2535/Black Sun: In A New York Minute

Black Sun: In A New York Minute
Date of Scene:	20 July 2020
Location:	St. Michael's Church
Synopsis:	Margarethe Werner survives, the memorial for Operation Valkyrie burns, and SS Invicta loses a battle. But what of the war?
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Daisy Johnson, Jemma Simmons, Mary Jane Watson, Mikhail Uriokovitch, Caitlin Fairchild, Dane Whitman, Kara Lynn Palamas
Tinyplot:	Black Sun

---

Jane Foster has posed:
In A New York minute,
Everything can change,
in a New York minute,
Things can get pretty strange.

Lying here in the darkness,
I hear the sirens wail,
Somebody going to emergency,
Somebody's going to jail.
If you find somebody you love in this world,
You better hang on tooth and nail;
The wolf is always at the door...

Jane Foster has posed:
St. Michael's Church, 99th Street...

In the grand scope of things, St Michael's Episcopal Church is dwarfed in glory by a few scattered glass high-rises along Amsterdam Avenue. Its stately stone belltower ends marks the hours with a metal clock on all four sides, hands pointed to mark 12:00 PM. The warm chiming rings out through a block-long building, and sunshine pours through ranked windows under rounded Romanesque arches. Sunshine fills the sacred space with brilliant, luminous light courtesy of the alchemical magic created by Charles Lewis Tiffany, angels parading across seven magnificent panels and several impressive mosaics featured the magnificent host. They almost seem to lift from the walls.

The front pews are occupied by several people of varied age, many stooped. Flowers pour into a memorial wreath bearing a German flag. The wreath stands to the side of the altar, where a priest leads the memorial ceremony in a hymn. Voices young and old blend together, and among the most enthusiastic singers is the caretaker for Margarethe Werner, a tiny woman in a smart Kelly green dress and smart Kelly green hat with, you guessed it, a matching handbag that could contain a sink or a Barrett 50 cal. It's placed beside her.

"This day is a reminder to us, not only of those who acted on July 20, but also of everyone who stood up against Nazi rule," says the priest, his head bowed. "We are likewise obliged today to oppose all tendencies that seek to destroy democracy. To undermine the values that we hold in shared humanity, as one people. We remember those who acted when others were silent, they followed their conscience to end a war. Seventy-six years ago, our brothers and sisters faced an inhumane system when others looked away, and they offered themselves. Today, let us pray for them. Let us honour the bravery and the faith required to make the greatest of sacrifices."

From behind the small assembly, the organist starts to play a soft, gentle requiem movement, slow and dolorous notes serving as an interlude for those who might still filter in. For those who might be lost in the reflection of their thoughts.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
A casual Daisy is what comes out to the public today. For a woman that had been raised on an orphanage right next to a church she had yet to visit many of the beautiful churches present in New York. Today would be a good chance for it but her motives weren't so ..., 'pure'. Instead she was here mainly due to SS Invicta, having been tracking their online footprint, their online chats, groups. Not easy, tight knit, lots of security but there were some blurbs about a possible protest happening. And what better day to do so than one that celebrated one of the last survivors of Operation Valkyrie?

Daisy had sent her concerns up through the bureaucratic ladder, contact a few Agents and then come in to keep an eye on the proceedings. To intervene if need be in protection. And casual? That meant jeans, a jacket, the better to hide her Quake gloves underneath. She was using an earpiece so as to communicate to other agents that would had chosen to come along.

"These are some beautiful stained glass windows." she murmurs of St. Michael's victory.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    There is a somber mood about one Jemma Simmons. While she is not the most religious of people, it has been a trying couple of days for her, as evident with her grim demeanor. While most are to the front, in those pews, Jemma is in the back, seated quietly and, at least for the moment, alone.

    Dressed in her normal attire, sans labcoat, the British national sits with head bowed, her mind racing. As much as the mosaics and stained glass is rare and beautiful...it does no good when brown eyes are staring at the floor. The music, however, is heard, as the requiem plays, colouring Jemma's considerations. Yes, there has been sacrifice...both then and more recently. And Jemma feels the loss of recent sacrifice.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane Watson was wearing what her boyfriend would probably describe as her "Agent Scully" outfit. If he only knew... but she made the black suit and slacks with white shirt look fairly fashionable regardless. Keeping her hair tied back in a ponytail, she looks a bit somber in reflection for those fallen. And while she might just be a recruit, when Daisy was looking for volunteers, MJ was decidedly eager to both see the church, as well as the ceremony.

Though when she sees Jemma alone in the back, MJ pauses a bit, then makes her way over towards her. She hesitates a moment when she gets nearby, before asking, "Hey, want some company? It's my first time here."

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail had grown up an atheist, as instructdd back in the USSR. This did not discourage him from joining his fellow coworkeds here, especially to honor someone who stood up to the Nazis duromg the Great Patriotic War. His dark suit still fit, so he chose that with a black tie, enough fabric on each to cover his comm unit, which he speaks into to respond to Daisy, <<Da. It is beautiful.>> He has taken up a spot not far from Daisy, though keeping an eye on the other agents.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin's presence is at the request of another: one of the priests from St. Patrick's Catholic cathedral a few miles down the road. For such a solemmn event, members of the clergy make appearances at other churches in a show of solidarity and support for all humanity.

Caitlin's been pressed into helping wheel around Father Patrick in his wheelchair. Mostly blind, crippled, with a twisted spine and weak legs, the priest's strong baritone still carries with a little glottal fry and a lot of presence and good humor. He waves Caitlin off as the discussion with two other faith leaders turns to ecumenical debate, and the redhead excuses herself from their conversation with a flashing smile. She's dressed for the occassion in a modest blue sundress; a built-in stole keeps her shoulders covered and it flares below mid-knee into a loose tent hemline. She's matched it with simple flats and plain silver jewelry. Her hair's worn up in braids around her head and then loose down the back of her neck.

