19133/Power and Glory: Theosis (Turn 3)

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Power and Glory: Theosis (Turn 3)
Date of Scene: 12 October 2024
Location: Elsewhere - The Shattered Labyrinth
Synopsis: The coalition of X-Men, Brotherhood, and Justice League: Dark members who entered the Temple of the Burning Pentecost's extradimensional Labyrinth to save Mutant souls comes face to face with the consequences of the Deacon's actions: the unleashed power of the Redeemer, a meek human man inadvertently invested with a spark of divine, Elemental Fire after the Deacon's empowerment ritual ran aground. Quick thinking and clever shows of force allow the team to hold the Redeemer at bay long enough to force open a path to safety, escaping the crumbling Labyrinth with the ritual's Mutant victims intact.
Cast of Characters: Lorna Dane, Amy Winston, Emma Frost, Neena Thurman, Charles Xavier, Tabitha Smith, John Constantine, Victor Creed, Mary Seward, Madelyne Pryor, Spiral, Bishop, Meggan Puceanu, Rachel Summers




Lorna Dane has posed:
We are in Hell's antechamber, Charles Xavier said to a coalition of X-Men, Brotherhood, and sorcerous pals as a door between worlds ripped itself apart, swallowed the lot of them, and deposited them in a stone chamber, before a vast door. Beyond it lay an infernal machine composed of gold and brass pipes fused with tortured Mutant bodies, souls, and psyches sold a blasphemous bill of goods to prey on their self-loathing amidst a world that hates and fears them-- a demonic pipe organ purpose-built to turn torment into music capable of opening a Burning Gate between worlds and inundating a madman with divine power. The Deacon - a Mutant in his own right, capable of reaching into the depths of other Mutants' biology and manipulating their genetic gifts - who built a splinter sect of Purifiers out of likeminded souls only to sacrifice each and every one of them in the name of his own empowerment; and the Violator, the demonic fixer and chaos agent who gave him the blueprint stood in defense of Phil Timper, the organist and last surviving member of the cult.

Following a brutal battle that left Phil incinerated by divine fire as the ritual ran aground, the lionshare of the coalition injured, and the Deacon broken and crucified, a wounded Violator was driven from the field to lick his wounds, giving them and the multitude of mystically tormented Mutants they'd come to save a clear path to find egress--

Only for a pillar of golden fire to erupt through the vast stone chamber, shattering everything but the ground beneath their feet, the wall that Rachel pinned the Deacon to, and the gold/brass coils of the infernal pipe organ in time with a string of cataclysmic plasma bomb bursts. What was an earthen dome has been reduced to a free-floating platform suspended in extradimensional space. Sprawled out below it is a tremoring snarl of tunnels, churches, and winding roads steadily crumbling into the black void that once served as their foundation-- the Labyrinth utilized by the Deacon and his forces to perform their blasphemous acts and move in secret.

Above the platform, wings of golden light and fire unfurl from a figure clad in midnight blue and radiant gold armor, connected to the ash that was once Phil Timper by a golden thread. That same golden light sputters from the spaces in its -- his -- helmet where the eyes should be. In his right hand, he wields a sword forged in Elemental Fire, the primeval flame sparked by the first Word that gave birth to Creation; a blinding corona of the same ancient and ineffable force swirls around his clenched left hand, gnawing at the margins of existence with its every flicker, filling the air around him with rays of divine might, snow-white feathers, and clashing music.

"SURRENDER THYSELVES AND BE REDEEMED!" emanates from its body, a thousand voices folded together into a sparking and glittering chorus

Far below them in the metaphysical distance lies VS Farms, its rotting borders a paradise compared to the implosive hell around them. All they have to do is survive long enough to get there--

-- and make sure that as many ritualbound Mutants as possible survive along with them.

Pools of black fire - parting gifts from the Violator, courtesy of a collision between sorcerous fireballs and plasma bombs - have spread across the platform, making safe ground a premium. Here and there it overflows instead of stopping at the edges, cascading over the sides in churning firefalls spiraling through the void. Surrounded on all sides by encroaching darkness, Polaris - who led the charge into VS Farms and the organ room with bold speeches and rallying cries - is utterly consumed with channeling emerald electricity bolstered by ruby magic from her body back into Amaya Amethyst, the courageous rebel princess who quite literally threw herself onto the swords of the Enemy while pulling Lorna back from the brink after the Queen's guts were ripped open by a demonic chainsaw. Desperate to seal the magical girl's wounds by any means -

Lorna Dane has posed:
"... YOU,"

the divine punisher intones, pointing his golden blade directly at Professor Charles Xavier,

"AND YOU,"

comes with a burning index finger singling out the Starchild,

"WHO SAW FIT TO REACH FORTH AND OFFER THIS VESSEL A MOMENT'S SUCCOR IN ITS DARKEST MOMENT:"

and golden eruptions consuming their bodies utterly for three full seconds.

"AS YOU STAND AT THE VERGE OF YOUR FINAL HOUR AND GAZE INTO THE CLEANSING FIRES OF REDEMPTION, I OFFER YOU FORGIVENESS!"

Two more golden eruptions light the air above opposing ends of the platform, blooming out wide.

"AND TO THE REST, WHO WOULD TREAT WITH DEMONS AND WARLOCKS, WHO WOULD SLAY THE FAITHFUL IN COLD BLOOD:"

A many-armed angelic monstrosity cast from twelve solid feet of black iron begins to emerge from one aerial flare, its body rent with glowing slash marks in triplicate and its hands filled with a veritable arsenal of weapons. The Professor, Bishop, and even Creed would recognize it as The Judgment, who came to X-Corporation on the heels of a traitor to the Deacon's cause only to be put down by Wolverine.

"I OFFER JUDGMENT--"

Emerging from the other flare is the two-headed, time-twisting guardswoman who Selene and Domino collectively vanquished. One of her horrible, raptor-like heads still bears the deep gouges left by Selene's shadowy claws, while the other moves erratically, its neck coiling towards impossible angles thanks to a savage, spine-snapping round from Domino's railgun. The platform shudders as the revivified Stillness sets a clawed foot upon it; the Labyrinth itself does as well, when she opens her beaks in twinned roars devoid of humanity.

"-- AND A STILL VOICE NO LONGER MADE SMALL BY INIQUITY."

Amy Winston has posed:
Amaya, who was injured, stands back up again, her body trembling from the pain, though her resolve remains steadfast. Her wounds, still raw and deep, begin to close, thanks to the combined efforts of Lorna's fierce powers and her own innate magic. A soft glow envelops her, a mix of emerald and amethyst hues, as the magic knits her torn flesh and soothes her bruised bones. Each breath she takes feels like fire, but she forces herself upright, her hand gripping the hilt of the sword she summoned from the essence of Nilaa's magic.

Her knees buckle for a brief moment, but she plants her foot firmly into the stone beneath her, drawing on the magic that hums in the air around her. Amaya's eyes flicker with determination as she rises to her full height, standing once again as the courageous rebel princess she was born to be. The searing heat of the Redeemer's presence surrounds her, but Amaya does not falter.

"Lorna," she breathes, glancing at the queen still channeling her powers into her. There's a flicker of gratitude in Amaya's eyes, but now is not the time for words of thanks.

Princess Amethyst stands tall amidst the chaos, her heart pounding in her chest, though her face betrays no fear. The burning light of the Redeemer reflects in her eyes, casting shadows across her regal features. Blood drips from her wounds, hastily sealed by Lorna's desperate use of her powers, yet she moves with purpose, her spirit unyielding. The platform quakes beneath her feet, yet Amaya does not waver, her hand instinctively gripping the hilt of a shimmering sword she conjured earlier. Part of her own spirit and soul.

She surveys the scene, her mind racing with the gravity of their situation. The infernal machine, the tortured souls, the looming figures of divine wrath-she knows they are all at the edge of ruin, yet her focus remains on the wounded mutants around her. Survive, she thinks, the word echoing in her mind like a commandment. And survive, they will, if she has anything to say about it.

With the Redeemer's fiery proclamation ringing in the air, Princess Amethyst meets his burning gaze without flinching, the weight of divine judgment heavy on her shoulders.

"Forgiveness," she whispers, her voice laced with both defiance and hope, "Forgiveness belongs not to you, Redeemer." She steps forward, placing herself between the celestial force and the mutants he condemns. The light from her sword flares, a radiant reflection of her inner strength, the brilliant purple of another realm. Her voice, when she speaks again, rings out with the authority of a princess who has fought for her people and her world.

"We have fought demons, yes, but not for ourselves. We fight to save the innocent, to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Your judgment may come, but it will not break us. We are the ones who will stand in the face of your wrath and endure."

Her eyes flicker to Lorna, to Charles, to the wounded souls around her. "We fight together. And we will not be forsaken!" With that, Amaya raises her sword high, the light of her resolve shining brighter than the flames that threaten to consume them all.

Emma Frost has posed:
This was to Emma Grace Frost bordering on the asinine <<This is nearly as ridiculous as those insipid things that claimed to be angels in New York>> And had been driven out of the city a few years ago. Emma spoke along that network telepathically, even as she fell back to maintain it amongst the dozens of individuals present. Pushing for those that normally wouldn't be part of such a thing to if they let them be in it. In this chaos, they were best served letting the heavier telepaths be free for fully offensive actions.

Emma would do her best to keep it up with everyone, despite the chaos, the anguish, the exhaustion of the fighting that they had already gone through. Brutal demonic urban warfare, fighting meter by meter, blade by blade, and exhaustion cropping up. Emma would continuously probe for weaknesses and spread commands out amongst the group. As a telepath, she would bide her time and wait for an opening to strike. In a fight this chaotic, command and control would be an asset. Moreso than just another body to throw into the mix.

Whether or not of course they had orders to give in a fight that was magical blade, blade, gun, and claw was an entirely different thing. They would be fighting in small groups, clusters, and on instinct. The fight could take minutes, could take hours, could take days. On a mental, a physical, a mystical level. Time did not have to obey the same rules here after all.

<<Charles, do be a dear and push as many of them astral as you can. These things probably aren't going to be used to fighting in both realms at the same time. If we can push them to both at once, we can take advantage of them in both.>> Demons and their ilk would hopefully not be able to quite effectively focus on the mental and physical realms at the same time. For powerful telepaths, such things were old hats after all.

And the demons had already shown that they could be hurt. <<And let us teach them a short, sharp lesson in pain and bring themt o a whole new world of hurt.>> This was a bloody battle, and would continue to be one.

But who said that she couldn't do a few things herself to get some enjoyment out of it?

