1917/When the Sky Fell...

When the Sky Fell...
Date of Scene:	31 May 2020
Location:	Penthouse - Latverian Embassy
Synopsis:	A brief interlude in battle. Clea replenishes her energy stores after teleporting the army from Zod. Doom prepares to enter the fray. Rare softness displays.
Cast of Characters:	Clea, Victor Von Doom

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Clea has posed:
The world breaks in twain, split asunder by the platinum-haired consort of Victor Von Doom. Where she lands, in fact, is not in the penthouse nor in the business quadrant of the consulate.

Four steps to the side and she faces a refrigerator with a wide-eyed purpose, reaching out to pull the door open. Too hard, forgetting perhaps her own strength, and so that bang may or may not resonate. Clea isn't beyond apologetically looking around to whomever she may have disturbed in the kitchen of the consulate, possibly displacing the work of a good many different people: chefs, for example. Or other people eating. It's still evening, not deeply late at night, but enough the second moon in the sky and a flotilla of craft appear. And this, of all moments, is when she chooses to raid the stocks of food?

Apparently. Forth come an eclectic variety of materials: fruit, cheese, vegetables. They end up to the side, and a cursory look for any honey, chilled or not, is next. If anyone might -question- whether this is sane...

The Flames of the Regency marking her as the queen of the Dark Dimension are roaring around her, wildly shifted from violet to green and gold, then back again. Dropping a cucumber brings a sound of mute frustration. In other situations, entirely hilarious. Here? Here, she just clenches her shaking hand and frowns, going for another option. Blueberries? Consumed in a handful.

Victor Von Doom has posed:
It doesn't take long for Doom to receive word that Clea has returned to the Embassy. He has, of course, been tracking Warworld for quite some time, noting its approach. As well as the Kryptonian's attempts to marshal forces.

However, Doom knows that the best strategy is to wait. Which is why he sent others in the effort. Clea, of course, and Zora was urged to go keep Clea safe, as well as report to Doom on the nature of the attackers.

Needless to say, Doom is now aware of Zod's presence. And Doom is... not. Pleased. But at the moment, Doom steps into the kitchen, looking over at Clea, "Beloved, how fares the battle?" He sounds perfectly conversational, though his hands seem to be tinkering with something. An unpleasant surprise for some inhabitants of Warworld, no doubt.

Clea has posed:
Probably the alarms that register the enormous arcane presence that land. Possibly the fingertips plunged into the leyline so to speak, grabbing a handful of mana rather than water. For someone who generates almost entirely her own energy, that support is a rarity, but Clea pauses to link herself into the surge with a limited channel. Oh, she could pull the whole of it into herself, but then a certain sorcerer from the Sanctum Sanctorum might stamp out to yell at her for being greedy.

So, then, food: the handful of berries. A few slices of sharp cheddar cheese or whatever pleases the Latverian palate. In truth it doesn't matter, as she selectively pulls a few things more and turns away, knocking the fridge door shut with her heel. No point in bothering with amenities, she rapidly starts separating out what she wants onto a plate, and pops several in rapid order. She is still rather ladylike. No stuffing her face with a pimento, for example, or leaving trails of juice running down her chin. She doesn't need much help to eat a banana, for example. Neatly, anyway, as Doom appears to find her sans herald.

"Zora is there," she explains almost instantly. That apologetic or defensive state is an old instinct, built out of a millennium of trauma. But her chin is still lifted. "Needed to replenish after I had to shift the army." Hence four berries polished off neatly. "That alien is an insult to injury. He would -dare- to come here, he would -dare- to insist he was a benevolent dictator over us all. I would occult him into the Dark Dimension sooner than go to my knees for him. We bend for no one."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom nods, "I am... familiar, with Zod, from his failed efforts eight years ago." He snorts, "Pathetic quisling, he will //pay// for this affront against my planet. Unfortunately for him, I have had eight years to plan for his reappearance." Because when you battle Doom, the last thing you want to do, is give him time to prepare.

Think Batman, but without any sense of ethics or niceness.

In any event, Doom looks over at Clea, "When you are ready, I will join you on the field of battle. These aliens must learn, again, until the message sinks in. Earth is not for the taking." Well, unless it's by Doom, naturally.

Clea has posed:
"I remember." Those violet eyes could incinerate someone -- and very much reflect the inferno surrounding her pale hair, coloured by the ravaged intensity. Food is bringing colour back, at least in part, their strength reinforced by saturating her depleted pool of energy by the leyline. "He would not learn. Bombardments began, civilians will die. He tried to drink the flames I threw, and so I scoured by bloody skin from his skull."

Her teeth are not bared here. Her expression holds a sharpness to it that accentuates its otherworldiness, the fact she is not, cannot be human. Not totally. The floating of her feet off the ground as she turns to face Doom shows that. Batman without ethics meets the sorceress with a heart bruised, too much care, and the power that would be so very easy to discharge unkindly. Even not quite the Sorcerer Supreme -here-, those flames that come naturally are catastrophic. "I need you."

A simple statement of that.

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doctor Doom nods, "And you shall have me, Clea. Together, we will drive these offenders to their knees." He looks grim and determined, "When you are recovered, take us there, and we will face this invaders, and crush them utterly beneath our combined power."

Hey, at least this is on the side of the angels, right?

Clea has posed:
Stepping across the distance, Clea doesn't wait. Her hands, sticky still with fruit juice, rise to frame Doom's face. Mask or no mask makes no difference, she leans forward to press her brow to his, kiss mask or flesh with equal aplomb.