"They are very pretty," Caitlin tells Daisy, and flashes a smile down at the SHIELD agent, unaware the words aren't meant for her. "I guess they're old, too, like... a century or so," she hazards.

Dane Whitman has posed:
It may or may not come as a surprise that Dane is...faithful. He was raised Catholic, but it's likely NOT a surprise that his experiences in the Crusades gave him a very nuanced view of that particular institution's history. He's not sure he would consider himself a member of that particular denomination anymore, or any other, really. But that does not change that there is a core of belief in a higher power, and an appreciation of many of the Christian values if not always the institutions that purport to interpret and uphold them. So it's with a respectful, somber silence that Dane regards the memorial and the stained-glass windows, dark-clad like most of the others here. Truth be told, he's more keen on keeping an eye out for potential threats than admiring the scenery. That can always happen another time.

Jane Foster has posed:
Not a large congregation by any stretch of the imagination, not for today. Not on this anniversary of mixed blessings and mixed purpose. Father Time did what purges and executions by the hundred could not, felling the wizened survivors of hunger and horror, war and want. The only person of her generation seated here, the spritely Mrs. Werner has several of the next gathered around, and behind them, a smattering of Boomers, Gen Xers, Millennials. Some wear nothing fancy, t-shirts and shorts, others in respectable suits. At least one usher is stationed by the doors leading outside, happy to welcome guests or offer directions for confused tourists all turned about. It happens.

The organist plays that wandering hymn for a few more beats, the immense brass and copper piping thrumming with the rich sensations that only an instrument of that size or complexity can produce. The deepest tones play out of human hearing, felt more than heard in a lasting resonance even when the dapper chap in a blue suit ceases to play. His hands lie in his lap.

As foreordained, the priest comes out from behind the lectern and holds out his hands to Margarethe. She is tiny, compressed with age to a smaller shell, but still stout and doughty enough to insist on getting up by herself. "None of that now," her wispy voice peeps in German English, but very good English anyway. "They were all the ones who kept their heads up to the end. I scuttled by. I can manage this, Nancy." She swipes her crabbed hand at her caretaker, who is probably a half-decade younger than her, so around 50.

The indomitable archangel gazes down, holding a tall golden shaft surmounted by a white and red banner.

The sharp-eyed might notice that flagpole ends in a rather sharp point.

The priest walks with her to the wreath, and the pair stand together. She fluffs the ribbon, fussing a bit. He is about to speak when she turns to the pews. "We were young, idealistic, foolish. Fired on hope and fear. Tell me... Was it worth it? Did Claude's plan do any good? My eyes aren't what they used to be, and I'm not seeing a how it changed much today."

Daisy Johnson has posed:
A faint smile is given up to Mikhail towards his position when he answers on the comms yet then some voice nearby. Ooops! She looks towards Caitlin, "At least as much." she says in agreement. "It's interesting how faith, and belief, can bring the best but also the worst out of us." all of this said in a very low murmur. Her survey of the windows brings her to that particular window with the spear. How peculiar, but then her study of it is then paused when the priest comes out, she watching that small interaction between Mrs. Werner and the Priest.

And with the play of the organ, along with the priest beginning to speak up she goes silent, observing in respect, occasionally watching the wreath where they both stand, then across the small gathering.

She spots the not-so-alone-anymore Jemma on the back with MJ, her smile deepening just so but she says nothing.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    The still slightly unfamiliar voice of Mary Jane cuts through Jemma's thoughts,l causing the brunette to sit up with a start, those brown eyes of hers shifting from that 2 foot space of the floor beneath her feet up to the auburn looking down upon her. With a sad, weary smile, Jemma states, "Oh, Ms. Watson. Yes, yes...please feel free." A hand reaches down, indicating that MJ is more than welcomed to sit. Those brown eyes shift, instead of looking down at the floor, or over to Jemma's new companion, but out to the front. "This church has quite lovely mosaics...."

    It is an attempt, however awful, at small talk. It is quite apparent from anyone looking that Jemma may seem like she is looking at the Tiffany mosaics...but she really isn't. That stare is not seeing anything at all, at the moment, except despair and heartache.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin flashes an agreeable smile at Daisy and nods in concurrence. The train of thought is diverted by the speaker, and much like the SHIELD agent, Caitlin adopts a posture of quiet contemplation and attentiveness as the ceremony itself begins. Memories are fast becoming history even on such a dark and dire topic, and every year, fewer and fewer can speak firsthand of the horrors of that war.

Caitlin bows her head when the priests offers a prayer, murmuring a fervent concurrence for a wish of peace for all time.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane takes the offered seat, speaking in a quiet voice, "Yeah, I've never actually been here before. Reminds me a bit of a temple I saw in Corinthia, honestly." Her voice has... a slightly different quality than it might have before, though Jemma might not have talked too much with MJ before this.

"You're bothered by what happened the other day." Not a question, just a simple statement, as the redhead gives Jemma a look that seems far more perceptive than any teenager has a right to be. Then she gives Jemma a bit of a sad smile, "I mean, we can dance around it, but it's pretty obvious it's bothering you a lot." She pauses a bit, then adds, "Been bothering me a lot too. Wasn't expecting to see something like that."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane Whitman studies the stained glass windows for several moments now, and particularly the figure of the Archangel Michael. His face remains somewhat impassive, but he finds a fair bit there recognizable. The Templar flag atop the "flagpole" but more so...

