2329/Citysoul: Left Field

Citysoul: Left Field
Date of Scene:	12 July 2020
Location:	Queens
Synopsis:	Take me out to the ball game ...
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputina, Siobhan Smythe, Zora Vukovic, Nessa Donovan, Franklin Richards
Tinyplot:	Citysoul

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Stephen Strange has posed:
Citi Field is a new development, just over a decade old and not at all a vestige of 'Old New York' like the other places of power in the City. But despite all this an astral tether stretches from centerfield up, up, up into the aethereal night. Those with a sense for the mystic would have felt the draw, if not seen the strange chain-like tether itself reaching impossibly upwards to the vault of heaven. What's more, the streets of Queens themselves have been host to odd events. Exhibitioners for World's Fairs long ended have been seen heading this way and that. An old 1940s roadster moves through the air as though completely unbeholden to gravity. All these things fade as quickly as they're seen - brief glimpses into a past allowed to cross over as the veil between what was and what is thins and parts.

Outside the gates of Citi Field, the baseball stadium vacant and silent tonight, is the gathering place. Those who have spoken to the Sorcerer Supreme and those who have simply felt his wordless summons, or the draw of their own curiosity feel compelled to journey there. It has been several minutes since the strange thud like the beating of some subterranean heart was heard in Brooklyn, a wash of darkness swimming out through the streets like a poison tide towards Queens. It lashes at an invisible barrier around the stadium, the light of the tether seeming to hold it at bay.

The gates, of their own accord, clatter open.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Citi Field, another of those contrived places under a corporate banner. For a child of post-Soviet Russia, she view such things with suspicion. How the thick weight of capitalism and monetized sport stands out, pickling the air with an unpleasant tang, almost acrid and thick. Different smells collide here: clipped grass and marinated meat, curry and Trinidadian spices, a melange of fifty languages, nations, and cultures colliding in the one spot where Illyana Rasputina manifests from within a circle of glittering fire tinged silvered blue like the hue of moonlight bending on a flattened sea.

Her shoulders wing back slightly to adjust for the weight of being so close to the great astral chain, links radiant over the blocky urban landscape defined and redefined again by every successive wave of migrants. Glimpses of the past are close, a dangerous rumble of an old diesel bus mingled with the clank of horse and cart delivering ice from a time before refrigeration. Stews that seethe and swirl with regret and hope, contempt of an older age. Alone, for a time, the slender silhouette unfolds itself to her full, not terribly impressive height. Golden hair turned pale sways around her shoulders bluntly as she examines the gates.

No swell of a crowd, no person hawking $15 hot dogs and watered down drinks. Security might be around somewhere, but they aren't likely to be daunted by a lookie-loo peeking through the gates. Especially one wearing a split blue t-shirt with a trident on it, and a belt wrapped around her hips sporting a few metal disks: Manhattan, Staten Island, Brooklyn, Westchester, Nassau, Sussex. There's a blank anchored over the pocket of her shorts. Funny, that. The barrier lies just beyond her toe, and she raises her hand to almost, almost touch the gate. To test what strength remains.

"From one queen to another," she murmurs in a polyglot of a half-dozen languages, one so old it's forgotten, another English, Irkutskian Russian, Sanskrit, proto-Elamite, Greek. "Time to wake up, lyubimaya moya."

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
Siobhan lives in Queens. For her, it is home and so she is actually heading to her apartment when something halts her. Her eyes glow white a moment, bright and powerful white before she closes them quickly and grits her teeth. <Ya daft girl...> The voice deep in her psyche calls to her and she looks up with a swallow. She shakes her head slowly and starts to walk again before she feels another thump and halts her tracks. <Don't be a fool. Look, listen! Something is happenin', girl.> Siobhan shuddres and shakes her head as she looks over toward the source of what is causing the Banshee to pressure her. She's not felt anything from it in so long and now. Now it wants something.

Siobhan makes her way over toward Citi Field. She looks up in time to see an odd roadster fly by. She looks over to see people in period clothing walk by and vanish. She shakes her head slowly even as she approaches and is just in time to see Illyana there near the gates. She barely hears a whisper of those languages from Illyana and her ears twitch as she closes her eyes again. She turns her head away and says softly to herself, "Dis is not your problem, Siobhan. Let it be..." And then her eyes glow again and a second voice whispers out in a hiss of her own voice and something darker.

"~Foolish girl...ye can't avoid it forever...~"

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    New York can be....tiring. So many people and vehicles and noise, crammed together, constantly there throughout the day. It's hard to really get away from it all to relax. Even parks tend to be moderately crowded with people trying to take a break, and most are postage stamp sized bits of greenery that really aren't set far enough from traffic to bring too peace.

    Empty stadiums, on the other hand, surrounded by acres and acres of parking lot, tend to be pretty quiet.

    Which is why Zora is perched about halfway up on one side, leaning back in one of the stand seats, her feet crossed on the back of the seat in front of her as she quietly reads. Or at least, she was, until she hears the sound of the gate clattering open, sliding her feet off the seat to look towards the noise, frowning. Perhaps a cleaning crew? She might have to relocate, if so, it would be difficult to explain how she got inside.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
Nessa has developed a bad habit of investigating magic she doesn't entirely know about. So far, that's netted her a great deal of trouble, but somehow it isn't stopping her from doing it again. While perhaps she may have been able to ignore it before, lately it's more of a draw. She's being more careful, at least. Dressed in a very simple combination of a t-shirt and jeans as well as a black leather jacket, her gloves peek out from under the sleeves. Gloves on, for now, as there's no guarantee that it's necessarily a dangerous situation.

