19084/Power & Glory: Reach Out and Touch Faith (Turn 2)

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Power & Glory: Reach Out and Touch Faith (Turn 2)
Date of Scene: 12 October 2024
Location: Elsewhere - The Labyrinth
Synopsis: Shunted into the foul Labyrinth where the Temple of the Burning Pentecost conducts its bloodiest business, the X-Men, the Brotherhood, the Constantines, and Princess Amethyst confront the Deacon on the precipice of fueling his ascension with the suffering of Mutant souls and bodies-- and run headlong into the demonic puppetmaster responsible for arming his Purifiers, the foul-mouthed and firebreathing Violator. While they succeed in putting a stop to the ritual and toppling the Deacon, their meek pawn Phil Timper is swallowed by the powers unleashed by the holy man and the demon-- swallowed, consumed, and transfigured into something wonderful, terrible, and new.
Cast of Characters: Lorna Dane, Amy Winston, Emma Frost, Tabitha Smith, Victor Creed, Neena Thurman, Charles Xavier, John Constantine, Rachel Summers, Laura Kinney, Bishop, Meggan Puceanu




Lorna Dane has posed:
Gold and brass pipework sprawls up every wall of a vast subterranean dome, forming a gleaming lattice across the worked stone ceiling. A dizzying array of sighing valves and meticulously notched out mouths pock each pipe. Volatile snarls of Enochian and Infernal glyphs scrawled along their lengths glow and ebb in a languid rhythm, perfectly quantized to the beat of Creation. Trace any given pipe through the web long enough, and inevitably it terminates at the brass and bone wind chest dominating the chamber opposite its entrance. Every wailing, warbling note shuddering from those mouths tracks back to a trepidatious stroke from the small, blond man seated behind the keys. His short, freshly cut hair sweeps from the part neat part running along the right side of his head in a soft little wave. Dressed in his Sunday best - a thrifted, baby blue suit; a green tie; polished black shoes; and a pressed white shirt - Phil Timper focuses solely on playing the notes exactly as the Deacon taught him. He focuses on breathing, steadily; he focuses on not screwing up, on proving he's more than an anchor for transport rites, more than an anchor on his fellows who refuses to fight while they're cut down around him--

He focuses on the lash marks weeping blood through his blazer, pooling into a stain across most of his back.

Everything, anything other than the melding of flesh, spirit, and enchanted metal binding a body to each pipe: some are simply chained to pipework; others, grafted beyond even a hint of separation between it and them. Pipes grow through an unlucky few, crudely rearranging anatomy for a higher purpose. A chorus of tortured voices coils together, sending ripples through the world with each new measure. As long as he doesn't think very hard about it-- as long as he reminds himself that suffering feeds a higher purpose, whether it belongs to devilspawn he's conducting or him in their presence, the music plays on.

Golden fire vectoring between dimensions slices a vertical line through the air above the organ's core, and little by little--

    -- with each fresh note wrung from the chorus--

        -- it grows. It widens. It opens, sterilizing existence in its immediate proximity.
??
"Gotta hand it to ya, Deaky baby--"

Several yards behind Phil, a thick and well-greased hand smacks and seizes the Deacon's shoulder, prompting sharp and wary tension. Clutching a staff formed from interwoven gold branches and crowned with Heavenfire frozen in a scintillating sphere, he stares into increasingly sacred space through exhausted, bloodshot eyes. In better days, he and Phil were blond funhouse twins: unlike his meek parishoner, the Deacon stood solidly over six feet tall with a frame sculpted from solid stone; where Phil was most comfortable serving and supporting, happiest just to be there, to be positioned for righteous ends, the Deacon craved utmost Purity for himself, his flock-- the world, given time. Several days of stubble, several sleepless nights anticipating the loss of his last remaining congregants, and the requisite fast to ready him for the evening's activities were enough to shred the beatific facade that had allowed him to convince his Temple of the Burning Penecost to spiral into the bleak depths of holy enlightenment right alongside him.

Even as his steps grew increasingly bloody-- even as the congregation dwindled-- even as monsters shaped from the bodies of the faithful began rising among them, they followed him, utterly devoted to his vision.

"... I'm as shocked as YOU are: figured there was no way the boys upstairs'd be takin' calls after all that bullshit Mikey pulled a couple years back," when a host of angels led by the Archangel Michael invaded New York City as part of their overarching bid to scour and reset Creation.

And it was a lie.

Lorna Dane has posed:
He'd burned through worshippers by convincing them to drink poison and whip him, certain that their ecstatic furor would be enough to lift his voice to divine ears. Those who survived became butchers, because perhaps the key to the Burning Gate between Heaven and Earth could be ripped wet and beating from a wretched mutant husk: faith and suffering could bridge the gap between the physical and the supernal, he was told; all he needed to do was find the right balance, the right formulation--

"But hey, lookit you! Just poundin' away at that doorbell WORKED: gotcherself a gen-you-wine Star Hive meet'n greet, 'n' all it costcha was a couple'a gullible dipshits--"

Wordlessly, the Deacon rips himself from his loathsome tutor's violating touch with a growl and wheels around, only to find a maw of chipped, crooked teeth and solid red eyes flickering with sadistic joy grinning back at him.

"Heyyyy, EASY there, big fella!" the grease-painted Clown stinking of Hell, cheap cigar smoke, and expired milk cackles. "YOU my friend have still gotta DEFEND that there big ol' Burnin' Gate-- AND the little shit playin' it open!" The rotund goblin of a creature's half a foot smaller than the Deacon at a minimum, but as his grin opens out wider - as more, more, more teeth are gleefully bared - his presence quietly swells.

"Lucky fer you, you still gotcher ol' pal Mr. Grimaldi on yer side," he promises the Deacon.

Thundering violence rumbles through the chamber, sprinkling stone and rubble all around them. The stone doors shudder. An infernal grin meets anatomical limits and grows an inch wider anyway.

"They're comin' to seeeeee yooooo~ooooou...~"

Alarm bells erupt throughout the ritual space, filling it and the Labyrinth beyond with a brass cacophony.

=-=-=

Lorna Dane has posed:
Ripping a mixed force of Brotherhood, X-Men, and assorted sorcerers of profound power out of existence has consequences beyond the obvious:

Whether via transponder signals, tripped wards, or psychic disturbances, such a thing has a way of drawing attention.

And when every signal, every signature, every lingering impression points to a suppurating wound in the world where a farm once was-- when the walls are thin enough for anyone happening across the farm to see them regrouping in a sprawling stone antechamber as if peering through a gauzy veil:

Reinforcements are inevitable.

"I've only got the normal kind of fucked up senses," Polaris lowly exhales, knuckling at her forehead with one hand with her other palm turned out towards the heavy stone doors carved from the walls around them that stretch endlessly into the darkness above, "so whatever magic's in the air, I can't put a finger on it... but I DO know that the EM fields are all wrong in there." One solid blow of rippling magnetic force sent shudders through the doors, budging them forward. Breaking them down might be the easiest thing this assemblage of phenomenal power and talent does all night.

The antechamber's bigger than the farm they came from in every dimension. Bloodstains spatter its stone floors; every brick comprising the wall looks to have been hewn and set by hand.

"... EVERYTHING feels wrong in there..." she murmurs before unleashing another stone-rattling burst of emerald force. Afterwards, she takes a deep breath and peers around the group. The outrage merely simmering in her voice boils from her gaze, held in check by the thinnest margins.

"Whatever's on the other side, we protect each other; cover each other; fight for each other," the Queen of Genosha commands, green fire roiling in her eyes, "and we do it twice as hard for the Mutants these cultist fucks wanna turn into sacrificial meat-- am I clear?"

On the other side of the door, muffled by stone and distance:

A two-stroke gas motor roars to life.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy stands beside Polaris, her eyes focused on the bloodstained stone as the queen's words hang in the air. The oppressive wrongness weighs heavily, seeping through the walls, and the foul energy coils like a serpent around her senses. She feels it, too-a deep unease, a rot gnawing at the fabric of existence. Her magic stirs in response, instinctively reacting to the corruption, as if the very world itself is crying out for salvation.

Her hand hovers above the hilt of her Citrine blade, fingers twitching with the desire to act, to strike back at whatever twisted force lies ahead. She glances around at the others-the sorcerers, mutants, warriors-all poised for what comes next, all ready to face whatever nightmare awaits. Amy can sense the fear, the uncertainty, but also the resolve. It mirrors her own.

As Amy steps closer to the stone doors, her senses sharpen, catching the sickly hum of magic in the air. She pauses, eyes narrowing, as a wave of conflicting energy washes over her. The twisted aura of infernal power slithers beneath her skin, sharp and searing, yet interwoven with a faint, echoing resonance of something divine. The two forces clash and meld, creating a dissonant hum that reverberates through her body like a slow, sickening pulse.

She inhales sharply, her hand instinctively raising, fingertips brushing the air as she reaches out with her magic to better grasp the source of this terrible ritual. Her Citrine magic flares in response, casting a warm glow that pushes back against the darkness, but even its golden light seems to flicker under the weight of what she feels. The energies here are like those at the farm-cruel, bloody, and twisted-but more concentrated, more vicious.

Amy's face tightens, her eyes glowing brighter as the truth of the ritual unfolds in her mind. "Faith and suffering," she whispers, disgust lining her words. "They've twisted faith into a weapon, feeding off agony to attract divine attention." Her voice takes on a grim edge, the weight of the ritual's cruelty pressing down on her like a stone. "They're using blood magic-infernal and divine-woven together in the most vile way. They're trying to channel and capture divine power by breaking down barriers... forcing something through."

Her fingers curl into a fist, the pulse of her Citrine magic matching her rising fury. "This ritual... it's not just cruelty. It's deliberate, calculated suffering-designed to tear the very fabric between worlds." She glances to the others, her expression hardened, yet beneath the surface, there is a deep sorrow. "We need to stop this. Now."

"Twice as hard?" she echoes softly, almost to herself, before raising her voice to match Polaris'. "No, three times as hard." There's a fiery conviction in her words, her posture straightening as she steps closer to Lorna. "For everyone they've taken, for every life twisted by their hands, we'll bring down this whole damned structure if we have to."

Her eyes glow faintly with Citrine light, a shield of shimmering magic rippling in the air around her as she braces for what's to come. "We won't let them take anyone else." She turns her gaze to the heavy stone doors, her expression hardening. "We've faced worse, and we'll face this together."

With a regal nod to Lorna, her voice takes on a more regal tone, the royal command slipping through, "When those doors break, we move as one. We protect each other-no one falls today." She lifts her blade slightly, the hum of her magic resonating with the tension in the air. "Let them hear us coming."

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma Frost is there, over in her diamond form over and moves to cross her arms. "I'll be keeping us over in a mental link as possible, but I'm not sure it will last for long with what we'll be up against. Also I'd expect for them to have things which can disrupt technological comms." Then again, they probably weren'te xpecting the youngest Richards there. Who had her own tech no doubt. "If we rip off an arm I'll make sure to get it over to you." Emma would speak over to Valeria.

Emma was focused on analysis. Remembering how quick the PUrifiers could adapt, and how fast they could react to things. Making adjustments in her own thoughts and plans. "NO mercy and take them out quickly. If one isn't neutralized, then they'll get right back up again and back in the fight." She was rather sure that their suits included rather nasty things even if they were killed to keep them up and going on.