Dane nudges Mikhail slightly with an elbow, somewhat subtly gesturing towards that particular pane, "Look at the top of the guidon Michael is bearing. Look familiar?" It's a near perfect replica of something most of them saw just a night or two ago (and some of them may have seen since).

Jane Foster has posed:
"I had not thought it hard to hear me. Hmph! There you have it. That is an answer by itself," Margarethe continues to mutter something softer in German and shakes her head. Her hat barely moves, wedged on with too many pins and a healthy respect for its elders. "Maybe we wouldn't have listened either."

A few moments she stares at the wreath with its pretty red roses and golden chrysanthemums, arranged in a large wheel. It dwarfs the width of her stooped shoulders. Congregants shift and move in their pews, looking side to side. Wood creaks. Glass cracks. No discomfort, only the restless nature of mankind expressing itself. A low note throbs through the deepest pipe, rolling away like the unheard rumbling presaging a storm.

The church is a grand affair, that rich texture of glass glittering. Angels in their masses curl luminous wings, their halos shining. A shadow drifts over their iridescent aspects to the back of the church, a group in cloaked and robes frozen forever in a moment of looking back. One of the cherubim looks back, and the look of transfixed sorrow and shock blurs in the heat shimmer.

Sounds percolate from the entry. A low rush, the steady triple-beat of a chant: <<No honour. No honour.>> It stirs in the blood, a steady maroon flicker beat. German, lifted at the gates of an Anglican institution founded when a king revolted against Rome. Softer noises bleed in. <<Do not celebrate assassins. Who praises the murderers with blood on their hands?>> Masses gather in sufficient numbers to be heard, a counter hymn to the prayerful silence within.

The organist takes this moment to pick up to a curiously active movement compared to that before. The music resumes, turning to something mournful and elegiac, stricken by the thunderbolts of the divine. The priest looks up suddenly, confused, gesturing at one of his aides. The usher is preoccupied, failing to take note. It is a https://youtu.be/Nl2JPxPmcf0 a spartan, haunting clash against the senses compared to the full orchestral movement most know even if they cannot name it. God help them if they can.

Dies Irae.

The Day of Wrath.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail nods to Daisy to acknowledge and looks up when Dane nudges him. "Da," he says in a hushed tone, "Very familiar." His voice shows some concern when he sniffs at the air and he turns his head to the outside.

"Firebomb," Mikhail says quietly and then goes to his comms, <<Someone has firebomb, outside. Be careful." He does not reach for his ICER, but he is on edge, now, moving closer to the door.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane frowns at the shift in music, and the rise of chanting, and above all Mikhail's warning. He pulls the tiny earpiece out of his pocket and inserts it into his ear, thankful that the wondrous device lets him barely murmur and still be heard over the comms, though there's enough confusion now that it likely wouldn't matter. <<Jemma, I might suggest we need a little crowd control in case we need to evacuate quickly. Mikhail, I'd suggest you You might want to have a chat with the organist, because they've either got a very dark sense of humor or they're in on whatever this is. MJ, with me, we're going to have a potentially impactful conversation with some folks out front. Dr. Fairchild are you on this channel? We might need your help with evacuations and potential fire control. Priority is the people, but let's try to keep this place in one piece if we can.>> Dane's not the ranking agent here, nor is he granted any special dispensation to take charge, but he does know that tactical matters are not Jemma's strong point. So he "suggests" with a tone that's really not very suggestive, more like imperative. He doesn't want to tread on Jemma, but he could tell she was a bit distracted earlier and they're already entering another crisis mode with the same assailants.

Which forces him to add, <<And keep your eyes peeled for ghosts.>>

He catches MJ's eyes and cocks his head towards the front doors, fishing out the photonic-neural sword from the loop at the small of his back.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
It was only a few hours ago that Director Palamar had recieved a report about an 'incident' and had begun the necessary steps to diffuse the situation concerning some Austrian Diplomats and certain artifacts that had been brought with them. It was going to be a headache. And, it wasn't going to be easy. But, she was fairly confident she could, with her background and the right manuevering, smooth things over to give her Agents more time to operate.

That was a few hours ago.

Then the reports began to show up online, setting off some indicators that had happened to come across her screen as a low threat level incident to monitor. It was their modus operandi that gave them away. "Shit," she had said, with a measure of grim finality. She needed eyes on the ground. Specifically, her eyes. This, coupled with the incident with the diplomats was not coincidence. "This is going to get far worse, before it gets better."

One thing she had learned by observation rather than being taught is that a good Director is always prepared. And, between what she had on herself and what was in her car for emergencies, there wasn't any need to spend wasteful time barking orders or gathering further resources. She knew Agents were already in the Field and at the vigil. Some of them her Agents.

And, quickly enough, her vehicle was moving towards the vigil, her Agents, and protestors pretty rapidly, even as the internet feed came over the dispay screen on the dashboard.

<< Belay that last order. All on-site Agents focus on the tasks Whitman assigned you. My eyes will do the ghost hunting. SS Invicta is paying us a visit with what is potentially the Holy Lance in our city under Austrian diplomatic control. >> The intensity in her voice is not hard to miss. << High alert. Agents are being dispatched to block access to the area right now from further civilian traffic. >>

Jane Foster has posed:
Outside St. Michael's Church...

Amsterdam Avenue through the Upper West Side rarely lacks for cars and traffic even late into the evening. At noon, pedestrians stream along the sidewalk in search of a lunch and respite from the sun. Scaffolding and tarps flap in the light breeze around the new development at 100W, one of those gleaming glass high-rises hawking fancy apartments. Construction workers move like ants in the skeletal fixtures. Children crawl over the play structure at Frederick Douglass park just up the street, a quick game of tennis under the sweltering heat in progress. The city thrives as it has for four hundred years with few interruptions, despite the messiest parts of war and corruption. What's another protest outside the main doors into the church?