As she approaches, there's a bit of a shrug of her shoulders. She's not sure what she's doing, just that she's there and she can sense others as well, too. "Aw, hell, this is going to be a Ladies Book Club thing, isn't it?"

Franklin Richards has posed:
    Crouched low on a floating disk, a black-haired teenager descends from the evening sky and touches down onto the ground near the gate with a soft click. He's wearing a too big white t-shirt tucked haphazardly into black jeans and wears a stainless steel cross at his earlobe. It doesn't matter how much edge he puts into his appeal, though.

    His mother's bright blue eyes peer forward and unabashedly display his father's caution towards the arcane. Franklin Richards is somewhat out of his depth, but astral ties tugged him to this place, and the visions from the past signal that the weirdness has already begun. The gate opens, and he presses forward.

Stephen Strange has posed:
As the gates open and Illyana speaks, there's a strange rush of voices. An invisible throng of people push past those gathered there, rushing through the gates not violently but certainly with urgency. There's laughter in the air, and muffled voices talking cheerily with one another about all the mundanity of daily life. In the distance, and echoing throughout the inside of the stadium itself, an organ cheerily piping 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame' while a choir of unseen voices join in.

From Zora's vantage point, the unlit field is suddenly occupied by the luminescent shapes of men in baseball uniforms. One moment the ball is being swatted out of the park, the next the left fielder is leaping skyward to pluck a ball out of the air. It's like a highlight reel played out in the flesh, the gathering on the field impossibly changing from one moment to the next.

"Eu amo beisebol!" a voice calls, echoing through the empty outer ring of the stadium, "Hei! Na shi shei? O latou iloa tatou?"

The words change fluidly from one language to another, though each language has a distinct voice. Where one fades, another immediately picks up with a different mother tongue.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Rather worse," says Illyana without fully turning to address Nessa or Siobhan. She assesses the state of the barrier a little longer, fingers trailing along the shell and testing the resistance to her own arcane-charged energy woven through her aural pattern. Her breath slides through closed teeth, shredded to ragged abandon, surf gone lacy against the shore. The glistening length of her high boots carries a certain sheen; those with sensitive olfactory senses might get a confusing blend from brine, oil, raw earth, saccharine sweetness, and ozone. None of it matches up right. Maybe if she whipped up a snowcone from the East River and topped it with syrup and a storm.

The look back might be a bit eerie, given her pupils have vanished and her eyes are a sheet of blue-white fire. "Something awakens. Coalesces may be the better term. It started in Bushwick. Something bled from the wounds and attacks the city now." A sharp inclination of her head to the skyborne chains indicate what they need to focus on, and she heads inward to the stadium proper. No doubt one of the first things Zora will see, a prepossessed teenaged blonde unarmed in any meaningful way, just so happening to wear the symbol of the Doctor -- the mystic one, not Ten or Twelve or War -- splashed over a cropped shirt. Those strange figures flooding past her don't cause her too much concern; they wisely might avoid her if they can sense what she is, what she carries. Baseball, a wholly American conceit, is a bit lost on her as a child of the Old World. But not as a game. "We need to find Queens, da? Might be a man, a woman, someone between."

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
Frowning deeply, Siobhan shakes her head and walks toward where Illyana is, plantig her hands firmly in her jean jacket's pockets. She groans as she walks in, walking with the spirits and voices or whatever they were even as Illyana talks and she looks up before looking down, "I'll check dis out but I'm not gonna be happy about it." She shakes her head as she heads in and hears Illyana's words, "What is dis about? Is it dat Brainiac fellow again? Tought he was dealt with and gone?" She asks and looks ahead even as they go. She seems uncomfortable to say the least as she moves.

If anyone can sense it, they can feel that there's a dark magic inside of Siobhan that is awakened to this very situation. It's interested and upset. The feeling is mutual.

As they walk, she looks around, hearing the voices before she states, "Well, now dat is somethin' I've not 'eard before." She looks to Each voice in turn and shakes her head, "So many talkin' and talkin' about baseball of all things? All of 'em are either wonderin' about who dey are or who we are and baseball." She glances to Illyana, "I'm Siobhan by de way." She also turns and inclines her head to Nessa, though she already knows her.

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    Well...that's definitley not normal. Some sort of dimensional distortion? But they look like old fashioned people, and she recognizes some of the words, even if they're pronounced differently than expected. Zora gets to her feet, closing her book, frowning as she studies the odd group walking into the stadium. Are they responsible? Or is this something they're responding to? She hasn't seen any other people setting up devices or such to create this sort of effect.

