2470/Black Sun: Winter of Our Discontent

Black Sun: Winter of Our Discontent
Date of Scene:	15 July 2020
Location:	Long Island
Synopsis:	SHIELD enters the fray in Long Island and discovers the Third Reich alive, thriving, and growing. The world burns beneath the light of a holy relic. To be continued.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Kara Lynn Palamas, Gothic Lolita, James Barnes, Dane Whitman, Mikhail Uriokovitch, Sam Wilson, Mary Jane Watson, Lara Croft
Tinyplot:	Black Sun

---

Jane Foster has posed:
I-495. Medford, Long Island. Twilight.

You win some, you lose some. SHIELD agents prevented invaluable artifacts from being lost in the early hours of Thursday, August 13. They captured a few criminals and the ringleader, saved a few lives, all at the cost of precious art and broken statues. Then they lost Long Island past Nassau County. Midway through an interrogation, they lost their thief, who simply walked through a wall, triggering breach protocols.

Recon over Long Island is spotty at best. Long-range radar spots... something. No land lines get through, it's effectively off-grid for all utilities and modern functions. Anyone sent out past a certain point simply hasn't come back. High-flying planes note massive turbulence, their systems going haywire, so anything into JFK or LaGuardia gets discreetly averted through northerly or southerly airspace. SHIELD, simply, is blind. And that's intolerable.

While Ops spins up for a manhunt, Administrative and R&D frantically trawl through every resource on-hand for Hans Schneider.

WAND and a disparate Ops crew hit the road. Long Island Expressway, I-495, shut down early in the morning and a cordon of state and city police cars turn back. Their convoy of SUVs races down the pitted expanse of the Interstate running the length of Long Island, from Manhattan to Montauk. It's not safe to drive too fast, and proof of that lies scattered on the roadside. A few abandoned vehicles become more regular. No signs of drivers, no signs of anyone. They pass a semi left on the sidelines, marked with a large orange "E" on the driver's side door. Nothing stirs. No lights illuminate street signs or mark the clusters of suburbia borne out of farm towns. Big box stores are silent, streetlights blank, cities dark and still beneath a dimming sky.

When the lead car pulls off at exit 65, the six-lane highway is eerily still. Crickets stir in the stifling summer heat. The long, low slope of the ramp ought to lead into some kind of commercial area, but instead there's a checkpoint ahead, an old military truck wrapped in canvas, a bristling stockade of debris from households pressed into place. Their first hurdle involves a pretty nasty looking gun, one fifty years out of date, but as at least one person here can attest, perfectly capable of shredding good American or British steel into nothing.

No signs of the soldiers who are hunkered down...

But they were in Normandy, too.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
The Director of WAND had not had the luxury of spending time with The Holy Grail that she would have liked to. But it is, at least, in SHIELD custody. And in one of the most secure places in SHIELD - in WAND's safe, sealed and succored away until the threat is over. It's only a shame they won't be able to keep it, and she study it more.

Her place is not on the battlefield to come, but above it. Keeping eyes on the ground, and on her people. It is from the SHIELD helicopter that she is within, one hand on the bar as she looks out over the landscape below, several guns, including a sniper rifle ready-at-hand.

<< Blockade ahead of you, >> she cites, as she spies it out. << Ready your defenses, and engage when ready. >>

Kara Lynn Palamar is tired. Tired of SS Invictia. Tired of the necromancy, the shadow-plots, the murders, and manueverings. << Lethal force authorized. Abandoned vehicles suggest civilians may be in play. Let's be careful, Agents. >>

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Gothic Lolita mmms, glancing at the others in the vehicle with her as Kara reports the blockade, then says over the coms <<Permission to engage as the advance guard? It's unlikely they have anything immediately harming me and I can create a hole in their defenses.>> she notes calmly. <<A blitzkrieg advance, if you will.>>

James Barnes has posed:
These SUVs are far more comfortable than the old two ton trucks. Portable air conditioning is a wonderful thing. But none of that has removed the sour expression from Buck's features. He's got that grumpy cat face on...and as they confront that first roadblock, with the gun that's of the same vintage as he is, the scowl only deepens. "Jesus, breaking out the antiques," he says, as he slips from the car. <<Looks like stuff I used to have to deal with in France. If you guys'll create a distraction, I'll flank 'em. Sound good, GL?>>

Dane Whitman has posed:
Along the way, in the back of the SUV, Dane Whitman has been making adjustments to Mary Jane's Photonic Blade. It appears he's done now though, as he hands it back to her. "Slide the switch up to activate neural mode, press it to switch between lethal and neural. Slide it down to switch off. Be careful, the pressure tolerance is pretty sensitive...I can calibrate it more precisely for you back at base, but...." He shrugs, "For now, we work with what we've got."

