaphorically bulging at the seams, when the sorcerers shape forces as potent in their way as gravity or electromagnetism. Laws rewritten by an evoked phrase or carefully calculated gestures shape the malleable clay of existence.

Mjolnir is but a hammer crafted by exceptionally talented hands, but an inert block of pristine uru for all that. An immense, terrible glow that accompanied the weapon in the instant before its demise in Malekith's ghostly black spell is absent. Lightning writhes through the blue-white Aesir trefoil, radiating across the knotwork bezels, filling out runes inscribed by Odin One-Eye's edict: Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.

Though Doctor Strange rendered the hammer whole, it holds no enchantment. For that, the logomancer plays an essential role.

For Jane, the matter is considerably more practical, staring at the restored weapon with a grim gleam in her sepia eyes and the discomfort of clamping her hand around her wrist.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Below Zatanna a small miracle takes place as time under the Doctor's direction and the Stone's magic reverses itself. Small clinks can be heard as the sundered pieces find the form they had been shaped into under the heat of a star. No hint of Malekith's darkness returns. The etched runes evoking the wielder's worthiness burn briefly with the star's light and then cool. The hammer with the beauty of a well-crafted instrument lies inert before them.

The magician had held her breath during its remaking. She refills her lungs with the greedy pleasure of someone who had stayed underwater too long, hearing her heart pound with apprehension at the task in front of her. Finding the shape of the magic that will reunite it with the spirit Malekith drove away. Her sapphire gaze moves from Stephen to Jane to whom she nods once.

Eyes closed, she stands with her palms turned upward in a gesture of humility.

Quietly at first, her voice gaining strength and resonance with every word she makes the invocation plainly, "Mjolnir, judge of those worthy to wield your power, I call you to rejoin the vessel of your spirit. I enjoin you to return in Thor's name. For Thor, you deemed worthy beyond all others, now lost to us. If you are willing, return to us here and now. We beseech your help. Help us restore Thor to his place among us with you as his willing companion."

An aura of light surrounds the magician as she speaks, waxing with every word, head tipped backward as the invocation wings into the aether.

Stephen Strange has posed:
It is only after the hammer is restored to its physical form does Stephen dare to open his eyes. Even as he opens those grey orbs, Stephen's hands, scarred from old injury, shift anew. The green hue fades as the talisman upon Stephen's neck reseals itself. The harsh truth of all things, laid bare before the unyielding gaze of Agamotto, is once again muted. Auras fade from sight and temporal demarcations disappear, returning all to what was once was.

The only exception? The vessel for the spirit of Mjolnir, the hammer itself...sitting complete under the watchful eye of Doctor Jane Foster.

As Zatanna begins her entreaty to the spirit, Stephen decides to take attention away from himself, descending down to join Jane in her vigil. He has done what he can, for the moment. Now, it is time for Zatanna to shine.

Jane Foster has posed:
The well has been poisoned. Hope reduced to ashes, the balance snuffed out by foul arts. What leaches through the dimension's poisoned soil stretches beyond these places, curling out to latch onto life's broad boughs and strong trunk. It grows stronger each day, feeding on keen absences and eyes averted elsewhere. Waiting for its opportunity, waiting to fulfil its hateful destiny.

Zatanna calls out and for a good many moments, stretching beyond ready count, they stand silent. Mjolnir is a dwarf-crafted mallet sitting inert in a crater, dimmed beneath the lost light of Agamotto when Stephen settles into the crater.

"Get down," she whispers to Strange, head tilted low and turned to the hammer. Her skin is bleached fair under the murderous garrote of a slim, unremarkable gold chain that wouldn't be more than $100 in a department store. Not even that.

The story of an ancient evil spreading out on black wings from the grave of a hero is not ready to be told.

The skies shake. A vicissitude of violence that can blow the atmospheres off suns and decimate nebulas at a distance does not come slow or quiet. Nothing about Mjolnir's animating force is small or quiet, confined not into the shape of a hammer or even a raven. Thunder rattles the very bedrock as the dragon bones explode from their heaped throne, and the night recoils as though stung.