    After a moment, she starts making her way down the stairs, not using her abilities in an obvious way at the moment. There isnt' a threat that she can see yet, just...weirdness.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
Nessa is listening, she's taking in everything and it's a slow process. Mostly because she's trying to sort out what exactly is going on. Since Illyana seems to know the most about what's going on, she tilts her head to the side. "Queens?" She gestures inside. "You've got voices, maybe you're looking for someone with a Queens accent." After all, there /is/ a lot of talk. "You don't know if these are actual ghosts, do you? Or are they more like memories of the past..." She's not thought too much about this particular topic.

Franklin Richards has posed:
    "Jeez," Franklin inhales a sharp breath as false life explodes around the stadium, and he has to glance at the others gathered to gauge for any noticeable reaction. He even asks, "You ladies seeing this?" After all, it wouldn't be the first time such visions plagued him, but they come when sleeps, and he believes he is awake right now. He reaches out to one of the people, searching for a mind in their elusive forms. "Franklin." Is offered to Siobhan, distracted.

    He trails behind the others, eyes dirting about the stadium. "Gosh, it's been - what - five years, maybe more, since I've been here. My Unca' Ben took me to a baseball game for my..." Huh. His head tilts upwards towards where Zora is seated, and his eyes narrow. "Maybe she knows about our Queen?" He gestures to the woman with his chin. It's a start.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"O se masiofo? Xuduo huanghou! Vse korolevy. Todas estamos muy cansadas. Todos abrimos los ojos."

The strange cacophony of languages continues to pour through. Some of them far off as though shouted from the distant stands, while others are as nearby as an intimate whisper in the ear. As the group begin to move towards the field, the stands themselves cease to be empty. A vast crowd fills every available seat, all of them in ornate clothing from every corner of the world. They chatter amongst themselves in a hundred different languages, arguing and agreeing, smiling and frowning, loving and hating.

The distant thud that seems to echo from far below ground sounds again, and above the stadium the darkness flooding from Brooklyn can be seen passing overhead. In time with the drumbeat of the distant heart, the faces in the crowd vanish only to slowly fade into view again.

"Dayte nam formu! Na tabhair foirm duinn!"

Up in the stands, Franklin will see it as clear as day. The seats they used to occupy. The large, rocky man in the heavy coat and outdated fedora. The young, bright-eyed boy with so much ahead of him. The baseball sails into the sands and the young boy leaps to his feet, held aloft by the man in the hat to catch it in his glove. The crowd cheers, before just as quickly as they were there the boy and his uncle are gone again.

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    Zora slows at the safety railing overlooking the fieldd, resting her hands on it as she frowns, studying Franklin right back. Something...familiar? And then she's pointed out, and then she senses the motion behind her, turning to see the group....the VERY familiar group...currently being shown.

    Familiar looking boy....

    She looks back to Franklin, then says in an accented voice. "So, boy. Did your father break the universe again? He seems good at that sort of thing."

    Because of course this must be the fault of RICHARDS.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
No smile touches the Russian's lips, and she might be congenitally incapable of being excited or playful. Her leveled gaze lends what comes closest to acknowledgment, maybe the upnod, gravely offered. "Cut off an extremity. The knife is gone and the system struggles." A metaphor answers the question about Brainiac in kind, sloughing off the weight of discomfort rooted in the tidal pull and push of life. Illyana keeps moving all the same, never slowing, but attentive to the ephemeral crowds or the songs and chants emanating from the empty bank of seats flooded all the way down to the manicured green. "Illyana. Good evening, Siobhan. Franklin." Russian actually won't mangle the Irish Gaelic -too- badly. Nessa earns the inclined tilt of her head matches a faint smirk. It's probably her mute sensibility of approval.

Or close enough to count.

"Both. Can you hear discord or a harmony in the chorus?" Musical terms come easily enough; she may not play an instrument but she has the lexicon of one of the finest minds in North America -- or anyone -- downloaded into her psyche. "Queens should be the counterpoint to them." Discord she doesn't need to explain, warily sliding her gaze around the vast confines of the stadium. Too big for a single look.

Zora makes an excellent target, really, as the blonde descends that way with a purposeful stride wrought by sheer efficiency.

"You have a history with him?"

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
Siobhan blinks and looks left and right as the voices in the stadium start to become understandable. Like always, except with the languages she already knew, even the ones she doesn't know yet simply become known. She just absorbs the language through her magics and becomes fluent. She then stares left and right, sorta missing what Illyana says. Not all of it but some of it. A voice in the crowd. She turns to the others before saying, "Give them form. Don't give them form. Something like that." She states simply enough and looks to Illyana and the Nessa, "Either of you know what dat is about?" She then looks up to Franklin, "Or you?"

Of course, then she realizes one of the forms and voices is actually a person and she looks toward Zora before looking at the others, "Well, seems we're not de only ones here." She states simply enough, "You ask him if his da has something to do with it but what about you? What do you know about this cacophony?" She gestures about.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
Nessa shakes her head at Siobhan. "Honestly, I don't know what anything is. Ah, I'm Nessa. Sorry about that." She introduces herself, though her attention briefly moves between Franklin and Zora. "Alright kids, play nice, we've got a... somthing." Again, she's not sure what they're dealing with, but she's quickly back to figuring out what's going on. She's listening, not necessarily with her ears, but with her senses. Not necessarily her specialty, but it's something she has experience with. "Queens, huh..." She ruminates on the word, trying to bring it to mind as she focuses. "Certainly emphasizes the diversity of Queens," she comments.