A bus trundles by and the passengers scowl out the window. One girl hammers comments into her phone, unimpressed by the men in their dark shirts waving signs around. The city defying Zod and alien invasion sure doesn't have time for the latest chants of "No honour! Ho honour!" They care naught. A thin trail of smoke pirouettes skyward to mingle with the occasional grey-bellied cloud passing by at a desultory pace.

Chords of Verdi's great requiem plummet from the belltower, a crashing descent filtering across the common noise filling the street.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    There is no denying the charges towards Jemma. There is a slight nod as Jemma agrees. "Yes. Meris was a friend. And....at Cloisters...in the chapel...." Jemma sighs, as those eyes drop down to her lap. "Daisy and I left for only a couple of minutes. Just a couple of minutes to check the gate...which was enough for whatever it was to attack that poor actress." The other casualty isn't mentioned....but is on Jemma's mind as well.

    Or...rather was until Dane's voice breaks through on the comms. With a start, Jemma pulls herself to her feet, offering a nod to MJ to pretty much follow Dane's 'suggestions' before she herself speaks up. <<Thank you, Agent Whitman.>> Then...with a little more surety in her voice, the Brit's tone adopts that no-nonsense sense that Jemma usually reserves for medical emergencies. <<Follow Whitman's suggestions, everyone. I will take point with the priest and the guest of honor....>>

    And then....silence as another voice cuts in. A voice Jemma recognizes, but only in a general sense. That....has authority. <<Of course....>>

    Time to do crowd control.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane had her earpiece in, paying careful attention as she nods slightly, giving Jemma a bit of a smile, "Well, duty calls. But if you wanted to talk later..." She meets Dane's gaze, and nods slightly, easily vaulting over the back of the pew and walking out around towards him.

In heels, no less, which is no mean feat. She also fishes out her own baton, snapping it into place as she looks over at Dane, nodding as she says quietly, "Keep an eye out for the would-be bomber?" She sounds absolutely furious about the fact that these creeps would dare come here, /now/, but keeps her emotions under control. At least for the moment.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
A frisson slips across Caitlin's skin. Hairs up on the back of her neck. DEspite the friendly farm-girl smile on her face, there's nothing wrong with Caitlin's brain, and the sudden tension and reaction from the undercover agents cues her in that this might be more than just a simple protest.

She hustles over to Father Pat and kneels down so she's on eye level with him. "Father. You gotta go," she urges her priest. He cocks his one good eye at her, a little skeptically, but the dead serious expression on her face brooks no argument. Pat seems willing to take Caitlin's advice on faith, and he's already reaching for his wheelchair brakes. Caitlin's hands get slapped at when she tries to help.

"Hey, I know how to drive this thing," he creaks up at her. Pat has a way of projecting his voice that most folks don't-- like he owns the whole room, even if it's not his church. He winks at Caitlin. "Be safe, kiddo. I'll pray for you."

He puts a hand on her bowed head. "From the shoulder, beyond the wrist-- look out evil, here comes her fist!"

Caitlin eyes Pat. "Amen," he chortles, and pats her hair in a paternal fashion before he starts foot-pedalling himself off in his chair. More than a few folks look askance at the dwarf Catholic, but he seems immune to their gaze, and pauses only to cross himself in front of the altar before scooting fast towards the vestibules in the back.

Caitlin looks around and moves to Mary Jane, since she's closest. The redhead fishes a rosary from her purse and drapes it around her neck so it disappears under her blue dress. "Who's in charge?" she inquires of MJ, quite bluntly-- gone is the meek and gentle church attendant.

Jane Foster has posed:
Inside St Michael's Church...

Dies Irae adds to ghostly choral music thundering through the second storey. Great metal tubes fed a steady pulse of oxygen leaves the shimmering harmonics pouring down on Michael the Archangel and his blessed hosts. Voices mingle together in a polyglot array, German pressing through the curtain of reverberation. The usher's English forms a lone rejoinder, sparks flying up, and where the two fronts meet is a confused swirl of reaction from those few watching Margarethe Werner pay silent tribute to a wreath for the long-fallen dead of Operation Valkyrie.

A woman doesn't reach 96 and outlive two world-shaking regime falls without knowing when to stand and when to dodge. In her kelly green suit, she gives a withering look to her younger caretaker. "Nancy, come now, none of this. The more things change..."

Jemma is faster to the punch than Nancy, who has the duty of bringing The Purse. The flutter of concern from Margarethe's friends and family takes much longer to arrange though some of the other parishioners in attendance pick up on either the sudden mood change or activity among the guests behind them. Some turn to look, others actually shushing the speakers. No matter how quiet, there's always -someone- who hears.

St. Michael looks on, stoic and silent, backlit by the fury of the summer sun. A frozen white banner spills in torrents behind him, cross blood-red and piercing.

The priest in his white vestments stares in abject horror as the organist stands at the bench before the magnificent organ and tips over his water before the keyboard and splashes it upon the pipes. Splashes from the wide plastic bottle sweep in great arcs, leaving metal and wood gleaming.

"No. Father, no--", gasps the priest, his hand reaching out.

    Quantus tremor est futurus
    Quando judex est venturus
    Cuncta stricte discussurus!
    Dies irae dies illa
    Solvet saeclum in favilla...