And she was expecting them to have countermeasures to magic. Even with the Lord and Lady Constantine, and the Princess of Gemworld. Even with multiple heavy hitters present, she was operating under the assumption that the Purifiers already ahd things on hand to make sure it was never that easy.

Always go in expecting the worst from your enemy and they'll almost never dissappoint. And wiht all the technology being thrown around these last few months.. From the Savage Land, from Stryfe, from space.. There would no doubt be some rather nasty new surprises present.

Emma waits for them to smash their way in. There was really no way a group this size was going to be unnoticed.

"So then, let's give them a warm welcome, darlings."

Tabitha Smith has posed:
It felt like an all hands kind of deal, especially when you have so many folks here. Even Tabby managed to turn up, though she had been on mission for a lot of everything.

Long blonde hair up in a ponytail and pink tinted wayfarers on her nose Tabby looks particularly grossed out by the mess they walked into. she's clearly going to hate when a bunch of that blood gets on her 'tennis dress' uniform. Dark Maroon minidress, long sleeves, a yellow stripe down the front from neck to hem with an X cut out of it. A red biker styled jacket and yellow boots finishing the outfit.

Looking at the door, Tabby grins, settling into the sort of stance anyone that's played a fighting game might recognize. Standing side on, cupping her hands together and energy crackles and sparks up before a glowing sphere of plasma. Some of her looser hairs standing on end while the glow of energy flashes in her eyes.

"So, wan't me to knock and let them know we're ready?" she asks with a rather manic grin on her features.

Victor Creed has posed:
Victor Creed is here for the singular purpose of killing Purifiers. Sabretooth will kill anyone and anything without compunction or hesitance. Purifiers, however, provide a singular satisfaction. Their hatred for him matched his hatred for them. They were a threat to him, so he had justice on his side, self-defense, practically makin' him a shiny white knight just like Jimmy Howlett and all his little pals.

And it just made them so sad and afraid. he was their worst nightmare, a killer mutant, the boogeyman incarnate.

Put a smile on Creed's face, watching 'em die. He was going to be happy tonight. Tonight would be hell for a lot of folks. Trauma city, PTSD ten miles deep, scars that don't ever heal. Tonight's gonna fuck a lot of these people up, bad guys and good guys alike, the ones that walked away.

Not Victor Creed. Tonight, Victor Creed was gonna have a god damn party. Tonight, Victor Creed got to indulge like a hog in slop, splattered in mud and knee deep in muck. He wore a long heavy coat but he knew it'd be shredded eventually. Last time they burned him, these Purifiers, these holy fuckers. Never could abide a preacher - although he'd pretended to be one, now and then, mostly back in the frontier days. Got you in a lot of front doors, no need to huff and puff like a big bad wolf.

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in," he mutters to himself, cracking his knuckles. The Queen's speechifyin' like she's gonna do. Xavier will probably flap the gums on his pink little mutie brain. Creed didn't pay 'em much mind. Generals are all the same. At least Lorna was easy on the eyes.

Creed's gleaming eyes narrow. He's ready. Time to rip and tear.

Neena Thurman has posed:
For Domino, this is the very sort of thing she had first signed up with the Brotherhood over. Not the rift-hopping hell-magic 'faith as a weapon' stuff, but people who decide the best path forward is to take it out on other mutants and generally make a giant unholy mess out of everything. She just never knew the extent of how far it could go or how much power could end up pushing back.

So she brought her own powerplant to boost something else unholy: A fellow mutant named Bill who powers a two person operated rifle which is currently resting across a shoulder apiece as Lorna gives her instructions and Amy triples down.

"Kick ass, don't take names" she summarizes while the downright unsettling energy of the area raises hairs at the nape of her neck. "Let's do this shit."

Charles Xavier has posed:
Charles Xavier does have senses far beyond mortals and mutants. His mutant brain is a direct conduit to the Astral Plane, the seat of all thought, all feeling. This is, in may ways, the great secret to Charles's much vaunted empathy.

Charles feels all of this. All of it. It is only through the power of his mind, his ability to seperate and store emotional feedback and control the pace at which he endures the sympathetic agony of everyone around him, that Xavier stays as close to sane as he is. It is a trial.

"Be aware." Xavier says with the same clear tone he uses when teaching classes. It's all education to him, in a way. "We are no longer fully within the realm of Earth. I can sense the corrosion between our reality and what is on the other side of the gate these people have built."

"We are in Hell's antechamber." Xavier says, activating his chair after a few quick repairs following the explosion. "If you do not have mental defenses, get close to me. My mind will filter the worst of the influence coming from the gate."

Otherwise, there's not much to say. Xavier presses on.

John Constantine has posed:
Unfortunately, at least for the first few moments on this side of ... whatever this mess is, John Constantine is just trying find the breath that'd been knocked out of him by the magical backlash of his actions. The backlash that landed him on this side of 'wrongness' in the first place.

Standing nearby Lorna and Amy, he's bent over, hands on his knees. With one hand he holds up a 'one moment' finger. Just give him a second. When he feels he can finally speak, he straightens. "Right then, all sorts of wrong," he rasps out as he fishes in his pocket for his pack of Silks. Even barely able to breathe, he still needs his 'comfort'. It's almost like a baby and his binky, really.

He closes his eyes - and not for the first time tonight - lets his 'other' senses wander. At first, however, it's not the situation he's letting them wander toward - it's something else he reaches out for.

It's barely even a whisper when it falls from his lips in the here and now. To Meggan Constantine, it'll sound like a shout. He's hurt and he knows it - and Meggan's the one person he will ever call to *directly* for help. Then, after he's put plea in, it's on to trying to getting a picture - not simply of the what's happening, but *how* it's happening. He's looking for the inside out of whatever ritual's being performed here and, perhaps, a way to turn it around - maybe even throw it back onto the wankers behind it.

Rachel Summers has posed:
Reinforcements are inevitable.

Rachel Summers is many things; shy is not one of them. Yet the fiery redhead is -uncharacteristically- quiet as she lays her sharp, green stare on those double doors that seem almost carved out of the stone and the shadow and the -hate- that permeates this place. It's palpable, the way it knots at the astral fabric of this place. One would think that Rachel, of all people, would have some sort of angry snarl on the situation locked and loaded.

But there's nothing. No commentary. No advice. She doesn't even lay into Lorna with acerbic wit abounds, as she seems so often prone towards, proving that something - truly - is amiss.

She just stands there, staring at those doors like she could burn right through them with the intensity of it alone, her hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

Rachel doesn't know a damn thing about the mystic part of the world; someone might argue that the mind and the astral plane might beg to differ, but to her, that's always been the most human experience of all. The mind. The heart. The emotions both beautiful and profane that can spill out of -anyone's- thoughts, no matter how good or depraved. It's the most real thing she knows in this often-confusing world.

But she does know hate, and the fruit of its hypocritical labors, and the degree to which this place -reeks- of it drags her thoughts back to much more familiar, and just as pleasant, time.

Rachel feels heat in her face, spreading from chin to cheeks to forehead in specific spots on her seemingly unblemished skin. Green eyes shut; dark red lips move as she quietly murmurs an unheard mantra beneath her breath.

Flames lick at the the short locks of her scarlet red hair, shuttered eyelids trembling. Green plains. Running water. A rock in the river. A rock in the river. A rock in the--

"Right," Rachel says finally, voice coming out in a thicker exhale than she means to. Fingerless-gloved hands finally relax, fractionally. "Got it."

The flames gutter out, and green eyes open, an ember of orange briefly igniting in their depths. And the hearth-warm impression of Rachel's voice echoes in their minds.

< Psi-link established. I'll try to support your mental shielding as much as I can, Professor. ... Let's just get this done. >

Laura Kinney has posed:
X-23 has followed her nose thus far. Trying to track the captives by scent. Striding through the Purifiers defences with claws bared, accompanied by the thunder of an automatic military shotgun she once used to kill angels. Which, now that she thinks about it, is a touch ironic given the situation.

Another empty drum of heavy slugs drops to the ground as she reloads. Switching in for water filled rounds. A type usually used to safely disarm explosives. Except this particular batch? She prepared them herself using stolen holy water.

Who steals holy water from a church you might wonder. Laura does. They can always bless more.

Will it help? She has no clue. But if they don't? Well that's what her claws are for.

She inhales deeply. Even if everything about this place tells her it's a /bad/ idea. Searching for tell-tale scent clues. Keen hearing listening out for incoming threats.

Her shoulders roll at the prospect of impending action. "I am disappointed if anyone fights with anything less than total commitment /all of the time/."

Her brow quirks a little. Maybe that's X-23 humour. Maybe she's serious. Who can say!

Bishop has posed:
Suffice to say, Bishop is...a little out of it. Attempting to absorb and channel the ancient magics associated with a world bigger, brighter, vaster, darker, in all ways more, then what he's normally grounded in? Well - that'll do it. When it comes to energy absorption, there's not much that can truly throw him for a loop. Certain quirks and limitations on his powers applicability and limits may keep him out of the vaunted 'Omega' designation when it comes to such matters but he makes due, very well, with what he's capable of. Powers wielded by individuals capable of leveling cities can find their focus fully embraced by the gift of his x-gene leaving him standing and ready for more.

This? This little stunt attempt to close the portal just about did him in. He lies crumpled on the stone floor, energy billowing and warping around him in oscillating multi-colored waves and he staggers, attempting to push himself back to his knees and regain his wits about him.

Even his voice is changed. It's naturally heavy deep tenor seeming to crackle with an intensity all its own, accompanied by some wafts of additional discharges of energy from both eyes and mouth as he attempts to speak to the others. "S--status. What....what happened?"

The brush of Rachel's psionic touch against his mind and the subtle absorption of psionic energy that is simply par for the course with him causes the large security officer to wince and grimace even further but he bears it and starts to finally stagger up towards his full height bit by bit.

"Hell's antechamber. Right.." he finally rumbles out, voice still crackling with that discharge of energy, "..I suppose that means our little stunt didn't go quite as planned..."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Just about every mystic knows trouble follows John Constantine like an ill wind. Guy's practically notorious for it, starting to approach the dubious depths of Alistair Crowley at this rate. Forget blindfolds, Lady Luck must have a personal vendetta and signed blood-pact with the three Fates for a guy like him to step in it so many times.

They have apparently taken the liberty of kicking a warlock when he's down to honour the remarkable occasion.

Silence is the worst retort. While Constantine regathers his breath and means to pull in a proper lungful, a small weight comes tumbling out of Allwhere and smacks him square in the ribcage.

Paws first collide and the soundless scrabble follows. A pitch black cat that could fit in someone's pocket peers pointedly at its new perch. Oblivious to the risk around it by all intents, it considers the untoward wreckage of farms and people as something so far beneath feline concern.

Tiny claws retract from the shell of the warlock's coat and shirt after kneading long enough to probably cut something. Bashful around Laura with her imrpessive set? Not so much, it's more necessary for balancing. Twin, bright eyes blink over at the diamond-shine of Emma because even felines aren't immune to covetous natures now and then. Starburst whiskers flick at the tension in the air.

X-Men, heavy-hitters, mystics, Gemqueens, assassins with big claws... and a feral kitten with little claws.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Hell's Antechamber.

"Listen to the Professor," Lorna exhales before filling her lungs deeply and raising her hands high.

<< Don't you DARE die, >> softly ripples between Princess Amethyst's ears. Emerald waves warble out from her palms in concentric pulses.