Franklin Richards has posed:
A wistful, little sigh escapes Franklin's lips. A moment's never as cherished as when it becomes a memory, but the scene also helps to ground him and bring weight to what's happening here even if he doesn't fully understand. His arms cross over his chest, and he frowns at Zora.

    "This isn't really his brand of crazy," He gestures to the gathered, all radiating some form of sorcery or interest in it. There comes a point where science becomes indiscernible from magic, or so say Clarke's third law, but he'd know if his father had a hand in this. "I have nothing to do with this. Maybe 'Lord' Doom knows something..." He mutters, slightly condescending.

    He glares back just for a little while longer before turning to look at the field at large.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The voices argue amongst themselves now. There is heavily accented English in there as well as the variety of other dialects. Some beg to be given form, others demand to be left alone, others call to 'strengthen the chain', yet others call for the chain to be severed entirely. A strong note of discordance runs through the crowd, a wellspring of ideas yet none of the many who make up the whole in agreeance with one another.

Then, slowly, the organ begins to play again.

Take ... me out ... to the ... baaaaall gaaaaaame ...

As the music begins to play, the colossal argument begins to cease. Almost in time with the group coming together on the field. The crowd begins to sing along with the slow tempo notes of the baseball anthem, swaying in time with it. The discordant voices still spring up now and then, threatening to plunge the stadium into an argument once more.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A shudder courses its way down Illyana's spine, a drop of molten treacle licking the vertebrae in cold and heat alike. Basso groans from the deepest organ notes pool deep in her viscera, shaking her perceptions to the jangling disharmonies. Fracture lines that break through the crowd bring her into movement, gesturing to the others. "We have no time." Her eyes narrow as it falls to her to at least offer suggestions, though they come delivered with a certain deep weight of knowledge and command.

From a girl about Franklin's age, it might seem jarring or an outright joke. Yet that unyielding center knows what it's about. "Defend the chain if you can fight." She gestures to the whereabouts of someone shouting for tearing the links down, cutting them. "It links Queens and New York. Each time, a growing poison attacked it."

Who is out of sync with the slow-motion swaying or the singing? They make a second, easier target, a nod to Siobhan and Nessa. "Not fighting, then find the embodiment of Queens. It will be a spirit aware of itself. Find it and we evacuate it when things turn bad." Not if. When. Arguments be what they are between the crowd, Zora and Franklin, she gestures to the younger man. "Fighting strengthens them. Let's go, da? You know baseball, where does the most important person stand?"

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
"It what?!" She asks and then stares at the chain thing and then over at Illyana, "Like...how?" She asks and is confused to say the least as she looks over at her before looking around carefully at the people here, "I am not sure fightin' is the right choice for me but if dere's a spirit here that is aware...I guess I can find it." She seems confused even as she hears all of this and looks to Nessa briefly before looking back again, "Fighting strengthens who?" She sighs and shakes her head, "I have no idea what is happenin'."

She shakes her head and heads for the stands, looking around at the area as she does. She is listening and then she calls out, "Hey!" She calls, "Anyone out dere not singin' and know who ya are?"

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    "Lord Doom keeps better track of his experiments." Zora says, a slightly mocking smirk crossing her lips at the condescending tone from Franklin, before she shrugs and glances at the others.

    "My lord has history with his family, but I am not responsible for this oddity, no." she says crisply, her Latverian accent noticeable as she leans casually on the railing, peering down at the odd little group. "You are seeking a...queen? Amid past dreams of baseball?" Her tone is mostly curious at this point. None of these phantasmic images seem harmful or violent, anyway.

    As the song comes on she straightens, frowning. "This is about...traditions?" she wonders. "Queens is this place, yes? The neighborhood here."

    As Illyana encourages everyone to fight for the chain, she looks unsure, considering Illyana's question. "The first ball is thrown by th' pitcher. To start things. After this song." she notes after a moment. Perhaps it's a chain of actions that make up the performance of baseball?

Nessa Donovan has posed:
"Are we supposed to... sing?" Nessa shakes her head as she isn't sure what method to go with. The mention of the chain has her glance in that direction, her concern with the situation growing. "Right, okay, evacuate when we find it." She has no qualms with an escape planned ahead of time, especially when there's mention of danger. She looks to Siobhan and offers her a grin. "Uh, breaking the chain is bad, we need to find a ghost that's aware it's dead. You good?" At least, that's where she's going with things.

Her eyes scan about for something before she gets an idea. "Ah, wait, I got something." Instead of scanning the crowd, she's headed up to the booth where the organ's being played.

Franklin Richards has posed:
    The song breaks out, and Franklin feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand, but he focuses on Illyana when she starts giving orders. "Zora's right. Didn't know they had baseball in Latveria." He lifts off his feet, gliding on air over to the starting pitch, and for the chain's defense, he erects an invisible fold of telekinetic space directly in front of a group muttering about tearing down the chain. His eyes glow a faint white-blue.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The way up to the organist's booth is eerily quiet. It seems all the shades of the past have swept out into the stands, leaving the inside empty. The hall is dark, lit only by red running lights that keep the building from ever being plunged into total darkness. Yet beneath the door there is a flicker of light, and the sound of something moving around within with heavy footfalls.