He looks a bit grim as he hands it over, both for the gravity of the situation, and for the fact that his shoulder is sore as heck from where his armor took a bullet. But he'll just have to do his best to keep it loose and limber. "I recommend you try to stick to neural...but I don't want you wading into this without the best tool I can provide you with. So the gloves are off."

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail is here again, today. His chest could have been in better shape, but not enough to keep angry bear out of the field. <<Damn Nazis,>> Mikhail says, <<But da, old guns, but should work. I can help you, GL.>> With that, Mikhail charges his AK, old habits die hard. His shotgun is still strapped to his back, not wanting to risk collateral damage at this point. The Russian adjusts his helmet to be a little more comfortable.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam Wilson, seated at shotgun in the lead SUV, monitors the ghost world their convoy is moving through with an air of taut expectation. It's a familiar sensation from his time in the sandbox: the calm balanced on a razor's edge, the oppressive knowledge that death and chaos are just one bad break away. He keeps leaning forward to stare up at the darkening sky -- even the weather is foreboding, the sunsets ominous, in the dead nowhere they've decided to invade.

Falcon came prepared, as he did yesterday. When it's a matter of ghosts and grails, mere mortals like him need all the advantages technology can provide. ICERs and machine pistols, for corporeal Nazis; Wrist-mounted rockets, for heavier emplacements; experimental electric arc weapons, in case he has to deal with that damned Aryan specter, again. The wing suit is a given; this entire mission is, in a sense, recon and rescue, but with the objectives switched: reconnoiter the people, rescue the place.

As they pull to a stop at the roadblock, he shoots a look back at Barnes. "Yeah, you go be sneaky, we'll make great bullet sponges," he answers. It's not a terrible plan, or he'd object -- that doesn't mean he has to like his role in it." He notes familiar markings on a few of the crates stacked in the barrier, and announces more generally: "Look alive, people. We've already had two agents go missing in this exact spot today. Cover each other and don't take stupid risks." He glances at Barnes again as the former Winter Soldier moves out on their flank, and adds dryly, "Except Barnes. Barnes can take stupid risks."

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane nods to Dane, "Got it. That'll do for right now." She looks... a little uneasy about the idea of using lethal force, but... well, that's the job. Her left calf looks a bit bulky under her pants, thanks to the bandage, "Don't think I'm going to be running too fast just yet, and yeah. I'm not planning to go lethal unless I have to." She grins slightly at Sam's quips on the comms, then answers, << This is Sonja, where do you want me? >> She's not exactly sure the best place for her, from a tactical sense.

James Barnes has posed:
"Well, Rogers ain't here to do it, so I'm gonna be his stand-in. Here, one second, gotta paste on a really patriotic expression," Bucky drawls. Which he does not actually do. Not while he's busily checking the clip in the rifle he's brought. This one is ICER, but there's plain old brass-jacketed lead in plentiful supply. Then he's eeling off to the side, trying to flank the gun via cover.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Gothic Lolita beams at the other passengers in the vehicle, nodding. "Of course. Please, allow me to make a small hole." With that, she unlocks the side door, pops it open, then leaps it, dropping out of sight for a moment, then surging past the truck as she sprints, her hands held flat as she pumps them, easily hitting 90 miles an hour as she passes the SUV, heading straight for the truck with a surge of dust trailling behind her.

    The gunner does open up, bullets blowing holes in the asphalt and bouncing off Lolita, the fire just constant as it tries to track towards the rapidly moving mecha...

    But they only have seconds. And they don't have that.

    THere's a tremendous *KRUMP* as Lolita lowers her shoulders like the world's most petite yet stylish linebacker and hits the truck, actually lifting it up into the air with the force of the impact as two of the tires go flying, sending it spinning end over end to slam back to the ground as it leaves a large hole behind in the barricade, skidding across the roadway in a shower of sparks as parts of it disintegrate. Safe to say the gun is probably out of action for the moment.

    Especially after Lolita walks over and slams her hands through the smoking hood, then with a flex as she plants a foot against the truck cab, rips the engine block out of it withg a *SRRRRRRK* of metal giving, then gives it an almost gentle heave towards the front door of the building with the Nazi flag. *CRASHtinkletinkletinkle*

    She walks twoards the building as the facade shudders, part of it giving way as the flag pose cants at a drunken angle, then bounces up on her toes to catch the bottom of the cloth, giving it a yank as she wrenches it off the flagpole.