<< Thank you, >> warmly blooms in Rachel's psyche before proliferating outwards, touching each new mind joining the collective.

The doors shatter, buckling inwards. A chunk of stone careens into one of the pipes, denting it and releasing a young woman's raw, squealing wails unfiltered by the infernal machinery.

All Lorna sees before her world goes black is a crooked, filthy leer and a stone spike jutting from flesh, blood trickling down between red eyes. The Clown-turned-doorman's chainsaw doesn't rip through her, precisely: metal teeth spark off of her reflexive, protective field, robbing the weapon of some of its inertia--

But it rips her open, sending her stumbling backwards as she collapses with wide-eyes and both hands clamped over her belly.

"Hey there, kiddos!" he chortles, bounding from the doorway just as suddenly as his presence was revealed and landing a dozen yards away, perched atop one of the pipes. "Gladja decided ta c'mon down and see us-- we're already underway, but your timing's PERFECT!"

A white-gold wave of Heavenfire spirals forth from the Deacon's staff and races towards the entryway, looking to burn the interlopers away in a single terrible stroke. Clutching his weapon in both hand, the humbled cult leader bellows, "Sinners, fiends, spawn of Hell:"

Trembling, Phil strikes a cord on the organ and suffering billows from the pipework. The world around him vibrates madly for a beat; the gate above him parts half an inch wider.

"Your final day is at hand," the Deacon seethes.

"Howsabout you boys'n gals quit screwin' around and get in the pot?" the Clown chortles.

"The Burning Gate opens, and power everlasting is close at hand--!"

    "That means you're FUCKED."

        "The burning wrath of my Father empowers me to purge the wicked--!"

            "So hurry on up, get on your knees, and get to beggin': maybe I'll let one'a you live long enough to WATCH."

The moment the Heavenfire wave subsides, a stream of jet-black fireballs with sickly green cores explode throughout the chamber and antechamber alike, each one rocketing from the collar of the Clown's stained, body-hugging shirt to consume whoever's left.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma walks forwards, casually as everything goes to the Pit - rather literally as they teleport into hellfire itself. "That'st he trick, darlings. Not being early. Not being late. Always being on time. Now, let's go ahead and say one thing." Still in diamond form, stalking forwards. "Your time is up. I'm guessing that you enjoy pain. Receiving and inflicting it." Emma's not bothering to try psychic attacks on them - the others will be far more adept at that. Charles can cover mental defenses, the others can cover mental communication. The others can even carry out engaging the enemy in melee.

"I bet you even like fear and such. But, darlings.." Emma goes to project upon all of them.. Nothingness. Purposelessness. The feeling of being but a grain of sand in the universe. Completely insignificant and unimportnat. That nothing matters. Thta you are but an ant in the entire universe. Emma goes to draw upon all thsoe sensations when Galactus strode forwards.

That hand that went forwards and simply smashed a planet. That feeling from outside the solar system. That massive thing the size of a star. The feeling of someone that simply -was- for billions of years. Since before there was a concept of life. Of existence. Emma simply projects -unimportance- to them all. They are but nothing after all. Nothing they do matters. Not nihilism. Apathy. Just staring up into the cosmos and being but of one upon millions of worlds, of being so powerful and of such scale that even the stars themselves were snuffed out. Emma was there when Galactus consumed planets. Emma was there when the Surfer simply came to the world and announced it was ending and he was wandring it to see what it was before it was consumed. Emma was there when she read the helplessness, the desperation of the crowd. A telepath has a good memory. They have to.

A good ability to sort through things, to evaluate them, to project them. And Emma projects every single one of these carefully coallated feelings of nothingness, of complete unimportance in the galaxy.. From the perspective of one that is looking up at the World Devourer, the concept that simply consumes planets over billions of years.. And they are nothing. This little slice of hell means nothing.

And Emma Frost smiles.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
There's a smirk aimed at Laura briefly before Tabby resumes taking aim. "I'd be disappointed more if find out we could have half assed it and still won easily. But then, most of us here have SPECTACULAR asses!" she points out to the dark haired Feral.

Someone had her eyes on the prize.

Multiple prizes.

But it's time to actually work so when heavenfire of whatever the hell that blast is, Tabby lets her own rip as she plants her feet and shoves her hands forwards like she's lateral passing a football.

BOOM!

The blast flies forward in a hefty stream of superheated plasma. Wrists turn and twist and Boom-Boom works to psionically direct the stream to try and meet the fireballs in the air in a fiery looking trail. <<My blasts are way better looking!>> she beams over the mind link.

Mid flight the plasma stream starts turning from it's starting yellow towards a nice purple. Increasing the heat as it moves along the colour spectrum as a result.

Neena Thurman has posed:
The doors open and there's no time to prepare. Of all the events to take place first: Some fat clown dude with a chainsaw rips into Lorna. Black fireballs streak forward. There's some awful awful organ music. In short: Everything sucks.

Domino and Bill have no choice but to drop their two person cannon and split with the incoming fire. While Bill struggles to pull a classic M-14 rifle off of his back Dom is rolling across the ground then springing back up with a sidearm in each hand.

The clown is the first aggressor. Dom -likes- Polaris, dammit! Clown Dude takes the focus of her initial wave of fire, kicking and flipping off of the surrounding environment to keep herself in motion and dodge out of the way of those crazy black fireballs.

<<Polaris down! Drop that Clown!>>

Hey, that rhymed.

A little behind but not for lack of trying, Bill levels his bulkier .308 battle rifle at the source of that -infernal organ racket- because he knows the value of using music to motivate troops and he's not having any of this shit, thank you.

Charles Xavier has posed:
Huh, Xavier thinks, as he feels a vast and terrible mind in Constantine's pet cat. Not quite alien, but not quite human? Odd.

And then a tiny fat clown leaps out of nowhere and shoves a chainsaw into Lorna's gut.

"Lorna!" Xavier shouts, eyes wide, plans put violently on hold as one of his students has their guts ripped open. His first thought: a telekinetic barrier wrapped around Polaris's wound to keep as much blood inside of her body as possible. If only Erik were here, Charles thinks, he'd know some insane science trivia about magnets that'd heal her. Wait. Healing.

"Lorna. Erik, he's used his powers before. To heal his body. At least temporarily." Xavier activates his own mind, going back into memory, rant after rant. There's nothing the man loves more than describing what his powers are doing while standing on something that's on fire. "Magneto-responsive bio-composites, manipulating the blood flow and iron in the body to clot and seal wounds with terrible speed! Use your mutant power, Polaris!"

Xavier is legitimately terrified, but he's also Professor X. He can follow two trains of thought at once.

<<The key is Timper.>> Xavier's voice says on Rachel's mental network. <<He's the least zealous of the elite, working out of fear and nihilism having seen the wrath of the Silver Surfer and felt the end of the world. But I can feel the Meek's resentment, his trepedation. Grimaldi's played his hand too soon. If we can stop him-!>>

Victor Creed has posed:
"War never changes."

Hell or earth, Victor Creed has always been a soldier. The tactics never differ much. Start at range, firing whatever you got. Get in close and the wetwork begins. The fun part. That's the part where Sabretooth comes into play.

He goes low, almost on all fours, loping ahead. He uses a hand now and then along the ground, too, propelling himself with monstrous speed towards Hell's own maw.

"Might as well get used to it, boys. I'll be beatin' your asses just like this if ever I end up here," he grins.

Sabretooth had no doubt he was going to Hell. He just wasn't sure if he was ever gonna die. For real and for good. He thought he'd snuffed it a few times, but he always came back. Sometimes he thought that was his primary mutation. Survival. Today, maybe he'd put it to the test. This was gonna hurt and hurt bad. Didn't matter. Creed always gave as good as he got. Anything the did to him, he'd rip them back tenfold. Go for his eyes, he goes for your throat. You go for his neck, he takes your guts. Disproportionate violence as the key. Today, facing demons, they might challenge him, atrocity for atrocity. Creed wasn't afraid. Because he knew he'd survive.

John Constantine has posed:
<<Right then,>> John begins as he opens his eyes. For the most brief of moments, Hellfire dances just behind the blue of them. <<Don't know what it'll mean to you lot, probably nothing, but I know the *who* of all of this. Even know the wanker's name, Malebologna or summat like that.>> That seems important, but he doesn't actually the demon's *real* name. He's absolutely not going to invoke the name of the demon responsible for all of this when he's not yet ready.

*OOF!*

It's a good thing that's a tiny little kitty. It scrabbles, John lends a hand so that flesh doesn't wind up rendered when the little feline reaches his neck. "Evenin', luv, welcome to the party," he near purrs at the cat. Little too much affection in his tone there - someone must really like his pussyCAT. He reaches up to give her a rub between the ears, right where he knows she likes it.

<<Anyway, I know who these cunts are bowin' down too - the particular lapdog directly behind all of this, well he's nothing but a lil' pissant. But the master he follows is an actual Lord.>> Yes, of Hell.

He's really long winded for someone that just got the breath knocked out of him, isn't he? Of course mental walkie talkies only require thought.

But he's thinking quickly to get through it all and lay it out. <<If you lot can buy me some time, I may be able to summon Lord Cunt and bind him.>>

Why in the name of all that's Holy and Un would he want to summon the demon here? He may be half mad - but sometimes his mad plans are almost genius. <<If I can get to Lord Cunt - they'll see their master bound and cowed. Takin' the pissant out first may be the more direct route, but cutting the head off the snake means we're not playin' bloody whack-a-mole with this wanker's lapdogs in the future.>>

Then doors are busting open - all Hell's breaking loose, perhaps literally. He ducks and covers, taking care not to shake the pussycat loose. What is *that*.

<<See that? That's why I never wanted a bloody birthday party as a tot! I'm moving to plan B for now - going for the pissant. No, wait, Plan C! Pissant is the Pennywise wannabe, think you lot got that. Going for the portal hole to the Holy in the ceiling. Tryin' to close it. Keep them occupied.>> Please keep them occupied.

He can't help but to get a dig in at that Clown. "Hey mate, you can tell your Lord MaleBologna to sod right on off, ey?"

<<Spot on Chuck, it's the music that's keepin' things workin'. If you can't talk him down, get rid of that organ.>>

Rather than move into the fray, John actually backs out of it - he retreats to behind the safety of the front lines and studies the portal - mystically studies it - so he can get a better feel for what he might need to do to close it.

Bishop has posed:
That was fast. Too fast, as luck would have it. Bishop had hardly recovered what passes for his senses when all chaos suddenly breaks loose around him and the monsters of the hour fully make their presence known. Energy contrails around him as he spins, seeing Lorna take that opening salvo and then he turns again as Heavensfire begins to boil forth and rain down across the chamber and towards the gathered group.

Taking in -more- energy is not ideal right now. ..but neither is he going to allow anyone vulnerable to take any more fire or direct assault that he stands a chance of preventing.

So he multitasks. A surge of strength and speed sends him blurring into movement that would do a Super Soldier serum users proud as he attepts to close distance towards Lorna. <<Rachel! Telekinetically direct any bolts that Tabitha doesn't intercept into me! I can handle it!>>

As he moves, he brings a massive arm around, the absorbed dimensional energies racing through his body at his commands and instantly reconfiguring under his direction. Fire seems like a bad idea. They're supposedly in hell. Lightning and electricity may go wildly in various directions... An old fashioned blast of pure confussive force? That's always a good call.