Out on the field, the discordant voices begin to pick up again. The lower tunnels that lead out in the street begin to echo with angry voices of their own. They're slow moving, the new mob moving into the stadium from the outer ring. They are dressed like the working class of a bygone era - the 1980s, upon examination - and their faces are pale but darkly lined with ill intent. One bears a t-shirt that reads 'Howard Beach', and with them comes the panic-inducing roar and rushing winds of invisible traffic speeding past.

They flood out onto the field, moving towards the pitcher's mount. It is now that the anchor of the chain can be seen, stretching down into the earth at the very place the mob seem to be fixated on. The chant goes up from the bleachers, the crowd seeming at once far uglier and more dangerous than it did moments ago.

"Break! Break! Break! Break!"

In the organist booth, the movement becomes more frantic.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"The poison left by losing Bushwick stained the spiritual world. I cannot tell you how now, we do not have time. Go to the organist's booth, to the music. We need sweeter music or the spirit of the borough will become corrupted if left unprotected," Illyana states, her voice tight and bleeding with a certain degree of impatience. Her gaze is lost to the burning glimmer of the power seething through her, probably an acute awareness of time. The anger isn't for them, but diffused. "The discord you hear threatens the chain, and the other melodies. Deal with it by intuition if you must."

And then the attack is there, waiting.

The shimmer of movement marks the point when she simply disappears, a portal collapsing around her and shunting her several hundred feet down the stands towards the rail separating her from the baseball field itself. She has no problem whatsoever in being pushed among the crowd. It might be considered perfectly reasonable to stay back, but when has that ever been fun?

An uglier crowd forms as she dances into their midst, drawing a brilliant, flame-etched blade from aether. To even try to stare at its vivid essence hurts the eyes in a keen way, the wavering edges holier than any of the maudlin spirits come to strike down the chain. Her part, then, is to step into the fray, to dance like Shiva summoning entropy down to restore order. Into the whirlwind, giving Franklin room to work.

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
A sigh and Siobhan rushes up toward the booth, "Dat's a plan." And she's running. She's up there pretty quickly, especially given the lack of resistance as ghost folks seem to be angling for the field. She looks back briefly, watching the others and wondering before she thinks that perhaps her music would be a softer tone. She goes in with Nessa and looks down that hallway and looks to Nessa, "I tink what we are lookin' for is in dere. Hopefully it just wants some music." She nods to Nessa, "I'm goin in. You got any talents that you can watch my back with?"

She then looks hopefully and walks toward the door. She reaches out to take the handle and turn and push her way inside, looking carefully at what might be there and hoping that perhaps she might be able to get this under control. She has the talent for music. Maybe she can...sooth the savage ghost? She isn't sure and she sure doesn't want to use the other option.

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    The mob that enters is obviously wrong...and the anchor chain is visible now. As Illyana charges in, drawing and swinging a sword at the oncoming violent spectres, Zora is...unsure. Obviously protecting a New York neighborhood isn't usually her thing. And these are not necessarily allies to her....especially Franklin, who obviously recognized her.

    On the other hand...does it hurt anything if she does? Hmm. She can look on it as an odd training program, perhaps.

    With that decided, she swings her legs up over the railing then drops to the ground easily, before she wades into the mob from the other side. She stays purely physical, throwing punches and kicks with all the art of someone experienced in fighting up close and dirty in order to drop opponents as quickly as possible.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
Nessa's definitely feeling like they're on the right track with the organist. She takes a look at Siobhan, grinning just a bit. "Yeah, don't worry. At the very least I'll holler if something's coming your way." She never really specified if that was back-watching, but it seems a good indicator. "Ready when you are," she offers, moving towards the door. She takes a moment to tug the gloves off her hands, shoving them into her pocket. Now she's ready.

Franklin Richards has posed:
    Floating above the mound, Franklin positions himself at in the center of the field and draws upon the pool of cosmic energy within him. As energy gathers around his fists, a charged but crude psychic wave radiates around him, the mutant adding his own power into the astral fray and disturbing the semi-incorporeal forms of the spirits here. <<Hurry,>> His allies plus Zora will now hear his voice in their heads, cutting through the babble of the stadium's ghosts. <<I can do a lot of things, but I can't do them all day.>>

    That the fighting has only just begun and he already complains might hint at how draining this process is for him. Encased in a bubble, crackling bolts of cosmic energy launch from his outstretched hands and rain on the field, kicking up chucks of turf and artificial grass as they explode upon impact.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Inside the organist's booth, a figure sits at the instrument with both hands folded neatly in their lap. The music has stopped for now, and their head is tilted to one side with a perplexed look writ large across their face. Even looking at the organist they do not seem to have a single appearance, at one moment a diminutive old woman, the next a burly man in a colorful dashiki, and after that a young child in a striped t-shirt. When the door is opened, they turn to look at Nessa and Siobhan expectantly before immediately rising to their feet and moving away from the organ. They gesture excitedly towards it, beckoning the pair to approach the instrument.