Neena Thurman has posed:
Welp. Messing with the body-filled pipe organ might not have been the best idea but it's all done with now. Battered, bleeding, shell-shocked, and with at least one notably uncomfortable piece of shrapnel in a leg, Domino can't do much at first beyond stare at the altered ceiling and wonder if they've all just lost, won, or something in between.

The booming voice which follows answers her unspoken question. Definitely somewhere in between.

There's more work to be done, which means it's time to stop lounging about and get back to it. New gameplan: Find someone who seems to know what they're doing around here and lend a hand. The person she's ultimately led to locking onto is John Constantine. He's Doing Things, isn't he? Yeah, maybe he can make sense of this mess.

While Redeemer Dude is speaking of promises and warnings and all of the usual stuff she's gingerly taking hold of that piece of shrapnel, biting back a yell as it's pried free and tossed aside. Following is a hissed "Fffffuuuuck me... Spiral's not gonna be happy I'm ghosting her tonight."%

Charles Xavier has posed:
For a minute, Professor X was fairly sure he was dead. It's not certain; Xavier has taken, let's call them measures. There are people who must be kept in check if his frail physical body were to fail. Oh, Xavier thinks, there he is now.

"Just die." Amhal Farouk whispers in Charles's ear, running his tongue along the shell. "Aren't you tired? Aren't you sick of it all? You've seen your future, just as I have."

A standing Xavier, wearing Cerebro like a concealing helmet and wrapped in skintight unstable molecules, calmly erases Reed Richards's brilliant mind.

"It's not a lie." Shadow King melts over Xavier's fading body. "It's not a hallucination. It's not me. You give in, because you think it's the only way to stop Sinister. And you fail so completely they call you a new name."

"The ultimate sentinel. Isn't death better?" That poor woman Amhal rode manipulating his son chimes in, shoving her hands under Charles's armpits as he feels the Shadow King try to escape. Charles cannot breathe because his throat is broken, he realizes, holding a hand up.

Everything turns gold. He feels his old enemy burn away, retreating desperately to the astral universe Xavier created for him to suffer in. A hell of the mind, Xavier thinks, as he's filled with.

Something. He cannot describe or analyze it. The gold fire burns but it does not consume and Charles Xavier is, briefly, consumed with it: just how easy it would be to burn all of these rogues and malicious idiots to cinders, to think the world clean, it'd be as simple as the tiniest pressure of his thumb?

"Be not afraid." The snow white man covered in feathers and hawk-shaped armor says, putting a hand on Xavier's shoulder. "He's just a little misguided right now."

Xavier's eyes open and he takes a quick, starving breath, and then another one just for the novelty. He feels clean, and looks down at the strange blue and gold costume come into being around his body. His wheelchair's turned gold and the hover-modules have become fiery chariot wheels with unlidded eyes in the center. It all looks like one of Warren's looks, he thinks.

Danger, he thinks, X-Men emergency!, he thinks, and focuses on the task at hand. "Redeemer." Charles says, because he knows this being's name as if it was his own. "You do not have to hurt these people. This is the Violator's work, his filthy hand, and more death would surely simply serve the cause of Hell, yes?"

Tabitha Smith has posed:
They've all been thrown around a lot. This is what happens when you start bouncing about mystical realms, the infernal, and sometimes the divine. That Angel invasion a couple years back proved there wasn't really much difference between demons and angels.

They're mostly all assholes on either side.

The big speel from the redeemer gets Tabby just pinching her brow as she steps up. Looking a little tired at this new round of bullshit and threats.

"So like this guy for real?" she asks Amy, Lorna, and some of the other mystical types.

"Cause like, I've dated the demonic before. She's the one that got away in fact." Yes she does miss Illyana sometimes. "But cleansing fire?"

Boom-Boom holds out her hands at waist level, a spark of energy flickers and soon they're both engulfed in purple plasma, starting it's way to the hotter end of the spectrum. "Girl," she addresses the Redeemer, with a grin. "I am FIRE!" it's not quite Phoenix Force level dramatizing, but she's not wrong with her outfit. 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 look.

Sure it might be a bit beat up but it does look damn good on her.

John Constantine has posed:
Bollocks. He does have the good sense to not stare *directly* at the wanker spewing blinding Holy light, but it still leaves him seeing spots.

What a right bloody mess this is turning out to be.

"You *stupid* wanker!" John bellows out toward the Redeemer. Probably not his finest hour or the smartest of moves to be tossing around insults - but as stupid a wanker as he believes the Redeemer to be, well John does stupid in spades. "You got it all wrong and let these genocidal cunts twist it all around with their corrupt bullshite!"

Judgement gets a passing glance - bloody Hell. But it's the Stillness that really rankles John's feathers. Really? Why can't they just *stay* dead when they fall?

He's still cradling MegganCat in his arms. Keeping all three of their foes in sight the best than he can, he murmurs, "Meg luv, could really use an assist right about now."

He spares a quick glance around at the tattered and battered crew - well, there's Lil' Amy showing her stuff. A mental note of relief to be filed away and pondered later.

<<The Redeemer, he's not in control of his full powers. If he gains that control, we're all pretty much fucked, ey? So let's keep that from happening. We need to muck up that Stillness cunt's command performance quick like - her fucking about with time will keep us from doin' what needs done.>>

Strangely enough, Domino catches his attention and keeps it for a moment or two. People often see John Constantine as an inept drunk - nothing could be further from the truth. He doesn't miss a beat. Even in the middle of chaos, he doesn't miss a beat. <<With a little *luck*, we can all make it out of here, ey?>>

Victor Creed has posed:
Victor Creed had put himself on the fringes of the battle on purpose. It minimized his risk and there was risk to him, rare risk. Magic shit was unpredictable - he'd healed everything ever thrown at him, but there was some shit being thrown around this place that even Creed had never seen before. End of the world crap.

Creed liked winning, he liked the feeling of cutting down the enemies like a thresher. Feeling like a god damned god. Yeah, it was selfish and shallow. He didn't give a damn. The violence made him feel alive. It was his drug.

Things progressed and the world turned and he ran out of things to slaughter. And so he watched in something akin to awe in the mind of someone without a conscience or a care for the lives of anyone but himself. And now this mad motherfucker was rising up and thinking he was gonna reap whatever whirlwind happened to be blowing today. Creed's blonde hair blows in the wind of it and he shakes the gore off his claws as he leans into it.

"Fuck that bullshit. Get 'im, Queenie."

Mary Seward has posed:
Mary had only come here for the purpose of feeding on the blood of a bunch of religious zealot bigots. One of her particular favorite types of humans to hunt down and slaughter, but of course...She was never one to be picky on that front. But, it's never that simple. Never for her. Now, she's in the middle of literal hell. She barely even had the time to notice as she was neck deep in a purifier, sipping away at fresh ichor. Funnily enough, this wasn't her first trip into hell...Though, that had been a fun little excursion brought on by flirting with Lucifer Morningstar himself. This is a bit different. She wasn't sure her cavorting with demons and those of their kind bought her any tenure in these dark bowels...

All the same, what is Hell but other people? All the other people she has with her now are work mates, strangers, and this holier than thou Redeemer character. That's a Hell she thinks she can handle. "...Where's Helstrom when you need her?" She gets her witty remark in. She joins Neena in hanging on John. As much as she breaks his balls, and yes does see him as an inept drunk, she does know he can more or less be counted on for exactly this type of scenario. "Come on, Constantine. Do something about this guy, and I'll owe you real big for it..."

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne missed the last fight. She overtaxed herself dealing with the Stillness the last time that she had to pull back and take a rest. With a little help from ... somebody probably made sure she was okay and pulled out a bottle of water for her to chug and try and wipe some of the blood off.

She's good now. A Short Rest<tm> completed. Granted, she looks kind of ghoulish now, but she's ready to fistfight God.

The Goblin Queen floats, ascending towards the front lines wreathed in green and violet psychic fire, the hint of wings. The ghost of some great bird of infernal fire. She possesses no magic. No demonic taint. Just a core of hot fury and the potential to be more powerful than almost any other psychic on the planet. Because she -knows- now. She knows exactly what she is.

She is power. She is fury.

Psychic power boils around her, eyes glowing green, the dried blood streaking down from her eyes looking like living shadow. "How dare you," she hisses, just letting it happen. Letting all of her pent up feelings feed the monster within.

"What gives you the right to judge?! I'll kill you!"

She lashes out with a torrent of psychic energy, the very space around her rippling and warping with the raw power of it. Already she's seeking to crush the Redeemer's mind. To make it realize that it is lesser. That it is Nothing.

"I'll kill you AND your God!"

Spiral has posed:
When someone says her name, Spiral hears it. When she wants to concentrate on whose particular lips uttered it, Spiral can source it. This particular quirk can be pure annoyance and aggravation, but sometimes it comes in handy.

The Six-armed Sorceress doesn't look before she leaps, which may cause a situation when one of her portals yawns forth like a maw to disgorge her into the immediate area. She lands in a crouch, like a spider, trailing wisps of arcane magic like she'd burst through a screen door and left it in tatters.

Her expression is one of wide-eyed irritation. Perhaps someone ~was~ expecting someone elsewhere and elsewhen. "Domino, w-"

Her senses kick in with the new environment and how it's just soaked with lethality and dark promises. She bares her teeth and looks around in alarm, rising into a agitated hunch and casting about at the faces, familiar and not.

Spiral sprints over towards Domino, still not drawing weapons, still trying to align her inner gyroscope to what manner of capital T trouble she's leapt into. "Domino! What in the Hells?!"

Bishop has posed:
The X-Men are not strangrs to the supernatural and demons. Realms like Limbo and entities like Belasco. Foes and occasional allies such as The Juggernaut - not a mutant despite social media insistence but the avatar of an dark primordial god. Mutants whose very abilities connect them to laws and realms beyond mortal understanding. The wyld courts of Otherworld ...the list goes on...

All that said...this is still ...abit much. There's no sense in pretending to be unflappable and to dro quips about how unshaken one is about it all, This is nightmarish and mind numbing...and Lucas Bishop doesn't much like it.

But duty, focus and drive? Those are powerful forces unto themselves. THe time to ruminate on this insnaity will come soon enough. Protecting his own and seeing the mission through to its end? That's the goal. This focus is sharpened with iron as he crosses the distance towards the position of The Professor just in time to see him abruptly recover from whatever insanity had struck him down upon the astral plane. He gives a sigh of relief and then turns his attention in full towards Redeemer to see if Charles words have any effects on possibly--

Wholp, nope, That strangely familiar looking red haired psychokinetic is going berserk. "I don't think a peaceful dialog is going to work Professor. We may have to focus on subduing him first." So ..it's action hero time, once again.