A younger man emerges from the catwalk connected to the belltower. The one they overlooked, the one too quick to be spotted. Mikhail's glass cracker. Young, determined, he flings the cloth-wrapped orb at the instrument. A comet trail descends in a marigold kiss, glass giving way after striking the middle tier and rebounding into the brass pipe. Flames catch. Bellowing voices rise, disguised as faith, as the bloody vermillion wings unfurl and War's cavalry race to the far sides of the choir.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail nods to Dane and begins making his way over to the organist. He does not make it in time as the firebomb makes its way to the ground. "FIRE!" he calls out loudly, He turns to the source of the fire but barrels forward to where the organist is, barreling up the stairs, towards both the organist and the arsonist, having noticed the 'water' being spilled all over there, he calls out over the comms <<Organist is likely hostile>> as he goes forward, ready to encounter the two enemies.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane is making his way to the front door when the firebombing occurs, turning about just in time to see the firebomb go off. There's a flicker of near-unbridled rage that cuts across Dane's face for a moment, but it schools to grim purpose quickly enough, "I guess I'm filling in for now." He replies to Caitlin, pointing towards where a fire extinguisher is hanging in one corner of the room, "Can you grab that and jump up there to try to handle that fire? I think you can likely get up there faster than any of the rest of us."

<<Someone pull a fire alarm, ASAP. Mikhail, let us know if you need any help, but Dr. Fairchild is likely on her way to deal with the fire. Jemma, ask the Priest about alternative exits to the front.>>

And then with one more glance to MJ, he moves to the front door, trying to push the double-doors open and see just how many are waiting beyond. Should they try to bar his path or prevent anyone from exiting, there's no bothering with parleying at this point. That neural blade will light up and start swinging. There's plenty of circumstantial evidence that they're in on this little act of arson, so he'll beat down now and let the lawyers sort it out later. Right now he and MJ need to clear a path to get people -out-. Especially if there's a potential stampede coming out this front door.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
Kara, outside, parks her car in the nearest spot she can find in a hurry near the church, immediately slips out and the door closes behind her. She is dressed in what, for all accounts, would pass as 'civvie' attire, trousers, an olive green windbreaker, and simple shirt beneath. Of course, they're all reinforced fabric created by SHIELDs greatest minds to offer optimal comfort as well as protection.

With a confident purpose, she begins to walk into the church, mouth set into a thin line, eyes alert. Her hand moves inside her coat to secure it's grip on her firearm while keeping it concealed as after she sweeps her eyes over the crowd. Confident there is no abnormality here, within the vicinity of the 'protestors'. Twenty-some protestors is not a group most Agents can fight off by themselves.

But there are other tactics. Kara tells them with a grave sincerity, "You have three seconds to move."

Her other hand extracts, by all accounts, what appears to be a grenade. She brings it to her mouth, pulls the pin, holding it fast with a finger. "One," she counts. "Two..."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Dane didn't have to tell Jemma twice. In fact, she was already moving forward to the priest, after talking to Ms. Werner. Or...rather, just nodding to her, for it was apparent that the esteemed guest knew exactly what was needed with little in the way of explanation. The priest, however, takes a little bit more of a calming method, as the physician uses calm, assuring tones. Calm, but urgent. "Father, we need to get these people out to safety. Is there a way out that doesn't involve the front doors?"

    As the priest takes a moment to calm himself, Jemma cuts in on the comms. <<I am escorting Ms. Werner out once the priest identifies the appropriate exit. If they have this planned to keep us in the front, I would expect resistance from any exit.>> A glance over to the Priest to confirm his directions is given as Jemma pulls out her ICER.

    Then, a turn to the panicking people in the pews. "Please remain calm and follow in an orderly procession. We will make sure everyone gets out safely." We...as in Jemma. She is not about to lose anyone else. And...if she is asked by whose authority, that person will be met with the stern expression...and a even more curt response detailing exactly on whose authority Jemma acts in.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane advances out with Dane, flanking him on the other side of the door as she comes out. She might look like the weaker of the pair, so the hostile crowd /might/ surge towards her instead of Dane.

However, she is wicked enough with that baton, not holding back against those alt-right scum as she shouts, "CURS! YOU BURN A CHURCH AND SPEAK OF HONOR?" Oh, she's pretty pissed, all right, and she is going to send people /flying/ and be not nearly as kind or gentle as Dane is going to be. The objective is to clear a path, and frankly she's all too eager to oblige. Besides, Dane is taking the lead here, so clearly it's alright. Or else, in a fit of cosmic irony, she can claim to be following orders.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin's already in motion. When Dane's request comes down she's hardly flat-footed, and nods gratefully at his calm direction in a crisis. She grips her dress and peels it up over her head, leaving her in green shorts and a purple sports top. (Hey, it was an expensive dress!) Her rosary and clutch are set aside too and she grabs the fire extinguisher in one hand.

"There are safe places behind the chancel," Caitlin says, and points at the alter and the choir space above it. "Back rooms. They should be secure."

She kicks off her shoes, eyes the gap, and with a flexion of bare leg vaults nearly thirty vertical feet with little effort. The redhead doesn't even bother with trying to use the hose and lever to suppress the fire. She punches holes in the side of the extinguisher with her bare phalanges and rips it in half. Pressurized suppressant explodes violently outwards in a thick layer over the pipe organ and the flammables soaking into the wood.

Jane Foster has posed:
Inside St. Michael's church, currently burning...
Fire comes to life on a canvas painted in petrol and brass, surging across the seasoned teak and dried wood. Flames bite deep and find the purchase required from the great bellows forcing air higher in a muted gasp, a patient turned critical after a sudden collapse of the lungs. Pops and cracks join the atonal melody within the church and without, mingled with the relentless protesting outside. //No honour, no honour. Who admires murderers?//

As Mikhail plows up the stairs, neither the organist or his fellow arsonist stop to see their handiwork fulfilled. They bolt to the left, taking a path back around to the entrance. Greyed smoke thinly stirs up on the choir level, hanging suspended beneath the high ceiling. He is, after all, a big man shouting and the gig is up. They aren't engaging with the Russian barreling their way, though the firebug has the advantage of being dressed in sneakers and jeans instead of a blue suit and Converse One-Stars.