    Then with a calm, challenging expression aimed at anyone in the building, rips it deliberately in half, before letting it flutter to the ground.

    <<That should agitate them appropriately.>> she says cheerfully on chan.

Jane Foster has posed:
Exit 65. I-475. Checkpoint Friedrich.

Gothic Lolita leads the vanguard, but it is a near thing who gets there first. A handsome black-haired wench or the first SUV with crack driver Agent Thompson to negotiate around her.

The first of the black SHIELD SUVs leading the convoy hesitates seeing the blockade on the service drive. Confirmation of lethal force leads the driver to press a button within, and flatten the accelerator. Agents within draw weapons and brace as the vehicle accelerates.

The second bastard offspring of a minigun and an anti-tank weapon spins up, blowing away the crating that covers it. The peculiar chattering wail shakes through the other cars. It resonates through enhanced hearing, owing to its nickname of Hitler's Buzzsaw. Bullets fed by belt pour through the rotating barrel, casings spewed in a steady thrum of brass and black death across the roadway. Plating on the first vehicle doesn't stand a chance, strafing holes back and forth with a casual indifference of Erik Lensherr waving off unwanted mortals days, hours before. Where the mecha is largely unbroken in her advance... they are not, slewing to the side, pummeling through the gap and past rows of wiring, back-bent spikes, the things used to stymie cars in parking garages and in chases today. The hulk of it rears over and crashes on its side.

When she jumps off the barricade, Lolita is /gone/.

Her signals on the comms never get through.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
As Lolita's signal disappears, there's not much time for the Agents in or around the SUV to look. Because there's something else happening.

As much noise as the gun and engine being shredded by Gothic Lolita created noise, there's something much more prominent.

As the SHIELD helicopter carrying Director Palamar moves on ahead for further scouting, suddenly there's a sickening sound of crunching, twisting metal as the helicopter seems to collide with something invisible, in mid air. The blades ping and creak, twisting and snapping, the helicopter banking and squealing in protest before it begins to suddenly tumble to the ground as it flips upon itself in the process.

Kara Lynn Palamar can be seen in this travesty - briefly. Extracted from her hip is a zip-line gun and she jumps out of the tumbling twisting helicopter, unaware of what it hit, or why it's falling but with the clarity of mind and reaction that only comes from endless hours in the field and awareness of instinct as much as surroundings.

She falls, as the helicopter twists, somehow - by luck, or with a keener sense than human's might have, through the twisting and yet still twisting blades of the topsy-turvy helicopter and then fires the zip-line gun with pinpoint accuracy.

As she flies through the air the falling copter isn't done with her yet, the shaking and turning, spinning tail slams into her sending her off course, but sending her flying free of the ultimate crash coming down to rain destruction and metal upon the bulidings and street below as the arc of the zip-gun takes her out of sight from the rest of the Agents without another word for a few heartwrenching moments.

Then, through gritted teeth, << Agents, report, >> she calls, from her new position, somewhere ahead of the rest of the Agents, half her tech scattered and destroyed in the wreckage, and only a few remaining tools on her person.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane nods in affirmation, staying back with Whitman in the SUV for the time being as she doesn't exactly have armor... well, she does, she's wearing the standard SHIELD protective gear, but that doesn't stop the bullets these guys are using.

Last night proved that, easily enough.

She hrms, "So the question is, stay in the vehicle and run into that... disjunction, or see if it's easier to manage on foot?"

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane Whitman frowns, the expression still in place as his armor coalesces around him, even still in the back passenger seat. He's not bothering to wait this time. These guys might have snipers or the like. He does peer out the front windshield as they drive, and then shakes his head, blinking his eyes.

"There's something odd going on here...not an illusion, exactly but...almost like two different landscapes layered over each other. I don't know how else to describe it." Kara pipes up right about the time the lead vehicle gets turned into swiss cheese <<We just lost our lead vehicle. Some kind of minigun at roughly our 11 o'clock position.>> There's a pause and then the grim addition of, <<Survivors seem unlikely, but we'll check when and if we can.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
The SHIELD chopper doesn't stand a chance, playing eye-in-the-sky and charging ahead. It gallops on ahead past where Gothic Lolita was. Should be. To those on the ground, it's a horrific sight, watching metal unravel itself, warped panels torn away and one door distorted into long metallic streamers of the sort shot by the British in a futile effort to disorient the Luftwaffe on their bombing runs of terror. Chunks of metal rain from the sky, and even then, they can see the tug-of-war.