The hammer's spirit is a being that chooses its shape in living lightning, slamming into the crater's rim an eighth of the way counterclockwise from Zatanna. Brilliant white and towering ten feet tall, a humanoid figure crowned in staccato crackles rises from a stooped three-point landing. No hair flip.

Fury. Wrath. The hammer clang of the forge and the boom of the coming storm rings in every breath. It doesn't speak, head tilted in a frisson of wild blue light.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The moments stretch too long but Zatanna remains. She stand palms empty, head tilted back, hoping the entreaty spoken by a mortal, far from pure, are worthy of Mjolnir's ears. Words sent from a broken plane of existence, sullied by death and Malekith's evil.

When Mjolnir arrives, a bolt riving the darkness, the homo magi's raven hair lifts in a halo of tresses around her head. She is blown sideways, stumbling gracelessly over the edge of the crater where she slides feet first down the slope. Payment, perhaps, for her well-intentioned past misdemeanors.

Like the others, she waits for Mjolnir to decide if it will resume its life as Thor's companion.

Stephen Strange has posed:
'Get Down.'

For the Sorcerer Supreme, that seemed almost silly. For Stephen Strange has stood before elder gods. He spoke with the Vishanti directly, though yes, with proper respect. He stood up to deities of death and even faced the Demogorge. To duck down seemed rather severe.

Then, Mjolnir arrived. And Strange understood the warning.

To his credit, Stephen remains standing. However, he is no fool, either. Stephen does take a step back..then another. Still close to Jane, should she need protection, but knowing full well she does not. If anything, it shall be Jane that protects the magi present.

Still...he stands at the ready. For what is uncertain. But, one thought comes through. Stephen certainly is hoping that they don't have to try forcing the issue.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The humanoid form is too bright to look at for more than a slit-eyed moment. Shading her eyes, Zatanna waits, heart trip hammering for the spirit to resume its life in the familiar form of the Hammer. Cold vessel of metal awaits it.

Dare she entreat it again? Surely her words and their need was clear.

She dares. In a whisper from her seat on the ground, "For Thor's sake, please help us, mighty one."

A clap of thunder strangles a scream from her. The hammer glows brightly, the metal ringing bell like from the peal of lightening. The runes glow with an inner light, lighting the crater like a lamp.

Scrambling to her feet, Zatanna reaches for Strange and Jane, grabbing their hands and pulling them into a dancing hug. "WE DID IT!"

Jane Foster has posed:
Three within the deep depression might await the outstretched arm to arbitrarily thrust its thumb skyward or teeter ever downward. No one has right to know what the Norns or Moirai wove for their fate until the moment arrives. Please, speaks the logomancer.

"There must always be Thor. The realms need the aid of a protector to guard it, and he has fallen," Jane murmurs.

She pulls the resisting bracelet from her wrist. Boiling gold comes free across her palms, sliding past Zatanna's fingers in a sting that hurts. Links melt into a coppery spearhead that flashes to strike into the lightning-girt mallet. Jane is slowly rendered incorporeal from the feet up. Her body sinks slightly into the ground, through it, descending according to the most ancient of orders writ by Death itself.

Mjolnir cannot dodge the Mother of Storms, though it catches the radiant strike. Searing flashes limn the remnants of the time cage fashioned by the Sorcerer Supreme joined in one last Hail Mary pass. Mjolnir starts to rise off the ground, inverted with the haft down, thick with the smell of ozone and emitting starlike bursts.

It swivels and veers in a broad arc for the heavens past Strange, almost clipping his scarlet cloak on a trajectory bound for the Sun. Past it.

Thunder rumbles and the atmosphere warbles like the intensely symphonies heard upon Saturn. Emission lines shrill and wail at the upper reaches of hearing as the incandescent hammer comes soaring straight back into a fading palm.

The leather and uru handle meets flesh, clasped by slim fingers. Mjolnir lifts her, hauling her to the crater wall and arcing around to the sorcerers. Almost triumphant in its way. Her feet touch the ground, the armoured woman standing before them.