"...I'm a living batery!" he shouts out towards his allies, "It doesn't matter what type of energy it is. Direct what you can spare at me. Don't hold back if you can manage. It doesn't matter even if it's magical!"

He holsters his gun and raises both of his large arms upwards, energy that's already been absorbed by him beginning to crackle to life in a billowing corona of light as his eyes begin to enfame and the ground around him starts to scorch even further from the surge of power beginning to build.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
By any reckoning, post-battle is not the appropriate time for a catnap. Weak harmonic vibrations from the ruined organ may still play through the air, a divine tragedy that rattles around the skull. Dust hasn't settled on scorched ground and fallen detritus long enough to allow pulling up a blanket for a little snooze. Shaking ground and clashing metal do not a fine bed make. Reality's metaphysical shriek when celestial fire wreaks splits through bodies and psyches alike, at least those not gifted by diamond form planes and edges or Omega level mental self-defenses. The sheer emotive weight of defiant princesses, angry mutants, and a dazzling array of physical and mental heavyweights is a bomb detonating to wake an empath able to sense her loved ones across time and space.

These points would be correct.

These points do not matter to Felis catus. Ask any pet owner, they will confirm this fact countless times over.

See the little black feline curled up in John Constantine's arms who gives no fucks whatsoever to what very strained Newtonian physics and heavenly rules apply. The Redeemer can bellow and wave his fiery finger like it means anything, the Judgment can stomp about grimacing. The Stillness... good luck beating the liquified cat-puddle at her own feline game. A paw lolls bonelessly, pink beans in plain sight. Her silken stomach is bare for the petting.

She sleeps.

----
In completely unrelated news, the webs of horrifying demonic black fire all come running like excited tiny bunnies to cling to John's coat. They emit high=pitched trills of excitement. He gains a horrifying number of fuzzy, burning burrs that rightfully ought to be melting his and everyone else's faces off by proximity.

One might even appear to land on his nose.Because nothing spells terror for a petty warlock than having a teensy ball of eldritch demonic essence of Malebogia two millimeters from his nasal apex before disappearing in a puff of smoke. It absolutely just went, "Squee!"

Rachel Summers has posed:
Things have not been going well.

But, considering the sum whole of her life up to this point, all that really means is that Rachel Summers is truly in her element.

Shunted back into reality from the despairing mindscape of Phil Timper, the time-lost daughter of the Phoenix is forced to watch the fruits of her labor once more come to nothing thanks to a random and senseless act of violence that gives birth to greater calamity in its wake. It's a familiar song and dance. She knows the steps by heart, if not perhaps this particular, regional style. It comes from being a master at the craft.

And when your craft happens to be helpless disaster, what else can you do but lash out at the repeated futility of it all?

In a fit of controlled wrath, Rachel spears the Deacon to the nearby wall, palms-first. And soon enough, the entire world outside of that wall and the grounding, crumbling concrete beneath them gives way to to an unending swath of extraordinary space inundated with fire both holy and decidedly, rancidly less so. It's all a foggy haze in Rachel's frustration and fatigue-rattled mind; the forcible ejection from the Astral Plane saved her from the Professor's fate, but was no less jarring. It's part of why that green gaze is half-lidded, why she slumps to her knees amid puddles of burbling blacks and columns of glowing gold. But this... the supernatural, the wrath-filled scions of higher powers?

In her eyes, it's all the same violence and fear that blunted her own timeline into a dead-ended stub, just with a different, self-righteous coat of paint.

"..."

The Redeemer calls out. She hears his booming, full-throated chorus of a voice ripping across her ear drums. To her left, she sees Lorna, the woman who led them all here, focused on desperately trying to save a single life Rachel does not recognize.

To her right, she sees Domino, in over her head yet still willing to fight.

Her fingers curl against her thighs in the seconds before she is engulfed in a gilded cleansing.

"... He was not a -vessel-."

And from that healing, bolstering flame, Rachel Summers rises like a phoenix, short red hair set ablaze in dancing tongues of psychokinetic orange chasing after the ends of each lock and eyes ignited into two molten seas of blistering yellows, like the plasmic depths of twin stars.

"His name was PHIL TIMPER. He was terrified of the future, and just like all of us, he made mistakes because of it. But he was still -one of us-."

Gold burns towards sienna oranges as Rachel co-opts the divine force that has been bestowed upon her and uses it for psychokinetic fuel. Her right hand reaches outward.

Sparks sputter at her cheeks.

"And I don't WANT the fucking forgiveness of some ivory tower prick who can't even recognize that!"

And she redirects the full weight of her mind just as Madelyne does. Empowered by the Redeemer's own might, she seeks to return it to sender -- by trying to tunnel into what amounts for the mind of the divine.

Not to attack, though -- but to use the opening that Madelyne hopefully inspires with her assault to pry deep into the Redeemer as Xavier speaks to him -- and try to find even the smallest, flickering embers of Phil Timper inside.

To ignite them inside the Redeemer's consciousness, even as violence begins to spiral out all around her.

< I know! > is Rachel's psychic call to Constantine's explanation, blazing eyes narrowing in the concentration of her focused efforts.

< I'm gonna try to keep him on the back foot! Just... do what you need to do in the meantime. And make sure I don't g

Rachel Summers has posed:
< I'm gonna try to keep him on the back foot! Just... do what you need to do in the meantime. And make sure I don't get smote, or -- whatever this fucker does! >

Lorna Dane has posed:
"jesuschristAmyItoldyounottodie--"

Covered in blood - hers, Amethyst's, the Purifiers' - Polaris rises to her full height, unsteady on her feet but firmly locked onto the three-- five--? threats around them: the Redeemer, the reconstituted Judgment and Stillness--

-- Charles Xavier on his chariot of fire, reborn beneath the Redeemer's banner; Rachel Summers, wreathed in a psychokinetic echo of the thing that nearly consumed her former classmate in its bid for self-actualization--

... but Charles' first act upon reawakening is to speak directly to the Redeemer's heart, or best approximation thereof.

And Rachel's is pushing back at the very idea of being given anything by the divine punisher, as stubborn and rebellious and gloriously difficult as ever.

"... aah, fuck," shivers from the Genoshan Queen's lips as they're touched by the flickering embers of a smile. "Fuck--"

<< ... I need coverage, >> ripples through the psychic link, distant and cut with static.

The entire platform shudders and never quite gets around to stopping.

<< I-- I need-- >> only just creeps through the network as arcs of electromagnetism course from her body, leaping from pipe to pipe before ultimately coalescing in the air surrounding them. << -- just-- a little time-- >>

The platform lurches half a dozen feet straight down just as the sparking lattice circuit she's knitting is completed. Polaris simultaneously buckles towards her knees, only to catch herself a few seconds before the motion stops.

An electrostatic roar washes through Astral space for a split-second before her connection to the psychic network gets harshly metered. Electric green eyes lock onto the flaming avatar of Heavenly vengeance above, silent and defiant--

-- and when the platform resumes its descent, it hurtles unceasingly through empty, distorted space like a poisoned star falling back to Earth as a scream rips through the Matriarch of Magnetism, shearing cleanly through crumbling segments of Labyrinth on contact.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"THESE PEOPLE--?" emanates from the Redeemer, keeping perfect pace with the descending platform and sweeping his sword in a broad, indicating arc that leaves fire burning in the air, "THE FOOL WHO ALLOWED HIMSELF TO BE TEMPTED BY THE LEFT-HAND PATH?" he says of the Deacon, pinned to the one chunk of wall left standing and barely aware thanks to the shock of bloodloss and everything else.

"PREDATORS," comes with swaths of heat abruptly building beneath Creed and Mary's feet, giving them a split-second's warning before massive, golden blades of light thrust upwards in a bid to skewer them, "LIKE THOSE WHO SLEW THIS VESSEL'S COMPATRIOTS--?"

The Queen of Blood and Apex Predator aren't out of the woods yet: two more sword strokes, this time courtesy of the titanic, black iron Judgment emerging above the platform launch tangible waves of kinetic force across the platform, slicing through whatever comes across their paths like invisible razors on their way towards trying to bisect them. The darker of the two angelic monsters lands promptly afterwards, and while it launches itself at Creed like a starved and cornered animal, it also musters a spear thrust for Mary, threatening her with a weapon that grows longer and broader with every inch it travels.

"WITCHES, WARLOCKS, AND WICKED RULERS," is accompanied by streams of golden fire lashing after Amethyst and Madelyne's defiance, the Hellblazer wreathed in chirping black flames, and Polaris crouched and trembling with her arms raised and magnetic forces pouring forth desperately, "WHO GLADLY TRAFFIC WITH DEVILS AND DARK FORCES--?"

Stepping forth from the fires of rebirth, the Stillness scours the platform with crystalline and ruby rays from its eyes, subjecting patches of it to brief, explosive bouts of profoundly slowed or violently sped up time. Both roaring heads snap and bite at the air as coiling, broken necks slither around and against one another, all while the monstrosity marches forward in an effort to spread its time-twisting effects broadly.

"I--"

The outer wrappings of Rachel and Madelyne's outbursts may have gone unremarked upon, but collectively, the substance of their arguments - the explosion of psionic violence inflicted by the Brotherhood's unstable psychic redhead and the more refined debilitation of the Starchild, both borne on psionic raptor's wings - lands in his consciousness with megaton force.

"-- hrrrRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH--!!" reverberates from every corner of the void, every crumbling surface the platform rips through, every heart, every mind present as the Redeemer clutches his head in agony and begins lagging behind the coalition.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy takes a deep breath, her mind already sharp with the hum of battle as she felt John's thoughts touch her own, his rough-edged words bristling with urgency. She caught the flash of awareness, how precarious their situation was, the weight of it settling heavily across her shoulders. Still, she wasn't one to buckle under pressure.

<<Agreed,>> she responded in kind, her mental tone steady despite the storm brewing around them. <<I'll do what I can to keep that Stillness from screwing us all over. Keep your wits about you, Constantine.>>

Her magic surged, the familiar warmth flowing through her as she reached out across the ether, her thoughts forming a thread that connected her to Ypsilos. A pulse of recognition answered, her faithful mount was already on the move, sensing her call. Rachel Summers had already begun her attack, and now was the moment to strike while the chaos unfolded.