Around the pitcher's mound, the gathered mob shy back as Franklin tugs on the astral threads that comprise them. They raise their hands to their faces and glare at the young man, as though shielding themselves from an impossibly bright light. The discordant chanting in the stands grows stronger, and the mob begin to wade forward with great difficulty. Franklin stands at the center of a psychic hurricane, but the spirits forge onwards regardless.

Zora and Illyana are more than a match for the gathered spirits. Fists strike semi-tangible flesh, cold and lifeless to the touch. The blade cuts through some of the mob, causing them to release a howling cry of agony before their forms dissipate entirely. Overhead, the night sky has vanished completely as the blackness flowing out of Brooklyn obscures it.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Battle queen: that is what Illyana is, it's what she knows. The Soulsword acts as an extension of her willpower, blistering the spiritual essence of all come into contact with the fire-soaked edges. She wastes no time with pirouettes or flashy stances, pressing into the fray and trusting the pass of the sword will destroy the ectoplasmic structure or send the images hurtling back towards their origins. Battle is brutal, nasty, and short, especially ringing the Herald of Doom in full action and Franklin pressing his advantages upon them.

She sings to the tunes of the Alexandrov Ensemble, those haunting melodies of the Red Army choir blending in and out of the concussive harmonies of the Soulsword. It keens in proximity to the anchor, but she turns the blade to avoid contact, lest the damage it might wreak be horrific indeed. The songs of her people, the songs of a good chunk of Queens: the emigres who fled the Axis, the red tide, or stood at Stalingrad and howled their defiance to the wolves until their voices broke. The lullabies of a mother in midwinter, the hearth-songs denied her. They don't have to sound pretty.

They only have to work in charging the spell, in throwing back their discordant ululations upon themselves as she spins and dances beneath the blackened night, a figure of indigo flame and golden hair, buying time.

Because they have so little in a 3/4 beat.

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
A frown as she looks upon what is there. She shakes her head, "I am not sure dis is our spirit." She states simply as she looks over at Nessa as if asking for confirmation before she looks at the spirits, "Are ya aware of your situation?" She asks and walks slowly toward the organ. She looks at them as they change and then back at Nessa again, "I'm gonna try to see if I can do something with the organ." She nods her head and approaches, slowly taking a seat and then looking carefully at the ghost.

"I am not organist. I play guitar but den...I'm rather good with sound." She quietly plays a key and then another. She stares at the organ, considering it carefully as she hears the notes and closes her eyes, slowly pulling the notes to her ears with each push. Her mind assigning them as quickly as they are heard and she begins to think about what to play, "What would calm them down?"

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    Zora seems suprised by the blast from Franklin as it surges through the gathered attackers, but it doesn't throw her off too much as she continues her brutal assault, just surging through the ghosts as she uses superhuman strength to splatter them one after the other across the area, occasionally grabbing hold of one to hurl into the mass to knock a bunch down.

    "This is really not how I was expecting to spend a quiet evening!" she notes with vague annoyance, backhanding her arm through a ghost's midsection to cut it in half then kick through the chest of another.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
Nessa's not sure that it's the spirit either, but it's clearly trying to communicate. Maybe the organ could be used. "I'm not really an instrument person, but I can sing. Not really something I do in /public/, but if it helps..." Her gaze goes to the spirit lingering nearby. "Maybe it can't play." She directs the next part to it. "Can you show us what to play?" She looks to Siobhan. "Honestly I don't know what unites baseball fans more than 'Take Me Out To The Ballgame'... we could start with that again, if the spirit doesn't have a better idea. I can sing it if you need help with the melody."

Franklin Richards has posed:
    Franklin continues his controlled barrage over the entities, twisting in his place midair and forming shields where the horde grows thickest, pushing it -back-, and lowering them elsewhere. From his vantage, he is able to manipulate the energies away from where Zora and Illyana tear their sections of the mob. His eyes are consumed wholly by cosmic radiation, emitting hot light as his power moves to its limited crescendo.

Stephen Strange has posed:
When Siobhan takes the seat at the organ and Nessa offers to sing, the organist immediately brightens up. She's an old woman once again, eyes writ large behind a pair of thick spectacles. Suddenly she begins to clap her hands, not in applause but in a rhythmic beat. Providing the tempo, she nods encouragingly at the pair. Already there seems to be a sort of electricity in the air, as though the very essence of the place were excited by the prospect of a thing not yet done.

Down on the field, the mob continues to pour in from the outer ring. They're seemingly endless, and those fighting them may notice they see the same face more than once. A formless, malicious force using faces as tools. Puppets held aloft by shadowy strings. As the battle wears on, the crowd in the stands all turn their attention suddenly - staring in unison towards the small, lit window that is the organist's booth. The mob fight ever harder, growing stronger and tougher as the seconds tick by.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Through the course of fighting, that midnight blue t-shirt disappears beneath rivulets of dark armour scored by iridescence. It flows across her body from the spiked pauldron on her arm, giving considerable resistance to any of the spirits curious enough to take a swipe at her in hopes they can find purchase in flesh and blood. Black ichor stains the ground around her long enough to become a foul miasma, and she certainly cares not for the consequences thereof.

In one jealous turn, she gestures with her gauntleted wrist to that point high above. "The booth!" This call must be for Franklin unless Zora shows signs of flagging or disinterest in the melee around them. "Hurry up the music!"