Not with gravity. With reality, the sleek lines going boxy, the rotors losing their shape, fattened, thinning. Black becomes green becomes mottled in flames and the attack chopper becomes a Sikorsky R-4 divebombing into the ground. But it never hits. Not where they can see from outside.

Gothic Lolita and Kara Lynn, on the other hand, watch the Hoverfly smash into the pavement. Into buildings. It's all very dramatic.

James Barnes has posed:
He's on foot...and says, over the comms, <<Gonna deal with that minigun,>> Buck's voice is flat, low, but there's that unmistakable excitement gleaming in his eyes.

And then he's heading forward, trying to keep out of sight of the hostiles he can see.....

...and then he's through, and things are *different*. He's different. The SHIELD garb has vanished. He's in his old olive drab garb; fatigues and boondockers, practical field gear. The shock of it is nearly enough to freeze him where he stands. He remembers how it feels - boots made of real, old leather. There's a stifled sound from him, as he cranes his neck to peer at it. And then hisses in disgust when the insignia proves to be the eagles of the Reich.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam gives a low whistle as their point girl makes contact with the lead gun emplacement and sends the truck flying back through the barrier. <"Yeah, okay, we might have some bullet sponges ar--"> he starts to admit, but the comment is cut off when the diminutive mecha seems to vanish into the ether just as she crosses the threshold into the base ahead of them.

He was staring right at her -- that advance was hard to miss -- and now she's completely gone. <"Wednesday, report!"> he says sharply into his headset. No response.

He gets out of the SUV, metal wings unfolding and then curling around him as mobile cover. He stays in the lee of the vehicle at first, then moves laterally to fire a pair of mini-RPGs from his wrist launcher at the second gun emplacement. He drops right back into what cover the SUV can afford him, having no intention of opening himself up to return fire, then taps a few commands into one wrist gauntlet. The mechanical Redwing drone goes flying out from its slot on the wing housing on his back, and breaks up and away to execute a search and scan pattern.

Highest priority: whatever the hell Palamas's helicopter just hit. <"Should be getting some scans of it soon, Knight,"> he informs Dane over the communicator. <"Sure would like to know what we're dealing with.">

But that's only part of his mission, here: wings unfolding again, he sprints forward, then takes wing into a low, evasive pattern. His objective is the first, crashed SHIELD SUV, and those possible survivors, if he can get to them. To make that likelier, he fires first another rocket at the emplacement, then, as he gets within range, the arc weapon. Big metal relic like that ought to make a hell of a lightning rod, he's thinking: hopefully one grounded nicely near the heart of one of the Nazi pricks that caused this mess in the first place.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail grumbles wordlessly as things go south fast. The fallen chopper, the wrecked vehicle now looking like Swiss cheese. Mikhail decides to stick to the plan though and gives chase, calling into the comms <<Ursa, here, confirming Gothic Lolita's status>> The bear runs forward, soon catching attention from his large frame and AK probably do not endear him to the Nazis.

Once he clears the path left by GL, though, Mik blinks and looks down, the ground seems a bit closer and his AK is now a little different. He speaks into his comm device and a higher pitched tone that sounds like Mikhail's comes over <<GL, you there?>> He grumbles as his clothing does not appear to fit quite right but it takes a little bit for Mik to get his bearings.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Lolita's systems suffer a sudden reboot as she passes into the bubble proper, blinking as she take sa moment to orient herself. She feels....slow. Her head tilts slightly, making a faint whrring noise, before she looks down at the black uniform...dress?...that she's wearing. Complete with golden iron cross jewelry, and a red armband with a swastika on it. She even has a peaked officer's cap now, and her hair is long and worn well down her back. Also black leather riding boots, which she absently approves of.

    She lifts her hand, hidden under red leather gloves, then curls her fingers, the same clicking whirr coming from them as her hand closes in a fist, then flattens again. "Curious." she says, her voice having a definitely mechanical buzz to it. Reaching up, she find herself wearing bulky earphones with a boom mike, that is plugged into...well, somewhere in her chest, she thinks. <<I am here, but I have been changed. Were I organic, I would say devolved to a previous version.>> She turns to face Mik as he catches up, blinking at him, looking even more like a porcelain doll than normal. "Present." she replies.

Jane Foster has posed:
Exit 65. I-475. Checkpoint Friedrich.