As Ypsilos emerged from the portal she created, Amy felt a burst of exhilaration at the sight of the winged creature tearing through the sky, powerful and radiant. Grabbing Lorna around the waist like some low-budget fantasy adventure, the Princess of Nilaa pulls Lorna into her arms, "We're going for a flight!" she calls out, as she jumps from the led of the collapsing platform - just to have Ypsolis swoop in and catch both women on the armored alicorn.

Amy grabbed the reins with one hand she soared upward, her form cutting through the air as the battlefield below shrunk in her vision as the steed evaded the golden fire aimed at Amy.

Her voice rang out across the telepathic link, clear and resolute, <<Going high to engage Judgment from above! Could use a little bit of a boost for what I'm planning to do!>>

With a graceful arc, she guided Ypsilos higher still, her magic flaring with intent as she prepared to unleash a strike that would tip the scales in their favor. The sky was hers, and she would wield it like the weapon it was meant to be.

As Amy climbed higher on Ypsilos, the celestial winds harmonizing with her resolve, she felt the potent surge of Nilian magic intertwine with her very essence. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and her voice shifted to the ancient dialect, each syllable resonating with the power needed to unleash devastation upon their foes.

"Karnathiel dravon, exoria thalumis..." she begins, her tones both commanding and melodic, weaving the first threads of her explosive enchantment. The air around her shimmered as radiant sigils ignited in concentric patterns, forming a lattice of raw energy above Judgment.

Amy Winston has posed:
"Pyronis velara, ignis detronis!" Amy chanted, her voice rising in intensity. The magic circles glowed brighter, their luminescence pulsating with the promise of imminent destruction. Each word she uttered fueled the burgeoning force, drawing power from the very fabric of the sky.

"Blastara kernoth, ignitus explosia!" Her final invocation reverberated through the atmosphere, the assembled circles coalescing into a singular, seething mass of energy. The ground beneath Judgment trembled in anticipation, hopefully unaware of the cataclysm poised to descend from above.

John Constantine has posed:
Oddly enough, John doesn't seem put out by this development in the slightest. It's almost as if he frolics in the forest with tiny bunnies made of demonic fire on the daily. The one that lands on his nose does have him crossing his eyes for just a moment.

"Thanks, luv," he murmurs down at the sleeping kitty. He scritches her between the ears before draping her about his shoulder like a woman's fuzzy mink stole. Given just a ten minutes to prepare, he could probably wrap most of this up in a neat little bow given all the dark power his sleeping KittyWife just fed him for dinner. He'll have to remember to stop and buy some anchovies and a nice cardboard box on the way home. Lacking the time to make proper preparations, John has to fall back on quick and dirty. With not even the time to draw a blade from his pocket, he digs gouges into his palms with nothing but his own fingernails. It's not a lot of blood, but it's enough. Quick and dirty always requires a sacrifice. He throws his hands up, palms raised.

"Per tenebras et glaciem noctis, vincite animam hanc miseram. Umbrarum tactus, omnia congelare."

Dark tendrils of shadow spring forth from both palms. Born of his own lifeblood, the demonic taint of that blood and the demonic power bestowed upon him by his beloved, their primary target is The Stillness. There's no time or founts of flame to chip away at the near steel durability of their enemies, not now. His goal isn't to cause injury, rather it's to give her a taste of her own medicine. He may not be able to stop time itself, but he can certainly shroud her in darkness - in inky black shadows that cling to the skin. Cold, dark shadows meant to freeze solid everything they touch in black impenetrable ice born of the stuff straight from the pits of Hell - and everyone assumes it's all about fire.

Standing there motionless, eyes rolling back to show mostly whites, shadows swirling and rising from his palms still. While his primary target is the Stillness - she's the one he aims to outright *stop*, John will keep the intention is to stop, or at least hinder, all three of their formidable foes.

But even having his appetite for power sated by his wife, it will only go so far - and the sacrifice, his own blood? Well it might even run out before the well of power.

If he can only hinder them enough to give the others a fighting chance.

Oblivious of the danger around him, his focus solely on keeping the spell going, it might all be for naught - of course he has his lucky cat on his shoulders, right? And maybe, just maybe, the signature trick of the Laughing Magician's bloodline might just pull a little more luck his way.

Neena Thurman has posed:
As luck would have it, Domino's real familiar with inept drunkenness! John and her may have come from completely different backgrounds and led very different lives but the power of booze and over-indulgence provides some unspoken common ground. Not to mention his psychic thought now buzzing about in her head.

It's a call to arms. A -great- time to be pooling resources. But fortune finds its way onto this battlefield in another completely random way first. Something with two extra sets of arms and fancy furry boots.

"Spiral?! How the hell'd you get here?"

Does this mean they have a potential way OUT of this Hell? Way to draw a potential ace there, Dom.

As the six-armed sorceress rushes over the bloodied merc is quick to lean on the other woman for support. A quick look around the warzone shows a lot of awfulness headed toward friends and allies...but not toward either of these two.

-Perfect.-

The best defense is an unseen knife slipped between the ribs of the opposition. Domino points directly at John Constantine when she tells Spiral "Get me -there.-"

And then what? She hasn't thought that far ahead but for now chance brought her exactly what she needed exactly when she needed it. One step at a time!

Hopefully Constantine will have a better idea.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
When two of the heaviest hitters she knows of start making better threats than her, those being Madelyne and Rachel. It might have taken a bit for Tabby to figure that Madelyne was not Jean, but Tabby was really drunk at the time.

But she figured the oomph is there in the DNA.

That said, the blonde can't really shut up about somethings. Especially when the redeemer seems to short circuit. "Good thing I don't need hands for my powers. I may need them to keep my panties in place later." she says playfully out loud while she gets in on providing cover fire herself.

Using the plasma she already started generating she sends a couple softball sized orbs of almost purple pink plasma at the Silencer. Trying to get the bombs close to him via her own telekinetic control. Or at least closer enough so that when they are in blast range...

BOOM!

And hopefully make the alleged angel think twice.

Emma Frost has posed:
Lovely, battlefield of magic, targets not present, and powers everywhere. Emma goes to close her eyes while everyoe goes to throw out heavy attacks. She muses. All right, some of them are not present. This is a realm where she is out of her element. But she has a few tricks at hand still. Even if there's no immediate need for her telepathy.

She goe sto draw upon sensations that she's done so many times. Darkness. Nothingness. Among the group of Brotherhood, Justice League Dark, and X-Men, everyone throwing in their hand Emma goes to throw out that sense of the void. All around them for all seeming appearances hopefully draws upon entropy and distortion.

She's attempting to throw up a complete jamming field to the senses, extrasensory or otherwise that goes one way. Her attempt is at least to try and jam things out and make it harder for their attackers to know exactly -where- they are and what they're doing.

It's an indirect interference designed to give the others openings. She's going to be playing a support role here, but she can hopefully help give the otehrs some leeway. So to each active adversary on the field, Emma tries to give them th sensation of the battlefield smother in darkness. Snuffed out, things blanketed, no sound, no sensation, just echos seeming slowed whispering across the battlefield. It may or may not be of any help, but it's hopefully a small edge. It at least will make the attackers aware of something messing with them which will hopefully make them a bit more cautious, even if it's useless.

Charles Xavier has posed:
Everything goes to, well, hell. A hunk of rebar nearly impales Charles, but there's a flash of golden light and the hunk of metal just bounces off.

Forcefield, Charles thinks, breathing shallowly, cool.

"Paul this isn't." Everything starts to shake as Lorna tries to save everyone. The Astral Plane is melting into hell, still, and all of this magic isn't helping anyone. He'll have to reach out to the Redeemer at a later date, when things aren't this chaotic.

For the first part, let's keep the dimensions apart. Xavier experiments a little with this charge of whatever it is. Gold, he supposes. There it is. Xavier shudders under the power-no wonder Erik keeps falling for these charges-and focuses his mind.

Gold and blue rocket out from the Professor's Brain. Gilded columns burst into being, attaching to the points where Violator tore a hole into Hell and the Astral Plane, Xavier literally thinking the universes apart.

"I can't...do this for long." Xavier says, hands shaking as he holds desperately onto his chair, "Get those civilians out of here! We can let it all collapse once they're free!"

Spiral has posed:
Spiral has hands to spare, and uses them to help support Domino. She still looks immeasurably annoyed, but the additional realization that there's a serious wound on the other woman has her expression changing to more sputtering and frothing at the mouth. "You need the Body Shop, not that bastard." she grates, jutting a chin at Constantine. A tang of bile at the back of her throat as she views the myriad of powers at play, the cacophony and churn of magic.

A growl of mounting frustration, and Spiral has to acknowledge she doesn't have the same sitrep that Domino's rocking, her having had boots on the ground longer than Spiral's fur-lined ones. "Fine! Hold onto your guts."

Spiral can't Bamf as quick as some muties, but she can manage a site-to-site jump pretty darn fast. Passing through the threshold to leapfrog to Constantine comes accompanied by a flurry of arm gyrations, finger-snaps and gestures that could pass for rude declarations.

F-you reality, we're coming through.

Bishop has posed:
He has the measure of the energy signatures now. The heavensfire lances, the infernum that are the flames of hell and the sorcery that joined realities and dimensions and pulled them all into it - they are all ultimately just different frequencies to him. Conflicting and competing frequencies but ones that his mutant genome can inexplicably draw in and make its own.

Power that he can take, use and, more then that, amplify.

Thus, when the bolts begin raining down and attacks start to rip into the platform, Bishop positions himself as a shield for those nearest to him and then drags his arm around in a wide scything blast, doubling the force of the energy he'd recieved prior, to send an enromous reflex cannon like blast of holy fire billowing raging out across what passes for the sky in this bizarre, catastrophic realm.

"Beind me!" he shouts, deep voice echoing and crackling with the discharge of the energy he's unleashing, urging those near him or able to get near him to take cover as his launches assault after assault to intercept the attacks raging for them and to keep those focusing on their escape and disruption of the supernatural mayhem covered.

Mary Seward has posed:
The Queen of Blood is knocked out of the frantic nature of the situation by the Goblin Queen. It was hard to ignore that booming voice of yours. After all, a fellow red head self-titled queen is a thing to applaud in her book. "Is she single?" She asks, mostly joking, as she points her thumb over at Madelyne.

Yet she's given no time for a proper answer. Serious or otherwise. Apparently, she's been singled out. She would normally make some smart-aleck remark that "predator" was selling her a bit short. But, the soles of her shoes burned hot enough to keep her mind off anything but that. Good thing too. That focus keeps the golden blade quickly rising from skewering her, just as she changes her form into that of shapeless mist, quickly flying upwards and reforming into her humanoid form. "They had it coming! Not my fault!" She still gets at least one barb at his expense.