A swarm of a mob isn't going to be endlessly struck down without problems, though Zora gets that black smirk out of her. "It gets worse before better." Her fingers spread wide as she holds up the Soulsword as a guard, and a string of pinprick portals spring open around her to devour that malicious spiritual force through the tears in reality that fling them into another realm altogether.

One where the massing, careening legion of rather excited inhabitants look forward to their sudden new friends. Or dinner. Either way!

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
"Wait, I have an idea!" She pulls out her phone quickly and types something in fast. She grins as she spots it and then nods and turns the phone sideways and sets it where the music usually goes. Immediately the video plays and shows a computerized version of the keys. She follows it closely adn puts her hands on the keys with a grin.

"Sing, Nessa." She nods to her and then turns to the old woman and grins at her, "And be ready to get this poor woman out of here cause...I think we did find our spirit." She then puts her hands on the keys and as what appears to be an odd version of dance dance revolution plays toward the keys on the screen she begins to follow.

It's slow at first. Following the instructions makes the music come out slowly. The first fifteen notes of the music coming out ever so slowly and then she follows faster. Her talent for sound and music giving her a benefit here as she listens to the sound the keys make and memorizes them almost instantly as she plays and her hands follow. Within seconds she is slowly speeding up to the right speed and gives the old woman a smile.

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    Zora really isn't a singer! So she doesn't seem to take Illyana's shout as aimed at her, compared to one of the others. Sure one of them are musically inclined? She sees that there just appears to be so many continuing to come in, before she growls. "Enough of this."

    She holds out her hands as purplish energy flows in a corona around her, her eyes glowing with it as cosmic energies spill out of her, before she brings her hands out to form a roughly wedge-shaped force field that she shoves forward, tilting it at an angle to push the mob back, holding it in place to give Illyana and Franklin a moment to catch up on the remainder, and trying to hold back the other reinforcements for the enemy by anchoring the forcefield to either side of the tunnel.

    Might not work of course. They ARE ghosts...but they also seem to be affected by energy and physical attacks, so perhaps!

Nessa Donovan has posed:
It seems, at least, that Siobhan is getting the hang of what she needs to do, so Nessa's more than happy to jump in. "Okay, okay, just be ready to get the hell out once things are settled, okay?" She's not a big fan of the whole 'only some of us get out' method of things. But the older woman is clapping, and she grins at her, then nods to Siobhan.

With the organ as accompaniment, she starts to sing the chorus to Take Me Out To The Ballgame, keeping time with things. Her rendition is good, even if she claims to only be a shower singer, at least. She's ready, though, to grab for their spirit's hand and go, whenever it seems prudent to do so.

Franklin Richards has posed:
    Burning eyes glide over to where Zora displays the power cosmic, and the mutant pushes himself higher up, faltering for a moment. Despite his eyes being drowned by now flickering light, his face is twisted in frustration. There's a faint nod to Illyana's call before the energy fields set up around the field collapse in on themselves and the psychic charges dissipate suddenly, Frankling using Zora's attack to tactically remove himself from the situation.

    "How's the music coming?" The dark-haired mutant says, bursting into the booth just as Nessa starts to sing. He winces, gesturing for them to carry, and looks to the older woman. This is the embodiment of Queens? A beat, then he joins the song, stumbling at first.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The force field over the tunnel entrance does indeed slow the mob. They push up against it, trying to get past as they angrily hammer their fists against it. But where their bodies are stayed, something else pours through - a formless darkness in long, wispy tendrils that reach out like thick smoke. The smoke continues to pour through until it covers the field entirely, leaving the group ankle deep in a noxious, chilling darkness. It is harmless for the moment, though it seems to grow and thicken. Only the base of the chain seems untouched by it, the radiance of it keeping the darkness at bay.

As Siobhan begins to play the music and Nessa and the others begin to sing, the crowd at once fall into unison. The old woman in the organist booth becomes a young man and then a smiling child before fading entirely, gone from view. Out in the bleachers, the spirits begin to move and swirl as though Citi Field were the center of a raging hurricane. They spin and spin, blending into one another. Discordant voices suddenly gaining harmony. The mob, trapped behind the force field, shout and scream in mute outrage.

Then the spinning stops and seated at the edge of the stands with their feet dangling out over the field is a person of indiscriminate gender and ethnicity. They wear a hodgepodge of traditional garb, seeming to represent all places and none at the same time. Their eyes float to the nearest of the Heroes - Zora - and they extend a hand in silence, as though asking to be helped down.

"Vremya idti," they call to Illyana with a knowing wink.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Calm in the storm when the screaming, swirling walls of sound almost put her to her knees. Trying to listen, trying to focus, in that wrathful tempest tosses even the firmest mind into ruthless disarray. Her eyes shut for a moment. The darkness drawing closer and closer lends a seething distress that will not shatter the Demon Queen's poise. Not so close to the breaking point where they all stand. She isn't happy to say the least, not the contented figure able to whirl through such things unchecked and untroubled. Until it ends. Just like that.

A whispering cessation of ruin, an awakening of them. Him, her? Does it matter?