Mary Jane, Dane, and Sam remain. Mikhail and Bucky rushing at the second minigun require the splitting of attention from the soldiers there, and two switch to guns rather than their big rolling monstrosity that swivels after the once-Winter Soldier. Pavement torn to pieces by the bullets sends shrapnel into the air, but Sam's mini-RPGs strike with a vengeance. Cover taken doesn't stop wood and metal debris flying airborne, the wounded soldier dropping. Conventional shots, however, aim at the Russian bear as a much more convenient target.

The Redwing takes flight, zigzagging up and up, finding no evidence of anything interrupting a balmy afternoon. Only the damaged truck, their compatriots, smoke rising from explosive bursts, and-- the signal winks out, just as it dives into nothing.

Checkpoint Gustav.

A red mono-wing plane comes sailing lazily about 50 feet above the street, drunkenly bobbing back and forth. It cheerfully zooms past the lines strung with lights and bouquets, making them ruffle. A few residents in the street lift their hands and point, laughing. Another soldier on a corner takes note, speaking into a walkie-talkie. He curtly nods to Mikhail. The bear is a soldier.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
Of the many possibilities that Kara Lynn Palamar had planned for, or had considered as even off-chances, being turned into a doppleganger for Peggy Carter was not among them.

Yet, here she is.

She looks the part, clearly, her clothing and dress, even hair changed to fit the part. And, her Commander's hat and armband that of the Third Reich? It makes sense, to her. In a way.

"Damnation."

She finds the clunky, steampunk tech'd out comm system in her hand and hears Lolita's voice through it. << Lolita. You, and anyone with you get to my position. We're going to have to stay together. I have a feeling on what they are trying to do, now. And it's not going to be pretty. I'm about 200 yards north of your last position. >>

She asseses her gear; still there to some degree, but no longer the high-end tech it once was. Still, high-end for 1940's. That - could be a plus.

She takes stock of her position, surroundings, the people, and the curious plane. All of it causes her to frown with a stern, wary expression.

No. Today is not a good day.

James Barnes has posed:
<<Yeah, I've been changed, too.>> Bucky confirms, within the bubble. <<I look mostly like I did when I was with the Army in Italy.>> There's bemusement that he's speaking into the big Bakelite handpiece of what looks like some weird version of a Motorola field phone. <<What's your position, boss?>> He can feel the weight of one of the old turtle-shell steel helmets on his head....and his hair is back to the old regulation short cut.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Having caused enough havoc for the gun emplacement to prevent serious return fire, Sam safely hits the ground behind the downed SUV, which is still sitting on its side. <"Redwing is getting nothing,"> he reports, as the scanner on his goggles' registers no force field, no barrier with adaptive camouflage -- nothing.

He raps three times on the undercarriage of the SUV with his gauntlet, alerting anyone inside to his presence and position, then adds, <"Guys, if you're in there? I'm coming to get you."> It would be simple to do a jet-hop up to the doors, but it would make him an instant target for anyone still guarding the barricade; instead, he rounds the bumper cautiously, keeping as much of the vehicle between him and the enemy position as possible, then looks into the flipped SUV to visually check whether there are people he can help.

Before he can comment further, however, his feed from Redwing goes to static. "Damnit! I told the stupid thing to stay farther back than that..." Not far enough back, it seems.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Agent Watson gets out of the SUV, frowning a bit as people are just... vanishing across the barrier. She then says to Dane, "Guess it's our turn to check it out." With that, she advances, moving through the barricades cautiously...

And then she emerges, transformed into a jet black skirt and shirt uniform of an SS officer. A low-ranking one, admittedly, but the double-lightning bolts on the collar are distinct. And much like her photonic sword, the weapon is now a sword with twin steel blades, a steampunk-style power supply in the handle as the weapon seems to be electrified. She glances around at the streets and the banners hanging from them, then says into her much bulkier steampunk communication device, << This... is Agent Watson. Had a bit of a costume change. >> She frowns, looking down at her now-nylons, and breathes a small sigh of relief as her bandage is still in place on her calf. "Well, least I'm not bleeding again."

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mik grumbles and looks down at his modified uniform and is unhappy with it, and then looks up to see Gothic Lolita's face and blinks, "Well this is unexpected, " he looks down at his changed rifle, now a Mosin-Nagant, and grumbles and figures he may as well look around, though realizing his SHIELD uniform has been replaced by a more German one, and Mik is not pleased, visibly outraged by it. "Damn it" he mumbles, noting the Germans nearby, but he gives GL a nod, "I do not miss this age," the higher-pitched Mikhail says. His toddler voice again calls out over the comm <<This is Ursa. Though I think joke might be Ursa Minor.>> The tiny Russian looks to the other guards and whispers to GL, "Do we take them out?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Checkpoint Gustav. 1940s. New York.