All that she can afford to say, what with her having to put that nimbleness of hers to the test in dodging Judgement's sword slashes, wanting to tear into her. She knows better than to let it get so much of a knick of her skin, what with her experience against divine weaponry in the hands of mere mortals. Still, when she sees that spear heading her way, she sees that the time has come for power over dexterity. Thus, an attempt to dodge is not made. The muscles in her arms bulge, expand and burst with hair all over as she grabs onto the spear. She holds it back as it's inches from her chest, buying herself enough time to fully change into her massive, beastial form."YOU'RE GONNA GET WORSE THAN THEY GOT!"

The now Lycanthrophic monster, with fur and teeth abound, with claws paired alongside it all roars as she makes a leap for Judgement, in the middle of its lunge towards her fellow "predator" Sabretooth, slamming her fist down upon it as hard as she can muster.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
Madelyne is still on fire. Psychic fire, anyway. In a dark mirror of Rachel's own manifestation, the clone burns with disgusted rage. This entity, this -creature-, claims to be some kind of divine justice. Madelyne would say that her existance is proof that there is no God. He would not allow her to exist. A clone, made to be used for dark purposes by ... someone.

No one will tell her who they suspect, but everyone seems to have suspicions.

This thought and the feelings that come with it just make her angrier. They make her stronger.

Space warps further under the awful pressure of her raw, psionic might. She's firing on all cylinders, unpracticed but terribly, terribly strong. Fire and light bloom around her, attacks from the Redeemer. Her hair singes, her skin burning, but that's just fuel to the inferno of her mind. Every hurt. Every pain. All of it converted to raw power.

"That's right," she snarls as the platform starts to fall. "Kneel before me."

Power again. More. Unfiltered. Unfettered. Savage and ragged lashes out at the Redeemer, seeking to crush a mind that brushes against the infinite. To make it know the pain of being Finite.

Rachel Summers has posed:
Molten gold ignites into astral fire as it surrounds Rachel Summers in winding, serpentine patterns, like a raging river in orbit. It's the fuel she uses to burn her path into the Redeemer's mind -- and once there, she -latches- on, like the hunter who has glimpsed the soft underbelly of a target much too dangerous -not- to exploit.

His roar of agony rattles in her skull. No -- it's more than that: it's like her mind is exposed pointblank to a thunderclap on the astral brain and the reverb of it -seethes- all the way down to her core. The timestrewn starchild hisses, her features contorting in a grimacing twist of agony that blooms at the back of her eyes as astral echoes to physical. The flames flickering their feverish journey through her hair ebb and flow in erratic pulses. Chunks of tearing concrete fly past her, coming within inches of knocking her head clean off her shoulders; she twists, moving with the downward collapse of the platform, grits her teeth through the agony still empathetically scouring her soul, and -focuses-.

In the astral, she can feel minds hard at work, she can sense as much as see the focus from Constantine and Amethyst as they weave their magics. She hears Lorna's request before that connection is cut off.

She'd never admit it -- but something about that demanding voice centers her. A sardonic smile smears across her lips as a bloody trail of stress oozes down her right nostril.

< Well, if the -Queen- demands it... > the burning heat of her psychic voice rings out. Because she's just can't help herself.

And, frankly?

It actually helps -her-.

Her attention refocuses on the Redeemer, as the entire world seems to crumble around her. She can't do anything to help with the magic -- and if she dares to take her attention off the supernatural knight before her to try to help the Professor, it might risk all of them in the process. So, she focuses on this. Focuses on the thing walking around in the essence of what was once Phil Timper. The burning embers of her gaze slide Madelyne's way -- she tries not to think of how much the woman looks like some wrathful incarnation of her mother in moments like these as she pits her focus back upon the Redeemer, flickers of black slashes appearing and disappearing at her cheeks the more the entity before her demands her attention.

Madelyne demands that the Redeemer kneels.

Rachel's psychic command underlying that is a very different one:

"Remember."

Reaching back in, reaching back -deeply-, she tries to upon those scant remnants of what made Phil Timper who he was once more -- and trying to amplify them to their maximum within the Redeemer himself.

"These are just -people-. People like Phil Timper. People like -you-."

To inject humanity into the divine, even as her teeth grit and her head pounds to delirious heights with the effort.

< Can't... keep this up forever... are we less completely screwed yet...?! >

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
John obtains himself a particularly stylish scarf to the dismay of PETA. The cat's paws drape down the lapel of his much-battered and abused coat. Her claws convulse and extend once, boneless body jerked into stiff and hostile lines just the once when the Redeemer's mind cracks and shrills beneath the weight of a psychic assault. Sharp murder-mittens exposed stay that way, hooked in the trenchcoat by a thread. Torpid stillness descends over Meggan, her unremarkable three kilo weight of unequivocally no significance to John moving about.

Blackened burrs melt into the stained khaki flaring around the man whenever he moves, leaving nothing than the burnt stench of brisket and hot metal behind. Doubtless forgettable to the astral bombardment and actual metallic macrame performed by an outraged magnetokinetic with the most glorious hair ever seen. Gold dust bunnies carried on the solar wind float lazily through the wild updrafts of an alicorn on the move, Polaris and Amethyst upon it, or float past Bishop to be absorbed into his growing amperage of power. They stick to furry boots and mercenary alike when Spiral and Domino emerge behind, too close to the Stillness.

Golden heaven-motes shear away from glowing columns, convinced to travel against gravity or breezes through John's sickly shadows. An omniscient bystander can find a common pattern in the pathways scribed by vengeful divine fire, as all roads lead to Rome, and the shiver-sparked dance of quarks thrums eagerly around a small quick-beating heart.

Deadly ruby beams tear up the rulebook on time's linear flow, the editorial dictates scribbled over the seconds heaped up in the choking midnight. Madness concusses the much-frayed and abused skein of space. Interlocked stars of Rachel and Madelyne that whirl around one another in a bright-dark reflection further tear at the gaps which they just sewed up, at fairly great cost. Does the Silver City hear the tumult? Are they laughing all the way in Malebogia?

Meggan just sleeps through it all, whiskers twitching, tickled by her person's manoeuvering around. Violent temporal arguments dictated in no uncertain terms can crash down as loudly as The Stillness likes, the brutal torment of time ceases and snaps into proper focus atop the little black cat. Fight all The Stillness likes, she lenses reality right back to where it belongs without a whimper. Unstoppable force meets immovable feline.

An incomprehensible little noise passes sharp little teeth. Nothing but teensy, sibiliant cat-voice Enochian. Eat your heart out, Sabrina! <<Rethink your actions. Uriel Demiurgos will not like cleaning this up.>>

Lorna Dane has posed:
Polaris may as well be cargo in Amethyst's arms: already down to her knees by the time the princess snags her, she's limp and boneless save for taut, trembling arms as she is gathered up and carried off to the back of a flying steed.

It would be romantic, if not for the raw and aching scream still tearing from Lorna's lungs-- or the way she instantly slumps against Amethyst's back once seated, trembling against the Princess through shallow and rapid breaths. If not for the Queen having invested so much of herself to a task...

"... too-- too much-- it's--!"

... with no end in sight, it'd be a picture fit for glossy paperback covers. The platform's a long way from where it started and almost as far from the bottom.

Thank God, then, for Charles Xavier: supercharged by a spark of raw divinity, the Professor's Omega-class Mutant brain thinks of Home so powerfully that the withering extradimensional space that was the Labyrinth splits wide open in response. The tainted ground of VS Farms lies on the other side of that unstable blue-gold rip, as as Charlie X calls to them to rescue the civilians first and foremost and speaks to years of intensive training buried throughout Lorna's consciousness like tactically empathetic landmines. The magnetic mutant shifts gears on a dime: as the platform lurches to a stop, pipework rips itself free of its last remaining moorings all across it. Crackling emerald collapses inwards until it's clinging to the organ and its many, many captured reeds.

With another agonized scream - this time right in Amaya Amethyst's ear, as she's beset by bracing deathgrip - Polaris begins driving the torment machine through that rent in space-- a precariously and deliberate process indeed, between her own flagging stamina and the Professor's tenuous grasp on his divine power-charge.

Another of Xavier's students uses his own body to shield the rest of the coalition from forces beyond mortal ken and turns them into ammunition. Each charged bolt fired from Bishop's fists hammers into the stunned Redeemer, driving him further and further from the platform as he struggles to recover himself; those laced with the black remnants of infernal sorcery prove particularly effective, sending shudders through his body and ink-black coils worming across the surface of his armor.

And so, the stage is set for Rachel and Madelyne - one, the fruit of his teachings grown in the hard and rocky soil of a broken future; the other, the black mirror of his first pupil - to deepen the pairing of their psionic might. Burning black claws stretch to their utmost in a bid to encompass the thrumming whole of the Redeemer's consciousness, leaving deep ouges wherever the Goblyn Queen's talents find purchase. The part of him forged in eternal gold is too resilient to be crushed beneath the pressure, but the rest of him - the lingering threads of Phil Timper - leak through the cracks, flooding across Madelyne's palate-- responding, instinctively, to Rachel's call.

The piece of him that was Phil Timper remembers how small, how weak he once felt. Phil spent the first half of his life in and out of state custody, robbing and stealing and hurting anyone unfortunate enough to get between him and a fix until his greed led him to set his cell-mate and last remaining friend up to be beaten to death for the promise of another baggie. He found God in jail, but given so few places to turn as an ex-con without so much as a GED, it wasn't long before the Purifiers found him-- and less time still for his very serious new friends who accepted him even if he wasn't personally willing to go out 'hunting' with them to lead him into the Deacon's sway.

For Phil, the hate he was expected to hold for Mutants played a distant second to the love he felt from his new brothers and sisters-- a love which drove him to lament his inability to help them once the Deacon began his abrupt shift towards the cult's apocalyptic last days.

Lorna Dane has posed:
As Rachel demands that he remember, it's that confused squall of love found in dark corners and ripped away by forces beyond understanding that floods the Redeemer's patchwork psyche-- and together, the redhaired psychic duo manage to hold him back from descending upon the platform with his full might.

For now.