An eruption of said forth comes blazing forth from an outstretched fist, lancing through the air in varying hues of reds like an old reliable optic blast from Slim Summers...further amplified in force by Bishop's gifts as he joins Amethyst in her assault on the organ.

Amy Winston has posed:
As the battle rages on, Amethyst feels the surge of dark, twisted magic crackling in the air. The clash of infernal and divine energies burns at her senses, a constant reminder of the grotesque ritual at hand. But amid the chaos, her heart skips a beat as she spots Lorna, crumpled against the cold stone floor, her vibrant green aura dimmed and flickering.

"Lorna!"

The sight of the Queen of Genosha lying still, her magnetic force crushed under the weight of this hellish place, breaks something in Amethyst. Her breath quickens, panic and rage bubbling to the surface. She feels the grip on her magic slip as raw emotion takes over, her connection to the Citrine magic trembling on the edge of control.

The air around her pulses with purplish energy, growing in intensity as the weight of her fury snaps the final threads of restraint. Her eyes blaze with uncontrolled power, and her voice rings out in a furious, wordless cry. The ground trembles beneath her feet, and the walls of the chamber tremble in response to the unleashed force.

A surge of blinding golden energy erupts from her, the light expanding in all directions like a tidal wave of destruction. The infernal glyphs crumble under the assault, stone shatters, as she attempts to oblierate the pipes feeding the blood magic ritual groan with an upheaval of the ground. The air hums with the aftershock of her wrath as the dark, oppressive energy is swallowed by her Citrine magic, leaving only smoldering wreckage in her wake.

Panting, Amethyst drops to her knees beside Lorna, her fury giving way to desperation as she places her hands over Lorna's still form. "Please, not you," she whispers, her voice trembling. The glow of her magic shifts from wild destruction to something softer, more precise. Citrine light begins to pulse from her hands, flowing into Lorna's body, searching for wounds, damage-anything that can be healed.

"Stay with me, Lorna. Stay with us," Amethyst mutters, her voice barely above a whisper as she pours every ounce of healing magic she can muster into her fallen friend. Her hands tremble, but her resolve does not waver as she works, weaving the magic with a delicate touch, willing Lorna's strength to return.

Her eyes, still glowing faintly, reflect both fear and fierce determination as she fights not just for Lorna, but for everyone caught in the twisted nightmare of this place.

Rachel Summers has posed:
Constantine's pet is... interesting. Rachel's angry reverie breaks for the briefest moment as she looks sidelong towards Meggan's feline form, brows lifting fractionally.

The doors strain; shatter. Rachel's attention returns--

And in that instant, the dystopian vagabond hears the raucous roar of churning chainsaw teeth and feels a disgusting sensation of hostility, like someone dragged violent intent through a grease trap.

Her eyes widen as her head snaps in Lorna's direction --

Only to see her taken down within a moment by a portly clown that looks like someone's twisted regurgitation of a serial killer. Rachel's eyes go wide as dinnerplates. The wave of Heavenfire rushes down, and it's only a reflexive barrier of telekinesis that saves her from roasting in its righteous wrath, the force buffeting her more than enough to -knock- her back into the nearby, stonewrought wall with such an ungodly impact it cracks the rocky edifice behind her and reverberates violent pressure in her mind.

"gnuh--" gasps out Rachel in a choked exhale, stopping herself from falling with the power of her mind. She hesitates there on the precipice as if unsure whether to help the fallen green-haired woman or pursue the mission.

But, as Xavier comes to the Genoshan Queen's aid, something cements in Rachel's thoughts. Move together. Give the enemy double what they get.

Her jaw steels, and her gaze narrows. The Deacon and the Clown's words are a distant hum at her thoughts, but she knows all the words by heart already.

Which is why her reaction is an immediate one, unfurling that telekinetic bubble around her until it unwinds into a broiling raptor's talon of psychokinetic force.

"No."

And Rachel's mind branches -out-, the swipe of that clawed extension of her mind seeking to -bat- some of those fireballs -straight- into Bishop to let him do what he does best with it.

"How about, instead, you go -fuck the entirety of yourselves-."

Her thoughts are still ringing. But she hears Xavier's thoughts intermingling with hers, loud and clear. She shakes her head, blinks away her anger to focus, -focus-, on --

< I feel him, Professor! I think... I think if we, if the both of us, reach out to him, maybe we can convince him... >

She wants, more than anything, to leave a bloody smear of wrath in her wake. But that isn't why she came here. She came here to make something different, something better.

So she tries to reach out, even as everything descends into chaos and insanity, to try to reach the mind of

< Phil Timper--? >

Because what is even the point of all this if she keeps walking the same, ugly roads?

Laura Kinney has posed:
A Clown? A /fucking Clown/?!

X-23 has been living in Gotham a while. Long enough to know you don't ask questions. You just attack. (And yes, she does know it's a different clown. But honestly it's better to better safe than sorry.)

Her weapon only has a relatively short range, those water capsules don't fly as far as typical shotgun ammunition, but her enhanced reactions have her finger pulling on the trigger before the door has even fully finished opening. Spraying the area with shot after shot. Against a Human, especially one in armour, it'll just be like getting punched a little. Against anything supernatural.... It's stolen holy water?

Possibly all it'll do is wash away some clown make-up. Alas monster hunting is more her half sisters deal.

The wave of Heavenfire and those fireballs sent after it have her burst into motion. Leaping and whirling, like a dancer on stage, inhuman reflexes and agility put to use making her as hard a target to hit as possible.

No sense testing her healing factor against unnatural fire.

Regular flamethrowers are bad enough. And honestly she's had more people try incinerate her over the last twelve months than most have in a lifetime.

Thankfully she's quick enough to cut bullets from the air. So unless the fireballs are huge or going really really quickly.. She /should/ be able to vault out of the way. At least dodging long enough to begin /advancing/. Her training was never intended for static defence of a position. No, she's trained to attack and attack. Until everything standing in her path is dead.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Fur can be a definite asset for blending into the surroundings or staying warm on a chilly autumn night when mists hang low to the earth. It's less ideal when some demented doorman opts to chuck noxious flame around the vicinity. The disgusting morass of flames bursting around them gives her reason to flatten her ears and squeeze tight to John's neck.

All the weaving and wobbling gives plenty of reason to hunker down to avoid being dislodged suddenly and sent tumbling through the front parlour of a hellish realm. Her rasping purr as John scritches between her ears at some point in the tumble hardly makes a sound even for her sensitive ears to pick up with all the other noise going on.

Sharp eyes swivel to the Clown as he disrobes enough to cause further chaos. Her whiskers flicker and she contemptuously yawns without really looking in his direction, pointedly ignoring the hell out of him while her claws knead and tug along John's sleeve to make sure he at least points in that direction at least once.

The fear and despair at Lorna falling isn't lost on her. A line of cordite ripples through and gives urgency to the already darker impulses a place like this instills in mortals. What's a cat to do about that?

<<Bologna dreads the Candlemaker and the Divorce-taker. They snatch souls and steal his roles.>> Piquant and high, the singsong thoughts run on a sibilant tide proportional to her tiny shape. She is carried along while being dragged together with the curse-stricken Constantine -- why else would he have a cat as his companion in this place? Bad luck everywhere you go.

Wherever he hunkers, she perches on him as oblivious as can be to *actual* danger. Her ears perk forward and her back arches, giving her a studiously Hallowe'en decoration shape. Tiny, delicate vibrations settle in with the mental plunge into the heart of captive terror for all the people and minds connected to the organ. She has been there, in a way. Captive. Terrified. Helpless. The brush of familiarity isn't speaking to their minds but their spirits, their hearts and their souls. Flinging slender strands to each and every one she can reach, for all she has to devour their sorrows and terrors.

Nightfall shrouds her and leaks down John's back to puddle on the ground. Her shape compacts, smaller, as though the crush force of too many psychic atmospheres would destroy a sin-eater. Her small nose presses to John's nape, and the arcane seals set down by Stephen Strange flex. Not shattering, but opening enough to let that surge shift. Autumn is the season of fear, but after taking terror in to the brim, what is left but courage and hope? So she pushes it into the voices in the organ, the mouthpieces for the terrible rite, a cyclical emotive current. As it does, her shadow lengths, no cat at all, but humanoid and tall and infernal.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"Oooh, baby--"

Somehow, the Clown finds another inch to add to his grin when Emma strolls in, glittering and commanding. The roaring chainsaw's tipped back to rest against his shoulder, where the teeth churn fruitlessly. Crooking a sausage-like finger and making kissy-faces, he beckons to her as, "I'm gonna enjoy every BIT of whatever you got cookin'-- just shovel it right into my mouth, sweetcheeks--!"

Demonstratively, he opens up wide, tongue wagging as he motorboats the air.

"Pain-- fear--!"

The latter's what hits him like a Mack truck, knocking him off of his perch with the sheer force of Emma's thoughts. The chainsaw bounces and skates across the ground while his body rolls the other way. He's dazed when he picks himself up-- dazed, and thus easy pickings for Creed, who rips a chunk right out of the Clown's face with his claws; and Laura, whose holy water ampoules hiss, spit, and smoke on contact with his body, which sizzles in response.

He's the lucky one: the Deacon's spine arches in agony as cosmic-scale terror crushes him to the ground. The scream he emits is blood-curdling, wrath and terror mingling into a gurgling harmony dwarfed by the organ.

Which squeals incessantly, incoherently once Phil collapses against the keys.

Black magic fireballs explode against plasma spheres and spray the room with flickering black flames. Wherever they land, they burn, heedless of fuel and hungry for flesh-- and as that prolonged note plays on, they grow. Slowly, but steadily-- they grow; already, there are several black, burning puddles on the ground and walls.

Domino, meanwhile, relies on sheer speed and good fortune to keep herself a step ahead of the midnight salvo, while Bill unleashes a fusillade that mostly ricochets from the pipes, but does succeed in punching a couple holes through the organ's central wind cabinet. This further distorts the incessant note, adding a distinctly gasping quality to it.

Elsewhere, Professor Xavier and Rachel Summers meet amongst the stars. A purple gauntlet larger than everything they've ever known clutches an alien world in its grip until it shatters, releasing a blinding flood of vital forces.

At their feet, Phil Timper trembles in the fetal position.

<< it's too much it's too much it's TOO MUCH save me help me god jesus save me i'm sorry save me--... >>

Whether he's receptive to their charms or not remains to be seen.

As John peers into the Burning Gate, the demonic blood pumping through his veins surges wildly, as if agitated by the mere presence of that holy slit in Creation. Its physical dimensions are relatively meager: it's only a bit taller than he is.

Metaphysically speaking, it may as well be a canyon stretched wide and waiting for him to tumble in: at first blush, the amount of power seemingly needed to seal it shut staggers the imagination. As above, so below-- and down here where mortals dwell, you can never get the worms back in same can once it's been opened. Just stopping the ritual is a crucial first step to figuring out what it'll take to reverse it: each passing second pulls the canyon wider, and the sustained chord Phil's unconscious face keeps striking adds a level of volatility to the whole thing-- as do the Amethyst blasts and ruby bolts raking across the gold and brass lattice, blowing pipes open and mixing soft, barely audible pleas through the notes.

"Y'know," reverberates through the room, a harsh and scratchy bass filtered down to bass frequencies that send tremors through mind, soul, and body. "Honestly--"

The sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing shouldn't be as clear, as loud as they are, briefly overriding the ceaseless din as the fallen Clown's jaw SNAPS wide open.