In every sense, the scene is picturesque by twilight. Streetlamps cast a warm glow over the sidewalks. Soldiers may be present, true. Scarlet banners and bunting absorbing the dying glow add an allure of drama. Shops are shutting down, leaving only a few businesses active: a cafe here, a pub there. The main street leads to a green, much like New England towns and cities have, and all along it, the friendly blend of English and occasional German proclaim hardware, pharmacy, news-stand, law office, doctor. Kara Lynn and Lolita don't draw attention to themselves much, and Bucky might warrant a second look. But he's not the only one with that funny Bakelite phone or the walkie. The signals aren't great, but they are all watched, as a tidy town watches newcomers. MJ, Ursa Minor, they are able to ease in a little better.

Neat, orderly, composed. The red plane bumbling along eventually wanders right into the ground, bouncing and rolling to a stop. A kid stops on the sidewalk and trots over to it, shouting, "Come back! Birdie, come back!"

Dane Whitman has posed:
"I'm not getting anyone on comms." Dane replies with a frown, glancing towards MJ, starting to say more before she bolts off towards the anomaly. He's silent a moment, then shakes his head slightly, "Well, not like I wasn't going to suggest it anyway." So with that Dane goes trotting through the barrier himself.

When HE comes out the other side, however, things are a bit...different. He's still in knightly garb, but for those with any bent towards history it's that of the Teutonic Knights...only it's an iron cross emblazoned on his tabard. The helmet style has shifted to something more akin to that ancient order as well, and the photonic shield is now a very solid, very real one, albeit one that seems to have crackles of electricity arcing along its' surface from time to time. In his other hand? The same twin-blade MJ wields, albeit the blades are of a slightly different, longer and wider shape.

Dane glances down, then shakes his head, grumbling, "Really?"

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Gothic Lolita (Ilsa?) crouches down a bit, peering at him, then smiles. "...you do look adorable, agent." she assures him, cocking her head as her lips curve up a jerky, artificial smiles, before she suggests. "Perhaps I should carry you? My legs are longer with you like this."

    At the question, she glancs over at the guards, then murmurs. "They've seen us already. We should probably link up with the others first before making any decisions to attack."

    The buzzing of the little plane draws her attention, before she frowns. "Oh. Well, that would make sense..." she murmurs, reaching up to fiddle with her radio headset as she tries several frequencies, searching for the ones that will keep the little plane from crashing. "Agent Wilson will be upset to lose his friend, but perhaps I can temporarily take control..." She transmits. <<Agent Ursa and I are in the main square. Where should we regroup? We've drawn military attention, we can attempt to take out the nearby guards if that would be preferable.>>

James Barnes has posed:
And that's when Buck makes his appearance, looking very bit as much the dogface as he did seventy five years ago - as if he'd stepped out of one of the pictures in the history books. He's ambling up to Mikhail and Lolita, pale eyes wary. "This is gonna end in a fight," he advises the pair of them, sounding almost resigned.

Jane Foster has posed:
Checkpoint Friedrich. 2020. New York
They're dead, Sam. That much is clear if he investigates the SUV on its side just past the barrier where the Nazis fought. Lived. Died.

Those bodies left in a short, nasty battle aren't getting back up, though neither did they seem likely to rise after Falcon shot two people in Fuentiduena Chapel. Dane has the firsthand experience to tell otherwise. To linger is a dangerous thing. Even here, his comms to Lara are going out, the chatter horrified on the channels that still reach. Calls for the pilot of the helicopter, repeated check-ins with call signs that should be known - Ursa Major, Black Knight, Wednesday - fading and flickering like the very sky itself can't support the weight of uncertainty.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
Over the 1940's Comms, << Negative. Do not engage unless we are attacked first. Those soldiers could be civilians. >> There is a terseness in her tone that's seldom heard. A few of these Agents would've heard it when she was descriving the Necromantic Apocalypse that SHIELD had put to rest with a lot of help from Dr. Strange only a little while ago.

The next four words she utters are even more sobering. << They've got the Lance. >> How she knows this, or why she thinks this she doesn't reveal. But, the voice of the Director sounds as certain as any human being ever could about something.

<< They're doing this by siphoning, redirecting it's power, channeling it, somehow. Our directive now is to find the Lance, at any costs. Before they do this to the rest of the city. >>

She says this, as she walks towards the group, moving slowly, purposefully, as if to blend in and seem a part of the surroundings, a part of the 'celebration' of everything Third Reich, looking as severe and serious as a Nazi commander ought. The mood of the situation means she doesn't have to put on a false face about it.