However, while the Judgment and the Stillness were revived through an act of his will, they're operating on their own cognizance now: a slowed Redeemer means nil to the black iron monster grappling with clawed, fanged predators as it turns more and more of its attention towards the Queen of Blood. While one pair of arms nocks burning, golden arrows drawn from a quiver hidden between spaces and tries to shoot Domino and Spiral with flaming bolts, another relinquishes its now gargantuan, unwieldy spear in favor of locking up with the bestial vampire queen. Its strength is overwhelming, even relative to her transfiguration; its face - frozen in a rictus of wide-eyed wrath - gleams with black light as a wave of dread ripples outwards, crashing against Mary and threatening to drown her psyche in a rush of primal fear. Thus far, it remains wholly unaware of being in Princess Amethyst's sights even as ribbons of destructive magic gather in the air around it.

The Hellblazer drwas on dangerous magics in a bid to make up the gap, however, wrapping shadowy tendrils around first the Stillness, then the Judgment, and - eventually - the Redeemer, in the distance. The timetwisting Mutant monster is the focus of his sorcerous ire, beset by black coils seizing its limbs, its necks, its body-- all of it in due time: the Judgment shows tangible signs of slowing down beneath the effort of trying to juggle fighting with Mary and cutting free of tentacles, but the Stillness' rays come to a dead stop as John Constantine burrows into its darkest depths, seeking out the crack in its being that will allow him to split it wide open. Plasma bombs connect with its body, frozen in time and space, rocking it with kinetic shockwaves; psychic sensory jamming guarantees that just as the Judgment's perceptions are rapidly narrowed down to the point that the only thing it can hope to concentrate on is Mary, the Stillness sees--

-- feels--

-- perceives nothing else in all of existence beyond itself and John Constantine.

And while the Redeemer's just able to marshal itself enough to utter:

"THE DEVOURER-- APPROACHES: WILL URIEL-- REARRANGE THE RUBBLE--?!"

All the Stillness can do is meet the Hellblazer's gaze in the black liminal space formed by the combination of the warlock's magic and Emma's perceptual jamming. Currents of broken time cease lashing against the kitten draped across his shoulder and lock onto the man himself: protective enchantments race wildly out of control one moment, threatening to crumble; the next, John feels oceans of time separating one thought from the next. Much like the last time he attempted a gambit of this nature, combating the Stillness' chronal powers with his magic means connecting himself to her-- and that means subjecting himself to the temporal cacophony her violently mutated mind and body have already adapted to. Now, unlike then, she has the Redeemer's own powers bound to her lifeforce, bolstering it and serving as an added layer of protection against John's manipulation.

The spell will last for as long as he's willing and able to hold it.

But holding it means hanging on to a live wire that wants to trap him in eternal, paradoxical ignition and stasis all at once.

Emma Frost has posed:
This is a fight of magic and of psionics far more powerful than she is. This si a careful game where she has to pay manipulator and just try and slowly build up things as best she can manage. Emma Frost goes to keep up the void and the darkness. Her powers aren't being entirely useful here, but it's still of some assistance. Now with the enemy weakening and being battered back, Emma goes full on assault. While Rachel and Madelyne handle the full power blasts, combining psionics, reality warping telekinesis, and magic, and Charles does the effort of holding everything mentally together..

Emma Frost goes on the telepathic attack rather than simply veiling the area. For each of the enemy minds fighting, focused or not, she tries to give them the sense of being crushed. Gravity warping around them, pounding harder and harder. Each move getting weightier and weightier as their mass in the mental realm would increase. Attempting to push down hard upon them to try and give the sensation of being constricted, crushed, warped. Like they had been thrown down on the surface of a gas giant, bodies somehow still able to feel things as they would be smothered down to a perfect sphere, constricted and being smashed down centimeter by centimeter, molecule by molecule.

Attempting to make it for them in the mindscape like they were as weighty as the stars themselves. Not able to even feel things as gravity would be so strong as to warm light around it. Getting smaller and smaller, just a few more lose atoms of hydrogen in the infinite void.

All she has to do is hopefully pour on the sensation and distraction to make things even harder to resist and fight back against with everything else going on.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy's heart pounded, her arms tightening protectively around Lorna as they soared through the air on Ypsilos' broad, powerful wings. The weight of her friend in her arms felt heavier than it should have-Polaris, so strong, so unyielding, now limp and trembling in Amy's grasp. The scream that tore from Lorna's throat was raw, agonized, cutting through the wind like the very pain that wracked her body. But there was still a task that Amaya had to carry out, a spell that Amethyst left hanging in the air. <<CLEAR JUDGEMENT!>> she warns telepathically, just as she calls out...

"Ex-" Amy's voice rang out with fierce precision, her magic alive and coursing through the air. The first circle crackled, each rune along its edge glowing with an intense light as it began its descent. The energy was palpable, rippling outward with the force of her command, a storm waiting to be unleashed.

"-plo-" The second syllable left her lips as the second of the three concentric circles roared to life. Sparks flew like wild embers, the air thick with the building destructive force. Amy's violet eyes flared brighter, reflecting the chaotic dance of magic as she pushed the power downward, driving it toward the final circle with unrelenting will.

"-sion!" Her cry echoed across the battlefield as the final circle overflowed, the ancient runes breaking apart under the weight of the raw energy Amy had summoned. In that split second, the heavens themselves seemed to tear open, and the magic she'd built came crashing down in a cataclysmic blast.

It was neither hellfire nor the celestial fury of heaven. This was something more primal, more untamed: pure, unadulterated power forged by her will alone. The blast struck Judgment with the force of a hundred storms, slamming into the Purifier with such ferocity that the very air seemed to vibrate from the impact.

Amy's breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she felt the pull of emotions, guilt, fear, protectiveness-all mingling in her chest. Lorna had given so much of herself to the fight, and the toll it had taken was undeniable. She pressed Lorna close, hoping that even in this moment of agony, her Queen could draw some strength from the contact, from knowing she wasn't alone.

"Lorna, hold on! I've got you!" Amy whispered fiercely, her tone brimming with both command and compassion. Her grip on Lorna was firm but gentle, trying to offer comfort while keeping them steady in flight. The raw power of the Queen's scream echoed in her ear, and Amy winced at the sheer intensity of it.

But there was no time for hesitation. With a surge of determination, Amy steadied herself against Lorna's weight, feeling the bracing death grip as Polaris, through sheer force of will, began to drive the torment machine through the precarious tear in space. Amy could feel the tension in Lorna's body, the flagging stamina threatening to consume her, and the strain of the Professor's divine power-charge hovering on the edge of control.

"Stay with me, Lorna!" Amy called out, her voice rising above the winds. "You're almost there! Just a little longer!" She wove a thread of magic around them, a protective barrier, hoping to ease the pressure even slightly as they maneuvered through this deadly task.

John Constantine has posed:
Will last as long as he's willing and able to hold it. The first is a given - he's *willing* to hold it for as long as it takes. Putting a stop to the one thing that interferes with everyone else taking action, well that's something worth holding on to. It's the 'able' part that's questionable.

Blood magic. It requires something of the caster - it's often considered a 'shortcut' and a dangerous one. But when there's no time to take the long road - it comes in handy.

So, he stands there, motionless still, as those inky icy shadows pour forth from his palms. The only movement from him is the slight twitch of his lips as he mouths the words to the incantation from time to time to keep the spell going. His eyes are still rolled back slightly to reveal more white than color. A thin sheen of sweat beads on his forehead. His heart pitter-patters in his chest a little too quickly.

Somewhere along the line it becomes more a question of *can* he stop rather than *willingly* stopping. At some point, stopping is no longer an option even if he was willing. With time all mucked about in his mind - with those oceans between thoughts - he just becomes lost in the depth of the waters. Has it been it been an hour? Two? Ten minutes? A second? A week?

Time has lost all meaning.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino would love to explain what, exactly, the goddamn fuck is going on here to Spiral. In truth she barely knows what's up, herself. She doesn't know what to do or where to go or what proverbial buttons to push beyond this odd compelling tug from a deeper layer of instinct telling her to -go over there- and Spiral is her best means to achieve this goal. There may be questions, but they can wait. There may even be apology drinks, but they can wait. Lady Luck is following a hunch, one which no longer needs to be followed alone.

Filling a hand with a gore-stained gun, Domino turns to Spiral to wearily ask "Can you lead this dance?"

The pale killer can barely keep herself standing but something tells her she won't need to worry about remaining vertical. Just so long as she can stay alive, a feat which is starting to look far more promising with a swordmaiden nearby.

Except for a bunch of flaming arrows being sent in their direction. Dom manages to shoot down a couple of them before they make their mark but it's a losing battle. If it proves too much for Spiral as well then she's going to get hit, though for once she's not so concerned about playing the odds. Her luck is being channeled toward something greater, helping to feed into John's blood magic.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
Sure most of what everyone is doing is just trying to create some space for people to start getting the hell out. But somethings are still highly amusing to the bundle of chaos that is Tabitha.

<<I don't think these guys are gonna be much fun kneeling down there. They clearly don't know what'll make a girl happy! You can do way better!>> Tabby points out with a playful tone. And maybe a telepathic equivalent of eyebrow bouncing suggestion.

While Stillness. Tabby can't keep track of which asshole is which gets stunlocked right at the point of detonation. Does the guy feel the whole thing or is it still perceived as a flash of a moment. Will it even actually hurt.

The one still talking though annoys even her as he talks. AHH SHADDUP! she yells at the Redeemer.

Not really knowing if her bombs are all that useful, Boom-Boom heads for Amy and Lorna as an explosive spell is aimed and sent. <<I think you found a keeper Lorna!> She beams into the link.

Also, like maybe if you can. Not die. If you need electrical energy. I got a a heap left in the tank. I can carry while Amy fights. If other electrokinetics can draw power from her, a magnetic type should be fine too.

Spiral has posed:
Even amongst this hellish place, Spiral can smell all the ruby-red leaking out of the monochrome merc. Or maybe it's the growing tang saturating everything, with blood volunteered or not. It's making Spiral's flight or fight instincts go crazy. Definitely considering a hasty exit before any of her own joins.

Acting like a personal armature, Spiral doesn't exactly puppet, but comes close in manuevering Domino upright and mobile. Asking her to dance? "Of course." It's said with less acid, and more simmering concern.

Up close, like they're about to tango, Spiral ushers Domino step-by-step, carrying, and shifting. "Do what you have to do."

Totally not using Domino as a human shield. It just kinda ~looks~ like it. Going with the old 'I'll drive, you shoot', Spiral takes the wheel and lets the lucky lady let loose, waltzing up to Constantine and avoiding environmental hazards will swirls and twirls.

Bishop has posed:
Mystic power suffuses his form. Eldritch energy dusts across him. Bishop's eyes gleam, blazing with the fury of a solar flare as he calmly states, voice crackling and rumbling with subdued professional thunder.

"Thank You."