"'MaleBalogna'--? C'mon, Johnny--"

Lorna Dane has posed:
A spindly arm unfurls from his ruined maw, terminating long, clawed fingers; it snatches at Creed, large enough to envelop half of the apex predator's body-- strong enough to hurl him away like a ragdoll if feral reflexes don't carry him away quickly enough.

"It's 2024, boyo: you can't just SAY shit like that--!"

Another arm swipes towards John on its way out of the Clown's mouth, then its claws plant against the ground, flexing-- tensing--

"Think of the CHILDREN."

Twelve feet of Infernal horror vaults free from the Clown's mortal shell, a tangled nightmare of limbs and teeth with three great, curved horns framing a mouth that looks as if it could devour the whole world if it really, really tried. Crouched for a beat after its emergence, the demonic Violator sweeps its red, segmented eyes across the chamber and lands on the Deacon. "Hey, fuckhead--" rumbles from its maw as the blackest of magics spill from its fingers.

"GET UP."

The Deacon bolts upright with a gasp as demonic magic curls around his body. Faced with a roomful of mutant protectors, the demonic pipework he and his loathsome ally constructed, and the Violator dripping poison and sin from its tongue--

He clutches his staff close and swallows.

The ground rumbles beneath Bishop and begins to crumble while jets of magma shoot up through the cracks.

Snow-white incense pours from nowhere at all, enveloping Laura in sickly sweet smoke that burns and tears at her lungs, her eyes, her nostrils...

Ghostly, white-gold arms wielding burning, phantasmal blades manifest around Amethyst as she pours healing magic into Polaris' body. Her eyes snap open; a loud gasp bursts from her lungs and she spasms on the ground briefly, panting--

-- defenseless, as blade after blade converges towards them with every intention of running the two royals through.

"... now," Violator huffs, wheeling towards Emma-- looming over the White Queen, tongues of hellfire leaping from his mouth with each labored breath. "Where were we-- oh yeah--

"PAIN," is swallowed in the burning flood that issues from his mouth, hot enough to melt through diamond and scour the soul beneath.

All throughout the chamber, the sustained suffering played by Phil's unconscious body tapers down somewhat. Hints of relief trickle into the sighs gusting from the pipes; flickers of courage glimmer in the Astral landscape, standing out brilliantly amidst an otherwise fetid atmosphere.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy's hands tremble as they hover over Lorna, golden light spilling from her fingertips in desperate waves of healing magic. Her heart pounds, the roar of her own blood drowning out the noise of the battlefield. Everything narrows to the rhythm of Lorna's shallow breaths, the flicker of her aura beneath Amethyst's touch. She refuses to let her friend slip away.

Come on, come on...

Amid the chaos, the rush of steel slicing through the air comes too late to register-until it's already too close.

The world slows. She catches the glint of blades in the corner of her eye, but by then, there's no time to react. No time to summon a spell. No time to think.

Only instinct.

With a sharp gasp, Amy throws herself over Lorna, her body acting as a shield. The cold bite of steel drives through her back, tearing through flesh and muscle. Pain explodes through her body, but she doesn't cry out. There's only the fierce, protective need coursing through her, louder than the agony. Her arms still cradle Lorna, as if holding her could protect her from the world.

I won't let you take her.

With a desperate push, Amy grits her teeth, blood trickling from her lips and dripping on Lorna as she crushes an amethyst in her palm. The stone shatters with a sharp crack, releasing a surge of power. Amethyst light flares, forming a shimmering barrier of raw energy, a radiant shield between Lorna beneath her, and her on top of the shield, open to the oncoming blades.

The pressure of the swords against the barrier mounts, the magic crackling under the strain, but it holds. Amy sags slightly, still protecting Lorna with her body, her own blood seeping into the ground beneath them.

"You're safe," she whispers through gritted teeth, feeling the searing pain course through her veins. "I've got you... I won't let them... take you."

Her vision blurs, darkness creeping at the edges, but she holds on. Holds on to Lorna. Holds on to the shield, even as her strength fades. The only thing that matters now is keeping Lorna safe. No matter what.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
"You guys should see the craters I left in Hades." Boom-Boom taunts loudly at the bad guys as she plays missile command with the opposing fireballs flying at the air.

With people trying to get Lorna awake, even Tabitha is worried. <<C'Mon Lorna, you're gonna end up with a line of people wanting to try and kiss Sleeping Beauty awake if you keep this up! And that should be reserved for the after party. Not mid fight!>>

The stream of plasma she keeps sending out gets directed to hit anything sent by the forces of dimly lit areas.

Arms sway and seemingly flail while she looks almost like she's dancing of or doing a kata to direct the blasts like the love child of a flamethrower and a tank cannon.

With the glowing plasma held in her fists it probably looks more like Tabby is cheerleading.

<<Give the guy a psychic nutshot, and or a brown note. It's what I'd do.>> she suggests while she lets the stream fly at the Violator. And that way too big, and open mouth of his.

Victor Creed has posed:
Victor Creed isn't afraid. But he isn't stupid either. Everybody rushes forward to try to defend Lorna, to save the day. Look, it's the god damn devil, let's charge in and kill it. Hey, he's all for it, that's what he's been doing all day.

Except he didn't know the demons were gonna be that big and nasty. One of those survival traits inherent in Victor Creed is a keen sense of when to cut bait. Not that he's going to flee. He's having plenty of fun tossing around lower level demon spawn and cult trash. He's going to stay busy, plenty busy.

Just not at the center of all the action. So sorry, Queenie and all the other buddies and pals. Ol' Sabretooth, well, he just got caught up in everything. My stupid animal brain, goes all feral sometimes. Can't really help it. It ain't that I'm leavin' you to save your own ass, cause I ain't gonna risk mine.

Really. Promise.

Bishop has posed:
<<Thank you.>>

Bishop's resonant voice carries across the mind link towards Rachel along with the empathic pulse of his gratitude as the bolts of holy flame are swerved towards him and away from any potential victims among the more vulnerable of his comrades. The bolts sink in, rippling across his broad frame in tendrils of golden fire that rapidly refill his his internal mutant battery and send his eyes shining with the brilliance of sunlight. His hands slipd own against his sides, retrieving both of his X.S.E. blasters from their holsters and the gained energy begins to rush into them, super charging the futuristic firearms as the security enforcer cross the distance to act as a proper defense for Lorna and those gathered around her.

Then: Violator. Bishop's blazing eyes widen, becoming nearly saucer like at the sight of the emergent demon. He opens his mouth to speak - only to find his footing being rent up from beneath him as Deacon's staff touches against the stone of the hell filled chamber. Magma boils up. Surges towards him. Absorbing raw flame, plasma..sure..that's one thing. Molten rock crashing into him? That would be a no.

But the massive boost he had from his initial entanglement with the portal is still remaining coupled with Rachel's gifts. His powers surge and his physical capabilities swell. He presses forward, lunging into a blurring leap towards one of the sundering blocks of stone as the magma rages upwards and then from there he rebounds, vaulting forward like a javeline being hurtled by Colossus himself.

He spins, mid leap, attempting to not only clear the sudden obstacle course but to also lay out a volley of energized concussive blasts from his firearms towards Deacon and if he's really lucky - he might also slam into Emma herself to knock them both away from the burning torment.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Well, fuck. Bullets didn't work and now the clown just turned into something far bigger, far stronger, and marginally better looking. But this is always how it goes, isn't it? You put the big nasty dudes at the front line to run interference while other, often far more critical matters, happen elsewhere. Domino could take more potshots and waste her time and resources on the Violator, or she could look for a better means of applying what she can bring to the party. Let the heavies deal with the heavi--hey where the fuck is Sabretooth going?

"Typical."

Frontal assaults aren't Domino's strongest point, she's best when she drops an unexpected sucker-punch. This requires finding something to punch. The Deacon just got brought back from a far more devastating hit. What to do when guns and explosives don't cut it?

Play a fucking organ, that's what.

With absolutely no skills behind the keys of a pipe organ or any instrument at all she's just going to go crazy on the damn thing. Because for fuck's sake, there's magic and portals and black fire and shapeshifting clowns and she is -seriously out of her fucking league- so she's going to roll the dice and play the fucking pipe organ.

Move the hell over, Phil. This number's from Lady Luck.

Charles Xavier has posed:
Well at least someone's really upset. Xavier looks at this strange violet energy woman having a real one over Polaris for a moment and decides that he'll take what he can get. Someone guarding Lorna means that he can put more focus on reaching out to Phil.

Who passed out in terror. Great. And then.

Charles Xavier has seen a lot of horror in his life. There's a list, it's not great. The hideous image of Galactus-the Devourer! Loose on Earth!-is bad enough, battering Xavier's psychic defenses, the fear almost certainly enhanced by the manipulated psychic circuit ripping hell open itself. And then there's Violator.

It's enough to make Xavier believe in those old stern lectures from the family reverend. Xavier has dismissed demons as balls of bad thoughts stuck together poorly and it's true, which doesn't help his psychic defenses any to be totally honest.

But he's got to do something. He's Professor X. Rallying his forces, glad that no one's shot a Heavenfire blast at his very clear target quite yet, Xavier reaches out.

And in the Astral Plane, a man sits down by Phil Timper. "Hello." Xavier says, looking up at the giant purple gauntlet crushing the earth. "A vivid image, Phillip. Your powers are serving you well. My name, son, is Professor X. A friend of mine is coming with me. I think."

There's a flash of fire, as an image of the Violator triumphant works its way into this temple of fear. "I think you are just about ready to surprise us all, Phillip." Xavier says. "There's a right thing to do here, you know."

John Constantine has posed:
It's true, John can be single minded and laser focused to a fault once he decides on a task. Is there anyone else that knows him as well as the little cat that currently has his back? Unlikely. But then, who but the daughter of the world could handle knowing John Constantine better than he knows himself?

Yes, right, clown. It's there, he saw it - for the first time he sees Lorna fallen. Hands clench to fists - blunt nails drawing blood from scarred palms. His anger very nearly draws him off task. Hellfire dances again behind the blue of his eyes. Mystical energy born of rage crackles around him for any that might be sensitive to such.

He's very nearly drawn off task.

One breath - inhale, exhale. They're trying to bring down the corrupted power of Heaven and John Constantine could certainly rain down the power of Hell all over their parade - or at least the one that bloody Clown is marching in. But he knows to do so might drain him of what he needs to complete the *task*, to accomplish his end goal. Vengeance born of emotion will have to wait for another time.

His single mindedness returns, the clamor of the battle around him fades into mere muffled whispers in the distance. Perhaps *this* is why he called Meggan to his side. With her he knows he can focus completely. She would destroy Heaven and wrest Hell to keep him safe - even if she had to do so with nothing more than tiny claws, pointed teeth and mews.

From his position behind the formidable wall of the front line, John turns to face the portal.

He raises his hands and begins drawing intricate patterns in the air - visible only to those able to see the power poured into them. One, then another and another - all overlapping and adding to the one before.
"Claude hunc fontem divinae potestatis, redde ei quod iam ablatum est." - Close this source of divine power, return to it what?s already been taken - it always sounds so much more complicated in Latin, dunnit? The words, murmured quietly, are repeated upon completion of each layer.

...but there's something about being swatted aside like a fly that really takes a person off task.

John goes flying from that strike, and along with him, the kitty on his shoulder. He hits the far wall with a barely audible *thud* and a much more audible *crack* when his head bounces off it.