Soon enough, she is reunited with the rest of the small group of Agents, grim-faced and looking like she's ready to roll some heads, as her eyes rove over them, assuring herself her people are okay - if not very drastically changed.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam wasn't necessarily expecting to find survivors in the flipped SUV, but he had to check, at least. As it becomes clear that there's no more gunfire headed his way, he gets into the vehicle through the smashed windshield, checks the bodies in earnest. Shaking his head, he flips on comms to report, <"Everyone in vehicle one is down."> There follows a brief exchange with mission control clarifying what he has seen, but over the course of it, Sam realizes something: he's literally the only one reporting in.

He exits the vehicle, looks around, then throws his arms out and stares upward at the darkening sky, crying out the lament of the last sane man on Earth: "Hey guys! I've got a genius idea! You know that big weird magic field that's crashing helicopters and eating drones and, as far as we can tell, disintegrating people? Let's all just run straight into it! What could possibly go wrong?!"

He raises his arms up another foot, then swats them back down at his sides. No one's listening.

<"Screw it, Actual, I'm going in, too."> He takes off at a jog through the hole Lolita blew in the barricades, gritting his teeth as he steels himself for disintegration.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
<<Understood,>> Mik says over the comms and nods to Gothic Lolita and narrows his eyes, "I am assuming this is funny, da?" He frowns and hands her his rifle as he climbs onto her shoulders and takes it back. "But da, it will be easier to travel if you carry me. Short legs do not move quickly." Mik looks up to the plane and mutters to himself, "This is worst day."

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Lolita says with a straight face. "Of course not." She resists the urge to coo over the cuteness of it, mightily! After Mik has seated himself, she reaches up to rest her hands seemingly casually on the top of Mik's legs, locking them in place to keep him secure as she straightens up, then heads over to join Palamas, the red biplane changing course to begin orbiting slowly above the group.

Jane Foster has posed:
In through the barrier goes Sam, and forth comes someone quite a bit different. Not instrinsically that he cannot be recognized, but as that crabbed link connects, his voice is most assuredly falls into place on the tail end of conversation.

The mood in the town is content. A sign or two proclaim where they are, what they are. "Yaphank Town Center" reads one in Gothic German font, an iron cross bedecked in oak leaves visible to the lot of them if they approach the green and turn. A few people enjoy the falling evening together, watched over by a soldier. At every major intersection are soldiers, and they're in the open-topped saloon cars sliding along the streets, just like civilians. Ladies in hats and gloves, men in uniform, make this look entirely normal. Reading the street signs is just as jarring. There is indeed a Berlin Street, a Himmel Street, a Goering Street.

Of course, the intersection slicing from the square? Hitler Street.

Bunting becomes a perfect storm headed to the northeast, a narrow, perfect avenue branching away through brick housing as 30s and 40s-style as anyone can get. More signs, because god, Americans love their damn signs.

Lara Croft has posed:
Lara steps out of the back of the SUV, and with her she opens up a case to draw out a high-tech compound bow that's limbs snap in to place. She sorts the rest of her gear out across her hips and shoulders before joining Sam at the toppled SUV. She steps back from it after he finishes searching it and watches him move toward the threat. "Sam." She says to him after he shouts. "Sam, I'm not sure that's a wise--" She exhales as he runs off and she just shakes her head.

"Fine." With an assortment of 'trick' arrows, and other equipment, Croft chases after Sam!

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
Oddly enough, it becomes obvious that DIrector Palamar is -squinting-. Not to try and see better. The sort of squint one might have by looking into a flashlight, a floodlight - or, when looking directly at the sun.

She points, East Northeast. "There. We are heading there."

And, over the haphazard radio comms, << East, Northeast from my position. Approximately 2 miles away. Looks to be our first designation. Eyes alert, people. >>

She looks around, "No use hanging around here, people. Move out." A nod to Lolita, "Take front." Because Lolita will, hopefully in this shell, be able to be a bit more resilient than the rest of the Agents meatflesh should Shit Hit The Fan.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    "You know, I've never had to test if my goosebump routines worked...but I suspect they'd get a workout here." Lolita says in her buzzing voice, her head rotating slowly back and forth. She nods at the director, then reaches up to carefully transfer Mik from her shoulders to Kara's (the littlest bearguard!) before taking point. "For your protection, Director." she say in a deadpan voice, before setting out to lead the way.