He turns, dragging both of his arms around as if weighted with the tremendous density of the force he'd just been gifted with. His hands whirl about each other, spinning and weaving a vast well of energy from his overcharged massive physique and pulling it forth into a visual spectacle amongst all the other spectacles that are unfolding around him. There is a loud rumbling sound like some sort of kaiju powering up it's impending blast of energy and again The X.S.E. Commander speaks as he turns his attention towards Judgment and the duel with The Queen of Blood.

"INCOMING"

The enormous blast of energy lances out, burning a huge visible scar through the air as it rushes towards Judgment with a singular thundering tone of sound belting through the area to accompany the raging discharge of visible kinetic force.

For godo measure, he brings his arm around after the initial blast, sending the remnants of it through another outstretched fist towards Redeemer, searching for that needed 'one two punch' to hopefully help them all get over the threshold and to escape this madness.

Charles Xavier has posed:
This is a lot.

Understatement? Sure. Xavier doesn't quite have the eloquence for using his powers to hold a collapsing wormhole between dimensions open so his kids can get the hell out of here. His hands are clammy, his face is full of sweat and he's pretty sure there's some blood coming from somewhere. Xavier's entire body feels like a bruise so it isn't quite helping.

"X-Men!" Xavier shouts, because the delicate politics of the alliance don't mean a damn right now. "X-Men! Fighting retreat! We need these people out of here before the portal fully collapses! I'll hold it together as long as I can!"

"Constantine's in deadly danger!" Xavier says. Can he lend a little extra energy to help the Hellblazer escape the loop he's trapped himself in? Xavier tries, because fundamentally that is his nature.

Xavier wheezes, shaking from the strain, from the awful reality that Galactus is coming and all they're doing is running out the clock. His mind expands, again, supercharged by the Redeemer's gift, touching on levels he'd never dared before. Xavier can feel.

"X-Men Emergency." Xavier wheezes, as his golden chair starts hovering, moving the Professor into a safer position as he holds up the sky.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
This is absolute madness. Outside of space and time, hurtling towards a rift to get them home. It is truly the wildest thing Madelyne has ever been involved with. She is pushing her powers to the limit and beyond. For you see, she has realized something in the wake of her conversation with Magneto.

She is a clone of Jean Grey.

Jean Grey is the most powerful psychic on Earth. Perhaps only the second most powerful, but that doesn't really matter. The point is that Madelyne is her equal in raw power. She has very little of the training and years less of experience. Right this minute? That doesn't matter.

All of the words on the mind web? Static. Drowned in her fury. She hears none of them. Her crushing is helping, but not enough. So she changes tactics. One hand reaches out towards the redeemer, wrist twisting so her palm is up. And she -pulls-. Not with telekinesis, but instead -astrally-. Soul to soul.

The green and violet raptor rakes the Redeemer with it's claws, grasping at it's essence, it's -power-. Ripping and tearing to bring some back to Madelyne.

Nothing bad will happen if Madelyne gets some mystical power, right?

Mary Seward has posed:
Mary remains throwing her weight against that of Judgement. It's perhaps the most powerful thing she's ever had to face in her long lived life. Not just on a physical level...but a mental one. She could feel it, trying to worm it's way into her head. Trying to overwhelm her with fear...a feeling of powerlessness. But, there's nothing she hates more than that. Not even humanity.

It's a good thing that John Constantine managed to remind her of his more redeeming qualities. As the Hell-Blazer's tentacles coil around the Judgement with a vice grip, Mary gets an extra bit of motivation. "Thanks, Johnny!" She barks out. At the very least, it sounds like a bark in this state. She pushes against Judgement harder, now that it's been so hindered. She just needs that extra push

...It comes as intervention from Bishop. With the time-warped mutant's heads up, she knows just what to do. She pushes on Judgement, just so it lines up all the more perfectly with the blast.

In this struggle, she's reminded of the last time she took this form in a scuffle with the purifiers that ended with a fight against a supernaturally inclined member of there's with a booming voice...She remembers biting that one's head off. Now, here she is staring this...creature's permanent scowl down. She decides to replay that hit.

"Pucker up." She unhinges her gaping, drooling maw and chomps down on Judgement's head.

Rachel Summers has posed:
There he is. Desperate. Sad. Ugly.

Human.

There are many, metaphysical warts to the psyche called Phil Timper. The astral impression of him carries his memories like a ball and chain, dragging noisily and eternally behind him, potchmarked by every sick, sorry deed he committed in the name of his fear.

Opening up to him, Rachel can't help but see it -- the vile acts of a man driven by cowardice. The isolation and hopelessness he felt when addiction and terror burned away all human connection in the world for him. Even the love he felt for a group that, in large part, just exploited him and his gift -- even that is twisted.

But if there is anyone equipped to deal with the contorted, gnarled and ugly parts of human nature... it's Rachel Summers.

Her head is pounding. Time feels like a strange, twisting vertigo around her thanks to the Stillness playing havoc with the elemental aspect of reality like a toddler smashing toys together. Her ears ringing, her face flushed, Rachel strains to dredge out those memories -- those sentiments -- from the primordial sanctity of the Redeemer's psyche.

Eyes flare in furious sparks. As this moment demands more and more of her attention, the psychic weave she constantly maintains on a subconscious level starts to falter, and the many Marks of the Hound scoring her face in black slashes are slowly revealed on her otherwise fair features.

She hates them. All the ugly memories they contain, scarred forever into her flesh and soul. But she doesn't focus on that. She focuses on Timper.

The astral raptor's claw of Madelyne Pryor seeks the essence of the Redeemer.

And the sheer, brilliant conflagration that is Rachel Summers' psyche reaches out in perfect tandem -past- the Redeemer, to grab hold of that love of Timper's, so sad and ill-fated and disastrous though it was...

... and drags it -up- to fill the holes rent within the Redeemer's mindscape by Madelyne's vicious gauging of it. Whether Bishop's follow up does the Redeemer in or not... she can't help that. But...

Rachel, personally, thinks godly things could use more human failings and loves.

So, she commits almost all her focus into this. Almost all of it. But not -all- of it.

A tiny sliver of her consciousness -- the only bit she can afford to surrender at this moment--

-- it reaches out to Lorna, to speak into her mind, and hers alone.

< This can't be all you've got, > Rachel's voice is a blistering heatwave of encouragement(??) in Lorna's fatigued brain. The sentiment is as acerbic as she ever is with Lorna, but...

< I know you're better than this. I know you can handle this. >

... despite all their differences.... it comes with something else.

The last, tiny sliver of the Redeemer's offered blessing. Used to try to strengthen Lorna's focus. Her mind. The fulcrum of her powers and convictions.

< So prove me right; don't bitch up. >

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Warning was given. Warning went unheeded for all the good it does.

Things fall apart. The intangible attacks scythe through the small black cat with unimaginable force. No armour protects her from a lover's scream beset by pain and ferocious determination or the reciprocal punch of hope. Splintered fear and guilt embed themselves deep from an invisible rain, sped onward by flaring sparks of desperation. Phoenix echoes full of unshaken faith and self-loathing strike a knell that earns a muted cry in answer, naught to be heard. All-consuming fury reaching into the void burns a hollow space for spattered sparks of stuttering reaction to tumble into.

The centre cannot hold. Professor Charles Xavier, greatest of his generation, carves through the mind to perhaps inadvertently strike to the very core of a young woman's great weakness. In four words, his full psychic force hits the fracture point that shatters her slumber. Her composure. Her self.

The cat pulls her claws free as a thread snaps and slides off John between torrential black gouts. She never hits the ground. No sound of four paws beside his shoe, no tired meow among bombs bursting in air or streaks of energy leaving Bishop. A freefall through the blind bad luck in the warlock's wake severs her mental signature entirely from where even psychics may tread.

Gone.

What was it all for if not to ease their suffering? Hope sputters and dies, snapping the Vishanti-made seals laid upon of Meggan Constantine.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. At the point between yesterminute and future-state, something fills the space. She arises as dark spectre beneath the Stillness, around, betwixt, superpositioned in a warped afterimage untouched by the temporal madness. Slender fingers reach for inchoate necks and frames, night-tipped claws ablaze in life's own energy. Her hair, the tendrils of shadow writhing off her ephemeral form, all serve as a conduit to strike into whatever mockery of religious affliction her time-warped foe happens to be. The black-eyed fate spares nothing, striking with intent to reap a life, to send it hurtling back whence it came. Kitty cat is out of fucks to give.

Blood magic borne by John may underlie the spell, but with their oath literally carved into her very substance, she adds a new sacrifice. Blood spilled by the youngest scion of the elder god fuels what becomes.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Emma sets the stage for what follows: her mind rolls across those of the Stillness, the Judgment, and the Redeemer, encapsulating them in sparkling diamond too dense, too flawless to facilitate motion. Added atop the mystical fetters stubbornly held by Constantine, as well as Rachel and Madelyne's combined psionic offensive focused wholly on the Redeemer, the effects are severe: the Redeemer's beating wings slow to a crawl, and while the rhythm of Elemental Fire burning up and remaking reality around him continues apace through these myriad disturbances, it amounts to little more than a flurry of snow-white feathers and sweetly distorted trumpets raining down on the platform. The act of creation is divorced from the will necessary to guide it as several snares collectively close around divine wrath made flesh.

The dominos begin toppling rapidly from there.

The Redeemer's power is the only thing between the other two and a return to the grave. With it, it's possible they could keep up the fight indefinitely regardless of the myriad harms and traumas inflicted upon them by the coalition, just as a bodyful of slash marks and a broken neck weren't enough to stop them from menacing the group to begin with.

But one of those snares is made of astral fire, and as it burrows into the burning ocean that is the Redeemer's innermost self -

As it feeds golden agony right back through the conduit between Madelyne and the Redeemer, threatening to set her aflame as penance for hubris -

... his power wavers.

And without it: there's nothing buffering the calamity of Princess Amethyst's explosive sorcery and Lucas Bishop's genetic devastation when both fall nigh-simultaneously upon the Judgment, consuming all twelve feet of it in blistering, blinding light and warring colors. Stubborn thing that it is, the monster strains against enormous pressure even as swaths of black iron bubble, boil, and melt amidst twinned destruction. Its weapons shatter; its rictus visage splits in twain, a long and wobbling crack running from its skull down to the middle of its torso while limbs are transfigured into slag.

Nor is there anything to drive the twisted, liquified and flash-cauterized remnants of its body onwards when the Queen of Blood darts into the aftermath to crush its head between her jaws.