The leyline she subconsciously seizes and drags up a stronger current, filling up her reserves with the quantifiable bounty of the living world. Calling to it is a mental effort, the song to the Earth to grant her strength to defend it. To defend all that is not hers by birthright but adoption and choice.

The wrathful heat is a feverish, dry touch, but that curl of her lips deadly purposeful. "I never doubted it. We will see them gone, and peace returned."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom slips an arm around Clea instinctively, holding her close as he is, of course, in full armor. Though his eyes shine with emotion and determination as he looks at her. He senses her reserves replenish from the leyline, and he smiles a bit.

"I might siphon some of that, should it be necessary. We'll see how things fall this day." Doom is always prepared, after all, and he would do his best to make sure she is as well.

Clea has posed:
"I replenish faster," murmurs the sorceress, her brow still pressed to Doom's. It might not be comfortable but the warmth of her skin will impregnate the metal sooner or later, and transfer to the man beneath. That's all she can ask. "If I had the time, I would return to the Dark Dimension and simply call up its energies there. But we do not, and it might not be right to use the power there for a battle here. My people sacrifice, as do yours, so I can be here. So I can share their strength and guidance for those in need." She is almost reluctant to pull away, but she has to.

Because she's still afflicted by that hunger, and it means another strawberry sacrificed to Clea's appetite. She bites it all the way up to the leafy stem, but obviously leaves the greens to be composted, eaten by bunnies, or fueling Doombots. Waste not, want not. The power feeding into her is one thing, but the sugar hit is another. Truly she's no hummingbird of fiery death, but it could seem so. Maybe they need to start stocking high-energy nectar.

"I let my anger get the better of me there. It is easier to be cautious and measured. But he sounded so much like Dormammu, so much like a string of endless conquerors who would take away your right to be free. To choose and err, to grow and prosper. My heart feels so heavy." She closes her hand into a fist, then opens it again, a small spark of violet light forming there. "I choose to defend it not only for you. Nor the Ancient One's memory. But because no one should have to grow up afraid as we did for our lives, for our choices being crushed by someone who didn't agree with them. We have to be better."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Victor looks at Clea, smiling beneath his mask, "People will see that my path, Doom's path, is the proper one in due course. My earlier attempts at forcing the issue were mistakes, in hindsight." He nods towards her, perhaps making a mental note to have some fruit nectar distilled and ready in the kitchens for Clea's appetite.

Then he continues, "But such recognition must be earned, and the people of this planet need to see, for themselves, that Doom's path is the proper one for Earth, to establish a place in a universe that cares nothing for humanity." He frowns, "And the sooner Zod and these others learn this lesson, the sooner others will realize that Doom has only the best interests of this planet at heart."

Clea has posed:
"The people know their own desires and goals. They understand their way best. Thinking like another is hard, so very hard. How do you compare yourself to your neighbour, who has many differences, and understand what he thinks? Feels? This city spasms and wracks itself in the throes of violence against itself, but against an interdimensional empire?" Clea's head lifts, the better to search for some innate sense of where the fleet and Metropolis may be. They have so little time. So little time for this, to concern themselves with the greater picture, the bigger risk. "Humanity unites to fight against outsiders well enough, a collective response to an invasive species. But among its own, there is so much rancor and discord that sometimes blind you to the truths that you share. Mine suffer it too. My own father rose in rebellion against his people. They tore themselves in their loyalties, and I am only now finding ways to mend this. How they will accept a human at my side isn't the point." She muses on it, still, hand moving down to rest against Doom's chest. "They have entered the milieu. They are known in the galaxy, louder than they were. Kree, Shi'ar, the Empyre, Thanagorians, Skrull... there are so many. The time has come when your voices are finally being heard by the great powers, and they will exploit your world without its defense. But you have defenders. Maybe now is a twilight breaking, the soft rays of dawn over a horizon."

She kisses the metal cheek of his mask again. "Be patient with them. Do not despise them for turning slowly. They are awakening, Victor, and they will remember -- faulty as it is -- that you held a torch for them in the dark. That so many of us did. I have sometimes to remind my own supporters I fought on their behalf for eight hundred years, and did not simply appear out of nowhere. They still think I've been at it for no more than ten. When they live a few millennia, when the Faltines measure their lifespans in epochs, it's a tad insulting. Though in fairness, Iskria is only forty thousand years old, and a century to him is about a decade to me, or a year to you."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom nods, "Patience... is not one of my best virtues, but it is something I have been attempting to learn." He smiles at Clea, resting his head against hers as he holds her close, then he looks grim, "And now, we shall make these invaders regret their lives from the moment they thought themselves the inheritors of this place."

With that, he looks ready and determined to bring the battle to the invaders. No Doombot here, as only the real thing would suffice in a situation such as this. Arcane energy crackles around him, mingling with the advanced science that he also has mastered, a combination most formidable as he is ready for Zod and his legions.

Clea has posed:
Clea takes a few moments to put the discarded banana and orange peels into the no doubt state-of-the-art organic recycler; then return the remaining contents to the fridge. She is mindful of tidying, leaving as small a stamp as possible. Those small tells of placing things almost exactly as she found them could make Clea a decent thief in life, were she so inclined. The squeeze of her hands pulls up a steadier line of power from the ley, but there can only be so much that she can regenerate in that time. Not that her deepest levels are tapped, but she is terribly careful about topping off what she can from outside Metropolis. Someone might not like her approach either, plucking up energy, so best not to overcharge it or end up with someone yelling at her. Not very sporting.

"Patience must be accomplished, hard as it is. We fight together in this, for Earth. Never doubt I will be with you."