Sam Wilson has posed:
When Sam Wilson finally makes his way across the barrier, he finds himself, like the others, in the uniform of a Nazi officer, with several important differences: for one, the seal of the Deutsches Afrikakorps, a blatantly symbolic white swastika superimposed over a black palm tree. For another, his flight pack suddenly feels distinctly heavier, its controls simplified to the extreme of a single plunger build into the palm of his glove. The wings are gone; he's all jetpack now. He's the black Rocketeer.

He feels these differences as he moves, and the contrast causes him to look down. His face immediately becomes a mask of disgust, and he thrusts his arms forward as if the shuck the Reich regalia as he blurts out, "What the hell is this?" However, he's not speaking in his homey Harlem patter, but in the more melodic accent of a North African conscript.

Voices over a radio strapped to his belt bring him back to himself, and he pulls up the microphone, hits a toggle, and answers in that same strange accent, <"Wilson here.. I think. I'll catch up with you all as soon as I can.">

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail grumbles as he is handed over, still holding his rifle, "I do not like this at all." He looks to Kara and grumbles some more, "I can provide cover fire. Not as quick as I'd like, but should hit well enough." He inspects the action and whatnot, confirming that a round is chambered. "I would turn into bear, but perhaps save trick for later." The small agent is visibly cross, as everybody else is an adult, but him, "Seems odd," he notes as he examines everything. Gothic Lolita's comment gets a glare from Mikhail.

Lara Croft has posed:
Lara is just after Sam, through the barrier and into the... new locale. Her eyes roam around their surroundings, beholding the spectacle of what she sees. When she hears Sam speak ahead and to her left, Lara looks to him. She sees his dress uniform, and suddenly realizes...

She looks down at herself to find that she's wearing a leather military jacket, buttoned shut up to her chest, with a soft white uniform dress shirt on beneath it, the white lapels of the shirt visible. She glances at her shoulders then to see matching red white and black adorned arm wraps. "My god..." She whispers, taking a step, and stumbling, because she's not in her boots any longer, she's wearing heels of all things, and a skirt that hugs her thighs and goes down past her knees, matching the same dark hue as the leather jacket.

She raises up her weapon to find it has become an old fashioned (or modern day 1940s?) crossbow.

"I have a bad feeling about this." Lara quietly mutters.

Jane Foster has posed:
Yaphank, New York. Dusk.

The sun's last smudged rays impart a bloody sheen to the sky, blackened in the east where true night finally falls. These things, as Jane Foster happily explains on podcasts, are not instantaneous but gradual transitions.

Certain Powers do not agree.

SHIELD in wolf's clothing is there to witness an event, one that speaks to the bobbing lights and pageantry. They won't have to go far to find a good portion of the population, that mile covered in rather short order. Faster, if they run, though the slowest of them will be the one to decide that. A sight to build legends or catch breath.

Yaphank's population is not only on the main street but largely gathered in ranks and numbers around a wooded lot. The soldiers stand in their units and battalion, orderly and straight, backs to the ready. Women and children stand apart with the elders, some in seats, most standing. Everywhere burn torches like pagan rites of old, held up by youths and gentlemen, the odd woman in her neat skirt and blouse. Smoke swirls into the air, the bright patchwork in the shadows. Hymns hummed towards the front add an air of reverence. And it should.

A man tore apart an island with might and launched it into the sky. His feat is great, true; history knows of a mutant isle, a furious monarch.

But there have always been greater things than kings.

So as they catch as catch can, skidding on, hastening in, the rite begins. Or rather, the rite concludes. A figure in the throng surrounded by red banners and strange multi-point wheels, like layered swastikas, lifts something. That something burns brighter than sun, leaving the Ebony Blade keening in some dull, thirsty way wherever it is. That burns in the eyes of all, and may hurl Kara Lynn to her knees.

One moment trees spread their boughs in a green embrace of the night sky, and as the first star struggles to peer through, a #-1 FUNCTION (NSI) NOT FOUND DID YOU MEAN 'NSEARCH' capped in an upside-down tulip roof appears. Its twin stands proud and fierce a fair jaunt away. Stones and bricks simply are, constructed in the space between a collective intake of breath and the sound of the gasp. A whole castle perches on the gentle slope, resplendent in every detail, lit from within. At the windows stand figures, attentive, waving to the crowd in one or two cases until gathered back to severity. Faces they might know.

Faces that SHIELD put down, up close and personal. Faces out of memory. Nazi officers, though not the worst of them all, but more than a few from Bryant Park. Queens. Harlem. Manhattan. Staten Island. A pattern rebounding on itself in front of Wewelsburg Castle.

The will of Man, so shaping Creation.