He slumps to the ground - stunned. Give him a minute, or at least a beat. His eyes struggle open - brains still inside the pan, check. He doesn't groan - there's no time for it. He doesn't take more time to dwell on his pain - there's no time for it. He might stumble a little when he pushes himself back to his feet - but he finds solid ground quickly enough - because there's no time to do otherwise.

His first thought - "Meg!?" Even when the mother of your child is one of the most powerful beings you've ever met? The worry's still there. He turns to face what used to be a deformed circus sideshow.

John Constantine isn't a mystical gunslinger - or he'd have the masses believe. But tossing around pure energy, be it fire, water, air, just *energy* is actually well within his wheelhouse, particularly when he's *pissed*. For reasons obvious - fire is his typical go to. The violent thrust of his hands forward is really just for show - he could do the same with barely a flick of his wrist - he does, after all, have to make it *look* like it's not that easy. If he had the time, he might invoke the names of the Candlemaker and the Divorce-taker. Maybe later. But for now, it's fried Violator on the menu.

What he unleashes isn't a simple fountain of Hellfire - it's an absolute deluge. Behind his wall of flame, he advances. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, raising his voice over the roar of his own flames. "I've made trinkets with the tanned skin of greater than you!" It just keeps coming, that rage fueled flood of fire. His kitty could have been squished. Someone's done gone and pissed off the Hellblazer. Fire that only danced behind the blues of his eyes, now leaps

John Constantine has posed:
Someone's done gone and pissed off the Hellblazer. Fire that only danced behind the blues of his eyes, now leaps to the fore - covering blue completely. How long can he truly keep this up? It's hard to say. Even as he presses closer and closer he sends out <<NOW!>> to anyone that might be listening and able - now is the time to go full metal jacket on this cunt. "You think you're something - when all you know is to bow down to a *master*!" Closer, the fires getting hotter.

Laura Kinney has posed:
X-23 inhales deeply of the searing white smoke. Not because she wants her lungs filling with fire, but because that much motion needs a constant intake of air. Pain floods her system as she's scorched inside. Her eyes close. Her other senses so keen and the shotgun such a short ranged weapon that you'd barely notice a change in her accuracy.

A normal person would drop screaming in torment.

A normal person would likely die from shock never mind the damage it's doing to her insides.

Laura Kinney is /not/ normal.

Raised in a lab where every form of pain and torment imaginable was attempted. Acid, fire, chemicals, drugs, explosives, and more. The sensation of pain is an old, if unwelcome, companion to her. Burning from the inside out? It's like making her own recipe of hot sauce. Except this white incense? It tastes like shit.

And it's making her well and truly angry.

When the drum of holy water rounds runs dry she slings the gun out of the way. The claws not already revealed popping out with a SNIKT sound.

Blades extended from hands and feet. Snarling a feral smile as blood pours from her eyes, nose, and mouth. She launches herself forward with utter disregard for her own safety.

The funny thing about a healing factor. It can keep you going even in the most dire of situations. Even when you're drowning on your own blood... But that doesn't matter if she can sink her claws into whatever is responsible. And rip, cut, and tear it to /pieces/.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma might not have met Lucifer Morningstar, but she has stared far worse things in the eyes than the demonic clown. "How droll. For all this buildup, I was expecting something not so.. Trite." She would wave a hand dismissively as she would turn to organic diamond. Well aware that she was not capable of actually resisting an attack from it. "I'm not sure if this is supposed to be entertaining or an attempt at being terrifying or intimidating. You look like something from a children's special. You can't even claim to have particularly foul breath. And your name sounds like something an edgy teenager would take online to try and showcase how hardcore they are. I was expecting more for all the buildup. This is rather much a waste."

Being diamond has advantages and disadvantages. It removes emotions. Removes fear. It means Emma can unleash her barbed tongue and keep the beast's attention on her while the others go to lash out at it. "And what is this commentary? Even mroe drivel? Have you ever done something that doesn't make you sound like an ingominous cretin? I've seen theatre critics give out harder lashings than this and seen children's school productions with more tears behind them. You?" Emma Frost's soulless eyes would gaze up at the many teethed monster.

"You just seem like something so pathetically wretched one is almost tempted to feel sorry for you. I'd almost presume you were toying with us for all this but that would require me to give you any sort of credit and fear at all. You're just really, really bad at this and it shows. Now, darling, I know you're doing your best and it's really difficult to stand out in a world of the wretched and damned.. But I expected something a little more nuanced than a children's comedy." Pacing out where teh blasts, the other attacks from the rest are beating over Violator, even as he towers over her and readies his own hellfire..

And then Emma goes to do something that's rather different than her usual repetoire as the fire blasts out and lances along towards her. She goes to brace her feet over on the ground as Violator lashes down at her.. And she jumps. She jumps high and jumps hard. Going over into a triple sommersault that has her twisting through the air, looping through it and gaining speed and momentum.. And then she's going to launch on down with a flying kick that would have diamond edged stilettos aimed for one of those giant what passed for eyeballs with the eldritch clownbomination. No, it likely wouldn't hurt the thing at all. It wouldn't impede it - demons most definitely did not have the same physiology as humanoids, and it clearly did not have to use eyes to see. It probably wouldn't even be phased over by whatever she was going to do on it. But it would -still- look rather embarrassing. And she was presuming that this demon had an ego in it's profane insanity.

Emma Frost has posed:
And her effectively going to try and drop kick it in the eyeball would probably hopefully at least serve that purpose. All she could do was less keep the thing hurt and more ever so peripherally distracted. Telepathy wouldn't work on it, the others were focused over on the weak point in the thing's corrupted minions, others were attacking it directly..

What she could do was serve as a distraction. ANd so she went to keep up with it. Even as she goes to hopefully land and stomp down -hard- over with her stilettos, she's going to once more use it as a springboard to launch herself up and over into the air, hopefully before the thing could try and grapple her. Her impact also hopefully brief enough that the lcown couldn't do something like make it's frame goo-like to absorb her, or make spikes snap out with enough strength to snap her limbs like twigs. Presuming she can, Emma Frost is going to leap and twist through the air, goign to land over in a general area to the side of the thing if at all possible.

Emma certainly has never displayed a major affinity or awareness for gymnastics or this sort of acrobatics. But the joys of telepathy and absorption. Sitting in a room in a student library over finals week, smiply extending her mind out and taking in everything around.

Rachel Summers has posed:
< Anytime. Just try to make sure they don't goomba stomp me and the Professor. ... I want to try something. >

This is the last thought that Rachel can spare Bishop -- or anyone else in this particular segment of reality. Within seconds, the corporeal horrors of what they're all facing bleeds away as she reaches outward toward the unconscious mind of Phil Timper, and everything

    bleeds

        away

            into  n o t h i n g .

And Rachel Summers steps out into the vast cosmos with blinking, ember-glowing eyes.

Reinforcements are inevitable. That desperate hope, that cavalry will come.

For some reason, it's at the forefront of Rachel's mind as she steps into astral reality just seconds behind the Professor to see something greater than her - than him - than ANY of them do what cosmic nature has demanded HE do before time's first second ticked over to the next.

She thinks about it. About the inevitability. About the futility of hope if this great hand is at the end of any journey. She feels Xavier's fear, and it's her fear in that same moment, too -- echoed and redoubled in a flinching, panicked moment that makes a flood of memories rush to the forefront of her mind. Her mother's smile -- her father reading her his favorite Dickens novel --

-- the Professor telling her everything would be alright as a faceless silhouette pushed the barrel of a gun to the back of his head--

-- she pushes past it. It terrifies her. But she tries to find strength in -this- Professor just as much as she tries to give him strength in turn, to try to bolster -both- their defenses against that image. Because isn't that the way of things?

When you're weak, you lean on someone. And you offer your shoulder in the same turn.

"Hey -- hey."

Within the Astral Plane, Rachel Summers is a being of pure fire encased in a bodysuit of spiked, inky reds and blacks. Her face is a blinding star, hair licking off of her like solar flares as she turns crackling, orange-white eyes on the fetal Timper. Her expression softens. She tries to find the words.

"It's okay. It's okay, y'know? To be scared."

... And once more, it's Xavier that helps her find her own voice when she feels there's nothing she can say, or do.

The concealing illumination of Rachel's astral form begins to dim, and as it does, what it was hiding becomes clearer and clearer: a series of eight, ugly slashmarks that practically burn their eternal presence around her features, so black as pitch in this astral environment they seem to gobble the surrounding warmth and light around them.

"I'm scared of the future, too. All the time. Of all the terrible things that might happen. Of all the terrible things that ARE happening. Things I can't possibly predict or prevent all on my own. I'm so scared that everything I might be doing is for nothing."

As the Hound's Marks reveal themselves, they come with flashes, impressions, of the terrible lives Rachel Summers has lived -- the hollowed out and hopeless futures she has borne witness to personally. Of Earths that were not crushed within the momentous palm of a force of cosmic inevitability, but simply... guttered out in the ashen pits of their own hatred and violence in a sad, bloody whimper.

She shows these things because she can't help it; she tempers them into impressions so she does not overwhelm him. So he knows, without suffocating his mind with the overwhelming reality of it:

"So it's... okay. It's okay to be afraid. We all are."

Rachel Summers has posed:
He is not alone.

"But someone very important once told me this: the difference between owning your fear and being owned by it is... it's... it's whether you let all that fear make you run towards something even more evil just so you can feel safe."

She crouches next to Phil, in a sea of thought-formed stars, in a backdrop of impossible hopelessness. And as Xavier encourages the man...

"The Professor's right. It's okay to be afraid. It's going to be okay. All you have to do is the thing you know in your heart you should do."

... she offers her hand.

"You don't have to let it rule you anymore."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The ineffable world is more beautiful and complex than any one being can truly comprehend. Through smoke and fiery attacks ransacking every corner, how hard for the little cat not to be dazzled. The organ's victims suffer immensely and still retain their individuality, small and radiant sparks sheltered against the cacophonous horrors spilling around. Even swallowed by their torments, Meggan holds some sense of awe in the reserved, distant shoal where her self floats above the crushing emotional bombardment.

Attuned to the constellation of diamond-chip beings around her, brave humans and fierce mutants and resilient mystics, the little cat settles upon the sole emotional focus she can. A chord resonates, plucked once, the feeling clear and pristine in the wild chaos. Believe!

Until that becomes an actual bombardment of fire aimed at her back. The small feline curls up in a protective crescent against the battered collar of John's coat, her tail wrapping around his neck and safeguarding the knotted tie usually adorning one of his shirts. Silken soot noose doesn't hinder his speaking voice or breathing -- more's the pity Lady Luck and a good number of devils would say.

John avoids certain burns from caustic infernal energies that ripple and bleed off her strange black fur becoming more like manifested, phased shadows. No energy born on the electromagnetic spectrum enmeshes her as the genetic conundrum keeps twisting her form around, fed by the feelings and emotions of everyone around her.

Something approaches quickly, too quickly, by the Violator bursting out of a demonic guise, goblin remnants sloughed off to reveal something larger and considerably more hideous. The low, sussurating hiss ripped from the bellows of her lungs has no translation except the personified warning that all the tormented people in the organ that Domino's now banging on would probably like to shout and snarl. Anger is white-hot smoke in the lungs and cool, faceted dismissal.

She's sent flying when Constantine is knocked aside and down, her only advantage that boneless grace to twist around like cats do. Momentum sends her crashing into the floor with a crack, bouncing up and ragdolled against said wall hard enough for its very stone to reverberate in guilt. The damage is done.