Likewise: given a charge from the Redeemer, it's entirely likely that the Stillness could've weathered John's frozen vice; plausible, even, that the combined might of the Constantines wouldn't have been enough to outpace its supernal stamina, bleeding one - if not both - of them out as they poured themselves into overwhelming the infinite. Without--...

The Stillness feels time slipping away just as John does. With its perception crushed into a tiny point and its will locked in diamond, even the natural adaptations of its Mutant physiology aren't enough to shield it from experiencing the utter loss of temporal coherance that leaves it fighting for dear life across trackless eons and flickering milliseconds alike. Separated from the Redeemer, it has no out-- and no way of even processing the rage erupting from Meggan Constantine, terrible and gaunt and mighty, reaches through the spaces between moments and engulfs the Stillness in darkness without definition, chaos predating the naming of things--

A slice of Elder divinity cleaving through upjumped mortality, claiming its life as readily as a kitten squashing an ant.

Lorna Dane has posed:
All the while, Rachel mortars the holes Madelyne punched in the Redeemer's consciousness with fragments of Phil Timper, a small and meek man who let his appetites - for money, for excitement, for drugs, and even for love - drive him until the day he died. Left to his own devices, the divine avenger would've surely burned those last shards of mortality from its being in time, paving the way for full actualization and steadying the unbalanced footing he's operated under since the moment of his inadvertant birth; thanks to Rachel, however:

Even as the connection shudders, violently, amidst Bishop's secondary blast, the Starchild feels those shreds of humanity taking root in the soil of the Redeemer's soul.

Which might take some of the sting from the static-laden, << god you are such a BITCH-- >> thrumming weakly in Astral space as Polaris takes on the Princess' mystical bolstering and the Starchild's fiery motivation. It's so much more coherent than the chorus of screams still boiling up in Amaya's ear, and much better at carrying undertones of gratitude - for everyone coming together to risk life and limb for strangers. One trembling hand seizes Tabitha's arm in a deathgrip, and the explosive Mutant immediately feels the draw as Lorna drinks in all the electromagnetic energy she's given and dumps it right back into pushing-- pushing-- PUSHING the organ all the way through Professor Xavier's gateway until it lands on the bloodsoaked grounds of VS Farms where this nightmare began.

After which she promptly falls unconscious in the Princess' arms, slumping against her.

There are limits even to what a mind as powerful as Emma's can accomplish, however: the White Queen feels cracks spreading the diamond cage capturing the Redeemer's thoughts. She feels the stirring of immense power and the shuddering brutality of divine wrath slamming against the bars of its prison as the Redeemer slowly lifts hits quivering left hand wreathed in Elemental Fire, fingers splayed wide-- and casts a blinding flare through the Labyrinthian void, whiting out all five senses and then some for precisely seven seconds.

When they pass, the coalition finds itself alone on, around the platform, save for the crucified Deacon-- and the re-slain Stillness and Judgment.

... and one of them feels a tiny, juddering spark of Fire crashing against the borders of her soul and psyche as Goblyn and Godliness meet.

Surely, there are consequences for those with the hubris to steal a sliver of divinity for themselves-- aren't there? The unconscious man pinned to the fragment of a wall proves it.

Time will tell what toll is levied against Madelyne Pryor for hers.

Amy Winston has posed:
Amy feels the static-laden insult sting across the astral space, but a soft, amused smile curls at the edges of her lips. Even in this state, Lorna's spirit fights on, defiant as ever. Amy holds her tighter, her grip firm but filled with understanding.

She can sense Polaris drawing in the mystical energy she's provided, alongside the fiery surge from Rachel. The combined force resonates between them all, uniting their powers in a way that feels more profound than any singular effort. It's a strange harmony, a cacophony of magic, electromagnetism, and sheer willpower. The screams in Amy's ear are relentless, but beneath the chaos, she feels the gratitude in Lorna's weakening presence.

Her sharp eyes catch sight of Tabitha approaching with urgency. With a firm tug on the reins, she brings Ypsilos to a landing, dust kicking up around them as they touch the ground.

"Hop on!" Amy calls out, her voice filled with authority yet laced with concern for Lorna. "You can hold onto her up here, but we're getting out of here before it all collapses!"

She shifts to give Tabitha room, her arms still protectively wrapped around Lorna's trembling form. "Quickly! We don't have much time!"

With a final, tremendous push, Amy feels it, the organ they've been struggling to move finally shoves its way through the gateway, crashing into the bloodstained earth beyond. For a split second, there is a release, a calm in the storm.

Then, as quickly as the task is completed, Lorna collapses, her body going limp in Amy's arms. The once-fierce energy now drains away, and Amy gives Polaris over to Tabitha so he can get them free.

Amy breathes deeply, her chest tight with a mixture of relief and worry. Turning her head slightly, she glances at Tabitha, her expression solemn but steady.

"We've done our part. Now, let's get her out of here," Amy says softly, her voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the battle hanging heavy on her.

Madelyne Pryor has posed:
She can feel it. The power. It burns and she wonders if this is a fragment of what Jean Grey felt when she merged with the Phoenix. It's bliss and agony at the same time. It's fire and ice and life and the final death.

It's wonderful.

Maddy rides this high as they all descend back to Earth. Back to the prime material plane. She hits the ground and stumbles, her body crackling green and gold, radiating heat. She staggers a step, another, and then she's gone. Rocketing into the sky under her own telekinetic power, reducing to a dot in the distance as she wars within herself to control what she has stolen.

It'll be fine.

John Constantine has posed:
To anyone that's been around the block a few times with John Constantine, what happens next is expected. When the spell is broken, when time snaps back into its normal rhythm - he's disoriented. With the enormity of the sacrifice he made, he's pale and sweaty. He drops to his knees. The man spends a whole lot of post battle moments on his knees - Frued would have a field day with that.

It's all to be expected. He fishes around in his pockets for his Silks and his lighter. It's all to be expected. That is until he *can't find* his cigarettes.

Noooooo!

Bollocks!

"Don't supposed any of you lot found a pack of ciggies?" he asks of no one really.

But his sulking moment of nicotine neediness is overridden by one thing. He pushes himself to his feet again, sways on them like the drunkard he is and calls out, "Meggan!"

Running on empty, each step he takes an act of sheer will, he'll find his way to his wife. It won't be until the two of them are home safe that he'll pass out cold, well right after he has himself a proper smoke.

Charles Xavier has posed:
Constantine's mind is.

It's not the WORST place he's been in, but Xavier feels a chill down his spine. And then.

Death. Lots of it. Xavier feels a coldness in his soul, as his second chance at life led directly into these poor children being murdered twice. There is, he reminds himself, a bunch of prisoners who need safe passage.

Professor X swats a fly that had landed right by his eye. Looking at the mess, he wheels into his own escape hatch: they can argue over cleanup after he's had a shower and a shave.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
Up on the horse, Tabby has to wobble and adjust because despite being the girl in charge of the stables at the Xavier School, she really has no idea how to actually ride one.

The energy drain that Tabitha consented too is felt pretty clearly. <<There we go, daaaaaamn!>> she lets out while a glow of energy lights up the blonde's irises and a lot of energy is channeled into shoving that organ into that opening.

That gets some increasingly tired snickering from Boom-Boom as she mostly works to hold on to Lorna and Amy's steed so the two women of varying levels of consciousness don't fall off the animal.

<<So gonna need a mimosa, a joint, and a long ass soak after all this!>>

Bishop has posed:
He's spent. The fullness of what he had to give from the energy he absorbed went with that last display of energized power and Bishop's mutant battery has reset back to zero. With all the power flying around, however, it won't be long before he's built something back up again.

In the meantime, guns. Big guns.

HIs X.S.E. blaster-rifile is immediately back in his hand and he moves forward to take a defensive stance until - finally, at long last, they are back in defiled terrain where this madness began.

The large security enforcer is silent, still gripping his blaster rifle so tightly that his fingers begin to grow numb...and then he finally relaxes and holsters the weapon...heaving a huge sigh in the process.

"I'm afraid not.." he answers, absently, as he overhers John. "In fact, I think, for awhile, I can do without anything that has to do with lighting something up or looking like sparks and fire..."

That's about all he has for what could possibly pass for a sarcastic remark as his shoulders slump with the first signs of actually being worn out. Him. Worn out.

He turns and moves to begin to check on the most wounded and battered. This will be a long clean up and recovery effort, that's for certain.

Mary Seward has posed:
Mary seamlessly shifts from fearsome beast, back to elegant vampire queen. "...Never a dull moment, huh?" She laughs. "I can't wait to tell Satanna all about this. Fun." She wipes the left-over Judgement dribble from her mouth.

As she's about to say her goodbyes, she bemoans the fact that she inadvertently doomed herself into owing Constantine a favor with that those flapping lips of hers...as for the Goblin Queen who caught her eye earlier...

"Call me!" She calls out, as a gleeful invitation.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
What is death to an empath attuned to the thinnest slivers of emotion, fulfilling the purpose that the liminal court of darkness, change, and dreams delivers? A transcendent moment regardless that binds Meggan to the Stillness, witchbreed to witchbreed, finality to tormented eternity. Inscrutable and profound ways intersect beneath the aegis of that profoundly awful gift that measures and consumes all aspects of feeling until it burns out in the dark. A thread snaps, a weight falls. Mercy can be found in death not wholly of her own making, but the dark shadow that wears the ink-brushed likeness of a woman hovers in the broken fragments woven from eldritch spell and sublime life.

A silhouette in likeness of woman, a skin-deep effigy, coalesces into better definition over time. The call of a name renders little response initially after feasting on that poisoned chalice, tasting the Redeemer's collapse into monstrous self-recognition on the cusp of the holy. Recognition absent at the question in the sublime visage bared in all its unearthly symmetries, she does not turn to any vague inquiry, nor spark of pain. Crisped leaves and bare thorned vines dance in a tangle as she tilts her head, the ephemeral impression laid over her shadow capturing the evocative chill of dark, misty woods and moss-rimed cemeteries after dusk, overturned earth and places that most people truly don't want to go.

A name, a name, a name. What was it all for, if not to spare the children in the organ this? The cursed, the trapped, the maimed? Head tilted slightly as something curious tugs on the inaccessibly remote portion of the mind still aghast at the body below her feet, the torturous price paid. All that's diffuse coalesces with inrushing pop loud enough to be audible, and the little black cat goes slinking over to John, meeting him halfway or one step or whatever it is, making that incessant-toned mew known to every feline everywhere. A mildly panicked 'what happened to the food-giving servant?!' Or rather, 'are you okay?' Mewmewmewmewmemew.