Catch as catch can.

Spotting the reddened glow from their places in the pews wrenches action from the parishioners. They may be confused, but they aren't stupid. Some of the younger worshippers bolt for the door, and will knock just about anyone or anything out of the way to do it. Dane might be outfoxed by a plucky Puerto Rican kid with more legs than sense. The middle aged ones look for an Exit sign. St. Michael's Church is up to code, and Caitlin is just as certain to find a fire alarm as that friendly red sign promising salvation.

Jemma has a much worse time on her hands. The Episcopalian priest overseeing the service for Margarethe is still staring at the burning organ. He just notices her, making the sign of the cross weakly. He can be steered but he hardly offers coherent help. "Holy Father, who would do such a thing?" Sweat beads on his clammy brow. "What wickedness is done here? Have mercy on us poor sinners, have mercy." They aren't Catholic here, there is no Latin mass, only the liturgy of abundant shock. She might have to start guiding him.

Margarethe is having none of it. She moves at a snail's pace, but a respectable snail's pace! Swearing under her breath, the tiny silver-haired German points a crabbed finger. "Kitchen and offices are that way. William falls to pieces in a crisis, poor boy." Father William is 70.

Jane Foster has posed:
Outside St. Michael's church...

The neural blade comes to light just as the usher, blockaded inside the doorway by a hostile mass, cries out in fear and drops. His hands cover his head. Invicta, on the other hand?

Three of those heads turn almost, almost as one. Knuckles pop. Signs wavering in the way blot a clear view, but thirty hyped-up protestors are ready to have a field day. Beating a path in for Kara Lynn means bypassing currently peacefully assembled neo-Nazis, except those in the front engaging with metal poles and one-by-four plywood assemblies. The grenade gets a break in their linear arrangement, forked with a weirdly orderly process screaming military training even if low-level drills.

But this is the SS Invicta. At least four should-be-dead Nazis at Nuremberg were among them in May. Familiar, this, except there's a cannier footing even from the laymen white supremacists. One shrieks and runs for her as though to take her down before it's too late.

Sonja or Mikhail more than MJ herself is likely to pick out tells; a neo-modern martial art style adapted from make-believe Teutonic and Norse cultures. At least one of those protests is a damn fine stave fighter, though, adapting his oversized protest sign for what it is: a rounded staff shod in metal at either end. The danger lies in the strength, giving solid smacks fit to bruise bone. The others aren't as fast in resisting those baton strikes, but they have at least two or three who are.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail calls over comms <<THey are fast, cut them off if you can.>> He spends the next ten seconds changing into a bear, ruining both his shoes and his suit. He becomes the apex predator and barrels forward, electing to go for the organist, the scent of gasoline makes trailing him easier and Mikhail lets forth a primal roar as he leaps, grabbing the organist by the shoulders and slamming him down onto the ground "UNDER ARREST! WHO SENT YOU?" There is no mercy in those eyes, only rage.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
With a cold, methodical and practiced motion Kara Lynn pulls out the concealed gun, and fires the ICER straight into the encroaching woman with perfect aim, before Kara says, with finality, "Three."

The grenade is tossed directly into the thick of one of those 'forks', and Kara isn't even watching to see what the results were. Instead, she's lining up another shot, and firing, moving towards the group with a slow, but confident encroachment.

The electric net grenade fires off, moments afterwards. No doubt, Jemma would be proud to see her and Leo's creations being so utilized, in the field.

<< Civilian safety is paramount. Lethal force only if absolutely necessary. We need answers, people. These people will have some. >>

Dane Whitman has posed:
One of the best features of the neural blade is that in its' non-lethal mode...attempts to parry with most objects simply don't work, as the blade passes right through with no damage. Though he is distracted and takes a hit from one of the swung signs as he's forced to snatch that speedy Puerto Rican kid by the back of his collar and hurl him back from being mobbed by a swarm of angry, pseudo-armed Nazis. The strike doesn't seem to slow him down much though, as that brightly-glowing blade resumes it's flashy but decidedly non-lethal arcs and thrusts but a half-moment later.

There's an awareness of the folks that had been in the back panicking and starting to break for the door, and so Dane's photonic shield flashes to life, and with sword and board he shifts and tries to push at least a couple or three of the blockading Nazis to the side, clearing more of the path and making it more difficult for them to strike at fleeing guests of the ceremony.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    Father William is in a state of panic. And....Jemma is not having any of that. "Father?? Father!" A hand reaches over, tugging on the clerical figure, gently pulling him, hopefully, out of his shocked state. "I need you to guide your congregation. Please. The church can be rebuilt...restored to its glory. But the people? Once they are gone, there is no return. Please....guide them to safety."

    With that, Jemma leaves the priest as she takes over. With the congregation that is still behind, looking for guidance, the scientist points towards the direction that Ms. Werner is traveling, albeit slowly. "Please...this way to safety. There are back rooms this way." To a couple of male parishioners, Jemma specifically turns to and asks, "Please, we need to get Ms. Werner to safety. Would you be able to assist?" Quick instruction is given on how to carry the nearly 100 year old woman, as hurried apologies are given as Margarethe is picked up and carried along. Hell, the old woman might find it fun...perhaps in hindsight.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
Mary Jane, meanwhile, gets grappled by one of the staff-wielding Nazis, trying to hold her in place so another can pummel her. However, her kick out is with enough strength to catch the approaching martial artist in the ribs, a sickening crack audible from the force of the blow. Then she grips the staff pinning her, dropping the baton for the moment as she stomps /down/ with her heel right into her grappler's foot.