The stygian feline crescent moon lies there limp and unmoving, a slant homage to Khonshu. But then, the moon-mad patron of travellers across night-veiled deserts against the demons stalking the dunes. Hellfire dances across the empty black eyes.

Hell is suffering and torment, punishment from a judgy old bastard who just can't let mistakes go.

Thought shifts and falls in on itself, a silent metamorphosis unworthy of comment. An oceanic psychic inversion subsumes the untethered soul. Unspeakable metaphysical gravity builds behind the web of hellfire when the plane drives a hateful spear into her side.

A single black candle-flame forms in front of the Violator's face. Green mist laps around it in a casual, teasing swirl, hinting at a taper candle about twelve inches long and inscribed by eldritch runes. Infernal runes.

The flame is not fire at all.

It's the anti-energy from the beginning of creation, fit to make angels swear and demons pray.

And it is in a *mood*.

Lorna Dane has posed:
And while Phil's body is annihilated instantly, his mind-- his soul--

<< aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH--! >>

-- not only do they burn in Astral space, they burn bright-- they burn HOT.

And they grow moreso as Phil's Astral self slowly melts away.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"amy--"

Hot blood spatters Polaris' chest and neck.

"-- Amy--?!"

You're safe... I've got you... I won't let them...

"AMY!"

One scream begets dozens: metal screeches and squeals throughout the room as pipes twist, rupture, and hurtle from their moorings seemingly at random, unleashing more and more unworked, unfiltered, unprocessed suffering courtesy of their living reeds. Several gleaming lengths of gold and brass skewer through Violator; others are repelled by gold-white protective flames coursing around the Deacon or careen through his summoned swords, landing within feet of the two royals. Others still embed themselves in the walls or wind up lodged in the organ itself--

... magneto-responive bio-composites, manipulating the blood flow and iron in his body...

Wide-eyed and shuddering with incandescent rage, Lorna latches onto the only coherent thought left in her rapidly narrowing thoughts just in time to stop herself from wrenching a pipe running through one unfortunate victim's chest away from the wall. Electromagnetic light flows from her body to Amethyst's when she throws her arm around the impetuous Princess, fingers trembling as they dig into her back. Lorna's eyes squeeze shut; bit by bit, the world around her falls away as the whole of her mutant senses turn towards seeking vital traces of iron like needles in a red sea and clotting the Princess' wounds.

Unlike Polaris and Princess Amethyst, the blood dribbling from Violator's new wounds sizzles through stonework on contact. Also unlike them:

"What'd that cuck do about it," the towering demon snorts at Boom-Boom, wrapping his fingers around a pipe running all the way through his gun and PULLING, "Cry while his ol' lady rolled over for every Adonis, Alexander'n Nikolai who looked at her right?" Superheated plasma lands right in his mouth, coalescing into a thrumming ball for a split-second before detonating, snapping his head back and filling that gaping maw with smoke. Clamping his jaw shut with gurgling rumble, Violator throws his spindly bulk and inhuman speed into swatting at Tabby with that pipe, intent on knocking her far away from him.

"Christ-- little bitch--!" he spits out.

And then he clocks John uncorking a taste of home. "Whoops-- sorry, Johnny! Little-- self-possessed, independent womyn-with-a-y--" The wink of a segmented eye greets the Hellblazer's wrath-- the one still bleeding around Emma's embedded stiletto.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"Gotta be PC, y'know."

A deluge of Hellfire washes over the eldest of the Phlebiac Brothers, swallowing him whole.

"Violator's for the children, after all," he cackles amidst the roar of infernal flame, marching into the blaze-- drinking it in. Reveling in it as it turns the pipes skewering his body into molten metal.

"That's why I'm not gonna get into what I'm gonna do with that pretty little kitty'a yours after you're spent-- it'd be RUDE, an' if there's one thing I AIN'T," the demon snarls, pain trickling into the edges of his voice, "it's RUDE."

And if there's another thing he ain't, it's 'good at paying attention while bathing in Hellfire': driven by honed human cunning and atavistic, predatory instincts, Laura blindly works the margins of the walking bonfire that is Violator, hacking at protruding limbs each time they flail far enough from the fire for Laura to close in without feeling too much heat against her skin. Losing three fingers outright to one of her claws earns a wordless, pained howl from the demon, who breaks from walking down Constantine in favor of trying to lash out Laura and missing by a mile. Another arm abruptly juts from his back, arcs high over his head then slams down palm-first, trying to crush the lethal little Mutant into the stone floor. A fourth erupts from his belly, fingers already curled into arcane symbols; as soon as it thrusts from the Hellfire bath, Creed and Emma are both beset by earthen spikes bursting from the ground, intent on either running them through or crowding them out; between the spikes and the gradually spreading pools of black fire, safe footing is slowly but surely becoming a premium.

X.S.E. blaster rounds splash off of the Deacon's Heavenfire barrier, each one making it quiver and flicker, buckling it even as it swallows the bolts into itself until finally--

"-- hhk--"

-- it collapses, allowing the next bolt to strike home, landing in his gut, dropping him to his knees--

-- signaling the presence of a target with no fiery obstacles for the blind fury of X-23 to hunt down.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Elsewhere, big, blue eyes slowly lift and shift between Rachel and the Professor's astral forms. One of them insists that there's a right thing to do, a right way to handle all of... THIS... ... ...

... and the other promises that he's not alone. Not in fearing the Devourer, nor the myriad other nameless terrors lurking in the world--

<< ... I just... >>

More than anything, it's failing - letting down the friends he's made, but ESPECIALLY himself - that terrifies him. Phil spent the first half of his life making the world worse, flitting in and out of cells and robbing anyone who looked weak enough to feed his hungers. Finding religion changed him, washed him clean-- and finding the Deacon was his opportunity to take the next step towards salvation. To show how very serious he was about living right.

<< ... people just like me-- I let them be hurt, because they were sinners, and-- >>

Domino shoves past his unconscious body and takes over the organ.

<< ... what can I DO now--? It's, he-- he's going to win-- he's going to win, and he'll see I did a good job, and--... >>

There's an old saying about monkeys, typewriters, and classics. Domino's no monkey, the organ's no typewriter, and the clashing storm of noises that follows is no classic.

A single black flame appears inches from Violator's face while sour notes stream through the chamber, green mist spiraling around it. Something older than everything blooms before his eyes, and the sheer weight, the metaphysical pressure of it's enough to drive the blustering monster backwards, his talons digging in and cutting trenches through the stone with each inch lost.

Above the organ, the Burning Gate shudders erratically.

<< oh God. >>

In Astral space, golden fire consumes everything but the Professor, the Starchild, and the Meek, leaving a vast golden gate standing before them.

<< I-it's getting-- >>

Domino hits a minor chord that summons a column of Heavenfire from the organ's heart. Exploding up and outwards with a concussive shockwave, it consumes the organ-- it flows through the pipework, inundating the bound victims--

Mystically attuned senses feel the ritual's abrupt and catastrophic breakdown as the gate between here and Heaven becomes little more than a burning, golden lash plummeting from the air, turning whatever it touches to ash.

It lands squarely upon Phil.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amethyst floats in the ethereal in-between, her consciousness drifting like wisps of smoke. Shadows and echoes swirl around her, the boundary between life and death a delicate veil. She can hear Lorna's desperate cries, each one laced with urgency and sorrow, reaching out to her like a lifeline. But Amethyst feels herself slipping, her essence unable to respond, trapped in this liminal space. The mist-silk clings to her, trying to hold together wounds that Polaris is trying to knit from within.

The warmth of the heavenfire flickers just beyond her reach, its radiant glow promising a path to something beyond. Yet she knows she cannot follow; the pull is too strong, and the light too blinding. Instead, she feels the cold weight of her injuries, the pain a distant thrum that reminds her of her fragility. It reminds her of February birthdays, snow, and the warmth of a fireplace.

But amidst the darkness, there's a faint glimmer - Lorna's presence, frantic and fierce, as she works to seal Amethyst's wounds. The sensation of Lorna's hands, deft and determined, brings a small spark of hope to the haze. It's a connection that transcends the void, binding them in a shared struggle.

In her grasp, Amethyst feels the reassuring presence of the small ruby she had clutched during their fight. Dim and unassuming, it pulses faintly against her palm, a whisper of magic trapped within its depths. It may not be much, but there's potential in its glow-a hint of healing energy that could stabilize her.

Summoning her will, Amethyst focuses on the ruby, channeling her remaining strength toward it. If she can just reach Lorna, if she can guide that fragile light toward her? She knows Lorna needs her as much as she needs Lorna. In this twilight realm, where voices blur and shadows merge, she must find a way to bridge the gap, to let the magic flow and illuminate the darkness that threatens to consume her.

Bishop has posed:
The Security Enforcer hits the ground hard, going into a rough and ragged roll that then pushes his battered frame up into a standing position and a final skid to a stop that places him near enough towards the position of Rachel, The Professor and others of the most vulnerable of the gathered party of heroes. It seemed that Emma was able to save herself well enough there and a quick glance also reveals that his previous shots found their mark, bringing The Deacon down and exposing him to the not so tender mercies of those who have him in their sights.

Energy reserves yet boil and burn within him and he turns again, as he hears the grinding voice of The Violator scrape across the area once again and bore into his ears. A flash of movement and Bishop has trained his blasters that way - sending another round of concussive firepower hurtling across the room towards the demons arm as it makes the attempt on Tabitha.

This is followed by another volley of energy, this one from an outstretched and clenched fist as he summons what's left of his reserves and then amplifies it more, more, and yet some more, to send another raging blast of energy scorching across the air in a torrent for the demons form. It -seems- as if victory might be in their grasp.

But this is hell, so...famous last words..

Tabitha Smith has posed:
"Just call me Tartarus Control Boom-Boom!" the blonde says right as her explosion goes off inside that big gaping more. Though she doesn't have much time to react when Violator swings that pipe at her.

And connects.

What she does do in the moment while she has her own powers working over time, channel as much energy inside the pipe as she can. Letting it conduct plenty of energy into it and through it as she creates the mother of all pipe bombs before she is launched and hits a wall with a hefty thud.

Even groaning with the wind knocked out of her she chuckles. "C'mon dude, I've had bigger pipes swung at me than that. Better skilled too!" she makes sure the tone is absolutely meant to be emasculating towards Violator. Picking herself up onto her feet, a hand on her midsection she isn't done yet. "Man, Illyana would have had a fricking ball here!" Tabby exclaims as she keeps all that plasma going. Though the fact she's been keeping up the higher intensity stream instead of breaking it off into her usual bombs, and therefor giving herself a break is starting to show by now.

Mostly with her more wayward bangs escaping her ponytail, soaked with sweat and clinging to her almost as much as the top half of her dress.

Now the plasma gets switched up to fill the air above her with basketball sized bombs of bright blue energy.

Directing them at anything moving, Violator and the Deacon included that isn't part of the group that came with her. Benefits of the mind link helping her keep track who might be where.

"Tick... Tick... Tick..."

BOOMS!

John Constantine has posed:
Fit to make angels swear and demons pray.

Even John Constantine has to respect that.