Violence lingers in the air, a sonnet full of promise as the unchecked wrath lies just on the other side of a thin veil separating two dimensions. Illyana's portals snap shut and erase the illusion of safety. "We cannot stay," she tells the others. A slowly executed swivel of her hand is strange in that it doesn't tap the mutation but the magic, giving shape and form to another gold-rimmed hole in reality. This one leads out to Greenwich Village, under a tree.

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
From her point of view, it isn't as easy to see all that is happening even as she plays and then things seem to start to change outside and she stops playing, "Nessa, I tink dat we have worn out our welcome." She grabs her phone and slides it away as she stands up and looks out the window, "Not sure what dat is all about but we don't wanna be here any longer." She looks back and nods to Nessa, "Hopefully the spirits won't be a problem." She then starts back toward the door and out, "Come on den, I certainly don't wanna be here for de finale."

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    As the black swirls out around the ground, Zora frowns, looking around quietly, then back to the image who appears. Well. It seems. Friends? Kinda. Or at least, not attacking. After a moment of hesistation she gives the hand requested to help them down as needed.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
"Right," Nessa says, peering out the window. She's not sure exactly what's happened, but she's certain Siobhan's right about that. She moves for the door behind the Irishwoman. "She did say we'd want to exit quickly, so I'm sticking with the original plan. Escape plan, at least." Her gaze settles on Franklin. "You too, we gotta scram." She's at least hoping there's nothing problematic on their route.

Franklin Richards has posed:
        The spirit disappears, and Franklin peers over Siobhan's shoulder to see another one form, take Zora's hand, and be led into Illyana's portal. "It looks like they got their...thing," He says, head tilting, and brushes sweat from his brow. "Right." With a new understanding of his father's disdain for the arcane, Franklin turns and makes to leave the booth and hopefully the stadium entirely.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The darkness swells within Citi Field. It pours down over the bleachers now as though fueled by some invisible inferno, choking the air with a malign cold. But the portals open, and the Spirit of Queens happily strides through alongside Zora. The pathway is short, and on the other side the Heroes find themselves in Greenwich Village. The darkness still fills the sky here, though it is thin and the astral beacon that is the Sanctum Sanctorum seems to hold it at bay. When the portals snap shut, the ominous sense of crushing malice is immediately gone.

There they stand in Greenwich Village. Not far at all from the Sanctum Sanctorum, beneath a vibrant green tree. The Spirit of Queens lets go of Zora's hand and takes a few steps towards the Victorian brownstone, craning their neck to get a better look at it. They glance back over their shoulder at the Heroes for a moment, smile once more, and then stride purposefully towards the Sanctum's door. As they move, they leave behind several after images - all a different man or woman in mid-stride. As though they were many different people layered over the same place and time.

The doors to the Sanctum swing wide of their own accord, and Queens bows deeply before stepping inside. They do not close behind them, instead a number of voices chattering amongst themselves whisper out into the street. Through the doorway, a small gathering can be seen.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Darkness and malice, what else is new around New York? Illyana holds that arcane portal until the last are through and she finally steps through, collapsing the rift before anything unwanted slinks through. A delectable familiarity with a place anchored as home will have to wait. They have no such liberties tonight, at least the Demon Queen of Limbo doesn't.

More work to be done.

It's a beautiful building that overlooks them, the Sanctum shining with a rare warmth and welcome that she resists by turning away to face the others. Her sword is banished back to the aether with a gesture of her hand. "Thank you. The city will be in a better situation because of that." Solemn words, not without purpose. "One more awaits."

Already turning away, she runs her hands through her hair, a gesture carefully bypassing the black-horned crown slanted over her ears.

Siobhan Smythe has posed:
A blink as she steps out of the portal and is now somewhere else. She looks back to the way they came and stares for a long moment before looking forward to see the ghost moving to the mansion before her. She stares for a longer moment to that and then looks back at the others. She blinks at Illyana before she lets out a sigh, "I'm not sure at all about any of dis." She states simply enough, "I am curious." She looks to Nessa briefly before letting out a slow sigh and shaking her head, "In for a penny, in for a pound they say." And she turns to walk into the Sanctum and shakes her head, "Siobhan, what are you getting yourself into...?"

Zora Vukovic has posed:
    Zora watches the Queens walk past and head through, then the others filtering to follow. Her head tilts as she regards the portal, then Illyana, her lips twitching slightly.

    But she's never lacked for confidence, and while there's always the chance it's a trap, it seems to be going through a lot of trouble to set it in place. Plus, her lord will certainly be curious to hear about what has been going on, in this mystical adventure.

    So after that pause, she strides confidently through the portal, disappearing through to the other side.

Nessa Donovan has posed:
There's some relief to being out of Citi Park and elsewhere, and Nessa's attention drifts over those around her before they land on the Sanctum. "Well, I imagine there are a lot of ladies and a lot of books in there," she says idly before her attention goes to Siobhan nearby as she starts to move away. "You know, I did tell you I had your back." That and she's way too curious to back down now. She follows the others into the Sanctum.

Franklin Richards has posed:
As beckoned, Franklin steps into Illyana's portal and stares at its golden rims as it closes. "Wild way to spend a Sunday night. One more awaits," He repeats, dubious, looking to Illy. "Sorry, lady, but I'm out of juice until further notice. I...well, I think we all have questions."