Taking some satisfaction from his scream, she then rips the sign from his hands, spinning it around and sending him to the ground with a satisfying and very loud crack. Then, she looks at the remaining Nazis and scowls, simply taking the wooden staff and *snapping* it over her knee, before tossing the remnants aside and picking up her baton again. "Alright, little whelps, WHO IS NEXT!" Hoping that their morale breaks between the sudden arrival of the Director plus Dane's own sword and shield play.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
The SHIELD agents seem to have the riot well in hand. "Holler if you need me!" Caitlin calls after Dane as the agents hustle out to deal with the intruders.

She's covered in grey fire suppressant and grimy soot from the smoke. It's not exactly fun playing amateur firefighter, but considering everyone's abilities, Caitlin can't argue with the logic Dane offers. The SHIELD agents can handle the protestors; let the fireproof lady deal with the flames.

A gentle breath of air stirs a candle to life. Pursed lips and some lung power makes those flames flicker out of existence. Caitlin inhales deep, as much as her superhuman diaphragm allows, and blows a gale-force wind at the last few lapping flames the fire retardant missed. An engineer could do the math that explains super-cooling that much volume of air, but anyone witnessing would appreciate the fact that Caitlin's mighty lungs effectively blow out any last licking open flames that the fire extinguisher missed.

Job done, she nods at herself approvingly and turns to drop off the balcony with no concern for the distance, so she can lend her aid to the emerging situation outdoors.

Jane Foster has posed:
Smoke pours to the air, multiple whimsical columns feeding merrily on the options offered to them. Hardly black and billowing yet, though the darkening tinge sends the occasional ember or cinder blown over to the adjacent scaffold-clad building or into the street proper. Sustained spiderweb cracks originate from more than bodies hitting pavement or an electrified net striking the ground, a charge that surely gives ample reason for the entrapped protesters to scream and thrash if they cannot escape the cage of their own making.

A disinterested gull wings around in search of his midday feast, veering off after smelling that his trashy junk food might be unfortunately better done than his sky-rat sensibilities prefer.

The bear in all its musky wrath with a note of vodka causes the arsonist to bolt, reaching the stairs leading down. The horrid display downstairs has him leaping down and skidding past the whimpering usher to take the back way out through the belltower. It may or may not serve to leave his organist friend behind, who hits the ground with jarring force and groans. Roaring from an ursine throat trips the lizard brain, leaves sweat and urine and sick fear thickened in the air.

ICERs have their limits, and the scattering of fighters gives Kara Lynn problems to find targets not wrapped up in traffic that judders and swerves through the intersection. At least one neo-Nazi gets a hood of a Ford between himself and her, ducking beneath while the shrieking driver has nothing good to say about anyone.

Flash and flicker, the bright blade carves engineered sunlight through those who aren't quite as fast or well-armed as Dane -- or the other SHIELD agents. But still, the stave-fighter has quick feet and when he jams the metal-shod end and it misses, cracks smack into the ground. Concrete gives in a puff. Poor Puerto Rican kid and his friend can't get a break, trying to bolt and finding a redhead dervish in their way. Who is next? That would be a Molotov cocktail flung from the back of the crowd. Dodge fire while breaking sticks. There's always stones!

Caitlin's job for the organ is done -- thankfully, for a collapsing platform weakened by flames would kill everyone trying to rush out after it. Just one problem.

It's not the only fire. No, not by a long shot. And the pathway Jemma expertly guides her flock through makes this apparent when someone yelps at touching a door. That door proves to be hot. "Ow!" shouts the Boomer, only to have his irritated kid yank it open--

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
The smell of fear, Mik smells it and asks, "Did you just piss self?" He growls, at the captive and uses a free handpaw to activate comms <<Secured organist, will need new pants.>>

"I will not say again. WHO DO YOU WORK FOR!" He uses both hands to grasp the organist and holds him off the ground, at arms length to avoid getting the wet pants on him, and Mikhail says, "DO YOU THINK I JOKE?"

Jane Foster has posed:
It's a bear. A bear is screaming at the organist. The efforts to make sense of this intolerable turn of events may be compounded by the hot air blasting through the great toothy maw. He freezes, keenly aware of those great teeth hungry for that flesh of his. Sullied by proximity to the hoary ursine nightmare, the organist falls to pieces with a hard kick, like it might do anything to getting him on the ground. He has the slippery jacket that wears and tugs, but no escaping hands. Paws. Handpaws.

"What the fuck are you?" Father William would be devastated to hear swearing his church. "A fucking bear the fuck -- whaddoyoo think, here -- scheisse is this, are you shitting me? You're a fucking _BEAR_." It's going to take a bit for the sheer terror to die down.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane's shield comes up, catching the molotov squarely, at near arm's length. He feels the burst of heat from the flames but it may have been an ill-advised maneuver as a lot of the "splash" is now going to hit fellow Nazis rather than bystanders SHIELD agents. Staff fighter gets a swift kick aimed towards his midsection, and with the display on the concrete stair, an awareness that his opponent is more than he seems is granted. Armor flashes into place around Dane, and he refocuses his attention on the man. Kara said take them alive, but if this fellow's like the ones at the park some months ago...that may be easier said than done.

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
There is no empathy for the neo-nazi that get hit by the Ford, especially after he runs away. But, she's in no position to persue. Of course, satilette images have their limitations - like they can't see into buildings. The arsonist is likely to be free from getting targeted like the protestors because of that glaring flaw as the Director issues another command through the comms.