Rein it in Johnny. It takes effort to do so. It takes monumental effort for him to let go of all that rage, to clear his mind of the cobwebs brought on by it. Now is not the time for it - now is the time for *clear* heads. He snaps his hands into fists and the flames vanish. Once again he digs blunt nails into scarred palms - leaving little crescent moon marks. It's probably a good thing that he's yet to see the little crescent moon kitten limp and lifeless on the floor - there would be no coming back from that rage.

He blinks and the fire's gone from his eyes to be replaced by the refection of flickering green. John brings both hands toward his face. For a moment it looks as if The Hellblazer might be setting up to whisper a desperate prayer. That would be a cold day in Hell and the world would see pigs fly. He blows a breath into his cupped hands before laying palms out flat toward the ceiling.

Murmured words send that captured magical breath toward that candle's mist of unfire - not to snuff it out but to nurture it like breath given to a newly born flame.

Fit to make the angels swear and the demons pray - how about to make them both *pay*? There's nothing like a little *more* 'undoing' to get the job done.

"In your bloody fucking face, you *cunt*." The words aren't shouted, but the whisper of them is enough - sometimes quiet is louder than a shout.

But the mention of Meggan hits him like a freight train. John spins around and, finally, he sees the limp form of his kitten. One would *think* that he'd just lose it again - go full on nuclear even. But he doesn't. He just kneels down and lifts the kitty from the cold floor. He cradles her exactly like one would cradle a sleeping cat. He even bows his head to rub his nose between her ears. "I gotcha, luv," he whispers - because sometimes quiet is louder than a shout.

Neena Thurman has posed:
In truth, for those first few seconds at the helm? Domino feels like a complete idiot. Friends, allies, teammates, potential enemies, they're all taking it real hard out there and she's back in music class giving the teacher a migraine from Hell. But why would they have built such an ornate and grotesque instrument if it wasn't important?

Each press of the demented keys causes -things- to happen, the air to shiver, the senses to retch. An energy tingles through her nerves, burrowing into her soul. Yes...yes this is probably an -incredibly stupid idea, Thurman.- Hey let's try the keys over here now!

She's never going to hit the Top Forty.

There's always some manner of thread to be pulled, some opportunity to roll the dice, and she doesn't really know if it's the right move or the wrong one until it's too late to abort and things begin to explode.

Well. This is certainly more of her tune.

Phil doesn't make it. The gate into heaven doesn't make it. The organ doesn't make it. Gosh, is her music really THAT bad?

As if to definitively answer this question, she doesn't get to walk away unscathed. When the massive instrument she's tormenting goes nuclear it goes up in a shower of hellfire and shrapnel with her sitting at ground zero. Bits of metal, bone, and gods know what else pelt the albino as she gets thrown backward, her uniform getting shredded like it faced the wrong side of a Claymore mine and patches of white skin getting scorched black and gashed cherry red. A larger piece lodges itself into a thigh, though it's the hardware strapped across her form which manages to deflect what would have otherwise been a killshot against the killer.

Charles Xavier has posed:
Professor X is inside of a dangerous, decaying mind. He's almost got Phil. He can feel it.

And then everything explodes.

Xavier's first instinct is to reach out. Rachel's still a child, really. She has a life. And looking at her, Charles can't help but think of her parents and the number of times he's put THEM in harm's way. "Get out." Xavier says, as everything starts to burn and melt, his psychic energy pushing Rachel towards the astral 'door'. There are seconds to act.

"Well." Xavier says, looking at the screaming, fading form of poor frightened Phil. Everything is burning. HE is burning. There's almost a satisfaction to it. "I didn't think it would happen like this."

In the flesh world, Professor Xavier's body starts shaking, his hands gripping the sides of his wheelchair before going slack, his eyes widening and pupils dilating, his mouth opening slack, a trail of blood dripping from it. It looks for all the world like the Professor just had a stroke.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The singular black flame evokes the signature of another demon of no little stature. Those dreaded candles with a capital C carry the same nasty association, even if this one takes its shape at the whims of an eldritch void clinging to consciousness.

That which was once Meggan might wish otherwise if capable of letting any emotion in through the white-knuckle (black-claw) grip on self-control. Hungry unness from the primeval chaos Before would love to be set free, and that means no.

Distraction serves its purpose when the hellish cacophony on the organ ends and some kind of amazing explosions ricochet for team mutant. Limbs carved off isn't her cuppa tea normally but she can appreciate X-23's artistry and Tabitha's bombardier-style tactics while sinuously easing back into reality again as a tactile being instead of whatever that was.

Her thoughts scatter apart, no longer held by something higher than gravity or regret for the victims of the Deacon and Violator's ploy. One tail-flick reminds her of the miracle of movement, the pinnacle of nature's achievement in having feet. Paws. Same difference, right down to charcoal toe beans nested in silky fur.

With a tremendous effort of tiredly peeping, she lolls as boneless cats like to do over his forearm. Nose to nose, the whisker-twitch is barely visible, but the "Mrr" agrees on yes, this is the perfect place to nose-boop and sleep. Infernal fires or divine gates imploding or not, she's answering the call of the gates of transparent horn.

Whatever burning happens in the astral is a tragedy few bear witness to, but spikes of emotion only hasten her demise into slumber as the mind protects itself. Lights off, write home to Mum about it later.

Rachel Summers has posed:
They were so close.

They were SO close.

Rachel keeps her hand held out to Phil, confident he'll take it -- confident in HIM. And then she feels something. A twist in Astral Space, like a knotting dread. Burning eyes widen.

"--Wait. Professor, something's not right--"

But Xavier already knows. For as honed by the necessities of survival as her mind may be, there's no accounting for experience. Everything is glowing bright as Rachel reaches for Phil. As she tries, despite how suicidal the attempt is, to drag him out of what seems his inevitable demise. She reaches--

And then finds herself suddenly shoved by figurative force right out the open door.

Her eyes widen. She can barely choke out a "NO!" as she goes flying.

"PHIL!" she shouts helplessly, her hand still outstretched as she falters back through the contents of Phil Timper's mind. Out and out and out no matter how far she reaches back, no matter how much she struggles against the inevitable.

"PROFESSOR!"

And with a start, Rachel finds herself gasping down air in the real world. Her throat dry, the heat of destruction and calamity baking at her skin. The cooling warmth of her blood rolling down her nose.

"Professor... Professor--?" she asks, voice hoarse.

And she sees him. Slack, mouth open and bloodied.

She stares, for the longest time, as if staring might make him come to. But all she can do is -force- herself to keep from whimpering...

... before her eyes narrow.

Phil Timper. They were so close. So god damn close. And they shouldn't have... it shouldn't have ever...

She sees him. The deacon. Prone and helpless. Green eyes narrow in broiling, barely contained anger. The Professor. Timper. Both of them hurt or dead or-- or-- all because this man made a hateful, SCARED choice -- this coward--

It would be so easy to just reach in and make his heart burst. Or flip a precious handful of neurons in his brain one way instead of the other and leave him drooling into a respirator for the long, remaining years of his life. It'd be so easy--

Rachel lashes out. Chunks of debris fly, psychokinetic force whittling them down into a pair of stakes--

that look to impale through his palms and PIN him against a wall.

She won't kill him. ... She can't.

But she'll make sure he can't run from the consequences of his stupid choices.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Ruby magic and emerald electromagnetism twine together around Princess Amethyst's unconscious body.

"Amy-- Amy, come on--" Lorna begs, soft and breathless and distant, the better part of her attention invested in working at a scale she so rarely does, "-- stay with me, just-- please--"

Bathing in Hellfire costs: this is true even for a venerable demon like the Violator. He was born in it, raised in it; he breathes the stuff--

But unlike mundane fire, the Infernal variant is invested with intention-- whether it's that of the Hell lord whose urges keep it burning, or that of a conjuror summoning it against his foes.

And John Constantine is furious.

What was meant to be an intimidation display left Violator's body smoking, his wards cracked; that demonic grin's still plastered across his features, but he can't quite help that, really.

Bishop's X.S.E. bolt shearing his arm off at the shoulder is no laughing matter; neither is the pipe that explodes at his feet a second later, turning half of it into gray gore and ruin.

"Oooohhh, you cunts--!" bubbles from his hateful depths, casting shudders through stonework as he struggles to haul his wounded bulk from the twisted heap it landed in. "Little mayfly cocksuckers--"

Segmented eyes widen, suddenly, when the last dregs of golden fire wink out. When - alongside every other set of mystically aligned senses - he feels a single burning droplet, a condensed bead of Creation falling from somewhere on high, racing across impossible distances towards this layer of existence.

"-- oh, fuck THIS," the injured demon bellows alongside a swift, brief bloom of magical activity. That simple invocation consumes his entire being in black and green fire in an instant. Nothing's left of him when it burns out, not even his severed digits or mangled flesh.

Like a pebble meeting the ocean, ripples spread out from that miniscule pearl of puissance upon contact.

In Astral space, Professor Xavier's mighty Mutant mind hurtles far, far from here, still trapped within Phil Timper's dying psyche. He soars until the Labyrinth unfolds beneath him, a jumbled wound adjacent to the world he knows composed of tunnels and churches and winding roads. Through the stars-- BEYOND the stars, he hurtles as stellar light collapses into a distant point behind him and celestial radiance shines down upon him.

Lorna Dane has posed:
For a moment, Charles knows peace beyond anything he's ever experienced. He knows the contentment of a hale and healthy family thriving in a world that has finally seen fit to LISTEN-- to learn from one another--

"Oh?"

Looking into the face looking down at him not only hurts, it feels wrong, like rummaging through Mother's purse for candy money.

"Well, isn't THIS interesting-- hello."

Every word emanating from that presence is uttered in the voice of someone Charles loves dearly.

"I'm sorry, but you don't belong here: the Star Hive is not for mortal eyes."

And just like that, he's flung back into Creation, back into the Labyrinth, back into his body--

Back just in time to see Rachel pinning the bloodied Deacon - rescued, brutally, from X-23's claws by the Starchild's telekinetic rage - to one of the walls.

"You're so fucking strong-- please, baby, get--"

Back in time to witness the viridian lightning flowing from one royal body to another as electromagnetism and magic form a coruscating circuit between Polaris and Amethyst.

And back in time for a shaft of blinding, golden fire to EXPLODE through the domed roof, spreading outwards along the walls, consuming them wholesale, and burning in concert with plasma detonations until there's nothing left. Violent tremors shake the chamber and the world beyond; the pipework, no longed secured to anything, tilts and creaks precariously, parts of it threatening to break away and fall from what has become a free-floating stone platform.

Below the platform lies a quaking snarl of tunnels and churches and winding roads, crumbling bit by bit into the cold and black void all of this seems to have been constructed atop-- amidst.

And above, them, shimmering wings of golden light unfurl from midnight blue and radiant gold armor, a faint golden wisp connecting it to the pile of ash that was Phil Timper. That same radiance gutters and spurts from the sharp lines of the helmet where the eyes should be, on either side of the row of small spikes running from the crown all the way down to the bridge of the nose. In the figure's right hand, a sword forged in the cooling aftermath of the first Word; surrounding the left, a steadily churning blaze of pure, primeval fire.


Lorna Dane has posed:
When the figure speaks:

"BE."
"NOT"
"AFRAID."

it's in a thousand voices folded together into a sparking and glittering chorus.

"SURRENDER THYSELVES AND BE REDEEEMED!"

Somewhere way, way, way below them - a rotting speck at the base of this teetering tower - lies VS Farms.

All our heroes have to do is get there.

        Turn 2, Reach Out and Touch Faith: COMPLETE.