<< All Blockades, this is Director Palamar. Begin converge, and sweep. Assess and capture all fleeing targets identified by satillete. Utilize drones. I want all of them in interrogation tonight. >> She knows the probability of getting them /all/ is very slim, but she has confident the trained agents will be able to secure a few more than this current group can chase down. Besides, there are other issues at hand.

<< Acknolwedged, >> she responds to Mik. << Simmons. Fairchild. Status report. >>

Keeping her ICER drawn, Kara finds her next target at last, firing another round. She nods towards the Puerto Rican kid and his friend, << Agent Jane. >>

Dane has his hands full, and Kara moves to provide him backup, to make sure he's not ganged up on while avoiding the molotov's flames.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
    "Don't open that!!" The sharp cry is heard, perhaps even in the main chapel, as Jemma turns to catch the young male (because of course it is an impatient teenaged boy) open the door just a touch too late. The heat blast from the open door is immediately felt, as the angry orange glow of flames is readily seen, with smoke moving to fill the hallway. Well....too late for that now. No time to lose. "Quickly now! To the kitchens! There should be an exit from there!"

    The comms crackle to life. <<Fire in the hallway. Need to keep moving. There are more firebombers in the area...>> Jemma's voice cuts out in mid-sentence as the fresh air source causes the fire to blossom. Instinct kicks in hard as Jemma's words fail her..but acts instinctively, slamming the door despite the heat, her hand blistering. She practically shoves the millennial out and down the hallway, while the 98 year old woman, suspended in the arms of two males, instructs on which twist and turn to take next...all to get out.

Mary Jane Watson has posed:
MJ frowns at the Puerto Rican kid and his friend, "Oh for... GET CLEAR AND STAY OUT OF THE WAY!" She barks that as an order, as she's definitely in full Sonja mode at the moment, noting the different stance of the one that Dane is facing off with, recognizing that one's skill as he's the most dangerous one left.

So, she makes her way over towards him carefully, moving around behind him and then swinging her baton out to crack him in the back of the head. Hoping to knock him right out, or at least give Dane an opening to take him down.

Hey, if you want a fair fight, you don't burn a church. C'est la vie.

Jane Foster has posed:
Electric nets offer no quarter, no escape without facing an ICER for most who are not locked down between the swinging baton cracking through flesh and bone. Punishment upon the wounded earns groans and complaints, though not as loudly as one would expect. A bitter pride reinforces these men, worse than camaraderie or military service. Zealotry makes a miserable burden to bear, and those with the means to entangle their enemies' feet or block their path will do it. This is not without bruises, not without hazards. A SHIELD director in the fray is just as much at risk for being jabbed with a broken bo staff as MJ is to being pierced from behind if they can raise a hand.

They will raise it, until pinned down, slapped down. Horrified guests of the despoiled memorial stumble around for flight. The arsonist runs straight for the high-rise under construction, past the burning trash that licks at stone, through the detritus littering the ground. He slips on broken glass, rising, to bolt. The man behind the car isn't quite so lucky, circling into traffic only to find a box truck lurching to a stop. Never is traffic so helpful as stopping New Yorkers from getting where they want to go. Boxed in, he ducks, prepared to crawl away.

Caitlin's blur in the violence matches Dane and Mary Jane, cutting off options, closing down lines. Within the church, fire tries to leap out in a bad take on Dante's Inferno meets Back Draft, but the quick thinking manages to stop the spread. Hobbling paths sweep back, retreating from the rectory, hunting a different way out into the side. Finally patience is lost, one of the older Boomers pointing to a non-decorative window. "That way!" It is the unfortunate lot for Margarethe Werner, survivor of Nazi purges, to be shoved out a window along with everyone else hobbling after Jemma Simmons, but there are worse ways to get to fresh air.

In the madness and the smoke, the belching cough and crying alarms, that is it. Violence ended with a queer, eerie knell.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
"I saw gasoline spill," Mik inhales dramatically, "I smell it on you with your waste. You will tell me who sent you here, and you should know I am nice one." He bares his death, letting his vodka breath reek out.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
"I saw gasoline spill," Mik inhales dramatically, "I smell it on you with your waste. You will tell me who sent you here, and you should know I am nice one." He bares his death, letting his vodka breath reek out. "You tell now, or things get worse for you."

Kara Lynn Palamas has posed:
As assisting agents follow the Director's orders to converge, calls are given for SHIELD trucks, and medical assistance to pick up the prisoners, provide the injured ones with medical treatment as well as to offer treatment to the civilians and make sure they are physically fit after the situation has been diffused. It's going to be a long night for everyone.

Kara will have a bruise across the back of her thigh where a pole had been slammed from a prisoner who had been thought to be knocked out by MJ's baton. His price for it was a hard concussion as her steel-toed boot found his temple.

<< I want forensics here on the double, >> she says, walking off the pain from the bruise with experienced practice. She's had worse, afterall. Far worse.

She turns to MJ, holstering the ICER. "Agent Watson, report to my office tomorrow morning."

There is a glance to Dane. "I want the AAR on my desk by then. Be sure you keep your calendar open, the next few weeks." Not that HE has to write it up. But, if he's going to take charge of the mission, that means responsibility to it's conclusion. And if her guess is right, this is only the begining.

<< Good work, everyone. We saved a lot of lives today. >> She nods to those outside, with her, and then moves to survey the church, the damage it sustained, ... and, if it's still there, by proxy, the flag pole that had caught Dane's attention in shape.

Jane Foster has posed:
The church is there, yes. Parts are scorched and by the time that the fire department rolls up, some of the fires will have a significant impact. But not on the stained glass.

Not on the resolute archangel wielding a Templar's cross and the Holy Lance.

Which begs questions unto itself.